Chapter Text

Like a Stone

As always, a quick Author‘s note:
There will be swearing throughout this work (again). I am, after all, still a pirate. So I suggest when it comes to the naughty words, get with it, get over it, or off you fuck. No one has to read what makes them uncomfortable.

Prologue

23 July 1997

“Hermione. Tea’s ready, darling.”

Hermione blew out a shuddering breath. This was it. “Coming, mum,” she said, her voice a bit thin. She gathered her beaded bag, rechecked the contents and slung it across her shoulder. Tugging her wand firmly into her jeans pocket, she briskly walked down the stairs, her gut heavy. This was it.

She let her palm run over the wood of the railing, catching on the nick that had been there ever since she had accidentally flung a plate into it upon an early burst of magic. As Hermione walked into the sitting room, joining her parents on the sofa, she relished the smell of tea, trying to stem the dread coiling in her gut and forced a smile at them. Then Hermione took her mother’s hand firmly. “Mum, dad? It’s time.”

Momentarily the TV program was forgotten and both her parents looked at her with wide and fearful eyes. “No,” her mother said, tears gathering in her eyes. “Oh, my darling, no. Please.”

Hermione bit into the inside of her cheek, forcing away tears. There was time for that later. “We talked about this, mum. You know I’d have thought of another way if there was one. I need you safe. I need to help Harry.”

Her father swallowed and frowned. “I still don’t understand why, bug. You are so young, what could you, Ronald and Harry even accomplish? Let the adults handle it.” He drew a hand over his wife’s shaking shoulders soothingly.

“You know why, dad,” Hermione said, an all-encompassing sadness clawing at her heart. “Harry is important and Voldemort won’t rest until he finds and kills him. There is no place on this earth he could run to where he wouldn’t be found. And Harry would never want to, anyhow. He needs help, I can’t abandon him.” This had been a recurring argument during the last month and sometimes, Hermione wished she had never told them anything and just gone ahead with her plan. But it had felt wrong, invasive, to use magic on her parents without their consent. It would have been easier, though. There had been shouting, tears, arguments and stunned silences.

“People are being abducted and killed. Parents of Muggleborn’s mostly.” Hermione looked from her father to her weeping mother. “They will look for you, they know I’m friends with Harry. And you know I will come for you and then everything could be lost. Please. I…I made you a promise, remember?” Her voice broke and she swallowed repeatedly at the mounting tears.

She thought of the two vials of memories she had extracted from her parents, now sitting securely in her bag. Their favorite memories of her. Things that could aid in their recovery. If she survived, that was.

Her father placed his bigger hand on both her and her mother’s. “You promise to reverse it? Once all of it is over?”

“Yes, dad, I promise. I’ll find you and reverse it.”

In the end, one simple and terrible truth had swayed them. They wouldn’t remember her if the war was lost. There would be no pain, no grief, because Hermione would not exist to them. It was a cruel and dark thought, but it had been the tipping point. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her for two days once Hermione had pointed it out.

“Come with us, bug,” her father tried, one last time.

Hermione let out a sob, unable to fight her own tears any longer, squeezing both their hands. “I wish I could. I really do, dad. But I have to do this.”

Her mother wailed and threw her arms around Hermione, who hugged her back as she cried with her. They rocked each other and soon, her father encased them both in his arms firmly and they sat like that for a long time.

“It will be fine,” Hermione said, her voice frail and heavy with tears. “Everything will be fine.” She had no idea whether she said those words for her parents, herself, or all of them, but she repeated them over and over.

Her mother sniffed and sat up. “Will it hurt?” she asked, her face determined, brave, even as more tears slid down her cheeks.

“No, mum. You won’t even notice it.” Hermione brushed away her mother’s tears gently. “I’m so sorry.”

Chapter Text

It Takes the Cake

Hermione

Five Years Later

Hermione Granger was furious. No, not only furious, she was tired, strung-out, annoyed, confused and well beyond fucking livid. Her heels click-clacked loudly as she stomped her way through Basement Level 3 of the Ministry of Magic, clutching Directive 32 in one hand. She was aware that she looked like a madwoman, her hair bushy and crackling with magic, her eyes blazing a path as she went.

People scrambled to get out of her way, looking terrified as she headed past the desks of the Invisibility Task Force. Anthony Goldstein, who normally tried to chat her up, or impress some sort of obscure and unneeded knowledge upon her, or both, ducked behind his cubicle and was suddenly very interested in the pages of a coffee-stained copy of the Prophet on his desk. Incidentally, the headline of the Prophet read:

Directive 32 in effect: Reception Mixed

Mixed was one way to describe the reception. Her own feelings leaned a tad more along the lines of fucking aggravated.

Hermione, ever unwavering in her work-ethic, morals and views on punctuality as well as tidiness, did not tend to emotional outbursts. She was the voice of reason, thrived off of debates and—annoying to quite a number of people—was almost never wrong. Heck, she was the Head of the Obliviator Headquarters, with a staff of twenty-five under her. At the age of twenty-two, no less. But she did have her moments. And her famously outrageous hair crackling was a clear indicator that she was having one. A moment.

Her scowl grew tighter and she nearly incinerated the Directive in her fist. The fucking nerve. She hopped into one of the lifts, making several people who had just arrived stumble out to make way for her. No one dared join her and she punched the button for Basement Level 1 with a snarl.

Kingsley was going to wish he had not come to work today.

Hermione crossed her arms and tapped the tip of her left heel impatiently. Of all the knobheaded things to do… She hissed when she read over the Directive again and cursed colorfully. The lift dinged and she swept from it, her steps muffled by the thick plum-colored carpet. The dark, mahogany doors on either side of the hallway were all closed and no one was in sight. The space opened up, leading to the last door, beside which was a chic, glass cubicle. The witch behind it stared, her eyes wide and frightened as she beheld Hurricane Hermione’s approach.

“Is he in?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, but—”

“Is he alone?”

“Yes, but—”

Hermione waved her off and headed for the door reading: Kingsley Shacklebolt Minister of Magic. “Thank you, Peaches.”

Throwing open the door, Hermione sailed through it and shut it behind her with a solid sound. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Kingsley?” she asked, her heated gaze finding the Minister behind his desk.

“Hermione, so nice to see you,” he said and gave her a wide smile. “Although I do wonder why I even bother with a door when it comes to you, since you decidedly ignore it being closed. Repeatedly.”

She pointed a finger at him and strutted through the room, coming up to his desk. “Don’t play cute with me, Kings. Have you or have you not, lost your bloody marbles?” Slamming the Directive on his desk she straightened, crossed her arms and glared at him.

The Minister glanced down and sighed, then he leaned back in his chair in a very relaxed slouch, making the leather creak warmly. “I don’t remember answering to you, Hermione. But since we are old friends, no, I haven’t lost anything and am of sound mind.”

Hermione leaned her fists on the table on either side of the Directive. “This law is outrageous, dangerous and beyond the pale. It doesn’t just take the cake; it pisses out the candles and shits on the cherry on top.”

Kingsley chuckled. “Oh, how I missed angry Hermione. You have been so timid lately, it’s good to know she’s still there.”

“This isn’t funny. This law is horseshit. How in Circe’s name have you come up with it, not to mention grown enough of a pair to actually pass it?”

Kingsley’s brows shot up. “Careful now. I might enjoy your flippant attitude regarding my authority, but there is a line, Granger. If you want to abolish or pass horseshit laws, run against me and become Minister yourself. Until then, deal with it.”

She threw her hands into the air. “I don’t want to be bloody Minster, I want a raise, less work-hours and no more harebrained laws.”

Kingsley grinned at her. “You earn more than anyone on your entire floor and while I would be amenable to you not terrorizing everyone for more than eight hours a day, you said you needed the overtime. Besides,” he gestured at the Directive, “why do you care? It doesn’t even affect you.”

Hermione gaped at him. “Doesn’t affect me? Are you serious?” She snatched the piece of parchment from the desk and loudly read it back to him.

“Ministry Directive 32 in accordance with the Unity Law

To ensure moving past any and all lingering Blood-purity views, all Pureblood wizards and witches are henceforth forbidden from marrying other Purebloods. With the exception stated in Directive 24, if there are already magically binding and signed betrothal contracts in existence.

Members of the Sacred 28 are encouraged to, if the desire of matrimony strikes them, marry only Muggleborns.

Unmarried Purebloods who have aided, abetted and otherwise were tied to the Death Eater movement, are furthermore obliged to, without exception (unless it involves Directive 24), marry a Muggleborn. They have one year to find adequate spouses. Non-compliance with Directive 32 will result in a fine of 150.000 Galleons and 5 years’ incarceration in Azkaban.”

Shacklebolt raised a brow mildly. “I know what it says, Granger, I drew it up and passed it. Back to my question; why do you care?”

An angry “hrmpf” left her lips and she crumpled it up tightly, this time she did incinerate it in her fist, smoke billowing from her hand. “Not only is this Directive abhorrent, but I care, because I have been proposed to twice on my way from the cafeteria to my office. When I got back, no less than five owls sat on my desk, each one with a bloody proposal. Do you know how much five owls shit in half an hour, Kings? The answer is; a lot.”

Kingsley began to chuckle, which grew into a full-on, roaring belly laugh. He slapped the table and hunched over, gasping for air between his guffaws. “Merlin…” He fell into what sounded like cackles and Hermione tapped her heel in annoyance, blushing at his mirth.

“I do not see what’s so funny.”

He snorted and cackled some more. Wiping at tears, his shoulders shaking, Kingsley shook his head. “Oh, this is hilarious, Hermione. The fact that you can’t see that has me worried for you.” He chuckled some more and then cleared his throat. “Apparently being the most notable Muggleborn of your time, not to mention one of the most powerful and clever witches around, does have its downsides, doesn’t it?”

Hermione grimaced. “I got a proposal from Marcus Flint. Flint, Kingsley.” She shuddered. “And he was being all slimy and arrogant about it. As if I was lucky to even be asked.” Blowing out a breath when Kingsley huffed out another bout of chuckles, she pegged him with a stern look. “But besides this being outrageous and me not having the nerve or time for such nonsense—never mind owls shitting all over my desk—this law is still horseshit. You know that, don’t you?”

Kingsley smirked and waved a hand, indicating for her to sit. Now that she had raged and shouted, Hermione did feel better and not as livid as she had before. She plopped into the offered chair and glowered at the Minister expectantly.

“I still don’t answer to you, but since I know you won’t let this go and that you can be trusted to keep secrets,” he winked and waved his wand at the door to silence it, “I’ll tell you some of it.”

He proceeded to hover over a tea set, sitting on a shallow dresser and brought the water in the pot to a boil with another wave of his wand. Opening a ceramic box he asked; “Earl Grey or Chamomile?”

Hermione scrunched her nose at the mention of Chamomile. Dastardly stuff. “Earl Grey.”

As he clinked around with the set and cups, Kingsley gave Hermione a long look. “Elections are happening soon.”

“I know. It’s one of the better laws you passed since the war. Every three years instead of seven.”

“Well, since I’m going to run again, I need the approval of the people.” He poured water into both cups after adding tea.

“The approval of the people? Way to go, Kings. As I have seen it, the Directive is met with—what was it Skeeter said—Mixed Reception. Angering the old families seems like a bit of a bullheaded way to go.”

“None of us want another war, Hermione and if this Directive works as intended, we’ll have weeded out bigotry in one generation. Besides, I needed a show of strength against the Death Eaters since…” He trailed off and sighed, stirring the contents of his cup. “Since Malfoy.”

“Malfoy? What does he have to do with anything?” Hermione added sugar to her cup. “I mean, I know he has been in Azkaban for the last two years and his time should be up now. So he’s been let out?” Draco Malfoy’s sentence of two years was in large parts due to Hermione and Harry’s testimonies at his trial, leading to a far less severe verdict.

“Malfoy Senior,” Kingsley said with a slight grimace. “Draco has been out for around two months and last week, we released his father.”

Hermione’s cup clattered as she set it into its saucer. “What? But Lucius Malfoy received twenty years.”

The Minister nodded. “Exactly. There are…extenuating circumstances.” He held up a hand when Hermione gathered breath to protest and she clapped her mouth shut. “I know, but this is something I can’t discuss. It just is. Today’s paper would have been headlining his release, but the passing of the Directive drowned the piece. It will not stay that way, but by showing force and cracking down on ex-Death Eaters and similar ilk, we might be able to stay the public outrage a tad.”

“How very Slytherin of you.”

Kingsley smiled. “Indeed. So that is the why of it. And if it works,” he shrugged, “then it will be a job well done, don’t you think?”

“You are taking the autonomy of people’s lives away. Or who they wish to spend it with. It’s not right. It is, as I’ve said, abhorrent.” Hermione was still having trouble grappling with Malfoy Senior’s release. What on earth could be extreme enough to warrant him being let go?

“No, it’s not right. But they would have taken much more from any one of us.” Kingsley took a sip of tea, his expression turning dark for a moment. “Most of them would have married someone they’d never love as it is, now they might even learn something from their spouses. And who knows, maybe proximity will allow for lasting bonds.”

Hermione did not agree. Despite being proposed to by Flint, Goyle, and some Bullstrode bloke, she truly didn’t think forcing anyone into marriage was right.

It was late when Hermione finally closed the door of her shoddy little flat. It was in a shoddy building where one did not linger in the hallways unless one wanted to be snuck up on by the perv from flat number 74. She had cast a Confundus on him several times now.

Kicking off her heels, Hermione groaned when her hurting feet met the cold tiles. A loud meow greeted her and she smiled tiredly when her half-Kneazle wound around her calves. “Hi, Crooks. How was your day? Did you finally chase off that Tomcat from next door?”

Crookshanks eyed her seriously, then blinked and trotted off into the small kitchen. Hermione huffed out a breath and followed him. She set her kettle to boiling and rooted around a cupboard for some cat food. Once Crooks was munching away happily, she steeped her tea and sat down at the rickety table encased by two creaking chairs. She slid over the heap of mail waiting for her and scowled at several elegant scrawls and wax-seals with crests imbedded in them. Without a second look, she incinerated them all.

Bloody horseshit Directive.

The rest of the mail was even more devastating. Bills, upon bills. Hermione sighed deeply, then accioed a parchment from the living room. She unrolled it and added the number of the numerous bills to it with tips of her wand. Having charmed the parchment to track the changes in her Gringotts account in real time, she watched and blanched as it became apparent just how much her gold would shrink in the next few days. And she still had half the month to go.

A sense of hopelessness gripped her, twining through her deeply and weighing her down. Groaning, she hunched over until her forehead thudded against the fake wood of her table. It was bloody hopeless. She couldn’t keep on doing this.

Her entire body was exhausted, as was her mind. The well inside of her, that had been filled with drive and conviction—which had seemed bottomless—was now dry and close to empty. For a moment, she allowed herself to wallow. Allowed the tears running down her cheeks as she sobbed.

Hermione might be Head of a Department, she might earn more than many in similar positions, but she was bloody good at what she did and she was always on top of things. It didn’t matter one lick though. She had spent every knut, sickle and galleon on getting her parents from Australia back to the UK and into St. Mungo’s. The treatment was long, arduous and expensive and once started, it could not be stopped, lest her parents sufferd severe brain damage. But she had made a promise. So she was intent on delivering.

In the beginning, she had been so damned sure she was able to scrounge up the money. It had seemed doable, but as time went by, the deadline of when the therapy should have come to an end was passed. By a week, a month, then a year.

‘They have been Obliviated for close to three years before we started, Miss Granger,’ Healer Snick’s words ghosted through her mind. ‘We can’t say with certainty when they’ll get better. At this rate, we can’t say if they ever will. Maybe it is time to—’

Hermione had vehemently protested. She would never give up on them. Never. They had allowed her to alter their minds upon one condition; that she would get them back if she survived. She owed them this.

As Head of the Obliviation Department Hermione knew the chances of reversing such an extensive charm, it was why she had applied for the position in the first place. To learn what she could about Obliviation and to chase down leads on healing methods and reversals. The first year had been so promising, so exciting. There had been leads to obscure practices, powerful objects, and powerful individuals. But none of it had been viable. So she was stuck with the therapy at St. Mungo’s, with its exorbitant cost.

It had drained her financially and cost her much more. Her relationship with Ron was among it. He hadn’t understood in the end, telling her she had a family. Him and his. And Harry. While that was all true, Hermione had wished for him to support her, to have her back. He had tried. Two years. And then he had just stopped. Ron had sat her down, told her he loved her and would do anything for her; except watch her destroy herself because she was unable to let go.

The exchange had resulted in a huge fight and him moving out. He didn’t understand how she was unable to give up. Hermione had started the treatment and if she stopped now, they would live half a life, constantly in the care of Healers. No. A promise was a promise and she was too far along to give in now.

A few more tears pooled down and she let herself feel the ache situated in her chest fully. She knew what she was doing was slowly tearing her apart, she knew she had destroyed something good and stable between herself and Ron with her constant working, constant need for control over every expense, and nagging when she got home after a long day and found the flat in disarray. But by Morgana, had it been too much to ask of him to tidy up after himself? To feed Crooks when he got home? To not be thrilled if he indulged in another set of tickets for the Chudley Cannons? Hermione had never asked him for money, but when Ron went ahead and spent from their joint money, she had gotten livid and had felt in the right.

None of this was even mentioning their sex life. Which had fizzled out over the last year of their relationship. Eventually, they had been something akin to roommates. It had been devastating, because Hermione adored physical affection and everything that came with it.

“Enough,” she whispered as Crookshanks hopped into her lap. She sat up and hugged her familiar to her chest, letting his purrs wash over her. Swallowing at the tightness in her throat, the vast wasteland of hopelessness in her chest and the heavy feeling of loss weighing at her heart, Hermione breathed deeply. It took her a few minutes, but she gathered herself up, twined the pieces together and stabilized her tired mind.

Kingsley had said she had been timid for a time, which was incorrect. She was just stretched too thin. And Hermione had no idea how long it would take until she tore at the seams.

“I can do this,” she said and Crookshanks meowed in answer. She smiled at him and nuzzled her face into the side of his. “We can do this, Crooks.”

A tap on the window had he jumping in her seat and she looked up to see an owl pecking at the glass. Hermione gently placed her cat down and walked over. Upon opening the window, a beautiful barred owl swooped inside. It landed gracefully on her cheap table and stuck out its leg, hooting lowly.

“Aren’t you pretty?” Hermione smiled and tugged the letter from its leg while absently offering her palm. The owl looked at her hand, blinked and tilted its head. It seemed not to know what to do with her. She slowly reached out and gently drew her fingers across the soft feathers. Huge eyes snapped to her and a happy little hoot followed.

“There you go,” she said and looked at the letter. It was heavy, cream colored and screamed wealth. With furrowed brows she turned it and gaped.

It was addressed to her and the crest adorning the wax seal was a huge letter encased by two snakes. ‘M’. Hermione stared at the letter, then spluttered out a hysterical laugh. She would know that crest anywhere. This could not be real. Absolutely not. She doubled over in laughter, making the owl shriek indignantly.

Hermione held the back-rest of her chair tightly as she laughed. Ridiculous. What alternate universe had she stumbled into? With a flick of her hand, the letter burst into flame and she threw it in the sink. Utterly fucking ridiculous!

That sodding, horseshit Directive was going to be the death of her.

Chapter Text

Baby Steps

Draco

“And how do you feel about that?”

The question in and of itself might seem innocent, but Draco had heard it too often. Had thought about it too often. Had spoken about it too often. And while talking helped, as he had come to acknowledge, this was something he neither wanted to think about much less voice.

He glared at his mind-healer and folded his hands together to keep from balling them into fists. “I don’t,” he answered.

Healer Arturius Herp looked unbelieving. “You must feel some type of way about your father coming back into your life, Draco.” He glanced over the rims of his thick glasses, his forehead a maze of deep lines as he furrowed his brows.

Blowing out a long breath, Draco quit glaring at the chap and let his gaze wander around the wood-paneled room instead. He had been coming here twice every week for one and a half months now. In the beginning he had hated it and the both of them had stared at each other for entire sessions until the time was up. Draco’s mother had insisted he continue, though. And she had appealed to him to open up and at least try. He still hated it, but had to acknowledge it did help. Slowly.

The continuous panic-attacks and episodes he’d had after coming home had worn on Narcissa and she had been in tears at one point. Seeing his mother—regal and unshakable—reduced to tears had been gut wrenching. Draco had promised to try and tried he had. His nightmares were still front and center, but he didn’t flinch at each and every heavy noise anymore and he could bear his mother touching his shoulder for small moments without cringing away. ‘Baby steps’, Herp called them.

Be that as it may, Draco was not about to open the can of Flubberworms that was his father. No. When it came to that, all he wanted to do was drink himself into a stupor until he felt nothing. Not that he could, but that did not negate his wish to do so.

“Must I?” Draco asked with a slight sneer. “I wasn’t aware that feeling a certain type of way was obligatory.”

Herp sighed and tapped his quill to the clipboard on his lap. “Evading and refusing to talk about it will not help you. You have tried that before, remember?”

Draco grimaced at his Healer.

“Fine, let’s try something,” the Healer suggested. “I can imagine you feel a whole lot of warring emotions concerning this. Want to tell me which?”

“I do not.”

“We can spend the time in silence if you prefer, I still get paid. But it would help if you acknowledged there is a problem,” the Healer said.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration, Draco bit the inside of his cheek. “Fine. I hate having him back. I was content with him rotting away in that place for the next eighteen years.”

“And why is that? How do you feel about it?”

Draco nearly growled and felt close to strangling Herp. “I’m angry,” he bit out instead.

“Good. Anger is good. You are allowed to be angry at him, Draco. He put you in an impossible situation and therefore I can imagine you are unable to see him the way you have before. His decisions have made you and your mother suffer terribly and has put the lives of all of you in danger. It made you face parts of yourself you never should have had to. It made you go against your very nature.”

Draco snorted at that last comment.

The mind-healer tilted his head. “We both know by now that you didn’t have the stomach for what was asked of you, Draco, or you wouldn’t need to be sitting here. Besides, you were a child and should never have been forced to deal with what you did and that includes your experiences of Azkaban.”

“I wasn’t a child during my trial,” Draco drawled.

“No. But that did not give them the right to try you as an adult. Now, besides anger? What else?”

Flexing his fingers, Draco looked down at the ugly brown carpet. “Confusion. But mostly I’m just furious and I can’t direct it at him, which makes it worse.”

“You could tell him how you feel,” Herp suggested.

Draco barked out a laugh. “Yes, that will go over very well. ‘Hello, you piss-poor excuse for a father, I used to idolize you and do any and everything for a pat on the back, to make you proud. But you betrayed our family so completely with your choices that we were tortured, threatened, forced to do unspeakable things and nearly killed. Now I’m debating whether to never speak to you again or punch the living daylights from you every time we cross paths. Because of your fucking choices, I was thrown into prison and now have to sit across a mind-healer twice a week to help me stem my pathetic panic-attacks resulting from all of it. Oh, and fuck you for somehow worming your way back into mother’s good graces, arsehole.’”

Herp nodded thoughtfully. “I can see how that would be a problem. Why are you confused, though?”

This was the main thing he didn’t want to voice, because it was stupid and made no sense. But the floodgates had opened and it started to spill from him. “I’m confused because despite all of it I still… He is still…” Draco couldn’t say it.

“You still feel some type of love for him?” Herp mused. “It would make sense. He is still your father.”

Draco frowned. “How does that make sense? How can I hate someone and still feel…fondness for them?”

“You can love someone and dislike them severely at the same time. Sometimes the people we love aren’t good people and they hurt us. None of it means we can’t still love them. It’s what complicates relationships so much.”

“Sounds about right. It would certainly explain why mother took him back without a second thought,” Draco said darkly.

Herp didn’t say anything, but waved him on.

“I don’t understand her. My mother has a backbone of steel, I would have expected more from her. And after everything my father did, she just…welcomes him back?” Bitterness boiled up his throat and Draco swallowed at the taste. “She told me she was beyond angry with him, she told me she was glad he was locked up.” A humorless chuckle tumbled from him. “But the second he crawls from Azkaban; she takes him back and now he lives in the manor with us. Fucking hell.”

“Maybe she has her reasons,” Herp mused.

“What reasons could she possibly have?” His voice grew icy and the Healer paled a little at the way Draco glared at him. “What reason could there possibly be for him to be released in the first place?”

“I don’t have the answers for you, Draco. But might I suggest you take time away from them to cool down? Then talk to them. And if it doesn’t go over well, it might be time to put some distance between you.”

“Move out?”

The Healer nodded. “Being in close proximity with people who elicit so much anger and resentment will not help with your episodes. You can’t heal in the very place you were hurt. You are allowed to live your own life; you are allowed to draw boundaries for yourself.”

It was laughable. All of it. “You have not been raised the way I have,” Draco said bitterly. “Family is everything. Obeying your parents is second. Seeing to continuing the line is third. All of it has been ingrained into me from the moment I could talk. If I were to move out, I might be disinherited.”

“You are a grown man, Draco,” Herp said. He leaned forward in his seat, his gaze intense. “You can do whatever you feel is best for you. You can do what you need to heal.”

“That mind-healer of yours does have a point,” Theo said, tilting his butterbeer bottle up and drinking deeply. “I would certainly consider moving out if my dear old dad hadn’t died and was suddenly released from Azkaban.”

Draco raised a brow at his friend but said nothing. Instead, he turned his tumbler of Ogden’s in his fingers and then proceeded to down the entire thing, the burn traveling down his chest warring the bitterness still lodged there.

Theo blinked at him. “But to be fair, my father was a tad more unpleasant than yours.”

They both chuckled humorlessly at that statement. Nott Senior had been a piece of work. Thank Merlin he had not survived the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Maybe you could use a mind-healer of your own,” Draco suggested and stretched from his seat on the leather sofa to fill his tumbler once more.

“Oh, I’m sure, but I like self-medicating,” Theo said with a grin. “Regardless, you know you are always welcome here, mate. Even if your father decides to disinherit you, I’ll be here and we’ll find something for you to do.” He shrugged. “Or we could just get high and shag our way through the Muggle-Londoner nightlife. Blaise told me about this club, said it was wild.”

“Pass,” Draco said and grimaced. He nursed his second glass slower, knowing full-well that over imbibing would lead to loss of control, which meant it could result in an episode. And while Draco was thankful to Theo for offering his hospitality in this gloomy place he called a home, Draco would never burden his friend with having to care for him if he lost it. It had happened only once, but he certainly did not want a repeat.

He also was not about to tell Theo that even the thought of going into a crowded club with too much noise and too many people would make him have a panic-attack from hell. Never mind shagging a stranger. Touch was not… He wasn’t great when it came to touch. Especially when it was unexpected.

The thought brought forth a bout of memories and Draco clenched his teeth to stem it.

The crack of a fist on his face. His knees hitting the ground hard. Feet kicking him as he curled in on himself. Sneers and laughter. The sound of spit and the sensation of it hitting his cheek.

‘Filth.’

‘Death Eater scum.’

Draco concentrated on what Herp had shown him before his memories mounted and took him to even worse corners of his mind. Instead of using Occlumency to hide his thoughts from a probing mind, as he had done during the war, he let himself drift into a scene of serenity.

A clear lake under the moonlight. The feel of cold grass at his fingertips. The mirror image of the full moon in the water. The sound of night-time creatures. The scent of mud and fresh water, of grass and night-blooming flowers.

Breath. Breath.

“…nice to have a night out. I mean, you never go out.” Theo’s voice came as if from far away and grew louder as Draco emerged from the stint into his mind.

“I don’t want to, Nott,” Draco said. “But I will not object to getting high with you.”

Theo grinned widely and plunged a hand into his waist coat pocket. “Say less, mate,” he chimed, fishing out a joint.

Unlike alcohol, marijuana and gillyweed relaxed him. There was no danger of having an episode while high. It was one of the reasons he had a box filled with the stuff in his bedroom.

When Draco flooed back to the manor after waking in Theo’s living room, he was already awaited by Nips. The house elf wrung his hands and blinked his large blue eyes at Draco.

“Master Draco is beings wanted for breakfast,” he squeaked. “The…Master insists.”

“You are employed by my mother, Nips. There is no need to call Lucius your Master anymore,” Draco said, stumbling a bit. He cast a look down his body and discovered he looked rumpled and out of sorts. A grin took up space on his lips. Perfect. He didn’t bother dusting off the ash and soot.

Nips leaned from one foot to the other nervously. “Yes, Nips knows. Nips is a free elf. But…Mast- Mister Malfoy is beings as strict as befores.”

Draco scowled and stomped from the floo parlor. “We’ll see about that. Thank you for telling me, Nips. Oh, and feel free to tell me if he tries to make you punish yourself.” He made his way into the breakfast room and found his mother and father seated on either head-side in silence. He glowered at his father, who looked paler than he had before and was a lot thinner than during his trail. It wasn’t unusual. Azkaban didn’t have a five-star restaurant attached to it. But Lucius looked almost sallow.

Draco idly wondered whether he had looked like that himself. He also wondered if the same scars littered his father’s body under his perfectly tailored robes. The Diffindo slices from the guards, or the shiv marks near his ribs from fellow inmates. Probably not.

Lucius pursed his pale lips and cast a once-over Draco’s way. It felt exactly the same as it had always felt. Debasing and shame-inducing. Draco balled his fists and breathed.

In a move that was at once a show of solidarity to his mother and disrespect to his father, Draco sat down to his mother’s right. “Good morning, mother,” he said, ignoring his father. It went as much against his strict upbringing as not having gone to clean up had, but Healer Herp was right; Draco had a right to be angry. And he was done playing happy family.

His mother’s blue eyes found him. “You could have cleaned up, darling. You smell like a bar.”

“I could have,” Draco allowed. “But then we wouldn’t have this lovely discussion.”

“Show your mother more respect, son,” Lucius admonished.

“Don’t call me that,” Draco snarled, glaring at his father. “Oh, and while we’re at it; stop making the house elves call you Master, they don’t work for you.”

“I am the lord of this house and I will demand respect and obedience,” Lucius said, his tone icy but soft.

“Splendid. One more reason to get away from here,” Draco spat.

“What do you mean?” his mother asked.

Draco looked at her and felt the by now familiar mix of guilt, love, and resentment wash through him. “It means I have decided to move out.”

“Preposterous,” Lucius said. “Where would you even go, with what money? Don’t tell me you want to get a…job.” The last word was almost spat. “You’d best believe I will not fund you lounging about all day with that good for nothing Nott-heir. I think it would be best if you stopped seeing him altogether, to be honest. He is clearly a bad influence.”

Narcissa placed a hand on Draco’s wrist and the venomous answer he had ready died on his tongue as chills crawled over his skin and he yanked his arm away.

A look of hurt flashed through his mother’s eyes as she pulled her hand away. “I apologize, darling.”

Lucius clicked his tongue. “Don’t apologize, Cissy. A son should be grateful for the loving touch of his mother.” He glowered at Draco. “And all this talk of moving out is moot. You probably get these strange ideas from your healing-sessions.” His face was filled with disgust. “What kind of grown man would need to talk about his feelings and whine on for hours about his troubles? You don’t need any of it. Your mother doesn’t need to apologize to you. What you need, is a wife so you can continue our line. That should keep you busy enough to forget about all of this nonsense.”

Draco seethed. He bit his teeth together so hard he was sure they’d crack any second now. Lucky for all three of them, anger rarely sprouted an episode for him, or he would have been in the throes of one by now.

“I am in these healing-sessions, mostly because of the choices you made,” Draco hissed, his patience splintering to pieces. “I will not marry, I will not father the next Malfoy you can mess up so severely that he or she can’t even sleep through the night without screaming.” The surprise at himself for speaking so bluntly was overshadowed by the anger burning through everything else.

Lucius looked down his nose, his eyes adorned by dark rings. “Pathetic. You are just weak, always have been.”

Draco got ready to spring to his feet, his hand already on route to his wand. He would hex the old man into the next wall.

“Enough,” Narcissa said loudly, bringing the rising tension to a screeching halt. Father and son glared at one another as she stood and walked to one of the dainty dressers next to the windows. “Lucius, you will cease talking about Draco’s healing-sessions, if I hear one word from you about it, you’ll regret it deeply.” The rustling of paper sounded from her direction and she walked back, while Lucius paled even more at her words.

“Cissy…” he began but was cut off when she slapped the Prophet onto the table.

“No, Lucius. On this I will not bend. View it as law from here on out.” She sat back down and slid the Prophet over to Draco. “Darling, you might have to rethink your stance on matrimony.”

“What?” Draco furrowed his brows and unfolded the paper.

Directive 32 in effect: Reception Mixed

 As he read the article hot and cold flashes ran through him alternatingly. He swallowed repeatedly and placed the paper down.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “It seems I’m going to move further away than I thought. As far away as possible, in fact.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, son,” Lucius said. “We will find you an adequate wife.” He grimaced when Draco gaped at him. “Even if she has to be one of them.”

Draco blinked a few times, then rose from his seat. “Excuse me, mother, it seems as though I feel a bit unwell.” He didn’t wait for an answer, only crumbled the Prophet in his fist and hastened from the room.

“Draco!” his father called. “Come back this instant! We are not done talking about this.”

His mind racing, Draco ignored him and headed for his room. He was not about to marry some woman he didn’t want and he definitely wasn’t about to go back there. No, he was never going back there. He would die before he did.

His breath grew short and panic reached for him at the thought. Cold fingers of dread coiled around his heart and squeezed until he was unable to breathe. Draco swallowed, tore at his buttons to free his throat while his steps quickened and sweat broke out across his entire body.

Finally, he entered his room and locked the door behind him. He sank down, with his back against the wood, hugging his knees to his chest while he trembled all over. His heart felt like it was beating behind his teeth and terror snaked through his gut, his abdomen, his chest. The heaviness of it pulled at him, weighed on him, consumed him.

He forced his shaking body to crawl across the room, gasping for breath loudly. With clumsy fingers, he rummaged through his desk, fiddling with the dark, carved box he’d gotten from Theo. Draco dropped it and countless joints spilled onto the floor. He sank down and grabbed one with shaking hands.

His wand trembled when he tried to light it and the panic grew in its intensity. On the third try he did it and inhaled deeply, the crackling of the gleaming coal eating at the blunt was the only sound in the room, next to his rattling breaths. He held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could.

Draco breathed out.

A moonlit lake.

Pull. Hold. Breathe.

Grass against his fingers.

Pull. Hold. Breathe.

The sound of nighttime creatures.

Pull. Hold. Breathe.

The scent of mud and water.

Pull. Hold. Breathe.

Of night blooming flowers.

Chapter Text

An Indecent Proposal

Hermione

Rife with irritation, Hermione noted down a change on the mission request that had just arrived from the Auror’s office. The scent of the dozen or so bouquets sitting around her office, not to mention the pile of proposals—which had come with the flowers—now smoldering in her dustbin, were giving her a headache. She scowled at the haphazard report. What moron had decided who of her department to send out into the field in her bloody stead? Scotch and Bills were not even close to ready at Obliviating the number of Muggles listed.

Scoffing, Hermione read over the report of the Auror’s incidental mission, looking for clues.

…sensitive information leading to… …hiding in an abandoned Muggle Church-ruin… …Yaxley, Macnair, Rowle and Hastings apprehended… …Dolohov still unaccounted for… …mission not going smooth… …fighting continued to the streets of a small village…

The wording was somewhat familiar, but she didn’t know the handwriting. Confused, she scanned the request and report, until she came upon the name of the Auror having drawn it up. “Bloody hell,” she growled, beholding Ron’s name. “That utter twit.”

Lips tightening, she grabbed a piece of parchment and aggressively dabbed off the excess ink from her quill.

Ronald,

It’s nice to know you are not writing your own bloody reports. Now, whether you got one of the secretaries or interns to do it, doesn’t matter to me. But please, for the love of Circe, do not attempt to decide whom I should send onto missions. It makes my work harder and this is a time-sensitive case.

Seriously miffed,

Hermione Granger

Head of the Obliviation Department

With a decisive nod, she tapped the parchment with her wand, watched it fold into a little bird and waved it off.

Snagging a blank mission-directive, Hermione added timestamps, names of agents she wanted to send out and the numbers and whereabouts of the witnesses.

“Astoria,” she called and momentarily the impeccably dressed and made-up witch walked through her open door.

“Yes, Hermione?” Astoria asked with a warm smile.

Holding out the mission-directive, Hermione stood and gave it over. “New directive, the ones named should convene with the DMLE and be on their way in the next half hour. Sooner if possible.”

Astoria let her blue gaze flit over the parchment and gave a nod. “Consider it done.” She smiled again and was off. Immediately, Hermione felt better, knowing that her orders would be taken care of with utmost haste. Astoria was a gem when it came to efficiency and getting people to do what she wanted. Most of it was due to the fact that her smile was as radiant as her blue eyes, making every male agent—and some of the women—trip over their feet to do her bidding. Astoria was a rather gorgeous witch and used her looks and considerable charm to get her way, which was, by extension, Hermione’s. She was a great secretary and made the best damned Earl Grey Hermione had ever tasted.

In the beginning Hermione had been skeptical, thinking that maybe Astoria‘s upbringing would mean she was biased, or difficult to work with, but that certainly wasn’t the case. She worked hard, never complained when they stayed late and was surprisingly pleasant to be around.

In truth, Hermione had no idea how she had run this place before Astoria Greengrass had come along. She had even come to be fond of the witch and was considering asking her along on one of her infrequent lady’s nights with Ginny and Luna in the future.

It took around ten minutes and a memo came flittering into her office. Hermione caught it and unfolded the little bird.

Come on, ‘Mione. I was just trying to save you time. No reason to get all bent out of shape.

Ron.

Gnashing her teeth, she penned back a short response.

Ronald,

please do not bother to save me time in the future. Writing my directives does not help. For your information, I will get bent out of shape over any and everything I so damned well please. Especially when it comes to my Department.

Hermione.

It took her two tries, because the ink leaked under the pressure she pushed down onto her quill.

“Knock, knock,” a familiar voice said and despite the low hum of anger buzzing under her skin, Hermione felt a smile tug on the corners of her lips. Harry leaned against her doorframe and grinned, his mischievous green eyes twinkling behind his round glasses. As ever, his presence positively lit up the room.

“Bad time?” he asked as he sauntered into her office, looking a bit puzzled when he saw all the flowers and the smoking dustbin. “Ah, new beau? You could have told me, Herms.”

“Decidedly not,” Hermione said with a glower.

In that moment, Astoria swayed past Harry and dropped a new bout of letters on Hermione’s desk. “These just came in. And don’t worry, the agents are on their way already.”

“Greengrass,” Harry said by way of greeting.

“Potter.” She glanced sideways at Harry and Hermione blinked when Astoria blushed and looked down, before turning away.

“Thank you, Astoria,” Hermione called after her. She eyed her friend. “Sit.”

Harry scrunched up his nose, got out his wand to syphon away the smoke, before he gave up and vanished the smoldering letters completely. Then he sank into one of the chairs in front of Hermione’s desk.

“So… Want to tell me what’s going on?” He pointed at the posh letters. “What’s all this?”

Hermione laced her fingers and leaned her chin onto her knuckles. “You can read them, if you tell me what’s going on with you and my secretary.”

Harry’s eyes widened and he swiveled his head to the door and back. “Greengrass? No idea what you are talking about.”

Narrowing her eyes, she deduced that Harry seemed flabbergasted enough to be telling the truth. He had never been a good liar. “Hm,” she made, vaguely. Maybe Astoria had the hots for the Chosen One. Harry was fresh on the market, so to speak, since he and Ginny called it quits a few months ago. Hermione could objectively see why—Harry was like a brother after all—a lot of women found him dashing.

Harry reached for one of the letters and opened it. He read through it and his eyebrows rose with each back and forth of his gaze, making his scar vanish under his unruly fringe.

“Is this a joke?” he finally asked, letting the letter sink.

“Afraid not,” Hermione quipped and massaged her temples. “Directive 32. Ever since Kings has lost his marbles and signed off on it, I have become the most eligible bachelorette in Wizarding England. Huzzah.” She mockingly pumped her fist into the air.

Harry looked around the room, to the remaining letters and blinked. “You mean all of this… All of these are—”

“Proposals by former Death Eaters or affiliates? Yes,” Hermione said.

“Wow. Anyone spiked your interest?” He wriggled his brows and Hermione threw a letter at his head.

“Idiot.”

Harry laughed and lifted his palms. “I came by to ask whether you wanted to come out for drinks on Friday. Ginny and Ron will be there and I thought we could all stand to get together again. We hardly ever see you these days.”

She was close to saying no, she really was, but then Hermione remembered last night and how she had cried alone at her kitchen table. Maybe going out with her friends would be a good thing. She was still friendly with Ron—despite him getting on her nerves occasionally—and would love to see Ginny. The red-head and Harry had split amicably and remained as thick as thieves.

“Fine,” she said. “Owl me with the time and place. I need to have a word with Ronald about his work-ethics anyway.”

“No need to sound so excited,” Harry teased. He looked at her for a moment, his expression turning thoughtful. “Are you alright, Hermione?” His tone was level, letting her know it was a genuine question. “I haven’t checked in as much as I should have in the last few weeks.”

Hermione swallowed once, forcing back the tears his concern brought on. “I will be, Harry. I’m sure.”

He reached over the table and took her hand, gently squeezing it. “You know you can always come to me, for anything. Right?”

“I know.” She smiled at him and they sat like that for a moment. It warmed her heart knowing her oldest and best friend would always be there for her.

Harry sighed and pulled back his hand after another squeeze. “You really ought to get out more. But seeing as you have so many new gentleman callers, maybe we’ll see you out and about more often soon.”

Hermione stuck out her tongue at him, mirth overtaking the heavy moment, making her feel like she was fourteen again. “I have work, now get, Boy-Who-Grew-Into-a-Hotty.”

Harry grinned and ran a hand through his mat of black hair. “Saw that article, did you?”

“Skeeter was on the case as soon as it became known you and Ginny wouldn’t marry and have fourteen kids. You’re almost as eligible as me now. Or am I almost as eligible as you?” Hermione frowned. “Either way, at least people think you are a hotty.”

Harry stood and leaned over the table to kiss her cheek. “So are you, ‘Mione. A swotty hotty.”

“Kindly piss off and don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out,” Hermione said mildly and with a warm smile.

Laughing, Harry proceeded to flounce from the room. “See you Friday.”

Being around Harry always lifted her mood. He had changed much since the war and Hermione was so happy for him. During their childhood and adolescent years there had always been a darkness to him which he had fought with every step he took, clinging to his humanity with all he had. It made sense to Hermione due to the fact Harry himself had carried a part of Voldemort around since he’d been a baby, in addition to having the weight of the Wizarding world heaved onto him since he was eleven. With all of that gone now, he seemed lighter, freer, more himself than ever before. They never spoke about it, but Hermione could see it and she was sure that being a human Horcrux had taken a huge toll on Harry in the first place. She also thought the war and all that had come with it had altered Harry’s view on the world and life itself, which was the reason he hadn’t become an Auror as he’d wanted to initially. No, Harry had followed his passion for Quidditch and was now a headhunter and talent scout for the Birmingham Bangers. A job which he enjoyed thoroughly as it meant traveling a lot and going to multiple games.

Hermione was still grinning slightly, when she sorted through the letters, vanishing some of them on sight. Her eyes fell on a cream-colored one and she scowled at it. About to incinerate it, she turned it over and stilled. It was the same crest. Two snakes bracketing a large ‘M’. Only this time, the sender was directly mentioned.

Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione gaped at the name. What the hell would Lucius want from her? And a mere week after being released from prison no less? The notion of him asking for her hand was so preposterous that she nearly fell into a fit of hysterical giggles. However, her curiosity was awoken and she broke the wax seal and opened the letter.

Dear Miss Granger,

I am not surprised that my first letter went unanswered, seeing as you must be overflowing with mail at this point in time. The matter does lend itself to a slight urgency however, meaning I was unable to wait.

I have a proposal for you and would like to invite you to tea in the aviary of my manor. Sadly, I can’t come to you, or I would have been by personally already.

Hermione snorted, imagining Lucius Malfoy sitting across from her. Where Harry had just been. The thought was ludicrous.

I wanted to ensure that you didn’t have to set foot into the manor, hence the aviary. I will deactivate the wards of the manor for exactly one hour tomorrow, starting at ten minutes to three o’clock, allowing you to apparate directly. Please find the coordinates for a precise apparition attached.

Now, I can imagine that you have a natural and healthy distrust when it comes to me—

“Oh, Godric, has this man lost the plot?” Hermione whispered to herself.

—but I do hope you take me up on my invitation. Please know that you will not regret it. I have asked Miss Greengrass to accompany you, should you acquiesce. I know she has your trust and you have hers. She will be able to vouch for your safety.

All I ask is that you hear me out. Please. I do not ask lightly.

Sincerely hopeful,

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

“Holy shite,” Hermione gasped out and looked at the letter for a full minute before moving, her mind racing. “Astoria!”

Curiosity had eaten the cat, now it was Hermione’s turn. Or so it seemed to her. At precisely five to three the next day, she and Astoria apparated to the aviary of Malfoy Manor.

Up until five minutes beforehand, Hermione had debated whether or not she was actually going to show. Astoria had told her that she knew the family since she could remember and Malfoy Senior had indeed insured her she and Hermione would be safe and welcome, but he had not told her what all of it was about.

The final push for Hermione’s already peaked curiosity had been the fact that Lucius would deactivate the wards around his ancestral home for one hour, which—according to Astoria—was wild. Apparently, the man was a bit paranoid when it came to his and his family’s privacy and safety. For him to make such a concession, was atypical.

He might have left Azkaban prematurely, but this left him on house arrest, which meant he really couldn’t do much different if he wanted to meet with her. The question remained; what the hell did he want from her?

None of it put her at ease, though. Hermione’s memories of the manor were nowhere near fond or distant ones. She had been traumatized in its halls. Tortured and marked. Some of her dreams still took her back there. Even after she had worked on herself, seeing a mind-healer for over a year after the war. But Hermione knew that healing was never a straight line and many things could trigger a response. Hopefully seeing Lucius Malfoy would not take her back to that horrible night.

Luckily, the aviary was as far from the dark halls she remembered as could be.

When they popped into existence a series of hoots and screeches greeted them from all angles. Startled birds hopped and tweeted in their cages all around. The place was huge, a dome of tinted glass encasing the entire space in which countless large cages housed a plethora of colorful birds. Some of which, Hermione had only ever seen in books. She saw fwoopers, jobberknolls, snidgets, but also huge macaws, colorful hornbills and what looked like tiny, feathered specs, flitting about. Owls and eagles regally sat on branches and eyed the two of them suspiciously. Ivy and other plants hung from the cages and the amount of greenery inside the enclosures made it seem as though they had stepped into the rainforest. This perception was furthered by the dense humidity and the sing-song of countless throats that picked back up once the birds had recovered from the cracking noise of apparition.

Astoria firmly linked their arms and began walking them forward. They wound through a veritable maze of green and grand cages, until reaching a large open space under the center of the dome, where a round table was set with tea service, chairs and Lucius Malfoy. What looked to be a file filled with paper was laid out in front of him.

He stood upon their entrance, looking much changed from how Hermione remembered him. Leaning heavily on his cane, his cheeks had sunken and his grey eyes—though alert and calculating as ever—were surrounded by dark circles. He was pale. Extremely so.

“Miss Granger, Astoria, thank you for coming,” he said and waved them closer. “Miss Granger, please sit. Astoria, I know you always loved the African fish eagle, our couple recently had a few young. Feel free to view them at your leisure.”

Astoria let go of Hermione’s arm and strode over to Lucius, kissed the air beside his cheeks and smiled shakily at him. “It’s good to see you, Mister Malfoy.”

He smiled at her and for the first time Hermione was seeing true fondness on his face. She had not known the man to be capable of it. And while Astoria leaving her side had her nervous, the fact that Lucius seemed to like Astoria also calmed her a tad.

“Always so well behaved, dear,” he said and placed a hand on her shoulder gently for a second. “Thank you for joining Miss Granger today.”

Astoria nodded, threw a look over her shoulder at Hermione and gave her a smile. “I’ll be right around that corner, Hermione,” she said, pointing behind Lucius. “If you need anything, I’ll be by your side in a second.”

The look she gave her was earnest and calmed Hermione’s nerves further. For a moment, Hermione was tempted to insist on her staying, but another part of her was wondering whether she really wanted her secretary to know what Malfoy Senior had to say to her. Especially given that he had only just come out of prison a week ago. That little tidbit had been repeating in her thoughts over and over. The question of why he’d been let go prematurely was ever present.

“I’ll be fine, Astoria,” Hermione said and walked closer to the table. She took the chair furthest away from the Malfoy patriarch and sat down.

As the soft clacking of heels grew fainter, Lucius sat down himself, leaning on his cane while he did. He seemed almost frail, certainly a far cry from the man Hermione had gotten to despise before and over the war. No, she would have no trouble with memories assaulting her, he was a far cry from threatening in any way.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you accepting my invitation, Miss Granger,” he said.

She gave him a long look. “I would appreciate candidness. What am I doing here?”

His lips grew a bit tight. “Straight to the point then, alright. Would you do me the favor of casting a Muffliato around us? I am forbidden to have a wand you see, and I wouldn’t want Miss Greengrass to overhear our conversation.”

Hermione mulled his request over for a moment but then did as he asked. She had a wand, he didn’t. If worse came to worst, she could defend herself.

“Thank you, kindly,” Lucius said, surprising her further. Where were the insults? The condescending sneer? The disdainful looks? It seemed as though he was doing everything he could to put her at ease. It was unnerving.

“Tea, Miss Granger?”

Hermione huffed out a breath. “No thank you. Please refer to my initial request, as I do not like to repeat myself.”

This time she saw his lips twitch. Was he stifling a smile? That couldn’t be.

“Very well. Miss Granger, I have a proposition for you and would like to ask you to hear me out fully before you leave, or interrupt me.” There had been no question, but he looked at her as if he’d asked one.

She gave him a solitary nod. “I will try. It certainly depends on your conduct, as much as it does on the proposition in general.”

“I understand.” He folded his hands on his cane and sat straighter. Even while he looked worn, his mannerisms as well as his clothes were impeccable. “As you may have noticed, Directive 32 has some of my former associates in a bit of a tizzy.”

Hermione snorted before she could help herself. Lucius blinked at her as if she had spat on the floor. “Apologies, please continue,” she said.

“Ah, well… I have come to you with an opportunity. As I have been told, you receive dozens of proposals a day. In person as well as in the form of letters. Were you to agree to my proposition, that would all go away.”

“And what exactly are you asking of me, Mister Malfoy?”

“In short, to marry my son and thus keeping him out of Azkaban.”

Hermione had expected something outlandish. She might even have expected something along these lines, but still, hearing it directly from Lucius Malfoy himself, was as unsettling as it was hilarious. Too stunned to speak, she gaped at Lucius, who took the opportunity to prattle on.

“You would enter into a contract, stating that you’d be married for at least two years. In exchange—”

“Excuse me? Exchange? Are you… Are you trying to buy me?” Hermione scowled at him.

For the first time that day, she saw an echo of the famous Malfoy sneer ghost across his features. “Please, let me continue, Miss Granger. I am coming to you with this because I believe it could be a mutually beneficial agreement. You know my son; you have spoken on his behalf at his trial. And you know he will be imprisoned if he doesn’t find a muggleborn wife in the next year. Knowing his publicly perceived reputation, how would you see his chances?”

Hermione glared at him. “I believe it will be hard for him, but that is not my problem. While I find Directive 32 abhorrent, there is nothing I can do about it. Yes, I know your son and while he has done some things to atone for what he did over the years, not to mention what your parenting and choices have wrought on him, none of it means I want to marry him. I am not some mail-order bride you can just pay off.” Ire built within her and kept drowning out any feeling of empathy and understanding she might have had. “Besides, if he needs a bride so badly, where is he? Why is he not the one asking me to marry him?”

“Because the contract would be between the two of us. I have the means and knowledge to help you. Draco does not. He would get his inheritance upon marriage and not before. Meaning he could not promise you what I can. And one never bargains with what one does not have.”

A dark chuckle rose from her chest. “And what exactly do you think you can offer me that could possibly have me say yes to this farce?” Angry as she was, she was still curious. Would it be blackmail? Bribery? Threats? She put none of it past the man before her.

“I know of your parents, Miss Granger. I know how much you are struggling to keep the therapy going. I also know how close you are to having to give up. You have done much, lost much, to get them back.”

Black wrath swamped her and she shot to her feet, making her chair scrape across the ground with a horrid sound. “You fucking dare threaten my parents?”

Lucius leaned back in his seat; his grey eyes steady. “Absolutely not, Miss Granger. I am offering help.” He tapped the file in front of him with a finger. “The contract states that I would pay for the therapy in full, no matter how long it takes for your parents to recover. There is a mind-healing clinic in Sweden, run by the leading experts on such matters, the world renowned, Healer Gunnar Carlson and his colleague Healer Vigga—”

“Nilsson,” Hermione finished for him.

He cocked a brow. “You know of her, then?”

“I know of everyone who has any acclaim when it comes to reversing Obliviation,” Hermione spat.

“Yes, I am sure you do. But do you also happen to donate to the clinic yearly, leaving you able to gain placements for treatment? If you agree, Miss Granger, your parents will receive the best possible care, by the best Healers in the field.” He leaned forward in his seat, his intense gaze trained on her. “For as long as it takes until they are back again.”

Hermione’s mind raced. This she had not expected. Her heart picked up, hammering in her chest as her thoughts chased each other. Godric, she had tried to get her parents into that clinic the moment she had learned it existed. The Skövde Klinik För Sinnesläkare was exactly the place she would have wanted her parents to go. The place she believed could actually help them. Healers Nilsson and Carlson were indeed renowned for their work in the medi-magical field. There was, simply put, no one better when it came to mind-healing; especially Obliviation. It had been impossible to get a therapy place, let alone two. Not even when she played the war-heroine card. Besides, even if she had gotten one, she would never have been able to afford the cost.

“I…” She blew out a breath, then glared at him. “How dare you? My parents are none of your Merlin-damned business. My plights are none of your business. I am not a piece of meat to be bought, Mister Malfoy!”

“That may be, but my son and his well-being is my business, Miss Granger. And believe me, if it had been as simple as asking you to marry him with you simply being amenable to it, I would have done so. If there had been any other way, it would have been done. You may think of me what you will, but I love Draco and—not unlike my wife—I will do anything to keep him from harm.”

Hermione snorted again. “You have a really funny way of showing that. You know, having him take the mark, letting Voldemort into your home—”

Lucius blanched further. “Careful, Miss Granger. You know not what you speak of.” His jaw clenched and he swallowed, his pale fingers trembling as he gripped his cane tighter. “I am offering you a way out. Coincidentally, it is a way out for Draco as well. Please, I beg of you not to outright say no. Think about it and get back to me. I will let you hold on to the contract to go through it. My only stipulation is that if you need a solicitor to look it over, have them sworn to secrecy. It would do neither of us any good if this came to light.” He slid the file over the table where it halted right at her fingertips.

Her breath came in shaky bursts and she wanted to incinerate the bloody thing, but found herself reaching for it instead. “This means nothing,” she said as she picked it up and gathered it to her chest.

“I know. But I do hope you come to understand it as the opportunity it is. I know of your living conditions and your working hours. How long will you be able to keep on going before all of it breaks you apart? Even you are not invincible, Miss Granger.”

Hadn’t she asked herself that very question two nights ago? Damn Lucius Malfoy for being the conniving snake he was. “I might want to make changes to the contract, if I even entertain this madness,” Hermione said.

Malfoy Senior nodded. “Of course. I do not expect you to sign without negotiating. Feel free to owl me at any given time over the next three days. After which I will have to make other arrangements, so be aware that this offer is time-sensitive. If you have not decided in three days from now, the offer expires.”

“Why? Your son has a year?” Hermione asked, surprised at this revelation.

“I’d rather not say, Miss Granger. But thank you for seeing me and hearing me out. I know it can’t have been easy, given our history. Please be assured that I will make concessions on your behalf in the contract, provided your demands are reasonable, of course. If you want to negotiate, let me know and I will set up a meeting here once more so we can go over it. If I do not hear from you, I have my answer. I will not hound you, or try to coerce you.”

“Oh, how very magnanimous of you,” Hermione snipped sarcastically.

Lucius nodded, his lips twitching once more. “Quite, Miss Granger.” He hoisted himself to his feet and gave her a short bow. “Thank you for being here.”

Seeing his dismissal for what it was, Hermione nixed the Muffliato and called for Astoria. The dark-haired witch was back momentarily and said goodbye to Lucius before she and Hermione apparated back without much fanfare, Hermione’s head buzzing with all sorts of questions and suspicions. Her chest was giving her an even harder time, as it was pulled in two very opposing directions. There was outrage at the absolute audacity of the Malfoys, practically buying her—not to mention Draco not even being present—but her heart was radiating something warm, something akin to longing. It was the first time she had felt it in a long while.

Hope.

Chapter Text

A Deal With The Devil

Hermione

One toe pressed to the faucet of her tub, Hermione lay back in the sudsy and agreeably hot water. Crookshanks had fled the bathroom once the air had gotten too dense for his liking.

Hermione had been soaking for way too long already, but reheated the water wandlessly from time to time, despite the wrinkly skin on her fingers and feet. The day had turned from her feeling a mix of curiosity, unease and nervousness, to outrage coupled with hope, to the present case of stunned fear.

She had read the contract. More than once. And while there was still that niggling persistence of hope, Hermione was afraid she wouldn’t be able to build on it. Perhaps that wasn’t true. Perhaps what was really the cause of her trepidation was that she had already made her decision—the moment she’d heard the words Carlson and Nilsson come out of Lucius’ mouth—and had no idea how she was going to bear it. Marrying Draco Malfoy was one thing, the stipulations of the contract were a different one altogether.

Once her initial outrage had passed, she had decided that being in a love-less marriage was a small price to pay for getting her parents back, even if it was to someone like Malfoy. Especially since it had a time-limit. But there were…clauses. Clauses that, if not honored, would annul the contract automatically, enabling Lucius to withdraw all support.

She frowned at the ceiling, where plaster was coming off in bits and pieces. No amount of Reparo could fix something slowly decaying. Hermione knew, she had tried it countless times on many parts of the flat.

She sighed and resigned herself to the fact that she would have to enter into one hell of a negotiation with the Malfoy patriarch.

Annoyingly, he was right. It was an opportunity. And even while he was using her plight and apparent weakness to get his way, Hermione was left asking herself; would she do anything different? The past had shown what she had been willing to endure, to give up, to will into existence, just to keep her promise. Family. It all came down to it, didn’t it?

Lucius was trying to keep his son from harm and she was trying to get back the two most important people in her life. Not only had she promised them she would, but she missed them tremendously and they held memories of them as a unit. They were a part of her from before. A part no one knew. A part that wasn’t tainted by war, loss and grief. Something she desperately needed and wanted back. Something healthy and innocent.

Hermione sighed and finally stood from her tub, vanishing the water and using a drying spell on her body. She walked across her tiny bathroom, threw on a robe and went the few steps into her living room.

The contract was still sitting on the coffee table where she’d left it. Her mind was already abuzz with what she would have to amend and negotiate. Whether or not she was going to accept wasn’t the question, not anymore. The question was, which of the clauses would be a deal-breaker for her. Where there any? Truly? Well, there was one…

She wished she could talk to someone about it, but knew that given her decision, it would be quite impossible.

The roar of the floo had her yelping and Crookshanks hissing from the sofa. Green flames engulfed her sorry excuse for a hearth and Astoria folded out of it like a Jack in the Box. She dusted herself off and sent a small smile Hermione’s way, who blinked at her secretary.

“Astoria?” Hermione asked, as if the witch wasn’t literally standing before her.

Patting at some grey on her black trousers, Astoria shrugged as if to apologize. “I used the floo in your office. Didn’t know where you lived exactly. Sorry, Hermione, but I felt like…” She trailed off and took a quick look around. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it, her face stayed exactly the same. “You were so quiet when we came back and I feel… I feel responsible, somehow. So I came to check on you.” She conjured a bottle of wine and glasses. “I brought wine.”

Hermione stared at her. Too surprised for words. Yes, Harry and Ginny would obnoxiously floo by and sometimes so would Ron, but Astoria?

The dark-haired witch pursed her lips and let the bottle sink. “I- I’m sorry. I know this is wildly unprofessional. I just thought… Do you want me to leave?”

With a swallow, Hermione shook her head. “No. Please, take a seat. I’m just surprised, that is all.” In truth, Hermione was rather touched at the gesture. She had thought her growing feelings of fondness for her stellar secretary were one-sided. It seemed that either Astoria did truly care, which was a nice thought, or she was spying on her for Lucius, which was not such a nice notion. Regardless, she would find out which of the two had brought her.

Astoria primly sat down and placed the bottle and glasses on the table, her eyes swiftly touching on the contract, but not lingering. She tapped the tip of her wand to the bottle and the cork evicted itself with a soft plop.

“You want a glass?” Astoria asked. “It’s a merlot from one of Blaise’s estates in Italy. He told me it was ‘to die for’.”

Hermione nodded and sat down herself, patting Crookshanks, who was gazing intensely at their guest. “Blaise Zabini?”

“Oh yes. Him.” Astoria chuckled and handed Hermione a glass. “My sister Daphne is friends with him. By extension, I get to tag along to their gatherings sometimes.” A subtle frown ghosted over her face.

“Don’t like him?” Hermione asked, clinking her glass the other witch’s.

“No, Blaise is a hoot. Has a wicked sense of humor, if one manages to tickle it out of him. He can tell the most outrageous stories with a straight face and a tone as dry as the Sahara Desert. And their other friends are fine too, I guess.”

Hermione took a sip and sighed. “Oh, it is to die for, he was right.” She smacked her lips. “So what has you frowning?”

Astoria looked a bit surprised, but only shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing, really. They’re all nice, except for Nott. He’s a vandal.”

“I sense a story there,” Hermione said.

“There is. But I’d rather not talk about it if that is fine with you. It’s…private.”

Now Hermione smirked. “Ah. That kind of private.”

Astoria blushed lightly and something like rage flitted through her beautiful blue eyes, but it was gone within a second. “In a manner of speaking.” She took a sip and smiled at Crookshanks, who stared at her still. “Aren’t you a handsome boy?” she crooned and the half-Kneazle meowed as if to agree. Her addressing him seemed to have placated his curiosity, because he began licking one of his tufty paws to draw it over his ear.

“You really came by to check on me?” Hermione asked.

“Yes. I hope that is not too forward of me. I know we aren’t exactly friends, but I…” She bit her lip, showing a form of nerves Hermione had never seen from her before. “I’d like to be. Friends, I mean.” Astoria blushed again. “Oh, Merlin, you must think me daft. I have a hard time making adult female friends, but I really like working with you. I admire your drive, your way of leading and I think you’re setting a great example for women in leadership roles within the Ministry.” She sipped her wine. “I would have asked you to coffee or lunch earlier, but always felt a tad intimidated. Also, it would have been hardly professional.” She laughed awkwardly. “Not that this is. Oh, please feel free to shut me up and throw me out at any time.”

Hermione chuckled. “You’re fine, Astoria. In truth, I was building up the courage to ask you to my next girl’s night out.”

Astoria’s blue eyes widened. “Truly?”

Hermione nodded. “I also have a bit of a hard time making new adult friends. I would never have guessed you did, though. You seem so confident.”

Astoria waved her off. “That’s all my upbringing. Fake confidence until it manifests. My sister is loads better at it than me.”

A thought struck Hermione then. “Speaking of your sister and her friends; have you seen Malfoy since he was released?”

Astoria set her glass back down and leaned back. “Draco? Once, I think.”

“What was he like?” Hermione was unable to hold back the question, yet afraid it would give away her motivation for asking.

“Quiet. Thin. He was jumpy at loud noises and generally looked a bit haunted. I guess that was to be expected, he’d only just left Azkaban two weeks or so before.” Astoria tilted her head quizzically. “Why do you ask? Does it have something to do with today?”

Hermione blew out a long breath, unsure how much she wanted to say. She knew she had already made a decision and with that in mind, she was unable to talk to her friends about it. They would not understand. None of them had ever been in a similar situation. Godric, Ron hadn’t even understood how she was unable to give up on her parents, knowing the lengths she was willing to go for them would boggle his mind. Hermione knew the protests from her friends would stem from a place of concern, but she didn’t need any protests and logical words to sway her. It would be nice to confide in someone, though. And if Astoria was indeed spying for Malfoy Senior, what did it matter? Then she’d already know. And if she was there to sway Hermione into accepting the proposal, there was no need.

There was the problem of keeping all of it under wraps for the time being, however.

Hermione scrutinized her potential new friend for a moment. “If I told you what today was about, would you make me a vow of secrecy?” It was a ridiculous thing to ask, Hermione knew as much, but the most that could happen was Astoria declining and then they would drink and speak of different things.

“Absolutely,” Astoria said. “Although you wouldn’t need one. I’d never betray your trust if given it. But since you don’t know me well enough yet to understand this about me, I’ll offer a vow.”

Taken aback, Hermione gaped at Astoria’s outstretched palm, but quickly gripped it. “Do you swear to tell no one of the things I divulge to you this evening? Until such a time when I deem it no longer necessary?”

“I do,” Astoria said and a hum of magic passed between them, prickling along the inside of their palms and fingertips where they touched. They shook their hands once and then released each other.

Curiously, Hermione felt rather giddy at the prospect of having a co-conspirator who she could ask for advice. She waved at the contract. “Go ahead. Read it.”

Astoria slowly leaned over and grabbed hold of the contract. One of her dark brows raised the moment she read the heading, stating it as a contract between Hermione and Lucius.

Her lips moved silently as she read. From time to time her eyes would grow big, then narrow, or she would frown and scoff.

Finally, Astoria let the papers sink to her lap. “This is…”

Hermione sipped her drink. “Outrageous? Mad? Appalling?” she suggested.

“Well, yes. But it is also incredibly generous.” Astoria nibbled on her lower lip; her eyes trained on Hermione. She looked as though she was about to divulge something but didn’t know whether she should. “I used to be promised to Draco, you know.”

A chuckle flew from Hermione’s chest. “Excuse me?”

The dark-haired witch nodded. “Yes, when I was twelve. I saw the contract once and it was nowhere near as compensating as this one. Granted, some of the other clauses didn’t exist, but all in all… This is a good marriage contract. It has a time-limit, it grants an exorbitant sum once you divorce, even more depending on how many children you have by then. You’d be taken care of for the rest of your life. And then there is the therapy.” She frowned. “Which I don’t rightly understand to be honest.”

Hermione had steadily felt trepidation and bile rise in her chest. “You were engaged when you were twelve?”

Astoria nodded happily. “Oh, yes. Nothing strange about it. My sister was promised once she turned two.”

“Oh, Merlin, how horrid.”

“It’s just the way it is with most old families. Bargains, connections, furthering wealth, all that stupid shite.” Astoria sighed. “I’m really glad I got away from all of it.”

Hermione was stumped. Theoretically she knew things like this existed, there was Directive 24 after all, but to know someone who had been promised away like a piece of meat as a child? It seemed…vile. “How did you get away from it? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all. I was disinherited at sixteen. That was when my fath—when Mister Greengrass discovered I wasn’t his daughter. It also took care of that pesky betrothal, so there’s that.”

Hermione blinked at her secretary. “I’m so sorry, Astoria. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not a big deal. And how would you have known?” She chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s not something I advertise. They let me keep the family name and Daphne and I are still as close as ever. My parents have never been the warmest people so I don’t miss them.”

It was beyond sad, and Hermione felt like switching sofas to hug her, but she wasn’t sure her potential new friend would want that.

Astoria cleared her throat. “Anyway, I’m sorry I may have convinced you to go today. It’s not like you don’t get enough proposals as is.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Hermione said softly. She drew in a long breath and downed the last bit of wine in her glass. “It’s good you did, because I’m going to take Lucius up on his offer.”

This had Astoria gaping at her open-mouthed. “Y-you are? Why?”

“The therapy. It’s for my parents.” Hermione continued to explain all of it to Astoria, who listened with bated breath and unbelieving eyes.

“Oh, Hermione, that’s awful. I can’t imagine having to erase myself from people I love. That must have been so hard.” She looked down at the contract in her lap. “Do you really think this place could help them?”

“It’s worth a try,” Hermione said, her voice thin. “I have tried everything else.”

“But this? You would marry and…” She flapped the contract open, looking from it to Hermione skeptically.

“I’d do anything for my parents. Besides, Lucius said he was open to negotiations. I plan on making a whole lot of amendments to that thing.”

A sly smile spread on Astoria’s lush lips. “This I like. Well, if you’re sure, let’s get to work on figuring out what to change and how to argue it.”

Hermione slid from her seat and sank down next to Astoria. “You’d help me with this?”

Astoria nudged Hermione’s shoulder with her own. “Of course. Let’s fleece dear old daddy Malfoy for all he is worth.” She wriggled her brows and Hermione groaned.

“Please don’t call him that.”

The next few hours flew by as the two witches noted changes, mock-argued with each other—with Astoria playing Lucius and Hermione herself—drinking the entire bottle of Zabini’s delicious wine, and cackling like hags. It was truly marvelous how well Astoria was able to channel Lucius’ posh accent and sneer, which had Hermione in stitches.

Hermione couldn’t remember when last she had enjoyed a night so thoroughly, which was saying something, as the looming reality of what she was about to do hung over her like the sword of Damocles. But her hope had returned, burning brighter than ever before and she felt her well of will and drive gain back a semblance of what it had lost over the last few years.

She could do this. She would do this. The Malfoy’s wouldn’t know what hit them. She was Hermione Granger after all.

Thursday afternoon, at exactly three o’clock, Hermione apparated into the aviary of Malfoy Manor. She had her arguments and changes ready, but had asked Astoria to stay back. She was grateful for the help, but this was something she wanted to do alone.

Hermione found Lucius at the same table and the same seat she had left him in two days ago. He looked a tad better as he rose and greeted her, not quite as pasty.

She slid a copy of all the changes she wanted his way and took her respective seat.

“Have you come to a decision then, Miss Granger?” Malfoy asked.

“That depends on the outcome of our negotiations,” Hermione said, unwilling to give away her desperation.

Lucius inclined his head once. “Naturally.” He let go of his cane with his right and opened the file in front of him Hermione had slid across the table.

“I have noted some things, as you can see,” she said, folding her hands and gazing over her knuckles at him.

“Quite a few at that.” Malfoy Senior let his grey eyes travel over the document. If he was surprised, or angry, he didn’t let it show.

“So, to address point number one,” Hermione said. “I changed the date of the wedding to in two weeks. The sooner the better, I think.”

Pale brows rose at that. “My wife will be unamused. It leaves little time for planning.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “And also little time for interference once it gets out who I am about to marry.”

“That is true. I am in agreement.” He took the quill stuck in a fancy inkpot before him and checked the point off.

“Point two, I will not live at Malfoy Manor. Draco can visit me, or even come live with me if he must, but I will not set foot in your house.” Hermione drew on her sternest look for this and Lucius sighed when he beheld her.

“You will live as a married couple does. It’s nonnegotiable.” He frowned and dabbed the quill into the inkpot before scribbling something onto the document. “I was fearing this would be a problem. But I have a solution. Draco will inherit a small house, near Lyndhurst in Hampshire. He has expressed the wish to move out at any rate and I think you’ll find it suitable as far as accommodation goes.”

Hermione tried to decipher whether he was trying to make a dig at her shoddy flat—which he obviously knew about, if their last conversation was anything to go by—but his stoic expression gave nothing away.

“He would get it either way once he married?” Hermione asked.

“Yes. It is part of his inheritance.”

“Fine.” Hermione wasn’t happy with it, but she wasn’t very fond of her flat and if she had to live with Malfoy, it didn’t matter where. If there was a bit more space to avoid each other, all the better. “Point number three, I will not concede to dining at your manor twice a week. As I have said before, if I can help it, I will not set foot in your house.”

“We can have our dinners here in the aviary, then. But I must insist on once a week,” he said.

Hermione bit her teeth together but nodded and changed her own document with a simple Muggle pen. “You have stated that I am to attend functions with your son. Galas and charity events.”

“Yes. Also the new year’s ball my wife organizes. I’m afraid that one will be held in our manor and you will need to be present. It is a family affair after all.”

Hermione’s leg began to bounce at the thought. “It is only the one party?”

Malfoy Senior gave her a curt nod.

“Alright. But I will be present for no more than three other events.”

“Six.”

“Four.

“Five.

Hermione glared. “Four.”

Just as during their first meeting, Lucius looked about to smirk, but it had to be a trick of the light. “Very well, four. I must say, Miss Granger, I am surprised at your tenacity in negotiations. You have a natural talent for it. Ever thought of going into politics?”

Hermione snorted and this time he didn’t even flinch, maybe she was growing on him. “As if I have time for such nonsense. Now, point five, I will keep my name.”

“That is out of the question.”

She folded her hands in her lap and pegged him with a stern look. “Is this a deal breaker?”

He straightened his shoulders. “I’m afraid so. You will become part of this family in every way that counts. You will be my son’s wife in every way that counts. This marriage is not a sham, however much you might wish it to be. You will be a Malfoy, with all that entails.”

She pursed her lips, unnerved by his words. “How is your stance on hyphenated names?”

Lucius actually chuckled at that. It was a strange sound and way to joyful for a man like him. “Miss Granger, you are very entertaining, but no.” His grey eyes lost their mirth and he shook his head. “You will take our name.”

Hermione swallowed at the venomous words she wanted to throw his way. This was a delicate affair. It was a chance for her parents. She had to remember that. “Fine,” she almost growled and nearly stabbed through her document with how forcefully she scribbled on it.

“Point six, as soon as we have finalized this meeting and signed, my parents will be on their way to Sweden.”

Malfoy looked straight at her for a moment. “I’m afraid that is not possible. I made inquiries and arrangements, but it will take a bit of time. Once you are married—you said in two weeks—the transfer will take place.”

That snake! “This might have nothing to do with the fact that either your son or me could back out last minute?” Hermione asked sarcastically.

He smirked. “Absolutely none.”

“Hm.” As if she bloody believed that. “Point seven. There is a fidelity clause for me. If that is so, there should be one for him. Not that I particularly care, but fair is fair.”

Malfoy added something to his document. “Alright. It seems a bit foolish to trust the future of your parents’ sanity to Draco’s capability to stay true to you, but as you wish.”

“Oh, sod it all. Fine, leave it. But then I want mine removed as well.”

Lucius sighed deeply. “No, Miss Granger. I will not be wondering whether or not any child would be legitimate. Absolutely not.”

She felt like growling at him, like crawling across the table and hexing his ears off. For starters. “Fucking Christ! Fine!”

“Please know that this contract is magically binding. It will sense infidelity and dissolve.” His tone seemed almost bored and Hermione felt her wand-hand twitch.

Instead of hexing the arsehole, Hermione snagged up a scone and munched on it angrily for a moment. If she got through this without murdering her potential father-in-law, she would demand to be sanctified. She ate another scone in silence and Lucius seemed content to give her some time.

After polishing off two more, Hermione felt calm enough to continue. Somehow.

Hermione took a few breaths and steeled herself for the next part. This was the big one. The one clause that had filled her with stark fear, more than any of the others. Her potential breaking point. “Point number eight; I will not be presenting you with a grandchild before the one-year mark of our marriage. If I get pregnant at all”—she shuddered inwardly— “then it will be in our own time. Also, shouldn’t your son be here to discuss these things?”

“Draco knows what is expected of him. And an heir is also nonnegotiable. I will give you more time, however.” Malfoy Senior gave her a long look. “If you fall pregnant by the end of the one-year mark, that is fine.”

“I will not be forced into pregnancy,” Hermione snapped. She had no wish to be a mother yet, especially not when the father was Malfoy. “And I will certainly not have my child grow up around your warped world-views.” Her words dripped with vitriol and she was a hairbreadth away from throwing one of the scones at Lucius when he huffed out a sigh.

“Then I fear we are at an impasse. As I said, an heir is nonnegotiable.”

“Why?” Hermione hated the desperation in her voice but couldn’t help it. She was prepared to do an awful lot for her parents, but to put an innocent life in the path of Lucius Malfoy? It was too much. Yes, it seemed as though she had discovered her limit.

Malfoy Senior seemed to instinctively understand that he was about to lose her cooperation and his jaw clenched subtly. “How about this, Miss Granger? If you provide my son with an heir, not only will I set your parents up for life after their recovery, but I will make certain allowances regarding your control over your child’s upbringing.”

“I will have full control, Mister Malfoy,” Hermione spat. “It will be my child. I will not deprive them of their father or grandparents, but if there is so much as one word of bigotry, one act of unkindness, I will protect them from you. Understood?” She glared at him. “I will not allow my child to grow up into a posh prat, who is nothing but a pawn for your machinations and whims.”

“I have no designs to control or interfere with your parenting, Miss Granger.” His steely gaze turned empty and far away for a moment. “All I want is to know them and for my wife to be in their lives. Would that be acceptable?” He focused on her again and Hermione narrowed her gaze at him.

“Write it down. In detail. I will not have you go back on this.” She crossed her arms. “I’m trying to understand your motivation here, truly. Why would you insist on a Mudblood having an heir with your pristine, Pureblood son?”

For the first time, Hermione saw something dark flicker behind his expression. Some of the disdain that had been so clearly visible in him when she’d first met him in Flourish & Blott’s all those years ago making an appearance. Oh, the mask was slipping. But it took only a fraction of a second for the man to vanish all of it.

“You are the Brightest Witch of Your Age, with exceptional magic. I think you will pair well with my son. Why wouldn’t I want you to be the mother of my grandchild?” He said it slowly, his voice deep before he began to scribble on the document.

Hermione felt like vomiting up the scones. He had picked her because of her magical aptitude and brains? As if she and Draco were a couple of Pegasi he was about to breed. Bile rose in her throat and the bitterness on her tongue matched that in her heart. Oh, she’d find a way to keep her child from him. If it even came to that.

A dangerous plan began forming in her mind. There were ways to ensure she wouldn’t get pregnant, ways Lucius Malfoy knew nothing about. Who was to say whose fault it would be? Maybe she was unable to get pregnant, or maybe Draco was unable to sire children. She doubted the Malfoy patriarch would annul their contract were that the case and even if he did, the main concern was that by then, her parents would be in Sweden and cared for. Hermione would find a way to keep them there. She would hoard the monthly allowance she got from this deal (which was substantial) and use it if need be.

Even while she told herself all of these things, Hermione was hit with a bout of dread. She had to make sure things went her way on this.

“So we are in agreement? You will adhere to this?” he asked, placing his quill back into the inkpot.

Hermione nearly vibrated off her chair with anger. “I’m sure I’ll do my level best,” she snarled, her voice filled with ire.

“I should hope so, Miss Granger. If you are not pregnant by the end of the one-year mark, the contract will dissolve and I will pull back all my support.”

“Bastard,” Hermione hissed, feeling her confidence flag further.

“On the contrary, Miss Granger,” Lucius said snobbily. “I can trace my heritage back all the way to the time of the founders.” He raised a brow at her. “Can you do the same?”

Oh, fuck using magic, she wanted to wring his neck.

Lucius placed both hands on his cane once more. “You can always say no, Miss Granger.”

She glared at him. “You bloody well know neither of us can do that.” But was she ready for it? Never mind having a hypothetical child—which she would prevent—but for the rest? Ready to be a wife to Draco fucking Malfoy? To share his bed, let him touch her? Merlin and Morgana, no, she was not. Hermione simply had no choice. That much was true. She swallowed. She’d deal with it when the time came. A year was long. Maybe she would be used to him by then. She would have to seem convincing in ‘trying’. The thought alone had her wanting to commit murder. And not just Lucius’.

“That is all I have,” she said haughtily, tapping her pen to her document before wiping some scone-crumbs from it.

“Well, to be fair, we did go through all of the points, so there literally is nothing else,” Malfoy Senior said. “Apart from one thing, which is not in the contract.”

Hermione stilled and looked at him. “What bloody now?”

The Malfoy patriarch pegged her with a strange look. “I have been debating whether or not to tell you, because I do think it could make you throw away this opportunity entirely.”

Something heavy slammed into her gut and Hermione fought back the fear clawing up her throat.

“You see, our family magic is very unique in a way. Once a Malfoy marries, the vows transfer part of the family magic to the spouse, this includes ownership of things and acceptance to wards, etc… But the marital bond will only be complete when the marriage is consummated within twenty-four hours after the ceremony. If this is not the case, the marital bond breaks.” Lucius leaned forward. “And the contract does require a marital bond, Miss Granger.”

All air and blood left her and she opened and closed her mouth like a fish on land. “B-but… I can’t…”

“Now you know why I hesitated to tell you and why I will only transfer your parents after you are married. The risk of you absconding is high. I do trust you will do what is necessary, however. If I have learned anything since meeting you, that much I know.”

Hermione was still having trouble formulating words. Stark panic was racing through her veins and she had to force herself to breathe. So that was what she did, she breathed, unable to do anything else for the moment.

When her pulse had stopped threatening to throw her heart from her chest, she looked at Lucius. “There is no way to…circumvent this?”

He seemed almost empathetic to her fear as he softly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Miss Granger. See it as practice, if that helps.”

Those words actually did help. In the sense that her panic was swept away by red-hot fury and she had to grip her armrests to keep from jumping out of her chair and throwing the entire plate of scones at him. Merlin’s tits, the man was a menace. And she was in deep shit.

Her mind racing, Hermione tried focusing on what was important. It proved a tad difficult. Having time to get used to the thought was one thing, knowing it would happen this soon…

She swallowed and calmed her thoughts. Sure, hearing this was a shock, but it was only sex. She’d had it before. The good, the bad, regrettably mostly the boring kind. There had even been a one-night stand or two in the last year. If she could do that, she could have sex with Malfoy. It wasn‘t that much different. Right?

As she forced her chin to dip into a nod and Malfoy Senior rose to go and get his solicitor, who would amend the contract so they both could sign it, she was rattled by a curious mix of fear, anger and determination. Somehow, Hermione couldn’t help but feel she was about to make a deal with the devil himself.

Chapter Text

The Best or Nothing

TW: Mentions of violence, conversation alluding to possible self-deletion

Draco

His breath short and heart hammering, Draco made his way through his room and toward his ensuite bathroom. After his morning run and exercise, he felt more settled than during the night before. Whilst walking past it, he quickly sent his blanket from the floor back to the bed.

When he had come home, he had been unable to sleep in his bed for a few weeks. It was too soft and giving underneath him, making him feel trapped and helpless. On especially bad nights, he still opted for the carpeted parquet. It gave him a sense of familiarity. Just like his exercising did.

Now that he was able to eat full meals and run outside, he was beginning to fill out and the added benefit of it clearing his head was calming. In his cell—grey, dank, humid, ice-cold and filled with a sense of utter hopelessness—he had used exercise to keep warm and his mind from spiraling. Mostly it had helped.

Draco tore himself away from those thoughts, shrugged off his shirt and pants, while starting the shower with a wave of his hand. Once he got under the spray, he felt his nerves returning.

Today was the day. He and Theo had planned everything. And while sitting on a beach in Bora Bora, slurping colorful cocktails with his best mate sounded like fun, Draco was apprehensive to leave everything he knew behind. Without telling anyone, no less. He felt guilty when it came to his mother, not wanting to leave her alone with Lucius, but did he really have a choice? She would never let him go and Merlin forbid she told his father, then he would probably be locked up in his room until Lucius found some poor, unwitting Muggleborn to drag in front of an altar.

Why wouldn’t he just let him be? And why had he come back in the first place? How?

He groaned into the spray and leaned forward, letting the hot water sluice down his taut neck and shoulders. With quick and even movements, Draco lathered up some soap and washed himself. Prison had taught him to be quick about it. The time in the showers had been limited, the water cold. He had to distinctly tell himself to slow down and enjoy. To luxuriate. It was hard, since taking a shower in the first place was tethered to horrible memories.

The fellow inmates—a lot of them Death Eaters—had hated him, seeing his defection before the last battle as treason. Perhaps it had been. Draco had certainly entertained the thought of treason for a very long time, even before that. Had even timidly acted on it here and there. But he hadn’t factored in just how hated he was for that one instance.

After he had been jumped, beaten and stabbed within an inch of his life, he had enjoyed the privilege of solitary showers. The guards had not liked the added job and they had let him feel it.

Bits and pieces of memories zapped past his closed lids and he wrenched his eyes open.

The sound of his ribs cracking under fists and feet. Tiles squeaking against his face, the edges cutting into his nose. Red blood on white. The smell of mold and cold sewage. The sound of rushing water.

Rushing water.

Draco turned off the shower and stumbled from the marble stall, his breath ragged. He didn’t care that suds of soap still ran down his body, as he grappled for his wand on the counter and cast a drying charm over his body. The wood of his hawthorn clattered against the sink and he gripped the counter, staring at his reflection. Parts of the mirror had fogged up but he was able to see his own face.

Pale and panicked. He stared into his own eyes, willing his fucking mind to calm. It didn’t help. Once a source of pride and arrogance, his face now aggravated him. Draco had lost the haughty look from Azkaban, his hollow cheeks not as much of a contrast now. Neither were his eyes set back anymore, but the look in them was the same it had been for months now. The roman numbers on his neck clashing with his pale skin were a constant reminder of what he had done, of who he was, of how people saw him. Weak. Cowardly. Selfish. A criminal.

He glowered at his face. The face of someone responsible for grief. The face of someone who had done unspeakable things, who had stood by, watching…

His panic subsided, pearling away like drops on a window, to make way for unbridled fury. Salazar, he hated this, hated his mind, his weakness, his trauma. He hated himself.

Draco yelled and punched the mirror with his fist. The glass splintered, tearing his likeness apart until it looked like he felt inside. Broken. With sharp, cutting edges.

A guttural sigh left him, as his aggression ebbed slightly.

Deep breaths.

A moonlit lake…

It took him a few minutes to gather himself, then he repaired the mirror and healed the skin on his knuckles, before vanishing the blood on the counter.

The violence hadn’t bothered him that much, neither had the pain. Draco had enough time to get used to both during the war. No, the problem with these memories was the sense of helplessness that came with them. Fueled by the presence of the Dementors, it had been a nigh unbearable feeling. As if there was nothing he could do but succumb, to yield. No matter how hard he had fought, he had been outnumbered and overpowered. Helpless. And that sodding feeling led him back to the war, to much darker times and darker memories. He had felt helpless there too. Afraid for his life and that of his mother on a daily basis, forced to do and endure horrible things.

Like links on a chain, one instance of feeling helpless would lead to the next, until the memories were rowed together neatly before his inner eye, chaining him down into a never-ending cycle of self-loathing, their constant rattle a vivid reminder of what a pathetic excuse for a man he was. To Draco it didn’t matter that it had started when he wasn’t much more than a child. He had gotten used to being on edge, to being afraid. His body and mind had been in a constant fight or flight mode for years. Azkaban had worsened the situation, and while he hadn’t had episodes or panic-attacks there, he sure as shit had them now.

According to Healer Herp, his mind and body was compensating for the lack of anxiety he suddenly felt. Apparently, he needed to relearn how to feel safe. How to navigate a stable environment.

Draco sneered at his mirror image. Pathetic. He blew a breath out through puffed-up cheeks and watched the glass fog in answer.

While he had been able to stem this episode rather quickly, it unnerved Draco how the simple act of showering had triggered him. Showering had been fine for a while now. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was on edge as it was. It didn’t matter, he needed to get ready. Theo would be by in around and hour. Then they would leave.

Making quick work of his hair and brushing his teeth, Draco then dressed and packed a bag. In another time, he would have stewed over what to pack, wanting to take his entire walk-in closet, but things had changed. He had become more practical than the spoiled boy he’d been.

Essentials. A few shirts, a few pants, briefs, and dress-robes, just in case. And shoes. For every occasion. Draco grimaced as he packed them, maybe he hadn’t changed all that much.

Just as he closed his dragon-hide bag—bespelled with an extension and a featherlight charm—Nips cracked into existence in the middle of his room. The elf looked up at him with wide blue eyes, his tiny hands clasped tightly in front of his red overall.

“Nips? What’s going on?” Draco asked, his eyes narrowed as he beheld how nervous the elf seemed. “Was it my father? What did he do, Nips?”

“Oh, Master Draco,” Nips whined. “Nips is so so sorrys. Nips didn’t know—” He cut himself off by clamping both hands to his mouth, then continued to hop from one leg to the other.

Draco crouched down and raised his hands to calm Nips. “What happened? Are you alright?”

The elf let out a stifled sob, his eyes big and fearful. Draco bit his lip; this was Dobby all over again. Always so gentle and kind, always reduced to shivering nervousness by Lucius. Back then he had been too young and small to make a difference. Not so much now. Draco might be a wreck in calm situations in some instances, but confrontation felt familiar, safe even. Paradoxically.

“Tell me, Nips,” he said urgently. “I’ll help, I promise, but you have to tell me what’s going on.”

Nips’ ears trembled as he let his hands sink. “Master Lucius… He commanded Nips to watch, to snoops.” The last word was uttered as a wail and something ice-cold ran over Draco’s spine. “Nips didn’t knows, Nips has—”

Fire roared to life in Draco’s hearth, turning green.

Nips grabbed hold of Draco’s wrist, pulling closer urgently. “Master Draco has to leave now! Before…”

Theo appeared in the flames and strolled out, dusting himself off, just as Nips squeaked and cracked into nothingness.

Draco swallowed and stood, watching his friend exit the hearth with a sense dread. Theo looked disheveled and displeased. Ash clung to his brown curls and rained onto his shoulders in flakes, while his green eyes searched for Draco.

“I know I’m early, Drake, but something came up,” Theo began.

Clenching his teeth, Draco snagged his bag from his bed and hurried to the hearth, snatching Theo’s arm as he went. Whatever Nips had tried to warn him about, there seemed to be a limited amount of time. It was better to get out now and regroup at Nott Manor, or at Blaise’s flat in London.

“Hey!” Theo protested as he was turned and manhandled to the hearth. “What the hell, mate?”

“No time, we have to go now,” Draco said, reached for the pot of floo powder and tossed some of it into the low-burning fire. The powder hit the flames and the flames hissed, but nothing happened. “Bollocks!”

“Huh,” Theo made. “That’s odd, innit? Come to think of it, it’s also odd how the bloke who was to sell me the portkey never showed. Which is why I came.” He frowned. “I’ve known that idiot for years and he never passes up the opportunity to make some fast coin.”

“Mundungus Fletcher currently faces an inquisition from a couple of Aurors,” Lucius’ voice said behind them. “He will not be selling international portkeys for quite some time, I’d wager.”

Draco squeezed his lids shut in anger. Theo cursed at his side and they both turned to face the room and Draco’s father.

“Theo and I are leaving now,” Draco said slowly, standing as straight as he could, meeting his father’s eyes head on.

“I beg to differ,” Lucius said. “Theodore, please find your way into the sun-room, my wife has tea ready for you. I told her to expect a guest and she has a certain…” He clicked his tongue in apparent distaste. “…fondness for you, which I clearly do not share. It would be best, however, if you kept your shenanigans to yourself. Understood?”

Theo, ever the loyal friend, looked at Draco and made no move to obey Lucius. Draco nodded once, still in a staring contest with his father.

“It’s fine, Theo. He’s the only one who can reopen the floo. You can leave through the front door, or go join my mother. Clearly, Lucius and I have a few things to discuss.”

Hesitating, Draco’s friend shifted his weight subtly. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll see you later.”

At this Lucius’ glare grew darker, but he said nothing, leaning on his cane as Theo passed him. Theo cast a look back, seemingly about to say something, then he just gave Draco a nod and vanished, closing the door behind him.

Draco clenched his fists, very close to reaching for his wand. “You had Nips follow me?” he asked, his voice close to a growl.

“No,” his father said. “I had him follow Nott. Since he was the only one you saw since knowing about the directive, I felt it was prudent. Clearly, I was right.”

Draco scowled. “You have no right to keep me here. You have no right to—”

Lucius stomped his cane into the floor with a loud thud. “I am your father, keeping you from throwing your life away is my right.”

“The fuck it is!”

A long sigh came from Lucius as Draco bit down on his anger, aiming for stoicism. He would not give his father the satisfaction of showing the scope of his anger.

“You will stop acting like a child, Draco,” Lucius said, his face as immovable as if it were cut from stone. “You will face your responsibilities to your family, to your mother, to me, to our line.”

Draco chuckled darkly. “What? Like you did? You couldn’t even face the repercussions of your actions and you want to talk to me about responsibilities? You are a hypocrite.” He shook his head, his hands curling into fists and flexing again and again. If patricide wouldn’t have landed him back in Azkaban, he would consider hexing his father straight into the veil.

“What exactly was the plan here, Draco? Abscond to some obscure island and live out your days doing nothing?”

“Maybe?” Draco tilted his head. “Maybe I’d finally be happy, far away from you. Would that be so bad?”

Lucius slowly prowled closer, his cane making muffled sounds on the carpet. “This ends now. You will stay here; you will marry and you will continue our line—”

Draco scoffed, letting true venom enter his glare.

Unimpressed, Lucius continued. “—If you don’t, it won’t matter where you run to. I will use every last knut, sickle and galleon in every last Malfoy vault to find you and bring you back.” His voice was close to a whisper, almost a hiss. “And once I do, I will give you to the Aurors, so they can cast you back into Azkaban. Hear me on this, Draco, I mean it. You either do as I say, or you go back there.”

He was close now, close enough for Draco to reach out and punch him. An array of feelings crashed through Draco’s chest and abdomen, too many to actually make sense of. But sailing the wave of them was dread. Fear, disdain and panic. He could not go back. He could never go back. And no matter how much he wanted to, he could not strangle his father.

“I would rather fucking die than set a foot back in that place,” Draco grated out. “Do you want that, father? Because that is what this all will come to if you won’t let me go.” He bared his teeth in a fake grin. “I could have years of time and wouldn’t find a Muggleborn willing to marry me. Which I wouldn’t want in the first place if I didn’t love her. Thank Merlin my betrothal to Astoria fell through, because if I marry, I’ll do so for the right reasons. Not out of some warped sense of obligation, or because of some horseshit law. And whether or not I’ll have a child will be up to me and my wife. A wife I will choose and marry because I want to. For no other fucking reason.” He curled his lips into a sneer. “It seems quite impossible for me to find one who is Muggleborn, of all things, and who would want me, so your plan is moot.” Draco stepped closer, noticing he had grown taller than his father. “This leaves you with a choice, either you let me go and don’t come looking for me, or…” He raised a brow, leaving his meaning hanging in the sliver of air between them.

Lucius had paled during Draco’s rant, his lips now a thin line. “Fortunately for me, I don’t have to live with either,” he said. His fingers curled tighter around his cane. “I found you a bride, your wedding is in two weeks. Congratulations.”

“What?!” Draco felt the blood rush from his face. “You… Absolutely not! I won’t marry some poor, frightened girl you harassed into—”

Lucius laughed. He actually laughed in a way that made his eyes crinkle. It was the kind of laugh Draco had rarely seen and heard, something only his mother was able to coax from the man in front of him.

“Oh, Draco,” Lucius said, still struggling through chuckles. “She is not some poor girl and she definitely isn’t scared of me, or anyone else. Your bride is as outspoken and fearless as she is brilliant, vexingly so, being what she is. I have not harassed her, we came to an understanding, and she seems very determined. It was her idea to marry as soon as possible.”

Draco blinked, utterly confused and taken aback. “Who?” he asked, grappling with the truth of his father’s words.

“Hermione Granger.” Lucius took a step back, a sly smile on his features. “If my only son is to marry one of them, he’ll have the best there is. As always.”

His knees almost buckled. “What? That… That can’t be true. She’d never…” Draco swallowed and narrowed his gaze at his father. “What did you do to her? How did you threaten her into this?” He would not stand for anyone being forced to marry him, especially not Granger. Granger who he owed, without whose testimony he would still be rotting away in a cell, who he still heard screaming in his dreams.

“I did nothing of the sort,” his father said. “As I said, we came to an understanding. That should be enough for you. She agreed yesterday and if you knew anything about that witch, you’d know she won’t be bullied into something she does not want.” A small smirk crossed his lips, as if he was reliving a fond memory. “That much became clear during our talk.” Lucius refocused on Draco. “She’ll do well for you.” His grey eyes grew intense. “I found you a wife, the best Muggleborn our world has to offer, and you will not ruin this opportunity. You will marry her, you will be cordial, and you will go through with this. Once you are done with this childish tantrum, come see me so we can talk specifics. Until then, your floo-calls and comings and goings will be monitored. Remember what happens if you try to run off again. This is not an empty promise, Draco. Remember what I said.” With that, his father turned and walked from the room, his cane thumping along to his steps all the way.

Draco stared into nothingness as he sat on his bed. He had no idea how long he had remained like that after his father had left, but by now, the sun had hidden behind a bank of grey and rain drizzled over the manor gardens, curiously reflecting Draco’s inner workings. He felt…smothered. Trapped. And Salazar damn it all, he felt a tingle of something else as well.

Frowning, Draco focused on the still-packed bag beside his feet. None of it mattered now; Lucius had been very clear. A fact which had consumed him completely for the past…hours? Draco had seethed, cursed his father to their ancestors and back again, raged and shouted, but none of it changed anything. Draco didn’t doubt his father’s words—or threats, rather—for a second. He knew there was nowhere in the world he could flee to that he wouldn’t be found. Not with the money backing his father’s threats. What he did not believe, however, was that Hermione Granger had agreed to marry him.

Try as he might, he was unable to compute the vision of her in his memories with someone who would even consider marrying him. While she had testified at his trial—still as swotty and bushy-haired as ever—she hadn’t spared him a second glance. Not that she owed him one, or anything, for that matter. But Draco distinctly remembered every second of her on that stand. The ill-fitting blue robes—too wide at the shoulders and too long at the sleeves—the polished, hideous shoes she had worn, and the haughty look on her face as her words had been questioned by the Wizengamot.

There had been a fire in her eyes as she had stared them down, daring them to refute what she said. Only once had that fiery gaze found Draco and he had held on to that look of utter conviction for a long time. He had scarcely believed it when the verdict had been as mild as two years. And he knew he owed it to her. While Potter’s testimony held weight, the Twit Who Lived hadn’t been near as eloquent or steadfast as Granger.

It wasn’t lost on Draco that he wouldn’t have lasted much longer in Azkaban with his sanity intact—not that it was completely intact now—and Hermione Granger was a huge reason he was free. If he was honest with himself, he had thought about her a couple of times during his imprisonment, wondering why she had done what she had, wondering how her life was going. It seemed as though she had not married the Weasel, or she had already divorced him by now, which wouldn’t have surprised Draco. The ginger twit would never have been able to keep up with her.

Oh, and you could? he thought inwardly with a grimace. Maybe before. And maybe in the far future. Now? Draco wasn’t sure. Not that that mattered either.

He let himself fall back with a tired sigh and stared up. If it was true, Draco had a few things to come to terms with. One, marrying in general. There had been a time when he might have considered anyone his parents deemed fit for him; to cater to the duty ingrained into him since childhood, but those days were gone. Draco wasn’t fit to marry anyone. Let alone her. Which brought him to number two; Granger herself.

Even with all the times he had thrown slurs her way and said things behind her back—or just loud enough so she could hear—he’d meant it less and less as the years wore on. The more he truly thought about it and the more he saw during the war, the less he believed in the ideology Voldemort and his father clung to. And when Draco had seen Granger being tortured and held down on their drawing room floor… She had not been the enemy. Not a filthy Mudblood. She had been human, a classmate. Someone that might have annoyed him from time to time by surpassing him in every class, but just a classmate. And he had been scared for her, he had felt her pain. Had known it intimately since he'd suffered at the same bony hands countless times. Which was part of the reason he didn’t intervene. Draco had been no match for his aunt. The other part had been his mother, gently placing her hand on his arm at seeing the expression on his face and shaking her head ever so slightly.

How, in Merlin’s name, would the two of them even get along with their shared history? Draco huffed out a mirthless chuckle. Maybe she would do them both a favor and dispose of him after two days. Once she’d had enough and exploded at him. Maybe he should go and see her? Talk to her?

He tsked at himself. What would he even say? Where would he even begin? With an apology? Yeah, that would take the better part of a day… With his gratitude? With a joke à la; ‘Hey, Granger, heard you are getting married in two weeks. Who’s the lucky man?’.

His eyes widened as a thought punched into him, robbing him of breath and making everything else disappear.

The Malfoy family magic.

For a marriage bond to form, they’d have to consummate the marriage withing twenty-four hours. “Fucking hell,” he groaned out. How the fuck was he supposed to do that? If even his mother couldn’t touch him?

Trepidation crawled over his skin like an army of ants. Biting and itchy. Sweat broke from his temples and his breath shortened while his heartbeat grew frantic and loud. Just the thought of being touched had him on edge. How would he survive a shag? Never mind keep an erection long enough while freaking out?

Draco needed to see his Healer. He sat up with a gasp. He needed—

A knock on his door had him twisting around to see his mother standing on the threshold to his room. “May I come in, darling?” she asked.

Draco—still reeling with his sudden realization—could only manage a shrug.

Narcissa slowly made her way toward him and sat down next to him, careful not to get too close. “Theo left,” she said.

Draco didn’t answer but gave her a small nod. Silence descended on them for a bit while Draco still grappled with his thoughts and his mother tried hiding her nerves by clasping her hands tightly in her lap.

“You tried to leave?” she finally asked, her tone level, but with a slight undertone of accusation.

The incredulous annoyance and slight anger Draco felt rising at her question helped ground him. Curious. He cocked a brow at his mother while his breath evened out. “I can go where I want, mother. Besides, did I have another choice?”

Her lips flattened. “You could have told me.”

“So you could tell him?” Draco asked.

The accusation hung between them like a wall of steel. Immovable. Unbreachable.

Narcissa shifted slightly. “I know it might seem strange to you that I took your father back but—”

“Strange?” Draco gaped at her. “Strange? No, I don’t find it strange. I find it un-fucking-believable.” He ignored her pinched expression at his crassness and pressed on. “After everything, mother? Really? After all the talks we had since I got back? You knew exactly how I feel about him. You knew and…” He shook his head, his anger leaving him in a rush. “Do you even care?” he whispered, suddenly feeling exhausted. His mother tended to exhaust him. There was too much warring in his chest when it came to her. A tangled mess of emotions he wasn’t able to understand, much less voice. He had tried, during his sessions with Healer Herp, but since he didn’t understand what he was feeling, it had proven to be quite impossible.

“Of course I care,” Narcissa said softly. One of her hands rose as if to reach for him but she clenched them back together a moment later. “It’s because I care, that I allowed him back. The both of you have to find a way to make peace.”

Draco scoffed. “Oh, yeah. That’s definitely going to happen,” he sneered. “Now that he found me a wife and threatened me with Azkaban if I try to leave, we’ll suddenly be the father and son duo we never were before.” The bitterness he tasted was heavy, like a stone behind his heart, pulling down.

“Draco, he is doing it for you. He wants you safe, focusing on a new life.”

“A life he controls, you mean?” Draco spat. “I have no idea how he even coerced Granger into all of this and I am uncertain why he believes this will help in any way. How did he get her to agree to live here? That must have been an awkward conversation.”

“Well,” Narcissa said. “You will not be living here, as far as I know.”

Draco’s head shot up and he looked at his mother puzzled.

“Once you marry, you’ll have access to your inheritance. Your father has signed over a few properties to your name, including Douillet. It will be readied for the two of you to move in.”

All he could do was stare. He had very hazy memories of the place since Lucius never liked it and they had only spent one summer there when he’d been around six or seven. A sense of tall trees and cozy, yet large rooms flashed through him. Meadows and an enchanting garden. If Draco wasn’t mistaken, he had been rather fond of it. None of it calmed him in the slightest though.

“Uh huh. Telling me whom to marry… Telling me where to live with my wife… No, that doesn’t seem controlling at all.” Draco scoffed. “He’ll probably demand a certain number of heirs in some way.” He balled his fists. “Well, I’ll have something to say on those matters.”

Narcissa sighed. “Will you stay, though? Please?”

Draco tilted his head and sent her a tired glare. “Does it look like I have a choice, mother? It’s the war all-fucking-over again. No choices, no way out…” He slumped in on himself. “I’m tired. I’m tired of all of it.”

His mother’s breath hitched and she sank down in front of him in a crouch, her hands trembling as she gripped his wrists very slowly. Draco watched and was able to steel himself against the feeling, making it bearable.

“If not for yourself, try for me.” Narcissa squeezed his wrists until he looked at her. “I… I can’t lose you, darling.” Her blue eyes swam with tears, making guilt swirl to life inside of him. Gods, he hated how exhausting she was to him.

With a swallow, Draco gently tugged his wrists from her fingers, feeling a buzz of trepidation engulf him at her touch. “Fine. As I said, it’s not as if I have a choice.”

Narcissa rose, holding his gaze. “I made an appointment with Healer Herp for you in half an hour, should you need it.”

He wanted to yell at her. To tell her that he wouldn’t fucking need a bloody Healer if they had just let him go, if they didn’t try to force him into marriage. Never mind Granger, who he still wasn’t sure was doing any of it of her own free will. Lucius must have done or said something.

Clenching his teeth, Draco vowed to find out what that was.

“Do you know?” he rasped lowly. “How Lucius got her to say yes?”

“All I know is that they have an arrangement. You’ll have to ask your father about the specifics, or your intended.”

A small huff escaped him. This fucking family and the mountain of shite that was left undiscussed to fester into malice and contempt. Salazar, he hated all of it.

“Do you know why he came back? Why they let him go?”

Narcissa gave him a slight nod. “You’ll have to—”

“Ask him.” Draco ground his teeth. “Naturally. Merlin forbid we talked about anything important.”

 “Draco… I—”

“It’s fine.” He waved her off and watched her timid sadness and fear give way to sharpened outrage. For once, he forced himself not to care. “Just leave. Please. I’ll stay. That is what you want, isn’t it? Now that you have my word, I want some peace. Or am I not allowed any?”

Narcissa’s jaw clenched and she walked from the room stiffly, closing his door behind her.

Draco sank to his back and cursed. As convoluted as all of it was and as tied up in knots as he felt, he only needed to bear it for two more weeks. A dark chuckle rose from his chest. Curious, how marrying Hermione Granger would free him from this bloody house and his parents. He suddenly couldn’t wait.

Frowning, he decided that maybe he didn’t have to. If Douillet was to be his, he could be part of readying it, make it his own as much as he wanted. That would certainly take his mind off of things and give him something to do. He rolled his eyes, thinking that maybe he would have to speak to his father to get more details and to tell him of his plans. Which made his anxiety and rage surge again. It was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

Draco got up, walked to his desk and grabbed a joint. He lit it and smoked, leaning his hip against the dark wood. Yes, he would make it his home, away from them. Then all he had to do was get ready. For her. In his life. In his bed; if only the once. He should really talk to her, shouldn’t he? His train of thought made his hands shake.

Merlin’s left sock, he did need that appointment with Herp. Desperately.

Chapter Text

A Means to an End

Hermione

She hated the bright lights, casting everything into glaring visibility. Hated the white and mint-green tiles, running the length of the walls down to the ugly, grey linoleum floor that welled up here and there, making stepping on it feel curiously giving. And by Godric, she hated the smell. It was an affronting mix of antiseptic, perspiration, curd soap, and cheap fabric softener.

Most of all, Hermione hated the waiting. The chair she sat in creaked when her leg bounced, the intermitted click of her heel echoing through the empty hallway. None of it kept her from coming to the Janus Thickey Ward in St. Mungo’s twice a week, though. Well, this week had proved to be distracting and taxing in quite a novel way, meaning this would be her first and only visit for this week. What with Directive 32, owls, proposals, and Lucius bloody Malfoy. Not to mention her new status as a betrothed woman.

Merlin, she could have years to get used to the thought and it would still unnerve her. Frowning, Hermione willed herself to let it rest. She couldn’t change it now, didn’t want to. It was a chance, no matter how unnerving. She had decided and that was that. Done, moving on.

If only it was that simple. She thought about tonight and how she was planning to use the Friday get-together with her friends to tell them of her new engagement. It would be a hoot, no doubt. Hermione could only imagine what her friends would have to say, but she did have to tell them. She couldn’t rightly just marry Malfoy and spring it on them as a done deal, could she? A part of her wished she could. But Hermione was no coward. This did not mean that nervousness didn’t simmer in her gut at the thought.

She sighed and tried to relax into her seat. All of it was a means to an end. Hermione opened her beaded bag and fished out the two glass vials containing the memories of her parents. The silver swirl was soft and languid. Beautiful, almost hauntingly so. She brought them every time. Hoping her parents would be finally well enough to try it. But they hadn’t been yet. As always, a lump formed in her throat and she swallowed to vanish it. She hated this too. This feeling of tentative hope, only to have it ripped from her again and again, with each visit.

Tugging the vials back into her bag, Hermione sniffed once. It didn’t matter this time; opportunity was on the horizon. True opportunity.

The squeak of soft-soled shoes on linoleum made her look up to see Healer Snick walk her way with a smile. “Miss Granger, they are ready for you now,” she said, the glaring light of the fluorescent tubes overhead reflecting in her thin glasses.

Hermione steeled herself for the toll the visit would take on her. It always did. She rose and followed the Healer down the familiar path to her parents’ room.

“You don’t have to be here for this, Miss Granger, you know that, right?” Healer Snick said cautiously, her orange-painted lips turning into an empathetic smile. When Hermione didn’t answer, Healer Snick stopped short. “You remember the rules? No touching. Simple questions.”

Hermione only nodded and breathed out once as the Healer opened the door. They stepped into the magically enlarged room. It was a replication of her parents’ house in Australia, to keep them comfortable and calm. While it looked the part, Hermione knew it felt wrong, smelled wrong. She had often voiced this, but was told that sensory influences didn’t matter at this stage. She disagreed, but she was no Healer and any added commodity would cost extra.

“Wendell, Monica?” Healer Snick addressed Hermione’s parents, who sat at a beautiful, wooden table, drinking tea and playing cards. “I have brought Hermione today.”

They both looked up with vapid smiles and Hermione’s chest constricted. ‘Monica’ got up and greeted them happily. Asking whether they wanted a cup of tea. There was no hint of recognition in either of them as Hermione took a seat at the table. They looked like her parents, but all she saw behind their eyes was emptiness. It was a spell to calm them, of course, to keep them from completely freaking out. Their subconscious would have instances and true memories leaking through and by bringing them out of it from time to time after making tiny healing moderations to their brains, and confronting them with things past, the hope was there to have them slowly remember. It was as unnerving as it had been fruitless and Hermione hated the empty expressions she was always greeted with. But it was either this or have them sedated with potions.

‘Wendell’ asked if she knew Uno and maybe wanted to play, his demeanor befitting that of a child, rather than a grown man. Hermione had to bite back a sob. It had been their game. How many nights had they fought Uno-battles in the living room until way past her bedtime? It had become a ritual. When she was home during the holidays, they never went to bed without having played at least one game.

Maybe this was a good sign?

Hermione nodded and her father dealt the cards. Healer Snick coaxed ‘Monica’ away and into the next room, leaving Hermione with her father.

The furrow of his brows was familiar as he viewed his hand, a smidge of the usual shrewdness entering his normally so expressive eyes. All she wanted was to hug him, hug her mother. She wanted to feel the love they held for her, let them feel her love. But she could not. Maybe today would be different.

She noticed the moment the spell was lifted from her father as he stilled completely. Then he blinked rapidly a few times. His brown eyes found her over the cards and he swallowed.

Hermione smiled warmly at him. “Hello.”

His lips twitched in answer, but he seemed confused. Thank Merlin the hazy expression was gone from his face, revealing the man Hermione knew. “Hello,” he tried, carefully. “Who are you?”

She had known the question would come, but it hurt just the same. As always. It tore into her, slicing open the guilt lodged in her heart until something akin to grief dripped from it and pooled in her chest.

Her smile didn’t waver. “I’m Hermione. Do you remember me?”

He slowly shook his head. “Where… where are we?” he asked, then looked around. His Adam’s apple bobbed and something fearful entered his gaze. “This… It doesn’t feel right.” He dropped the cards and feathered his fingers through his brown and grey curls. “Something isn’t right.”

Hermione desperately wanted to reach out and hold his hand. She knew she could not. It was against the rules. It could trigger a sensory overload that might do permanent damage.

“Everything is fine,” Hermione said soothingly.

Randall Granger’s fingers dug into his scalp over and over as he hunched forward in his seat. “No. No, no, no, no! Something is very wrong! Jean? Where is Jean? Where is my wife? Where is our…daughter?”

Hermione swallowed. He had never asked about her before. “I’m right here, dad,” she said, hoping…

He looked at her, his hands beginning to shake. The look in his eyes—so similar to her own—was a mix of horror and sorrow. It chilled her to the bone. “No. That can’t be.” A shuddering breath left him. “My daughter has no face. No face. It’s blank!” He yelled the last part and jumped from his chair, making it topple backwards and skid across the floor with a loud scrape. “It’s all blank! WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?!”

The door opened and two orderlies barged inside. Hermione felt tears run down her cheeks as her father’s screams thrummed through her, devastating her on a molecular level. She was unable to watch them sedate him.

Moving quickly, Hermione rounded the table and got out her wand. “Leatinimo,” she whispered and sobbed when her father’s face emptied once more, reverting back to the vapid haze it had held before. She held up her hands at the orderlies.

“It’s fine. We’re fine,” she insisted and waved them away. She was not. They were not. Hallucinations were the first signs of permanent decay. And if his shouts about a faceless daughter had not been a hallucination, then Hermione didn’t know what it had been.

Merlin and Morgana, she could only hope the Healers in Sweden were still able to help him. That she wasn’t too late. As deep sorrow took root in her soul, Hermione cut her visitation short, letting Healer Snick’s reprimands at casting the haze-charm herself wash over her like a bout of rain. She didn’t care. Hermione apologized and told the Healer that her parents were not to be ‘woken’ from the charm in the next two weeks.

The ensuing discussion was draining, but Hermione didn’t budge. She insisted and only left when Healer Snick promised they would be kept in their perpetual happy-place for the time being. It was all she could do. Hermione was well aware that if hallucinations had begun to set in, there were only so many times they could be brought back before all was lost.

The visit left Hermione shaky and on the verge of tears as she apparated across London to meet her friends at the new pub Harry wanted to try out. He had sent her an owl that morning, letting her know the meeting place and time.

Looking up at the sign reading: ‘The Cheeky Hag’, Hermione was unsure whether she truly was up to it, but she tugged the lapels of her jacket closer and entered the rousing pub. At once, she was assaulted by hot, humid air, the scent of beer, warm food and smoke, loud voices and blaring music.

Winding her way through bodies, she was greeted here and there by familiar faces. The Patil twins waved and smiled, sitting in a booth with Romilda Vane and a few other women Hermione didn’t know. She smiled back tiredly and looked up when she heard her name.

“Hermione! Over here!” Harry yelled, waving both arms to get her attention.

She slunk past patrons, who milled about or sat at cozy-looking round tables until she was pulled into a tight embrace by her jubilant friend.

“I’m so happy you came,” Harry said, pulling back and grinning at her. Hermione hugged him again, closing her eyes at Harry’s familiar feel and scent for a second. She needed this. If only for a moment.

Harry held her and swayed them with a chuckle. “Quite the cuddlebug today, are we?”

She squeezed her lids shut to keep from crying into his shoulder. Firmly gathering herself, Hermione pulled back and smirked at her best friend. “Absolutely. Long day.”

Ginny was against her the moment Harry stepped away and Hermione sank into another long hug.

“Oh, I missed you,” Ginny said. “How have you been?”

“Missed you too, Gin. I’ve been alright. How is the end of the season? You have one game left, right?” Hermione was pulled into the booth by Ginny and smiled at Ron, who nodded from across the table with a “Hey, ‘Mione,”.

Before Ginny could regale her with tales of her victories with the Hollyhead Harpies she played for, Ron bent over the table and gave her a quick hug. Hermione was happy that any lingering awkwardness between them was long gone and they could hang out like this again.

Harry, who had vanished, suddenly turned up again, floating quite a few drinks onto the table. He dealt Hermione a butterbeer and a firewhisky, which she gratefully accepted. They all toasted and Hermione downed her shot, relishing the burn down her throat, willing it to smooth her spiky insides.

It didn’t take long and she was laughing at something Ginny said, her maudlin state of mind slipping into something lighter. The mood of her friends was infectious and while it may have left her a tad guilty, she let it overtake her. She’d be alone and miserable soon enough again. Yes, this was what she needed. A few moments to switch off her brain and worries.

Gripping her hand, Ginny bent closer. “We need a girl’s night,” the red-head whisper-yelled. It was loud enough around them so that only Hermione heard her words. “I’ve got news.” Ginny wriggled her brows.

Hermione gasped. “Who is it?” she asked in the same manner, knowing that suggestive look. “And is it serious?”

Her friend grinned broadly, sipping her Butterbeer for a moment. “Who knows? But the sex was great.”

“Ginevra!” Hermione cried out, feigning outrage and they both broke into chuckles.

“Oi, what are you two giggling about?” Ron asked.

“You don’t want to know, brother mine,” Ginny chanted, winking at him.

Ron grimaced and hid behind his glass, turning red. He cast a cautious look at Harry, who just laughed.

“Oh, that kind of giggle, is it, Gin?” Harry asked, good-naturedly.

She gave him a nod. “The best kind.”

Ron reddened even more and sank lower. Hermione wondered whether he would sink under the table at this rate. “This ain’t right,” he mumbled.

“Oh, come on, Ronald,” Hermione chastised. “You never liked Harry and Ginny talking about their relationship, or, Merlin forbid, snog in front of you. Let them have their fun now.”

Ron slowly scooched back up. “That’s my little sister. There are things I don’t want to know. Or see.”

Ginny grinned broadly. “Which is why I’m not telling you. You big baby.”

The night progressed, with Harry, Ron and Ginny talking Quidditch while Hermione listened with half an ear, nursing her butterbeer and debating when she should tell her friends of her upcoming nuptials. If at all. She didn’t want to ruin the mood. And she was happy for now just soaking up the joy in the air around her. It felt like she was recharging.

“So, Ron,” Harry said with an air of cheek. “Care to tell us about how the coup of the year went down?”

Ron grumbled, casting Harry a glum look. “It was a disaster,” he said.

“You caught several high-profile Death Eaters, Robards must be elated.” Harry slurped his Gin and Tonic loudly.

Ron harrumphed. “Yeah, and the most important one slipped through our fingers. Bloody hell. The intel was good. Just not good enough to catch Dolohov with the rest of them.”

Ginny twirled the end of her red braid thoughtfully. “I can imagine Skeeter and the Prophet had an aneurism trying to decide which headline to print. Your face as you led off a group of criminals or Lucius Malfoy while he exited Azkaban. Do you know why he was let go so early?”

Hermione straightened in her seat, waiting for Ron’s answer.

He pursed his lips, looking annoyed. “Not a clue. But it’s not right, that. He should be rotting away for another eighteen years. Deserves it, the git.”

“I saw him yesterday,” Hermione said, and the entire table fell silent, three pairs of eyes staring at her.

“You what?” Harry asked.

Hermione slid one of the grouped firewhiskys at the center of the table toward her and downed it for courage. So this was it. Better to rip off the band aid and be done with it. She cast a wandless Muffliato around their table, not wanting anyone to eavesdrop. “Lucius Malfoy. I saw him. He invited me for tea.”

Ron’s eyes were as round as saucers. “He did what, now?”

“Invited me for tea, Ronald. It’s an easy enough concept to grasp.”

“But he’s on house-arrest,” Ron said. “That means you went…”

“To the manor, yes. He invited me to the aviary. Said he had a proposition for me.”

“And you just went?” Ron looked aghast. “Without telling anyone? Without telling me? I am an Auror, you know. I could have kept you safe.”

Shrugging Hermione sighed. Throwing Ron in the mix would have been fun to see, even if it would have led to utter disaster. “It was fine, Ron and I would have told you if it seemed suspicious, but Astoria came with me and I was curious. He was let go rather prematurely and I wanted to know what he had to say. Turns out his proposition was…interesting.”

Ginny punched her shoulder when she paused and Hermione yelped. “Ouch! What the hell, Gin?” She rubbed her arm and glared at her friend, who looked close to vibrating off her seat, her brown eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Stop stalling and tell us!” Ginny said and both Harry and Ron nodded along.

“You guys all know about Directive 32?”

Another collection of nods followed her question.

Hermione pursed her lips and took another sip. “Well, he asked me to marry Draco.”

Ron spluttered out a laugh and Harry chuckled along, while Ginny’s gaze intensified.

“I accepted,” Hermione said.

Ron choked on his laugh and flew into a fit of coughs, while Harry now roared with laughter, hitting the table. “Good one, Herms! Oh, Merlin, this is hilarious! Can you imagine? You married to that git?” He slapped his thigh and guffawed.

Ginny was quiet, though, seemingly deducing the truth. “You did, didn’t you?” she asked with a frown.

Nodding, Hermione watched as Harry stopped laughing slowly and Ron punched his chest, still coughing. “You did what?” he grated out between wheezes.

“Why?” Ginny asked. “How? I… I don’t understand.”

Hermione was quick to explain and while she kept a few things to herself—such as most of the contract and the twenty-four-hour consummation thing—she was hit with varying degrees of surprise, shock and disbelief.

Ron looked incapable of speech as he opened and closed his mouth, looking pale, while Ginny’s eyes had turned very thoughtful, almost grimly so.

“’Mione,” Harry said. “If things are that bad, you could have come to me. I have money. I could have helped.” He looked hurt and Hermione felt guilty instantly.

“Oh, Harry. Not that kind of money. And after today…” She swallowed. “I visited them today and they don’t have much time left. The clinic in Sweden is my last hope. If this is how I can get them there, I’ll do it.”

Her words were met with silence. Then Harry grimaced. “But…Malfoy? Seriously, Hermione, he can’t be the answer.”

Hermione placed her hands in her lap. “I don’t have a choice, Harry. I try this, or I lose them. There is nothing else. You know how I tried to get them into that clinic forever; they are the best in the world when it comes to Obliviation. I never got so much as an owl back. Malfoy can get them in and he’ll pay for the therapy.”

“In exchange for you marrying his son to keep him out of Azkaban,” Ginny said matter-of-factly. “That is—”

“Fucking barmy, is what it is,” Ron said, seemingly having found his voice again. “You can’t seriously consider this. Please tell me it’s all a joke. Please.” His eyes turned pleading.

Wrestling with guilt and anger, Hermione pegged Ron with a look. “It’s not a joke, Ron.”

Ron deflated visibly in his seat and Hermione looked from face to face. “Look, you all know how much I want this, need this. You know how much I have worked toward it, how much I gave up.” Her gaze found Ron again. “It’s a chance. An exchange. Nothing more.”

“Y-you could let them go,” Harry suggested meekly.

“Would you?” Hermione asked. “What would you do—no, what wouldn’t you do to get your parents back? To get Sirius back?”

Harry’s lips thinned and he gave her a slow nod, seemingly understanding the gravity of her situation. The depth of her plight. She had known if anyone would understand, it was him.

“But Malfoy?” Ron asked hoarsely. “He was a Death Eater, Hermione. He is vile, a criminal. Convicted.”

“I’m not sure he should have been,” Hermione said. “He was a child, like all of us. He did what he thought he had to.”

“But, Hermione, he is a total arse!” Ron interjected. “Nothing could be possibly worth you marrying him. If this is what you really want, we will help you find a way, but this can’t be it.”

Hermione looked at him in shock. “What I want? Ronald, you know damned well it’s all I’ve truly wanted since the end of the war. It’s why you left me, remember?”

Ron spluttered, turning red once more. The vein in his neck started standing out, pulsing furiously and Hermione knew to ready herself for a storm. “Yes, your wants always came first, didn’t they?” His tone was seething as he glared at her. “You just won’t stop, will you?” he asked. “When will you stop, Hermione? When you’ve worked yourself to the bone? When you have no one left in your life? When you’ve driven everyone away? Once you married the guy who wished you dead, who called you…that?”

Hermione’s heated gaze found his. “Fuck you. I put your needs ahead of my own plenty. And I never drove you away; you decided to leave!” Her breath came in short bursts. “I will never stop, Ronald. You of all people, should know that.”

His fingers atop the table curled into fists. “You are prostituting yourself, to Malfoy! To him you’re nothing more than a common wh—”

“If you say another word, I will hex you so bad you won’t be able to sit down for a month,” Hermione snarled. “I know you’re angry—”

Ron made a strangled noise.

“But that does not give you the right to talk to me that way. It’s my life and I can do with it what I want. You don’t have to like my choices, but you will respect them.”

“Hermione,” Ron growled. “You have to see this for what it is. Your parents are gone. No fancy clinic will bring them back. And whoring yourself out to that arsehole won’t change any of it.”

“Ron, mate, that’s enough,” Harry said, looking pale next to him. She wagered this was the first time he heard the real reason Hermione and Ron had broken up. Hermione had never really told him why.

Wrath slithered through her veins at an alarming rate and her wand-hand twitched in her lap. “How dare you? How fucking dare you, Ronald Weasley? You have a family, you have—”

“One of them killed my brother!” Ron yelled. “Don’t talk to me about family! You could have been part of mine; we could have had our own by now! But you decided to throw all of it away because you couldn’t let go. Because your own actions took your parents away from you. Fucking deal with it already!”

She knew he said it out of hurt and because she had not chosen him over her parents. Because she was marrying someone he hated. But his words sliced into her like a Diffindo and Hermione saw red in that moment. But before she could do anything, Ginny—who had been suspiciously quiet throughout so far—had sprung up and waved her wand. Ron’s mouth continued to move, but no sound came out.

“You did not just say that, Ron,” Ginny hissed. “Imagine if we had a chance to get Fred back. I’d marry Malfoy in a heartbeat, hell, I’d marry him to you in a heartbeat. Now calm the fuck down and stop spewing shite, you bloody nitwit! Just because you couldn’t handle standing by Hermione’s side when it mattered, does not give you the right to act like a jealous arse now. Honestly!” She sank back down, glowering at her brother.

Hermione’s heart flew to Ginny and she wanted to kiss her. “Thank you,” she murmured, promptly receiving a glare of her own from Ginny.

“And you. Spill. When is this happening? What’s the plan? When will your parents be transferred?”

“We’re getting married in two weeks, right after which, my parents will be brought to Sweden,” Hermione said.

Harry whistled lowly and Ron pounded the table, seemingly wanting in on the conversation. Ginny blinked at him and shook her head. “Unless you stop resembling a tomato, I will not let you speak, brother mine.”

“That’s a rather tight timeline, ‘Mione,” Harry said. “Are you sure about this?”

Hermione shrugged. “The sooner I marry, the sooner my parents get the care they need. It’s as simple as that.”

Ginny seized her up. “This does not give us much time. I might not like it, but I love you and you need a maid of honor—which is obviously me—and we’ll need a bachelorette party and a dress…” Ginny’s words got lost when Hermione launched herself at her and hugged her fiercely, tears leaking from her eyes.

Her friend hugged her back and stroked her soothingly.

“Thank you, Gin, truly. But I don’t need any of it. This isn’t a real marriage.”

“Oh, stop it. It might not be real, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun with it.” Ginny pulled back and wiped at Hermione’s tears. “I know it’s a means to an end and I will have your back all the way. I promise. We will not let you go into the snake-den alone, will we Harry?”

Harry looked a tad confused, but then shook his head. “Of course not! If this is what you really want, we’ll be there for you.” He elbowed Ron harshly, who glowered and shouted something silently. Then he slumped into his seat and crossed his arms, sulking.

He would need time, Hermione knew this. Not to mention that she would, after what he had just said to her. She did not feel very forgiving right that second. His words still hounded her, prodding at the hurt in her heart, but she had expected him to have opinions. What she had not expected was the unconditional support from Harry and Ginny. It warmed her and soothed Ron’s vile words.

She would not do this alone. Not all of it, at least.

Hermione tried to stifle her nerves and miserable loneliness during the weekend by reading, soaking in her ancient tub, and sitting on her teensy balcony with Crooks, watching the goings on in the street.

Ginny had one last game on Monday, which she had to train for and Harry was visiting Ireland, scouting a game he’d gotten a tip on. Ron had not reached out and Hermione was glad for it. He had left rather quickly, without a word. Which could have been due to the fact that he was still silenced, but he had also been in a foul mood and neither Ginny nor Harry cared to follow him, deeming his words way too vile and harsh. Harry had even said something along the lines of giving him a stern talking to, but Hermione knew it wouldn’t do any good.

If Ron was in a mood, the only thing that helped was letting him stew over it. She hoped he took his time. The things he’d said still echoed through her from time to time and the hurt would swell up, aching through her chest until she distracted herself again. It wasn’t as if she gave them any credit, but she was left wondering whether she and Ron had given up too soon and for the wrong reasons. Had she truly driven him away? The possibility nagged at her.

She pondered whether she would have wanted a family with him if her parents had not been an issue. Then she remembered his nonchalant attitude to her wishes of a clean home and a fed pet, their nonsensical fights that would turn into days of not speaking, and the way he had trouble articulating anything bothering him without being hurtful. All in all, Hermione came to the firm conclusion that no, things had turned out for the better. She had never truly thought it through and the resolution she found helped shift some weight off her shoulders that had been there since they had broken up. It was rather freeing.

On Sunday, she received two owls. One was Lucius’ barred owl, carrying with it a quick note and a list of classes she was to attend. Hermione had harrumphed, Incendioed the damned thing and sent him a firm ‘thanks, but no thanks’ back, stating that she had no time for nonsense such as etiquette, history and dance classes. And since none of it was part of the contract, she was not doing any of it. The gall of that man!

The second owl made her nervous, as it was a curt invite from Narcissa Malfoy to have lunch at a small coffee place next week so they could go over preparations. The words had not been aggressive, but also not warm and Hermione had accepted with a sense of trepidation at the prospect of seeing and talking to Draco’s mother. She had no idea whether Narcissa was on board with the idea, or if she had been steamrolled into compliance by her husband. Hermione guessed she would find out on Wednesday.

Monday found Hermione swamped with work. Thank Merlin for Astoria, who had taken to collecting the still mounting proposals and disposing of them. The two had a good laugh over it all during lunch in the cafeteria. For her part, Hermione couldn’t wait for the constant stream of attention to end. Not that announcing her impending marriage to Malfoy wouldn’t bring about another—maybe even worse kind—of attention, but she wished she could just get it over with.

At the current moment, with Cormac McLaggen leaning on her desk suggestively, a slimy smirk on his lips, Hermione really wished she could just shout her engagement from the roof tops.

“I’m busy,” she told him coldly, not deterring the dolt in the slightest.

“I know, dear,” he purred. “I have been watching you drown in letters from scum for a few days now.” He cocked a brow and smiled lazily at her, no doubt believing it to be seductive. Hermione almost rolled her eyes.

“I could help you, you know,” McLaggen said, running his fingers over her files suggestively. “Go out with me and everyone will know you’re spoken for.” He winked.

“No. As I have told you before, I am quite happily not revisiting being in your general vicinity in that kind of capacity.”

He looked a tad confused at her words, then smiled winningly. “Oh, come on, Hermione. We had fun in Hogwarts, didn’t we? We could have some fun again. No strings, just fun.”

She frowned at him. “Let me get this straight; you propose a fake relationship?”

“To deter all those criminals and bad men? Yes.” He nodded and leaned even closer. “But we could still have fun after hours too.”

Hermione plastered a saccharine smile to her lips. “Oh, you want to shag without strings attached? Why didn’t you say so?”

Cormac’s blue eyes widened and he swallowed. “Exactly. All very casual.”

Gripping his tie, she pulled him in close, so their noses almost touched. “I would rather eat a colony of Flubberworms, McLaggen,” she said in a falsely sweet voice. “Now piss off before I permanently attach both your ears to your arse.” She shoved him away and watched with satisfaction as he stumbled off her desk. “I imagine taking a dump would be quite an experience with your ears listening in so closely.”

McLaggen blanched. “I… You wouldn’t…”

Hermione let the smile drip from her lips. “You have five seconds to leave my office, or you’ll find out.”

He began to stutter and Hermione casually reached for her wand, stuck into the bun at the back of her head. “One, two, three…”

McLaggen was gone as if he had apparated on the spot. With a small and satisfied smile, Hermione bent over her work, happy to have fended off the idiot’s advances, yet again. The bugger had been persistent through the years. Ever since he had started a job with the Improper Use of Magic Office a year ago, it had gotten worse.

It took all of one minute and there was a knock on the frame of her door. She didn’t look up, seeing a tall figure dressed in dark clothes, the color making her think it was McLaggen again. Fucking hell, the guy didn’t know when to quit.

“Ears to arse, McLaggen. I mean it. Piss off before I add affixing your cock to your forehead just for giggles,” she growled.

“Merlin, Granger,” a deep voice drawled, making her jump in her seat. “I knew you were feisty, but that was positively uncouth. I’m impressed.”

Hermione’s face flew up to see none other than Draco Malfoy leaning against her doorframe, all lazy nonchalance. “Bollocks,” she uttered and was treated to a smile.

He pushed off the frame to prowl closer and Hermione stared at him, giving him a once over as her heart began to race. He had changed since she’d seen him last. He had even changed since the picture of his release in the Prophet from two months ago, which she had dug up after signing the contract with Lucius. It had been pure curiosity.

Malfoy was taller now, his shoulders broad and his face had grown into its sharp angles. His almost white hair was styled perfectly, cropped short at the sides and longer on top, making a few strands feather down to his eyes. His grey eyes—the same color as his father’s—held a very different look than Lucius’ did. It wasn’t calculating, or reserved, but curious and open. Gone were the deep shadows underneath them and the gaunt look of his cheeks.

Truth be told, he looked damned fit.

“Hi, Granger,” he said, coming up to her desk. “I was wondering if you had a minute.”

A small squeak was all that left her and she cleared her throat a few times, her surprise and nervousness at seeing him—her betrothed—left her reeling. “Malfoy,” she finally got out. “Ahem, yes. Take a seat.” She waved at the chairs and watched him sink into one with innate grace. She plucked out her wand and swirled it, closing the door.

To her utter shock, Malfoy slightly jumped at the sound, his long, pale fingers gripping the armrests of his chair tightly. Her eyes flew up to meet his and found them darker than before, as though shutters had closed behind them. It took him only a second, before they turned back to normal and he unwound his fingers one by one, with purpose.

Hermione felt like apologizing, caught off guard by his reaction, but he took a deep breath and sank back into his seat. “I think we should talk, Granger,” he said.

Yes. They definitely should. Hermione punched at her nervousness, not allowing any thoughts about the near and distant future to pop up. She didn’t want to imagine their wedding, them living together, or—Merlin’s tits—their wedding night. Swallowing at all of it, not to mention her general defensiveness at having him so close, a reaction bred over years of him being an arse, she nodded slowly.

“I agree, I think a talk is overdue, Malfoy,” she said.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger

Draco

Draco was glad for the Calming Draught he had imbibed before coming as he stepped from the elevator and strode across the Basement Level 3 of the Ministry of Magic. He received odd looks, which he ignored, and hissed whispers which he decided to not hear. Even so, dread and nervousness boiled up his stomach-walls when he came upon the Obliviation Department. Right in front of Granger’s office was a large mahogany desk with none other than Astoria Greengrass seated behind it.

He debated turning around several times, but after his sessions with Healer Herp, Draco knew he had to talk to Granger. While this was absolutely not what he wanted, Draco decided to make the best of his situation. Meaning he had accepted getting married and was even thankful to Granger for agreeing to it—depending on whether she had done so of her own free will. Not only would it save him from going back there, but the deeply engrained sense of duty had pushed him in the direction of accepting it. While he wished it wasn’t so, Draco still felt a nudge to go the way of least resistance when it came to his father. It wasn’t conscious and he’d only discovered this after him and Herp had a talk about it.

His anger and helplessness at the situation were solely directed at his father, though, and Draco had spoken to his Healer at length about what exactly he felt and what his next steps should be. They’d even made a list together, of things he wanted to ask Granger and others he needed to say. Running through it mentally, he came up to Astoria’s desk and feigned a casualty he didn’t feel as he leaned over it and smiled at his formerly intended.

“Hi, Tori. Is Granger in?”

Astoria’s blue eyes flew up at him and widened. “Draco,” she said, then gave him a smile in return. Truth be told, they’d always had a cordial relationship with one another, but as little as Draco could imagine being married to Granger, thinking of Astoria as his wife had sat even worse with him. Mostly because she had once confided in him that she hated being ‘sold off’, as she had called it and if she could, she’d call it off in a heartbeat. Draco had understood the sentiment and had felt the same way, even while he would have bended to his parents’ will on it. Before the war.

In that moment, the door of Granger’s office flew open and McLaggen shot from the room, pale as a ghost, wearing a terrified expression. “Mad,” he mumbled as he hurried past them. “That witch is bloody mental.”

Before either Draco or Astoria could say anything, he was gone.

A small chuckle had Draco looking at Astoria, who grinned widely and then folded her hands on her desk. “You may go in, Draco. I will not vouch for you keeping your head between your shoulders, though. Hermione is always in a mood when that buffoon tries chatting her up.”

Draco raised a brow, a curious feeling floating through him. He wouldn’t have thought Granger to be the type to have to fend off advances from the likes of McLaggen. “Does that happen often?”

“Oh, yes. Hermione is now the most eligible bachelorette in Wizarding England.” Astoria winked. “Not for long, if I have been informed correctly.” She waved him in the direction of the office. “Go get her, Drakey.”

Scowling at the nickname, Draco straightened and squared his shoulders, feeling as if he was about to enter a lion’s den. Fitting.

He slowly approached the open door and knocked on the frame. The ensuing words flying from the curly haired witch he’d sought out left him almost speechless, but he masked it well. She didn’t throw him out immediately, but agreed to a talk and even offered him a chair, which was more than he’d expected. Draco thought back to his internal list and was glad to have established step one. Actually talk to Granger.

She had changed. Not so much that he wouldn’t have recognized her, but enough to throw him off balance. Which was something he did not need right now. Not while feeling exposed and nervous in the first place. He had nearly embarrassed himself when the sound of her door had made him jump. Fucking useless mind.

Draco shifted in his seat, trying to stem his nervousness by looking her over, wishing he had downed two Calming Draughts instead of one. Hermione Granger was…pretty. Which was certainly something Draco had never associated with her. Not that she had ever been ugly, just uninteresting. Bland even.

Now as he sat in front of her, Draco couldn’t believe he had ever thought of her as anything other than captivating. Even if Directive 32 had never happened, he could see why ilk like McLaggen orbited around her.

Her hair was still wild, even while she had tamed it into a bun, but it had grown longer. Ringlets of escaped curls tumbled down her delicate neck and surrounded her expressive face. Those fiery eyes he remembered from his trial were the same. A soft brown, now showing hints of suspicion as she beheld him. Freckles covered her nose and she pursed her plush lips absently while crossing her arms. It was a very defensive pose, but Draco didn’t hold it against her.

Her face wasn’t as thin as it had been, making her appear softer, which he assumed was treacherous. The Hermione Granger he knew was not soft.

Debating where he should begin, Draco took his time ordering his thoughts and inner list while she waited for him to speak, her leg bouncing under the desk, showing her nerves. Somehow it helped, knowing that he wasn’t the only one feeling that way, even while it slightly unnerved him to be the cause of her unease. He needed to do something about that.

With a swallow and while lacing his fingers in his lap to keep the shaking of his hands under control, Draco opted for the truth. Gryffindors loved that sort of thing, right? The soul-bearing shite.

“I don’t truly know how to begin,” he said.

“How about you tell me why this is the first time I’m seeing you? Why let your father do the proposing on your behalf?” Oh, yes. Her eyes definitely held fire.

Clearing his throat, Draco was quick with his answer. “I didn’t know about it,” he confessed. “My father told me I was engaged on Friday, when I was busy fleeing the country.”

Granger’s eyes widened in shock. “He… He didn’t tell you? What the fuck? Is this… I mean… Are you even alright with this? With marrying me, I mean?” Her outraged stuttering was strangely adorable, as was her worry at his consent. It had been a long time since anyone had cared enough to ask him a question of the sort. Apart from his Healer, of course. Who didn’t count.

“Because if not, I will…” She trailed off, nibbling her lower lip with a furious expression. “I will hex your father straight back to Azkaban.”

A small huff escaped him at the thought. If only that was possible. “That won’t be necessary, Granger. Thank you, though. The thought holds much appeal.”

His words conjured a tiny smirk to her shapely lips and Draco found himself stumped at being at the receiving end of it. At being the reason it was there.

“Still,” Granger said. “We will obviously not move forward if it isn’t something you want as well.”

As well? Did this mean she was truly amenable to it? “I’m…” Draco shrugged, his nerves spiking. She probably wouldn’t want to hear that he didn’t have a choice, even if it was true. So he decided on the next point on his agenda. “I’m grateful you said yes, Granger. I wasn’t looking forward to going back to Azkaban.” He forced his shudder to stay inward. “I’m also grateful for you speaking up at my trial. Truly. I don’t think I would have lasted much longer in that place.” It was mortifying to admit this. Especially to her. But he was thankful and she deserved to know it. Two more points crossed off the list. “I just…” He shifted again. “Why?”

Her brows flew up. “Why what?”

“Why did you speak at my trial? And why did you say yes to marrying me?” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s not like you carried a torch for me over the years and I certainly never made your life any easier. Which I regret and…” Draco blew out a breath, trying to stop the words from spilling out of him, but it was no use. Just like in therapy, once he started talking, it poured from him as though he had opened a floodgate. Curse Herp and the effect his sessions had on him. He looked straight at her, trying to convey the earnestness of his next words. If he was going to say them anyway, he might as well make it as sincere as he could. “I do regret it, Granger. All of it. I’m sorry for being a right arse in school, for calling you names and for… Well, everything. Most of all, I’m sorry for not…” He clenched his fists, feeling tremors enter his hands. “For that night. I should have done something.”

Granger tilted her head in a most curious move, making her look like an inquisitive little bird. “But you did. You gave us enough time to escape by not identifying Harry. If you had, all would have been lost. Your decision saved all of us. And I never blamed you for not stepping between me and your deranged aunt.” A visible shudder ran over her and she squeezed her lids shut for a moment. “I can only imagine what she would have done to you.”

Draco bit on the inside of his cheek to keep from arguing and glared at his hands. He shouldn’t, if this was what she believed, all the better. Not that he agreed with all of it. “Well, I’m still sorry,” he said lamely. Gods this was embarrassing.

“It’s the why of it,” she said, making him glance back up at her. “I testified because it was the right thing to do.” Her crossed arms sank down and by now the defensiveness had leaked from her features. “I saw it in your face that day…” Her throat clicked as she swallowed, her gaze turning inward. “You were as much a prisoner in that house as any of us.”

He had no idea what to do with that revelation. It was the truth, but Draco never thought she would have seen it that way. It had been his home. Until Lucius had invited a monster inside.

“That answers one question,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “What about the other?”

Granger scoffed. “As if you don’t know, Malfoy.” She grinned way too wide for it to be real. “I’m marrying you for your money, of course.”

Draco frowned. That could not be right. There was no world in which the upstanding, moral, Hermione Granger would marry anyone for money. She was not that kind of woman. At least that was what he would have believed. But maybe he had been wrong? Or maybe she truly had been threatened or forced by Lucius. “Did… Did my father force you into this? Did he threaten you in any way?” The words tasted like acid on his tongue, but Draco needed to know.

A small chuckle escaped her. “Oh, he could have tried and seen what that would have yielded,” Granger said. “No. Your father is an absolute twat—sorry for saying it so bluntly—but he didn’t threaten me in any way.”

To Draco’s utter astounding, his lips twitched into a smirk. “He is a twat.” While the weight of his worries concerning his father coercing Granger lessened tangibly, he found her answering smirk quite agreeable. Huh, who would have thought they’d come to any sort of understanding or kinship in this? It was odd, but felt like there was something there. Something that encouraged him, rather than filled him with outright trepidation. Something that made him believe he could get through this. Still, there was one last thing he needed to address, well two, but one was more important than the other. It was the one thing that had him rattling inside his skin, feeling as though it was too tight. Encasing, suffocating, squeezing.

“You ahh… Did Lucius tell you about the family magic? Specifically as it pertains to our…” He swallowed. “Our wedding night?”

Granger blinked at him, a blush growing across her cheeks. It looked as though she knew. “Yes. He told me,” she said. “I’m fine with it if you are.”

Draco pulled a shaking hand through his hair and laced it back with the other momentarily. His fingers and palms had grown slippery with cold sweat. Did he tell her? If so, how? Without her getting the wrong idea? “I’m…” The words got stuck in his throat and he was unable to say them. Unable to admit the depth of his trauma. His brokenness. As much as he should be telling her—as much as his Healer had hounded him to—Draco felt he could not. “I’m fine with it,” he forced out. “As long as you are.” He’d find a way to be fine. Or he would tell her beforehand if he could not.

Granger did that inquisitive head-tilt once more. “It’s only sex, right? And it will only be once. So I don’t see the problem.” She chuckled and it sounded as forced as his own words. Draco had no idea whether she was trying to convince him or herself. Maybe it was both. And maybe they’d have to revisit this topic. But not now. This had been hard enough for him. The thought of getting into the topic more had his heart jump.

“I brought you something,” he said instead. “I’m not sure you’d want it and I can totally understand if you don’t, but ahh… Whatever. Here.” Pulling the small box from his pocket he had collected in the family Gringotts vault, he slid it across the desk toward her. “I figured all of this has started so backwards and you should at least have one thing that is…fitting. As I said, if you don’t want it, that’s fine. I can’t imagine you’d want to advertise this.” He gestured between the both of them.

Frowning at the small box, Granger reached out and opened it. A small gasp left her at the sight.

Draco had spent many hours rummaging through the jewelry of his ancestors, until he had found this particular ring. It was delicate and not flashy, unlike most of the other pieces in the vault. A white-gold band with a flawless ruby. The ruby wasn’t too big and encased by a ring of minute diamonds.

“It’s…” Granger looked at it with an unreadable expression.

His nerves nearly ran away from him. Any witch who had grown up in his social circles would have been offended by the lack of size, but Draco had thought Granger might appreciate something delicate. Maybe he had been wrong?

“It’s beautiful, Malfoy,” she said. But she didn’t put it on, which was no surprise. “And…” She bit into her lower lip, her eyes of amber fire searching him. “And thank you for coming by, for talking to me, for apologizing. It means a lot to me and I am appalled that your father completely went over your head with this whole thing.” A strange half-laugh, half-chuckle sounded from her. “I thought you’d throw insults at me the first time we met again. It’s…nice to find I was wrong. It’s also nice that you seem to care about my…sensibilities. Thank you, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t rightly know what to say to any of it, so he nodded. Something didn’t sit right with him, though. “You had every reason to assume I’d be a git to you. I hope I can show you that has changed. Some, at least.”

A sliver of defensiveness entered her features once more. “We’ll see, I guess.” Then her head flew up as a note fluttered her way. She unfolded it and glared, waving her wand to open the door. Her features darkened as she looked past him. “Fucking hell,” she breathed, sounding beyond frustrated.

Draco twisted in his seat and beheld Marcus Flint, standing in front of Astoria’s desk, gesticulating wildly at Granger’s office. He was carrying a bouquet of fire lilies. Draco cocked a brow. That was rather forward of Flint.

“I’m so done with this bullshite,” Granger hissed, making Draco turn back to her. She wore that fiery expression he already knew. A look that said she was ready to take on the world. Consequences and dangers be damned. In that moment she looked more than pretty. She was radiant.

Her gaze found his. “Are you opposed to making our engagement official? Right now?”

He felt his eyes widen. “What? Right now? You’d want that?”

Granger scoffed. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. I already told my friends.” She grimaced and Draco could only imagine how that conversation had gone. Blimey, this witch surprised him at every turn.

“Objections, Malfoy?” she asked, sliding the ring closer.

“Certainly not. It’s your reputation that’s at stake here, Granger. Mine can only get better.” He managed a wink and she grinned devilishly, plucking the ring from the box and sliding it on.

Granger rose from her chair and walked past her desk. Draco found himself a tad shocked when he saw her fully for the first time. The white silk blouse was cleverly cut, enhancing her curves and the black pencil-skirt hugged her round hips and shapely legs. The black pumps she wore had nothing in common with the ugly, sensible shoes from his trial. Despite knowing about their need to consummate their marriage so shortly after the vows, Draco had not spent a second thinking of Granger as a sexual being in any capacity. He did now. She was vexingly hot.

“Thank you for visiting, darling fiancé. Let me accompany you to the floo.” Her words were unnaturally loud and Draco tore his eyes from her and watched with unparalleled glee as Marcus gaped at her.

Rising to a stand, Draco offered his arm, steeling himself as he smirked down at her. “That would be lovely, my darling,” he drawled.

When Granger slipped her hand past his elbow, laying her newly beringed finger on his underarm, it was bearable. Mainly because he was wearing clothes and was expecting it.

Smiling like two idiots, they exited her office and walked past a flabbergasted Flint, while Astoria sneered at the man. “I told you, Marcus, Hermione doesn’t want to see you. Clearly you can see why.”

Draco managed to ignore the stares and whispers even better this time and his nervousness had abated a tad. All in all, he was very glad at how their conversation had gone. He certainly hadn’t expected it to be as smooth.

“Hermione Granger?”

“Yes.”

“The Hermione Granger? Golden Girl, War Heroine, feral-haired, swot, Hermione Granger?”

“Yes…” Draco threw Theo an irritated glance as they walked up to the terrace of Douillet.

“And she said yes?” Theo’s outraged questions hadn’t stopped since they’d apparated a minute ago.

“Obviously,” Blaise said. “Or we wouldn’t be here, would we?” He eyed the terrace and the old chairs and table standing grouped together with a keen gaze. “I’ll have to see the inside, Drake, but the atmosphere is good and I think the house has a nice substance.” He scrunched his nose at the overgrown hedges and the ivy covering half the house. “It could have stood to be cleaned and kept up a bit more, though.”

“My father severely dislikes Douillet,” Draco said. “I remember coming here only once. I guess he thought it wasn’t worth any effort.”

“Back to my question,” Theo squawked. “She actually said yes?”

“Oh Salazar, give it a rest, Theodore,” Pansy sneered. “Somehow, daddy Lucius has snagged the Golden Girl for our Draco. You should be happy he won’t be going back to Azkaban.” She shook her head, making her sleek and long black hair sway. “That plan of yours to flee to Bora Bora was madness anyway.”

Draco grunted. “Will you please not call my father ‘daddy’, Pans? I don’t want to know—”

Pansy waved him off. “Come on, Draco. I have called your father daddy in my head for years. He and Narcissa were my sexual awakening.”

A stricken sound fought its way up his chest. “Didn’t need to know that.” Draco cleared his throat. More to change topic than to actually indulge Theo, he addressed him. “And Granger did say yes. I spoke to her earlier today.”

Theo nearly stumbled over his own feet. “You did? How did that go?”

Opening the faded white door with a wave of his wand, Draco frowned. “Better than I would have thought, to be honest. Our talk was almost…pleasant.”

The entrance was a modestly big hall, with natural tiles in a reddish-brown color. Three arches led to the kitchen, one of the sitting rooms and further inside the house, where a staircase led to the upper floors. If Draco remembered correctly, the top floors consisted of two living wings. One for guests and one for the family of the house.

“Huh,” Pansy made, grimacing at the dust-covered inside. She swiped across an old dresser and rubbed the dust between her fingers. “Did she say why? I mean, there has to be a reason she’d marry you.” She looked him over skeptically. “Not that you’re not…nice to look at, Drake, but you guys have history.”

Draco raised a brow at Pansy. “Nice. Very subtle way of telling me I look like shite. And I don’t know. She says it is because of my money.” He ran a palm through his hair and shook his head.

A low hum of chuckles floated from Blaise, who had meandered into the sitting room. “Hermione Granger, marrying for money? Sounds improbable. You didn’t ask further?”

Following him and testing the stability of one of the covered sofa’s, Draco jiggled the backrest. It held fast. “No. I should have, but we kind of changed topics and I was too nervous to bring it back up again. The important thing is that Lucius hasn’t forced or threatened her into it.”

Theo pranced through the room, ripping off the covers of the furniture as he went, sending dust flying through the air with a gleeful expression on his face. “That’s good, right? Wouldn’t be the first one to be threatened into marriage, but normally her kind do this type of thing for love.” He wriggled his brows and draped one of the white sheets across his head and body, making kissy-faces at Draco. “Maybe she has nurtured a secret crush on you, mate.”

“I highly doubt that,” Draco said with a snort.

He sighed when Theo flapped around him, fluttering his lashes. “Marry me, Malfoy,” he crooned in a very bad imitation of Granger’s voice.

“Will you stop that? Idiot.” Draco glowered at his friend. “It might be coerced and for a stupid fucking reason, but she’s still my fiancé, and soon she will be my wife. You will respect her.”

Theo sniggered and Blaise grinned broadly.

“Give it a rest, you two,” Pansy said. “You know Draco has always been particular about these things.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

Pansy shrugged and buffed her long, black nails on her sleeve. “You always saw betrothal and matrimony as something serious. May I remind you that you dunked Goldstein into the Black Lake because he was rude to Astoria? Even while you hated being promised to her, you still felt responsible and you protected her honor.”

The mention of Astoria had Theo looking strangely glum all of a sudden and he let the sheet pool around his feet. Interesting. Deciding to ignore this information for now, Draco glanced at Blaise. “What is the verdict?”

Blaise folded his large arms. “As I said, it has substance. It will need a lot of work, but many of the things can be reused if you want, or you can add new furnishings. Whatever you need, mate. I have a delivery of some stellar new things from Italy next week.”

Draco eyed the chic but antiquated furniture around him, then nodded. “I think… Maybe something more…cozy? There are some things I’d like to keep but you have pretty much free reign, I know the kind of magic you can work.”

Blaise nodded in thanks and his dark eyes flew around the room, already imagining what it could turn into. He had made a name for himself as an interior designer for the rich. The very rich. His shop ‘Dimora Elegante e Arte’ or ‘DEA’ for short, in Diagon Alley was the first address for many if a new house or estate was bought.

Draco stepped to his side and shrugged. “Even if someone would have dusted this place over the years, it would seem too posh.”

“Since when do you turn your nose up at posh?” Theo asked.

“I don’t, but I doubt Granger would like it as much.”

“Hah!” Pansy pointed a finger at him. “See? Particular. Just make sure you don’t bend to her wishes too much. Keep some of that washed-away pride you used to have.” She ignored Draco’s glare and scowled. “I understand why you took Blaise along and even Theo has his uses as the day’s entertainment, but why am I here?”

“Manual labor, obviously,” Theo piped. “Since you have an anchor tattooed to your arm, we wagered you’d do the heavy lifting around here. Me and my delicate disposition could never.”

Pansy tsked and sent a stinging jinx at Theo so fast he yelped as he jumped and crashed into a coffee-table. “Merlin, Pans. Not my butt!”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she drawled. “And I do not have an anchor on my arm, you cretin.”

As the two started bickering, Draco and Blaise shared a grin. Seeing Pansy after his two years in Azkaban had been a shock. While Blaise and Theo had both grown—Blaise had gotten impossibly huge and muscly—Pansy had done something that could only be described as evolved.

After she had broken completely from her family, she had turned her back on Pureblood culture in the most extreme way. These days she owned a tattoo parlor and added magical tattoos to those who wanted them and normal ones for her Muggle clientele. This meant she now sported colorful and moving ink across her entire body. Her make-up—once sleek and proper—was now dark and precise. Her signature bob had been swapped for long hair with an undercut on the left side of her head, where a floral design grew up her neck and over her scalp. Two black hoops adorned her lower lip on either side and her ears glinted with a myriad of piercings. Looking the way she did now, there was no chance she’d ever be invited to any functions where she would have to meet her family. It was as much a personal development as it was a calculated one. It suited her, though. She now looked on the outside the way she had always been on the inside. Tough, with edges, and beautiful.

Blaise took over after Theo and Pansy had finally calmed down. With Draco’s instruction on what he wanted to keep, he hovered red and green lights over stuff and told them where they should float what.

As the initial sorting went on, covering almost all of Douillet—apart from the master bedroom, which Draco decided they would only have cleaned and a few other spaces he planned on giving Granger free reign to—Draco was thankful, if surprised, that his friends had actually come to help. Not that they wouldn’t be there for him, but they were the types to lean back and pay another for such things as sorting through a musty old house. Draco had been adamant, though. He wanted to do many things himself. That and it was fascinating discovering things in the abandoned place he had nearly forgotten.

One room on the upper floor contained all of his childhood toys, confiscated after he had gone to Hogwarts for the first time. Lucius had said he didn’t need them anymore, as he was too old to play with such childish things. Draco had searched the manor up and down, he’d asked Dobby, who had clasped his mouth shut and cracked away with tears in his large, blue eyes. Not even Narcissa seemed to know anything.

A wave of sudden nostalgia washed through Draco as he sat in between his things. Things he had treasured and missed dearly, which had been boxed up and hidden. Discarded as though not needed or wanted. He’d find a place to store them for now, maybe he could give them away?

He shook himself inwardly and left the room, deciding on dealing with this space once he found adequate storage. Come to think of it, he remembered an old potions lab that was attached to the back of the house. Maybe it could be partly revived and partly used to store things.

In said old lab, Draco encountered Pansy, who floated shelves, cauldrons, and flasks with unidentifiable contents to the side. Against one wall, she had stacked a good amount of what looked like paint-covered wood.

“What is that?” Draco asked.

Pansy twisted to see what he meant and shrugged. “I found canvasses and easels. Someone used to paint. I think most of it can still be used, all of it was under a very strong stasis charm. I’ll take it off your hands if you want.”

Draco walked closer and sorted through some of the canvasses. Most of them were blank, but some had beginnings of pictures on them. Strange, Draco couldn’t recall ever hearing about anyone artistically inclined in his family. Not in the Malfoy line at least. Maybe it had been a Black?

“That’s fine, Pans, thank you,” he said. “I think I might even tinker a bit with it myself.” Draco didn’t know where that idea came from, but it suddenly seemed like a good one. He knew he had loved drawing as a child and it had calmed him. Later on, in school, he had doodled when things had gotten too stressful for him. Sixth year had brought forth booklets filled with dark sketches that he’d never shown anyone and burned as soon as they were filled. He had never tried his hand at truly painting, though. Draco shrugged to himself, even if he wasn’t any good at it, something that calmed him could be very helpful in his near future.

A screech from behind him nearly stopped his heart. Draco pivoted, his wand drawn, when he saw Theo engulfing Pansy with one of the white sheets. They tumbled over the ground in a mess of limbs, fabric and curses, and Draco was able to beat back the shock and panic at the sudden noise.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Nott?!” Pansy yelled, completely encased in the sheet.

Theo laughed as he straddled her and poked her nose. “It seems I have caught myself a siren. Sing for me, pretty girl.”

“I will fucking end you!” Pansy screamed, struggling under him to no avail.

Theo cupped a hand to his ear as though he was listening intently. “Oh, yes, very melodic. Almost banshee-like. Fascinating.”

Pansy reddened, then glowered and a moment later Theo sailed through the air and landed in a heap of cauldrons with a loud clang. One of the pots tumbled from the heap and fell onto his head in the imitation of a hat. Theo’s consequent groan sounded echoey and metallic, while Pansy clambered to her feet, ripped off the sheet and stalked closer, her wand drawn.

Theo yelped into his pot as he was levitated to his feet. He tried pulling at the cauldron but apparently, Pansy had stuck it to his head. She grinned evilly as she floated over two ladles, which she let drum onto the cauldron.

“Ouch!” Theo protested, pulling on the cauldron again. “Something is very loud.”

“Really?” Pansy asked in a falsely sweet voice, letting the ladles drum up a storm. “What a conundrum.”

Theo shrieked and finally managed to unclog his head from the pot. He threw it away, huffing and puffing, his face red. His own wand was in his hand a second later. “You want to dance, Pansybabes?”

Pansy chuckled darkly. “Run, little man, before I permanently tailor one of these to your too large head.”

She swirled her wand and more cauldrons rose around her. Theo blanched and held up his hands. “Truce?”

Pansy sniggered. “As I said… Run, little man.”

They both raced from the lab in a whirlwind of shrieks, clangs and floating cauldrons, leaving a chuckling Draco behind. He looked on after his friends, happy to see Pansy show such an amount of glee. Only Theo was able to unravel the witch in such a complete way. Around everyone else, she was always steadfast to the point of stoicism. Theo knew how to push her buttons and when it happened, it was a glorious sight.

The rest of the day flew by and while Pansy bemoaned being put to work like a house-elf, she promised to be there the next day as well to continue their quest. Blaise said he would bring some samples and drawings for Draco to choose from and Theo was just happy to be included. The Nott heir seemed content with the distraction from his usual loitering about.

When Draco apparated back to the manor in the evening, he was greeted by a frosty silence at the dinner table. The difference from how his day had gone to now sitting with his parents was jarring and he couldn’t wait to get away from them.

“Did you meet with her?” Narcissa asked over her pumpkin soup, finally breaking the tenseness hanging over them all.

“I did,” Draco said and saw his father shifting in his seat in the corner of his eye.

“I hope it went well,” his mother continued. “I will meet her later this week to go over preparations.”

Draco let his spoon sink, a sudden surge of anxiety growing inside him. His mother must have noticed his look as she pursed her lips subtly. “Don’t worry. I will be cordial. As I’m sure you were.”

He laced his fingers in his lap. “As a matter of fact, we had a very good talk. It went as smooth as I could have hoped.” Draco eyed his father with a glare. “If one discounted her not knowing that I had no idea about this betrothal.”

Lucius stared back, unimpressed. “You didn’t need to know. If you had, you would have wanted to speak with her, be part of our talks, and you would have ruined it.”

“Of course, I bloody would have,” Draco fumed. “As I should have been. It’s my life, you know. My decision. You should not have made it on my behalf in the first place.”

“I didn’t see you giving me much of a choice, son,” Lucius said. “You would rather have fled the country than make actual plans to secure your future. What did you expect me to do? Sit back and watch?”

“Yes,” Draco growled. “Exactly. I’m a grown man. I can make my own decisions.”

Clicking his tongue in apparent distaste, his father pushed at his empty soup bowl. “I’ll believe that when I see it. What have you been doing so far? Lounging about and going to therapy? I—”

“Lucius,” Narcissa said warningly and Draco’s father clapped his mouth shut.

“No, mother, let’s hear it.” Draco leaned back in his seat. “What exactly is so bad about trying to heal? To get help and go to therapy? You should try it, clearly you have issues. Control issues for one.”

“Draco,” Narcissa said in shocked voice.

Lucius paled and got ready to fire a tirade at Draco, but he just stood, threw down his napkin and bowed curtly to his mother. “I have lost my appetite. Good night, mother.” With that, he left his parents behind, ignoring what his father threw after him. It was something about disrespect and bad behavior, but Draco couldn’t care less.

The next day at breakfast, Lucius was conspicuously absent and Draco only found his mother in the dining room. She sat in her seat, ram-rod straight but pale, reading the Prophet.

“Mother? Has something happened?” Draco asked as he strode closer.

Narcissa sighed and slid the Prophet over to his side. “Somehow they found out. The press. About you and Miss Granger.”

Draco bent over and clenched his teeth as he read the headline. He’d known it would come. He and Granger had announced their engagement rather openly. It would have been a miracle if Skeeter hadn’t caught wind of it. He had also known it would tarnish Granger’s reputation. But still, seeing the depravity of what Skeeter had written made him feel sick. Draco decided he had to send Granger an owl, to ask if she was doing alright. That was what a worried fiancé did, right? And that was what he was, right?

His features darkened as he decided something else as well. Rita Skeeter would pay for her insolence.

Chapter Text

Tea With Lady Malfoy

Hermione

Golden Girl betrothed to Death Eater: Scandalous truth, or sinister plot?

By Rita Skeeter

On Monday, Basement Level 3 of the Ministry of Magic was witness to a most bizarre occurrence, as one Miss Hermione Granger [Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of her Age, One Third of the Golden Trio, War Heroine, Recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class and Head of the Obliviation Department] was seen coming from her office, hand in hand with none other than Draco Malfoy [Convicted Death Eater, War Criminal, Harborer of You-Know-Who during the war, Mastermind behind the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and last heir to the Malfoy and Black fortune and line] while loudly proclaiming their engagement. She was further seen waving around her new engagement ring rather bluntly and apparently the pair even kanoodled in one of the lifts.

“I saw everything,” Cormac McLaggen [Ministry Employee] stated, looking shocked. “I had just left Herm—erm—Miss Granger’s office after a meeting and five minutes later, she emerged. Engaged. I even asked her out before I left and she seemed very amenable to the idea.” He frowned, his youthful and innocent blue eyes looking sad. “I don’t understand it.”

According to other sources, Miss Granger—as a Muggleborn Witch—has been flooded with proposals since Directive 32 came into effect. So far, she has been said to answer rather rudely, or not at all. Which one would expect from someone who has actively fought a war against the very people now asking for her hand. Miss Granger has often exhibited signs of narrow-mindedness, so while her actions leading up to Monday went against everything the Ministry is trying to do with their Unity Law, it does not come as unexpected.

What has been unexpected was the betrothal to Draco Malfoy specifically. As this reporter has been told, there was no love lost between the two whilst at Hogwarts and it has been said that it even went as far as an outright feud between the Golden Trio and Mr. Malfoy. To say that this reporter was shocked, is an understatement.

We reached out to Miss Granger’s office and were told she was ‘unreachable’ and that she had ‘no comment’. Luckily, Mr. Harry Potter [The Boy Who Lived, most notable member of the Golden Trio, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, Savior of the Wizarding World, Recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class, Winner of Witch’s Weekly’s ‘Most Devastating Smile’ five times in a row, and long-year friend of Miss Granger] ran into this reporter in Diagon Alley and was able to verify the rumor. He did not say much, regrettably, but stated that Miss Granger had told him of her plans a few days ago and that he was happy for her.

While this statement from Mr. Potter does answer one question—Mr. Malfoy could not have Imperiused her during his meet-up with her if she announced her engagement to her friends days before, we were very worried this might have been the case—it leads to new ones. We all know Miss Granger’s turbulent dating history and there was even talk about her being the reason for Mr. Potter’s break-up with Ginny Weasley [Member of the Order of the Phoenix during the war, Member of Dumbledor’s Army, and Captain of the Holyhead Harpies]. Rumors that Mr. Potter had never gotten over their whirlwind romance of their fourth year in Hogwarts, where Miss Granger had cast him to the side for Victor Krum [International Quidditch Star and Seeker without equal], only to later date his best Friend Ronald Weasley [One Third of the Golden Trio, War Hero, Recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class and Auror] for several years, have held steady. Miss Granger has a knack for snagging famous wizards, which by her lack of good looks is veritably astounding, but maybe only one of them was because of his fame. Other than Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter and Victor Krum are exceptionally wealthy. And when it comes to wealth, who could ever top the last scion of the Malfoy-Black line?

To finish off this delectable scandal, dear readers, we can say that Miss Hermione Granger and Mr. Draco Malfoy are indeed engaged to be married. The reasons remain unclear as of yet, but never fret, this reporter will leave no stone unturned to find out the truth.

Is there truly something sinister at play, or has Miss Granger simply succumbed to the endless betrothals and picked the one with the deepest vaults? We will know soon.

Hermione giggled. Her giggle turned into a chuckle and then a full-on belly-laugh. She let the paper sink and hollered, making Astoria stare at her as if she had lost the plot.

“Oh, that cheeky old hag,” Hermione huffed out between laughs, wiping at actual tears.

Astoria had only brought Hermione the Prophet once being specifically asked because Hermione had been wondering where the paper was. Her secretary had handed it over looking deeply worried, uttering: “I’m so sorry, Hermione.” Now, the dark-haired witch gaped at her boss with an open mouth. “You… You’re not mad? That article is…appalling!”

Hermione still sniggered a bit and shook her head. “Oh, Astoria. Skeeter and I go way back. She has been printing lies and hateful words about me since I was fifteen. I have developed callouses as thick as a wall concerning her. The woman hates me—not without reason, mind you—and I hate her, also not without reason. But nothing she could ever print about me would make me angry.”

“But you… You have to deal with this,” Astoria insisted. “She can’t get away with any of it. I’ll help.” She nodded fiercely. “I’ll tell those idiots at the Prophet that you neither held hands and that there was no ‘kanoodling’ whatsoever. The gall of that woman; she practically called you a gold digger and ugly. You are neither. I’ll—”

Waving her off with a gentle smile Hermione shook her head again. “Please don’t worry about it. I’ll handle Rita. She won’t be saying anything mean about me for a while once I’m done.” Hermione leaned back, her mind already forming a plan, while she simultaneously went through her agenda for the week. “Ginny and Luna want to take me dress-shopping on Friday and we’ll have a…” She grimaced. “…bachelorette gathering on Saturday—Ginny’s orders—and I wanted to ask whether you would want to come. To both.”

Astoria raised her brows. “Seriously? Of course I would. That would be so lovely! Thank you for inviting me. Just let me know when and where.” Astoria reached for the Prophet. “You want me to burn it? I noticed you like to burn things.”

Laying a palm flat on the paper, Hermione chuckled. “No thank you. I think I’ll add this to my Rita-box. One of these days I might make a collage with her greatest hits.”

Astoria smirked. “I seriously have no idea how you do it. If someone said such mean things about me, I’d probably have a good, long cry.”

“Years of practice,” Hermione said simply. “And I have other things to worry about. Rita Skeeter doesn’t even register on my list of grievances right now. She’s just a bug on my windshield.”

Whether Astoria understood, or had trouble with the word ‘windshield’, she didn’t show, but nodded and left the office with the promise of bringing some tea by soon.

It took Hermione the remainder of the day, but once it was time to go home, she had worked it out. A very unnerving surprise—between a couple of howlers from angry readers she vanished on sight—came with an eagle owl and a small note.

Granger,

I hope this finds you well. I’m terribly sorry us outing our engagement so openly has resulted in such slander on your character and person. I’d hate if this tarnished your reputation in any way. Alas, if you want, I have several solicitors only a floo-call away. If you would like, I will sue the entire Prophet for defamation going years back. That woman has never written anything nice or true about you. It should be enough to get her to back off.

Please let me know if you have need of my help.

Sincerely,

D.L.M.

Hermione was unsure how to feel about Malfoy’s letter. She’d penned something short back, thanked him and told him not to worry. The fact that he apparently cared enough to ask about it was strange. His offer of taking legal action seemed like something he would do, though. Regardless, thoughts about it flitted in and out of her mind throughout the day and Hermione did not come to a conclusion as to how she felt about it. On the one hand it was sweet, if it was genuine; on the other… Well, maybe it was just sweet in a way. If only she knew whether he truly meant it. Hermione was undecided if taking Malfoy at face-value was a prudent thing. She might have to be more careful. Yet, their talk had given her a smidge of hope. Maybe they could get through it together without being completely miserable. Maybe.

Once Astoria and her department were gone, Hermione went to work on her creation. It took her a few tries and prototypes, before she had tinkered out the desired effect. In truth, she loved the total concentration of inventing spellwork and getting something to work that had been merely an idea in her head. By thinking outside the box and being open to multiple influences, Hermione could be devastatingly creative and most of her inventions worked a treat. As did this one.

Happy and with a small letter in hand, she made her way to the owlery to send it. She was overcome with a sense of utter glee as she fastened the letter to a Ministry owl and sent it off.

Rita would open it, read the meager, yet effective contents, and then would be in for a shock.

Hermione hadn’t written much and she had used a spell to mask her handwriting, in case someone else opened it. Only imagining what would transpire left her in a giddy mood during the evening as she toasted to herself on the sofa, cradling Crookshanks in her lap, smirking like a content super-villain.

The letter read:

Rita,

Buzz carefully. People who fit into glass-jars shouldn’t be throwing stones.

A concerned and well-informed party.

The letter would then turn into a beetle, an exact replica of Skeeter’s animagus form, complete with that ridiculous pattern of her glasses on its antennas. It would scuttle and buzz a little, then erupt into flame, while exuding a blood-curdling scream, leaving behind nothing but ashes.

It wasn’t elaborate or devious in any way, but it would get the message and consequent threat across. Hermione had no doubts it would have the desired effect and if it didn’t, she could always ask Malfoy for the information on his solicitors.

Hermione had spent way too long debating what to wear on Wednesday. She should probably not care as much, but Narcissa made her nervous. Not only would she be her mother-in-law shortly, but the woman had seen her being tortured while doing nothing, had turned up her nose at Hermione over the years, and generally had the approachability of an iceberg. It didn’t help that she always looked as though she had just stepped from a fashion magazine.

Thank Merlin for Astoria, who had taken one look at the assembled clothes Hermione had brought to the office and taken charge. Hermione was busy wrestling a turtleneck over her curls, when Astoria entered, gasping as she beheld the chaos. It looked as though a rack of clothes had exploded in Hermione’s office.

With a stern voice and sterner eyes, Astoria picked out a set of black trousers, straightened them with an ironing spell Hermione decided to utilize in the future. Her secretary grimaced at most of the tops and blouses Hermione had brought, but then nodded at a plum-colored one.

“This will go lovely with your hair-color and skin tone,” Astoria said.

Somehow, Astoria even managed to wrangle Hermione’s hair into nice braid, with no frizz whatsoever. The ‘no-make-up’ make-up Astoria applied made Hermione appear fresh and glowy.

Once Astoria stepped back with a squint, Hermione turned in front of the large mirror she had conjured for the occasion and blinked a few times. “Do you do parties? Like weddings and stuff? Because I’d hire you on the spot.”

Astoria grinned and said that she would love to do Hermione’s hair and make-up for her wedding if she wanted.

Hermione scowled and griped that she had no idea what kind of affair it would turn into. She wanted something small and quick. But as her nerves and fidgeting hands reminded her constantly, Narcissa intimidated her, and she had no idea whether she would be able to stand her ground against the woman. Men were no problem for Hermione. She had dealt with her fair share of, bigots, misogynists, lechers, and Dark Lords with delusions of grandeur. But a cold and strong woman like Narcissa? That was something Hermione had no experience with.

Which was how she found herself nearly tripping over her heels when entering the small Muggle café Narcissa had picked ten minutes too early. Hermione was surprised to find it was Muggle, but maybe Narcissa only wanted the privacy it would afford.

She came up to a waitress, who was dressed in a smart, black outfit, and told her she had a reservation. The waitress nodded, smiled and led Hermione through the modern and open layout of the place. On the terrace, white tables stood surrounded by comfortable looking chairs and one had Narcissa seated in it, looking flawless in a black and green ensemble. The Malfoy matriarch rose from her seat in a graceful movement and Hermione was sure she was blushing profusely when they nodded at one another.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa said, her blue eyes flitting over Hermione in a flash, lingering ever so swiftly on her new ring. “Thank you so much for seeing me.”

“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Malfoy,” Hermione said and they both sat down.

The waitress took their drink orders and a tense silence crept over the table until Hermione’s coffee and Narcissa’s tea was served.

Hermione had been right, Narcissa looked as prim as ever and her cold, blue eyes gave nothing away of her inner workings, while Hermione felt as if her face was an open book to the other woman. She felt at a severe disadvantage and if there was one thing she hated, it was feeling inferior. Besides, she had no idea what Narcissa would want to talk about. The wedding, for one, but that was surely not all.

Once the drinks came and Narcissa commenced adding lemon-juice and honey into her tea, she stirred and placed the spoon down. All of it in utter silence, making Hermione’s clanging spoon sound that much louder as a result.

“Miss Granger, I would like to get a few things out of the way before we start talking about the wedding,” Narcissa said.

Hermione placed her hands into her lap so the other woman couldn’t see her wringing her fingers and maybe to hide the ring she had looked at again. “That is fine,” she answered.

Narcissa nodded once. “Firstly, I wanted to thank you for saying yes. For doing this. I don’t know exactly what my husband and you have discussed, but I know there is a contract. From what I understand, it is very generous and time-limited to two years.”

“It is,” Hermione said, unsure whether she should add anything to it. Did this family not talk? Why would Narcissa know so little about the contract? It seemed strange.

“Even so, I can understand that it must have cost you much to accept. My family—myself included—have not been kind to you. So it means a great deal to me that you decided to help my son. Please know you will always have my gratitude because of it. I also deeply apologize for any form of sorrow I might have caused you in the past. Especially for what my sister has done.” Narcissa took a sip from her tea.

Hermione could only nod. She cursed her own silence, but found herself unable to say anything in return as she wrestled with those particularly fond memories of being tortured by Bellatrix.

Folding her hands in her lap primly, Narcissa gave Hermione a long look, seemingly to emphasize her words. “That being said, we both know that this marriage—albeit completely legal, binding and real—will most likely not result in something permanent. I can’t imagine you wanting to stay married to Draco, as little as I can imagine him wanting to do so. Nevertheless, I feel like I have to tell you a few things.”

Hermione raised a brow, surprised. “I’d imagine he would likely find someone more suitable. Or rather, someone you deemed more suitable.”

Narcissa pursed her lips ever so slightly. “Quite, Miss Granger. I’d rather see him with someone who understands our world and the ways in which we conduct ourselves. Someone who would further his prospects socially. Not that it is any fault of yours, but you have no hope of doing so.”

There was no sneer, no disdainful tone, and yet Hermione felt as if the woman had just spewed something vile at her. A smidge of anger surfaced inside Hermione and she punched it down, taking a gulp from her coffee. She couldn’t rightly yell at Narcissa. Besides, she was right. What did Hermione know about Pureblood culture and conduct? She wasn’t born and raised to be effortlessly elegant and demure, like Astoria.

“However, you need to know that my son will take this marriage very seriously,” Narcissa continued and Hermione almost snorted out her mouthful of coffee. As far as she was concerned it was a business deal, nothing more.

“Draco has been raised to see matrimony a certain way and I have no doubt he will view your marriage the same. It could come off as overbearing and even possessive, which is why I implore you to have patience with him.” For a second, she looked as though she wanted to say more, but then gave a slight half shrug that was so miniscule, Hermione almost missed it. “To him, you will be his wife and he will try to protect and care for you in a way that can be as endearing as it can be frustrating. Especially to someone as independent as you.” Narcissa gave Hermione another long look.

Clearing her throat, Hermione held her gaze. “As long as he behaves cordially and doesn’t try to order me about, I don’t see a problem.”

Narcissa’s face revealed nothing once more and it decidedly unnerved Hermione. How on earth did anyone remain so completely unreadable all the time? She guessed it was a useful skill to have, if one lodged with Voldemort, where any type of visible thought could have led to death.

Her future mother-in-law nodded once, as if they had just concluded some kind of deal. She opened her purse and pulled out a small booklet. It was bound in shiny black leather and had a golden clasp. Narcissa opened the clasp, making the gold glint in the sparse sunlight, before she unhooked a Muggle pen from the center of the booklet. Hermione’s brows rose at seeing the pen, but she said nothing.

Narcissa flicked to a marked page and then looked back at Hermione. “Now, you and Lucius haven’t given me much time to plan anything. Not that I’m complaining, it’s just…” She drew her delicate brows together. “I thought I’d have more time planning Draco’s wedding. It should be elaborate.” A small sigh left her. “Maybe next time,” she murmured and Hermione wrung her hands tighter.

It wasn’t like she truly cared, but it was not a nice feeling being at the receiving end of Narcissa’s disappointment. Hermione frowned at her hands. No, she didn’t care.

“I’d rather like a smaller affair,” Hermione said. “Friends—if any of them even want to come—and family, on your side.”

A meticulously shaped brow rose at her words. “We could and should use this. Invite important members of the Wizarding World. Gives us an opportunity to network.”

“I don’t think—”

“Around two hundred guests should suffice,” Narcissa mused and jotted down something. “Now, we could have the ceremony in the manor’s garden, you can get ready in the manor, of course.”

“As I have told Luci—”

“Hmm, flowers. Daffodils and hyacinths, I think. Both represent new beginnings. Oh, maybe even irises. All of them will obviously be added to your bridal bouquet.” A few more things were scribbled down.

“That is all very well, but—”

“I’ll have to talk to Lucius about opening the floo to more people.” Narcissa frowned and Hermione felt her eye twitch. She was busy gathering breath to speak, no matter whether Narcissa interrupted her again or not, but in that very moment, a tall body appeared at her side.

“Mother,” Malfoy said and Hermione’s eyes flew up to him.

Narcissa froze, the tip of her pen quivering slightly. “Draco,” she said, tilting up her face to receive a stiff nod from him. “It’s nice of you to come by, but Miss Granger and I have everything in hand.”

Malfoy rounded Hermione and pulled out the chair next to her, so they were both facing his mother. “If by ‘having everything in hand’, you mean talking over Granger, then yes, you do.” He sat down and gave Hermione the ghost of a smile. “Hello, Granger.”

Hermione blinked, unsure how she felt about the entire situation. A part of her was sure she had just plummeted into some parallel universe.

“I- I would never,” Narcissa began, sounding outraged but Malfoy sighed and tilted his head at her with an annoyed look.

“Mother, I have just heard her trying to say something three times,” he said. “I understand that you are excited, but this is our wedding. Not yours. We will welcome your help and your input, but we will decide on the guests, the location and the…flowers.”

Narcissa’s lips thinned, but she didn’t say anything further.

The waitress arrived and stared at Malfoy. After catching herself, she fluffed her hair and smiled widely. “What can I bring the newcomer?” she asked.

Malfoy ordered a coffee without really looking at her and Hermione, who was still reeling from him being there in the first place—never mind apparently serving as a buffer between herself and his mother—watched the waitress’ face fall slightly as she shuffled off. Then she glanced back at him and decided that she could objectively understand the woman. Malfoy was a handsome man and the crisp button-down shirt he wore, folded halfway up his forearms, just shy of his mark, wasn’t unhelpful.

She shook herself inwardly. Not that any of it mattered. Observation or not. “What I was going to say is that I’d rather have a small ceremony. Nothing big. Just friends and family,” she said. “And I would rather not have it at the manor,” she added, her eyes flitting to Narcissa. “I’ll defer to you on the flowers. I don’t rightly care about them.”

A small huff sounded from Narcissa, which was probably the most indignant noise the woman was capable of making while out in public.

“I agree,” Malfoy said, lacing his hands on the table and leaning back. “As for the location, Theo has offered to have the ceremony at Nott Manor. The garden is almost as big as ours and it has the added benefit of a magical weather-dome, meaning you could wear whatever you wanted, Granger, no matter how cold.”

“I don’t think it matters what I wear, Malfoy,” Hermione said, feeling her confidence resurface now that he was there. It was strange, but his presence brought back the normal spark she carried within, that had seemed snuffed by Narcissa. The wild streak making a bid to break free.

“Fine. You can owl me a guestlist and I will take care of the invitations,” Narcissa griped, looking close to sullen. “I still believe it is a waste of an opportunity not to invite more people, but you are right, it is your wedding.”

“I think most people would see it as a spectacle and since our engagement has been announced so freshly, they would only be interested in asking inappropriate questions and well…” Malfoy swallowed. “I’d much rather have as few people present as possible.” He shared a look with his mother, whose blue eyes softened considerably.

“Of course, darling,” she said. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed at the strange exchange, which was laden with unsaid words. There was obviously something she was missing, but he wasn’t really her fiancé, it was business, and she felt she had little right to probe for more information.

“I’ll send my guestlist, thank you,” she said. “I’d appreciate it if you took care of the invitations, Lady Malfoy.”

Narcissa nodded once and scribbled into her booklet.

The rest of the conversation was surprisingly agreeable. Malfoy’s mother made no more notions of trying to impose her wishes and Malfoy himself had thought-out inputs while being very cordial. Still, Hermione felt a sense of discomfort rise the longer she spent in their company. She truly tried to not let it show and it wasn’t half as bad as with Lucius, but she was having a hard time from snorting and huffing at the bizarre situation. Had they been Muggles, Malfoy and her could have just run off and gotten married at some city hall and be done with it. Magical marriages were different, especially ones with a line as old as the Malfoy’s. Apparently a whole ritual was to take place to ensure the forming—the start, anyhow—of the marital bond.

The entire affair made her skin crawl. Not because she wasn’t committed to the task, but because she was uneasy at thinking of the wedding. Who would she even invite? Apart from Harry and Ginny? Would Ron come? Or his parents? And even if they all came, she would deal with questions and comments she’d rather not. Which wasn’t even touching on the subject of her actually getting married to the man beside her.

Hermione became increasingly fidgety as she grew more aware of his proximity. Malfoy smelled good, she noticed. Like sandalwood, green apples and something smoky she couldn’t place. His long, pale hands held his cup in a way that made the tendons in his wrist and underarms stand out. The veins snaking up the back of his hands were prominent without looking unhealthy. Malfoy had nice hands.

With a start, Hermione realized she had never been this close to him before. Not willing, or wittingly. Sometimes his movements made his knee brush hers and then he would apologize and shift his long legs around to give her some space. It was unnerving how he seemed to care. Not for the first time she wondered where the insults and sneers were. She had seen Lucius’ mask slip for a second and Narcissa had made it no secret that she didn’t find Hermione suitable for her son, but Malfoy himself… Hermione was loath to admit that she actually felt like believing he was being genuine. If so, what had changed? How? When?

He had told her he would try and show her he had changed. Had he really? There was no sign of the boy who had called her names, just the man who was apparently a complete stranger. A part of her was angry at it, at how relieved she was at his behavior, at how much it relaxed her. This was a dangerous thing and Hermione vowed to stay vigilant. It could still all be an act. People didn’t change overnight. The small voice in her head, telling her it had been years since she’d last seen that boy, was diligently ignored.

The rest of the talk revolved around things that did not rightly interest her and she either just acquiesced or denied, whatever it called for. What did she care what cake was served, or what paper the invitations would be on? Gosh, this wasn’t even a real wedding. All of it had her growing more irritable and when Narcissa finally left, Malfoy stayed behind. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, but stilled when she felt his grey eyes on her.

“What?” she asked. “Not leaving with your mother?” Her words were curt and she bit her lip. Malfoy—as much as it was unbelievable—had helped her and he probably didn’t deserve curtness. But, by Merlin, it vexed her that she had needed him to intervene.

“I just wanted to know whether you’re truly fine,” Malfoy said. “After the article.” His face darkened until he looked downright dangerous. As he was busy studying his almost empty coffee, Hermione didn’t feel threatened by it.

“I am. Thank you…for your owl. You needn’t have worried. I have everything under control.” Despite herself, a small smile escaped at thinking of Rita and Malfoy, who looked back up now, frowned.

“I sense a story there,” he said.

“There is,” Hermione admitted.

Malfoy regarded her for a moment. “Another time, then.” He downed the rest of his coffee, rose once she did and pulled back her chair so she had room to leave the table. It was a strange gesture, but Hermione guessed it had to be his upbringing. He had also stood up when his mother had left. Seemed to be a gentleman thing.

When Hermione flagged down the waitress, she discovered that Narcissa had already paid and she huffed a bit as Malfoy chuckled, leading her from the restaurant. He walked with her to the apparition point and then stood, his hands stuck in his pockets.

“See you soon, Granger,” he said and smiled lazily.

That smile was something and it stopped her in her tracks, wand aloft. Hermione felt her own lips react without her consent. It was impossible to deny an answering smile. “I’ll probably be the one in white,” she joked, before waving and apparating away. The moment she reappeared in her flat, she grimaced. Had she just made a wedding joke and waved at Malfoy? As if… Well, what else should she have done? Thanked him? Yelled at him to be more like the boy she’d known so she didn’t feel as off kilter? Said anything about their future? Gods, no. She should have said ‘good-bye’ and not smile like some pathetically dimwitted trollop. Yes, that would have been better. Perfectly acceptable.

Hermione dug her hands into her hair in frustration, only to get stuck on her braid. A cry of frustration bounded through the empty and dark space of her flat and a curious ‘meow’ answered from somewhere in the direction of the kitchen.

Sighing, Hermione made the lights flick on with a wave of her hand. She smiled tiredly when Crookshanks came bounding across the living-room to greet her.

“How are you, Crooks? Miss me?” she asked and sank down to let him snuggle his head into her hands. His yellow eyes blinked at her knowingly and he began to purr. The sound and the feel of his scraggly fur relaxed Hermione like little else could. “You’ll stay with me, no matter what, right?”

He meowed again, sounding very firm and Hermione let out a small giggle.

The fireplace roared to life and Hermione snapped to a stand, ogling the space. Arthur Weasley’s face poked through the flames and he called out her name. “Hermione, you there, dear?”

“I’m here, Arthur,” Hermione said, a sense of trepidation growing in her stomach. There was only one reason he would be calling her. After the day she’d had, Hermione didn’t feel up for any kind of intervention, but it could apparently not be helped. She steeled herself inwardly.

“Is it alright if I come through?” Arthur asked, catching Hermione off guard. He had never been to her flat. She always visited them at the Burrow. Less now, than in the time she’d been with Ron, obviously, but still. Hermione had been invited to Birthdays and Holidays regardless.

“Of course, Arthur,”Hermione said. She swallowed at her nerves when the floo-flames roared higher and Arthur Weasley stumbled from her small hearth.

Looking as jubilant as ever, he stalked his long, thin legs across the room to pull her into a hug. For a second, Hermione felt the trepidation fall from her, hugging him back. She liked Arthur. He had always been easier to get along with than Molly. He was all fatherly warmth and mirth. Whereas Molly was very motherly, with all the disapproval and passive aggressiveness that sometimes came with.

Arthur stepped back and took a long look at Hermione. “I think we need to talk,” he said.

And just like that, the trepidation was back with full force, punching into Hermione’s gut with the finesse of a Stupefy.

Chapter Text

Bat-Bogeys and a Drunken Fool

This chapter is dedicated to Chellero, because of the ending... :)

Hermione

Hermione and Arthur sat in her small kitchen, waiting for their respective teas to steep. Even while Molly and Arthur had never visited Hermione in her flat before, she always had a bit of Chamomile on hand for Arthur. Just in case.

The man in question smiled at her awkwardly, then shifted his gaze to his cup as he cradled it closer. “So…” He sighed, his smile wavering. “You are truly engaged then?”

It surprised Hermione how fast he got to the point. She reckoned he would stumble around the topic awkwardly for a bit before getting to it.

Blowing on her steaming cup, she frowned. “I am.”

“To that Malfoy boy?” Arthur asked, sounding a tad hopeful, as if there was a chance she would deny it.

“Yes, Arthur. I am engaged to Draco Malfoy. The wedding is in one and a half weeks,” she said, keeping her voice void of all the worry she was feeling.

Even after things had ended with Ron, the Weasleys had stayed something akin to family for her in the past year. It wasn’t as close as it had been before, naturally, but they had not shunned her or treated her differently. Apart from Molly, who had dropped small hints and tried to seat her and Ron together as much as she could at meals, or got them to do some random chores together, alone. There had always been a hopeful tone and expression to her when doing so. It had faded over time, but Hermione knew the woman still held up a certain expectation that Ron and Hermione would work things out eventually. Well, that hope had been kicked in the nuts, hadn’t it?

“Hm,” Arthur made, thoughtfully. “Are you sure? I mean…the Malfoys are… Well, you know who and what they are, dear. I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing.”

Hermione lifted her face to look at him, finding his watery-blue eyes resting on her with heavy concern. “I’m sure. There are reasons.” She rubbed over her temples, feeling exhaustion settle over her shoulders like a cloak.

“Yes. Ginny mentioned something like that.” Arthur stirred his tea and took a small sip. “Excellent tea, dear.” He placed his cup back down. “Ron is beside himself. He hasn’t spoken to anyone and we are all very worried. I’m guessing he didn’t take it well?”

Seeing no sense in lying, or sugar-coating anything, Hermione opted for the truth. “No. Ron said some rather unkind things when I told him, Harry and Ginny. But it’s none of his concern. Since he left me, I don’t think he gets to decide how—never mind with whom—I live my life.” Hermione nibbled on her lower lip. “It pains me that he seems hurt by my decision, but he knows why I’m doing it. You know your son, he’ll come around to talking to you in his own time. Is this what you wanted to ask of me? To talk to Ron?”

Arthur took another sip. “No. Not entirely, at least.” He sighed deeply. “I wanted to make sure you are not making a mistake, dear. The Malfoys are not known for their forthrightness in any way and you are so young. I would hate to see you succumb to being a pawn in Lucius’ schemes. Ginny said… She said your reasons concerned your parents?”

Hermione nodded; her lips thin. “It is. Lucius and I have a contract. I’ll stay married for two years and he will pay for the therapy of my parents—at a world-renowned clinic in Sweden. As much as I can tell, the contract is ironclad and this is my last chance to bring them back.” Pegging Arthur with a long look, Hermione drank deeply from her tea. “And I might be young, but I’d think you know me well enough to figure I can handle Lucius Malfoy.”

Arthur, who was busy staring at her, blinked a few times. “That is… I didn’t know about a clean-cut contract. Which I hope it is.” The edges around his eyes crinkled as he smiled warmly. “I know you can handle yourself, dear, but Lucius is a different beast entirely. Conniving and manipulative; with a devious streak that I have yet to witness an equal to. Just…be careful. Please.”

“I’m always careful.” Hermione smiled back. It was strained but she forced it to reach her eyes.

“I know. Still, who do you think made it possible for the Death Eaters to infiltrate the Ministry so quickly? Who do you think paved the way for Voldemort with bribes, threats and schemes? I don’t doubt your intelligence or capability, Hermione, but the man is dangerous. He was sentenced to twenty years for a reason. Besides, are you really sure this is the only way to go? Marrying as part of a business deal?”

Hermione had nodded along, understanding Arthur’s concern regarding Lucius. She knew the man was devious. The fact he had only served two years instead of the twenty, was testimony of that.

She smirked at Arthur’s last words. “I knew you were a romantic.”

He smirked back. “You know me, dear. Molly and I married for love. And I would wish nothing short of that for you. So I really have to ask again; are you sure?”

A grimace pulled at her lips. “Yes. I am sure. I have come too far to give up now and I…” She swallowed at the lump in her throat. “The truth is, I am at the end of my wits. I have burned my candle on both ends for years now, working and searching for a solution, the bills are piling up and I have not much left. And I… I don’t want to feel like drowning anymore.” Hermione’s words were hoarse and soft, admitting to a weakness she had not shown to anyone before. It might be Arthur’s understanding and fatherly presence, that somehow wrenched it from her, as if he would understand and tell her it was going to be fine.

“I was so close to… To giving up. I think I didn’t even notice, but I knew I couldn’t keep up the way I had been going. And I need them back. It’s all I wanted since the war ended. No.” She chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s all I wanted ever since I said that word and watched their faces empty. Felt their love simply vanish. It was the worst thing imaginable and the only thing that has kept me going in the past is the hope that I will one day feel it come back, see them come back.”

Arthur’s hand slid across the table and he gently squeezed hers once, before pulling back. “I understand, dear. We give all for the ones we love, don’t we?” He sighed deeply. “I wished we could have done more to help.”

Hermione shook her head, a shaky smile on her lips. “You helped plenty, Arthur. At least I didn’t feel completely alone, or without a family that cared for me.” She blew out a breath, trying hard to get her raging sadness and fear under control. Arthur gave her time to compose herself, for which she was very grateful and they sat and drank in silence for a short while, several unsaid things hanging between them.

Finally, Hermione had gathered her brittle self together again and she let Crooks jump into her lap, feeling better instantly when stroking his wiry fur and hearing him purr up a storm.

She wasn’t sure whether she should ask about Molly and why she wasn’t there. Not that Hermione minded. Molly would have made the conversation infinitely harder, but why? A sense of fear knotted in her chest at the thought of Molly maybe being angry with her. Or sad. It would have no effect on Hermione’s decision, but it would hurt.

“I asked Molly not to come,” Arthur finally said, as though he’d read Hermione’s thoughts. “She wanted to, but she’s too worked up about all of it. First, she was in denial, said you’d never marry into that family, then she was furious about that article and how Skeeter painted you. Molly made the mistake of believing her lies about you once, she vowed never to do the same again. Which is one of the other reasons I am here. She wanted me to find out the truth, to see if you were fine, or hexed, or threatened in any way. Ginny did calm us a lot, but she said to ask you ourselves if we wanted more information. She said she’d be at the wedding, urging us to come too and show our support.” He hunched forward in his chair. “Would you… Would you want us to be there? I understand now, truthfully, why you think you have to do this and while I’m still worried for you, it is your choice, Hermione, as you said. I have no right to tell you differently. But I would like you to know that you can always come to me if things turn ugly. We don’t have much, but we do love you, dear. Molly might need a bit of time to understand fully, yet I know she sees you as a second daughter. I will explain it to her the best I can. If you want us to be there, we will be.”

Hermione had to clear her throat several times to keep the tears from breaching. Her heart filled up to bursting with Arthur’s kindness. As different as she sometimes felt from the rest of them, they were like family and she had always been soaked with warmth when being around them. Some things reminded her of her own family. Not the chaos, or the noise, but the utter warmth of love that lived in every nook of the house. it was in Arthur’s smile, George’s pranks—which had only slowly reemerged over the years—Molly’s hugs and her way of meddling, in Ginny’s tough-love on everyone, and Ron’s way of lighting the mood with a joke. Bill, Fleur, Percy, and Charlie were not there as often, but all of them had their own way of adding to it.

“I would love for you to come,” Hermione said, once she was sure her voice would be even. “It would mean a lot to me. Truly.”

“I’m not sure how many of us can make it on such short notice, but Molly and I will certainly be there,” Arthur said. He downed the rest of his tea and then his face sobered. “And… If it would not be too much to ask, please try and contact Ronald. We would love to speak to him and he hasn’t been answering our owls, or the floo. We’re worried and I think if I talk to him, I could reason with him.”

A small huff escaped Hermione. “I doubt it, Arthur, but I’ll try. I promise.” It was the least she could do in face of his support. No matter how much she didn’t want to reach out to Ron. Not after what he had said.

It took Hermione an entire day to pen a letter to Ron. At first, she wanted to jot down something short and harsh, along the lines of: ‘Get your head out of your arse, nitwit, and talk to your parents. They’re worried.’ But she knew it would only enrage him further. Ron had never responded well to her ever-growing, no-nonsense attitude. As Hermione’s sense of self-worth and confidence had grown—in part due to her achieving much in her field of work over a very short amount of time and due to the recognition she received for it—Ron’s attitude toward it had been unappreciative.

For a time, Hermione had tried to placate him by taking on a softer tone around home and him, but she felt miserable doing so. She had come into her own, overcame trauma, grief and hurdles placed in her way by being focused and hard-working, and she had been loath to hide who she was becoming to the most important person in her life. Until it had felt like she was hiding a part of herself from Ron, to keep the peace. Maybe that had been the beginning of the end. Regardless, every time she let that part of her shine through, it had started fights.

On Thursday evening, she sat at her small table with a glass of wine and read through what she had written, while scratching Crooks behind his ears, who was lounging on her lap.

Ronald,

I have been debating whether or not to write to you. After what you said to me at the pub, I didn’t feel like talking to you at all, to be honest. Your father has been by to visit and he asked to reach out because your family is worried, so here we are.

Talk to them. Family can be comfort and strength. You know this.

As for me, I will not change my mind about getting married just because you do not approve. This is a chance for me and I will be damned if I’d let something as childish as you throwing a tantrum over it ruin anything. However, I would like to have you in my life. We have been friends for a long time and while things have not been easy for us in between, we always worked it out.

That being said, I will not lightly excuse your behavior, or the name-calling you spewed my way. While I understand that it came from a place of anger and hurt, it was out of line, uncalled for, and quite frankly, vile. I also understand if you need time to get over my decision, even while it has nothing to do with you and you know perfectly well why I’m doing this. Why I have to. If and when you are ready to apologize for your vile words, I am willing to listen.

It would be a shame if we threw away our friendship over this. I know I would miss you and I know you would miss me, even if you don’t feel like you would at the moment.

Think about it, really think about it, and get back to me.

Since your family is coming to my wedding, you will receive an invitation too. I hope you’ll come, but understand if you won’t.

Sincerely,

Hermione.

Yes. This could work. Parts of it would anger him for sure, but that could not be helped. Maybe it would even make him think on his words and actions.

Hermione snorted. Not that she counted on it. Ron could be as stubborn as a brick wall. Hermione wasn’t any better—which had been another wrench in their relationship—but she never had a problem apologizing when in the wrong. Unlike Ron.

Tired and done with the long day, Hermione folded the letter, intent on owling it during work the next day.

Luckily all these surrounding circumstances had kept her busy and from worrying too much about her parents, or from dwelling on her immediate future. She would have been lying if she said she hadn’t thought about Malfoy at all, though. He was an enigma. Not at all what she had expected. It made her nervous and apprehensive. The question persisting over all of it was, had he truly changed? It would probably serve her well to stay on her guard, even while a part of her really wanted to believe in his words and actions. It wouldn’t be too bad being married to someone who cared enough to tell her so, would it? Who intervened between his own mother and fiancé on Hermione’s behalf. It still boggled her mind that he had.

Narcissa’s words echoed in her mind. About how he saw matrimony as something very serious. About how he would be devoted and protective of her. His wife. Gods. Hermione gulped down her wine. Wife. She would be married in little over a week. To Draco Malfoy. Her teenage self would shriek if she knew.

With a grimace, Hermione decided life was strange that way. It was also strange that she was often—or often enough—reminded of how he’d looked and acted in their two encounters. Impossibly fit, while being very considerate and… And smelling so fucking good. Her eyes widened and Hermione stared at her empty wineglass in shock.

“Merlin’s tits,” she huffed out and stood up, sending a yowling Crooks tumbling from her lap. She had not just thought about him… In that way? In the ‘I might be attracted to him’ kind of way. Surely not. Too much wine. Yes, that had to be it.

Hermione firmly put any thoughts of Draco bloody Malfoy from her mind and got ready for bed.

Once done with work on Friday, Hermione and Astoria apparated to Diagon Alley, where they would meet Ginny and Luna. They walked quickly through the rain, side-stepping puddles and utilizing a water repellant charm to stay dry until they came up to the boutique Ginny had chosen.

According to Astoria, ‘Magical Gowns And Noble Threads’ was the new top-address in the upper circles. Hermione was a tad worried about that, since she didn’t want to take out a loan to be able to afford a dress.

“It’s not even a real wedding,” she had grumbled at Ginny for the hundredth time, when the witch had swung by earlier that day to inform Hermione which shop she had decided on.

Ginny had looked unimpressed and patted Hermione’s head as if she was a child. “Aw, look at you, all mopey and cute, ‘Mione. You will go there with us and you will wear a stunning dress. Show that snooty, pale twit exactly how hot you are.”

“And why would I want that, Ginny?” Hermione had asked.

Her friend had grinned like a little imp. “It never hurts to look hot, especially not on your wedding day.”

In the end, Hermione supposed she didn’t want to turn up looking like a troll, if only to not receive a disdainful look from Narcissa, so she had agreed.

Hermione and Astoria took shelter underneath the slightly extended roof in front of the boutique, waiting for the others.

“And you’re sure they’re fine with me being here?” Astoria asked, looking a bit unsure as she drew her jacket closer around herself.

“I told you,” Hermione said. “They don’t mind. And even if they did, this is my wedding and I’ll have around whomever I so choose. Now stop worrying. They’ll both like you.”

Astoria seemed unconvinced, but she nodded once. She really needn’t have worried. When Ginny and Luna arrived, hugging Hermione, both of them greeted Astoria warmly and with smiles. Hermione may have asked Ginny specifically to be nice, just because she really liked her secretary and didn’t want her to feel unwelcome, but Ginny had waved her off and said she’d never had a problem with her in the first place.

“Let’s do this,” Ginny said, wriggling her brows. “Montage time!”

Hermione giggled, remembering the night of consequent girl-movies during which Ginny had learned that term. They had stayed up until the early AM’s, wearing pajamas and drinking wine.

She straightened her shoulders and opened the door. “Let’s do this,” she whispered Ginny’s words back to herself. A small ‘ding’ sounded through the boutique and Hermione led her squad inside.

The space was open and mannequins stood around sparsely, their clothing changing every few seconds. A few small, round podiums took up space in front of a wall of mirrors and behind them was a line of sofas and chairs, looking posh and antique. The carpet was thick and red, making the entire space seem almost regal.

“I’ll be right with you,” an agreeable voice called out and Hermione turned toward it.

Circled by a group of three women, a smartly-clad gentleman gave them a little bow, then addressed his clients. “Of course, Miss Vane,” he said. “I have just the fabric for it. Allow me to go and get it.” Then he was off, his short, but thin legs carrying him to the back and out of a door in a flash.

“Ah, if it isn’t the gold-digging, Gryffinbitch,” Millicent Bulstrode sneered next to Romilda Vane and Tracy Davis once the owner was out of earshot.

“Hah!” Ginny sneered back, her wand already twirling in her fingers. Hermione snatched her hand and shook her head. She didn’t need an incident, just because Millicent was being her charming self.

“Leave it,” she whispered to her red-haired friend, who harrumphed, but didn’t argue.

“I have to ask, is it worth it staining your golden reputation by marrying a convicted Death Eater, just for some money? How much are you getting out of it anyway?” Millicent asked and Tracy nodded at her side with a mean smile.

“We have been wondering,” Romilda said, her smirk evil. “In fact, you have been in our conversations a lot today. It really is a shame, that Skeeter hasn’t seemed to have found anything new to report so far.”

“Yes,” Millicent growled. “Strange. Did your intended criminal threaten her into being quiet?”

“Oh, give it a rest, Bulstrode,” Astoria surprised Hermione by saying. The black-haired witch stepped up next to Hermione and sent a snooty glare down her nose that could have rivaled one of Narcissa’s. “We both know you’re just jealous that Draco never even looked your way in Hogwarts. You were jealous of me, now you’re jealous of Hermione. I know for a fact that you sent him letters to Azkaban, so don’t stand there and try to feed us some bullshite story. If he walked through that door right now, you’d melt into a puddle and we both know it.”

Hermione gaped, Ginny whistled lowly and Luna tilted her head inquisitively at Millicent, as though she was trying to figure something out. Meanwhile, Millicent turned a peculiar shade of red, while her friends seemed torn between outrage and bewilderment. Somewhere at their back the shop door ‘dinged’ again, but no one noticed or cared.

“Shut your filthy mouth, bastard,” Millicent snarled, stomping her foot. “You are nothing but an imposter, who still hides behind a name you have no right to. Half-blood trash. Did your mother enjoy having a Muggle in her bed? I bet she did. I bet that’s why you—”

Hermione, who had watched in shock as Astoria shrunk beneath those abhorrent words—a woman who was brave and proud, who was sweet and kind—had had enough. She stepped between Millicent’s glower and Astoria, interrupting the former’s tirade.

“Oh, Milli-Vanilli, who pissed into your bog and called it rain?” Hermione asked sweetly.

Millicent blinked, looking utterly confused. “What?”

“I believe Hermione just called you a hag, Millicent,” Luna provided helpfully. She frowned. “That’s not very nice, Hermione, she has grown into her chin since Hogwarts.”

Hermione had never loved Luna more than in that moment. Even while Luna hadn’t meant it as an insult, the effect was astounding. Millicent turned purple and looked close to spontaneously combusting, while Romilda actually started giggling and Tracy had whipped out her wand.

“True. It wasn’t very nice,” Hermione conceded. “But neither were the things she said to Astoria.” She pegged Millicent with a hard look. “I don’t give a fig what you have to say about me, or whom I’m about to marry, but you will not—you will never—attack one of my friends in my presence and get away with it. Ginny?”

“Yes?” her friend replied, voice deceptively innocent.

Hermione grinned widely. “Methinks Millicent’s nose is in need of spring-cleaning.”

“Fucking finally,” Ginny said and sent a bat-bogey hex at the other witch.

It turned out that Millicent’s abnormally large nose housed quite a few boogers. The number of bats bursting from her face was astounding and the ensuing shrieks and yells from the unfortunate trio was music to Hermione’s ears. All three threw up their hands and ran toward the front of the shop, where none other than Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson waited for them.

Despite the fluttering bats and Bulstrode’s wails about her nose, the three stopped short and collectively blanched.

Daphne, a carbon copy in blonde of Astoria, looked absolutely murderous as she held her wand to Milicent’s neck. “I will let you live, Bulstrode,” she hissed at the whimpering witch. “But rest assured that your reputation will be ruined by the time the week is out. No one talks to my sister that way.”

“Pity, pity,” Pansy said, looking very different from the last time Hermione had seen her. “I was looking forward to blood and gore.” She sent a very small smirk at Ginny. “Nice jinx, Weasley.”

“Get out,” Daphne said, her voice like acid and the three witches needed no more convincing as they barreled from the shop, followed by a group of bats that chased them down the street.

Hermione reached out to squeeze Astoria’s shoulder, who still looked pale. “You alright? I’m so sorry about this.”

Astoria gave her a weak smile and a nod, before her sister enveloped her in a tight hug.

“Never listen to them, Tori,” Daphne said, stroking her hair and rocking them from side to side. “She is just jealous, always has been.”

A soft sniff sounded from Astoria but she nodded and drew back. “I know. Doesn’t make it untrue.”

“You are my baby sister and nothing could ever change that. And you are twice the witch any of them can ever hope to aspire to.” Daphne hugged her once more then looked at Hermione. “Thank you. For having her back.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “Astoria is my friend.”

This made Astoria actually smile. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I never wanted to make a spectacle. This is your day.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ginny piped, throwing an arm around Luna and one around Hermione. “I thought we’d just get pissed on champagne and try on dresses; hexing Bulstrode was much better. Not that we can’t still do the other thing.” She bit her lip thoughtfully.

In that moment, the shop-owner returned with an arm-full of fabric. He looked a bit confused at the absence of his former clients, but was swift in plastering a smile to his face and asking what he could do for the ‘radiant ladies’.

Ginny took charge and soon enough it truly was montage time. And champagne time. As Daphne and Pansy had stayed—who had apparently been shopping and seen Astoria through the window, then had come in to say hello—all of them left the shop totally shit-faced and quite a bit lighter in the purse department. Surprisingly, Ginny and Pansy had really hit it off by getting into a conversation about obscure curses and jinxes, while Luna had stared at Pansy as if she had never seen her before. Daphne had gushed and raved about the dress Hermione finally picked and Astoria approved as well. The both of them then treated Hermione to a run-down of wedding-dress-etiquette when it came to Purebloods.

At the end of it, Hermione had slurred an invite to the next evening at Pansy and Daphne, knowing that they would probably both be at the wedding anyway, because of Draco, and they’d acquiesced.

When Hermione got ready for her bachelorette shindig the next evening, careful to avoid looking at the zipped-up dress hanging from her bedroom door, she wasn’t so sure anymore what had ridden her the previous day to invite Pansy and Daphne. Daphne seemed like a nice enough woman, even during Hogwarts, she’d never sent an unkind word Hermione’s way. But Pansy sure had and Hermione felt her nerves grow at the prospect of seeing her again. She was also unsure whether she was in the right mood to have a get-together in the first place.

Hermione had woken with a bit of a hangover and had continuously burned the howlers still arriving at intervals—ever since that article of Rita’s—all while compiling her guest-list and answering owls from Narcissa. Her nerves were a bit shot as she’d had a rather hard time not sounding prickly when Narcissa had advised on house-elves as the day’s servants. Finally, they had come to the agreement that all of them had to be free and paid, since Hermione knew how hard it was for free house-elves to find paid work, she’d been happy once her suggestion had been met with an ‘of course’, from her soon to be mother-in-law. Hermione definitely thought the argument would have been tougher.

Still, the worry over it, the bloody dress hanging there and Crookshanks pawing at the seams of it, which led to her reprimanding him throughout the day, had left her a bit jittery.

All in all, after chasing Crooks from her bedroom and locking it, Hermione apparated to Luna’s house feeling a bit apprehensive. The small cottage, which had been built from the ruins of the house Hermione remembered visiting during the war with Harry and Ron, looked as warm and welcoming as ever.

Fairies floated around the bushes in colorful little dots and trumpeting flowers imitated her steps with fart-like noises as she walked up to the door. Inside, Luna’s peculiar brand of aesthetic was as jarring and endearing as ever. Covers of the Quibbler hung on the walls and mobiles made of butterbeer-corks and strangely-shaped twigs hung from the ceiling. The walls were painted with pictures of obscure flowers and beasts that no one had ever heard about, but Luna swore existed, and Luna had decorated the living-room with hovering apparitions of gnomes, who grimaced and spouted out things like: ‘Consolations. Get well soon. The party don’t start till the troll begins to sing.’

Ginny and Luna were there already and Hermione was treated to a tall, pink drink immediately.

Groaning, Hermione shifted around. The world dropped from underneath her and she yelped when she tumbled from her own sofa.

“Fucking hell,” she murmured, blinking and smacking her lips, while rubbing her buttcheek. Her head felt as if one of Luna’s gnomes was banging a ladle on her skull repeatedly and had done so for hours. Crookshanks sat next to the hearth, his fluffy tail folded around his paws while he eyed her judgily.

“Oh, come off it, Crooks,” Hermione rasped, her voice rough. “It was just a bit of drinks.”

His tail twitched and he meowed demandingly, so Hermione peeled herself from the floor and trudged into the kitchen. Once she had fed Crooks, she made tea and sat at her small table, slowly remembering last night. The more she remembered, the more she wanted to climb into her teamug and never reemerge.

It had started innocently enough. Ginny had found the gnomes hilarious and once Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria had arrived, the red-head had started up some Muggle music on the boombox Hermione had gifted her last Christmas and the drinks had soon flowed.

Hermione remembered Pansy seeking her out not long into it, being a bit surprised that Hermione seemingly cared enough about her wedding to Draco to have something as traditional as a bachelorette party. Wary as she was of the other witch, Hermione had been truthful, telling Pansy it was Ginny’s idea and that even if the wedding was more or less a business deal, it didn’t mean it could not be fun. Pansy had seemed thoughtful but she hadn’t said anything other than she understood. Which was strange. An understanding Pansy seemed quite unreal, but Hermione supposed she’d also never had a true conversation with her before.

Ginny had finally told Hermione who she had been secretly shagging, but her whispers had been so loud, everyone had heard and Daphne had spluttered out a laugh.

“Oliver Wood? Seriously, congrats, Ginevra. Almost all of us had a crush on him in the early years.” The blonde had wriggled her brows. “He was cute. Tell me, does he live up to his name?”

Ginny, while blushing, had voiced that he most certainly did. In size as well as stamina.

“Lucky you,” Daphne had said with a sigh. “I’m to marry Adrian soon. And no matter how delicately I tried asking him about it, he fails to grasp it.”

“Grasp what?” Luna had asked.

“Sex, Lovegood,” Daphne said. “I would really have liked to know what I’m getting into—or rather, into me—beforehand. It’s not like he’s bad-looking, I just wish I knew if we’d even fit sexually.”

Pansy seemed to have opinions on it, by the looks of her, but she had just shaken her head with a grim expression. Astoria had looked equally grim and Hermione had decided—aided by one or five too many drinks—to lighten the mood.

“Speaking of men, I know who Astoria has a crush on.” Hermione had wagged her brows at her new friend, who had laughed and hidden behind her glass.

“You wouldn’t dare, Granger!” Astoria had shrieked.

“Who? Who? Who?” Ginny had hooted like an owl. “Give us a hint!”

“Funny you should ask,” Hermione had said. “You know all about him, Gin.”

Astoria had thrown a napkin at Hermione in retribution, but Ginny started laughing. She laughed so long and hard; tears stained her cheeks. “Oh, oh, I’m sorry, Greengrass,” she had finally huffed out. “But I’ll have to disappoint you. You see…” Ginny had wheezed, then slapped a hand over her mouth.

“What, Ginevra?” Pansy had drawled, clinking her long, black nails against her glass. “Don’t tease.”

Ginny had actually blushed, her ears lighting up the same way Ron’s would. “I’m not supposed to say.”

Luna, who had rummaged around in a drawer, had sat back down next to Pansy and placed a small box in the middle of their circle. “Are we talking about Harry?” she’d asked breezily. “We all know you broke up because he discovered he’s more into men, Ginny.”

Hermione had spat out her drink and ogled Ginny. “He what?”

Ginny had nodded, letting her gigglefit take over again. “Sorry, Greengrass. You lack a certain appendage.”

Astoria had blinked, then started laughing. “Figures. He’s way too pretty to be straight.”

Pansy, who had not seemed to think so, had tsked and leaned closer to Luna. “Consolations, Tori. Get well soon.” She’d nudged Luna’s shoulder with her own. “What did you bring us, hotness?”

By the way Luna had bitten her lower lip, glancing up at Pansy through her long lashes, Hermione had finally put two and two together. Oh, Merlin, this was about to end in disaster.

“Neville provided some herbs for the party,” Luna had said shyly.

After that, Hermione only remembered flashes. They may, or may not have danced around the meadow behind Luna’s house underneath the moonlight, barefoot and bare-chested like the band of mad witches they were, but it could also have been a fever dream. Judging by the flowers plaited into her hair, it had been real, which meant they really had cavorted around under the stars, high out of their minds.

Whether or not, Luna had traced Pansy’s tattooed chest while the black-haired witch had plated the blonde’s tresses with a gentle expression was real or not, Hermione certainly couldn’t say.

Well, at least it had been more fun than Hermione had anticipated. And now she knew Harry was gay. A small sense of hurt flashed through her, because he apparently hadn’t felt comfortable enough to tell her, but then Hermione took a sip of her tea and reasoned that he might just not think of it as that big of deal, which it wasn’t.

The rest of the week flew by, as Hermione was swamped at work. The howlers did not let up and she was busy packing her stuff. Day by day, more of her life vanished into big, brown boxes, filling her with trepidation.

Visiting her parents had been straining, as they had stayed in their trance-like state and she’d not slept much the two nights after her visits. Then her nerves grew tighter the closer the wedding-date crept. Hermione tried hard not to think of it, but it was ever-present. Then there had been her visit to her gynecologist during which she had gotten a contraceptive implant, sweating through it with the worry that somehow the contract would know and dissolve. It had not and Hermione had felt a bit better.

Crookshanks had finally given up on shredding her dress, but its presence reminded Hermione starkly of what was to come.

Ron had not answered her letter. Not that Hermione had thought he would, but he also hadn’t reached out to his parents. Speaking of which, Molly had sent an owl. Her words rang with concern, confusion, mild manipulation and a smidge of blame. Most of it was heartfelt though and she had promised to be at the wedding with Arthur. Hermione knew that Molly was not on board with her decision. It wouldn’t change anything, but Hermione would have wished for something more along the lines of her talk with Arthur. It saddened her a bit that this was not truly the case. But she couldn’t fault Molly for it. At least the woman was going to show her support by coming, however flimsy that support might be.

Harry stopped by on Thursday, bringing take-away and ready for a movie-night. They didn’t talk all that much, apart from Harry’s new recruits and her week at work, but then Hermione gathered her courage and asked why he’d never told her about being gay.

It was as she had thought, Harry shrugged, drank a sip of his butterbeer and placed it down before sinking back into the sofa. “Doesn’t change anything, does it? I’m still the same person.”

“Yes, of course you are. I thought you might have been too nervous to tell me, or that you thought you couldn’t.”

Harry grinned, slung his arm around Hermione’s shoulder and pulled her to rest on his chest. “As if, Herms. I trust you more than myself. I just… It’s not a big deal to me. Why make a fuss about it? And I knew you wouldn’t care who I fell in love with next. I just haven’t yet, so I didn’t tell you.”

His words filled Hermione with warmth. Knowing that Harry thought she’d accept him with anyone—which was true—soothed the worry she’d felt before.

“Now, onto more important things,” Harry said, ruffling her hair as she shrieked and scrambled back.

“Harry James Potter! Not the hair, you vandal!”

Harry grinned and patted his own unruly nest. “Twinsies.”

Hermione glowered, trying to undo the mess he had made. “What important things?”

“You and Malfoy. How are you holding up, this close to the wedding? I know Arthur and Molly are coming. George and Ginny too. Has Ron said anything?”

Nibbling on her lower lip, Hermione continued tugging at the knots in her hair. “I’m okay, I guess. I saw him twice, Malfoy. And he seemed…different. He was cordial, he apologized for everything, he asked if I even wanted it or whether his father tried to threaten me. He… He didn’t even know about it until Lucius and I had already signed the contract. Can you imagine? He even brought me a ring.” Hermione held up her hand and Harry inspected it with furrowed brows.

“When I met with Narcissa, he came by and had my back when she tried to steamroll over me with her decisions. I don’t… I think it might actually be fine. Being married to him, I mean.”

“Huh,” Harry made. “That is…good, I guess. But you’ll let me know if he’s being an arse, right?”

Hermione smirked. “Harry, don’t you think I’d handle it in my own way?”

He nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. Absolutely. Which is why you should come to me first; I don’t have the brains to break you out of Azkaban once you murdered your husband. My way would be daring and dashing and we’d end up as cellmates.”

Hermione flipped him off with a giggle.

“I wrote to Ron, but he hasn’t answered yet,” she said once they both settled back in.

“Yeah, he hasn’t answered my owls or floo calls either,” Harry mused darkly. “I even went by his flat. No answer. His floo is barred too. You know him, though, he’ll come around once he’s done moping.”

“I don’t know if I want him to, truly,” Hermione admitted. “Not if it isn’t to apologize first.”

“Yes. After what he said to you, there is no way I’d welcome him back without one either.” Harry gave her a warm smile and they both went back to their movie. Yet even while Harry’s support meant the world to Hermione, Ron’s consistent no-contact, made her worry. It was one additional thing weighing on her that she really didn’t need.

On Friday, the evening before her wedding, Hermione was busy rifling through an assortment of bills, to distract herself from thoughts on the next day. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to be dealing with bills any more after tomorrow.

As she had spent most nights packing up her things—which weren’t many—the boxes now littered her dingy little flat. Crookshanks seemed to have a love-hate relationship with the whole situation, as he was aghast and vocal at her packing away his toys, but then lounged in a different box every time she turned her head.

The talk about Malfoy with Harry had shifted Hermione’s perspective somewhat, as she had given voice to her confusion regarding him and his behavior, which led to her thinking on it a bit more. He had been very thoughtful and considerate so far. The more she thought about it, the harder it became to snuff out that persistent little flicker of hope that he’d truly changed and viewed her differently. If that was the case, Hermione truly didn’t see a problem with having a wedding-night one-night-stand with him. She wasn’t sure she could have stomached it had he been the same vile prat she’d come to know and loathe during school. She would have tried, of course, but it would have made everything so much worse. The small note he had sent earlier stoked the hope.

Taking a break from the numbers, Hermione read it again.

Granger,

I apologize for not reaching out these past few days. I feel like I should have at least taken you to dinner, but I had much to take care of. My mother has additionally kept me busy with preparations and I told her not to hound you too much about all of it, as I’m sure you have enough on your mind. Please know that I have done my best to stifle her more outrageous ideas.

That being said, it would have been nice to maybe spend a bit of time together before tying the knot, however superficial our marriage might be. Pansy told me about your bachelorette party and I am surprised, if glad, that you invited her and Daphne. They both certainly appreciated it.

I hope this finds you well and while I understand that neither of us would have chosen this, I do feel a bit hopeful about the future.

Thank you for doing this, Granger.

Sincerely,

D.L.M.

Hermione had answered in the same cordial and hopeful tone, telling him that they had both been way too busy to meet, which she was fine with (she could only imagine the type of things Narcissa had him doing) and that she too, was not as apprehensive of their marriage as she thought she would be.

It was a strange and tentative optimism that gripped her at his words and Hermione stared at his elegant writing, when the floo roared to life in her living-space.

Hermione jumped and hastened from the kitchen to see who was arriving. She gasped when Ron stumbled from her hearth, looking disheveled and bleary-eyed.

“Sup, ‘Mione?” he slurred with a broad grin and stumbled her way.

Hermione was too stunned to speak or move as he enveloped her in a long hug. He stank of alcohol and swayed them both quite a bit.

“Ronald, what are you doing here?” she asked when he pulled back.

He teetered around and slumped down on her sofa, then patted the space next to him. Hermione slowly approached and sat down a bit further away.

“I came to- to tell you,” Ron began, then scooted closer to where she sat. “To tell you that… Don’t marry him, ‘Mione.” His blue eyes, blood-shot and hazy, found her and the sadness in them tore at her heart. “Don’t go through with it.” He drew his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. “I know… Bloody hell, I know I said awful things to you and I’m so, so s-sorry.” Ron scooted closer again and took her hands in his.

It was a strange feeling. So familiar and yet so very foreign. His hands felt like they always had, rough and calloused, but there was no warmth in her heart answering his touch.

“I’m really sorry for what I said and for how I left. N- not just when you told us, but before. Way before. I should never have left. And I’m sorry. Can you give me another chance? Please?”

Hermione sighed and squeezed his hands softly. “Ron, we have been over for more than a year. You know exactly why I have to marry Malfoy, why I will marry him. I’m happy you apologized, but that does not change my decision.”

Ron’s throat worked as he swallowed. “But, Hermione. How can you marry that arse when… I love you. I still love you, okay? And I think you still love me too.”

Gently, Hermione pulled her hands from his grip. “You don’t love me, Ronald. We fought a lot during our relationship and our priorities never aligned.”

“How can you say that? I do love you! And we had good times. We had something true, something steady. I- I just think we could make it work if we tried. Please, let me try.”

“I remember our good times, but do you remember the bad? Do you remember the fights? The things we said to each other? How tired we both got, how irritated? By the end we didn’t even have sex more than every two months. We grew apart. It happens and it’s nobody’s fault.” Hermione brushed his hair off his face in gentle move. “I understand that this may be hard for you to accept, but you are my friend, nothing more. And I will not change my mind.”

Ron scowled at her words. “I did what you wanted, ‘Mione. I apologized. What more do you need me to do? What more do you want? For me to beg on my knees? Fine, I’ll do that.”

To her horror, Ron slid down and knelt before her. “Please, Hermione. I miss you. I want you back. We’ll work out everything else. Just don’t do this.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

A low rumble fell from him and he stood, swaying. “Bloody hell. Always so Merlin-damned stubborn. Fine! I’ll work day and night to help with money for your parents. I’ll feed the bloody cat. I’ll clean and cook. I’ll be whatever you need. There. Is that enough?”

“Ron—”

“I’ll even fuck you right now if it’s so important to you,” he hissed.

All the color drained from her face. “What? That’s not… Stop it, Ronald.”

“I know he has money and I don’t, but that isn’t everything, you know. He doesn’t love you. In fact, I- I’m pretty sure he hates you. And you should hate him right back.”

“You are drunk, Ron,” Hermione said firmly, done with the situation.

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “At least I’m not selling my soul to the devil. He won’t be able to make you happy.”

“And you did? Truly, Ron, neither of us were happy with each other.” Hermione stood and brushed the creases from her skirt. “I don’t expect my marriage to make me happy, but I do expect it to give me what I need. And I need my parents back. Why can’t you understand that?”

“And you really think all Malfoy wants from you is being married, just so he can stay out of Azkaban?” Ron seethed, his face flushing.

“I don’t see what else he could want,” Hermione said.

“You, of course!” Ron bellowed. “He wants to fuck the Golden Girl. To degrade her, to shame her. He has you on a leash, Hermione. You’ll obviously do anything for your parents. Who is to say he won’t use it in a nefarious way?”

“That is enough. I will not indulge this train-wreck of a conversation a second longer.” She got out her wand and transfigured the sofa into a bed. “You can stay here and sleep out your drunkenness, or you can leave, but I am done with this.”

“Oh, so you’re done?” Ron sneered. “Nice of you to make a bed for us, care to take one last free-willed tumble before you’re being forced to take him?”

“You are out of fucking order, Ron!” Hermione yelled.

He gave her a lopsided smirk. “Oh, come on, ‘Mione. Since when have you ever said no? You were always so desperate for it. Let me have this, before you go crawling all over him like the slut you are.”

“Stay where you are!” she shrieked when he reached for her. “Get out. Now. Before I Bombarda your arse, box up what is left of you and send it to your mother.”

Ron’s hand fell down and he plopped his arse onto the bed. His face sank into his palms and his wide shoulders started to shake. “I’m sorry. Merlin, I’m so sorry, Hermione. I- I didn’t mean it. N- none of it. All I wanted was to ask you f- for a s- second chance. To n- not marry him. I c- can’t stand t- to think of y- you in such danger. I- I don’t know why I said that… Bloody h- hell.”

When his sobs reached her, Hermione gulped at the hurt and fury in her chest. How dare he? He had kept her starved for touch at times and he bloody well knew it. To throw something like that at her was beyond the pale. Hermione swallowed again at his broken sobs. “You are drunk and tired, Ron. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeated the words over and over, jarring Hermione further. Ron had always had a hard time apologizing, but then again, she had never seen him this drunk and out of sorts before. His words had ripped through her, hurting and aggravating her at the same time. Still, she couldn’t send him off in this state, could she?

Ron slowly rose and rubbed his face furiously. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go. Just…don’t throw me out of your life.”

“That was never my plan, Ronald. I always wanted you in it. But this…what you just said? It’s not…” She huffed out an angry breath. “It will take more than an apology for me to get over it. You know exactly how hurtful that just was.”

He nodded miserably. “Yeah. I’m really sorry, it was completely uncalled for. And I understand. Will you… Will you allow me to come? Tomorrow?”

Hermione regarded him, unsure of how to answer. “Go to your parents. We can talk tomorrow.”

Ron stumbled a bit. “I don’t want to go to…” He trailed off at her stern expression.

“You go to them, or you’re not coming tomorrow. And if you step one foot out of line, we are done, Ronald. For good.”

He grimaced, but gave her a nod, then wrangled his unsure legs toward the hearth. “I’m really sorry for all of this, ‘Mione,” he said hoarsely, before calling out the Burrow and vanishing.

Hermione let out a long sigh, massaging her temple. Whether or not it was a good idea to let him come, after this ordeal especially, she was pretty sure he’d only remember half of it by morning. It was no excuse, but she’d deal with it then. Gods, she could have strangled him.

Ire racing through her veins, Hermione closed off her floo, unwilling to deal with any more surprises.

After she got ready for bed, Hermione snuggled into her sheets and gathered Crooks to her chest. She just knew she’d be unable to sleep for a long time.

Chapter Text

The Ceremony

This chapter is dedicated to Chellero, again...

Draco

“Are you sure?” Theo asked, holding out a joint.

Draco scowled at his friend. “I told you, Nott; I’m not getting married while high.”

Shrugging and with a cheeky gleam in his eyes, Theo lit up and sighed as he exhaled. “No one would blame you, mate,” he said, placing the sleek, silver lighter into his vest-pocket. “You are getting married to the swot supreme, methinks your life is over from here on out.”

“Shut it,” Draco growled. “And put that out.”

Theo grinned and huffed a few smoke-circles his way. “I’m not the one getting married, darling.”

“But you are smoking while I’m getting dressed. For my wedding. What do you think…” Draco trailed off and shook his head. It wasn’t worth his breath. Theo could be a menace when he wanted. He waved his wand at the window and opened it. Another twirl had the smoke spiraling directly from the room.

“Worried Granger knows what marijuana and gillyweed smells like?” Theo asked with a wink. “I doubt she’s ever so much as looked at a joint, or a cigarette, or any kind of strong alcohol for that matter.”

With a grimace, Draco buttoned up his dark-maroon shirt and then gathered up the silver cufflinks. Two little snakes with red eyes. “According to Pansy, Granger knows exactly how a joint smells. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea.”

Brown brows vanished under a curly fringe in answer. “Huh. Interesting piece of information. But what do you mean ‘wrong idea’? That you might be a bit nervous getting forced into a marriage you don’t want?” He clapped a palm to his chest. “The audacity! Quick, find my granny’s pearls so I can clutch them.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Draco asked, exasperated.

“Absolutely. Right here, Poopkins. I am the best man, after all.” He bowed mockingly. “I am at your beck and call, my divine overlord Malfoy.”

“Idiot,” Draco grumbled, straightening his cuffs and going to work on adding the cufflinks. He then reached for his vest and threw it on. The vest was the same color as his shirt, a dark red, but the rest of the suit was black and crisp. It was Muggle-style and tailored to perfection. His mother had nearly thrown a hissy-fit when Draco had decided on a Muggle suit, but he had stayed firm. He was marrying a Muggleborn after all.

“Want me to shine your shoes?” Theo asked cheekily, exhaling another collection of rings that were swiftly siphoned out of the window.

“Piss off, Nott,” Draco said.

The black, winged doors to the guest bedroom burst open and Astoria sailed through them. “Draco are you—Theodore! Are you out of your bloody mind?” Clad in a light-blue dress, matching her astoundingly blue eyes, she click-clacked across the room and glared at Theo. “Put that out at once, you moron. Lucius is on his way here.”

Theo, who seemed unperturbed by that information, took another drag. But the twitch in his jaw told Draco there was something going on underneath his meticulous mask of indifference. “It’s my house, Astoria,” he drawled. “Besides, I bet Lucy could use a drag or two himself.”

Astoria let out a huff, snapped her fingers and Accioed the joint straight from Theo’s lips. She turned and hastened to the fireplace.

“Oi! I was smoking that, crazy witch,” Theo yelled, scrambling after her. He reached out to grab her, or something similar, but his fist curled mid-air and he let his arm fall.

Flinging the joint into the low-burning fire, Astoria then turned on him and pointed a manicured finger at his chest. “I know there isn’t an ounce of decency in that selfish head of yours, Nott, but do try not to muck this up for your best friend. What were you thinking? Draco can’t stand at the altar smelling as if he’s high! What would Hermione think?” Her narrow gaze was filled with unguarded fury and Theo gulped, taking a step back.

Draco, who had seldomly seen his best friend responding to chastisement by backing down, folded his arms and smirked, feeling very entertained despite the nerves scratching at the back of his neck.

“I didn’t think—” Theo began, but Astoria silenced him with a cutting motion of her hand.

“You never bloody do, that’s half the problem,” she hissed at him. “Now, do you have a blue tie?”

Theo blinked at her as if she had just asked him whether he wore blue knickers. “A…blue tie? What for?”

Rolling her eyes, Astoria snatched his elbow and pulled him along. “We are paired together, we should match, at least. Where is your room?”

Theo, stumbling back, before falling into step with her, started to grin mischievously. “Wanna see my bed too? It’s quite large, not unlike—”

“Oh, shut it, you absolute pig,” Astoria snarled. “Pansy is stalling your dad, but they’ll be here any minute. Get ready,” she said over her shoulder to Draco, yanking along a disgruntled Theo, whose grin had given way to… A blush? What was going on with him? While it was all very amusing, seeing the unflappable Nott being steamrolled by Astoria, he did behave rather strange. Even for Theo.

Draco shook his head and sighed once both were gone. He could still hear them bickering as he took a look at himself in the long, ornate mirror, standing in the middle of the room. His tailor had done great work, Draco decided. As always. He buttoned up his vest and drew on the jacket. Both had been altered a tad since Draco was still busy filling out and besides working on Douillet, he had continued doing his morning routine of working out just to stem his nerves. Because they were there. Simmering close to the surface.

The past two weeks had given him some form of reprieve from attacks, since his mind had been occupied with many different things, but his nightmares had been horrid. Every night had been hell and Draco had barely slept in his bed, opting for the hard floor to add what safety he could to his sleep. Two scenes—memories really—had been visiting him mercilessly. One concerning his aunt and one near death experience starring Dolohov and Greyback.

Fussing with his collar and sleeves, Draco scowled into the mirror. He had no idea why those two things had been bothering him so much these past weeks, but it had meant sleep had been elusive and sparse. He sighed and sank back into his mind for a second, to his lake under the moonlight.

Breathe…

Breathe…

A bit calmer, he surfaced again. No matter how much the nightmares had kept him up, his nerves churned and knotted for a very different reason and for a second, Draco wished he had indulged Theo and taken a few drags. His friend was right, he was nervous about getting married. Who in his position wouldn’t be? Draco had no idea what his life would look like after today. It was a constant strain on his shoulders. A small consolation was the fact that it had to be the same for Granger. She didn’t even know where they would live, for Merlin’s sake. Draco would have shown her, had there been more time.

He stared into his own eyes. Maybe life would be better. At least he was free now to make his own decisions. Free from that bloody mansion and the things that had happened there. The scents that lingered in the halls, sparking memories. The sounds of echoing footsteps on marble floors that sent echoes of horror through his mind. The presence of his parents which dragged up even worse things than memories… If Granger and him came to some sort of agreeable routine, it could be an improvement to what he was dealing with now. A considerable one.

Swallowing, Draco dragged his thin, black tie around his neck and folded it in a few precise and fluid movements. His hands shook, but he had done this so many times that it didn’t matter. Similar to aiming his wand with shaking fingers. He’d learned never to miss despite the tremors. To compensate for them. It wasn’t the living with Granger that unnerved him. It was the fact that he would have to touch her for quite a while during the ceremony and kiss her. All in front of people. And he wasn’t even allowing himself to think about later. His jaw clenched. He should have told her.

“I hope you’re decent, Draco,” Pansy’s voice called from the direction of the door and Draco took a deep breath before turning to it.

“Not that I care,” Pansy said and walked inside, Lucius behind her. “Not anything I haven’t seen before.” She wore an edgier version of Astoria’s dress. The same color, but shorter. The cleavage ran almost all the way down to her belly button, showing off vines and thorns, moving on her skin. Pansy, thin as a whip, and with very small tits, pulled it off spectacularly.

Lucius was busy raising a brow at Pansy’s words, but his mask fell into place when she turned his way with a sultry smile.

“Delivered, as promised,” she trilled, eyeing him up and down suggestively.

Draco nearly snorted, when Lucius’ face fell at tad. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for the escort, Miss Parkinson. I didn’t rightly need it, but it is much appreciated.”

Pansy waved him off. “Nonsense. Nott Manor is a maze. And I really enjoyed the view.” She winked. “See you in a few, Draco.” With that, Pansy swayed from the room.

Torn between laughter at his father’s incredulous face and feeling slightly ill at Pansy’s antics, Draco uttered a strangled sound.

Lucius, who had switched to a new walking stick a few days agon, tapped it to the floor a few times as if in thought. He looked better than he had, not as sallow and sunken, which was to be expected, but he still had a ways to go to resemble the man Draco had grown up worshiping and fearing.

“She changed,” Lucius remarked when Pansy was out of earshot. “I’m glad when you two ended your…tryst. I was afraid she would lead you astray from your duty to Astoria for a while. Not that it matters now. However, I don’t believe her attire is quite…fitting for the occasion.”

Draco clicked his tongue. “As if I ever would have dared going against your wishes,” he snapped. “Concerning Pansy’s dress; I don’t mind it and I can’t imagine Granger cares, meaning it’s fine. It’s our wedding after all.” His tone had an edge to it and Lucius’ lips thinned.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Considering the rest of the guests, Miss Parkinson seems almost sensible. I have never been assaulted by so much red since seeing you off at the Hogwarts express.” A disdainful curl crawled over his lips. “Weasleys.”

In the past, Draco would have worn the exact same sneer and part of him felt like doing so anyway, but the fact that his father had a problem with them, riled him in the opposite direction. “They are my bride’s guests. To be respected. The same as everyone else.”

Lucius’ sneer made way for a confused expression, then his features tightened again. “Of course, son.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Draco said plainly, forcing any sort of venom from his voice. Maybe saying it with a level tone would get through to him.

A deep breath raised his father’s shoulders. “But you are my son, Draco. No matter how much you don’t want to be.”

“What do you want, Lucius?” Draco asked, exasperated by the absolute disregard he was facing. It wouldn’t matter if he tried to explain any of it to him. He would never understand.

A soft thud sounded from his father’s cane. It was more delicate than the first one. Black, with a silver serpent coiling up the length, the head of the snake serving as the grip. Fangs exposed on a hiss and emeralds glinting from the eye sockets.

“I came to see how you were…fairing.”

Draco scoffed. “Just say what you mean. You are here to see whether or not I’ll go through with it, aren’t you? Got any more threats handy? You don’t need them. You made the fact that I have no say in this perfectly clear the first time.” Draco roughly folded his collar over his tie and straightened his jacket with a shrug. “I have no intention of running.” A slight grin took hold of him. “I don’t have to. After today, I am my own man. Not in the way I wanted, but I’ll be free of you, at least.”

Lucius cocked a brow, looking bemused. “Are you sure about that, Draco?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Draco asked, glaring at his father.

“We will be seeing you and your wife quite frequently, I’m sure,” Lucius said.

Draco shook his head. “Not at the manor, you won’t. I will not force my wife into the same Merlin-damned house she was tortured in. Besides, since you hate Douillet and wouldn’t be welcome anyway, I fail to see how that would be possible.”

Lucius said nothing, but the look he gave Draco made a cold shiver dance up his spine. He still seemed bemused, as if he knew something Draco didn’t.

“You never told me how you got her to agree.”

“I did not,” Lucius said. “It is between Miss Granger and myself. You can ask her; I doubt she will withhold it from you.”

“But you would. Just because you can.” Draco huffed out the ghost of a laugh. “Knowledge is power. I know. I remember your lessons. Well, bask in it, for all I fucking care.” He walked up to his father and scowled down on him; half a head taller. “Do enjoy the show, father. You are the puppeteer of this entire farce after all.”

Leaving him behind, Draco made his way through the gloomy manor, heading for one of the sitting rooms he knew carried an assortment of liquor. He needed a bit of Ogden’s, then he would be ready. Ready to face his parents, his own extended family, the assorted Weasleys, Potter, and his…bride.

Cursing softly, Draco stomped through the gothic hallways. He couldn’t fucking wait until the day was over.

The Nott Manor gardens were resplendent. Thanks to the magical weather-dome worked into the wards, the sky overhead was clear despite it being October. Whisps of clouds lingered on the horizon, bathed in the gold and red of a setting sun. The sky paled, then darkened toward the center, where the first stars of the evening blinked into view against the near-purple backdrop.

It was warm, a lazy breeze stirring the air, while a sheer endless expanse of green spanned over the grounds, the blades of grass swaying like an ocean of rolling waves. A white gazebo had been set up, gauzy curtains dangling in the slight wind. Inside, a few tables had been set with expensive china and cutlery. Crystal glasses with golden rims twinkled in the floating lights hovering under the ceiling. The champagne sparkling in flutes on silver trays floating through the space added to the flair.

House-elves in posh little suits scuttled around and handed out hors d’oeuvres. A few yards to the right of the gazebo, stood an arch, encased in white and blue ivy. The magical plant moved glacially, twisting and twining around the arch. In front of it, comfortable chairs stood in rows, their backs sporting the same ivy as the arch did.

Draco had no eye for any of it as he walked through the gazebo, to exit it and head toward the arch. He had done his duty and welcomed the guests. Some of which had been agreeable, most of which had not. Unsurprisingly, most of his extended family had fallen in the latter category.

He grimaced as he came past the circular dancefloor in the middle of the tent. Thank Salazar he’d been able to veto two of the four string quartets his mother had wanted. It wasn’t as if there would be much dancing. At least not with this crowd.

His father had been right; quite a number of red-heads milled about, far apart from his own extended family, who looked on with drawn faces and sourly curled lips. Most of them were from France and related to him via the Black line. It wasn’t as if there was much family left in the UK, as most of them had been dark wizards and witches. His mother had insisted on family however. By the looks of it, she’d be regretting that decision soon enough.

Draco’s small group of friends stood off to the side, chuckling about something. He did a double-take when he saw Lovegood standing among them, wearing a puffy, pastel-green dress, laughing and toasting champagne flutes with Pansy, Astoria and Daphne. Theo and Longbottom were in the throes of a deep discussion, wide grins of their faces, while Potter and the Weasel stood off to the side, looking to be in a shushed argument. Their expressions were dark and angry. The Weasel himself swayed, his cheeks and nose flushed. Huh, someone didn’t enjoy being at the wedding of his ex-girlfriend. The sight almost made Draco smirk.

“Draco,” Narcissa said, shaking him from his perusal. Looking as elegant as ever, her silver dress exquisite, her hair and make-up on point, she wore a strained expression. She drew closer and motioned to walk with her.

As she was headed in the direction of the arch, he did not mind. It had been his destination all along.

“I swear I’ll never invite Aunt Genevieve to anything ever again,” she fumed.

Draco smiled at the bitter old lady, her broad-rimmed hat brimming with gaudy, yet expensive, jewels. She did not smile back.

“You say that every time you see her,” Draco said.

“This time I mean it,” Narcissa griped. “She had the audacity to comment on the crystal and the pattern of the marble dancefloor. Knew I should have ordered the tiles from Italy,” she grumbled the last part under her breath. Her blue eyes snapped to him and her face softened. “You look so handsome, darling. At least none of them have said anything about the origins of your bride.”

Draco scowled. “Give it time, mother.”

Narcissa seemingly wasn’t listening as she sighed in face of the chairs and arch. “Back at the manor we could have done this under the stone arch. Where Lucius and I were married.” She shook her head looking morose. “Next time. Next time you’ll have the wedding you deserve, darling. Not this hastily thrown together affair.”

Draco stopped abruptly and Narcissa looked back confused. “What is it?” she asked in face of his darkening features.

“This is my wedding, mother. Something you and father insisted on, no less. What, in Merlin’s name, makes you think I’d ever consider marrying again?” Her apparent confusion didn’t stump his rage.

“But you… She… Miss Granger isn’t…”

Draco smiled darkly. “Yes, mother? My bride isn’t…what, exactly? Not what you wanted? Not what you envisioned?”

Narcissa frowned. “Well, I’m certainly grateful to her for—”

“Then stop talking about my next wedding as if this one doesn’t matter,” Draco hissed coldly. “You were the one who taught me about matrimony being absolute. Something to be coveted and protected, to be valued and cherished. Does the fact that my soon-to-be wife is not your ideal choice for me change that?”

“No! No, of course not.” Narcissa clasped her hands together. “I just…” Her slim and delicate shoulders sank and rose with a deep breath before she looked at him squarely. “I thought you’d want to get divorced from her as soon as you can. Find someone more fitting. We both know this isn’t more than a business-deal, Draco.”

“And that would make it different to my arranged marriage with Astoria, how?” Draco asked, inwardly seething. He was so tired of the hypocrisy of both his parents.

His mother paled; her lips thin. “She would have been better for you,” she whispered. “At least she knows about…” Narcissa trailed off in face of Draco’s glare.

“There is no difference, mother. I didn’t want it back then and I don’t want it now. You gave me no choice. You never gave me a fucking choice.” His hands began to tremble and Draco balled them into fists. “The least you can do is stop complaining about your own bloody choices and try to make it easier for me.” He clenched his jaw and walked past his mother with stiff legs. Gods, he couldn’t believe her.

Thankfully, Theo and Blaise had made their way toward the arch as well and were waiting for him. Taking one look at him, Theo unearthed a flask of whisky from his vest-pocket and handed it over without a word.

Draco accepted it with a nod and took a hearty swig, relishing the burn in his chest.

“You ready, mate?” Blaise asked, his normally so stoic face showing a rare hint of concern.

“No,” Draco ground out hoarsely. “But let’s do it.”

Draco hated it. He hated every bloody second of it. As he stood under the arch, all the guests having taken their seats—apart from Theo and the Weaselette, who stood on either side of him—he was met with sour and suspicious faces all around. The Weasleys regarded him with open disdain and his family raised brows at them, whispering behind cupped hands.

His father wore his proven mask of indifference, and his mother stood beside Lucius, her blue eyes sad as she looked at Draco.

It was as if he stood at his own bloody funeral. The only happy faces were those of his friends. Theo winked at him, Blaise gave him a soft smile and Pansy nodded, standing close to Lovegood, who openly beamed at him.

Astoria was busy glaring at Theo and the Weasel was glaring daggers at Draco, still sporting red blotches across his face. All in all, the atmosphere was close to unbearable. Draco’s skin crawled and he sank in and out of his mind, trying to calm himself by occluding to his moonlit lake.

The officiary, Mr. McHoot, who was standing to Draco’s left huffed at the silence. “Is the bride ugly?” he asked lowly, his Scottish accent heavy. “I have nah seen faces like this since the burial of mah uncle Tiberius.”

“Worse,” Theo piped. “She’s Muggleborn and this one is a Pureblood.” He waved at Draco, who scowled at him. “And a convicted criminal.”

“Shut it, Nott,” Draco growled. It had been hard enough getting someone to officiate this wedding. Not only was the ceremony ancient and required a very old ritual, most officiaries had certain problems when it came to marrying the Golden Girl to the Death Eater. Narcissa had finally found McHoot in a small Scottish hamlet. One that rarely conversed with the outside world and had a long history, hence knowing the ritual and nothing about Draco and Granger in particular. He had been perfect.

Mr. McHoot’s eyes widened. “Crivvens, mah boy, that has ter be love then.”

Theo started to grin, but Draco shut him up with a glower.

“It is,” Draco said and then cleared his throat.

McHoot’s bushy brows rose above his square glasses and he started to smirk. “I can see why. She’s a right bonnie one.”

Draco turned from him to see Granger walk up the aisle between the two groups, Potter at her side. McHoot was right, she was stunning. The white dress she wore was simple but it fit her exceptionally well and was tailored to her spectacular figure like a second skin. Thousands of minuscule stones blinked and glittered with her every step, the snug fabric flaring open a few inches above her knees to flow down to the ground in soft waves. The small train rippled along behind her like a sparkling creek and that was only the dress.

Her hair. Something was wrong with it. It looked as sleek and styled as it had at the Yule Ball. An intricate updo with small ringlets falling down to her delicate shoulders. One side of the updo was adorned by a bejeweled comb that sparkled with silver, blue and white. Her face seemed to glow. Flawless. She carried a bouquet of flowers with both hands, daffodils, hyacinths and irises, with pearls wound around it, some dangling from strings with each step she took.

Her eyes met his and for a moment Draco’s breath hitched. A shaky smile grew on her plush lips and he gave her one in answer. It wasn’t happiness, but a tentative hopeful look, that settled on her features. Then her gaze flicked over him and her lips rounded on a silent exhale. It was hard to decipher what she was thinking, but the soft blush bleeding up her neck and across her cheeks made her look even more radiant.

The whispers on Draco’s family’s side grew in volume and he watched with horror, when Granger’s steps faltered. She had to be close enough to hear some of the things they were saying. He was about to shut them up, when Potter rounded on the offending gossips with a sharp glare. His eyes piercing, he hissed something and even Aunt Genevieve looked stricken in response. They were quiet after that.

Potter led Granger up to the arch, hugged her and then pegged Draco with a stern look. “You take care of her, Malfoy,” he said lowly. It was as much a warning as it was a threat.

Draco gave the Twit Who Lived a solemn nod and braced himself inwardly as Granger gave her flowers over to Ginevra, before extending her hand to Draco. Her fingers were cold and even while trembling slightly, they curled around his own with a grip that wasn’t too soft or hard. Which was good, because either would have become unbearable for Draco over time.

He took deep breaths, calming himself. Her touch was…fine. It didn’t make him want to jerk back his hand. Thankful for that, Draco pushed at thoughts of later, when there would have to be a lot more of it. The touching.

“Hi, Granger,” Draco said softly.

She gave him a small smile. “Hi, Malfoy. Ready?”

“If you are.”

She dipped her chin resolutely, the gesture sure and decisive. It helped.

This close, facing each other, Draco saw the freckles covering her nose more clearly and he discovered small, golden flecks in the centers of her irises he hadn’t noticed before. McHoot started his speech—his pronunciation suddenly clear of all traces of accent—about why they were there, during which Draco grew uncomfortable once more. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Granger’s hand in his, but the countless eyes witnessing it. He felt the stares roam over him, over her, and he knew that precious few of those stares were fond or well-intended. He could probably count the people who wished them well on one hand. Everyone else—his parents and her chosen family included—hated being there. Hated them getting married.

Draco told himself it didn’t matter. All that did was the tentative hopefulness in Granger’s face, the same thing he felt mirrored in his own chest. It wasn’t ideal, but with a basis steeped in mutual hope they could make it work. Maybe.

He was certainly willing to try. And while his motives might have been ulterior—getting out of the manor and putting distance between himself and his parents—it didn’t mean they couldn’t find some semblance of agreeability. His father’s words from earlier made a sour note of dread coil around his heart, but Draco pushed it off. He couldn’t let himself get distracted.

A moonlit lake.

Breathe…

Night-blooming flowers.

Breathe…

McHoot fell silent for a few seconds, indicating that the ritual was about to begin. Draco squared his shoulders and found that Granger had tilted her head ever so slightly, her brows drawn. She looked at him with a curious expression, as if she was trying to figure something out.

“Who stands and gives for this witch?” McHoot asked.

Potter stepped up, a golden ribbon in his palm, he held it out to Draco. “I do,” he said, opening his palm.

Draco plucked the ribbon from Potter’s hand and wound it around Granger’s wrist, before threading it around her pinky. “I vow to cherish your offering,” Draco rasped, his voice on the cusp of breaking. He twisted the ribbon around her ring-finger. “I vow to cherish every day we spend together.” Her middle finger was next. As he looked up from her hands, he caught on her gaze. It was steady. Sure. Something that filled him with the same feeling.

“I vow to give of myself unselfishly,” he said, his voice fuller as he encircled her index finger. “I vow to stand beside you through hardships and happiness.” Draco twisted the ribbon around her thumb, looking back into her steady eyes once more. “I vow to protect your heart, your mind, your body, and your soul.”

Draco slid the ribbon across her palm and around her wrist, fusing the ends with a special charm. He watched as the ends knitted together and let out a slow breath.

“Who stands and gives for this wizard?” McHoot asked.

Lucius left Narcissa’s side, the sound of his cane muffled on the grass as he walked closer. “I do,” he said and held a silver ribbon out to Granger.

Swallowing, Granger took the ribbon and turned to Draco again. Before walking back, Lucius locked eyes with Draco, giving him a slight nod. The sight unnerved Draco, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. He would have been more comfortable with his mother giving for him, had counted on it to be honest, so it threw him a little.

The moment was broken when Granger gently took his left hand in hers. Draco jerked slightly, having been distracted. Her eyes flew to his and Draco wrestled with his control. He forced himself to hold still, slipping into his mind for a second to help calm himself. He saw her face falling slightly, but she pursed her lips and wound the ribbon around his wrist, then his pinky.

“I vow to cherish your offering,” she said, her voice suddenly shaky. Had she seen him occlude? Was this the reason for the change in her?

The ribbon felt cool against his skin as it encircled his ring finger. “I vow to cherish every- every day we spend together.”

Granger cleared her throat and Draco dipped down slightly until she looked at him. He tried to pull at that hopefulness he had felt, to make it visible for her. He inclined his head once, hoping to convey what he felt with his eyes and watched her blow out a breath.

“I vow to give of myself unselfishly,” she said, her voice filling out. Draco could see her pulse fluttering as she wound the ribbon around his index finger next. “I vow to stand beside you through hardships and happiness.” His thumb. “I vow to protect your heart, your mind, your body, and your soul.”

Granger was fast in fusing the ribbon at his wrist, before joining their now bound wand-hands, palms against one another, fingers lacing.

McHoot motioned for them to turn their joined hands so their palms faced up, fingers still laced. “The offerings have been accepted,” he said. “We now join flesh and spirit, as we have done with minds and hearts.”

He waved his wand and Draco bit down on his lower lip when a cut appeared in the center of his and Granger’s palms. They turned their hands again to press palm to palm. The cut stung slightly, but when he felt his cut slide and lock against Granger’s, something warm sparked to life in his chest.

It felt like golden light, the same as her ribbon. As McHoot chanted an ancient incantation, twirling his wand, silver and gold started to glow around their hands and fingers, the pattern of the ribbons shining brighter and brighter, until heat singed into his bones.

Their hands shook, glued together, as the glowing ribbons dissipated, leaving slightly shimmering lines on their hands.

Draco watched as a dark-grey band formed around his ring finger. It looked like a tattoo and burned on his skin. In between the two lines, runes formed, spelling out his newly bound state. Granger was staring at her own finger, where a similar band appeared, hers was lighter, almost silver, and thinner.

“A bond is formed. Two lives connected to be one,” McHoot said. “Borne witness by family and loved ones. May this bond never break.” He grinned happily at the both of them, then leaned toward Draco with a wink. “Ye may kiss yer bonnie bride now.”

Draco took a deep breath, his eyes sliding to Granger’s lips. He dipped back into his mind for a second.

The scent of water and grass.

Breathe…

He bent down and kissed her. A small jolt sparked at the touch of her lips and Draco felt his own tingle from it. Whether it was the bond making a connection, he couldn’t say, but it surprised him and they both drew back quickly. Her stunned eyes were wide and all he could see for a second.

“I give you, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,” McHoot proclaimed joyfully.

There wasn’t much of a response to his words, but Theo whooped and a few people clapped their hands. Draco threaded Granger’s hand into the crook of his elbow, his marked hand shaking uncontrollably now. Whether or not her touch had been bearable, this had been the longest he had touched someone in… He couldn’t rightly remember.

Draco and Granger sat at their table in silence, the two string quartets playing softly in the background as food was served. Night had descended fully and crickets chirped in the distance. The quiet buzz of conversation from the other tables was interspersed with laughter from only one table. The one his friends sat at.

Across from him and Granger, his parents and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ate in silence as well. Potter’s green gaze flew from one person to the next, while he scooped up his soup with no finesse whatsoever. Lucius wrinkled his nose at the lack of decorum, but no one seemed to notice.

“Nice decorations,” Ginevra, who was sat next to Potter said.

“Thank you, Miss Weasley,” Narcissa answered. “There was little time, but Miss—erm—Hermione and I planned what we could. Draco helped much, of course.” She smiled at him, the slight tremble in her lips barely visible.

Mrs. Weasley demonstratively salted her soup for the third time with a raised brow and Narcissa’s lips pursed, also for the third time.

“I like the music,” Mr. Weasley tried.

“Oh, yes,” Draco’s mother said with an enchanting expression. “I would have had four quartets, but Draco insisted on only two.”

Mrs. Weasley snorted.

“Is something funny, Molly?” Lucius asked.

She looked at him, her eye twitching. “Absolutely nothing, Lucius. I would venture so far as to say that I find precious little funny about this entire affair. The state of the barely-salted soup, for example is a—”

“Mum,” Ginevra said with a warning undertone. “Stop it.”

Granger sighed at Draco’s side, sliding her elbows onto the table to rest her chin on her laced fingers, the lines ghosting across her right hand and fingers doing something unidentifiable to Draco’s stomach. Narcissa almost dropped her spoon at the sight of Granger’s elbows on the table.

“I think we can all agree to the awkwardness of the situation,” Granger said. “That being said; it would be easier for all of us—especially me and Mal—ahem, me and Draco—if everyone was either quiet or cordial. The passive aggressiveness is grating on my nerves and I am sure Ma- Draco isn’t enjoying this atmosphere either.” She unlaced her fingers and reached for her champagne, downing the entire glass with a few swallows.

After that the stilted conversation dried out entirely and Draco found himself almost smirking at Granger’s open words on the topic. His father had been right regarding her. She was outspoken and fearless. Not that Draco had forgotten this about her, but she was clearly uncomfortable and still had spoken up, silencing the entire table. Including his own parents.

Once they had all sat through a very quiet and stiff course of dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley left the table, their smiles fond when excusing themselves to Granger. Mr. Weasley went as far as looking directly at Draco and congratulating them both on their marriage with a tight smile. The two of them then sat down to talk to their two sons, who had found themselves seated at the snake table.

The Weasel still looked grim and drunk, while his mother drew a hand through his hair, saying something to him that made him grimace.

Narcissa pulled Draco from his perusal by jerking her chin at Granger and then at the dancefloor. Draco’s stomach sank. He did not feel like dancing. At all. It meant more touching and more eyes on him.

He swallowed. “Do you… You want to dance, Granger?” he asked, turning to her in his seat.

She looked at him, her head tilted slightly, her lips pursed. “We don’t have to, Malfoy. If you don’t feel like it.”

Her answer relaxed him—apparently visibly, as her shoulders slouched, her gaze dropping into her lap. Merlin damn it all. Why the fuck couldn’t he be normal and dance with his bloody wife at his own damned wedding? Useless mind. Draco was about to gather himself and offer again, no matter how hard it would be for him, when Ginevra shot from her seat and pulled Potter up with her.

“Care to take me for a whirl, Harry?” she asked, her grin wide.

Potter grinned back. “Any time, Gin.” He glanced at Granger and winked, before he was off.

Lucius rose as well, offering a hand to his wife. “Darling, shall we? It seems the floor has been opened by the Chosen One.”

Narcissa placed her hand in his with a true smile and followed his lead, their movements flowing together as if they had been walking and dancing with each other since forever. It looked effortless and despite the bitterness in his stomach, Draco had to admit, they fit exceptionally well. As they always had. The devotion between them was still as present and palpable as it had been when he was a child.

“They look so happy,” Granger mused, watching them dance.

Draco said nothing, but nodded.

“Sacre bleu, mon fils,” a snooty voice suddenly cut through the air with the pleasantness of nails on a chalkboard and Aunt Genevieve slid back the chair his mother had just vacated to heave her corpulent body into it. Her lined face pinched as she regarded Granger with sharp suspicion. “Hm. She’s certainly pretty, but really?”

Draco scowled at her, moving closer to Granger and placing an arm around the back of her chair, thanking Salazar that the old hag was ranting in French. “What? You have a problem, Aunt Genevieve?” Draco asked, switching to French as well.

Aunt Genevieve eyed Granger up and down with barely held-back disdain. “A Muggleborn. Bah. Where are your standards, my boy? In my times—”

“I do not care what happened during your times. She is my wife. You will respect her.” Draco spat the words, his second language spilling out rapid-fast. Glaring at her, Draco watched with satisfaction as her double chin began wobbling with outrage.

“Really…” Aunt Genevieve began, but Granger cleared her throat, halting her from spewing anything further.

She slowly slid her hand over his fist balled on the table and Draco didn’t flinch. Curious. Maybe his anger was helping.

“Thank you, my heart, but I can fight my own battles,” Granger surprised him by saying in perfect French. “I already won a war. A big one.” She leaned forward in her seat, pegging Aunt Genevieve with a stern look and a tight smile. “This is nothing.”

Draco couldn’t help the chuckle exploding from his chest as Aunt Genevieve reddened, her angry gasps growing into undignified shrieks.

“Come along, my heart,” Draco continued in French, standing and pulling out Granger’s chair for her, opening his hand to hold onto hers. They left behind a sputtering Aunt Genevieve, who looked close to combusting on the spot.

He led Granger over to the bar, where a house-elf was hovering drinks onto the counter. “I didn’t know you spoke French, Granger,” Draco said in English, sliding his hand from hers, then ordered himself a whisky, cocking a questioning brow at her.

“White wine, please,” Granger said, smiling at the elf. She then grinned at Draco. “My grandmother lived close to Toulouse, I used to visit her a few days each summer.” Accepting the wine with a small nod, she then turned to him with a stranger expression. “Thank you, Malfoy,” she said. “For what you said. I know she is your family, so it surprised me a bit that you defended me.”

Draco swallowed. “It shouldn’t. You’re my wife now, Granger.” It really was as simple as that for him. It didn’t matter how it had come about, or how little feelings were involved; she was part of him now and he would protect her whenever necessary.

Granger took a sip from her glass, humming thoughtfully to herself. “Then why—”

“Mrs. Malfoy!” Theo exclaimed, bouncing up at her side. He leaned on the bar and wriggled his brows. “Care for a dance with the best man?” He pointed a thumb at his chest.

Granger glanced at Draco, her question clear on her face.

Draco gestured at Theo. “Be my guest, Granger,” he said.

The look on her face was strange, undecipherable, but she took Theo’s hand and let herself be pulled onto the dancefloor. Draco watched them both spin and sway, laughing loudly. That was Theo for you, charming and effortlessly flirtatious.

Whisky in hand, Draco moved toward one of the gazebo’s openings, feeling the cool night air at his back, tousling his hair, as he watched his best friend and his wife dance. His wife. Holy hell. He was married. Now that he was alone with his thoughts for a minute, the reality of the situation surged inside of him.

A semblance of surrealism gripped him, casting his mind into a haze of disbelief. Granger. His wife. His teenage self would have sneered himself into a coma. How strange that his current self didn’t mind so much. She was strong and fearless, even in the face of bigoted, old French aunts.

Watching the way she laughed and danced with Theo, a part of Draco was steeped in bitterness. He cursed his mind for not being able to be there, to give her this. As her husband, he should have at least given her a dance.

Blaise and Pansy walked up to him, arm in arm, devilish smirks on their faces.

“Hiding, are we?” Blaise asked.

Draco tilted up his drink. “Just taking a breather after an awkward dinner discussion.”

Pansy chuckled. “Oh, I can Imagine. Blaise and I are on our way to find Theo’s special fireworks.” She leaned forward. “Wanna join?”

Draco shook his head. “Just make sure no one goes up in flames, like last time.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Last time, Theo was responsible for them. I told you all from the start not to let him do it.”

Blaise hummed in agreement. “Should have listened to you, Parks.”

She patted his wide chest. “As you always should, but never really do.”

The duo then snuck past Draco, who smirked, took a sip from his whisky and frowned when he saw Granger dancing with the Weasel. She was flushed and laughed as he said something to her while pulling her closer, his hand on her back dangerously low.

Granger reached back to slide his hand up into safe territory as she blushed deeper, looking around as if to garner whether anyone had seen. The entire thing was interrupted by Potter, who cut in and whirled Granger away. The Weasel looked on, his expression going back to grim.

Before Draco could think on it, his Uncle Reginald stumbled to his side, his nose red. He swiftly pulled Draco into a nonsensical conversation about flying unicorns—which he always did once having one too many cognacs—until his wife saw them and approached. She threw Draco an apologetic glance, before tugging Uncle Reginald away. She was one of the few nice family members, who’d had the misfortune of marrying Uncle Reginald for some unknown reason.

“Malfoy,” a familiar and loathed voice rumbled behind him.

Draco sighed, taking another swig of his drink. “Weasley,” he said without turning.

The ginger git stepped up next to him, his bleary stare finding Granger and Potter. “Lost her already, have you?”

“No, contrary to you, Weasel.” Draco wanted to say more, especially concerning the placement of his grubby hands on Granger, but he only clenched his teeth, beating back the urge.

The Weasel snorted out a laugh. “Keep telling yourself that, Death Eater.”

Draco turned to him, a sneer on his lips. “Do you have something to say, Weaslebee?”

The ginger twat grinned from ear to ear. “As a matter of fact, I do.” Swigging his bottle of beer, he chuckled lowly. “Hermione married you for one reason and one reason only. It has nothing to do with you as a person, because let’s face it, you’re vile. You don’t deserve her. You don’t deserve to breathe same fucking air as she does.” His expression turned sour. “You might have married her, but I am the one she loves.”

Draco’s brows shot up. “Excuse me? You have been split up for a year.”

Weasley laughed. “And I was inside of her last night. She is mine, Malfoy. She wants me. We are together. No matter what you think, I am the one she wants, loves. I am the one who knows her inside and out. I know how to make her scream, how to make love to her.” He toasted the air with his bottle. “And I will be continuing to do so. We are still together, no matter what she might have told you. We both decided last night to give it another go.”

Draco was shocked into silence. Anger building low in his gut, rising steadily.

“But really,” the Weasel continued. “What hope did you ever have of making her happy? You wished her dead once; you bullied her mercilessly. I have been her friend—her lover—for years. You don’t have a chance. Not that you’d want one, anyway. She’s nothing but a filthy Mudblood to you, isn’t she? Someone to save you from prison.” He spat on the floor. “Bloody coward.” With that, he turned on his heel and stumbled off, vanishing into the darkness.

The glass in Draco’s hand shattered. Had the Weasel stayed even a second longer, he would have punched him until there was nothing left of his stupid face. Shards of glass cut into his hand, blood dripping from his closed fist.

Draco’s searing gaze found Granger. His wife. His cheating, conniving wife. Now that scene of her blushing and glancing around made sense. She hadn’t wanted to get caught in the act.

As a maelstrom of anger twirled through him, rising, Draco glowered at her. He had been cordial, he had tried hard at this, and he would have continued to do so, for both their sakes. And she had gone and…planned to betray him? Had slept with that piece of dragon-dung a night before their wedding?

Fury snaked through him like fiendfire, consuming everything in its path. Every good intention, every effort, every thought of tentative hopefulness went up in flames as his ire burned through him.

She wanted them to start this off with a lie? Curse him for believing… For thinking they could have had something agreeable for even a second. Gods, he was a fool.

Granger’s laugh reached him, as she was twirled around by Potter and Draco scowled, shaking drops of blood from his hand before getting out his wand and healing the cuts. He didn’t feel the pain. There was nothing but white, hot fury, blazing along his veins.

She wanted them to be miserable? Well, Draco could make sure they were.

I was inside of her last night.

The sentence poured through him like an overturned vat of acid, scalding his insides with a vile, stinging bitterness. To Draco, matrimony was something definitive, he cared about the vows he had made merely hours ago. Seems as though he was the only one.

Well, if she was so keen on selling herself to him, he would make damned sure she ended up as angry and betrayed as he did. All he needed was a plan. But first, he would bring her home.

His palm slid across his jaw as he clenched his teeth. The home he had worked on for them both, with her in mind. Salazar’s nutsack, how could he have been so foolish? So blind?

Draco started walking, his steps sure, his face a mask of anger. He wrestled his features into indifference. He had learned from the best, after all.

His hands shook when he reached Potter and Granger. Stopping short, Draco held out a hand to Granger. “Mind if I cut in, Potter?” he asked, his voice deceptively level.

Granger took one look at him and blanched. Apparently, she saw something Potter didn’t, because the Boy Wonder nodded happily and placed her hand in Draco’s. Much as he had during the ceremony, Potter then said: “Take care of her, Malfoy.”

Draco grinned darkly. “Oh, I plan to, Potter. Come along, darling. Let’s go home.”

Her hand was hot in his, her breath short and her face glistening with sweat from dancing. Draco didn’t mind the touch at all as he pulled her closer, winding her arm through his.

Granger’s breath hitched; her brown eyes wide as she looked at him. “Malfoy, what is—”

“It’s late, dear,” Draco said with saccharine sweetness. “Let me steal you away from the crowd.” He walked them from the gazebo and into the night, feeling her tugging at him weakly.

“I don’t… What’s going on?” she asked.

“The truth is finally revealed, that’s what, Granger.”

“The truth about what?”

Draco turned on her so fast, she almost slammed into his chest. Her free palm hit his shoulder as she blinked at him.

“The truth about you and me, my darling wife. About what we are, and what we are decidedly not.” Draco let his anger surface to his face, letting the full brunt of his wrath hit her.

Then he apparated them to Douillet.

Chapter Text

A Very Turbulent Wedding Night

TW: Graphic smutty stuff. Graphically violent memory featuring near dismemberment. (See notes at ending)

Hermione

The day had been highly uncomfortable and nerve-wracking, interspersed with light moments here and there. Moments Hermione had clung to in order to get through the rest of it.

Of course, Molly had used a quiet moment while Hermione had gotten ready in one of the gloomy guestrooms of Nott Manor, to plead with her not to go through with the wedding. She had asked Hermione not to throw away her life like this. It had taken quite a bit of time and Ginny intervening, to curb the tears and well-meant concern. And it had left Hermione exhausted and sad. It was nice that Molly cared, but she didn’t truly understand. Besides, her being there had reminded Hermione how her own parents were not. She had told herself she was doing all of it for them, and how all of it was naught but a means to that very end. If she ever married again, they would be with her. It had to be enough.

Narcissa had been by a little later, bestowing a bejeweled hair-comb onto Hermione she had gotten from her own mother. Lady Malfoy had been as unapproachable as ever, saying very little, but Hermione guessed it was the thought that counted. She had not expected her to even visit before the ceremony.

A ray of light had been Ron. He had apologized profusely, stating he had no idea what had happened the night before. All he apparently remembered was being drunk out of his mind. But the guilt he felt must’ve meant he had said something awful and he wanted to let Hermione know he was very sorry and he fully supported her decision to marry Malfoy, even if he didn’t like it. This had lifted Hermione’s mood considerably, since the night before had been an added weight on her, tearing her further down.

The ceremony itself had been…strange. The hissed words of Malfoy’s family had shocked her in their venom, but Malfoy himself had been a surprise. He’d looked exceptionally good in his perfectly tailored suit, his gaze open and hopeful as she’d approached. It had given her the confidence to continue.

That was when things had turned strange. Hermione was sure Malfoy had been occluding for parts of the ceremony and she wondered why that was. Nerves? Something worse? What was it he had tried to hide? A terrible notion had gripped Hermione, her instinctive defensiveness wrestling for control.

They had gotten through it somehow, but Hermione had tasted the whisky on his lips which had unnerved her further. Occlusion and alcohol.

The ensuing dinner had been awful, but Malfoy standing up for her during his aunt’s rant had been a surprise. He had clearly not thought she’d understood French and still demanded respect for ‘his wife’, which confused Hermione even more. Which was the real Malfoy?

The one who didn’t seem to want to dance with her, who occluded and drank to be able to get through his vows? Or the one reprimanding his own bigoted aunt? He made no sense to her and the moment she’d wanted to ask about it, Theodore had swept her away to dance, which Malfoy had agreed to without a fuss.

And then he’d snatched her away, looking dangerously controlled and on edge. Hermione’s breath had left her in a rush when he had glared at her, shortly before apparating them both away. His grey eyes had been alight with a cold kind of fire, a look which had chilled her to the bone and scared her.

What had he said?  Something about the truth being revealed. About who they both were. Had he meant himself? Had he been…pretending these past two weeks?

Hermione shivered when they reappeared in front of a large, double-storied cottage. Malfoy immediately let go of her, his face pinched. Hermione swallowed down her ridiculous notion of hurt and fear. Maybe now that the wedding was truly over, his mask had indeed come off and he was showing her exactly how disgusted he was by her. How he had not changed, no matter how often he’d told her he had.

Well tough luck, he wasn’t getting out of this and neither was she. While Hermione had felt a strange sense of kinship these past two weeks—a stupid notion of hope she had nurtured—it was stumped now, leaving her almost bereft. Couldn’t the idiot have waited until after they’d had sex? It would have been easier that way. But maybe this was good, lest she be lulled in by a false sense of security when it came to him. She needed to remember who he was, whom she had married.

Hermione rounded on her new husband, swallowing at that realization, ready to demand answers. He glared at her, his eyes trailing up and down her form, glinting like flint in the near-darkness. Her words got stuck in her throat when his gaze burned her with the chill emanating from it.

His lips had curled into that signature sneer she hadn’t seen on him in these recent days and a heavy weight slammed into her gut. She’d only ever associated that particular look with one thing. Disgust.

The truth of what we both are.

He was Draco Malfoy, Pureblood and bigoted arse, and she was a Mudblood. Hermione swallowed down her questions. She should not have been surprised. This was who she had thought she’d marry in the first place. The past two weeks had only been a game, a charade. It was squarely on her that she had believed his act.

Trying hard to rein in her thoughts and rising anger, Hermione looked around to distract herself. The light falling from the countless windows of the house, cast the beautiful garden into a diffuse light. Meticulously kept grass wound around beds filled with flowers and tall grasses. A pond sat in front of the house, the statue of a mermaid lounging on the surrounding stone, dripping water into the pond from her outstretched finger. She looked as though she was about to touch the surface playfully, a small smile growing on her face.

A sense of serenity emanated from the entire place, especially when Malfoy twirled his wand and warm lights pulsed to life around the garden, most of them lining the small path of stones leading to the terrace of the house.

“Welcome to Douillet,” he said.

Hermione swallowed at the icy look in his eyes when they flashed to her for a second, as if to gauge her reaction. As if he fucking cared.

“It’s acceptable,” she said and threw her hair back with a haughty sniff, refusing to let him intimidate her further. It was not acceptable. It was magnificent. But right that moment, Hermione had no real eye for it, the side facing him prickling with acute awareness and defensiveness. She wagered the insults would start soon.

A small chuckle sounded from him. “Acceptable, she says. Unlike me.” Malfoy shook his head and waved for her to walk ahead of him. “Ladies first.” The way he said ‘Ladies’ was laced with dripping sarcasm and Hermione bit her teeth together.

She took a deep breath, hiked up her dress, and stomped up the path, blind to how beautiful her surroundings were. The cottage—if one could even call it that—was made of red and grey bricks, the roof tiled by dark sheet. The two bay areas that reached over both stories had white-paned windows. All in all, it was a gorgeous sight. Hermione was not distracted by it as her heels clacked across the sandstone tiles of the terrace, leading up to a white door.

Halting in front of it, she waited for Malfoy, feeling as though it wasn’t her right to just barge inside. He sidled up to her in that casual prowl of his and opened the door.

“Do you want a tour, Granger?” he asked, sounding poncy.

It unnerved her and she stormed inside. “Maybe later,” she said. “Where is the bedroom? I’d like to get this over with if you don’t mind. Now that the truth is out, as you said.” She sent him a withering glare.

Damn her, but she wanted to do this while there was still the distant notion of him being kind of nice to her in her mind. While his words of concern about her still registered. When the so sincere-seeming look of hope he had given her during the ceremony was still fresh before her inner eye. Preferably before all of it was overshadowed by the inevitable surfacing of hateful words and the vitriol, he so obviously felt for her.

His face was drawn. Lips thin and eyes shuttered. Was he occluding again? The thought made her stomach drop. He couldn’t even think of fucking her without removing himself from the situation? This was a new low for her. Well, he had done the same while getting married to her so it should not be a surprise.

Hermione had known it would be difficult, but she had not anticipated him being so disgusted—letting his antiquated views consume him so—that he might have trouble consummating their marriage. She had also not anticipated him letting the front he’d cultivated drop so abruptly and completely. Was he trying to scare her? If so, why?

Malfoy squeezed his lids shut for a moment. “Are you sure you want this, Granger?” he asked, his voice rough.

Hermione flicked at a blade of grass on her dress. “I would not have married you if I didn’t. Besides, the sooner we get it over with, the sooner we can give each other space. Which is what you clearly want.”

He scoffed, then righted himself more fully and rolled back his shoulders. “Follow me,” he said and was off.

Hermione kept her eyes firmly planted to his back, debating whether or not she should hex him or yell at him. Who in their right mind was that good of an actor? Lulling her into a notion of relative safety? Apologizing so earnestly? Asking about her free will in all of it? Then turning around and being the equivalent of a human freezer? The reason for all of it completely eluded her. She would have married him regardless of who he was. The whole act had been unnecessary. Hermione had expected this version of him from the get-go. Tricking her this way was just cruel.

He led her through a living-room and through a few arches into a large hall. From there, stairs brought them to a teak-floored corridor lined with doors. Malfoy took a right and led her into a beautiful bedroom. He waited for her to enter, his face a mask of stony indifference. Hermione huffed, turning from him and taking in the room. A wide bed sat to her right, across from which a fireplace merrily crackled, adding to the soft light of a few candles placed on the mantlepiece. Opposite the door was a wall of windows that looked out over a part of the garden and beyond, to the forest line. Tiny hovering lights, lining the garden’s edges made the tall trees look dark, secretive and ominous, eliciting a mixture of danger and beckoning mystery.

The room itself was cozier for it, the fluffy rug and the blankets—with a fake pelt thrown in—elevated it to something that could be called rustically posh.

Hermione balled her fists at her sides as she eyed the bed, dreading to be in it with him. It was tall and she would have to crawl or hop to get up on it.

This was not how her one-night stands had been. There a certain amount of lust and passion had been involved. This was horrid. He was disgusted by her and she… Well, she needed a bit of stimulation and consideration. At the very least. Grimly, she decided that no matter what, she’d get it done.

Malfoy sighed deeply, muttered something and walked past her. He sat down on the bed, his legs long enough so his feet rested on the floor. Eyeing her reproachfully he unlaced his shoes and tugged them off one by one, then proceeded to pull off his socks and placing them into his shoes, before putting both down neatly. His eyes never left her and he shucked his jacket as he stood again, then started to unbutton his vest.

Merlin damn it all. If he wasn’t busy making such a sour face, he would have been beyond handsome in the soft light. His pale hair shone like white-gold, his hands deft and graceful at working on his buttons. The sharp angles of his face looked deeper in the flickering dance of shadow and light and his height made the room seem smaller.

“I thought you wanted to get this over with,” he said, his voice so chilly it sent a shiver up Hermione’s spine. “Changed your mind, Granger?”

She fisted part of her dress at her sides, the small gems worked into the fabric cutting into her palms. “Could you stand not to be a complete prat for a second? This is hard enough for me as it is.”

“Oh, like it’s a fucking broomride for me?” he seethed, folding his vest before unbuttoning the cuffs of his dark-maroon shirt. She just looked at him, waiting for more insults. Was he merely disgusted, or angry? And if so, why? Something must have shown on her face because he let his arms sink and a smidge of something other than coldness surfaced on his features. “Look, Granger, I know you don’t want this. And I…” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed before pulling a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I have my own problems with it.” His grey eyes held hers and something she was unable to discern flashed across his face. It looked like uncertainty.

She scowled at him. “Oh yes, I would call being disgusted by your bride a problem,” she spat.

Malfoy gaped at her, clearly taken aback by her words, then he scoffed and walked up to her. Gods he was tall. Looming, so she had to tilt her head to see his face, he asked: “You think I’m disgusted by you?” A mirthless chuckle tumbled from him, catching on her cheeks. “It makes sense. I want to be. Salazar, I do. But I’m not. While your actions do disgust me, you, unfortunately, do not.”

“What are you even talking about?” she asked, both confused and hurt by his words.

He didn’t answer but bent lower, his eyes dark and heated. “I’m not Weasley, Granger. I won’t make sweet love to you.” Malfoy cocked his brow. “All I can offer is fucking.”

His words, crass as they were, sent a tingle through her and she felt her breath hitch. He was so close. So close she could feel the heat of his body fan over hers. But he was not touching her. Hermione was hit with his scent. A mix of expensive cologne, sandalwood, apples, and something distinctly unique. Smoky.

“Are you alright with being fucked, Granger?” he asked lowly, and she felt a blush prickle up the back of her neck, while the slide of his words against her cheeks felt like thrums of magic sparking over her skin.

Hermione took a step back and glared at him, affronted by the effect his words had on her. That and his proximity. “Are you trying to scare me?” Why was her voice suddenly so breathy?

Malfoy shook his head, pulled off his tie, and started to unbutton his shirt. “No, just managing expectations.” He shrugged it from his shoulders, then grabbed his undershirt over his head and pulled it off in one swift move, unearthing his torso and leaving his hair deliciously disheveled.

Hermione couldn’t help but stare. Did that man know what he was doing?

Merlin and Morgana, he was beautiful. All lean muscle and porcelain skin. Covered in scars. Hermione was shocked at the number of lines littering his chest, abdomen and lower belly. It was not only the Sectumsepra scar, which forked across his skin like a myriad of silver lightning bolts, but others as well. What looked like stab wounds lined his ribs and she made out the telltale curve of multiple Diffindos. His right shoulder had a large scar surrounding the muscular socket. The pale, jagged edges of it looked like claw and teeth-marks.

Hermione shuddered inwardly. She couldn’t even imagine what the wound must have looked like.

“I’m probably also not as unmarred as him,” Malfoy drawled, his expression dark at watching her take him in. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Recovering from the sheer number of healed wounds and the sight of him half-naked, Hermione shook herself. Something seemed very off. “Why do you keep mentioning Ron?”

Malfoy pulled a hand through his hair again, making the muscles in his arm and belly shift, causing her mouth to dry up instantly. He had to know what he was doing.

“He’s who and what you want, isn’t he? Not the convicted Death Eater you sold yourself to.”

Her eyes widened and ire surged inside of her. “You have no… How dare…” Wrestling with words, she glowered at him. “Fuck you. You have no—”

Malfoy was against her in a flash—again, without touching her. His expression was like a thunderstorm, dark and foreboding, but there was also a hint of something exciting. A no doubt deranged part of Hermione wanted to reach out and touch him. In the same way she would want to know what lightning felt like. It was insane, but didn’t stem the urge. The knowledge of where all of this was leading heightened her senses, turning the entire exchange into something sexual. In a way she was unused to. It was dark and beckoning, surprising her with its intensity. Like the forest outside, Malfoy filled her with a mixed sense of danger and alluring mystery.

“Isn’t that why we are here, darling wife?” he hissed, so close that his words tickled her forehead and sent strands of hair floating back.

Another bout of wrath overtook her, fanning the ridiculous tingle inside of her to new heights and she clicked her tongue dismissively. “Fine. If you must be a prick about it, then that’s how it’s going to be.” She reached back and unzipped her dress. Kicking her heels across the room, Hermione peeled back the straps and let the fabric slide off her body in a flash of rustles and soft clinks, all while staring him down with a clear challenge in her eyes.

A small sound escaped him and she fought the blush creeping up her cheeks when his gaze dipped from her eyes to roam over her body. It was only fair; Hermione had ogled him after all. She twisted her hands in front of her knickers, biting down on her lip as she wrestled with the angry heat that pooled in her belly at his perusal. She felt his darkening gaze like a touch and holy hell, did it ignite something in her.

“Merlin, you are gorgeous, woman,” he said, his voice thick. His eyes met hers once more and the apparent lust in them, coupled with his words, nearly had her swaying against him. How could one look get her so hot and bothered? It made no sense.

Very slowly, he reached out and traced the left strap of her bra with his index finger. Hermione barely felt it, but tiny zaps of sensation sparked across her chest and shoulder. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly. She had to consciously fight the urge to lean into the touch.

“Let’s have one thing be clear, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said in a husky voice. His fingers feathered ever so slightly over her chest until his large hand wound around her neck. The touch wasn’t rough or firm, it was unbearably gentle and still felt like a brand somehow. His thumb tilted up her chin as he bore down on her. “There will be no stepping out and sampling other wizards, or witches. From now on, you are mine. And I keep what is mine.”

While this clear show of possessiveness should appall her, Hermione’s body apparently had other plans as it positively melted, entirely ruining her knickers. Her mind fought itself back to the surface a second later. What the fuck was he on about? “As if that is even possible,” she scoffed. “You can take your possessive rubbish and shove it up your arse, Malfoy.” She tilted her head, feeling his fingers tighten a tad on her throat. It left her breathless and sent spikes of fire racing down her skin. She cocked a brow challengingly. “You offered to fuck me. I’m still waiting.”

His eyes darkened to resemble thunderclouds and his hand on her throat flexed once. “Get on the bed, then. Wife.”

Draco

She was driving him insane. Draco was sure Hermione Granger—no, Malfoy—would be the death of him. While her betrayal cut deep, a small part of him understood it. He would never have chosen her; so why expect the same from her? And yet… Just the thought of Weasley’s hands all over her satin skin, his sloppy lips on hers, his cock inside of his wife… It drove him to the brink of madness.

He had been ready to make it work, to really try, only to have all of it thrown in his face. No, he hadn’t expected the same level of commitment from her—as far as he had been concerned, she didn’t owe it to him—but to outright plan to step outside of their marriage? His fury had only grown ever since that conversation with the Weasel, and even though his ire was interspersed with a heady sense of arousal, he hated it.

It wasn’t like he’d had feelings for her to begin with, other than a begrudging sort of respect and gratefulness, but those teetered on the brink of being snuffed out. She was his now. And Draco had never been one to share. He had also never been a second choice. It galled him that he was to be one for his own bloody wife. That they would fuck once and then she’d go back to sleeping with that ginger twat. For a moment, Draco was unsure whether he wanted to wring her neck, or fuck every last piece of Weasley from her. Make her unravel around him in a way that branded him into her. So she would never forget. And Weasley would always be lacking in comparison.

He swallowed hard as Granger bunched up her fists and stepped back from him so his hand fell down. Empty. Strange, he hadn’t minded touching her. In fact, feeling her skin under his fingertips had sparked a bout of sensation up his arm that was electrifying. Coupled with the view of her and her misplaced anger, it had made all his blood shoot south.

Maybe it was because of his anger. Of how it was his safe space. Maybe it wasn’t so bad that he was livid with her right now. It helped feeling in control, as it blew everything else to the wayside, only heightening the acute need and heat rushing through him. It had been a long time for Draco since he’d touched anyone in a sexual way… Since he’d been touched with any kind of gentleness or want that didn’t immediately make him flinch. This did not mean Draco didn’t know his way around a woman’s body. Ever since discovering the sublime pleasure and pride making a woman lose her mind brought him, he had been an eager study. Had gotten quite good at it too. But it had been a while for him all the same.

She slowly strode to the bed, her eyes of amber fire singeing into him as though to mark him, to light him up. He had told her the truth; she was gorgeous. The golden light of the fire and candles caressed her curves softly, making her look otherworldly. The white, lacy underwear was a beautiful contrast to her honey skin and her round and supple tits fought with the white cups when she hopped up on the bed then scooted back while facing him.

Her long and toned legs would fit around him perfectly. And that arse? That glorious arse he had already ogled in her pencil-skirt while being at her office was made for grabbing and squeezing. Back then he’d started to develop a laughable sense of hope for the future. It was shattered now.

I was inside of her last night.

Weasley’s words, coupled with his shite-eating grin made wrath boil up Draco’s stomach. A part of him wanted to leave. To simply flee her presence. Another part wanted her, despite his anger. That part wanted to stake his claim, show her whom she belonged to and who could belong to her.

As Draco glowered at Granger in his bed, he decided on one thing: She would remember this one time. Whether she’d be into what he had in mind, would have to be seen, but he had noticed her breath hitch, her eyes darken. It wasn’t all just anger.

“Let your hair down,” he ordered in a low voice.

There it was. The glint of heat she masked with a scowl. Granger reached up and slid the delicate comb from her hair, stretching to set it down on the bedside table. Then she untangled her do-up, one pin at a time. She threw the tiny hairpins at him with an angry expression once she was done. They bounced off his chest in barely-there pricks. “There. Happy?”

Draco chuckled, watching her locks tumble around her shoulders like a curtain of dark clouds. Finally, she looked like herself again. “Far from it, Granger,” he said and prowled closer.

“That makes fucking two of us,” she spat, but even as her eyes burned him with unholy anger, her body arched toward him. Her legs shifted open ever so slightly to welcome him and her arms shook at her sides, as though she wanted to reach for him and actively resisted.

Draco swallowed again. He could not let her touch him too much, not even as furious as he was. And he didn’t want to lose control or hurt her. Still, he needed this to be good for her, viscerally so. Vindictively so. For a moment, the doubt creeping in made him falter, made his hands tremble. Then he remembered her plan to keep up her relationship with the Weasel despite being married and his fury roared back full-force. All he needed was a plan.

“Hands above your head,” he said, unbuckling his belt.

Granger’s gaze heated, before she caught herself and glared. “I’m not into being ordered around,” she hissed.

“Oh, I think you are,” Draco said, letting his trousers drop and stepping from them. “Maybe your ginger git never had the nerve to try it with you.” He placed a knee on the bed and leaned over her, his fists resting on either side of her, until his face was hovering over hers. Her brown eyes were blown wide and flicked down his body.

“Now be a dear and do as I said,” Draco drawled.

To his surprise, she lay back, raising her slender arms above her head. Draco slid his palm over both her wrists and placed a sticking charm on her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a slight note of panic in her voice.

“I will not hurt you, Granger. The charm can be broken by a strong tug. It’s very weak. Try it.”

Granger tugged on her hands and the charm broke. She eyed him, looking a bit confused. “Why…”

“Minimal touching. I’m sure that is to your liking when it comes to me,” he said, bitterness lacing his words.

Her gaze—as open as it currently was—darkened with anger once more. “How very thoughtful of you,” she growled.

Draco refastened her wrists, then looked her over. Merlin, she was a vision. Staring daggers at him, with her hands fastened, lying underneath him like an offering. It was almost a pity this would only happen once.

“I will touch you now,” he said, bending closer to let his words brush over her clavicles. “Objections?”

He felt her shiver. “No. Just…get it over with.” Her voice was breathy, belying her words.

“Oh, no, darling,” Draco purred into her ear, letting his breath travel down the slope of her neck while he watched her chest expand, pushing her tits up further. Her scent… There was something about it. Something soothing. “I will take my time. You will be ready and willing once I fuck you. And when I do, you’ll forget anyone who ever came before me.”

Goosebumps rose all across her chest and a low gasp tickled his cheek. “There is no need,” she said.

“No need for what?” he asked, trailing his breath down between her breasts and letting the fingers of his right hand follow, barely touching her. This was fine, he decided. He could do this.

“N- no need to get me ready,” Granger whispered, trembling slightly.

Draco placed his hand beside her again and rose to look at her. “I told you I won’t hurt you. So I am going to have you ready for me. I’ll be as—”

“That’s not…” Granger blushed and turned her head to the side, hiding her face in her hair. “I- I’m already…ready.” She blushed even more and Draco allowed a smug grin to flash over his lips.

“I would take your word for it, darling wife, but I don’t trust you. Besides, no matter how wet you are for me, I’ll still need to have you ready.”

Her face reappeared as she snapped her head back around to face him, her cheeks a dark maroon. “What could you possibly have to ready me for? I’m wet, Malfoy. Now get on with it.”

Draco sighed and sat back on his haunches. He rose to his knees and pulled down his briefs, freeing his, by now, achingly hard cock.

Granger’s eyes followed his movements and widened once she saw the size of him. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and she swallowed. “Hm, well… Yes. I suppose that changes things.” She let her head fall back and uttered a whispered “fuck”.

Smiling to himself, Draco pulled his briefs down and dropped them to the floor, then shifted to lie next to her on his left side. He let his fingers graze down her belly, swirling them around her belly button gently. He watched the goosebumps rise at his touch, then dipped down to follow the path of his fingers with his breath. Gods, her scent. She smelled…like night-blooming flowers. Devil’s Trumpet and Casa Blanca Lillies. Sweet like Honeysuckle, with an earthy hint.

He jerked back, swallowing. How ironic that she would smell like the one place he found peace in. She smelled like part of his moonlit occluding space. Draco’s hand shook as he feathered his fingers up her side, following the slope of her waist upward until meeting the fabric of her bra. He cupped her left breast with his hand, covering it entirely. A small gasp met his action and Draco let his gaze flick up.

Her eyes met his, their color of amber fire having darkened to that of a well-age whisky. Granger’s breath was shallow and her legs moved slowly, pressing together. Draco felt his anger abating somewhat, overtaken by heat, and he wanted nothing more than to slide between her twining legs and take her. But he knew he had to take things slow, for both their sakes.

Expanding his lungs on a large breath, inhaling her intoxicating and relaxing scent, Draco let his fingers slide over the purple scar that peeked up between her covered tits, to wind down to her sternum and around her left breast and ribs.

She shivered and pressed her lids shut, her body shifting and moving. As he continued his ministrations, Draco realized she was chasing his touch and let it grow firmer.

Granger’s skin was marvelously soft, like satin and silk, and as long as he was an arm’s length away, there were no repercussions for him. Strange. Was it the bond? That tingle of warmth he had felt in his chest during the ceremony? Or was he still rooted firmly in his anger?

Frowning, he scooted further down, bringing his palm across her belly, then her hip bone and right thigh. Gently, he slid his hand between her knees and drew circles up the inside of her thigh. How was it possible that her skin was even softer there? Giving and warm.

Granger’s breath hitched when he sat up, nudged her legs apart with both hands, to kneel between her calves.

Another glance at her face left him breathless. Cheeks tinged with pink, her eyes sparkling with need, she looked over his naked body, her lower lip cushioned between white teeth. He saw her biting back a whimper, when he cupped her calves on either side of him and drew his hands up to the underside of her knees, lifting them to prop up her feet.

“No, Granger,” he rumbled, his voice having gone gravelly. “Let me hear you.”

The heated look was swapped for a short glare, but when Draco slid his hands down the inside of her thighs to open her further, she whimpered, her head dropping back.

“Let’s see how ready you truly are,” Draco said, letting his thumbs graze further up until they hit the lining of her knickers.

Her hips jerked and a strangled moan flew his way.

Draco was struck by her receptiveness, by how sensitive she seemed, and the fury from before roiled through him again. Was she like this with Weasley as well? Probably.

Clenching his jaw, he stroked his thumbs over her still-covered center, feeling the heat and moisture through the fabric.

“Gods,” Granger bit out, her hips canting softly to meet his strokes. The sound sent a tingle through his cock and it twitched, bumping against his abs.

With his index finger, Draco slid the fabric of her knickers to the side, baring her to his eyes and touch. He rubbed over his chin with one hand, scooting closer, his eyes riveted to her glistening lower lips. Gods, he wanted to cover her with his body, wanted to touch, kiss and lick every inch of divine skin beneath him. Wanted to leave marks, sucked and nipped into the slope of her neck, her thighs, everywhere. Most of all, Draco wanted to taste her. To know what her skin, tongue, lips and cunt tasted like. Quite frankly, he wanted to get completely lost in her, marking himself into her flesh and into her very soul. It galled him that he could not. Surely, the intensity of it would overwhelm him and he needed to keep his head.

Orgasming alone would be extreme enough of an experience to get through.

What he could do, was feel, and make her do the same. Draco blew out a breath and ghosted his thumb, the one carrying the silver lines of their bond, up the outside of her slit. Even there, he felt her wetness and his mouth turned dry in response. Needing more of that slick warmth, he trailed his finger down and to the side, parting her.

A keen answered his action and her hips jerked off the mattress.

Draco cursed. “You weren’t lying. Gods, you’re soaked for me, Granger.” His brows furrowed as he slid his thumb up to circle her clit and then press down gently.

“Oh… Oh my… Fuck!” Granger moaned out, her entire body shifting and wriggling.

Draco moved to her side again and she let out a protesting mewl at the loss of touch, but in an instant, he was cupping her, letting his thumb circle some more, while his fingers teased her folds, her opening.

Granger twisted and groaned at his side, biting her lower lip as she shuddered and turned her head to hide her face.

Draco stilled and Granger cursed in protest. Lying propped up on his left elbow, he was level with her face, while still able to touch her. He leaned closer, her unbelievable scent wafting around him stronger the closer he was to her wild curls.

“Look at me,” Draco said. “You will look at me and know it’s me making you come. I’ll stop every time you try to hide, Granger.”

She hissed at him; her eyes wild as they hit his. “Fuck you!”

Draco chuckled, pressing down on her clit which made her fiery eyes roll back. “Soon, my darling wife. Real soon.”

He kept his eyes on her when he let one finger twirl around her opening, before sinking it inside. Her eyes held his, searing into him, while a strangled sound broke from her, nailing him in the back of his spine. That sound. It was like a mix between a moan and a purr, absolutely captivating. Coupled with the look of livid abandon in her eyes and the feel of her heat, slick and hot, gripping his finger, it had his heartbeat ratcheting up and his breath coming in bursts. His cock twitched in the sheets and he felt a drop of precum leak into the fabric.

Draco had known she was sexy, but Salazar’s robes, she was beyond anything he ever could have dreamed of. Even angry, she was the most receptive woman he had ever been with, showing her reactions to him openly and without holding back. Granted, he was coaxing her to do so, but that only amplified her reactions.

Slowly, he sank his finger in and out of her, finding a tantalizing rhythm that had her gasping and moaning. All while letting his thumb graze, circle and flick her clit, he then worked a second finger into her.

Granger began to roll her hips, slowly at first, and when she noticed what she was doing, she stopped, blushing profusely. She quickly looked away from him and Draco stopped moving and leaned closer once more.

Letting his words brush over the slope of her neck, he whispered: “No. Move however you want. Fuck yourself on my hand. Show me what you need.”

She groaned, but when he picked up his movements again, her own rocking picked back up.

“Look at me,” Draco reminded her.

Eyes of burning whisky found his, capturing him with their alluring depths. Draco let out a groan, his own hips twitching against nothing, when he felt her clench and shiver around his fingers. He spread them and curled them on the downstroke at intervals to gently stretch her and she keened, her lids fluttering.

“Oh fuck!” she yelled. “Just like…that. Don’t stop… Don’t stop… Don’t stop! Don’t you fucking dare stop!”

Her vocal instructions finally breaking through had him grinning smugly and Draco continued doing exactly what he was doing. Her thighs shook and her brows pinched together as her body moved, canting her hips in a wild rhythm.

“Come for me,” he growled.

A sharp yell left her as she broke apart around him. Granger’s face was lost in the most exquisite expression of ecstasy, while her clenched fists opened in the beautiful gesture of letting go. Her cunt pulled at his fingers in an erratic rhythm, while her entire body convulsed and shivered. She was bucking her hips involuntarily and Draco kept the pace and touch, only marginally slowing down to help her ride out her orgasm.

It was a thing of utter devastation to see and feel. His wife, coming while holding his gaze. Granger’s cries turned to hoarse moans while her body shivered into aftershocks. A slight sheen of sweat covered her and her chest rose and fell quickly.

Draco gingerly stroked her one more time, before pulling his hand away. He looked at the juices coating his fingers and licked them off. His lids slid shut on a moan. “Fucking hell, woman. Your taste…” He sucked his two fingers into his mouth and twirled his tongue around them. “Your taste is incredible,” he said after pulling his fingers free.

He licked his lips and looked at her. Granger was staring at him with incredulous eyes, her heavy breath fanning over her slightly opened lips. The lower one glistened enticingly. Plush and soft. Gods he wanted a taste.

Swallowing once, Draco moved down the bed, he debated how to go about it, fighting the unbearably strong urge to just pounce on her. He stood from the bed and gathered a few pillows, then he summoned his wand, undid the sticking charm to Granger’s wrists—surprised it had held through her movements—and crocked a finger at her.

“Scoot down,” he told her, laying two pillows on the edge of the bed to achieve the right height. His bed was tall, but not tall enough and Granger frowned, before scuttling down.

She glanced at him, her cheeks still flushed as she wriggled her bum onto the pillows, letting her legs dangle from the side of the bed.

If he bent a little, this could work. Draco gently grabbed her thighs and pulled her a bit closer so she hovered at the edge. She lifted her hips for him so he could pull off her knickers, while he made sure to slide his fingers down her legs, feeling as much of her gorgeous skin as he could. Draco took his wand from beside her and cast a contraceptive charm on both of them then slung his wand away, barely hearing it clatter to the floor somewhere at his side.

“This alright?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes,” came her breathless reply.

Taking a deep breath, Draco fisted his straining cock, finding a semblance of relief in his own touch. He curled the fingers of his free hand around her hip and bit his lip. “Ready?”

“Just fuck me already, Malfoy,” Granger said. It sounded almost desperate, more like a plea than her earlier demands of haste. “Please,” she added softly, falling back, her mane of curls fanning around her head and shoulders like dark clouds.

“Keep your hands above your head,” Draco said and lined himself up. He slid the head of his cock through her drenched folds, coating himself in her. Languidly, he pushed forward. As his head slid in, he grunted at the heat and tightness greeting him.

Granger moaned deeply, her hands clenched to fists above her head, tangling in her hair. She began moving and Draco cursed. She felt too good, looked too radiant to be real, and he hated the fact that this would be a one-time thing. A one-time thing he couldn’t even experience fully. There was no sinking his face into her dark tresses, or kissing her until he was light headed, or feeling her naked body glide against his. Fucking useless mind.

No, someone else would be enjoying her; would feel the perfect slide of her exquisite cunt and hear the beautiful sounds she made. Would be able to kiss her and hold her close. His wife.

Fury flared high at the thought and Draco had to force his thrusts to stay shallow, to deepen them gradually each time. When he was seated to the hilt, he moaned and stilled for a second.

“Pain?” he grated out, finding her gaze with his.

Granger shook her head, a mewl flying from her plush lips. “No. No pain. Just move… please move, Malfoy. I… I need you to move.” Her hips began to undulate as much as she was able to make them and Draco felt her cunt grip him tightly as he slowly slid out almost all the way. He surged back and she yelped. For a second, he thought he’d hurt her, but she wriggled and moaned.

“More. Again. Malfoy, please!”

Her words were a siren’s call he was incapable of denying. Draco thrust into her hard, his own moan mixing with her keens. He set a punishing pace, until his hips slapped against her bum and thighs, relishing the satin heat engulfing his cock so fucking perfectly it was maddening.

“Eyes on me, Granger,” he barked between thrusts. “I want you to know exactly who is fucking you. Who makes you feel this way.”

She shrieked and her chest rose as her body seemed to have lost control of her movements, but she looked at him, her mouth open, her face the epitome of wanton need.

Draco growled at the sight and bent over her, placing one fist on the side of her waist, to surge deeper, while his other hand slipped between them to tease her clit. Granger yelped at the contact, her hands opening and closing rapidly.

“Need you to know it’s me,” Draco growled. “Your husband. Next time you decide to sleep with Weasley, you’ll remember this moment.”

His thrusts quickened and the burning desire to clutch her to him grew, as did his unholy anger.

“Next…time?” As if coming out of a lust-drunken haze, Granger’s eyes cleared and she blinked a few times. “What are you talking about?”

Draco didn’t feel like explaining, not while he was balls deep in the most exquisite woman he had ever met. And she was his. That was something she did need to know. “I’ll fuck every Merlin-damned memory of him away, Granger. You’re mine. You won’t go back to him. Say it. You won’t betray me.”

“What are you…”

He glared at her. “Say. It. You’re mine.”

A line appeared between her brows as she drew them together. “What is… Stop. Malfoy, stop!”

He growled, almost teetering on the brink of no return, but he stilled. Somehow. His heart beating frantically and his breath ragged.

Granger grabbed hold of his wrist, pushing at it as she moved back until she slid from the pillows and he out of her. Draco hissed at the feeling of loss, at the chilly air greeting his cock.

“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” she asked, bringing her own face close to his. “Something isn’t right.”

Draco laughed, the sound dark and coarse, while tugging his hand from her grip. “Oh, I’d call you making sweet love to the Weasel a night before our wedding ‘not right’, Granger. I’d go so far as to call it fucked up that you married me despite being in a relationship with him, all the while planning on betraying me.”

“That’s not…I’m not even able to betray you, you bloody nitwit,” she said, her voice rising and her stare angry. She reached out again, but this time, her fingers grabbed hold of his shoulder. His right shoulder. Her touch was not gentle, but designed to pull at him as he was busy turning away.

Draco winced violently, immediately transported back to another night. One of his worst.

Flesh tearing. Tugging. Sharp teeth and slicing claws. Bones breaking, then shattering.

Draco shook his head as the room blurred around him.

Nerve endings burning, with nowhere to go. Caught. Helpless.

He stumbled back, blinking rapidly, Granger’s angry face swapping for another. Ugly and sneering.

Muscles ripping, tendons snapping like wires. The taste of blood and vomit burning against his tongue.

“Malfoy?” her voice called out. “What’s going on?”

Another touch on his too sensitive skin. He scrambled away until his back hit the wall hard. “Don’t… Don’t touch me,” Draco rasped, sliding down the wall to ball himself together.

For a second, he was treated to the sight of Granger walking over to him, kneeling at his side but careful not to reach out, then his world dipped away, pulling him into bleakness and pain. Into helplessness and agony.

“Finally, we are able to bring you down a peg, posh little ponce,” Dolohov says with a grin. “What do you say, Greyback? Some more curses, or do you—”

A low growl rumbles from the werewolf. “The Dark Lord said I could have a pound of flesh. Nothing important.” He licks his chapped lips, exposing sharpened, yellow teeth. “Just make sure he holds still.”

Greyback’s heavy shoes slap the ground and the odor of death, decay and human grime reaches Draco. His entire body aches, it screams, from the countless Crucios he’s endured at their master’s hand. Hours of it. His fingers twitch uncontrollably, his muscles feeling like they have coiled in on themselves permanently. His stomach is empty, the contents strewn around him on the dark-tiled floor. He can’t move and feels like he’s about to black out.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Dolohov says and casts a quick Rennervate.

Energy surges through Draco’s body and he groans as the pain intensifies. Now he can feel it fully again.

A guttural groan gargles from his bloody lips. His tongue and the inside of his cheeks are littered with his own bites, making blood swirl around his mouth.

“You really done cocked this up, boy,” Dolohov says as he crouches down with a snigger. “Good of the Dark Lord to think of us in this. Did you enjoy torturing us when we came back empty-handed from that Mudblood’s parent’s house?” He leans closer, flicking his wand so ropes wind around his wrists and ankles. Dolohov’s breath is hot and vile on his face, it nearly nixes the smell of Greyback and the taste of his own blood. “We will certainly have our fun.” He spits on him and Draco feels it trail down his neck and into the hair on his nape. “Arrogant little prick. We’ll see how you prance around from now on.”

Dolohov stands and Draco feels the ropes—rough and fibrous—chafe against his skin.

“How do you want him?” Dolohov asks.

Greyback chuckles lowly. “Face down, let him taste his own sick.”

The both laugh as Draco is levitated and smacked back to the ground face-first. Something breaks, maybe his nose, but it doesn’t matter, the sudden tears and bleary sight forgotten when he feels claws on his back. They rip down his spine, deep enough to cut through his shirt and skin. It burns and he screams.

“Tut, tut, little pup,” Greyback says and pats is head with a few smacks. “Don’t go losing your voice before we’ve even started.”

His shirt is ripped away from his body and Greyback draws his claws over his back, almost gently. “Something that isn’t important…Let’s see…” He snaps his fingers. “Your left is your wand-hand, isn’t it?”

Draco groans, tasting blood and vomit.

“Answer me, pup!” Greyback snarls and digs his claws into Draco’s lower back.

“Yes! Yes, it is!” Draco yells, his teeth scraping the floor.

“Very nice. How convenient. This means you won’t miss your right one.” The words are laced with glee, venom and a sick hunger.

“No. Please, don’t,” Draco rasps out, fear and pain making him go rigid.

“Should have thought about that sooner, pup,” Greyback drawls. “Keep him steady, Antonin.”

The ropes pull taut and Draco can only whimper. He feels the coldness of the floor, the heat of the blood dripping from his nose and mouth, the nearly gently slide of Greyback’s fingers on his back as it travels up.

Then he screams.

His flesh tears, giving way to tooth and claw.

He can’t move. His nerves are on fire, with nowhere to go.

Voice breaking, shredded to bits, he feels the firm tugs on his shoulder.

Bones break, then shatter. Tendons snap like cut wires. His shoulder snaps and loosens. Blood pours from it, warming his chest for a few seconds before cooling.

It’s too much, Draco thinks. Too much blood.

The pain is unbearable. White agony that burns through him, eating at him with slicing, stinging pulses.

Draco’s vision flickers, his consciousness blinking in an out of existence.

Too much blood.

Draco’s screams turn into broken wails, pitching higher each time he feels the harsh tugs and rips on his shoulder. He will die here. There is no doubt in his mind.

He doesn’t hear the shouts, the shrieked curses. Doesn’t see the jets of light or the bodies of Dolohov and Greyback thrown back from him.

He doesn’t hear them scream under Aunt Bella’s curses, while a soothing voice talks to him, casting healing charms and words, brittle with tears.

Lost. Lost in darkness and unable to move. He floats through torment and insurmountable horror, trying to get back, sensing that he is lost. Helpless. Always helpless.

The ever-present fear of not finding his way back ratchets up and makes his breath heavy. Something strikes his memory. Words and a smell. A place?

A moonlit lake.

Calm and black.

Grass and the sound of night-time creatures.

The scent of…night-blooming flowers.

He inhaled and smelled them. They were…real?

“A moonlit lake. Breathe. Calm and black. Breathe, Malfoy,” a voice said. The voice sounded strained and fearful, but there was a bolstering strength behind it. And that scent… Devil’s Trumpet and Casa Blanca Lillies. Sweet like Honeysuckle, with an earthy hint.

Where is he? When is he?

“Feel the grass under your fingers, Malfoy. What do you feel?” that voice asked. Firmer. A rich and warm tone.

He bent toward it. Swallowed at the ache in his throat. “Silky grass. Wet with dew. Sharp little edges.”

“Good. Very good. Now breathe.”

He did.

“In, hold and out. Slowly. Listen to mine. Follow me.”

He did. He followed, feeling the echoes of her breath on his elbow. Finally, Draco opened his eyes. Slow and fearful, not knowing what he would see.

Amber fire and curls the color of coffee. Granger. She looked at him with worry, kneeling as close as possible to his side without touching him, her scent surrounding him like the hug she can’t and would never give him.

“Are you…back?” she asked tentatively.

Draco cleared his throat a few times, realizing he was naked, and so was she. Well, almost. Granger was still wearing her bra. The present caught up with him and he groaned, thudding his head against the wall. Hard.

“I am. This…Granger… This should not have happened. I- I’m… I apologize.”

She sat back, her head tilting in that curious way of hers. “I’d say we have a few things to discuss, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I think we do. Just let me… Let me get my…” He rubbed his eyes until spots danced in his vision, feeling how wet his cheeks were. A blush of mortification crawled up his neck. “Gods. Fucking hell. I need a bit of time.”

“Understandable. Do you want me to leave?” Her gaze was a mix between worry and apprehension, not that he could blame her.

Did he want her to leave? Normally, Draco would have said yes, but her voice, her scent… All of it calmed him and he gathered his arms tighter around himself, knowing that the episode—that horrible memory—was still brimming at the edges of his mind. Draco could still feel the tug on his flesh and muscle, hear the wet sounds of gnawing and slurping, smell the vile breath hitting his cheek as he lay there. His mind felt like the serrated blade of a rusty knife. Frayed and flaky, prone to cuts and shattering.

Draco pressed his left palm gently to his right shoulder, casting wandless and wordless cooling charms to counter the phantom pain. He had perfected them to a single point for just this purpose. Beating back his crumpled pride that made a motion to rise, Draco gritted his teeth. He did not want to go back there.

“Stay,” he rasped out. “Please.”

Chapter Text

Countdown to the Truth

Hermione

Hermione’s heart raced as she knelt next to Malfoy. The expanse of what she had just seen and heard terrified her. The moment he had stumbled back, his voice cracking on that one sentence…

“Don’t… Don’t touch me.”

It had shot through her like a curse, the atmosphere shifting from confused indignation to out-right, icy terror.

Malfoy’s screams had burrowed into her very bones, making her shiver with a kind of cold that was not easily chased away, much less forgotten. Hermione doubted she ever would. The sound of his voice, raw with agony unparalleled, breaking off into wails. The tears that had flown freely from his shuttered eyes and the way he had gripped himself, his knuckles white, while rocking back and forth.

She was no stranger to panic attacks, or trauma, but whatever Malfoy had been caught in… It had left her breathless and shocked. With no way of getting him out of it. Hermione had knelt by his side, her fists opening and closing, desperate to help, wanting to shake him, but her touching him had seemed to have started the entire thing. So all she could do was hover; watch and listen as he completely broke apart.

Finally, his shaking had calmed a tad and he had whispered a slew of words over and over again, so quietly that she’d had to bend closer to hear him. And once she’d understood, she had said the words back to him. The effect had been immediate. His head turning toward her, his trembles dying slowly. Until Malfoy had actually began speaking.

Letting out a long breath, Hermione looked at him. Once every few seconds, he would shiver and mumble something. Malfoy had cradled his knees to his chest, one arm folded around his shins and the other was busy running over his right shoulder and the scar marring it. He rocked back and forth softly, the knuckles on his hand white where he gripped his lower leg. His head hung low, his brow on his knees and the broad expanse of his chest widened erratically with his rough breaths while his shoulders rose and fell in tandem.

With no idea how long they had remained like that, how long this episode of him had lasted, Hermione felt the cold creep into her skin. She stood, her joints cracking, making Malfoy flinch. As silently as she could, Hermione walked over to her dress and got out the wand she had stowed away in a hidden pocket.

With a few spells, she tidied up the room and then floated two logs from a metal basket next to the hearth into the, by now, low-burning fire. She grimaced at her knickers, deciding not to put them back on and tugged the throw-blanket from the bed.

Malfoy had to be cold.

“I’m going to put a blanket around you, alright?” she asked softly.

“Am fine,” Malfoy rasped, continuing to run his hand over his shoulder with heartbreaking gentleness.

“Yes. Right. I don’t care,” Hermione said. “You’ll freeze your nuts off if you continue to sit like that. So either, you lean forward so I can get this around you, or you get into the bed.”

He let out a sigh, but his back rounded as he pushed off from the wall. Hermione quickly draped the blanket around his shoulders and closed the outrageously large thing over his legs. She used a sticking charm to keep the ends from opening because she didn’t want to tuck them between his knees, not knowing how bad his aversion to touch truly was.

“What do you need?” she asked him.

His face appeared as he sank the back of his head against the wall with a soft thud. “Just…time,” he rasped. “And…”

“What? What else?”

He slowly rolled his head from side to side, his eyes closed and brow furrowed. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Hermione worried her lower lip. She would love to put on some clothes, underwear at least. Harry, Ginny and her had planned to floo her stuff over tomorrow. She took a look around the space, trying to keep her mind busy, to stem thoughts on what had just happened. There were a million questions running through her head and she would only get frustrated if she was unable to ask them. Right now, she didn’t need frustrated. Something told her Malfoy wasn’t completely out of whatever he was dealing with and it didn’t matter whether she was angry, confused, or hurt by him. He needed help right now.

Two doors, other than the one they had entered through, garnered her attention. The one behind the bed led to a beautiful bathroom and Hermione wished desperately she could soak in the tub, letting her thoughts roam, frustration be damned.

After closing the door, she walked over to the other one, to the left of the hearth. It opened to a large walk-in closet. When she stepped inside, Malfoy’s scent hit her, almost overwhelming in its intensity. She liked his smell. For a second, she stood and breathed in deep, trying to grapple with her current situation, feeling stupid the next second. Shaking her head at herself, Hermione rummaged through his clothes, drawing on a pair of his briefs and an incredibly soft pajama. She had to fold the sleeves and trunks several times but the fabric felt incredible.

A loud thump had her jumping. Then another. Hermione quickly snatched some briefs and another pajama for Malfoy, then stormed outside.

Malfoy sat where she’d left him. But his face was a mask of pain and fear, as he slammed the back of his head against the wall. Over and over.

“Stop. Malfoy, cut it out,” she hissed as she hurried over to him. She dropped his clothes next to him and sank into a crouch, faced with the same problem as before. She could not shake him, or offer a supportive touch. There was something she did know, though.

“Think about the lake, Malfoy,” she said, scooching closer. “Smell the water, hear the crickets in the grass, feel the grass beneath your fingers.”

His nostrils flared and the thumping stopped. “Night-blooming flowers.”

“Yes. Exactly. Can you smell them?”

His lids slid open. Steel-grey. Shuttered. “You… You smell like them,” he said.

Hermione swallowed, unsure what to do with that piece of information. Was he even aware he’d just said that? She didn’t know much about occlusion or legilimency, so there was no way of telling how present he was while doing it.

“Malfoy.”

“Hmm?”

“What else can I do?” she asked.

He blinked and the shutters rose. It was extraordinary to watch. The steel-grey swapping to something lighter, to an almost silver color. Framed by dark lashes, he truly had devastating eyes.

“You said there was something else, or you wanted to,” Hermione said. “What else can I do?”

Malfoy’s somewhat clear gaze roamed over her in his pajamas. “It seems to help when you talk,” he divulged. “And when… When you are close.”

Hermione nodded once, got another blanket from the bed and sat down next to him, mirroring his position with the blanket around her shoulders.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked, hopeful to have a few of her questions answered.

“Nothing. Anything.” His head sank back down and he trembled. “Nothing important. Just tell me something. Your voice…it helps. It keeps me here.”

Frowning, Hermione stretched out her legs. Something unimportant. A small smile crept over her lips. She knew exactly what she could tell him. In a soft voice, she began talking, telling Malfoy about Crookshanks. About how she had found him in a menagerie, unkempt and underfed, and how she had bought him and they had become friends. She told him of how he had gotten used to Hogwarts, following her everywhere at first and getting more and more confident over time. Until he turned into the half-Kneazle he was now. Irritable, a certifiable king of his domain, and a cheeky flirt.

As they sat together, her voice washing over him, Malfoy calmed further. His tremors vanished entirely after a while and his breathing became steady. Hermione dreaded and welcomed this in equal measure. For it meant they would be able to talk soon. It also meant they had to talk soon. And she had no idea what it would bring. All she knew—or began to understand—was that she had no idea who the man next to her was. Who had she married?

Malfoy let out a long sigh, scrubbed his palms over his face and sat up. “I’m ready,” he declared.

Hermione looked at him, her head tilted. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m all for talking this out, but you just…” She bit down on her lower lip. “I can’t even imagine what you just went through, it was awful to witness.”

In truth, Hermione had taken one look at him and had known that nothing else mattered in that moment. He hadn’t been Malfoy, her husband, someone who made her livid and… Well, she wasn’t going there right now. All she had seen was a person haunted, tortured, in need of help.

He nodded grimly, his eyes far away. “Trust me, it was even worse in my head.” His voice was a low rumble and Hermione was unsure whether he had truly said them to her or himself. “It should not have happened. I…” His brows drew together, creating a sharp line between them. “I should have told you. I wanted to.” A mirthless chuckle broke from him. “But I was too much of a coward. I didn’t want to come off as… Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to go into detail, Malfoy. All I need to know is whether or not it was because of me specifically.” The thought sent a strange emotion through her. Was it possible to hate so deeply that a simple touch sent someone into such turmoil? She couldn’t believe it. Besides, he’d had no problems touching her. A slight blush prickled up her neck. Gods, the way he had touched her. The words he’d said. His eyes, dark as thunderclouds, watching her, holding her hostage with a burning intensity as she unraveled.

Hermione frowned, beating back that train of thought. She still needed to know.

“It has nothing to do with you, Granger,” Malfoy said. “My own mother can’t touch me more than a few seconds before it becomes unbearable.”

Something clicked firmly into place for her. “That’s why you occluded during our vows. Why you didn’t want to dance. And it’s also why you restrained my hands.”

His lips paled as he pressed them together. “Yeah. Touch is…difficult for me.”

The words ‘I have my own problems with it’ suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Well, a different kind of sense. “I thought… I thought it was because I disgust you. Being a Mudblood and—”

Malfoy drew his blanket closer around himself. “Please don’t use that word, Granger. I haven’t. Not since that night at the manor. It is vile. And I never should have said it to you in the first place.” He turned his head to face her. “I told you; you don’t disgust me. Your actions do.”

And there it was. What he had said earlier. It made a sudden spike of anger pinch her chest. “Ah, yes. I would like to know why you’d think I slept with Ron last night,” Hermione said with a cocked brow. “And why on earth you would think I’d continue to do so.”

Malfoy scoffed. “I saw you. Dancing and laughing. His hand nearly on your arse… Then he came by to tell me all about it. In a few choice words. Told me you were in love and had decided to give it another go.”

The story was so outrageous that Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle. “That… That is a load of horseshit. I can’t… No. Not possible. You’re lying, Malfoy.”

His eyes grew darker as he glared. “Why would I lie about that? If anyone, you’d be the one lying.”

“Are you fucking serious right now? You—the person who apparently heard this wild tale and decided; yes, I’ll believe that—are accusing me of lying? You could have asked the minute he told you, if he even really told you, which I do not believe.” Hermione scowled at him. “Why didn’t you ask?”

He rolled his eyes. “And you would have told me the truth? Like you’re doing now?”

“Yes! You utterly gormless twit. Of course I would have.” She threw her hands in the air, her anger rising steadily. “But you just decided to scare me, belittle me and try to fuck me all while being angry? While knowing what touch can do to you? Are you insane? Did you leave your bloody brain behind at Nott Manor?”

His face grew pinched. “I’m in control when I’m angry. You were in no danger.”

Hermione sprang to her feet, rolling up her blanket. “Oh, yes, I saw how in control you were.” She pressed her lips together and threw the blanket onto the bed.

“If you hadn’t touched me, none of this would have happened.”

Rounding on him, Hermione balled her fists. “Excuse me? I should have just let you throw nonsense allegations my way—including possessive drivel—and what? Lie back and think of England?”

He let his head sink, his cheeks pinkening. “Would have meant we’d have it behind us,” he mumbled.

“What was that?” Hermione asked, hoping to Merlin she’d misheard him.

“I’m very sorry to inform you, Granger,” Malfoy seethed as he got to his feet as well, still looking flushed, the blanket falling away to leave him naked. “But if you truly want to stay married to me, for whatever reason that may be, we’ll have to redo the fucking part.”

Her eyes widened as they were drawn to his body, running along each dip of muscle and every stretch of alabaster skin. Hermione blinked when his words registered in her mind. “Are you serious? But we… I…” She let out a defeated grunt. “We shagged.”

“We did. But in order for the bond to fully form there has to be ‘mutual completion’.” Malfoy tilted his head, his face a mask of arrogance. “Looks like my father left out that little detail, didn’t he? How did that conversation go, anyway?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” Hermione spat.

His smirk was void of humor as he stood before her, his hair falling into his face making him look annoyingly good. “Yeah. I wager it was quite the talk.” Malfoy huffed, glanced down at the pile of clothes Hermione had brought for him, then looked at the bed. “It’s late, Granger. You can either get into the bed and we try for round two, or let me sleep. As charming as it is being snapped at and called names by you, I am exhausted.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth a few times, outraged. “You… How… I have never…”

Malfoy clicked his tongue. “It would help if you spoke in whole sentences, Granger. This stuttering business really hinders any form of communication.”

Her fists clenched and she almost growled at him. “You poncy piece of—”

He held up a hand. “Enough with the name-calling, remember?”

Feeling her face flush, Hermione hoisted her worst glare onto her features. “I am not sleeping with you until we resolve a few things.”

Malfoy nodded, bent over to retrieve his briefs and drew them on. “Good decision. Not that we’ll be able to resolve anything before tomorrow night, but you can certainly try, darling wife.”

“You’re putting all of this on me?” Hermione asked, her voice shrill.

Looking unimpressed, Malfoy dragged his blanket with him to in front of the fire-place. “I am not the one who needs the moral high ground in order to fuck, Granger.” He went back and threw a few pillows from the bed down. “We won’t resolve this trust-divide in one day.” Malfoy retrieved his wand from where Hermione had sent it to the bedside table and floated his unused pajama’s back into the closet.

“I don’t have to trust you, Malfoy,” Hermione fumed. “And I most certainly don’t bloody care about any moral high grounds. I only have to know a few things and I will not risk you being angry at me again. And, for the love of Merlin, what are you doing?”

“Building a bed. I can’t sleep on a mattress after an episode. Too soft. Makes me feel suffocated.” He grimaced and the words had come choked, as if he’d rather not have said them.

His words stung, carrying the weight of something profoundly off. Hermione hoped, desperately, that her instincts were mistaken, but it seemed as though her new husband was traumatized in more ways than one.

Pulling at the faux-fur blanket, Malfoy draped it over the small cot he’d made on the floor. “When it comes to the rest; trust me, Gran – Hah.” He smirked sourly to himself. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I was truthful when I said that I’m in better control while angry. The only problem was touch.” He hung his head and sighed. “Coincidentally, I’m really tired. And while I don’t think we’ll come to an understanding in the allotted time, meaning we will have to make do with this mess and fuck despite it, I am not in any state to discuss it further right now. You’ll come to the same conclusion eventually, Granger.” His grey eyes, light as silver, found her and in that moment, she saw everything drain away from him. The arrogance, the anger, the sneer. He looked tired and—for lack of a better word—brittle. Like old parchment littered with tears. Just as his episode, as he called them, had hit her, that look did the same. Against her ire and defensiveness, against her mistrust and general indignation, it reached into her chest and tugged. Tugged until she could not ignore it.

“Your room is one door to the right,” he said softly.

“This is your room, then?” she asked, thinking.

Malfoy nodded once. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate being reminded of our consummation every night.” A strange half-smirk half-grimace tinged his lips, but was gone the next second.

That surprising avowal to taking her feelings into consideration made the tugging sensation inside her chest grow into nothing short of a yank. Hermione gulped down a large breath and strode toward his bed. She hopped inside and wound herself under the blanket, placing her wand under her pillow.

Malfoy watched her with round eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Well, you’re not using your bed, so you won’t accidentally touch me and when I had panic-attacks, I used to have nightmares after. Or wake in the throes of the next attack. This way I’m close and can talk you out of it, if you need it.”

His throat clicked on a swallow. “Why would you do that?”

Hermione glared at him. “Because I can and because you need it.” She shook her head when he opened his mouth. “Save it. There is no place here for wounded and misplaced pride. I promise not to hex you in your sleep and would welcome the same. Now go, get ready for bed. I’ll use the bathroom when you’re done.”

Malfoy looked her over for a few long seconds, then he rolled back his shoulders, his mask of indifference halfway in place again. But he said nothing as he got ready for bed.

Hermione lay awake, listening to the even breaths of Malfoy—her husband—her eyes following the flickering shadow cast against the wall by her own form and the candles and fire. She lifted a foot and watched the shadow change.

It was all such a mess. A knot of feelings churned and coiled in her belly, too many to make sense of, while thought after thought bounded through her head, making sleep something elusive.

With a huff, Hermione turned onto her back, her hands winding through her curls. Her frown set, Hermione decided to address one thing at a time to unwind the mess facing her.

Firstly; she needed the marital bond to form, as apparently did he. It was made evident by how he had been willing to try again directly after coming out of his episode. Hermione shivered slightly. The thought was both exciting and jarring. On the one hand, she would not face the brunt of Malfoy’s ire again, or his untrue allegations. And while she would do anything in her power to prevent him from falling into one of those attacks, she would have to know how. That meant talking openly, in a way he surely would not want to. It was never easy to speak on one’s weaknesses. Hermione guessed this would be especially true for Malfoy. As long as she had known him, his pride had been one of the most prominent parts of his character.

On the other hand, the prospect of it happening again… Hermione bit her lip as flashes of memories riddled her mind and body with carnal heat. Now she could actually think about it. Gods, the way he’d touched her.

She had always been receptive to touch, never feeling like it had been quite enough in the past. Malfoy had blown her away. And while it too, had not been enough, the sensation his hands and fingers had stirred within her, had been nothing short of unique. Maybe it had been the added thrill of his darkened eyes watching, clearly aroused. Or his words, uttered in his deep voice, unyielding and coarse.

She wriggled a bit, her breath shortening at the memory. ‘Look at me.’ A low growl. ‘Let your hair down.’ ‘Hands above your head.’ Both orders had made her tremble. ‘I will touch you now. Objections?’ ‘I won’t hurt you, Granger.’ ‘Show me what you need.’ Careful words of coaxing instructions, reassurance, and questions. She frowned. ‘This alright? – Ready? – Pain?’ Even while livid and apparently beyond possessive, Malfoy had made sure she was fine, had taken her into account. Not only that, the orgasm he had given her had been…mind-blowing. Furthermore,  he had stopped when she’d asked. The second she’d asked. Which seemed to have been quite hard if she judged off of his expression. Drawn with something close to pain. With a hiss.

Hermione blinked at the ceiling when a damning truth slapped her upside the head like the wing of a Hippogriff. She scrunched up her nose in disbelief and sniffed for good measure. No. That could not be, but the more she sank back into memory and the atmosphere that had gripped them both…the more she came to the same conclusion.

She had never felt as seen, as desirable, and as…safe before. Not even with Ron. It had been as though she’d been the sole focus of Malfoy’s dark eyes. As if nothing else mattered, other than her pleasure. Because she had seen it. The way her reactions had him groaning, swiveling his hips, and making his breath hitch. There had been that beckoning darkness of covetousness in his gaze, but even that inspired a delicious tremble and not the outrage it should.

And when he had finally fucked her? Hermione tilted her head back and bit into her fist. Godric, it had been indescribable. The pained gentleness with which Malfoy had started, making sure she was ready and comfortable. Even asking whether she was in pain, before letting go. Oh, and let go he had. She could still feel the punishing rhythm, the slight sting on her thighs and butt, where their skin had slapped together. She could still feel him stretching her in a perfect way, reaching parts of her with an intensity that none had ever been able to before.

So no, Hermione wasn’t exactly opposed to trying again. For more than one reason, clearly. Was it a surprise? Yes. Malfoy himself had been a surprise since that very first time he had come to talk to her in her office.

As Hermione went through their interactions one by one, with all she knew now, and while operation on the theory that he was not lying to her, she had to admit that his behavior fit. He had been cordial, caring even, and he had tried. She could have stood to have made more of an effort, getting to know him better, for one. But it wasn’t like she’d had time. Between her parents, preparations, Narcissa’s letters, and the constant stream of Howlers, her head had not been in the right place. And maybe a small part of her was in denial of it really happening in the first place.

Grimacing, Hermione decided that she really needed to know whether Malfoy lied or not. While she did not believe Ron would do something so foolhardy and stupid—especially not after apologizing to her and saying he stood behind her decision—there was no way around discussing it. She did not want it to be true, damn it! Because it meant… Well, it meant one of her oldest and best friends didn’t care about her safety. Maybe he had been drunk? Said some words Malfoy had misinterpreted? Yes, that must’ve been it. Which meant Hermione needed to find out exactly what Ron had said to Malfoy, in this hypothetical scenario. And she needed a way to tell him it was a lie, without him being able to refute it.

The thing was, he should know she couldn’t be untrue to him. So why the show and words of possession? Why the need for her to say she would not betray him? Even while part of that memory was heavy with tension that had felt…wrong, part of it had her nails biting into her thigh. Gods, she hoped fucking Draco Malfoy would not awaken something in her.

Quickly, she went back to thinking on the main, and somewhat safe, topic. Why had Malfoy been so adamant on her not stepping out on their marriage? Even before the sex, he had said something along those lines. Hermione’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell,” she whispered. What if he didn’t know? Small instances came to mind, suggesting this was indeed a possibility.

Malfoy asking her why she was marrying him in the first place. In that moment, she’d thought he was maybe fishing for an underlying reason, like a secret attraction or some such bullshite. But what if he had genuinely wanted to know?

The most recent thing he’d said ‘if you truly want to stay married to me, for whatever reason that may be’, had alluded to the same notion. And if he didn’t know about the contract, what else had Lucius not told him?

Something heavy and sour swirled in the pit of her stomach. Malfoy hadn’t even known she and Lucius had been in discussions, never mind the little tidbit of her saying yes. No, the bloke had been busy fleeing the country. Hermione scoffed softly. Did that family not talk? Like at all? What the hell was up with that?

Whatever, it needed addressing and she could summon the contract from her flat tomorrow. It would take care of one of his allegations, at least. But what about the rest, especially getting Malfoy to be honest and open toward her…? A vow? Calming Draughts? Something special from Neville’s garden?

Hermione stilled when the answer surged up inside her. “Bollocks,” she breathed out. It was foolproof, but would surely need a bit of finagling or persuasion from her side. Not to mention, it being illegal. She was unsure whether Malfoy would just agree. Nibbling her lip, Hermione went ahead to lay out her plan. There was simply not enough time to do it any other way.

The night had been surprisingly quiet. Hermione was a light sleeper and she had lain awake for the better part of the early AM’s, but Malfoy had not stirred. His breathing even and normal. There had been the occasional murmurs, but nothing to worry her.

She woke to an empty room and Malfoy’s blankets neatly made up at her side. He had even laid out a soft cotton shirt and new pajama pants for her. Yawning and stretching, Hermione experimentally patted her head and discovered that a nest had formed overnight. She grimaced, felt for her wand under her pillow and padded into the ensuite. A quick tooth-cleaning charm and a washed face later, she felt better. When Hermione rummaged through the cabinets and drawers, she had to bite back a grin at the sheer endless number of expensive-sounding products she found. Malfoy had more hair-care shite than she did. Including Sleekeazy. What the hell?

Frowning, Hermione worked a few drops of the stuff into her fingertips and threaded them into her curls, feeling the effect immediately. The nest was soon unraveled. Why would posh-haired Malfoy need Sleekeazy? It wasn’t like he had curls, right? The thought alone had her chuckling at her mirror image. Imagining Malfoy sporting tight blond ringlets was too much. Especially after the strenuous few days she’d had. Oh, piss it. The last years had been much of the same; only culminating in the disaster that was her life right now.

Unknown to her own parents, married to her childhood bully, whom she had to coax into divulging truth, in order to be able to bed him again. Hermione stared at herself, the chuckles petering out and the smile sliding from her lips. What a mess.

With quick and practiced movements, Hermione plated her hair into a loose braid that she twisted into a bun, before sticking her wand through it. This took a few tries, because of the heaviness of her hair, but eventually, she could let go without the precarious construction toppling.

Satisfied, she used the loo and then dressed into the new clothes. She really should have at least packed an overnight bag. Hermione felt almost disappointed in herself. She, who had carried practically everything everywhere during the war, in a handbag. Where had her head been at during the last day?

Speaking of which, Hermione cursed, plucked her wand from her hair and sent a Patronus to Harry, telling him she would move her stuff the next day and that she would need him to take care of Crooks one more night. Hermione wanted her stuff with her, especially Crookshanks, but she could not afford distractions during the day. That being established, she’d need to get her trusty beaded bag from her flat for her plan to work.

Nodding to herself and while winding the wand back into its makeshift holster, Hermione gathered her courage and went to look for her new husband.

The house was eerily quiet and her naked feet squeaked on the newly polished parquet as she traversed the hallway that led to the stairs. Once Hermione had reached those, she sniffed, smelling coffee. Delighting in the silly little notion of being like Gandalf and ‘following her nose, when in doubt’, Hermione shook her head and did just that. The rooms she passed were all held in light tones and seemed as comfortable and tastefully furnished as Malfoy’s room was. It was a tad strange at how warm everything felt when she thought back on what she remembered from Malfoy Manor. Even Nott Manor held a similar gothic gloom. Something that made one feel cold, no matter how many fires were lit.

But here? The wooden and reddishly-tiled floors gave off an air of welcome, while the color scheme of the walls and furniture was inviting, more than off-putting. Thank Merlin there were no pale ancestors sneering down at her. The only art hanging on the walls were stills of landscapes, perfectly adding to the color balance.

After taking a wrong turn and walking into what looked like a dining room with a large table and glass-doors leading outside, Hermione headed through an archway to the left and found herself in a spectacular living space. The floor creaked softly beneath her feet; the wood ancient-looking and smooth against her soles. An absolutely humungous fireplace of grey stone sat to one side and a large set of sofas was arranged around it. An arched window allowed an unobstructed view into the garden. It looked and felt…cozy. Hermione could only imagine the family get-together’s that had to have been celebrated here. Maybe the Malfoy’s had used it as a vacation home, for holidays?

She shook her head slowly and followed her nose and the soft clinking sound of a cup being stirred. Through a much smaller dining-space, that was connected to the kitchen, Hermione found Malfoy.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, his butt leaned against the island, while he sipped coffee from a mug. Even this early, his clothes looked impeccable. A black, button-down shirt with the sleeves folded halfway up his forearms and what looked like dark-blue chinos adorned him. His hair seemed to be damp and one unruly strand had taken it upon itself to dangle down his forehead and tickle the top of his left cheekbone. Malfoy looked utterly edible as he swallowed down his sip and his grey eyes found her.

The only thing telling of his episode from the night before was a firm strain around his lips and the corners of his eyes. He looked very controlled.

“Morning, Granger,” he drawled. “Coffee?”

“Morning. And yes, please.” Hermione hopped onto one of the chairs that lined the island on the opposite side form him as Malfoy Accioed a mug on the counter beneath the bay-window into his outstretched hand. He slid it over to her and floated the coffeepot, milk and sugar her way.

Hermione smiled softly in thanks as she busied herself with pouring her coffee. Malfoy watched her the entire time and she felt a slight blush prickle up her nape at the perusal. His gaze was… It was like a touch. She was sure she would be able to feel it if she had her back turned.

Wriggling her nose, Hermione shelved any self-conscious nonsense, stirred her drink and took a sip. She sighed, closed her eyes for a second to relish the taste, then snapped her lids open to look at her new husband. It was time for action.

“I have an idea,” she announced.

One of his brows shot up. “Is that so?” he asked, taking another sip.

Hermione curled her toes around the metal rung of her stool, letting the cool metal settle against her skin. “Well, I need this marriage and it seems like you do too. Which means we’ll have to have sex again. However, I will not risk it while you believe I have betrayed you, or while I think you are lying to me, or when I have no idea how or where to touch/not touch you. I want there to be honesty and transparency between us before anything happens.”

Malfoy huffed out a chuckle. “Yeah, we’ve been over this, Granger. I don’t see us resolving this before the day is out.”

Tapping her big toe a few times, Hermione scrutinized him. “If there was a way, would you be willing to try?”

Watching him this closely, she didn’t miss the slight bob of his Adam’s apple, or how he hid a scowl behind his mug a second later. “I might be. Depends on your plan. And what all we would be discussing.”

“There would be rules, obviously,” Hermione said. “I’ll need to go to my flat for a few minutes, to get a couple of spare clothes and a few things that might help. Can I use your floo?”

Malfoy slightly rolled his eyes. “My floo is your floo, Granger. Need any help?”

Hermione nearly choked on her coffee. She coughed a few times and shook her head. Somehow, the thought of Malfoy seeing her dodgy little flat sounded like a very bad idea. Not that she was ashamed of it, but would he— Hermione frowned at herself. Did she care what he thought? Or was it simply that she was afraid of belittlement?

She pushed the debate from her mind. It wasn’t relevant.

“No, thank you. I’ll only be gone for a few. If you want, you could make a list of things you want to ask me.” By how stoic his face stayed, Hermione had no idea whether Malfoy would act on her advice. She also had no idea whether he would even agree to her plan. It was quite bold, and still illegal.

She nodded at him, downed her coffee and hopped from her stool to find the grand fireplace she had passed on her way there. If it was any fireplace in this house, that huge thing had to be connected to the floo network.

Draco

“Have you lost your brilliant mind while out and about, Granger?” Draco stared at his darling wife, who had clearly lost the plot. Completely. Absolutely. Irretrievably.

She had gotten back a few minutes ago, her clothes changed and with nothing but a small, beaded bag in tow.

He pointed at the little flask with clear liquid she had placed on the table, while looking at him as if she expected him to jump with joy at the prospect of getting locked up.

“That’s Veritaserum.”

“Oh, very good! Ten points to Slytherin. I didn’t think I needed the obvious stated.”

Draco scowled at her. “There is no need to get snarky, Granger.”

She pursed her lips, looking as though she was stifling a laugh. “There should always be room and need for snark, Malfoy.” Then she grinned, her brown eyes shining with enthusiasm as she pointed at the vial. “Brilliant, isn’t it? Means neither of us can lie.”

“It’s also illegal. Not to mention strictly regulated. Care to explain where you even got it? Or do I not want to know?”

Granger shrugged, looking unperturbed. “I’ve had this since before the war. And I won’t tell anyone we used it if you won’t.” She bit into her lower lip and furrowed her brows as she stared at the small vial. “It is the only thing I could think of that would allow us to figure out our situation. In a timely manner, that is.” She tilted her head, looking like an eagle about to strike. “But we don’t have to use it. Obviously. If you are willing to believe my version of events and tell me yours. I’d also agree to a vow of truth.” She leaned forward, her arms crossed. “An unbreakable one.”

Draco smirked and shook his head. A vow of truth would be infinitely worse. Veritaserum could be countered and tricked, it also wouldn’t kill you if you prevented yourself from talking. Hermione Gran—Malfoy was one devious little chit.

“You seriously believe I’d agree to that?” Draco asked. “Salazar, you shouldn’t agree to that. Unbreakable vows are tricky in the best and impeccably worded cases.”

Granger cocked a brow, placed her index finger against the vial and prodded it across the table. “Makes this look rather good in comparison, doesn’t it?”

Sighing, Draco sank down into one of the chairs surrounding the small dining table. It seated six and was adjacent to the kitchen; meant for more intimate family meals that weren’t being hosted in the dining hall. The white chairs with the mint-colored upholstery and the wooden table weren’t new, and while Blaise had wanted to renew the table, because of a groove, Draco had decided against it. It fit the room nicely and added to the homey and comfortable feel.

“If it’s so important to you, fine. I’ll indulge in this illegal nonsense,” Draco said. “Supplied that we have a few rules we discuss beforehand.”

“Excuse you, Malfoy,” Granger said with a haughty sniff. “But weren’t you the one growling possessive shite at me and demanding my loyalty?” She pointed at the vial. “This will give you certainty. I would say it’s a shame that we can’t trust each other enough to simply talk, but I think given our history, it isn’t a surprise.”

“No. What would be a surprise, is if we both lied. Then what? I mean, doesn’t agreeing or suggesting this already prove that neither of us has anything to hide?” Draco laced his fingers, leaned his chin his knuckles, and let his gaze roam over her.

“Hah! That is exactly what someone would say who lied, in order to manipulate the other into believing them.” In a most curious move, she wriggled her nose, then crinkled it. The sheer number of expressions flitting across her features was truly stunning.

Granger was like an open book and for a second Draco wasn’t so sure about what Weasley had told him. Was Granger even capable of lying? He didn’t know her well enough and that was the problem, but somehow, Draco was leaned rather more in the direction of thinking Granger was an utterly rubbish liar. Now that he was calm and not directly influenced by Weasley’s shite, Draco actually felt like crap for how he’d believed it right away and accused her of it being true without asking or having a discussion about it. No wonder she didn’t feel safe enough around him to let him physically close again. And it wouldn’t hurt for him to be sure either.

“I’d say, rather safe than sorry, right?” Granger mused, as if she had read his thoughts. “Now, you wanted rules, so here goes.”

“Naturally you’ve thought of some already,” Draco scoffed.

She ignored his jab, plonked down and pulled her wand from her nest of hair. Immediately, her curls bounced around her shoulders in soft tendrils. Granger set the wand down on the table gently. “In fact, I did. We both drink, then ask our questions alternatingly. The questions should be posed in such a way that we can decline to answer if needed. For example, if it concerns someone else whose trust we would betray by answering or something similar. We can also silence ourselves from answering by either using magic,” she lightly touched the wand at her side, “or by covering our mouths.” Granger looked him over for a second, her eyes narrow. “We should stay on topic and not misuse this opportunity. Ask what you need to know, not what you want, or what you think would hurt me most, and I will give you the same curtesy.”

Draco pressed his lips together, but nodded. He couldn’t fault her for addressing the possible abuse of the situation. It had never been the plan for him though. Generally, he planned to be as open as possible from the very start of this entire thing, knowing there was no choice for her but to do the same now was…good. And if he truly needed to lie, he still could. Being an Occlumens meant he could trick his mind into swapping a truth for a lie. It was also not something he planned on, but it was calming to know the option was there.

“I’m fine with all of it, Granger,” Draco said, got out his own wand and placed it to his left on the table. “I would also say we’d best do it right now, so we have time to deal with whatever outcome we are left with.”

“Neat,” Granger said, hoisted her small, beaded bag onto the table, before diving her hand all the way inside, until her arm was gone. She frowned as she rooted around, the sound of rustling and clinking filling the air.

Draco blinked as she grumbled something, then her brows shot up and she extricated her arm from the bowels of the clearly bewitched handbag. With a satisfied expression she placed two vials of Calming Draught on the table.

“Tea?” she asked.

Staring at the Calming Draughts, Draco cleared his throat. “What are those for?”

A look that could only be described as falsely docile, settled on Granger’s face and she batted her lashes. “Well, I know you are an Occlumens, Malfoy. Did you really think I wouldn’t take precautions? Don’t worry, though, I’ll be taking one of the Draughts. Fair is fair.”

A stricken sound fought itself up his throat as Granger rose, skipped into the kitchen and began making some tea. The effect of a Calming Draught would soothe him to the point of his mind being lulled into safety. Meaning he would probably not be able to use his Occlumency for a lie, if he needed to.

He huffed. Clever witch. Deviously smart and inventive. Draco was surprised that no one had thought to do this before; use a Calming Draught in combination with Veritaserum. Draco knew the feeling of both and he could say with a high level of certainty, that it was bound to work as intended.

A few minutes later and with two steaming mugs of Earl Grey in front of them, they sat together, the tension slowly seeping back that had been nearly gone during their talk leading up to it. To his surprise, Draco’d even had a bit of fun with Granger’s antics.

Now, she looked apprehensive, her lips thinned and her fingers knotting into a strand of her hair, pulling and twisting it. “Ready?” Granger asked, her eyes of amber fire hitting him.

“Ready.”

They both drank the Calming Draught, then Granger dripped a couple of drops into each of their teas.

Draco felt the warmth and soothing nature of the draught spread down his chest and through his belly, seeping into him as though he were a sponge. A slow smile adamantly tried to take up space on his lips but Draco denied it. He did relish the uncoiling of nerves in his gut, however. Which were always there, no matter how calm he felt.

What Draco had been unprepared for, was how much Granger’s face changed. Apparently there had been a strain around her eyes that softened and opened them even more which he had not been aware of. Her lips slid into a serene smile and her face generally softened. It was a jarring sight. Even lovelier than before. Draco inwardly cursed. He had already known she was the most stunning and receptive woman he’d ever been with and she was his wife. With no idea what to do with those thoughts, he pushed them away and drank his tea at the same moment Granger did.

There was nothing but the soothing calm from before, but Draco knew the Veritaserum would already be working. And for a second, he wasn’t sure this was such a good idea, but then Granger cleared her throat and gazed at him openly. Draco tried shaking off the wonder drifting through him at the sight.

“Did you sleep with Weasley a night before our wedding?” he asked promptly.

Granger’s lips twisted into a grimace and Draco suddenly felt his breath hitch as he leaned forward.

“No. Ron was at my flat, drunk as a skunk, trying to get me to reconsider marrying you. He said all sorts of deranged shite, before I threw him out. He even—” Granger clapped her hands before her mouth and screwed her eyes shut. A muffled sound came from behind her hands and she eyed her wand longingly. Draco quickly silenced her and watched as she slowly took her hands away, her mouth moving rapidly without a sound. Once it was over, she nodded at him and he undid the charm.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” Granger said. “It wasn’t something that bears repeating. Just know that nothing happened. Of course I slept with him, but that was when we were together, a year ago. And even then it wasn’t—” She rolled her eyes and clapped her palms to her lips again.

Draco chuckled, silenced her and waited. Once her rant was over, he unsilenced her and Granger smacked her lips with a frown.

“Bloody hell, that stuff is potent.”

“Maybe you’re just a chatterbox, Granger. And now, uninhibited.” He smirked and was met with a scoff.

“Let’s see then, oh stoic wonder of self-control,” Granger said. “What exactly did Ronald tell you at our wedding?”

“He called me a Death Eater and said you only married me for one reason alone and it had nothing to do with me as a person. He continued on with how I didn’t deserve you—which, mind you, I agree with—and then the idiot told me that he was ‘inside of you’ the night before.” Draco reeled to get some breath into his lungs as the words spilled from him as if he was a human waterfall. It was similar to being in one of his word-vomits during therapy, only more. In every way. As if it was the easiest thing in the world saying all of it. As if he had to. The same way he had to breathe.

“He said I might be the one who married you, but he was the one you loved. He said you were together, had decided on giving it another go after the night before. Went on about how much he knew what you loved and what made you scream.” Another deep breath. “Then he detailed my shortcomings when it comes to you. How I was a real arse in our youth and how I’m still vile and could never make you happy. Said I’d never have a chance against him since he has been your friend and lover for so many years and that to me you’re just a Mu—” This time, Draco clapped his hand to his mouth. His left shot out to reach for his wand, but Granger had already silenced him and he nodded in thanks as the words kept spilling from him in a rush of air.

When his lips finally stilled, he felt the spell lifting and looked at Granger for the first time. She seemed caught between the effects of the draught and sheer fury where it concerned the Weasel, which Draco fully understood. A thought sailed through him and he nearly growled.

“So if I didn’t lie and you didn’t either… That means Weasley fully intended chaos with what he said. And him thinking I am evil and vile, while riling me up against you, means he thought you’d probably suffer the consequences of his words…” Bitter wrath snaked into his chest and Draco was at a loss for words, which was curious, as he could have yelled quite a few of them.

“Yes.” Granger looked livid and sad at the same time. “It means he doesn’t care about me or my safety. He probably thought I’d see you for ‘who you are’ and come running back to him or my friends, after you did something terrible to me.” She shook her head and bit into her lower lip. “I didn’t want to believe it. I truly…” Her face rose and her eyes of amber fire found him. They narrowed. “But you were considerate. Even cold and angry, you made sure to not hurt me. You went out of your way to have me ready and—” She grabbed her wand and swished it, her brows furrowed in annoyance. Once whatever she said was lost to silence, Granger undid her spell.

“I mean really, something has to be wrong with this stuff.” She picked up the vial and looked it over, as if it would divulge its secrets to her.

“I think it best we talk about the ramifications of it all once we aren’t under the influence anymore, Granger,” Draco said. “Stick to questions that need answering for now.”

“Agreed.” Granger set the vial back down, her smile well and truly gone now. “Your turn, Malfoy.”

“Will you tell me why you married me, Granger?” Draco asked. While he had asked this before, he had never gotten an answer that made sense to him. Her admission to not having slept with the Weasel had loosened something inside of him, made some hardened part of him crumble away and into dust. It was relief, coupled to the potent sense of covetousness he felt toward her. Which strangely had nothing to do with Granger as such, but with the fact that she was his. But this question? The why of it all? Draco somehow knew it would answer many things for him. Good or bad was yet to be determined. And while the Weasel’s antics left him simmering with anger, Draco was excited to know the answer to this particular question.

Granger visibly bit into her cheek. She plucked a set of documents from her bag and slid them across the table. “I think it’s better if you see for yourself. After we are done with the questions. If I am right and you had no idea, then you’ll want a bit of time to go through it.”

Draco cocked a brow at her. “What is this?” he asked and pulled the file closer to himself.

“The contract I signed when I agreed to marry you,” Granger said. “I was always under the impression you knew and agreed to everything inside, but it occurred to me last night that you might not. If you did, you would know I am unable to be unfaithful to you.” A wry smirk flashed across her face. “There is a fidelity clause tied to me and the contract would automatically dissolve if something of that nature would be sensed.”

“Contract?” Draco asked, his fingers itching to open the folder and take a look. But maybe she was right and they should finish their questions.

Her face fell as her suspicion of him not knowing was confirmed. “Yes. I promise I’ll go through it with you after this. In detail. But it will be time-consuming and if you didn’t know about it, some of it might come as a shock.” Granger hung her head. “To answer your question; it boils down to my parents. I Obliviated myself from their minds and promised to heal them after the war. I have been trying ever since but the therapy is expensive. Your father made me an offer I simply could not refuse.” She balled her fists on the table a few times, looking stricken. “It’s all in the contract. But yeah, that’s it. That’s why. Money and a type of influence I don’t have.”

Draco smoothed one palm over the file. “You weren’t lying then? In your office. When I asked why you said yes?”

Granger chuckled drily. “I haven’t lied to you once since seeing you again, Malfoy. And I don’t intend to start now. I want this marriage to be agreeable, to have a basis of mutual understanding and respect. If that is something you could come to want as well, I’d be…” She swallowed hard. “I’d be very grateful. I simply can’t deal with more hardships. It might be careless to tell you this and thus giving you power, but I truly want peace with you. Please don’t make this harder than it already is. Talk to me instead of going cold and angry.”

He gave her a nod. “It’s what I want too,” Draco admitted. The simple fact that she was being truthful filled him with an untold feeling. It was a strange expansion of pressure in his chest that left him weightless. This was what he had wanted ever since coming to terms with marrying her. Agreeability. Mutual respect and something cordial and peaceful.

“In truth, all I want is for us to not be miserable with each other,” he said. “And also, I’m truly sorry about your parents.”

Granger nodded in acknowledgement. “Ready for my final question?” she asked, lacing her fingers, making the golden lines on her right hand shimmer softly.

“Do your worst,” Draco said and folded his arms while leaning back.

She blew out a breath through puffed-up cheeks. “Since we have to have sex again, can you tell me how to make it more…bearable for you? Or what I can do to make it easier?”

The question slammed into him like a bludger. Draco had expected a great many things, but not this. His mind was reeling to catch up, while his lips began to move, spilling out words he had not agreed to.

“Any form of surprising touch would be triggering for me. If you give me time, or tell me where you are about to touch, I can prepare myself. Best would be no touch at all, to be safe. If that is fine with you. Gods, that sounds bad. It’s not like I don’t—”

Finally his mind had caught up and Draco silenced himself with a quick move. He had wanted to touch her so badly, even after the episode. When she had sat beside him, talking. Draco remembered her voice and scent enveloping him to a degree of reassurance he had never felt before. The way she had cared and been there… It still boggled his mind.

Draco couldn’t say what Granger had talked about, all that he knew was how he had wanted to lean closer to her warmth and kindness. If he could have, he would have wound his entire body around hers, placed his head in her lap. But just like with the more sensual parts of his desires, he was unable to do so.

And, Salazar, had those desires been strong.

He felt his cheeks redden as he looked Granger’s way, who was blushing as well, but she stared down at her hands in her lap, worrying her lower lip.

Draco unsilenced himself, needing to clear up something. Now that his mind wasn’t caught in limbo, he was able to articulate what he meant better. “Granger, look at me,” he rasped.

When she did, her expression was one of discomfort and shame.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking right now, but I will bare myself in case you need it, and I will trust you not to use it against me. Just as you have before. My response to touch is linked to severe trauma.” Draco rolled his eyes. “At least that is what my therapist says. It matters little whose it is, if I’m surprised, I can react with an episode where I slide into a memory and get stuck. Mostly it’s just extreme discomfort and I’m unable to keep the connection for long. That being said, I wanted to touch you last night.”

Granger’s lips quirked into something singular. A shy smile. “Y-you did?”

Draco nodded. “While I know that we both would never have chosen this, I wanted you and I think it was noticeable. I was angry and it helped me stay in control. Even so, I wanted you closer, wanted to kiss you. So please understand that it didn’t happen not because I didn’t want it or see you as less than; it’s because I quite simply can’t. I don’t know what will happen if I do.” He huffed out a breath, knowing that the last of the Veritaserum had left him as the pressure to talk was gone, curiously, Draco felt he wanted to continue. “So to answer your question; the safest option would be to do it the same way as last night. If you do feel the need or have the wish to touch, ask first and give me time to agree.”

“It was…” Granger shifted on her chair. “It was strange, with so little closeness, but I did…” She looked at him squarely, her cheeks flaming red, but her eyes burning with intensity. “I enjoyed it. A lot more than I would have thought. I do not see it being a hardship to repeat it, never mind what I alluded to last night. I just don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, and while I need this bond, I will not coerce you into anything, Malfoy.”

Draco leaned forward in his seat, feeling a wave of heat run down his spine at her words. Hadn’t he almost lamented he’d only get to fuck his wife one time? Well, the term ‘take heed of your wishes’ came to mind. “Trust me, Granger, it wasn’t a hardship for me either.” His smirk was answered with another one of those adorably shy smiles, before her eyes landed on the file at his side and she groaned.

“We’ll see how you feel once you read the contract,” Granger griped. “I haggled quite thoroughly with your father, but some of it may surprise and shock you. I can only hope you’ll still go through with this afterwards. Once I thought of the possibility that you didn’t know, I felt like I had to show you before…”

Draco grinned darkly. “Before we are truly tied to one another?”

Granger dipped her chin in affirmation. She rose from her seat and gathered the mugs and flasks from the table.

“Granger, I happen to need this bond as much as you do. Even if I have a panic attack after reading this, I promise to do my…husbandly duties later. You can always feed me another Calming Draught when the time comes.”

She stopped; her hand outstretched. “No, Malfoy. I don’t… That is not…”

“Relax, Granger.” Draco waved her off, disquieted by her worried expression. “I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”

“If it is, we’re not doing it,” she said firmly. Her features having reverted back to that slightly strained version Draco had come to know as normal. Somehow, it made something in his gut twinge.

“I’ll make more tea,” Granger suggested. “And maybe something to eat?”

Draco nodded and got up. He picked up the contract and followed her into the kitchen to sit down at the island. “That sounds great. Mind if I join you to read this?”

She glared at the file, but shrugged. “Not at all. I’m sure you’ll have questions.”

He sat down on one of the stools and filled his lungs with a deep inhale. The contract filled him with dread and as he opened the folder, Draco steeled himself inwardly. He had to remember one thing; no matter what he found, Granger had thought he’d known and agreed.

Inspiration for the kitchen, small dining room, and living space.

Chapter Text

The Contract

Hermione

Hermione sat on the counter next to the set-in stone-sink, one leg dangling off the ledge and one propped up, the knee cradled to her chest as she held a steaming mug of tea in her hands. The bay-window in front of her allowed an unobscured view into the garden, where Malfoy was busy having what she assumed was a tantrum.

As she had made a few sandwiches and tea, Malfoy had read. His face had changed from the usual pale, to pink tinged cheeks only to blanch again. She had been wrong. There had been no questions, no words whatsoever, actually. He had scoffed, he had grumbled, the contract had rustled by how his hands had started to shake, and his expression had changed into unbridled and frigid anger. The type she had come to know last night. His eyes had darkened to slate and the chill emanating from him had, quite literally, caused the cucumber slices on her sandwich to freeze.

Hermione’s teeth had crunched on the frozen legume, but she had not said a thing, waiting for him to ask whatever he might need to know. She would certainly have had questions. But no. Malfoy had been careful not to meet her eyes. Only once, had his brows shot up and he had glanced at her, over the top of the contract. It had been a look she’d felt. Intensive and uncomfortable in its cold wrath.

Malfoy’s hands had tightened on the parchment a few times, making it crinkle before he relaxed in a very measured way. Once done, he had gotten up, his movements stiff, and excused himself, leaving behind his untouched food and drink.

Which was how Hermione found herself on her perch, Malfoy’s neglected tea in hand, watching as her new husband fired curse after curse across the garden. She had to admit, his movements were graceful and swift, while carrying sharp edges of the anger he was apparently trying to expel. He moved like a dancer, reminding her of the subtle steps of dueling, the finer art of it, which she had learned from Tonks.

Hermione closed her eyes at the surge of grief. Biting and sour. She sighed, wallowed for a few seconds, remembering her voice, her face, her scent, her laugh, before a small smile grew on her lips. Gods, she missed Tonks the same way she’d miss a big sister. Opening her eyes, Hermione took a sip of tea and frowned. Her training had started because Hermione had been miserable, angry, riddled with guilt. And Tonks had seen it, given it an outlet.

Dimly, she wondered whether Malfoy had learned the same way. Probably not. She saw the way his feet did that little twist, right before he stepped. It was eerie and she shuddered inwardly. Just like Bellatrix had. She had been graceful and swift as well. Nigh impossible to best. It looked as though she had taught her nephew.

Hermione couldn’t fathom what it would have been like to be tutored by the dark witch and she began to wonder. Malfoy seemed to have quite a few troubles, he had mentioned a therapist, which was a good thing, but maybe Azkaban was not the sole reason for his traumata. No, maybe it went further back than that. Hermione herself had sought help after the war so she could relate. The question was, did she want to relate? And did she want to care? Did she feel sorry or worried as she watched him deal with his wrath?

Biting into her lower lip, she felt undecided. All she knew was that the expanse of it frightened her a bit and him not asking and just exploding like that vexed her. On the other hand, Hermione had no idea what his relationship with his father was like and given Malfoy’s reaction, he was not a happy camper with what he had found out.

Letting out a sigh, Hermione downed the rest of the tea, wriggled her nose and hopped from the counter. She floated the dishes and cutlery into the sink where she let them wash themselves, before she Accioed a pair of shoes from her bag and drew them on.

Setting her shoulders and tapping her wand to her thigh, she ventured outside to confront whatever Malfoy was dealing with.

With every stride, her vexation grew a little, right along with her fear. She had no idea how he would react with her interfering. But if she wanted to have sex with him sometime today, she had to reel him in, not to mention her own state of mind. There was no telling how long either would take.

For a few seconds—as she passed the smallish sitting hall that led to the side-entrance they had used last night—Hermione was miffed at not being able to see more of the house. It was indeed very charming and her natural curiosity was demanding a thorough exploration. She gritted her teeth and grasped her wand firmer. Whether she would stay here or not, would all depend on the rest of this day, and probably on what would happen when she spoke to Malfoy in a few seconds.

Striding through the white door, Hermione zeroed in on Malfoy and stomped his way, her steps loud on the sand-stone tiles. She hopped from the veranda to land in the soft grass and walked in a curve, so he would see her coming from the side. Still, she adjusted her grip on her wand once more.

Feigning a sense of nonchalance she did not feel, Hermione drew closer with sure feet, before plonking down by the fountain. Seated next to the mermaid, she cocked a brow at Malfoy, who turned, his wand raised, his face set in a glower.

The sight made her heart jump. Hermione knew what uncontrolled anger looked like—she had lived with Ron after all—and while it was a scary thing, this was…worse and better at the same time.

The intensity his slate-grey eyes carried blasted her way like thunder without lightning. Like a warning call with no evidence of danger. Because it was utterly controlled. The sneer to his lips softened and his shoulders relaxed as his wand sank. All of it happened in quick succession but Hermione could see him consciously doing each one.

“I came out here to get away, Granger,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Why would you follow?”

“To get away from me?” she asked, keeping her voice level.

Malfoy dipped his chin. “I know you thought I knew and acquiesced, but that does not make it easier to see your face right now.”

Hermione gaped. “You are angry at me?”

His right fist clenched, while his left held his wand almost casually. “I’m trying not to be. I really am.” He shook his head, a sharp crease appearing between his brows. “Weekly dinners at the manor? Social gatherings? A child? Seriously, Granger? You promised my father an heir? Are you out of your bloody mind?”

Tilting her head, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Which is why I wanted you to ask whatever questions you might have had. I could have explained. But no, you just read, pissed off and had a tantrum.”

He grunted, pulling both hands through his hair and tugging, making the point of his wand stick up between his fingers. Dark brown against pale white. “I would have yelled at you had I opened my mouth, Granger. Is that what you would have wanted?”

“No, Malfoy,” Hermione said and got up. “None of this is what I want, but it’s what I need in order to get what I want. I came out here to say something and to give you a choice. You need to remember that we are on a timeline. I would prefer to talk this out with you, but if you need a bit to digest it for yourself, that’s fine. Even while I think it’s juvenile and you’d benefit more from discussing it.”

He glared as she walked closer and squared her shoulders as she came up to him. “Now, can you deal with it in a way that allows us to move on? Do you want to move on or is this a dealbreaker for you?”

Malfoy’s lips thinned and his jaw ticked. “The problem that you seem unable to grasp here, dearest, is that I have no choice. Even if any of it would be a dealbreaker, it doesn’t matter. So excuse me while I have my juvenile tantrum over the fact that I have to come to terms with being a bloody father when I shouldn’t even be a Merlin-damned husband.” His voice was like an icy breeze, making her shiver and Hermione was taken aback by his what his words alluded to.

“What do you mean, no choice?” she asked. “There is always a choice, Malfoy. You could have left, as you planned. You still can.”

A sharp laugh, sounding more like a bark, broke from him and he shook his head. “No. As sweet as it is that you think so, not all of us have the luxury of choices in our lives, Granger. Some of us can do precious little with the shite given to us.”

“Why?”

The word hung between them like an echo and Malfoy looked at her for a moment, his eyes lightening to more of a dove-grey. He swallowed hard and an almost tortured expression flashed across his features before he wrangled it into something neutral. “Never mind. Just know that you won’t have to worry. I need a bit of time to adjust; not that half a day will help with that…” His lips curled into a snarl and he glared at his feet.

Hermione walked closer and tilted her head until he looked at her again. “I understand that you might feel helpless and betrayed by what I signed—apparently—on both our behalf, but I will not make you do anything you are not fine with. Just talk to me.”

A small huff left him, his lips curving into a wry smirk. When he wasn’t sneering or pressing them together, he did have nice lips, Hermione decided. The lower one fuller and with a soft dent in the middle, the upper one curving enticingly. But that observation was neither called for, nor helpful, so she shook it form her mind.

“You are not the one who betrayed me,” he said. “And while it is…nice that you think you can give me a choice, please don’t. If you call this off…” His right hand clenched and flexed. “I’m fine. Just leave and let me deal with it. I’ll be back before our time is up.”

Both brows shooting up, Hermione looked at him. “You plan on cursing the garden until the day is over?”

“It’s either that, or losing my mind.”

Hermione worried her lower lip as she scrutinized him. Obviously, he was struggling and if she’d understood what he’d said correctly, then he was truly grappling with the consequences of their marriage such as they were stated in the contract. Because there was no choice for him. By the way he had not answered her question as to why that was, Malfoy would not tell her. At least not yet.

“Let me help,” she said. “Let me at least explain some aspects of the contract, then I’ll leave you alone for as long as you need. If that is what you want.”

His wand bounced against his thigh and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re a nuisance, you know that, right?”

“I’ll be quick about it,” Hermione offered, the need to help in any way she could starkly beating in her chest. If he truly believed there was no other way forward, and the choice wasn’t his, then coming to terms with all of it had to be… Well, Hermione wouldn’t have cursed into a garden, she would have exploded it. Before hexing the responsible person in very creative ways.

The questions from before were answered now and a few new ones had been added. Yes, she related and she cared. How could she not? Malfoy did not frighten her and his outburst made more sense now. He did have an eerie control over himself when angry, that much was true. It stood in jarring contrast with his episode from last night.

The more she got to know, the more she wanted to know. And while she should not be, she found herself beginning to be fascinated by him. There was a darkness and a contradicting thoughtfulness to him that was bizarre.

“Fine,” Malfoy mumbled, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Good. First of all, I was to live with you and your family at the manor, which I outright refused doing. The weekly dinners were supposed to be twice a week. Concerning the social events, I haggled your father down from eight to four per year. When it comes to the child…” Hermione gathered a lungful of air, opting to jump rather than lie. She couldn’t outright tell him, not when her parents were still in St. Mungo’s. And maybe not for a while after. “I have a plan for that.”

Malfoy looked unconvinced.

“I can’t tell you what it is right now so I’m trying to stay as truthful as is possible. All I can say is that we will both be fine with the outcome, that is a promise.”

His raising brow added to the unconvinced look.

Hermione clicked her tongue and knotted her fingers. “I know I’m asking you to trust me with an awful lot and I have no idea whether I’d be able to do the same if our roles were reversed.”

“And yet, you are asking,” Malfoy said softly.

“And yet, I am asking.” Hermione smiled at him shakily.

A very slight nod from him had her nearly deflating with relief. “I can’t imagine that you’d be careless when it comes to your own child, not even in face of what’s at stake for you. Fine.” His gaze found hers. Firm and unyielding. “But we will talk about this as soon as you are able.”

“That I promise as well,” Hermione said.

Malfoy had not stayed in the garden much longer. Their talk seemed to have taken some of the strain and anger from him, which was good. Hermione had gone back inside and taken up vigil to see whether he would be fine. She had spent a bit of time familiarizing herself with the kitchen, while casting looks outside until she saw Malfoy walk across the grass and vanish into what looked like a second, smaller building.

He seemed a lot more relaxed than before, the stiffness in his shoulders was nearly gone and he was almost back to that lazy prowl he usually moved with.

Hermione was curious as to what he was up to, but she refrained from stalking him, opting to give herself a tour of the house instead. The giddiness tingling in her limbs felt out of place, but she had always loved discovering places and…Douillet—as Malfoy had called it last night—seemed like it had loads of secrets. Not only because the place was simply huge, but because of the feel it gave off. There was something ancient to it, coupled with a welcoming warmth, as if the walls themselves were beckoning her to roam and search. In a way, it reminded her of Hogwarts and its secrets.

A smirk grew on her lips as she walked into the main entrance hall to begin her excursion from there. She hoped she would not find a dark snaky chamber, or a moping ghost on a toilet, however. But this belonged to the Malfoy’s so she couldn’t be sure. Hermione doubted it though. Nothing about this place felt nefarious or dark.

Besides, she felt like she needed to distract herself a bit from what was still to come. Other than during her nighttime musings, she was now more excited than anything else, even though she was apprehensive. Not because she was worried for herself, rather for Malfoy. He’d said he’d wanted her last night, which was a wild thing to wrap her head around, but she had evidently felt the same, which was just as wild. Yet, after their talk about the contract she couldn’t help but worry about his consent in all of this. It was one thing to want someone in the heat of a naked moment, quite another to be fine being married to them and trusting them. Again, the question of choice reared its head. Knowing that pondering it would bring her nothing but frustration, because of a lack of answers, Hermione decided on distraction. She had to trust that Malfoy knew what he was talking about and respect his wish for space at the moment.

Maybe she ought to take a look at her own room first? Hermione nodded to herself and gathered her beaded bag closer as she ascended to the second level. Passing Malfoy’s room, she noticed a creaking step and committed it to memory.

Just as he had told her, the room right next to his was a bedroom. It was as large as his but the walls were paneled in darker wood and the carpet was a lush design of grey and rose flowers. Just looking at the large bed with all the pillows made her want to dive in. Next to the door was a large shelf, partly filled with books and Hermione itched to pull them out and start perusing. She could picture her books alongside the ones already there perfectly.

The opposite wall was made of windows, same as in Malfoy’s room. It was utterly charming and Hermione felt at home straight away. It was a far cry from the dreary linoleum floor in her flat, which she had covered with fluffy but cheap rugs.

This room had parquet. Warm and complementing the wooden walls in color. Across from the bed was a hearth, framed by molding. The artwork depicted leaves and flowers, encasing scenes of beasts and myths. Hermione frowned when she beheld what looked like the story of Hades and Persephony. Strange. This seemed out of place in a magical home.

Shaking her head in confusion, she let her gaze roam over the single and large high-back wing chair. It had a small footrest sat before it in the same beige color and looked enchanting. She could see herself sitting there and reading late into the night.

Hermione sighed. A part of her felt almost…guilty at looking forward to spending time here. But why not? Why should she cling to an aversion simply because it was Malfoy’s home and she should feel the same aversion to him? She had told him the truth—literally under the influence—about how she wanted to make it work. To have it be agreeable. So why not find things she could enjoy? Things that would make her happy, even if their marriage did not? Frowning she shook her head. Why would she even think about that? It was a business deal.

Striding toward what looked like a closet, she opened the door and was hit by a small room, filled with empty shelves and hangers and a pouf in the middle. An ornate mirror hung from the wall between the shelves, showing her entire figure.

Hermione opened her beaded bag and let the clothes she’d brought float into the shelves. It wasn’t much, but tomorrow she’d get the rest. Which wasn’t that much either. Knocking on the doorframe, she gave it a once over, knowing it would always look barren, before closing the door.

Next, she meandered into the ensuite and gasped. It was as grand as Malfoy’s, but earthier. Not as clean-cut and chic, but…natural. Tiles of brown and beige lined the floor and shower, while what looked like natural stones made up the walls and even formed a large space into the wall above the bathtub. The bathtub itself was big, so big that she could probably lie flat under water if she so chose.

Here she sent her toiletries form her bag, flicking her wand to make them settle in their designated places.

She spent a few minutes looking into cabinets and sitting on the edge of the tub, picturing her later dip, before venturing out to do more exploring.

Pics are only for inspo

She found several more bedrooms and one decadently huge one. Snorting, she stood at the door, scrunching her nose at what she was seeing. This had to be the master bedroom. It looked nothing like the rest of the house. It was an atrocity of gold and white. Marble floors and golden stucco walls and ceilings. There was even what looked like a fake balcony above the bed. Did dear old Lucius need cherubs to serenade his long-haired head to sleep? The thought had her giggling. She could see him in this room, as opposed to the rest of Douillet.

With a sniff, she closed the door firmly and trotted downstairs, taking one arch to the right of the sitting room and ending up in the dining hall, as she would call it. From there, Hermione crossed what looked like an entertainment room, with lounges, a piano, and ceiling-high shelves. Next was a small office, looking very feminine. Probably Narcissa’s.

As little as she was looking forward to her new in-laws and their weekly dinners, Hermione hoped they would not visit them here additionally.

The second door of the office led back to the entrance hall and Hermione took a breath, eyeing the large, winged doors that took up space to the right of the stairs. The doors had captured her eyes a few times before, ornately carved and heavy-looking. There had to be something good behind it.

As her fingers curled around the handles and she pushed, the doors swung open without a sound. Hermione smelled it before her eyes registered what she was seeing. Parchment, wood, books and ink.

She gasped at the library before her, her steps jerky and unsure as she stumbled forward. “Holy hell,” Hermione whispered.

It wasn’t outrageously huge, but countless books still found their place in the tall shelves of teak that lined either side of the room. In the very middle a winding staircase rose to a gallery, spanning the top shelves. At the far end was a set of sofas and lounges, grouped beside a modestly sized desk and chairs. A hearth, rivaling that of the big sitting room sat cold and empty behind it, windows looking out on either side of it.

Hermione gasped when her eyes rose to the domed glass-ceiling. It was tinted and let in a diffuse and magical light, making specs of blue and orange dance over the backs of books and the wooden surfaces. It refracted in the crystals of the chandelier dangling above the spiral staircase and danced over Hermione’s feet.

She swallowed once, twice, then gave into her itching fingers and started perusing.

It was fascinating. Hermione had built a tower of books and scrolls on the table, by ways of floating a chain of them behind her as she had walked the shelves. Now she sat at the table, the hearth alight with a merry fire, happily inhaling knowledge and the unmistakable scent of books. Oh, Merlin, she could have stayed for hours. If life would let her, she would lock the doors, throw away the key and live in here. Like a dragon with its hoard.

The vast number of different things she had found was astonishing. Tomes on spells, books on rare potions, the dark arts, arithmancy and numerology, runes, obscure hexes, history of magic and magical beings. And—to her utter shock—Muggle literature. There was an entire section of self-help books and memoirs, then there were novels, books on science, physics and astral physics, and even poetry. She would have to ask Malfoy about that, she decided, opening a small book that was surprisingly heavy, titled: Rotund Charms & Spells. Apparently it dealt with variations and modifications of the Engorgio spell. Hermione giggled at the picture and implication of the dangers to enhance certain parts of the male anatomy. It seemed as though the author had developed a spell for exactly that purpose through various trials and errors.

She closed the book with a grin, not that Malfoy would need—Malfoy. Hermione hastily cast a Tempus and reeled when she saw the time.

It was late into the day and she still wanted to take a bath and… Oh gods… She tangled her hands in her hair, suddenly very nervous. Should she check on Malfoy? He’d said he’d be back. Biting her lower lip, Hermione decided against it. She left the books on the table for later, or tomorrow, only picking two to take along.

The two books wandered onto the small round table next to the wing chair and Hermione into the tub. She tried out the bath oils and bubbles she found in one of the cabinets and tried hard to relax into the sublime water.

She had been right and when not sitting up, she had to stretch her toes so she wouldn’t slip under water completely. It was the perfect tub for two. Not that she’d ever had the pleasure, Ron had hated the heat she needed and he had hated bathing. It was something Hermione had only wished for, voicing it here and there. The thought of Ron riled her up and she scrubbed her arms furiously.

Even while knowing it to be true, the fact of what he did… It was beyond anything she would have ever thought him capable of. Why? They had been over—because he’d ended it—for over a year. What could he possibly gain from sabotaging her marriage to Malfoy? It made no sense to her.

Hermione pondered her next move on this for a few minutes, but when all of it led to some form of genital dismemberment, uncurable disease, or slow and agonizing deaths, she knew that she needed a bit of time to not lose it completely on him. One thing was for sure, as much as it hurt, Ron would not come back from that. She had been very clear to him when he had come by the night before her wedding. He behaved, or they were done. Given the nature of what he had said, Hermione was sure Ron had lied to her beforehand. He definitely remembered the night before. And Hermione was a woman of her word.

The trouble came with what to do regarding their friends and his family. Should she tell them? Should she just cut him off and leave it at that? The anger snapping at her at the thought said no, she would not cut him off without so much as a word. There would be words. And dismemberment, maybe death.

Hermione hissed at the direction of her thoughts and finished up washing, locking away Ron and his doom for another day. It was bad form to think of one’s ex when getting ready to shag one’s husband, right?

Thinking of which had her right back to nervous. “Pull yourself together, woman,” Hermione said, then groaned when she wrapped herself in the fluffiest towel she’d ever encountered. “You’ve done this and him before.” Granted, she hadn’t done much ‘doing’, but Malfoy wasn’t new to her. Or, at least, his body was not. Circe that body.

In the heat of the dense bathroom, Hermione felt herself blush as she remembered the lines and contours of him. The way his hands had felt, the look in his eyes, the feel of his gorgeous cock, those words he’d said… Would the second time be as mind-blowing? Hermione nearly keeled over when she replayed his voice and what he’d said in her head. Gods, that had been…something. She hadn’t known that him ordering her around, or him saying filthy things would get her so worked up, but fuck had it stirred something in her.

Frowning, she cast a drying charm on her hair, then went to work smoothing it. Not that it mattered, and while she was here getting all excited, he was probably cursing her and his father to hell and back.

She should ask him again, just to be really sure. The thought of him being forced tore at her. It was and wasn’t about the sex. The sex only mattered in regards to the bond forming, which was the ultimate problem. Hermione knew that Malfoy wouldn’t mind having sex with her again, much as she didn’t. Now, whether he looked forward to it was something else entirely, but the fact of what it signified and how it fused them together—which was something he might not want—gave it a sour taste.

The feeling of guilt and unease settled in her gut like a stone as Hermione got dressed, opting for a nice, blue summer dress and no underwear. It wasn’t like she’d be wearing it for long, or that she needed underwear for her next endeavor. Contrary to what many people believed about her, Hermione was not bashful or prudish. Why anyone would think that, just because it might fit with her academic persona, was beyond her. Why people thought about her in the first place was something she had learned in the past few years. Apparently being the Golden Girl and ‘easy on the eyes’, as McLaggen had put it, made people speculate a whole lot.

It wasn’t as if Harry or Ron were prey to the same speculations, which was unfair. They should be just as objectified as she was being, thank you very much, or better yet: none of them should be. Skeeter and her ‘stories’ over the years hadn’t helped, but even so, she was faced with it during many functions and public appearances. The speculation as well as the objectification. A good part was that Hermione knew for a fact that people tended to only ever do it once to her face, not expecting her swift and biting retaliation. McLaggen was the exception to the rule, sadly. She could only hope their last encounter had sobered the idiot somewhat.

Remembering her words that day had her smirking, then Hermione blushed, further remembering Malfoy having heard them. So no, she was not a blushing virgin, which begged the question as to why the hell she was so nervous?

With a deep sigh, Hermione took one last look at herself, wound her wand into her hair and padded from her room, her heart in her throat. She was so busy with calming her nerves, that she missed the creaking part of floor in front of Malfoy’s room and stopped when she heard steps come up to the door.

Hermione swallowed as he opened it, shirtless and clearly fresh out of the shower or bath. He looked…as mouthwatering as she remembered.

Leaning against the wall, eyeing her up and down, Malfoy tilted his head a little. He looked worn and tired, but there was a glint of something in his eyes as they roved over her.

“Ready for round two, Granger?” he asked.

Ahem... Yeah, I drew him myself. I'm just starting to draw and this is my first time publicly sharing anything, so please be kind.

I know he's not perfect, but I'm very happy with him and kinda proud of myself.

Chapter Text

Round Two

TW: Bedroom art / Smutty things / Recreational smoking of calming material

Draco

Granger looked him over, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “As ready as ever,” she said. “I’d rather know about you, though. Do you really want to do this?”

A cold sensation slipped down his spine like a slate of ice and he shivered inwardly. No, he wasn’t ready, but he had to be. Draco nodded and stepped to the side, inviting her into his room.

She gave him an unconvinced glance as she walked past him, fiddling with the skirt of her dress on either side. “Are you sure?” Granger turned, coming to a stand in front of his bed. “You don’t seem sure.”

Draco gritted his teeth. That was because he wasn’t. While the anger he’d felt at her earlier was completely gone—he had actually worked through that part—a million things encroached on his mind and had him on edge.

How dare Lucius use this to control his life further? Control it so closely? It made Draco livid beyond measure how his father had the audacity to force himself into his life, into decisions that should be Draco’s own to make. And besides the forced contact through dinners and functions, there was that little tidbit of Lucius having somehow convinced Granger into agreeing to an heir. A child. Someone innocent that he could manipulate the same way he had Draco.

No, that would never happen. Draco clenched his fists. He would never let his child be hurt like that. Granger had said she had a plan and seeing as she was rather clever, Draco had decided to trust her on it. Besides, her Gryffindor virtues would never let her expose an innocent to danger. He had to believe that. Her words, meager in information as they had been, had rung with truth and a desperation for his understanding that had baffled him. It was a scary prospect, though, trusting like that. As if he was jumping off a ledge, having faith in her to levitate him to safety. That was what it felt like.

So no, Draco was not ready in any way, shape or form. But he had to go through with it. There was no other option.

“It’s fine, Granger,” he ground out. It wasn’t and by the look she gave him, they both knew it.

Granger nodded once, sat down on the bed and plucked her wand from her hair to set it on the bedside table. “How do you want me?” she asked, shaking out her curls, making them look like a waterfall of molten chocolate. “Same as last night?” She reached for the pillows behind her and slid them up next to her.

Draco saw the slight tremble in her fingers, heard the same in her voice and he felt awful. While her words, not to mention the picture she made, sitting on his bed, was nothing short of mesmerizing, he was unable to pluck at the subtle strings of arousal it all conjured. Not enough to hold on and turn it into something tangible, at least.

He walked closer, feeling the stiffness in his limbs and tried to relax. Despite his active endeavors at calmness, his heartrate sped up and cold sweat began forming between his shoulder-blades. “Yeah.” His voice nearly cracked by how hoarse it was. He cleared his throat. “That- that would be best.”

Big brown eyes captured his, intense and bottomless, seeing way too much for his liking. “We don’t have to continue, Malfoy. Really. I can see that this isn’t…” Granger huffed, looking down at her lap, where she knotted her fingers.

“It’s fine, Granger,” he said again, crossing the distance while closing the door with a flick of his wrist. Draco forced as much confidence and firmness into his voice and movements as possible, even as he felt as though his feet were stuck in mud, same as his mind. It seemed nearly impossible to pull himself free of all the thoughts about his future and the anger he felt at his father, making the few steps it took to reach Granger feel like forever.

When he finally stood before her, she tilted her head. “I don’t think it is.”

“No,” Draco admitted. “But it has to be.”

A grimace flashed across her features and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Her face hardened and Draco saw the exact moment she was about to close off and pull away. From all of it. Him, the contract, the marriage, her chance at healing her parents.

He dropped into a crouch and reached out, placing his hand on hers, where it rested in her lap. “I don’t blame you for anything, Granger. My mind is just having a hard time calming. I need this marriage, maybe even more than you do. Don’t leave.” He knew he sounded like a desperate fool—which he was—but he didn’t care. Draco needed to get a fucking grip, for both their sakes.

An unsure expression took hold of her and she tentatively turned her hand to take his, squeezing it gently. Draco was too preoccupied with her decision, her answer, to think about it.

“I don’t think forcing yourself is a good or healthy thing to do, Malfoy. And I don’t mean the sex,” Granger said. “It’s a commitment and after this we can’t go back as easily.”

Draco nodded, his jaw clenching. “I know.” He made sure to look directly at her. “I am sure about this, about our marriage. Truly.”

Granger frowned at their joined hands and Draco pulled his back. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but his nerves were going haywire and while he could have continued the touch, it was by now a reflex to pull away. Besides, his skin felt like it was too tight around his flesh, as if he was trying to break free of it.

“Even if that is the case, is it even feasible for you to have sex right now?” she asked, her face void of pity or worry, but filled with sharp pragmatism.

Draco rose and pulled a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots until they tingled and the tightness of his skin faded a bit in face of the slight sting to his scalp. “I… I have to be, right? Maybe another Calming Draught?”

Granger raised a brow at him. “You’ll need a boner, darling husband. With two Calming Draughts a day in your system, that won’t be happening.”

“And you would know this…how?”

She tapped her fingers to her knees, her face darkening. “Let’s just say that I know.” Granger shook her head, the expression waning before a shaky smirk—forced and brittle—played with the corners of her lips. “Can’t have you knowing my every secret now, can I?”

Draco looked her over, curious and unsettled by her reaction. What the hell had she experienced that she would know something like that? Never mind it causing such a reaction?

“Can I…do anything?” she asked, pulling him from his musings. “Or do you have another suggestion?”

“Not really, Granger. Right now, my skin feels—” He clapped his mouth shut and paced toward the fireplace, his legs feeling as though ants were crawling up his thighs. Placing both hands on the mantle and leaning in, Draco debated whether or not to divulge his habit of smoking a joint from time to time. Maybe that would help? He knew it would calm him for sure. Occlumency wouldn’t suffice in this case. It would only help to pull him back from the brink, if it became necessary.

His forehead thumped against the stone softly. He needed calmness, there was no chance of this happening in his present state. Gods, he hated his bloody mind. Draco had only been married hours and already had an episode, showing Granger how truly fucked in the head he was. Even now he had to stem the slew of memories lapping at his consciousness, demanding entrance. Memories of times he had felt just as helpless and on edge… It was mortifying and left him stewing in bitterness that he was holding back from reaching her. It wasn’t her fault.

During the day he had refrained from indulging in smoking, rather focusing on getting his anger out and dealing with it, but it wasn’t just anger. It was worry, it was unease, it was…fear. A fear so deeply rooted within him that he had no idea how to address it. Even with Granger’s promise and assurance regarding the child thing… The prospect alone—the thought alone—left him paralyzed with anxiety. Draco should not be a father, the same as he shouldn’t be a husband. He had shown already how bad he was at one; the other would most assuredly be a complete disaster. Draco wasn’t fit to be the provider and the protector a wife and child needed, deserved. He would cock it up royally, or worse, become like his own father.

Taking deep breaths to not spiral into the fear and the thought, Draco pushed off and turned around, eyeing Granger, who was sitting quietly on his bed, her brown eyes resting on him with a curious mix of calculation and warmth. According to Pansy, Granger didn’t mind marijuana.

“I have a joint,” he said and cringed inwardly. Yes, go ahead and just blurt it out, idiot.

“That might work,” she said, tilting her head in her birdlike fashion.

Draco nodded once and walked into his closet, opening the first drawer to the right. The wooden box sat between ties and socks and he quickly pulled a joint out of it and returned to Granger.

She looked it over, then him, stretching out a palm. “How often?”

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, he placed it into her hand. “Often enough.”

Granger scowled a little. “Today?”

“No.”

She twisted it in her fingers and then sniffed at it. “Then it should—hey, this is one of Neville’s.”

Draco crossed his arms. “I get them from Theo, whether or not he gets his from Longbottom, I couldn’t say.”

Granger waved the joint in his face. “No, no. I’m sure this is one of Neville’s. It smells…” She sniffed it again. “Yeah, he puts in a hint of honey and there is the salty smell of the sea. Gillyweed.” Suddenly her eyes widened and she jumped from the bed. “Neville.”

“Longbottom, yes we’ve established—”

“No, you don’t understand,” Granger said, her voice rising as her eyes started to gleam. “Neville!” Shouting Longbottom’s name again, she threw the joint onto the bed and dashed from the room.

Draco was left gaping after his wife, who swished around the corner in a twirl of blue fabric and a wave of brown curls. “What in Merlin’s name…”

A dull thud came from her room then the heavy tapping of her small feet sounded on the parquet. Draco was astounded at how much noise those tiny feet could make.

Granger burst back into his room, a triumphant smile on her face, looking positively radiant. She held up a joint of her own like a prized possession, striding through the room to show him. It was a bit longer than his and a small red ribbon was tied around it.

“Neville gave me this for my birthday last month,” Granger said, excitedly. “He told me to share it with a special friend. Probably meant Ginny.” She waved it off, scrunching up her nose. “But no matter, Neville grows different types of grass and experiments with it. The last joint he gifted me was…” She grinned. “It was brilliant. An incredibly mellow high and none of the giggly fits or munchies. It was like breathing in tranquility, and I think that is exactly what we need right now.”

Draco twisted the little thing between his thumb and index finger. “Tranquility does sound good,” he admitted. Now it was his turn to take a sniff and it did smell different than his usual ones. Yes, there were still hints of honey and the sea, but also something earthy and…flowery? The scent of Gillyweed did overshadow most else, so Draco was unable to actually pinpoint the exact smell.

He gave the joint back to Granger and waved at her to follow him to the balcony. “And you’re sure this is the same? It would be a bad time to experiment.”

Granger trotted along, inspecting the thing, then nodded. “I’m sure. It looked and smelled exactly like this.”

“Fine.” Draco opened the glass door, which led out onto a picturesque, round balcony with two magically welded iron chairs and a complimentary, round table. Beyond, the garden was dipped into the diffuse light of dusk, setting the reddening trees alight with gold.

Draco summoned two cushions and placed them on either chair, offering one to Granger, before conjuring an ashtray. The glass clinked on the metal surface as Draco sank into the chair and raised his wand. He looked over to Granger, who was leaning on the table with her elbows. “Want to do the honors?” Draco asked, pointing the tip of his wand at her.

Granger plucked off the red ribbon and placed the joint between her plush lips, leaning in so Draco could light it.

She inhaled deeply, holding it in for a moment, before expelling a cloud of heavenly smelling smoke. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Tastes the same, too. Almost. There is a hint of…” Granger smacked her lips and took another drag. “A hint of sandalwood? Huh, probably my mind playing tricks.” She shrugged and handed it over.

Draco took a drag of his own, also holding in the smoke a moment before exhaling. It was smooth and light, not scratchy in the slightest. Agreeable. Sinking back, Draco smoked and gave it over again.

“You know I don’t… I don’t indulge that often,” he said into the oncoming silence. “It did help though, in the time directly after Azkaban and then when my father came home. It helps with the episodes.” It was an admission that was floating from his lips as effortlessly as the smoke was. Meaning the weed was already working. Which was fast.

“As long as it isn’t the first thing you do when getting up in the morning. I don’t mind imbibing every now and again. Casually.” She tapped off the excess ash and took another drag. “It’s only a problem when it becomes necessary in order to function, or if it’s used as a crutch.” Her eyes of amber fire caught his.

There were small golden flecks in those fiery depths. Entrancing. “I try not to use it as such,” Draco said, taking the offered blunt. Their fingers touched and something zapped through him. The sensation tingled up his arm and vibrated through his chest, making his breath hitch.

Granger looked equally surprised. “Did you feel that?” she asked, then chuckled. “Probably electrical discharge. Do you know what electricity is, Malfoy?”

Draco snorted, finding Granger’s pretty face exceptionally lovely through the smoky haze and in the golden glow of the last rays of sunlight. “I was raised ignorantly, doesn’t mean I’m stupid or stayed that way, Granger.”

She hummed with a smile. “That reminds me; you have quite the collection of Muggle literature in your library, how’d that get there?”

“Figures that you already found the library.”

Granger gave him a mildly annoyed look.

He sighed. “I went to a bookstore and bought them,” Draco deadpanned, taking a drag before offering the blunt to her again. He received a raised brow when she took it. “I know what you mean, Granger.” Draco watched her smoke and debated whether he wanted to divulge the reason, or reasons, as they were.

The way her lips pursed around the blunt was enchanting and the slight droop to her lids made her look beautifully relaxed. Draco felt himself unspooling as well. What had she said? Tranquility? Yes, it began to feel that way, as the incessant humming in his bones and the tightness of his skin dissipated bit by bit. The countless worries clawing at him slowed until they froze and finally slipped away.

“My therapist operates on a combination of magical mind-healing and Muggle psychology. He gave me a list of self-help books and advised me to buy them. Once I was given Douillet and knew my father wouldn’t see or notice what I moved where, I decided it was a good time to heed Herp’s advice.”

Granger nodded along. “Herp is the therapist, I’m guessing.” She offered Draco the rest of the joint and sat back once it had changed hands. “I went to therapy after the war, you know. It really helped me with nightmares and panic-attacks.”

Her admission was soft, said in a vulnerable voice, making Draco feel less awkward and weak for sharing about his own therapy. “I haven’t gone long, but I guess it does help.”

Draco blew out the last drag and stumped the joint into the ashtray before he leaned back as well, letting the calmness wash over him further. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of lightness in his limbs. This was exceptional. Subtle and…yes, tranquil.

When he opened his lids, he found Granger leaning her chin on her fist, looking at him. “I like when the tightness around your eyes leaves,” she said. “Being relaxed looks good on you.” She blinked as if she noticed what she had just said and looked down. A small smirk and a blush took hold of her features and Draco grinned in answer.

“I could say the same for you, Granger. I didn’t even know how soft your face could get before we drank that Calming Draught this morning.” Her face rose and their gazes met. Tangled. Held on. Draco blamed himself drowning in those pools of amber flame for what he said next. “You are really quite lovely.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, Malfoy,” Granger whispered back.

Seconds ticked by as they seemed caught in each other’s eyes. It was the strangest thing Draco had ever experienced. It felt like looking into the setting sun, the light and warmth sinking into him as languidly as honey. And yet something stirred within him, something trying to caution him. She would see too much if he kept looking, she would dip into him and read him like the open pages of the books she so loved. But Draco couldn’t break the connection, felt unable to go without that languid warmth he was basking in. There was no judgement in her features, no aversion and no nervousness. She looked at him as openly as the night-blooming flowers she smelled of.

Gods, she really was lovely, Draco thought as something new tingled through him. A sense of heat that coiled upward from his gut, spreading through his abdomen and then forked up his spine. It was a strange pairing of feelings that quickly coated him as completely as his nerves had before. It was the prickling excitement of witnessing something forbidden, of looking at something he had no business seeing. This was coupled with the heavy and heady sense of wonder. And a growing urge of…something. Slowly, his hands clenched at his sides, as though they wanted, needed something to hold onto.

“Malfoy,” Granger said into the viscid silence. “I never meant to force anything on you. If I had known that you didn’t know about the contract, I would never have signed it. I’m sorry.” Her last words were barely more than a whisper.

Draco’s throat clicked on a swallow. “Don’t be, Granger,” he said, just as quietly. “My problems are not your fault. I understand why you did it and I am grateful to you. For showing it to me, for marrying me in the first place, and for doing what you can so it’s not… For trying, despite me being inadequate.”

A crease slowly formed between her brows. “You are not inadequate, Malfoy. You have been a surprise since the very beginning. Cordial and understanding, considerate of me and my feelings, even in the face of lies and slander.” For a moment her brows drew together even more, hinting at a flash of anger, but she relaxed again a second later. “I can see you trying and I can also see that you have changed—are still doing so—and no, there isn’t a hint of inadequacy in any of it.”

The conviction strengthening her words sang through him like a hymn, affecting him in a way that was as surprising as it was unnerving. And while Draco was in the process of pondering what exactly it was he felt, the pressing urge from before made another appearance, growing and fighting for room.

Granger’s eyes felt intense as they seared into his and where Draco had basked in their warmth a second ago, he now felt too exposed and looked down. Watching her fingers lace into each other in her lap, dainty and slim, he found them pretty. For a mad moment, Draco wondered what it would feel like to have those hands and fingers run across him, exploring. He jumped, waiting for his mind to cringe and shrivel away at the thought. When it didn’t happen, Draco licked his suddenly dry lips.

“I think I’m ready,” he said hoarsely.

“Are you sure?”

Draco frowned as he breathed out and focused on that idea, that inkling of touch, once more. The effect was astounding. There was no aversion, but something else. That pressure which had slowly grown, expelling everything else form his mind, was now sat firmly in place. It was…want. Need on a level Draco had not experienced yet, and it was very much amenable to the idea of touch. Again, his fists clenched, on the cusp of reaching out. A small part of him found it strange, habit maybe, and tried to raise a warning. But the voice was small and unconvincing.

“I’m sure,” Draco said and stood, when his eyes flitted up to look at her, the need he felt turned into an all-out craving. Draco felt as though Granger radiated heat that brushed over the naked skin of his torso in soothing waves.

She appeared…changed. Her pupils blown wide; she gave him a look that could only be described as hungry. A soft blush covered her cheeks and neck, dipping onto her chest, making him wonder how far it went. Her shoulders were rising and falling with erratic breaths and her hands had grabbed hold of her arm-rests, knuckles white. The strangest thing was, she was actively trembling, her dark gaze roaming over him with the same expression of what he felt humming within him.

“Granger? Do you…feel that?” Draco asked.

She nodded and stood, placing her shaking fists behind her back as she screwed her eyes shut. “If by ‘that’ you mean a need so strong that I’m having a hard time not pouncing on you, then yes. I do.”

He blew out a breath and took a step closer. “What is happening?” he asked, looking down on her flushed face.

A soft gasp tumbled from her lips and she opened her eyes to look at him. They traveled over his face filled with nothing short of flaming passion, snagging on his lips and lingering, before rising to his eyes. “I don’t know, Malfoy. But I feel like I’m about to burst into flames if you don’t touch me. I…I can barely hold back.”

Yes, touch. Consume. Drown.

Draco raised his hands, still waiting for his mind to react, but it stayed placid—seemingly mollified, even—as he ran his palms up her arms, shoulders and the slope of her neck, only to cup her face, feeling her heated cheeks beneath his thumbs and her slight shaking. The feel of her skin was like the rarest of silks, while sensations like sparkling magic ran up his arms, infusing his veins with liquid heat.

Her eyes darkened further to the color of burnt whisky, her lips parting on a whimper as his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. “Hold very still, Granger. I want to try something, alright?”

“Anything,” she breathed and he almost groaned as her scent hit him squarely, suffusing him in nothing but her. Night-blooming flowers…

Slowly, laced with both anticipation and worry, Draco bent down and brushed his lips against hers. He waited, hovering, feeling the plushness beneath him and the small puffs of her breath as she strained to hold still. His lips buzzed with sensation, but there was nothing but more acute want. Experimentally, he kissed her and it only served to mount the dire need firing through his veins. Then she moaned and kissed him back and for a moment, the world ceased to exist. There was only her, moving against him gently, her chest pressed into him all softness and giving. Then he felt her nipping at his lower lip. Lost to the slide of lips and shared breaths, of her body molding to his, Draco opened his mouth, seeking a taste of her as he let his tongue slide along the seam of her lips, beckoning.

With a groan, Granger met him, her trembling hands landing on his hips to tug him closer. Their tongues collided in silken glides and the first taste of her had him nearly on his knees. It jolted through him like a stroke of lightning, burning him up from the inside. Being able to kiss anyone was unbelievable, kissing Granger was… Beyond what Draco would have ever imagined. He had wondered about it last night, had wanted it. To be able to taste her, to explore her… It made him ravenous for more.

She tasted of forever. Of divinity.

As his fingers tangled in her hair and her nails dug into his hips, she moaned deeply, slanting her head to deepen the kiss, while her tongue stroked his, discovering and claiming. Granger rose to her toes and pressed closer, until Draco stepped back, his shoulders hitting the door of the balcony, making it slam into the wall with a loud sound.

Granger gasped and jerked back, holding up her hands as she blushed deeply and her face contorted with shame and regret. It was almost a painful feeling seeing it on her features.

“Gods, Malfoy,” she said, her breath short. “I’m so sorry! I never… I should have asked. Jesus, I have no idea what came over me, I’m such an idiot.”

Draco gasped, trying to get his own heartrate and breath under control. “No. Don’t apologize. I… Clearly something was in that joint, Granger.”

Her palm cupped her mouth in shock. “Oh fuck! That explains it. Shite, I’m really—”

“If you say sorry one more time…” Draco growled and took a step closer. “Whatever was in there, it helps.” He took both her hands slowly, leaving her time to deny him as he clasped her wrists and pulled them to his hips once more. “I want this and right now, I want you with a desperation I can’t explain. Being able to let you touch me, kiss me, is…indescribable. Let us make use of it, for as long as it may last.”

A sigh brushed his chin as her shoulders relaxed and she drew nearer. “Thank fucking Circe. I feel like I’m going to expire if we don’t—is that a thing? Feeling like this?” Her curious head-tilt made him chuckle.

Draco brushed a stray curl from her face, marveling at the singe of heat striking him where they touched, but there was more. Something underlying the acute need they both felt. It was…the utter contentment that her touch brought on. Something he had apparently yearned for and buried, until he was fine without it. Or had convinced himself that he was.

But here, with Granger surrounding him, there was nothing else in his mind. It was blown free by the pressure still expanding within him. Simply kicking all else from his thoughts for the moment. Gods, he had missed this. The feel of another without the threat of memory or danger looming. It was like taking a bracing breath after centuries under water. The high he felt was mellow enough for him to realize this was temporal and knowing it made the experience bitter-sweet, yet he relished the way her chest hit his, the way her small hands curled around his hip-bones to drawn him against her.

“What can I do?” she asked, rising to her toes and bringing their faces close. “What can’t I do?”

“We’ll have to try,” Draco said, banding one arm around her waist and feeling a surge of lust shoot south when her lids fluttered at his touch. Draco debated asking her to touch his scarred shoulder to test the limits, but he didn’t want to risk what they had right now, so he opted for the opposite. “Just don’t touch my shoulder.”

She gave him a nod, brushing his nose with hers. “Kiss me again. Please.”

Draco growled and claimed her lips in a punishing kiss. This time there was no tentativeness, no experimenting. It was carnal heat as his one hand sank into her curls—those soft waves of molten chocolate—cupping her face to him, and his other squeezed her lower back, only to sink down to let his fingers bite into her arse-cheek.

Granger squeaked and undulated her hips, wrenching a groan from him as her center hit his hardness. His tongue demanded entrance and she opened, meeting his kiss with fervor. Draco drank her mewls and sighs, hiking her leg up around him and Granger caught on. She hopped up, winding her legs around his hips, digging her hands into his hair to move him in order to deepen their bruising kiss even more. Strands of her hair tickled his neck and cheek, a new feeling Draco welcomed as he palmed her arse with both hands and squeezed. She ground over his cock and Draco almost took them to the floor right there.

He stumbled backwards and toward the bed, hoping to reach it before his control snapped and he—Granger’s nails pricked his scalp, her hips shimmied against his rock-hard cock and she sucked on his tongue. Draco nearly saw stars. He turned with her in his arms and propped her shoulders against the wall, making the painting hanging there crash to the floor.

A delighted chuckle vibrated from Granger’s chest and he drank the sound from her lips.

“Fuck, yes,” she said, canting against him as best she could and throwing her head back. “Please, please, please. More. I…need… Ah!” A yell broke from her as Draco ground into her, sliding his cock over her cunt, only separated by his jeans and her dress.

He kissed down her neck, sucking and licking a path across her throat and to the dip between her clavicles, tasing as much of her skin as he could. He knew he’d never get enough of it. With one arm he hiked her up a bit, then placed his hand against the wall to hold her in place. His other hand ran up her left thigh, a clear destination in mind.

“Will I find you wet, wife?” Draco drawled against the skin of her upper chest between nips and soothing laves.

“Ughn!” came Granger’s answer as she began to shiver, her legs tightening around him.

Draco’s knees actually buckled when his fingers met no resistance in form of knickers. There was naught but smooth skin and dripping heat. “Fucking hell, woman,” he growled, his breath ragged. “Where are your knickers?”

“Don’t need them,” Granger panted back, tugging on his head to kiss him with nothing short of wanton need. “Inside me. Now!” She bit into his lower lip and sucked, then let her tongue run over the sting.

Draco grunted, lost to the same urgency. But he had to… There was something he had to do first. His mind hazy with lust, Draco needed a second to come to grips with it. When he did, a smirk grew on his lips. He let her taste it, before slowly setting her on her feet. Draco cupped her delicious cunt, watching her lids flutter and her swollen lips fall open as he pushed one leg under his hand and between hers.

The heel of his palm rested against her clit as he gently worked a finger into her. “Ride my hand,” he said, kissing a whimper from her lips. “Need you ready.”

She moaned and started to move. Unashamed and intent on her pleasure, Granger fucked herself on his hand where it lay on his leg, her hips snapping back and forth, her head tilted back to look at him with eyes as dark as the night-sky. Her brows furrowed when he moved his hand a bit to give her better access to the heel of his palm and she yelped at the sensation, then sped up her movements.

Small gasps tumbled from her and Draco kissed along the delicate slope of her neck, up to her ear and along her jawline. He felt the goosebumps grow under his lips and tongue, while he nearly lost his mind at the smoothness of her against his fingers.

“Ready for another?” he asked, desperate to be inside of her. But she needed to be ready first. Always.

“Uh huh,” Granger made, biting her lip.

Draco lowered his leg and worked a second finger into her heat, relishing how she whimpered and clenched around him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he whispered, then kissed her again. “But you are doing so well.”

Granger keened and picked up her movements again. Her kisses were frantic and even while the space was tight, Draco scissored his fingers and pressed the pads toward himself alternatingly, all while making sure his palm rubbed where it was needed.

Her breathing got heavier, her moans louder and the kisses they traded grew sloppy. She wrenched back from him to look him in the eyes. “Now, Draco. I- I’m ready! Please!”

His given name on her lips made his cock jerk in his jeans painfully. He groaned and plucked his wand from his pocket to vanish his clothes, leaving her dress on. Hastily, he cast a contraceptive charm then dropped his wand. It clattered on the floor, where it landed next to the broken painting. He stepped back, gently slid his fingers from her and smiled at her protesting whimpers. Quickly, Draco hiked her up again, gripping himself underneath her to line himself up.

The question in his eyes was clear and she nodded furiously. “Yes. Gods, yes!”

He coated the head of his cock by swiping it along her soaked cunt a few times, making her jerk and whine, nails pricking his head and the nape of his neck. Draco pressed forward, moaning at the feel of her slick heat and how she immediately clenched around him.

With shallow thrusts, he rocked Granger against the wall, sliding deeper every time. Sweat beaded up his spine at the effort of holding back and going slow, while hearing her small cries of pleasure and feeling her shiver and quake underneath and around him.

“Fuck, you take me so perfectly,” Draco grunted as he finally surged into her to the hilt. As he was pressed to her and fucked her up against the wall, her cries beating against his lips and his hands digging into her flesh, while her nails raked over his back, Draco was hit with the surrealism of the situation. He was fucking his wife, kissing her, while she was seconds away from unraveling, her hands on him and her entire body molded to his. His hips stuttered and a second later he felt her cupping his face, her eyes finding his and searing into him.

“Stay with me,” Granger said. “Stay.”

His breath hitched and he leaned his forehead to hers, his thrusts shallow. “I’m right here, Granger.”

“Good.” She planted a kiss to his nose. “Now let go, husband. Fuck me like you mean it.”

His lids slid shut as her words coiled into his need and yanked at it, stoking it into new heights. Sliding out nearly all the way, Draco then slammed back into her. The feeling was indescribable and the quiver he felt around him, coupled with her keen was testimony that it was the same for her. Draco continued with those deep thrusts, his heart hammering in his chest and his hands branded by the feel of her skin. Granger’s lips looked swollen, but she didn’t stop kissing him, devouring him, as she moaned and whimpered under his movements.

“Let… Go…” Granger grunted out and Draco’s control snapped completely. His movements grew fast and almost brutal, but she spurred him on, her nails carving along his spine as her shouts of affirmation filled the room along with the sound of their skin slapping together.

“Yes! I… Oh my god… I’m… Fuck!” Granger clutched Draco closer and screamed, her cunt squeezing him to the point of delirium.

Draco held onto her as hard as she did and fucked her through her orgasm, his own tingling along his spine before slamming into him like a Stupefy. He yelled out, feeling teeth sink into his neck. The sting of slight pain hurled him even higher and Draco sailed along a peak of pleasure and ecstasy heretofore unknown to him as he came into her with hot bursts.

Draco felt a gentle burn on his left hand and glanced at it, his breath heavy. The silver lines of their bond lit up and then paled, but now the color was deeper and the line broader. For a second, the echo of what he had just experienced was too loud for him to make sense of what he was seeing. Then reality trickled through. It worked. They were bound now.

Granger drew her hands over his back in soothing motions, releasing happy little sounds and Draco felt the alien sensation of a languorous shiver answer it. He pulled her forward until she sank against him and walked them to the bed. Gently, he lay Granger down, sliding from her as she hit the mattress.

Draco gaped at his cock, which was still as hard as before.

“Come here,” Granger purred, her eyes dark and filled with delectable promises. “Looks like we are not done.” She stretched and reached for her wand. A second later she was completely naked.

Draco’s knees did buckle this time and he dropped onto the bed. “Merlin and Morgana,” he said. “Gorgeous.” He had seen much of her, but now she was completely bared to him, her smile disarming and her arms open. The most unbelievable thing was that Draco was able to sink into those arms, to taste those amazing tits and much more, if he wanted. With no idea for how long this would last and for how long she would let him, Draco decided to do the most of the time gifted to him.

Chapter Text

A Rude Awakening

Hermione

Everything about him was warm. His skin under her fingers—looking like hewn marble, but soft and giving—his lips feathering up her jaw, leaving a blazing trail, and his mercurial eyes, burning everything they touched with their intensive gaze. Dark as a storm cast sky. Hermione was sure she’d see lighting in those eyes at any second.

Her strange metaphor from last night did hold some truth. Astoundingly. Touching Malfoy felt like the static hum of electricity without the obvious discomfort. It sent random shivers and waves of sensation across her body, waking her in places she had not known existed. Her mind was calmly floating along currents of tranquility, while her body melted into his hands. Hermione had never experienced the like and while she made sure not to touch his scar, or around his shoulder, she explored as much as she could. The lines across his sternum and chest, the ridges and dips of his muscles, the excruciatingly beautiful planes of his face. She wanted to learn, to know, all of it. Taste all of it.

Her legs lifted and parted for him as he slid between them, a gasp flying from her when she felt his cock slide along her sensitive cunt. The way he had railed her against that wall… Gods, it had been divine. Feeling him unravel to the point of no control, while all she could do was hold on and take what he gave. It was no wonder she was left sensitive from all of it.

Malfoy was propped up on his elbows, his face hovering above hers, while his hands threaded into her curls before fingers drew along the back of her head, making her lids flutter. That was the spot. With the added influence from the joint, Hermione went completely lax for a second, relishing the feeling.

The thumb of his other hand brushed over her lower lip, tugging it from her teeth. His devastating eyes held hers as he groaned, his brows furrowing when his hips curled, sliding his hard length over her, still slick with both their juices. Some part of her felt a flash of heat at the idea of throwing him on his back to clean him up with her mouth.

He had to have seen something in her face and the corners of his lips lifted slightly, making him look both younger and deliciously wicked. “This good?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, as he let his hips cant back and forth, rubbing himself along her folds in languid slides.

Hermione moaned and nodded. “Not… Ughn… Not enough, though.”

His grin widened and made her heart leap. That grin. It was as devastating as his eyes. Pulling an answering smirk form her as if she had no choice.

She wound one hand into his hair and tugged him down to taste that grin. She licked, nipped and savored him, shocked and delighted by how good he tasted, how fantastic a kisser he was. How it made her head empty of everything but an overabundance of want and need. It should be illegal, being able to kiss her until she was light-headed.

Malfoy pulled back slightly; his breath as heavy as hers. A fact that mollified her.

“Are you sure, Granger?” he asked, sliding over her once more for emphasis. “We… There would be no need. The bond is in place.”

She blinked at him dumbly, not understanding for a second. Then it came to her. Reality. The hit of it was dulled by her buzzing mind, but it was there nonetheless. They didn’t need another round. Their business was concluded. A part of her wanted to cry at how her mind had phrased that. So clinically describing something that felt anything but. Which was exactly why they should stop. It felt too good. Which was probably the joint’s doing.

Inwardly, Hermione cursed. There was what was right and there was what she wanted. And what she wanted was clear, even if she should feel some type of way about the vastness of need accompanying it.

The joint. It was the joint.

He curled his hips once more and her body made the decision for her. One hand tightening in his hair, the other snaked down his spine to squeeze his arse. “Yes,” she whispered. “I don’t care. Need more.”

Malfoy’s dark chuckle turned into a grunt when she surged up to suck his lower lip into her mouth and gently bite into the softness.

He angled her head and deepened the kiss, his chest brushing over her stiff nipples, making currents of sparks dance across her skin. Leaning to the side, he drew one hand down her throat, her chest, her side, only to languidly stroke his knuckles over her slit.

Hermione whimpered into his mouth, goosebumps coating her from head to toe, making her shiver in delight. She felt the broad head of his cock dip and nudge at her entrance and widened her legs.

He slid in with one long and careful thrust, making both of them moan in unison, turning their kiss into something alive and vibrating.

“You feel so fucking good around me,” he mumbled against her lips, before he started to draw back and sink into her again.

Hermione’s nails dug into his arse-cheek and she met his movements as much as she was able. “More,” she demanded.

His chuckle tasted of wicked delight. “Insatiable, aren’t you? Greedy little thing.” The next thrust was deeper and left her breathless. “Take all of it then, wife.”

The words felt as though they were brushing over her clit and she jerked underneath him, only to feel his long fingers slip between them and actually find her clit. “Oh gods,” Hermione yelped, his touch zapping through her like lightning.

Malfoy’s movements were slow and deliberate, a burning drag and push, that lit her up from within, while his talented fingers made her body sing. It was the opposite from before. There was nothing hurried and feral about it and even as Hermione teetered on the cusp of her orgasm, the gentle intensity of him was nearly unbearable. His kisses felt as though he sipped from her essence, his cock as if he was branding her as his, and his eyes… Merlin those eyes… They felt as if he was able to look into her soul.

It was too much. Too intense. Hermione pulled him closer, suckled on his neck and nipped his earlobe, unable to receive his gaze or kisses any longer. She would lose herself if she did.

“More,” she whispered. “Fuck me with that gorgeous cock until I can’t walk. Please. I need to feel you come inside of me.”

Her words had the intended effect. Malfoy went rigid on top of her, something close to a growl humming next to her ear. Then he began to move. There was nothing gentle about it and she spurred him on, her nails digging into his lower back, her teeth scraping along his neck. The sting of their flesh slapping and the burn of his punishing movements coiled her higher and tighter, his fingers pressing down as they moved adding to the onslaught of sensation Hermione was drowning in.

“Need to feel it again,” Malfoy rumbled into her hair. “Come around me, squeeze me with that glorious cunt of yours, wife.”

His words blasted her over the edge and Hermione screamed. The world went white and all she could feel, taste and smell was him. Clinging to Malfoy, the only tangible thing in her universe, Hermione rode peaks and valleys of exalting pleasure, exploded into the very atoms of her being, before sliding back together.

She heard his grunts, curses and moans, felt him fuck her through her orgasm, making it last longer, before he spent inside of her. Hot and endless.

The world was murky when she opened her eyes. Her breath was ragged and her heart drummed against her ribcage as if it wanted out. Malfoy let out a strangled sound as he pushed up and slid from her, leaving her empty and at a loss. He didn’t look at her as he sank down next to her and nuzzled into her side. One of his large legs drew over hers, his arm banding across her abdomen and his head nestling on her chest.

Hermione drew her arm around him, gathering him to her as if she had done so a thousand times. Her hands carded through his silky hair and an agreeable hum sounded from his wide chest. Malfoy snuggled even closer, his breath evening as Hermione swallowed at the lump forming in her throat.

He was coiled around her as closely as possible. His hand digging into her ribs almost painfully. And even as she noticed him falling asleep, she watched and hurt for him. For someone who needed touch as much as breathing, Hermione wondered whether it was the same for him and he was simply deprived of it through his trauma.

It looked like the man who was unable to stand touch was completely starved of it. Hermione understood this, she knew this. And she felt awful for him. It had to be hard living like this. Did he even know? And if he did, did he just ignore it?

She bit into her lower lip, the calmness of the joint fading, leaving her to hold him, confronted with a slew of things.

They had fucked more than was necessary. Hermione saw the golden lines on her hand glitter more broadly and brighter as her fingers brushed over Malfoy’s scalp. Fine. That could be allotted to the joint. She’d have to ask Neville what he’d put in there. Also, what the hell? What if she’d been alone? Or with someone like Harry or Ginny? A cold tremor washed through her at the thought.

Furthermore, it had been the most spectacular experience in her life. Both times. And while the first had been an absolute ride of feral carnality, the second one… It had been way too intimate, leaving her feeling all gooey and malleable. Which wouldn’t do. Enjoying the sex they’d had to have was a welcome surprise. But the depth of tenderness and closeness that had followed was sure to fuck with her mind.

Hermione’s lips thinned as she shook her head. No, it was all part of the high. Something designed and magic. Ergo, not real. Even as feeling him this close still filled her with a sense of comfort and contentment, she was adamant on her reasoning. Also, she liked touch. Having her hot-as-sin husband wrapped around her like a Devil’s Snare wasn’t the worst thing. It was all superficial anyway, or could be spun as such. Demand and supply. He seemed to need the closeness in this moment and she could give it. Theirs was a mutually beneficial agreement after all. Didn’t mean it would become the norm. Or that it should.

Malfoy twitched, his big body trembling slightly, his brows drawing together. His muscles bunched up as he grabbed her tighter, nearly robbing her of breath. Hermione gently stroked the creases between his brows away, calmly talking to him until he took a deep breath, stilled and relaxed.

Forcefully shutting off her mind, Hermione indulged in something she never would have thought she’d do. Not with him, at least. In the silence of Malfoy’s room, with the curtains of the balcony swaying and billowing around the open door and the night sky winking through, Hermione basked in the feel of a lover tangled with her, stroking him gently when he flinched or murmured. She did so until she felt sleep coming on, then slowly untangled herself. It was quite the endeavor, as he held on tightly and she had to move carefully in order not to wake him.

She could not allow herself to fall asleep. For one, waking together was out of the question and too far for what their sham of a marriage was. And two, who knew what would happen if he woke, feeling the touch of another and panicked? So despite the tiredness pulling at her bones and the utter lack of aversion she felt at being this lose to Malfoy, Hermione ultimately slipped from his bed, gathered her wand and dress, before traipsing to the door.

She looked back at him, gloriously naked and bathed in moonlight, with his hand reaching across the sheets. Hermione gave him one last smile—a secret that would stay in this room, just like a few others, wrought into this night—and went to her own bed.

Hermione woke to a rattling groan, that felt as if it came from the very earth itself. She sat up in her bed, pulled from the depth of sleep in seconds, listening to creaks and clatters.

“What the…?” Was it an earthquake? Hermione surged from her bed, dove under it when her wand wasn’t on her bedside table and rooted around until she pulled it free. She plucked a small dust moth from the tip and summoned one of the bathrobes from the bathroom. Quickly, she slid it on and rushed from her room.

Outside, she blinked at what she saw. The entire hallway looked like a furling wave of parquet. The polished floor undulating and twisting. Hermione screamed when one of the waves lifted her up. It smoothed to her soles and then carried her toward the stairs. Sending one Finite after the other at the witch-stealing floor did nothing and she gulped when the stairs flattened into what looked like a slide.

“Oh, fuck no,” she hissed, as the floor tilted her and she rode a wave of clattering wood down the stairs as if—wait a second, this had to be a dream. Stairs turning into slides, floors into waves… Yes, she’d had dreams like this before.

The notion was thrown out as she was dumped into the entrance hall rather unceremoniously, where she crashed into Malfoy, who was riding a similar wave, this one made of clicking tiles. His arms flew around her as her nose met his chest and all breath was knocked from her in an ‘oomph’.

She felt herself fall and Malfoy sway, but apparently he had the sense of balance of a Tibetan monk, as he swirled her around as though she weighed nothing, planting his feet and holding her steady.

Hermione popped her face up to look at him and he peered down, his arms tightening for a second before he let go of her.

“You alright, Granger?” he asked, taking a step back.

Hermione tightened the cord of her robe, glancing around, extremely confused. “What the fuck was that?” she asked.

Malfoy shrugged one shoulder, just as confused and flinched when the groaning picked up again. They both looked at the ceiling, which had sturdy beams running along the length of it. It sounded as though the house was going to collapse at any second.

“No idea,” he said.

Hermione pinched herself for good measure and the sting told her that no, she was in fact not dreaming. “I don’t—”

The sound of whooshing flames coming from the large sitting room interrupted her and they took one look at each other before dashing in the direction of the sound. Skidding to a halt before the giant hearth and emerald flames, they both watched Narcissa Malfoy step from the fire.

“Mother,” Malfoy said, his tone curiously level for someone who had just been carted around his own home by his floor.

Lady Malfoy smiled at him, before nodding primly at Hermione. “Draco, my darling. Hermione. Good morning.” She scourgified her grey dress, freeing it of soot and ash, before walking over to them. “I hope I’m not coming by at an inopportune time,” she said and gestured to the sofas.

Hermione frowned and felt a tad overwhelmed and apprehensive as she watched the ceiling, which was now conspicuously silent. Wordlessly, she took a seat, finding it strange that Malfoy sank down at her side, calm as a cucumber. He was close enough for her to feel his body heat, but far enough to not touch her. Shaking that fact and the slowly encroaching memories from last night from her mind, she glanced up once more, frowning. Priorities, Granger, she told herself.

Narcissa brushed one pale hand over her knees and cleared her throat. Hermione looked at her, then at Malfoy and raised a brow. Narcissa was wearing her regal mask of indifference, while Malfoy seemed to glower at his mother.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, mother?” Malfoy drawled, somehow making it sound both deferent and poncy. A marvel all unto itself.

Narcissa brushed over her knees once more, the only sign that might indicate she was nervous. “Your father and I felt the shift during the night and I wanted to… Well, congratulations. It seems the bond is in place. Your father wanted to come and reprimand you for cutting it so close. I came instead.” She lifted her chin. “I think that was the better option.”

“The shift?” Hermione asked. “What shift? And did you just… Are you saying you knew when we…” The implication hit her squarely in the chest and Hermione clapped her mouth shut. She was by no means shy, but Narcissa knowing exactly when she’d slept with her son was too much. She blushed furiously.

Malfoy’s glower intensified. “Please answer my wife, mother. What shift?”

Narcissa looked from Malfoy to Hermione and back. “The shift of ownership, of course. Douillet is now fully yours. You must have felt it, Draco.”

A stricken sound ratcheted up Hermione’s throat.

“I rode around on tiles a few minutes ago, if that is what you mean,” Malfoy said. “It was a bit surprising, seeing that I had no idea about the house being able to manhandle me.”

Narcissa looked taken aback. “You knew the house has magic, Draco. How do you think you got up onto the chandelier the last time we were here? Lucius decided it was too unpredictable for a child and we stopped coming.” She looked at her folded hands. “He also didn’t like the willfulness of Douillet in the first place.”

Malfoy cleared his throat. “I was seven, mother. I don’t remember much of that day. All I could recall was the garden and a feeling of…contentment.”

Narcissa looked as shocked as her tightly controlled features allowed. “You had no… Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. I should have told you again. Before you moved in.”

“Just a second,” Hermione said. “I don’t understand. The house seemed perfectly normal the last day and night. It only started to act up this morning. And what do you mean willful? Is it dangerous?”

A very tight-lipped mother-in-law looked her way, making Hermione want to sink into the fabric of the sofa and vanish.

“If I sat on the chandelier last time, I think that is a valid question, mother,” Malfoy said. “And even had I remembered, you should have told Granger about it. About the history and uses. As we never spoke about it, I certainly couldn’t have known about any of it.”

For the first time since in her presence, Hermione saw Narcissa squirm. “I just… I thought you knew and I did tell you about it. After you father levitated you from the chandelier and told us we were leaving. You had a crying fit and I tried to calm you by telling you the story of the house.”

Malfoy looked more livid by the second, his fists clenching ever so slowly at his sides. “Again, I was seven. And obviously distraught if I was crying. What makes you think I would remember any of it? And well enough to move here?” He sighed, which sounded forced. “Please answer Granger’s questions.”

Narcissa shifted slightly, but she then looked directly at Hermione. “No, it is not dangerous, just a bit cheeky. Douillet is magical, sentient in a sense. Imbued with generations of Black family magic. Once a family moves in, in accordance with the binding laws, it awakens and looks after them. It also looks after itself. The family ties and relationships will reflect here and there and it will cast a net of wards and protective magic. If the family owning it doesn’t visit at least once a year, it falls into a slumber, only to be awakened by their arrival, or a change of ownership.” Narcissa squared her shoulders a bit. “Which is how we knew your bond was in place. We felt the loss of Douillet.”

Hermione looked down, feeling her cheeks heat up once more. This was so bloody awkward.

“It would never harm a member of the family, or anyone who is a friend, but it can be trying,” Narcissa continued. “Vanishing things and changing things. But you’ll have a better handle on it once it gets used to you. It also helps if there is a mutual respect and fondness.”

“Fondness? For a house?” Malfoy asked. A soft rumble answered, and the walls turned a vibrant yellow.

Narcissa raised a brow at her son. “You know, this was your father’s problem too. He didn’t get along with Douillet.”

“So he left it to me. Grand.” Malfoy looked at the walls, his lips curling into a sneer.

Narcissa got up, walked to one of the walls and gently stroked a palm across it. “For old times sake, what do you say?”

On cue, the walls turned back to white and Hermione gaped.

“Fascinating,” she whispered, wondering at the magic behind all of it.

“I have a few journals and texts on it, if you’d want them, Hermione,” Narcissa said.

Hermione nodded. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

“I’ll bring them by—” Narcissa stopped and Hermione saw her exchange a look with Malfoy. “Or you can pick them up on Wednesday. When you both come by for dinner.”

“I think that would be best,” Draco said, sounding as if he did so through clenched teeth. He then turned to Hermione. “I made coffee and eggs. If you want, you can start breakfast. I need a moment with my mother.”

He was on edge, Hermione could see it and damn last night and the tenderness she had felt at holding him, but she wanted to reach out and touch him. Show him support and comfort. But they didn’t have that type of relationship and he wouldn’t welcome it. So Hermione nodded and stood, walking toward the arch, beside which Narcissa was still standing.

Narcissa’s gaze roamed over Hermione and her bathrobe, her nose twitching as if it wished to crinkle, then the look was gone and she smiled stiffly. With a snap of her fingers, Narcissa conjured a letter into her hand.

“My husband asked to give you this.” She held it out to Hermione who took it. “It concerns your parents.”

Hermione nodded, the feeling of shame at Narcissa’s perusal washed away by excitement. She rubbed her thumb over the creamy texture of the letter, hoping a schedule of transfer would be inside.

“Thank you, Narcissa,” Hermione said, torn between good manners and her own feelings on the matter. She really should invite her mother-in-law for breakfast, even if she had shown up decidedly uninvited. She bit her teeth together. “If you have time, we can all have breakfast together, after your talk,” Hermione offered.

Narcissa looked a tad perplexed, but quickly gathered herself. “That would be lovely, thank you, Hermione. I have missed Douillet terribly and Draco has done a wonderful job at refurbishing it.”

Hermione took that as her cue and walked past her, deciding to leave that last tidbit for unpacking later. Malfoy had refurbished the house? She shook her head and debated whether she should change to appease Narcissa, then narrowed her eyes. This was her home now and she would wear whatever she wanted. Besides, her fingers itched to open the letter.

Hearing the soft, yet strained voices of Malfoy and his mother, she headed for the kitchen to look over and maybe add to the breakfast, while reading the news from Lucius.

Chapter Text

Moving Day

Draco

Draco watched his mother closely, and while he wanted to yell at her, he did not. Barely holding his composure, he tried to put into order what he wanted to say. It was always tricky with her. There were schemes, mind-games and deflections. Granted, Draco knew she loved him and had done much for him—apart from risking her life multiple times—he also knew she held her cards very close to her chest. Even where it concerned Lucius. Especially where it concerned Lucius.

Maybe the need to keep secrets during the war, even from themselves in case Voldemort used Legilimency, had made her unable to trust him with even the most basic things. Things that concerned him. It hadn’t always bee this way. Draco remembered a time when she would tell him things in confidence, where they would be each other’s secret-keepers. He had been an incurable mama’s boy. So much so, that his father had seemed to take more of an interest in Draco around the time he was twelve. But eventually, Draco had found out why; Lucius thought spending so much time with his mother was making him soft.

Because Lucius had ordered it, Narcissa obeyed. In a way. Whenever Lucius was present, she would pull back, but they still had their own language of glances and gestures, their own times together where everything would revert back to how it had been. Secrets they kept for each other.

As Draco looked at Narcissa now, regal and primly sat on his sofa, her thumb tapping very slightly on her wrist, where she laced her fingers in her lap. It was the only sign that she was nervous. Her blue eyes steady as they held his. Her face void of anything. Merlin damn it, it exhausted him to see that she still did this. Closed up and not show a single sign of…anything. For a second, Draco wished to see her crying and begging him to get help for himself again, after one of his episodes, just to know if it had even been real.

“Why didn’t you tell me, mother?” Draco asked, knowing this was a question he would ask of her over and over again. He had done so many times in the last few years, in the last few months.

Her brows rose in the perfect imitation of confusion. “What do you mean, my dragon? I thought you knew. Like I sa—”

“I might have my problems, but I’m not an idiot,” Draco said through clenched teeth. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you thought I still knew? When you told me once when I was seven? And why not tell Granger? As the woman of the house, giving it over to the next would have been your job. Especially seeing as you bloody well knew I didn’t remember shite.”

“Draco! Cease that crude talk at once.” She looked shocked. Also an act. Narcissa was seldomly shocked and certainly not by his choice of words. She had seen, heard, and said worse, during the war.

“I will, if you stop lying to me. What’s it going to be, mother?” Draco leaned forward, waiting.

Narcissa pursed her lips once, twice, a third time, before her calculating gaze roamed around the room, before it landed on him again. “Douillet was my family’s. We used to come here during holidays. I adored everything about it and when I married Lucius, we both inherited it.” She glanced outside the windows fondly. “It was one of the few places I was truly happy. Where my sisters and I were not required to function a certain way. We would roam the woods and house to our heart’s’ content and my parents never cared. I have very fond memories of this place, my dragon, and I wanted it to be yours.” She gently brushed a hand across the sofa beside where she sat. It was one of the pieces Draco and Blaise hadn’t swapped out. “I was uncertain whether you’d decline, once you knew it was magical and…cheeky. You and your father are so similar when it comes to your tempers. I thought it best to…” She sighed at his sneer. “I really wanted you to have something of me, or the Black line, and when I saw how happy it made you to refurbish this place, I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.”

Draco clicked his tongue, deciding to put her mentioning any similarities between him and his father out of his mind. “Fine, but why not tell Granger?”

This time the feelings flashing across her features were real. “I didn’t… I wanted to apologize for what I said on the day of your wedding. It was insensitive and wrong. And you are right; I was being hypocritical. I was just so caught up in you marrying someone so vastly different from us, that I didn’t think on how serious you’d take your commitment.” A small smile grew on her lips. “I am very proud of you for that, my dragon. Every marriage deserves being taken seriously and I forgot. Thank you for reminding me.” She gestured in the direction of the door. “It’s why I didn’t tell her. I felt…disinclined to speak to her more than I had to. Which was wrong and I would like to apologize for that as well. But by the time you made me see how wrong I had been, it was already too late.”

She seemed earnest, but there had been one tap of her thumb, so Draco wasn’t sure. Narcissa was hard to read—impossible for most others—but Draco wanted to believe her.

“Right.” He took a deep breath, beating back the anger surging through his chest at the thought of his next question. “Did you know about the contract and what is in it?”

She cast her eyes to her knees. “I knew there was one. I was unsure about the details; your father only told me some of the things. Like that there was a time-limit of two years and he would help her parents in return.”

Draco clenched his fists slowly. “Did you know about the fact that Granger has to be pregnant by the one-year mark of our marriage?” His voice wasn’t more than a venomous hiss.

Narcissa swallowed, her head rising so her eyes met his. Widened in surprise, before anger twitched across her brows in a deep crease. “What?”

“Oh yes, my father has secured an heir for me. If she does not fall pregnant, he will pull back all his support for her parents. Also, I’m not sure because the wording is strange, but it seems like the marriage bond will dissolve as well.” Draco felt his fake grin pull on his cheeks uncomfortably. “Unlucky for him, he does not know I don’t plan on marrying ever again.” Draco sank back into the sofa with a forced sigh. “Classic case of push too hard and find out what happens.”

“Draco, I had no idea,” Narcissa said, her mien grim. This time, her knuckles were white from how she clasped her hands and Draco was pretty sure she was inwardly picturing them around Lucius’ neck. “I will have words with him about this.”

“It’s not like you or I can change anything now,” Draco said and got up. “Come, I’m sure Granger is waiting for us.”

Draco had no idea whether he should be thankful to Granger for inviting his mother to breakfast or not. On the one hand, it showed that she was trying at this by getting along with Narcissa, on the other hand, just talking to his mother these few moments had already strained his patience to the point of shattering.

“Oh, you will have so much fun with Douillet,” Narcissa said and walked by his side. “Once you get to know it and it you, a bond will form, which will be very helpful. I remember my mother was able light the hearths of every room in this place with just a thought or a word.”

They passed through a few arches and found themselves at the dining table adjacent to the kitchen. Granger was sat at the table, reading the letter Narcissa had brought while sipping coffee. She still wore her bathrobe and Draco was caught between a grin at what his mother would think upon seeing her and curiosity as to what exactly she wore beneath it. If anything.

Narcissa closed up to him, casting a glance around the kitchen fondly. “If you share a peaceful and respectful bond, the house will provide security, help and an aura of…I’d almost call it tranquility.”

Draco nearly choked on his own breath and Granger’s cheeks flamed to life in a vibrant red. Their eyes met and then ripped apart as if looking at one another made it worse. In a way it did. They both knew that that one word brought back last night in full force. Tranquility had worked wonders for both of them after all.

If Narcissa noticed anything, she didn’t say. She kept on chatting about the house, while Draco tried to stem pictures of Granger naked and wrapped around him while he fucked her against a wall. Not to mention what had come after.

Brown eyes blown wide, plush lips swollen and gasping, chocolate curls, smelling of honeysuckle and the night. Her skin as soft as velvet, her fingers in his hair. Him able to taste and feel all of her. Every move against him, every clench around him, every breath she sighed into him…

Draco pulled the chair out for his mother, concentrating on the sound the legs made on the carpet. He needed to get his head on straight, but gods, it had been one hell of an experience. And then… Then he had fallen asleep in her arms, wrapped around her like a Merlin-damned vine, feeling as safe and content as he hadn’t in a very long time.

As he settled in his chair, careful not to look at his wife, Draco prepared himself for one awkward breakfast.

The breakfast had been awkward—filled with odd silences and meaningful looks from Narcissa and none from Granger—but it was overshadowed by the strangeness of meeting Potter and the Weaselette later that day, as they had flooed over, boxes of Granger’s in tow.

Draco had asked whether they needed any help, to which Granger had almost screamed a no, before chuckling nervously and ushering her friends back into the hearth, telling him she was ‘on top of things’, cringing at her choice of words by the looks of it, then vanished in a flare of green flame to Merlin knew where to get more of her things.

With a shrug and feeling very confused, Draco had decided to give them space and head for his shed, where he worked on a few sketches.

Debating on what he wanted to work on, Draco wondered at Granger’s behavior. Maybe she needed alone time with her friends? He frowned. To tell them about their night together, perhaps? If so, did he care? He supposed that depended on what she said. While Draco knew they had both fully enjoyed being with one another, what about after? Gods, he couldn’t believe he had practically curled up around and half atop her to fall asleep. Would she laugh with Potter about that?

He shook his head. Granger did not seem like the type to do so. Still, what if she hadn’t wanted that unneeded closeness? Draco had. Needed it, that was. He’d felt his body move entirely on its own, taking a sense of comfort and peace as if it was to die without it. There had been nothing he could have done to stop it and Draco hadn’t wanted to. His pencil started to move across the canvas, fast and decisive. It had been a stolen moment. Something that would never happen again. Just like the sex. Something took shape under his swishes and strokes. That out-of-world, mind-blowing sex. Where he had been able to touch without restraint, without second thoughts and without fear. He probably should send Longbottom some sort of gift, or pay him for another one of those specific joints.

Draco scoffed at his train of thought. Granger would never want to try again. That was if there was no need for it. Like getting her pregnant. “Fucking hell,” Draco hissed out, his hand stilling as panic sliced into him. He breathed deeply and squinted at his sketch. Then his eyes widened when he added a few more lines and curves. It was a flower. One of the flowers he knew from his mother’s moon-garden. One of the flowers making up Granger’s scent.

A Casa Blanca Lily.

For a second Draco was hit with an utterly ridiculous thought, and idea so ludicrous he should not entertain it. Not even for a second. But before he could either banish it, or indulge, something very orange walked from the garden through the open doors.

A squished face and large yellow eyes peeked at him, while a bushy, bottle-brush-looking tail swished from side to side. The orange something let out a strange mewl, and dropped a garden gnome at Draco’s feet.

The small creature sprang to its feet, chattering angrily, while making a run for it on tiny legs. The orange…cat, Draco supposed it was, huffed in apparent annoyance, glaring at Draco as if this was all his fault, before giving chase.

“Hey! No! Stop that!” Draco yelled, when the gnome led the cat deeper into the potions-part of the shed. Shelves rattled and pots clanged as a chaotic game of catch was played, very much to the delight of the cat and the detriment of the gnome.

The gnome squeaked and hopped onto one of the shelves, his naked feet padding across the wood as he ran and jumped into the next one. The cat was unfazed and lunged. Ingredients toppled, then fell. Valuable things, such as Acromantula Venom and Bezoar Essence. Draco waved his wand, making the costly flasks hover mid-air, but the two fiends were on the next shelf already.

Gasping when he saw a miniature vial of Pheonix Tears (What hell was it doing there? Stuff like that should be under lock and key! Draco was going to kill Theo, who had been in charge of stocking the shelves.), Draco twisted, seeing it unseated from its place in an almost comical twirl. Instead of casting a levitation charm, he jumped, his hand outstretched.

He knew it was too far away the moment his feet left the ground. Draco grunted, readying for the impact, when his body—instead of crashing into the tiled floor—bounced off a mattress. The vial of silver liquid had landed in a downy cushion that hadn’t been there before.

Draco scrambled to his feet and turned around to find no one there. “What the fuck?” he uttered, when the gnome was launched from an empty shelf, sailed through the room and out an opening window, which closed again behind the shrieking creature.

The cat hopped down and sauntered up to Draco’s side. It sat down, tilted its head and meowed once, blinking at him and then the window.

“The house is magic,” Draco said, the scowled. Why was he talking to a cat? If that was even what this monstrosity was.

The cat meowed again, as if all had been answered, before licking his fluffy paw and drawing it over one ear.

“I’m guessing you belong to Granger.” Draco stood, swiping up the priceless vial of Pheonix Tears. The he sent the other ingredients back to their places with a swish of his wand.

The cat swished its tail and hopped onto the now-free cushion, rolling into an orange bun, before continuing to clean itself.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Draco said, then looked around the room for more signs of Douillet. He lifted the vial. “Thank you. This is invaluable. And also for softening my own landing.”

One of the shelves vibrated with what looked like…excitement?

Draco shook his head, letting the strangeness of the situation wash over him. He went back to his sketch, placing the vial into his pocket to stow away somewhere safe later.

Huh, maybe having a sentient house wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Especially when one’s spouse brought along an unruly, ugly cat that had a taste for gnomes.

He vanished the mattress and continued his sketch, getting lost in the concentration of drawing. It calmed his busy mind and gave him ample headspace to ponder many things. He wondered what his father had sent Granger and whether he should ask her about. Then his thoughts swirled around his father and whether or not Draco should confront him during their mandated dinner on Wednesday.

Draco weighed his thoughts, his words, his options and decided against it. He was too angry to be civil and it would be Granger’s first visit with his family, she shouldn’t be exposed to the worst of them straight away. Besides, what difference would anything he said even make? Ignoring his father’s existence seemed like a good way to go. Lucius might be able to force Draco into his presence, but he couldn’t force him to interact.

By the time the day grew dim, he was done and stretched, before setting his colors aside and hanging a cloth over the painting.

As he got ready to go, the orange cat stretched, yawned, and curled its talons into the cushion before snapping them free and regally sauntering Draco’s way. It looked up to him, meowed once, as if to say ‘let’s go, then’, and bounded across the grass and toward the terrace of the house.

Chapter Text

This House is a Circus

Hermione

Large brown boxes, her old Hogwarts trunk, and suitcases sat all around her bedroom. Well, her new bedroom. Hermione looked around, seated in the midst of her life. Past and future clashed in an upheaval of clothes, books, and nick-nacks. She was satisfied with how quickly they had moved everything up here from her flat. And while her nerves flared yet again at how fast her life was changing, she breathed through it.

Thank Merlin, Malfoy hadn’t insisted on helping, but rather vanished once her, Harry and Ginny flooed back to Douillet with almost everything in tow that she had packed the week before. Him asking whether he could help had conjured up the same strange feeling it had the day before. Somehow Hermione felt…embarrassed of him seeing her flat. It made no sense, but that stupid blush had stayed until they had gotten back.

Crooks had bolted the moment Hermione had set him down, wearing his ‘exploration snarl’, as she called it. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him for a while now.

Huffing out a breath, Hermione began levitating her clothing into her too-large closet, the rustling of fabric and scratching of cardboard feeling especially loud in the otherwise silent room. After Ginny’s incessant chatting and Harry’s happy whistling, which earned him a few pillows to the face from his former girlfriend, Hermione felt their sudden absence strongly. It made the encroaching thoughts and feelings she had stemmed all day come forth and roll over her like waves of a high tide.

Maybe the day as such had just been too much, Hermione mused as she waved her wand to open her trunk. She had charmed it, extending the space inside exponentially. An assortment of small potted plants—gifts from Neville over the years—danced into the air as they obeyed the direction of her magic, sending them to different places throughout the room. Waking to a magical house had been something, but the contents of Lucius’ letter had plucked at her nerves in a very different way.

She eyed said letter with a frown, which lay on her bedside table now. Hermione had read it repeatedly while making more pancakes for what had been a very awkward breakfast. Next week. They would be situated in Sweden next week, and Lucius had even included a Portkey for Hermione, along with a hotel reservation for two days, so she could be with her parents as they settled in.

Nibbling her lower lip, Hermione felt excitement buzzing beneath her skin. It alternated with a heavy sense of foreboding that she had tried to shake throughout the day. While Ginny and Harry had been around, it had been easier to flee her thoughts on it, even while bringing forth a whole lot of other things that had stirred her nerves with not-so-subtle questions and jabs. Hermione wasn’t even able to list them according to importance, which was vexing, since she did love a well-ordered list. No, all of her feelings and thoughts seemed to war and vie for first place in her head.

Tilting her head at the potted Asphodel on the mantle of her hearth, Hermione heaved out a sigh. Order. She needed order. In her mind and her surroundings. With a determined glare at the boxes, she pulled up her sleeves and continued hovering her things to designated places. When it came to the warring emotions concerning her parents, there was naught to be done but wait and hope. Yes, it was exciting that finally something happened, but her worry was heavy. If the clinic didn’t help either, then she was out of options. Hermione forced herself to look at it rationally. There was no sense in worrying while they hadn’t even left St. Mungo’s yet. Knowing this did not help and she grumbled to herself as she unearthed book after book from her trunk, placing them into her large shelf.

No, there was nothing to be gained from assuming and dreading the worst, and she stilled for a couple of heartbeats, focusing on the feeling of excitement. It was a good thing. And the next necessary step she had to try. The only one left.

Hermione swished her wand angrily and a row of ten books zipped from her trunk and thunked against the shelf, only to topple to the floor in a heap. She hurried over, making sure that none were damaged. Angry with herself, Hermione proceeded to slide her treasures into the shelf manually.

Order, she told herself, knowing she would drive herself mad if she continued to overthink the situation with her parents. When she opened another box and found an assortment of shoes she had not worn yet—most of which Ginny had either gifted her or insisted on her buying—Hermione allowed a smirk to cross her lips.

Bless Harry and his mortification at Ginny’s questions about Hermione’s ‘married life’, but it had made it impossible to talk about it. Hermione just knew Harry would have sunken into the floor if she had divulged the last two nights and while Hermione wasn’t embarrassed at having slept with her own damned husband—no matter who he was—she did not talk to Harry about these things. Maybe if it had been anyone other than Ron or Malfoy, things would have been different, but it had never been something they’d shared.

However, Hermione did feel the overwhelming need to talk. Regarding how her life was changing and married life in general. Or maybe specifically. Because she did have thoughts on it that made no sense to her. So she had demanded a girl’s night from Ginny, declaring she needed to talk. And while Harry had blushed and hid behind a box he picked up, Ginny had squealed and clapped her hands, bouncing on her feet with an “I knew it!”. Her further demands of; “Tell me everything!” had been stumped by Harry mumbling sheepishly and insisting on them discussing this at their girl’s night.

Sliding a book into the last space on the shelf, Hermione wriggled her nose, debating whether to charm the shelf, or stack the rest of her books before it. As she was thinking, a deep rumble made her shriek. Before her eyes, the shelf expanded, broadening. After the shock wore off and she understood that Douillet was apparently being helpful, she watched in fascination and then smiled widely.

“Thank you,” Hermione said once the shelf stilled, now spanning nearly the entire wall. A small flap of the carpet underneath her feet answered and she sucked in a surprised breath. It felt…mollified? She smiled again, continuing to order and place her books down. Living in a magical house was certainly convenient. Hermione couldn’t wait to find out more about it. Maybe those texts and journals Narcissa had promised would shed some light on the inner workings of her new home.

Once done, she stemmed both fists to her hips and glanced at her handywork. All her books fit. It was a true marvel, as they never had before. Hermione had lived between small stacks here and there, always hating that her precious books were too many to handle. But now… Now they fit.

Ron had been vocal about them being in the way more than once. He had also stumbled over them more than once. She could still hear him complaining about them. “’Mione, can’t you just shrink them and put them somewhere? Honestly, I could have broken my ankle.”

A scowl took hold of her and she clicked her tongue at thoughts of him. Ron had been one more thing clanging around her mind. Hermione had been unsure about saying something to Harry or Ginny. While she was livid with her ex and could have hexed his bollocks with Dragon Pox—for starters—it hadn’t felt right to tell her friends before confronting him. Then there was the question about when and how to confront him and further, what to tell her friends once she had done so.

Well, she had until next week, when she got back from Sweden and had her first workday on Wednesday to think about it. Which was probably when she’d see him next. Her fists clenched at her sides and Hermione told herself to calm. No matter how valid, it wouldn’t do going to Azkaban because she’d blown him to chunks. She needed to work through her anger, make a plan, and stick to it, despite her explosive nature.

Hermione grimaced and scratched at her elbow. Keeping a cool head in dangerous situation was where she excelled, not when she was livid. No, she tended to do devious things when angry. Well thought-out, yes, but devious. Like keeping people in jars, or spelling ‘Sneak’ in unvanishable pimples on deserving foreheads. Last she heard; Marietta was still sporting a fringe.

With a wave of her wand, the box labeled ‘office and random’ opened, revealing…nothing. Hermione hastened over and peered inside. It was bloody empty. “What the…?” She was sure it had been filled with scrolls, ink, quills, ingredients, and her potions-kit, having hovered it up the stairs and into this very room herself.

She lifted the box, utterly confused. Then her brows flew up. “Uhm… House? No, I can’t just call you ‘House’, can I?” Hermione pursed her lips. “Douillet?”

Two floorboards clicked up and down in answer.

“Do you know where the things that were in this box are?” she asked, feeling a bit stupid.

Before she could utter anything more, the floor bounded up, rolling under her feet. Hermione’s arms flailed as she tried to keep her balance. A yell left her throat and her body was yanked forward, riding a wave of parquet out the door and through the hallway.

“Not again,” she muttered when the stairs flattened. A second later she sailed down with small shrieks, arriving in the entrance hall, where the marble crunched and cracked, carrying her into the study she had noticed on her exploration the day before. Her palms slammed to the desk as she halted abruptly, the momentum making her sway.

Blinking, she looked around and found all her office supplies ordered. Stacks and rolls of parchment were grouped in a small shelf, next to which her inkpots and quills were lined up. Her brows flew up when she turned, taking in the rest of the room, which had changed since last she’d seen it.

It had grown. The glass doors that had led outside, had turned into arches of glass and metal, leading into what looked like a small greenhouse. Hermione walked inside, gaping. An old-looking table sat in the middle, carrying her cauldron and all her ingredients. The walls had hooks and shelves spanning them, ready for plants and more, waiting to be filled, as the golden light of the waning sun filtered through the tinted glass-roof. Like in the library, the roof made specks of light glint around the space, casting it in a magical atmosphere.

Hermione snorted when her plants—the ones she had just placed around her room—popped out of nowhere to settle around the room. Her hand landed on her mouth to stem the sound, but then she giggled. “The Mimbulus Mimbletonia has to go in the shade.” Hermione waved her wand to hover the knobbly cactus from the shelf next to the doors leading outside and into a darker corner. A low rumble made the leaves of her Gillyweed plant rustle.

“Hey, it’s not like you could have known,” Hermione cooed, feeling a most curious sensation of mortification dance around the space. “And I love what you have done with this place. Thank you.”

Now all leaves rustled as the entire room seemed to vibrate with happiness. Hermione had to steady herself, but she smiled and patted the wall gently. Gods, she loved magic.

As it had been the last box—Hermione had not taken any furniture, other than a small chaise, she’d placed in her room next to the high-back wingchair—she decided to scour the kitchen for some of the pizza she’d ordered in her flat with Harry and Ginny earlier.

The container filled with the left-over pizza was in the fridge—Ginny was such a doll when it came to things like that—and Hermione frowned at the rest of the contents inside. Those had not been there this morning. Did the house add them or had Malfoy gone out? Or did they have…house-elves?

Slamming the door shut, Hermione spun around. She waved her wand and two plates zipped over to the cooking island. The Malfoy’s had owned elves, that much was for certain. Did they still? Gods, there were so many things she had never asked Malfoy, that they had never spoken about.

As if she had conjured the bloke, he appeared outside a second later. Crookshanks was ahead of him, placing both his front paws to the door and meowing in demand.

Hermione opened the doors for him with a flick of her wrist. Her half-Kneazle pranced inside and wound around her legs with a purr.

“Went exploring, did you?” she asked with a smile as Malfoy ducked inside and closed the doors behind himself.

“On the contrary. Your…cat brought me a gnome, then continued to sleep as I was…” He trailed off when their eyes met and swallowed. “Well, it slept for most of the day. Apparently hunting gnomes is hard work.”

Hermione had to stifle a giggle at Malfoy’s slightly annoyed face as he regarded Crookshanks. Her cat in turn walked toward him, sat down and glanced up. A loud and unmistakable meow flew from him.

“What is happening?” Malfoy asked, glancing from Crooks to Hermione.

“Crookshanks wants you to feed him,” Hermione said, very surprised at this development. One of the reasons Ron had often forgotten to do so was that Crooks had never demanded food from him the way he did with Hermione, and now Malfoy, apparently. Strange. What was also strange was the feeling slinking through her chest at the sight. It was subtle and soft, but not unwelcome. Something tender.

Malfoy cocked a brow and Hermione was sure he would sneer and tell her to feed her ‘beast’ herself, nixing that tender thing in her chest, but he tilted his head slightly, looking at Crooks. “What does he eat?”

Now it was her turn to swallow, as the tenderness grew a bit. Hermione gestured to one of the cabinets. “I put his bowls and food in there. I wasn’t sure where to place them before talking to you.”

Silver eyes met her, as did a frown. “Why would I mind where you put his bowls?”

She shrugged, used to something of this nature eliciting a groan and annoyance. Ron’s words sang through her mind.

“Please put that food-bowl away, ‘Mione, it stinks.”

“Merlin, he left half of it again. Ugh… I hate that smell.”

“Why are these things cluttering up the kitchen again?”

Malfoy walked over and Hermione noticed small flecks of color on his rolled-up sleeves and fingers. Had he been painting? Somehow the idea of him sitting down, his sharp brows furrowed and his long hands delicately holding a brush did something to her. As did his rolled sleeves, exposing the cords of muscles and tendons, and veins.

Snapping her eyes from him and to her own hands, Hermione felt heat travel up the back of her neck. Merlin’s socks, they’d had sex once (technically, twice and a half, but who was counting?) and she was blushing like a teenager around him. This was so embarrassing. She cleared her throat as he took out two bowls and a can of food, his shoulder rolling and stretching under his button-up shirt.

Casting her eyes down, again, Hermione opened the container of pizza, a bit annoyed at herself. She had no idea why she was reacting the way she was around him, which was part of why she wanted to speak to Ginny. Get her thoughts in order and figure out what it was she was dealing with here.

It did not help that all her experiences so far were unhelpful. Her and Ron had known each other for so long, there had always been a familiarity between them. Even the awkward moments were shared with laughs and talks, in the beginning. And the one-night stands had never lasted longer than their namesake. So she was stumped. Was this normal?

“Do you want pizza?” she asked, as Malfoy flopped the can of food into one bowl, then placed both of them down next to the door leading outside, before casting an Aguamenti on the empty bowl.

“What is pizza?” he asked, straightening to his full height and turning toward her.

Hermione blinked at him. “You don’t…”

A grin grew on his lips as he drew up to her side and glanced into the container. Hermione tsked and slapped the back of her hand to his chest, then flinched when he jerked back. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Malfoy. I wasn’t…” She breathed out, feeling awful. “…thinking.”

He shook his head, the grin growing back, if a bit more strained than before. “It’s fine. I got you, though, didn’t I?”

“For a second,” she admitted. “I’m sorr—”

“Stop apologizing, Granger,” he said, peering down at her with his grey eyes. For a moment they shuttered to steel, then went back. It was hard to see, knowing what he was doing, especially after last night. After knowing how desperately he needed touch. Well, maybe not slaps to the chest, but casual touch. Or gentle touch. Gods, he had felt so good folded around her. And before… Inside of her.

Hermione swallowed again and pulled in a large breath. All that did was suffuse her with his scent. Sandalwood, green apples, and that smoky note that was all him. Being this close to him, smelling him, it all had her slipping back into the memory of last night. Her mind knew it had not been real, most of what they both had felt had been magically induced by the joint, but her body didn’t care. It wanted to feel that again. The burn of his skin, the taste of his lips, the glide of his tongue, the brush of his hands on her body, the rocking of his cock in her heat.

Merlin and Morgana, she needed to get over this. But his proximity beat against her skin like touch and she fisted her right hand at her side.

“I know that you are rather casual about these things. I’m not used to it, though. We’ll just have to be more mindful,” Malfoy said.

“Huh… What? Casual about what?” Hermione reeled inwardly. Was he talking about sex?

Malfoy frowned at her. “Touch, Granger. I know you are a very physical and affectionate person and while I feel…glad that you seem comfortable enough around me to slap me—in a much friendlier way than in third year—I am not used to it. Plus, I have this whole thing when it comes to touch.” He grinned in a self-deprecating way.

“I will be more careful,” Hermione said, feeling another gods-damned blush coming on. Was it true, though? Was she comfortable around him? It seemed that way. As casual as she was with touching, she would not have done so if she felt discomfort toward him. Gods, what a mess. Also, how did he know she was casual and affectionate?

“And I will try to not flinch when it does happen,” he said nonchalantly. As if it wasn’t a big deal.

Hermione nodded, not knowing what to add, then warmed the pizza up with a neat little spell and hovered a few pieces on each of their plates, before taking a seat.

Malfoy sat down next to her after summoning cutlery to the island, and for a few heartbeats, they ate in silence. Only Crookshank’s bowl clattering on the tiles as he munched on, sounded through the space.

Much as it had during breakfast, the atmosphere shifted to awkward and tense. Forced small-talk with Narcissa had not helped matters, but somehow, this was worse. There was nothing else to concentrate on.

“So, your house unpacked some of my stuff and moved it, changed the study too, into a greenhouse and potions room.” Hermione took a bite of her pizza, hating how jarring her words sounded in the tense atmosphere.

“Granger, you do know that it’s our house now, right?” Malfoy asked, cutting off a tiny slice of pizza. He looked ridiculous, eating pizza with a knife and fork.

His words made a strange feeling surge through her. Theirs. No. She would stay a while, then move on with her life, just like he would. Douillet was not hers. She did give him a small nod, though, to placate him.

He placed down his cutlery and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his impeccably crumb-free lips. “You disagree,” he said. “Why not say so?”

“What do you mean? I didn’t say anything.” She bit into a new slice with a bit too much enthusiasm and felt tomato-sauce run down her chin as a result.

Malfoy chuckled and held out his handkerchief to her. “It’s just…strange,” he said, his grey eyes meeting hers for a second, before flicking away.

Hermione rubbed at her chin with his handkerchief furiously, while chewing, wanting to ask what he meant, but feeling like a troll in a China-shop next to him as it was. She didn’t need to garble her question at him with a full mouth on top of things.

“You are so self-assured most of the time, taking charge and putting twits like McLaggen in their place, and then… Then I see that part of you vanish sometimes. As if someone blows out the fire behind your eyes. Why is that? Is it because of me?” Again, his eyes landed on her for a moment, before fleeing. “Because if it is, you can stop. I don’t mind hearing what you think. You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me, as the Muggles say.” His lips turned into a sneer. “I might be lacking in many ways, but I can take you disagreeing, and your opinions.”

With a huge swallow, Hermione vanished the mouthful of pizza that had silenced her thus far. There were several things she disliked about what he’d just said. Mostly, she felt affronted by his self-view, which was lacking as opposed to him, and she was surprised and nervous about how perceptive he was. Hermione had learned to keep certain things to herself to keep arguments from happening. And while she had been telling herself that they were not in a relationship, she kept acting like… Like he was Ron. Fucking hell. In that moment the weight of an epiphany crashed into her. Ron had changed her and she expected certain conversations going certain ways, while she brought with her an amount of baggage she had not noticed before.

Crookshank’s bowls, not outright disagreeing with him, going into an argument expecting harsh words and thus being aggressive herself.

Hermione had to fight the urge to touch him. Again. It would have been natural for her in this moment; conveying what words alone might not. “It has nothing to do with you, Malfoy,” she said. “I’m just used to…shying away from arguments in a certain situation. Yes, I disagree. This is your house. You inherited it and I am only staying with you until we divorce. Whether that be in two years or beforehand—depending on the contract staying intact—is irrelevant. You will go on with your life, as will I. And while I firmly believe that, I think none of it means we can’t find companionship with one another for the time being. Maybe even become friends.” She huffed out a breath, straightening into her seat. “And you are not lacking, Malfoy. I told you before.”

He gave her a long look, his face unreadable. “Friends.” The word hung between them, neither a stated fact, nor a question, but something in between. “Nothing about last night felt like ‘friends’, Granger.” His voice was hoarse but soft, striking a chord in her abdomen that almost made her toes curl.

“No,” she whispered, caught in his gaze of quicksilver. “But that would never have happened the way it did if it wasn’t for the joint.”

“Perhaps,” Malfoy said. “Or maybe it would have, if I was able to touch you like that without needing drugs. Maybe it would happen again, if I was normal.”

Hermione’s breath hitched and she looked at her lap, clasping her hands tightly. Bloody hell, his voice and his words did things to her. Besides being cruel to himself again—which stifled some of the heat—Hermione wondered whether it was something he wanted. She did not dare ask, not sure if it was something she wanted. Her body, yes, absolutely. But when she thought of that second time, the way they had danced on the edge of tenderness and true intimacy… It was dangerous. Besides, there was no telling how much of it was true and how much was simply part of the joint. And what Hermione had felt in that moment was too dangerous to warrant a repeat in order to find out which it had been. Real or not.

“I apologize, that was uncalled for,” Malfoy said at her side. “I was only thinking out loud. You are right, Granger. Friends it is. Should be hard enough to pull off, for us.”

Relief flooded her, paired with a slice of bitterness she didn’t want to look at too closely. Instead, she raised her head and smiled. “We can make that work. Friends, Malfoy.” She held out her hand and waited. He looked at her hand, then took it in his and squeezed, shaking it.

His touch zapped through her, making a languid shiver spark up her spine, but she kept very still. There was no need for him to know.

***

Gods, she needed to talk to Ginny. Friday could not come fast enough.

Hermione hopped from the shower stall, dried herself, then brushed her teeth. Whatever had happened at dinner, it was messing with her. She had no idea what any of it meant.

Glaring at her mirror image, which was fogged up and only a skin-colored blob, she told herself to get her shite together. She had other things to worry about. Meaning she would keep her distance until she’d spoken to Ginny and figured out what was happening. Whether it was simply some weird attraction sparked by spectacular joint-induced sex, or if she was going crazy and becoming attracted to Malfoy for real. Maybe all she needed was time. Time and getting used to him. Stupidly, Hermione was too much of a coward to take a long look at herself and what she felt on her own. It went against her Gryffindor pride—not to mention that so-called courage—but she was afraid.

Yes, she’d wait and talk it out. Find clarity at the bottom of a glass and in the sage advice of her friend. Until then she would simply not get too close to Malfoy.

Him and his way of moving, his gorgeous face and long-fingered hands. His smell and way of lazily prowling. Bloody hell. Hermione stared at her face as it became sharper. She could only hope this was a temporary, joint-induced attraction. Everything else would complicate the heck out of a perfectly simple situation.

She raised a brow at herself. Then again, was it so bad to be attracted to someone? No, it was not. It wasn’t like there was anything involved other than physical chemistry. Yes, it would be perfectly acceptable. Just physical. She was only freaking out because of the level of attraction she felt. That was all. With a decisive nod, she pushed off and walked away.

Stepping from her en-suite and opening the doors to her closet, Hermione halted in her tracks. Empty shelves greeted her. “What the…?” With a glare, she turned around, summoned a robe and slipped it on. “Douillet! Where are my clothes?”

A rumble answered and her body lifted, making Crookshanks hiss form her bed as she was yanked in the direction of the door. Hermione folded her arms, her robe billowing around her ankles, annoyed at the hold-up. Until the floor made a turn and Malfoy’s door opened.

Her eyes widened. “Wait! Stop!” But it was too late and she surfed through the door and stumbled her way into his room. Malfoy lay in bed, his legs under the covers and his naked torso bathed in firelight. He had a book propped on his taut stomach which sailed to the floor as he jumped from the bed, his wand drawn in a flash.

Hermione raised her hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry. The house… I… My clothes are gone.”

Looking a bit disheveled, Malfoy let his wand sink while his gaze turned from shocked to confused. He rounded the bed and revealed to be only clad in boxer briefs, which made Hermione want to ogle. She did not.

Fuck her life. This was not ‘not getting too close’.

“And you think I have them?” he asked.

“Well, I asked the house and it dumped me here,” Hermione tried to explain.

Malfoy waved his wand to open his closet. “Let’s have a look then.”

Hermione padded through the room and yes, his shelves now carried her things as well. “Bollocks,” Hermione said. “I want my stuff back in my closet.”

Nothing happened.

Malfoy smirked at her side, crossing his arms, which made his biceps bulge and shoulders curl. Merlin, she was not getting a break today.

“Douillet!” Hermione said through gnashed teeth. “Now!”

“I don’t think Douillet cares,” Malfoy mused.

“Fine!” Hermione held out her hand. “Mind lending me your wand? I left mine behind.”

Malfoy gave her a strange look, before he placed it in her outstretched hand. Too angry at the current situation to notice how easily he had handed over his most personal possession. Hermione made her clothes zip from the closet, shrink and pile into the pocket of her robe. Once done, she handed his wand back, only now noticing the gravity of the situation. Using Harry or Ginny, or even Ron’s wand had never been a big deal, especially not during the war. But normally it was a very private thing. Many a wizard or witch only allowed those closest to them to use their wands in an emergency, and even then, some did not.

“Thank you,” Hermione croaked. “I’m sorry I startled you. I had no idea Douillet would bring me here.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Malfoy said, twisting his wand in his hand with a thoughtful expression.

“Uhm… Good night,” she said lamely and scampered toward his door, avoiding looking at the wall next to the balcony doors, or the bed, or him.

“Good night, Granger,” Malfoy said, his voice as coarse and soft as it had been during dinner. Goosebumps rand down her back and she quickly closed his door and hurried to her room. Bloody house. What had that been about?

Chapter Text

Threats and Advice

Draco

On Wednesday, Draco sat in his shed with mixed feelings swirling through his belly, while working on his new painting. He still thought of it as a shed, even though it was essentially an atelier and potions room by now. Douillet had added and taken things away here and there, from time to time. Now, the house was uncharacteristically quiet after Granger had positively threatened it with Fiendfyre for stealing her clothes twice more.

As hilarious as Draco had found the fact that Granger would march into his room each night, her curls standing on edge and almost crackling with magic, stealing her clothes right back from his closet, he had wondered who of the two would cave first. It had turned out that Hermione Malfoy was scary as fuck if she wanted to be.

That morning, she had breezed into his room, making him jump as he’d just come from his en-suite. Her brown eyes dark with ire, she had marched into the middle of the room, throwing a very terse “Morning, Malfoy,” his way, before pointing her wand at the floorboards.

“Listen, Douillet. I have no idea what the heck you think is so funny about making me prance around in a bathrobe, but for the love of Godric, stop. Stealing. My. Clothes.” Draco’s bed had shaken in answer, a feeling of mirth exuding from the entire room.

“Fine,” Granger had huffed, lighting a dark and twisting flame at the tip of her wand.

Immediately, a smidge of panic had surged through Draco’s chest as he had been transported back to the Room of Requirements, where Crabbe had cast the same fire to a deadly end.

“I am very good at containing my own Fiendfyre,” Granger had growled. “And I have no qualms burning Malfoy’s closet to ashes right fucking now.”

“Hey, now wait just a second—”

Granger’s sharp glare had found him and her hair had risen even more. “Stay out of this, Malfoy!”

Draco had held up his hands, her anger sending a shiver down his back which left him undecided whether he found her hot or terrifying in that moment. Her bathrobe askew with one naked shoulder poking from it, her feet bare, and that outrageous hair crackling. Maybe she had been both.

“What will it be, Douillet?” Granger had snarled. A shudder had gone through the room, then his closet-doors burst open and Granger’s things had flown from the room. “Thank you kindly,” Granger had said, snuffed the flame and stalked from the room with angry little stomps.

Since then, Douillet had been near absent. Normally, it would make itself known to Draco while he was drawing, by either idly shifting and ordering the potion ingredients, chasing Granger’s cat from tabletops by tilting them, or supplying Draco with odd things he was thinking of. He had no idea how that particular magic worked, but the shed now sported a couple of wing-back chairs and a small liquor cabinet that him and Blaise had sorted into the study Draco did not use. Come to think of it, he had not seen that study at all in the last two days and all the things from there seemed to have found their way into the shed, making it more homy and leagues posher.

But now, there was no sound and Draco raised a brow as Crookshanks swaggered by and jumped onto one of the tables. The cat sat and waited, when nothing happened it started demonstratively cleaning itself. When still nothing happened, he hissed disapprovingly and stretched. His claws shot out and made tiny grooves in the wood.

“Stop that, you fiend!” Draco shouted and waved at the cat.

Yellow eyes met him, looking very unimpressed with him waving around, but Crookshanks did heave out a sigh and straightened, before jumping from the table. He bumped a collection of pots on his way out, making them tumble over the floor in a mess of clangs. The cat yowled, apparently surprised by the outcome of his own antics, and shot from the shed as if chased.

Draco glowered at the door and then rolled his eyes. “You can stop with the moping, you know,” he said into the silence. Then he too, sighed and waved his wand, making the pots stack up once more. The thing was, Draco had no idea whether the house was truly pouting, or if it was scheming. Furthermore, if it was the latter, he didn’t know how to feel about it, or how it would end. But it wasn’t a big concern of his.

No, Draco was more concerned with how the evening would play out, what with seeing his father again for the first time since knowing about that contract. Draco had initially decided not to confront Lucius that very night, feeling too angry, but the closer the evening got, the more agitated he grew. The anger was still there, the outrage and incredulity at Lucius’ gall to finagle the entire situation so he controlled even more of Draco’s life, but there was also something else. Draco wondered whether he would even have the nerve to talk to Lucius about it if given the chance.

He had reread the contract and saw that both him and Granger were to attend—mandatorily—or the contract would dissolve. Draco wanted to talk to Granger about it, wanted to ask her if she knew how easily this contract could be broken, but his wife was apparently avoiding him.

She did not do so excessively, they did eat together and she would ask superficial questions and keep the conversation going until they parted again, but all of it was mundane. Draco had the distinct impression she did so to be able to control and steer the conversations into whatever she considered safe. The only time when her expression had even shifted had been when she’d asked about house-elves and if the family still owned any. Her fiery eyes had dared him to say something she wouldn’t like and then softened when he’d told her that the two they’d had were now free and employed by his mother.

Draco guessed he should be glad about this. He had wanted something agreeable and routine, which was what he was getting. They were still getting used to each other after all. And yet… And yet, his memories of their night together came back to him throughout the days—and during the nights—making it hard to look at her without his thoughts going in certain directions. His wife was beautiful, intelligent and more desirable than was good for him.

Draco scowled at his painting and added another petal. Something was missing in the painting. He knew what it was, could see the outline clearly in his head, but he refused to add it. Rather, he focused on the new petal.

It made sense. Granger had been the first and only sexual experience he’d had in years. She had also been the first physically soothing touch he’d received for even longer than that. Wanting to feel that again was only natural. But he would never ask it of her, not after their talk the day afterwards. Friends. She wanted to be friends. And he was sure their compatibility had surprised her just as it had him. Which was probably why she was being distant. She didn’t know how to feel and act around him, not unlike himself. Maybe he should discuss it with Herp next week. Draco and Granger had both taken the week after the wedding to get settled, meaning all appointments had been rescheduled. He didn’t even know whether she was due to work on Monday or even later.

As if his thoughts had conjured her, there was a slight knock on the open door and she leaned against the frame with a shoulder. Draco supposed she opted for seeming casual and had to stifle a smirk at her fidgeting hands. Gods, how had he ever thought her a capable enough liar to hoodwink him about the Weasley situation? It seemed laughable now.

Casting a look at his painting and feeling the sinking sensation of being caught red-handed, he swallowed and stemmed the urge to throw one of his cloths over the canvas to hide it. It was a ludicrous notion and would have given his nerves away. Plus, she had no idea what the painting meant and couldn’t even see it from her vantage point.

“Granger,” Draco said by way of greeting, a tad surprised at her seeking him out.

She nodded once and pushed from the frame, taking a few steps into the shed and looking around. “This is where you get off to, then.” It wasn’t a question so Draco said nothing. “It’s nice,” she continued, her eyes flicking to his color-splattered hands and rolled-up sleeves. For a second, Draco felt like hiding his dirty hands, but her eyes darkened slightly and white teeth bit into soft lips. Interesting.

Quickly, the moment passed and Granger drew her fingers over his easel gently, tapping her nails to the wood in nervous, fluttering movements. “I need to tell you something. The letter from your father—the one your mother brought when she came by—it details the transfer of my parents to Sweden. It had a portkey for me and a reservation at a hotel for two nights so I can be with them when they settle in.”

“That is…good news, right?” Draco asked, subtly rubbing his hands with a cloth and watching her eyes draw in on the movement. He let it plop on the table and tugged his sleeves up further, watching in fascination as she worried her lower lip and blushed subtly. Oh, this was very interesting.

Granger cleared her throat. “It is. And I’ll be gone Sunday and Monday.” She clasped her fingers together. “That is what I… Yes, I thought you ought to know. Also, I’m meeting Ginny on Friday night for drinks.”

Her eyes came to rest on his face, scrutinizing despite the subtle blush still coloring her cheeks.

“Thank you for telling me,” Draco said, crossing his arms.

“Right, yes.” Granger blinked, seemingly taken aback by his reaction, or lack thereof. Feeling massively entertained, Draco witnessed her expressions change with rapid speed. There was a frown, which turned into a forced grin, then morphed further into something a bit sheepish.

“What are you working on?” she asked and rounded the easel.

Draco had to fight his body from blocking her. He bit his teeth together and sat rigid as she bent forward to look at what he had drawn.

“Oh.” The small and awed sound left her plush lips and Draco could feel the heat of her body where she almost touched his knee with her thigh. “It’s beautiful.” A radiant smile broke across her captivated features. “I confess, I know little about flowers. What are these called?”

Taking a deep breath, Draco reminded himself that she had no idea of their significance to him, or to her. His secret was safe. “This one is a Honeysuckle.” He pointed at the yellow flower, then switched to the big, light one. “And this is a Devil’s Trumpet. To the right are Casa Blanca Lilies.”

Granger tilted her head in her inquisitive fashion. “They’re gorgeous, Malfoy. But…it seems like something is missing. Are you going to add more?”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice way too thin for his liking. He cleared his throat, feeling caught despite telling himself he was not. “Why are you surprised at my reaction to you going away, Granger?” Draco asked, as much to change the topic and give himself some breathing room, as to genuinely find out. He even surprised himself a bit by giving her a one-sided grin. “Did you want me to insist on coming along?”

Granger blinked rapidly and shuffled back. “That’s not… I don’t…” Her shoulders rose and sank, squared. “Maybe I was a bit surprised. You were very possessive during our wedding night and I thought maybe that’s part of who you are.”

“So you were scared of telling me because you thought I’d keep you from going?” His brows rose in surprise and indignation.

She shook her head.

“Then what?”

Her fingers clenched at her sides and fire entered her brown eyes. “Fine. I was a bit nervous you’d have a problem with it. Maybe because I’m used to me leaving—especially where it concerns my parents—being a topic of endless fights before. It’s habit.” The words had tumbled from her in a rush and she panted, looking stricken.

Draco gaped at her. “Who would… Why…” He swallowed. “Why the fuck would anyone have a problem with you being there for your parents? Never mind make you feel so bad about it that it took you two days to tell me? And we aren’t even…” He huffed, ire on her behalf clawing at him. “That’s absurd, Granger.”

“You were very vocal about me being yours before. How could I be sure…” She licked her lips nervously and his eyes followed the movement. He scowled when the fire in her gaze dimmed a bit.

In that moment, Draco decided that he did not like nervous Granger. Flustered, yes, indignant and angry? Absolutely. But this was too close to being afraid. Too close to that weird thing where her eyes turned dull.

Draco waved his hand and one of his wing-back chairs hovered across the room and plonked down behind her. “Sit,” he said.

Granger did, nibbling on her lower lip while glancing at him with an unsure expression.

Lacing his fingers, Draco crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned back. “Let me make a few things very clear, Granger. I will never get in the way of you caring and being there for your parents. Ever. I know how important family can be and…” He trailed off, unsure whether his intended words would have scared her as opposed to comforted her. He would do anything for those he considered family. And this included her now. No, she did not need to know. “Let’s just say I understand fearing for family and their safety. There is nothing worse.”

She gave him a slight nod, her nervousness bleeding from her visibly. “I would not have let you get in the way. I was just… I did not want an argument. I apologize for assuming this would start one. There are a few things I have to get used to still.” A humorless chuckle left her. “I mean, this is all very new.”

“Friends, Granger,” he said, hating the word on his tongue. It tasted wrong. “That’s what we agreed to, right? And friends can tell each other things and support one another.”

“Yes. You are right.” Granger smiled but it did not reach her eyes. “That is also something we’ll both still have to get used to.”

Draco shouldn’t have worried about dinner, it turned out. While he did feel trepidation and aversion coil in his gut, as they Apparated straight into aviary of the manor, his father was stiff but cordial in greeting them.

Both his parents did subtly raise a brow at Granger’s dress pants and blouse. He glowered at them, daring them to say a word, while demonstratively guiding Granger toward the table with a slight touch to her lower back.

He did not miss the hitch of her breath and confused look, but smiled down at her. “Let’s take a seat, darling.”

Granger’s brow raised and she stared when he slid out a chair for her, but did sink into it with a “Thank you”.

As they all took their seats, it took Granger all of five minutes to disregard the stiff tension in the air and fire question after question at Lucius. All of them surrounding the clinic, timeline of her parent’s transferal, administrative things, as well as general questions on his knowledge regarding the healers and treatments.

Narcissa pursed her lips repeatedly, looking on the verge of saying something, but Draco shook his head subtly when she glanced at him, obviously trying to signal that he reel in Granger. As inappropriate as anything deeper than superficial talk was during dinner—inappropriate in his mother’s eyes when it was more than just family—Draco would not hinder Granger from being herself. Besides, it was hilarious watching his father switch from flabbergasted, to irritated, to engaged.

It was a rare thing, seeing Lucius truly engaged in a conversation, and Draco felt himself transported back to a time when he had witnessed his father verbally flattening his peers during discussions and arguments. This was no such instance. Granger knew exactly what she was talking about and by the bemused and sometimes shocked creases around his father’s eyes, Draco knew she was enthralling him with her knowledge and sharp mind.

It gave him ample time to glare at his father between bites. Lucius did either not notice or not care, with the latter being the more obvious case. Draco clamped down hard on his anger, which was proving difficult as everything from the contract surged up in his thoughts, plus the absolute frailty of it. Would their bond truly be broken if the contract dissolved? Was it linked? If so, how?

He would have to take another look at it, maybe with Theo’s help. His friend was a lout and perpetually blasé and carefree, but he was also a genius when it came to certain things like obscure curses and—strangely enough—contracts. Theo had gotten out of two marriage contracts his father had drawn up for him, simply by finding loopholes in the wording. After the second one Theo had been considered ‘unsavory’ in pureblood circles and there had been no other deals made. Very much to Nott Sr.’s disgruntlement. Theo had paid for his antics severely.

A slight chuckle form Lucius derailed Draco’s train of thought and he narrowed his eyes at his father. How on earth was he being so…enchanted? It was not an act, that much he could tell, but when Draco glanced at Granger, he found himself enthralled by the way she spoke. She was eloquent, precise, and undeniably lovely.

The taupe blouse his mother deemed inappropriate was a lovely color on her and made her amber eyes look even more alive and sparkling. She had tried to tame her curls into a braid, but strands had escaped and framed her face and neck with soft locks. He knew what they felt like, knew that her skin—kissed by the candlelight—tasted divine and felt like silk. This close to her he could smell her singular scent.

A deep breath surged in his chest and he calmed. No matter the anger that had roiled within, she made the waves of it simmer down. Draco was curious as to whether it was her, or just her scent.

He met a strange glance from his mother across the table and silently focused on his food. Whatever Narcissa had seen on his face… He didn’t want to know. Draco also didn’t want to know what his mother thought about it.

The entire dinner was over sooner than Draco had expected, and while his mother’s looks and seemingly hard-won silence was grating on him, he was glad for it not being filled with uncomfortable silence. Granger truly was a marvel and if Draco wasn’t mistaken, he saw something in his father’s face he hadn’t seen in a while. Respect. Patronizing and laced with bemusement, but it was very clearly there. He had no idea how to feel about it. What he did know, was there were a lot of things left unsaid and not many future dinners would be this agreeable.

Hermione

“Say that again,” Ginny squealed, her brown eyes round and her expression excited.

Hermione breathed out and muttered a curse into her butterbeer. “I slept with Malfoy. Two and a half times.”

“What?!” Ginny now looked utterly shocked. “Two and a half… How the fuck does that even work? Also, why?”

With a grimace Hermione told her friend about the Malfoy family magic and the need for consummation. “We tried on the wedding night but that didn’t really work out.” She shrugged. “I guess we were both too nervous. We worked through it and—thanks to Neville—had mind-blowing sex twice the night after.”

Ginny held up her hands. “Wait a second, what does Neville have to do with anything? And did you say mind-blowing?”

“Oh yes, it was…” Hermione squeezed her lids shut. “It was the best sex I ever had. The kind you read about; you know? All-consuming and earth-shattering. Yeah, that kind.” She proceeded to tell Ginny about the joint and its effect. “So you see, whatever I might have felt—all the earth-shattering mind-blowingness of it all—may have just been due to the joint. But my… My stupid body doesn’t know that and I…”

Ginny’s open mouth closed and a devilish grin grew on her lips. “And you want to do it again.”

“No! Yes… I mean, maybe?” Hermione took a long gulp. “I dunno. Ugh! I hate this! It should be simple and with clear lines and boundaries.”

“Will you shush about boundaries and lines?” Ginny said, waving at her. “Details. I need them. All of them.”

Ginny and her had taken to talking more in-depth about their conquests once their partners didn’t include Harry or Ron anymore, so there was no shame in divulging some of the more…raunchy things to her friend.

So in the midst of ‘The Cheeky Hag’, surrounded by raucous laughter and a Muffliato, Hermione told Ginny the happenings of the last week.

“Holy hell, that sounds hot.”

“He said what? Merlin and Morgana, I would have melted!”

“Shite, that sounds rough, how did you work around that?”

“Really, ‘Mione? A joint from Neville you haven’t tried before? How unlike you.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Bloody fucking hell! Did you leave dents in the wall at least?”

“Oh. That’s kind of sweet, actually.”

“They knew? The exact time and everything? Oh, you must have wanted to sink into the floor. My dad once walked in on me and Harry.” Ginny shivered. “It was the worst.”

After that, Ginny became very quiet, her expressive eyes turning calculating as Hermione told her about their talk the next day, and what he had said before they went to his parents. The last two days had consisted of her avoiding him as she had done before, busying herself with packing for Sweden and reading up on the journals Narcissa had given her with a terse expression.

She did gloss over Malfoy’s episode but mentioned his aversion to touch, as it played into them using the joint and also hindered any future endeavors, if Hermione were so inclined. Which she was not.

“So you see, I’m confused and I… I have no idea what to think or feel. I want this to be as easy for the both of us as possible, but… Gods, Ginny, that one night…” Hermione slumped in on herself, lacing her fingers in her lap.

“You keep wondering whether it was truly that good and it makes you feel weird around him?”

“Yes.” Hermione looked at her friend cautiously.

Ginny twirled a strand of red around her fingers. “And you do want to do it again to find out.”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered at her fingers, feeling herself blush.

“Pardon? I didn’t hear you.”

Hermione’s head shot up. “Yes, dammit! I want to climb that man like a bloody tree every time I see him. And I have no idea whether that is because I’m curious, my body just wants to relive that one time—or two and a half, but who’s counting—or if I genuinely am attracted to Draco sodding Malfoy.”

“So what if you are?” Ginny said with a shrug.

“What?” Hermione gaped at her. “It’s… It’s Malfoy. I don’t…”

Ginny raised a brow. “Yes. It’s Malfoy. Your husband. And he’s bloody fit, just saying. So what if you are attracted to him? Who cares?”

“I care. Because it’s not real, Ginny!” Hermione glared at her empty glass.

Ginny sighed and nodded once. She signaled the waiter and soon a few firewhiskys and two more butterbeers stood in front of them. Ginny slid a shot across the table and clinked her own to it when Hermione raised it. They both drank it down and coughed from the burn. It was a good burn, quieting the waves of anxiety in her chest.

“Alright,” Ginny said. “Let’s look at it more closely. Him being Malfoy. Obviously, I was worried about you marrying in the beginning, as was Harry. But after what you told me about him, he seems to have changed and is making a real effort. Not to mention him coming to your aid with his own mother.” Ginny wagged a finger back and forth. “That is not something many blokes do. Especially not ones who are so close with their mothers. He talks things out with you, he communicates and he takes your feelings into consideration. From where I’m standing, that all sounds promising and as if he is taking his commitment to you seriously.”

Hermione scoffed. “He takes it very seriously.”

“Right. So why is him being Malfoy a problem, then?”

Nibbling on her lower lip, Hermione thought about it. “We have so much history.”

“Have you forgiven him? Has he treated you in any way similarly to how he did when he was a kid?”

“I have. And no, absolutely not. He stood up for me to his aunt, even while he thought I couldn’t understand them.” At Ginny’s confused expression she added; “They spoke French.”

“Ah.” Ginny took a sip from her butterbeer. “Good, now I see even less of a problem.”

“I guess there isn’t a problem. I just felt like I shouldn’t feel—whatever it is I’m feeling.”

“Bollocks,” Ginny said. “He is your husband, it’s fine to have a crush on your own husband.”

Hermione gasped. “I don’t have a crush on him!”

“Hmmm.” Ginny pursed her lips, then smirked. “You so do, darling. But while you’re not ready to admit it, let’s theorize about what else it could be. It’s totally a crush, but I will pretend for you ‘cause I love you.” She wriggled her brows and Hermione groaned and let her forehead thunk against the table. Did she have a crush on Malfoy? No, surely not.

“So, let’s say that the sex was only mind-blowing because of the joint, which is absolute hogwash if you ask me and I will give you reasons.”

Hermione raised her head and looked at her friend, who was counting on her fingers as she spoke.

“You did say the half-time before was equally good until it wasn’t. Joints, even those aphrodisiac in nature, will give you a mellow experience. What you described was not mellow. Besides, you seem to have chemistry and that normally leads to good sex.” Ginny smiled happily and slid another firewhisky Hermione’s way.

“Fine,” Hermione said after clearing her burning throat. “Maybe it wasn’t the joint. But that does not mean I have a crush.”

Ginny shook her head and tsked. “’Mione, I have known you for a long time now. And while you and Ron were sickly-sweet in love, I have never seen you blush and your eyes heat up the way they did while you just told me about Malfoy. Oh, and the phrase ‘I want to climb him like a tree’ is not uttered when one does not crush.” With a wide grin, as if she had solved a puzzle, Ginny took a long sip of her drink.

While the words made Hermione squirm, she could find no holes in Ginny’s logic. Also, her head was buzzing, which could be the reason her argumentative skills were lacking. Yes, that was probably it. The alternative was unthinkable. “Fine, let’s say you’re right and I… I am attracted to him. I’m not saying it’s a crush, because it’s obviously only physical.” She sniffed.

“Sure,” Ginny said. “Attracted works too.”

Hermione waved her off. “What now? I can’t touch him, I told him we should be friends, and if I try anything it could lead to… Merlin, I have to stay married to him for two years, I can’t start an affair with Malfoy. What if it turns ugly? Then I have nowhere to go. I’m literally married to him.”

“Calm your tits, Granger,” Ginny said. “People don’t have affairs with their spouses, it’s called a relationship. Yes, that’s right, gasp all you want, I said it. The question is, do you want that? If the answer is no, then you stuff that attraction and crush down as far as it goes and learn to live with it. If the answer is yes, you find a way to get closer to him. Physically and in other aspects.” She spread her hands. “That’s it. Your two options.”

Hermione frowned, her vision a tad blurry. “I do not like those options. They’re so final.”

“You like boundaries and lines, darling. Once sober, it will make more sense. Plus, anything else would be unfair to the both of you.”

“Porably,” Hermione said. “Pora- Proa- Prob—Oh, piss it. You’re portably right.”

Ginny clinked another firewhisky with Hermione’s. “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout. Now, let’s throw ‘em back. Your parents finally got into that clinic! You finally got a good shag, just like I did. Enough about the feelings crap, all of this is worth celebrating.”

The shot didn’t even burn this time. “Speaking of which, will you see him again? Oliver, I mean?”

Ginny shrugged, but her grin was devious. “Who knows? But I might know where he will be next weekend and plan to stumble into him.”

Hermione laughed until she snorted. “Slip and land on his cock while you’re at it, will you?”

“Hermione Jean Malfoy!” Ginny squeaked in mock-shock, clutching imaginary pearls. “I had no idea you were so crude.”

Hermione flipped her off and giggled. “Hermione Jean Malfoy.” She shook her head. “That was not on my bingo card for this century.”

They drank and talked and danced. Ginny held Hermione as she burst into tears at finally getting her parents the help they needed, and even as she divulged how scared she was that it might also not work, Ginny cooed and rocked her. It was nice to get it out. Ginny’s words on it helped as well, even if they were reiterations of what Hermione had told herself. There was no way of knowing and it was a great accomplishment on their way of healing. She had to stay positive.

They spoke about their friends, specifically Luna, who was crushing hard on Pansy Parkinson. In their drunken minds, a housewarming party at Douillet seemed like the idea. It would not only bring those two together, but parties were generally a good thing.

No, Ron would not be invited. Hermione swallowed her words on him at the last second, her anger flaring to life with a vengeance. For a second, she wanted to Apparate to his place and tear him a new one, but she decided Apparition was very unsafe at the moment, when she sat down next to her stool making Ginny fall from hers with laughter. Rubbing her bum, Hermione got up, pushing all thoughts of Ron from her mind. She was happy and drunk with her best friend. And she had a very hot husband at home, whom she was not crushing on. Her parents would maybe remember her soon. Life was good.

Chapter Text

Drunk-Granger and Dream-Malfoy

Draco

Jarring movements beneath him had him starting awake with a yelp. Draco’s wand was in his hand in an instant and he blinked into the semi-darkness of his room. His heart hammering, he looked around, coming to grips with where and when he was.

His breathing evened out slowly. He was safe. The war was over and he was in Douillet. For a very small moment, Draco dipped into his mind to the night-time meadow next to the lake. He smelled the water, the flowers and the grass, then breathed out and was back in his bed.

Another shift under his arse made him scramble from the bed, panic crawling up his spine. The bed shuddered and Draco felt a sense of urgency swamp the room.

“Douillet?” he rasped, his wand aloft. “Is that you?”

The bed trembled again and two floor boards clicked up and down by the door.

“Is something wrong?”

The floorboards clicked again and something like annoyance brushed his mind.

“Fine. I’m coming,” Draco said and drew on a pair of linen pants (the closets he would ever get to what Muggles called joggers), before casting a Lumos and following the rising and clicking boards leading him. He was thankful that Douillet had opted for this, instead of stealing him away in a wave of parquet. As it was, he was nervous enough, not knowing what was going on.

His hand tightened on his wand as he reached the bottom of the grand staircase only to hear voices coming from further ahead.

Draco Noxed his wand and slipped through the hall silently, sticking to the shadows. His naked feet were sure and soundless as his heartrate picked back up and his jaw jumped. He was ready for whatever intruder had dared to visit.

Following the voices, or voice, as he soon discovered, Draco snuck into the sitting room and stopped short at what he was seeing.

In front of the hearth, covered in soot and ash, lay Granger. Her silver heels had been cast to the side and she was on her belly, stroking her hands across the floor while crooning at it. Her black sheath dress had ridden up her shapely legs and barely clung to the lower curve of her fantastic bum. She had crossed her feet at the ankles and bounced them over her arse, while softly petting the tiles beneath her.

“I—hicks—I knooow… And I’m s-sorry, Cozy-Pants. I never meant to frighten you and wo-would have never burned anything—swear on my magic—but y-you didn’t stop bringing me there. To him.”

Draco’s brows rose and he stowed his wand into his pocket, then crossed his arms, curious as to what came next. Apparently his wife was drunk as—what had she called it—a skunk? Yes, that sounded right. Apparently Granger was drunk as a skunk and talking to Douillet. Or so he assumed.

Granger patted a palm to the tiles. “And I… Well, he’s always there, with his eyes and his briefs, and his body…” A sigh left her. “I just coul—hiiicks—dn’t keep doing it. E-every time I see him I… Bollocks!” A whine sounded from her as she kicked her legs—which made her arse jiggle enticingly—and thumped her forehead to the ground. “Why is he so fiiit? And he smells so bloody good! I just want to l-lick him from head to toe!”

His brows rose even higher. Was she talking about him?

“Ginny is wrong, you k-know. Isnotta crush. Heh. Crush. What a s-stupid word. Crush, crush, cush, mush. No. Wrong. I’m not affairing my husband. Can’t do that. Not fair to him. Not fair to me. Squash.” She slapped her hand to the floor in a squashing motion. “Bury it.”

Draco had to swallow. While Granger didn’t make a whole lot of sense, what he gathered was that she was…attracted to him. And she obviously didn’t want to be.

“Whoa, Cozy-Pants!” Granger yelped and flung herself to her back, planting both hands to her sides and her feet on the ground, her knees raised. “Stop with the room-spinning. N-need to pump the b-breaks for a sec.”

Her chest rose and fell as she stared at the ceiling, her eyes glinting in the sparse light of the coals gleaming in the hearth. “No more firebiscuits.” She frowned. “Firewhispies. Fire-whisky!” Granger grinned happily. “Good advice. Good Ginny. Good firebispies.”

Holy Merlin, she was completely out of it. Draco could only imagine the night she had behind her. Apparently, she had spoken to the Weaselette about him. He wondered what exactly had been said. Draco also tried to keep his eyes on her face, as opposed to let it slide down her body, where her dress was precariously close to riding up over the apex of her delicious thighs.

“Hey Crooksy-mooksy,” Granger crooned as the cat sauntered up to her face and sat down in front of her, looking down.

“My softest little kitty-cat.” Granger blinked and scrunched up her nose. “Why are you upside down?” Then she giggled and slapped a palm to her forehead. “Oh. B-brightest witch of my age…hicks…indeed.” She flopped to her belly again and pushed back a tad to rise to her elbows, which made her dress ride up even more and exposed round supple flesh. Draco almost chocked on his next breath at the sight. Salazar, that woman would be the death of him.

“You k-know, I had a pair of tufty ears once and I know how hard it is to b-be a cat. All those…” She shuddered. “Furballs. Yuck! I have no idea how you do it, Crooksy-mooksy.”

She reached out to pat the cat, who shook his himself in discomfort at the sloppy attention and looked over her head straight at Draco. He meowed once, clearly bringing his annoyance across.

‘Are you going to deal with this or not?’ Crookshanks seemed to ask.

“What are you l-looking at, Crooks?” Granger asked and Draco decided to put an end to this scene. As entertaining and as insightful as all of this was, it probably was a bit unethical ogling Granger’s half-exposed behind while listen to her slurring on about how fit she found him. Well, it certainly did bolster his ego a bit, while also tightening his briefs.

He cleared his throat and walked up to her. “Granger? Need a hand?”

She rolled to the side, her brown eyes a bit bleary as they found him, while her hip jutted out at her new position. He could see the black lace of her knickers, where her dress had passed it. Gods, she was a damned vision. Her curls wild, her eyes lined with black and her red lipstick smudged a bit. The dress was in hopeless disarray, while her heated gaze floated over him as if she got ready to devour him.

“Hello…hicks…husband,” she said, in what was clearly meant to be a seductive tone, but the hiccup in between made it more adorable than anything else.

Draco stifled a chuckle and reached out his hands for her. He steeled himself against the contact and shivered slightly when her small hands met his. Without effort he heaved her to her feet and she stumbled into him. Her arms drew around his naked waist to steady herself and he felt the touch zap trough him like an electrical current. While the usual discomfort came calling, making him want to drawn back, Draco concentrated on what else he felt. The warmth of her skin on his, the way her touch seemed to burn him, and the way he could smell her as her head nestled into his chest.

Honeysuckle, Devil’s Trumpet and Casa Blanca Lilies. This time there was smoke and alcohol mixed in.

He swallowed, pulled her dress down a tad so it covered her arse and vanished the soot and ash from her. Then bent over to pick her up gently. Granger folded into him as if she belonged there, her legs draped over his arm, while one of hers rounded his neck and her free hand came to rest on his chest. Her wide eyes met his and her breath, sharp with whisky, fanned over his face.

“Wow. You’re strong.” She patted his chest fondly and with a wide grin.

Draco chuckled and started walking out of the room, caught between a most curious series of sensations. Her touch sent heat through him and made him want to dip his head and taste her lips, while his mind was reeling with the proximity. Part of him wanted her closer, the other part wanted to drop her. He ignored both and walked them through the entrance hall.

“Y-you are a dream, right?” Granger whispered, her eyes burning into him.

“What makes you say that?”

“My Malfoy w-would never carry me,” she whispered conspiratorially. She leaned closer until her lips brushed his ear. Both the touch and the way she said ‘my Malfoy’ made something scorching race down his spine. “He has a bit of a p-problem when it comes to touch. But shhhhh, don’t tell him I told you.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Granger,” Draco rasped, his voice suddenly coarse and dark.

She hummed next to his ear, making him shiver. “You smell like my Malfoy. So good.” Her forehead sank against his cheek and her fingers stroked over his chest gently. “Your skin is the same too. S-so soft.”

Draco bit back a groan at her words and sped up his steps. He tingled from head to toe now, both sensations getting worse. His arousal grew until he felt his hard cock bob with each step, while his hands began to shake from the effort of staying around her. Gods, what a bloody nightmare of a situation.

“C-can I tell you secret, Dream-Malfoy?” Granger whispered.

Glad to have a distraction from his current conundrum, Draco nodded. “Of course, Granger.”

“Pr-promise you won’t tell him?” Her forehead lifted and she looked at him.

Her brown eyes were so soft and filled with vulnerability, it made his throat tight. “Not a word.”

“I-I think I like quite a few things about my Malfoy. He’s nice.” She frowned. “He wasn’t supposed to be nice.”

Draco blew out a shaky breath as they reached the top of the stairs. He could not resist. “What do you like about him?”

Her hand on his chest painted absent shapes into his skin and the images sank straight through him and made him both want to hug her and tell her to stop.

“Obviously he’s very fit.”

“And smells good,” Draco offered and she giggled.

“Yes, he smells good. And the sex with him was…bloody b-brilliant. But also…” Granger trailed off, her lower lips caught between her teeth.

Draco had reached her room and strode toward her bed. He gently lay her down and lowered himself to sit next to her. Her arm slid from his neck and her hand from his chest. It was both a relief and a jarring loss. He cupped her cheek and pulled her lip free with his thumb.

“But also what, darling?” he asked, feeling confident she would remember little and thus comfortable enough to indulge in a pet-name she would never want him to use earnestly.

Granger blushed sightly. “That,” she whispered, catching Draco completely off guard. “I like it when he calls me names. Like wife, or darling. I e-even liked it when he said ‘mine’, all caveman-like.” She trembled and her eyes squeezed shut for a second, then her gaze found his. “My favorite was at our wedding. H-he called me ‘mon coeur’. It means ‘my heart’. That was… It made my knees weak.” She bent closer as if she was divulging secrets. Draco guessed she was in a sense and he felt his chest warm at her admissions. “I shouldn’t like it, right?”

“It’s fine to like it,” he whispered back just as conspiratorially. “Besides, he liked calling you all of those,”

Her fiery eyes widened. “You think?”

“I know.” Draco drew his thumb over her cheek, caught in the velvet of her eyes. She was beyond gorgeous. Her blush enchanting and her dark eyes riveted to him, while her plush lips looked as enticing as ever. He wanted to taste her again. Gods, he wanted it very badly.

It seemed as though his wish had shown on his face, because her fingers slid over his lips and pressed him back. “Y-you… We can’t,” Granger said, looking aghast. “You’re not my Malfoy. You’re Dream-Malfoy. I wouldn’t… I can’t…”

He curled his hand around her wrist and kissed the tips of her fingers. “I understand, darling. Nothing is happening.”

Granger wriggled and traced his lower lip with an index finger. “Y-you’re just as dangerously beautiful as my husband. Gah. It’s un-unfair, really.”

Draco chuckled, brushed her cheek once more and squeezed her wrist, feeling his hands start to shake from the effort of keeping up the touch, before he rose from the bed and conjured a glass of water and a hangover potion to her bedside table.

“Under the covers, Drunk-Granger,” he commanded.

She twisted and rolled while he tugged at the blanket until they had managed to cover her. Gingerly, he tucked her in, then transfigured her dress into a shirt and vanished her bra. Draco couldn’t resist and bent over her, pressing his lips to her forehead.

“Sleep well, darling.”

Granger yawned wide and long. “G-good night, my sexy Dream-Malfoy.”

Draco shook his head with a smirk, watching Crookshanks hop onto her bed, sending him a suspicious glare. He walked to his room, not closing either door to hear if she might need him.

As he got back to his own room he frowned. “You know, you could have done all that by yourself, Douillet. You didn’t need me to bring her to bed.”

The bedside table jutted up once in defiance.

“I know what you’re doing, but please stop. Just because we’re married and…attracted to one another does not mean we…” He clicked his tongue. “She’s right not to want this. Granger deserves a life free of obligation and filled with happiness. I would only tie her down, fucking mess that I am. She is right. Squash and bury it. I’ll be as much of what she needs as I can during our marriage. She deserves no less from me.”

Douillet rumbled softly, the feeling it emitted one of disgruntlement.

“Yes, it’s not ideal, but I think it’s the right thing to do.” He glared at the still rumbling bedside table and cursed, before trudging off to his bathroom. The cold shower he took did nothing to wash away the images of Granger’s half-covered arse, or the feeling of her so close, her lips at his ear…

No, it did absolutely nothing to get rid of his boner and Draco finally succumbed, taking matters into his own hands, so to speak.

It was around ten in the morning, when Granger emerged from upstairs. Crookshanks was winding around her socked ankles and she looked heavenly disheveled and sleepy as she entered the kitchen.

Draco watched from the dining table with a grin, sipping his coffee, as his very bushy-haired wife made her way around, wearing the shirt he had transfigured for her the night before, which almost came down to her knees. She had pulled on leggings underneath and was now searching for cat food as the half-Kneazle was meowing demandingly at her feet.

“Morning, Granger,” Draco drawled and she squeaked, sending cat food into the air as her arms flailed. The pebbles tumbled down and over the island and floor with countless little clinks and clatters. Crookshanks happily went hunting for the tasty morsels, while Granger glared Draco’s way, a stark blush growing on her face.

“Are you trying to kill me, Malfoy?” she hissed and unearthed her wand from…somewhere in her nest of hair to gather up the spilt food and send it hovering into the bowl by the door.

Crookshanks pounced after the floating meal.

Draco smirked. “I wouldn’t dare try.” He shrugged. “It’s not my fault you have no awareness of your surroundings.”

She spluttered and—to his utter delight—seemed to try and smooth down her hair. It was quite the hopeless endeavor and to be honest, he liked her looking like this. The out-of-bed-look was a good one on her. If only he had been the reason for the state of her hair as opposed to too many ‘firebisbies’. Well, a man could dream. A man had dreamed, in fact.

Granger brandished her wand menacingly. “I survived a war. My awareness is top notch!”

A snort left him before he could keep it in and her glare met him. “Whatever you say, darling wife.” Just to test it, Draco said that last part with no detectable sarcasm, rather, he made it sound honest, with a hint of seduction, emphasizing the ‘darling’ part. Her renewed blush was like a treat and he inwardly grinned.

“I put the coffee under a stasis charm,” he told her. “Had no idea when you’d be down after coming home so late last night.”

Granger, on her way to the coffee pot, halted abruptly. “Y-you were awake?” she asked, her voice thin.

Draco didn’t want to lie to her, so he opted for an evasive tactic. “When I went to bed it was almost midnight. By then you still weren’t home.”

Her shoulders sank in a relieved sigh. “Yes, I think Ginny and I stayed until half past one. Turns out, the pub closes rather early.” Granger poured herself a mug, added sugar and milk, and meandered her way toward him and sat down across from him. Her hands folded around the mug, from which steam swirled in barely-there tendrils.

Granger took a sip and closed her eyes with a content hum. The sight hit him in the chest like a rogue bludger. She was completely at ease, her features relaxed and unguarded. It felt…intimate, seeing her like this. Forbidden to someone like him. And yet, it was a revelation seeing her like this in his presence. It meant she trusted him to a degree, which was a very foreign feeling.

There was also a softness and warmth to her Draco felt in his very bones. If only he could be closer to the source of it. Would he be able to feel it if he could touch her? If he could hug her? If so, he would probably never let go, which would not do.

“So,” he said, taking a sip from his own coffee, while skimming the columns of the Daily Prophet lying in front of him without reading a thing. “How was last night? Sounds like you had fun.”

A series of coughs told him that she had nearly choked on her swallow and Draco pursed his lips to avoid the grin tugging on his face.

“Oh, it was great. Ahem! We drank a bit much, I’m afraid.” She coughed into her fist. “I hope I didn’t wake you when coming home?”

Draco gave her a long look. “You did not.”

“That’s good then,” she said, then blushed as her lips thinned into a line as though she was holding back something she wanted to say.

Draco grinned. It was a dangerous game; one he should not be playing for no outcome would be good for him, but he found himself powerless to leave things as they were. “Douillet woke me,” he said and relished the shocked widening of her eyes as they flew to his. He downed the rest of his coffee and tilted his chin at her. “Who did you think transfigured your dress, Granger? You were certainly in no state.”

A strangled squeak came from her and her cheeks seemed to burn with how red they got. Slumping in her seat, she fruitlessly tried to hide behind her coffee mug. “I… I don’t…” Granger swallowed and set her mug down with a firm sound, before straightening in her chair. Flaming cheeks or not, her gaze was laced with courage as she looked at him.

“I don’t remember much for last night. There are…dreams, however. At least I think they are.” Her lids squeezed shut for a second. “Did… Did something happen? Between us, I mean?” Her eyes opened and the fire in them burned holes into his soul.

“Merlin, Granger,” Draco said, only half-feigning shock. “Does that mean you dreamt of us? Fucking?”

Her nose scrunched up. “So nothing happened. That’s good to know.” Her right brow vanished under a chunk of brown curls. “Don’t let it go to your head, Malfoy, you’re just the last person I had sex with. It makes sense to work through it subconsciously through dreams.”

“Absolutely,” Draco said and stood. “Plus, the sex we did manage to have, all two and a half times, was—what did you call it? Ah yes, bloody brilliant.” His smirk was devilish as he looked at her. “It makes sense you’d want to relive it.”

A startled sound and big eyes were the only answers he got.

He plucked his wand from his pocket and floated the breakfast he had made for her from where he had stashed it under a notice-me-not and a stasis charm. It landed in front of her, perfectly ordered and on fine china. Eggs, croissants, an assortment of cheese and strawberry jam. Just what she liked. “Dig in, darling,” Draco drawled next to her ear, delighting in the shudder and the goosebumps growing on the exposed slope of her neck.

He chuckled soundlessly as he turned and made his way to the doors leading outside. There was a spring in his step as he walked across the garden and to his shed. He felt vibrantly alive, having flustered Granger was proving to be unbelievably entertaining, hazardous though it was. The question was, did she remember what she had told him last night? And also, what exactly had she dreamed? Not that he was ever likely to find the answer to either, but pondering both had his mood high and light and Draco finally gave in and started to ad what was missing in his painting.

Douillet subtly clinked around the shelves to announce its presence and Crookshanks soon came by on one of his control-patrols, before slinking into the garden looking to be on the hunt for more gnomes.

As the painting took form beneath his brush, Draco came to a firm decision. As fun as it was to tease Granger and fluster her, he would have to stop. This game of his could only end one way; in disaster. It was one thing to be attracted to her and have…thoughts, but quite another to know he had the same effect on her. To an extent at least. His flighty mood grew heavier. She really had been right; it wasn’t fair to either of them to tease. Or to envision anything physical beyond what they had already shared. It was neither feasible, nor was it advisable. But by Salazar, that did not mean he would stop wanting.

Hermione

On Sunday morning Hermione stood in the entrance hall and rechecked her suitcase for the umpteenth time, then her beaded bag. She smoothed a palm over her spotless, cream-colored trousers and her white blouse, then patted her braid, which had a load of sleek-eazy worked into it and was thus uncharacteristically tame.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Malfoy asked, making her jump.

Damn that man for moving so silently. Hermione twisted on her heels, finding him at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in his casual threads that she had gotten used to seeing on him. By now she knew that a button-down, paired with matching chinos and dragon-hide loafers meant he was casually dressed for a day at home. Damn him again for looking so fit in all of it. Then again, the man could wear a burlap sack and she would want to climb him.

Thank Merlin their encounters over the past two days had been few and very cordial. Nothing like the morning after her girl’s night with Ginny. Hermione still felt like sinking into the floor at thinking about it. Her memories of the night weren’t clear and she could only hope that her crooning secrets about ‘her Malfoy’ at ‘Dream Malfoy’ had been truly a dream. At least she knew that what she had done to ‘Dream Malfoy’ after he had brought her to bed had been figments of her imagination. Thank the gods!

Malfoy had been hinting at things the morning after and he had been playful, bordering on flirtatious, which had driven her crazy. But after she had avoided him for the rest of the day, lest she say or do something he probably did not want, he had leveled-out considerably at dinner. The next day had been the same and the most they had spoken; had been about her parents and the hopes she had regarding the clinic.

“I’m fine,” she said, her smile shaky.

Malfoy crossed his arms, making his shirt tighten at his shoulders. “You are a rubbish liar, Granger. Has anyone ever told you?”

Hermione shrugged and steadied her smile. “I’m just nervous, that’s all.” As if to prove a point, a bubble of nervous laughter tumbled from her lips. “I… I have been waiting for this for a long time. I can’t believe it’s finally happening.”

His grey eyes softened and he came down the last few steps and halted in front of her. “All will be well, Granger. If anything happens, and I mean anything, you send me a Patronus, or an owl and I will do what I can to help.” His features froze for a second and his eyes turned steely. “If you want, I’ll come with you. For moral support.”

Another nervous giggle burst from her. She didn’t even want to imagine sharing a hotel room with him. Or maybe she did, and that was the problem. If there was one thing Hermione was not lacking, it was imagination. And imagining Malfoy coming along did lead to all manner of fantasies and stupid day-dreams. Gods, she was riding this attraction—not crush—wave hard. What she needed was a bit of space from him. Besides, he seemed to be…disinclined to join her, even as he was offering. Which was sweet. Damn him thrice!

“That is quite alright, Malfoy. I promise I’ll send word if I need to.” She patted her pocket as anxiety knotted her chest, showing her part of the reason why she had been so very lost in fantasy and day-dreams. She was so worried that it wouldn’t work, so worried her parents didn’t make the transfer intact, or that something else went wrong, that she was close to a tail-spin.

Malfoy nodded once and watched as she finally fiddled out the handkerchief-covered button she had stowed away in one of her pockets. Her portkey was to go off any second now and she laid the button into her palm, gripping her suitcase tightly with her other hand. Her gaze flitted to him and then back to the button.

“I know you’re worried, Granger, but I’m very confident all will work out. They’ll arrive safely and you’ll see them soon. Breathe.” He raised his brows until she did as he said. “And again.”

A few shaky, but deep, breaths later and Hermione was calmer. She gave him a soft smirk. “Thank you, Malfoy. I’m just in my own head about this.”

He stepped closer, his scent and body-heat wafting over her like a blanket and her lids fluttered in response. “I know.” With a strange look in his eyes, he moved very deliberate and slow as he reached out to squeeze her shoulders. The touch was brief, but warm and Hermione relished the sensation of tingles it left in its wake. “Take care, darling wife.”

Hermione’s breath hitched at the endearment, which did not sound like sarcasm at all—just like it hadn’t that morning after her escapade—but rather like something earnest. The way it should. Endearing. Fuck her, but it melted something in her chest.

The last thing she saw was his silver gaze, filled with confidence and a warmth she hadn’t known him capable of, the world vanished in a swirl of color, as a tug behind her navel pulled her through space.

Her heartrate picked back up and her breath turned erratic again. Merlin, maybe she did need some moral support. But it was too late now. Remembering his voice, deep and sure, telling her to breathe, Hermione did just that as she landed in the lobby of a foreign hotel.

She squared her shoulders and punched down her nerves, before walking up to the clerk who was smiling friendly at her sudden appearance.

Chapter Text

A Call of Magic

Draco

The wind pulled at his clothes and hair, brushed over his sweaty cheeks and dried up his lips. Draco closed his eyes and enjoyed the cold sting as he raced over Douillet’s garden on his broom. He twirled into spirals, dove down until he nearly smashed into the grass, only to pull up at the last second, making the muscles in his arms and back sing in a familiar way. His thighs, abdomen and arms began to hurt after a while, but Draco was unable to stem the smile set on his lips.

Gods, he had missed to fly.

After Azkaban, getting onto a broom had filled him with a sense of trepidation he would never have admitted to anyone. The openness of the sky—though beckoning him—had been too much. Too vast, too spacious. But when Granger had left for Sweden, Draco had swept past one of the closets downstairs and seen his broom. Left all to himself, he had decided to try it. There was no one to see if he spiraled because of the openness.

He had not. The beginning had left him with a few tremors, but he had closed his eyes and felt. Flying had always been…freeing. Something he could lose himself in. Here he was able to focus his body and mind to the point of absolute clarity, while washing away any and everything else. And while he exhausted himself, knowing he’d probably waddle a bit the next day—even despite his daily workouts, flying muscles were different—Draco felt a sense of serenity at finally being in the air again. On a broom, he was in total control of his own fate. It was down to him, his magic, his muscle memory, and his expertise. It was glorious.

With his limbs aching in a well-known and welcome way, he hovered upside down, using his thighs to steer the flight into a long curve. An itch to his left had him looking in that direction. He scratched his side, but it persisted.

Draco twisted with a grunt, righting himself again. The itch grew and turned into a tingle. He frowned lifted his shirt to no effect, and rubbed his hand over his left arm and side. It felt like…magic?

Then, from the direction of the tingle, the doors of Douillet burst open and a figure came tumbling out on a wave of stone and then grass. Yelping and squealing like a fifteen-year-old girl, Theo was transported toward Draco by Douillet.

Crookshanks was hot on his tail, swiping his paws at Theo’s billowing robes, his ears flat and his yellow eyes grimly focused.

Draco hovered down, still feeling that tingle, but it traveled to his chest as he faced Theo and suddenly he understood. This was what the wards felt like when they alerted the owner to a new presence. He knew in the manor his father and mother would feel the same, but since he had never lorded over the wards, Draco had never known this sensation before.

He grinned as his feet reached the grass and Theo tumbled through a patch of Aster’s, when he was unceremoniously dumped by Douillet. Crookshanks flew through air, landing on Theo’s robe, hacking at it while spitting and hissing furiously.

“What the fuck?” Theo yelped and shot to his feet. He twirled, making the growling half-Kneazle sail around him like a yoyo.

Draco chuckled and quickly plucked his wand from his pants, immobilused both of them then floated Crookshanks down gently. “It’s fine, Shanks. Theo is a friend,” he told the cat, before unfreezing both again. Crookshanks smacked his flews, hissed at Theo once more, then pranced off with an angry mewl and very bushy fur.

“What, by Merlin’s magnificent balls, was that?” Theo huffed, looking more out of sorts than usual. “I mean, I know I’m not that high.” He blinked at Draco. “Did I, or did I not, just surf a wave of marble and dirt from your sitting room into your garden?”

Draco shouldered his broom and walked up to Theo. “Douillet apparently has magic. It woke once the bond was sealed between Granger and I.”

Theo nodded along. “Magic house, got it. And that red, Fizzing Whizzbee?” He gestured to where Crookshanks had vanished.

“That’s Granger’s familiar, Crookshanks.”

“Should have known that woman had a demon familiar,” Theo griped and Draco laughed.

“Half-Kneazle, to be exact.”

Theo pulled a hand through his tousled curls. “Right. Now, where are your manners? Invite me in, give me a drink and tell me all about your married life. Speaking of which, where is the Missus?”

“It’s ten in the morning, Theodore,” Draco said. “You can have tea. And Granger is off to Sweden.”

His friend grimaced. “Tea? Seriously, darling, you are going soft on me. Where is your sense of drunken adventure? Also, why on earth is your wife off galivanting around during your honeymoon?”

Draco sighed and waved at Theo to follow him.

Ten minutes later, Draco was beneath the shower, while Theo sat—fully clothed—in his dry tub, listening to Draco’s explanation on why Granger was away. It felt oddly reminiscent to their Hogwarts days, where they had shared a communal bath for years.

Theo tapped his shoes on the rim of the tub. “Well, that’s nice, right? Gives us ample time and space to hang out.” He wagged his brows and fiddled with his jacket, pulled out a silver case filled with cigarettes and lit up.

“Not that I don’t value your company, Theo, but why are you even here? Don’t you have the entirety of the Côte D’Azur to shag your way up and down? I thought that was your plan,” Draco said, opened the window with a wave of his hand, before stepping from the shower. He picked up his wand and cast a drying charm over his body, then looked expectantly at his friend.

Leaning his head back, Theo blew smoke at the ceiling. “I did that. But they are all the same nameless and faceless blokes and blokettes after a while. The same boring conversations, the same boring sex.” He sighed as if the weight of the word bore down on his shoulders. “I am so booored, you wouldn’t even believe it, Drakey. Blaise is off being a businessman, Pansy threw me out of her shop—which was, you know, rude—apparently, I’m being too charming with her customers, and you are newlywed. It’s been a bloody nightmare.”

“So what you’re saying is that you are looking for meaningful conversations?”

“Ugh, no. Absolutely not.” Theo shook himself.

“Sounds like it. But anyway, I somehow doubt that Pansy threw you out because of your charm,” Draco mused, stepped up to his mirror and unfogged it with a spell, before drying his hair and arranging it. Talking to Theo while doing these routine things helped with looking in the mirror and feeling nothing.

“Huh. She might have said something along the lines of me being a ‘bloody nuisance’, which is the same as charming, in essence.”

Draco snorted. “So you decided to snow into my home? Because you are bored? I might have been busy, Theo. You know, with my wife.”

Now Theo snorted, then drew on his cigarette. “Not bloody likely. And if you had been busy shagging Granger through the house, I wouldn’t have minded catching a look. That officiary was right, she is a ‘bonnie lass’. Who would have thought she’d grow into such a hotty? I mean, have you seen that pair of—”

Draco glared at the back of Theo’s head through the mirror. “Careful, Nott. That is my wife you are talking about.”

“Yeah, yeah. You and your particularity about that fact.” Theo tsked.

Turning, Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m serious, Nott. If you can’t respect my wife, I will bar you from my floo.”

Theo’s shoes squeaked on the porcelain as he shifted around to blink at Draco. Lumps of ash fell from his cigarette and fluttered to the floor. “You don’t mean that, Drakey,” he said, looking shocked.

Draco clicked his tongue. “You damned well better believe it. Get a fucking hobby, a girlfriend or three to entertain yourself if you’re so desperate.”

“Fine!” Theo threw up his palms in surrender. “No more talk about Granger being hot. Or about her magnificent tits. Or that arse. Merlin, you are one lucky bastard, you know that, right? Never would have thought I’d say that. And about Granger.” He shook his head. “What a shame that your marriage is—wait a second.” Theo’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Draco. “You said something about the bond completing…” His brows suddenly rose, vanishing under his curly fringe. “Merlin’s left nutsack, you mean completing, completing? As in an ancient marital bond that needed completion?”

Draco just looked at his friend, unsure whether he wanted to enter into this discussion with him. Maybe if…

“Circe and Morgana, I’m right. You actually shagged your wife!” Theo hopped into a crouch, bouncing up and down, leaving more ash on the ground. The shite-eating grin growing on his face was disturbing.

“Yes,” Draco said. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” He pushed off from the sink and walked toward the door to get dressed. “Clean the ash up, Nott, or I’ll have Douillet feed it to you.” Behind him, Draco heard the rumble of the claw-footed tub and a squeal from Theo. He smirked as he strode into his closet, while Theo scrambled to clean up, vanished his cigarette and practically bounced after him with delight.

“This is so not what I had in mind when you said you wanted to talk about shagging your lovely wife,” Theo griped, sitting over Granger’s contract. “I was expecting dirty details and sordid stories.”

Draco smirked at him and handed him a butterbeer. “I know. It’s part of what makes this so fun.”

“You are a cruel man, darling,” Theo said with a pout, but his face lightened a tad as he grabbed the offered beverage. “What exactly do you want me to do here? Figure out how fast you can get divorced?” Theo wriggled his brows. “That bad, was she?”

“Not at all and not in the slightest,” Draco said and ignored Theo’s suggestive answering grin. “I’d like to know if the breaking of the contract would automatically break our marital bond and how easy it would be for this contract to dissolve in the first place.”

All suggestiveness left Theo’s features as he pondered Draco’s words. “Well, that depends. Did you marry according to the Malfoy or the Black marital ritual?”

“Both? I think,” Draco said.

Theo clapped his hands. “Then find out. Chop, chop, darling, we haven’t got all day. I want those juicy details once we’re done here.”

Draco found texts on both marital rituals in the library and while the ritual itself was the same, it all came down to where the marriage was consummated. Since he now knew that Douillet was a Black ancestral home, the question was soon answered. Or would have been.

“Yeah, no. This part is written in an old runic dialect,” Theo said with a frown.

“Didn’t you take Ancient Runes in Hogwarts?” Draco asked.

“Uhm, yes. Same as you, you twit, but that does not mean either of us can translate this.” He peered at the text in concentration. “The best I can do is tell you that the bond is a strong one and… ‘either magic will call out and draw on the other’. Hm, there is nothing on… Ah, no, there is. If I’m not mistaken then this here means ‘broken/to break upon’… the rest is unclear to me. I’d have to look into a few books on this specific dialect.”

“Would I have them?” Draco asked.

Theo squinted at him. “How the bloody hell would I know? I doubt it, but I do know where to find the ones I’d need at Nott Manor, and out in the world. Can I make copies of this?” He gestured at the contract and the marital texts.

Draco nodded. “As long as you don’t show it to anyone.”

“Mate, as if I’d ever betray your trust,” Theo said, looking wounded.

“I know, Theo. I just wanted to make it clear that I don’t want anyone else’s eyes on this.”

“Understood.” He sank back in his chair and pushed the texts away from himself before taking a hearty swig from his bottle. “Now. Details? I do think you owe me.”

Draco ended up telling Theo a bit about Granger and his second night together. Mostly how it had been a joint-induced haze of wonder and mind-bending passion, but that it was not likely to happen again.

“Pity,” Theo said as they sat on the terrace. Both nursing a glass of whisky and a cigarette. “I mean, aphrodisiac joints tend to give you a mellow and drawn-out experience. While it sounds drawn-out, it did not seem to be mellow. You should definitely try again, just to be sure.”

Glowering at Theo, Draco took a sip of his drink, crossing his feet at his ankles. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that? She does not want it and I can’t really touch her long enough to find out.”

“I’m confused,” Theo said, scratching his brow. “I thought you said she was attracted to you.”

“Yes. I think she is, but that does not mean it would be wise to continue or expand on…whatever it was.”

“Hm. It would be a shame if it turned out the sex is exactly what you described it as and you let a woman go who is able to scramble your mind and body in that way. Just because you both think there is a time-limit to your marriage.”

“There is a time-limit, Nott. And I don’t want to be high when sleeping with her,” Draco added softly.

“Only if you both want it to be,” Theo said. “Besides, you are in therapy. Ask that Healer of yours about a therapy for the touch stuff. Maybe he can help you there. It would generally be a good idea to try and get that under control. You can’t run around not touching people.” Theo gave Draco one of his rare, earnest looks. “We all need human contact, my friend.”

As Draco thought back to after; when he had lain wrapped around Granger, feeling her as close as he could, he knew Theo was right. The solace, the peace and the comfort he had experienced in those moments had been astounding. Whether it was touch as such, or hers specifically, he had missed it. Holding Granger so close had been… Draco craved the feeling of that night. Her scent all around him, the warm silk of her skin, the tickle of her hair on his cheeks. Maybe she’d allow him something… Gods, he was being an idiot. There was no way of that happening, or him asking her for it. He was a mess, but he was not pathetic.

A scream woke him. Sweat clung to his entire body, glueing him to his sheets and as his eyes searched the space around him frantically, his heart pounded behind his ears. Draco’s throat felt raw and his breaths rattled, the feeling of utter terror and panic following him through his dream.

Aunt Bella and the Muggles. He squeezed his lids shut and pressed his palms to his sockets.

A moonlit lake.

Breathe…

The smell of mud and grass.

Breathe…

The—Screams echoing over him, tearing through him.

‘Yes, Draco, feel it,' her voice is a song of violence and glee, her breath hot on his shoulder as she holds his wand-hand steady. ‘Another, give them another.’

The curse bursts from his wand, leaving an echo of the pain it brings. It thrums up his arm and he revels in the agony spreading through his limb. He does not want it, but he forces himself to mean it.

Draco breathed, trying hard to hold onto the present, but the contours of his room slipped away behind a curtain of a chilly night, wails and sobs.

Something dropped into his lap and he scrambled back, his head hitting the head-board of his bed. Draco glanced down, only to look into brown eyes. Brown eyes with golden flecks in their middle. He grabbed the painting, sliding back into his bed while panting.

Hermione by Draco

“Night-blooming flowers,” he rasped, looking at them. With a deep breath he grasped the canvas and cradled it close, staring at what he had finished earlier.

Draco swallowed and forced his eyes to focus past the bleariness of tears and horror. He remembered the smell of the flowers, first from his mother’s moon garden, then from his occluding space, and then…

Wrapped around her as if she would vanish at any second, breathing her in deeply. Listening to her heartbeat and her calming breath, feeling her fingers card through his hair. Her voice hums soft words he can’t understand. But they soothe him down to his marrow.

The memory of Granger overtook the one with his aunt. Looking at the painting, Draco breathed deeply, letting small wisps of memories float through him. While the night Aunt Bella took him out to train him in the ways of torture still brimmed at the edge of his mind, playing on a loop; it did so far enough away for him to look at it clinically, detached. For the first time, Draco was part of it without losing himself to it. If something got too close to him, he would imagine his face lost in curls that smelled uniquely of Granger. Even alone, in the safety of his bed—far away from the chill of the manor—Draco was able to keep the images of her closer than the horror he hid from himself on a daily basis.

His fingers curled around the canvas and beads of sweat rolled down his back, cooling his overheated skin. Slowly, his breath evened out and his heart sank back to where it belonged. He squeezed his eyes shut and licked his dry lips as he began to shake with how his body chilled.

“Thank you,” he said into the empty room, knowing Douillet had conjured the painting for him. Draco was still unsure how that magic worked, but the house seemed to always know what he needed. A gentle hum answered him as the door to his bathroom opened.

A dry chuckle tumbled from his chest when he saw lit candles and steam billowing from the tub. Yes, a soak would definitely help with relaxing. Seemingly without thought, Draco’s fingers brushed over the painted image of Granger’s cheek, then the flowers at the bottom. He shook his head and placed the canvas on his bedside table.

With the first touch of his toes to the water—void of any foam, just the way he liked it—Draco groaned at the perfect temperature. It stung a bit on his skin, but the heat seeped into him as he lowered himself, expelling the chill until even his bones felt warm. He lay back with a sigh, smelling calming scents of lavender and sandalwood in the water, felt his skin soften because of some added oil and his lids slid shut for a moment. This was exactly what he needed. A moment of warmth and peace, after the spiral his mind had twirled in.

As he lay in his tub, relaxing fully, Draco noticed that this had been the first time since leaving Azkaban that he had been able to stave off an episode without resorting to Occlumency in order to repress the memory. It had always been either that, or getting lost in the darkness and sorrow.

Herp’s brows were furrowed in deep thought, his glasses blinking as he wriggled in his seat. Their hour was nearly up, but Draco was still speaking. He had started to talk not five minutes into the session, telling his Healer about the ceremony, about Granger, about how the touching thing had gone—poorly, then fine, thanks to a joint—and then he’d gone on a tirade about the contract, his father, and the audacity of him.

“I seriously can’t believe he would use this to further take control over my life. And for what?” Draco grumbled. “It’s not like his control hasn’t fucked me over enough in the past. Like when he convinced my mother to let Aunt Bella train me.” His grin was bitter and dark. “Did you know there are variants to the Cruciatus curse? No? Well, there are. It all depends who casts it on you and with what intent. I received it often enough to know. Some do it clinically, like the Dark Lord did, sometimes. Then it was…fucking agonizing, but bearable. When he was in a bad mood, it hurt exponentially worse, but…” Draco swallowed, his voice having gone dry. “But Aunt Bella’s glee and pure joy at inflicting pain? That felt… It was worse than anything you can imagine. It’s why she was the best torturer he had, because she enjoyed it so much, it made the curse unbearable.”

Draco laced his fingers. “I eventually got used to even that,” he whispered, causing Herp to lean forward a bit so he could hear him. “Pain does not hold the same threat over me it used to. I once was scared of it, but now… Pain you can’t hide from needs to be borne and ridden out. The real trouble is the inevitability of it. The helplessness it brings. The lack of choice to do nothing but endure and receive. I think… I think that is what I have problems with. The helplessness, not the memory of the pain itself. I am afraid of… Of being helpless again.” The admission to this left him breathless and he pulled at his collar.

Once it felt like he could breathe normally again, he sank back, exhausted from speaking, from opening up to this degree. It was a tad shocking he had done so and Draco was unable to look at his Healer.

“What changed, Draco?” Herp finally asked. “You have never spoken about the cause of your trauma so clearly.”

Frowning at the ceiling, Draco thought back to last night. “I think it’s because I was able to get through one of my episodes without using Occlumency.”

“What did you use?” The question was posed carefully, as though Herp was sidling up to a wild tiger with a thorn in his paw.

“A happier memory. I just…let it wash over me and while the episode was still there, I was able to see it in a sort of…detached way, I think.”

The scratch of quill on parchment was unnaturally loud after how low their voices had been. “I think that is wonderful news, and great progress, Draco,” Herp said, while scribbling. “I was going to suggest other methods of dealing with anxiety and your episodes than Occlumency soon anyway. While it is a very useful tool short-term, it does nothing in helping you work through your trauma.”

Draco raised a brow at him in question.

Herp tapped his quill on his clipboard. “See, you push the memories to the side during occlusion, in order to not deal with them. Which makes them come back frequently. If you—as you figured out—are able to go through the memories without falling prey to an episode, you are much more likely to work through them, garnering insight and understanding into what makes them so horrible to you. You have already made a huge leap here in finding out that it’s not the pain in these instances that scares you to relive them, it’s the feeling of helplessness you felt during them, your lack of choice to do anything else.”

Slowly, Draco nodded. It made sense.

“Now, what you need is something that will remind you of that memory you used to stave off the episode. It can be the same one, or another similarly good one.”

Draco grimaced. He didn’t have many such memories, and none that made him feel as safe. Also, how was he to remind himself of it when in need? He couldn’t bloody-well carry around a painting of Granger at all times.

The answer came to him during the day, as he put some more finishing touches to the painting. The flowers. They would suffice as a reminder. An idea formed as he fed Crookshanks a little later with a smirk, thinking back on how Granger had asked him whether he truly didn’t mind the half-Kneazle staying while she was away.

“As if Potter would give you this fine a quality of Tuna, Shanks,” Draco sneered. “You’d probably live off of dry pebbles staying with Wonder Boy.” He leaned on the kitchen island, tugging at his sleeves until his shirt bunched over his elbows, pinching into his biceps. Laying his arms down, wrists facing up, he glowered at the Dark Mark and the pale and mostly unmarred skin of his right.

With the finger of his left hand, Draco drew across the skin of his right underarm. “Do you think it would work here, Shanks? Maybe in black and white. Definitely not in color.” He huffed and pushed off from the island. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Draco flooed to Pansy’s Tattoo Parlor, catching her in the process of cleaning up after her latest customer. He had been by a few times, but was still floored at seeing her in such a…Muggle setting. The floors were dark wood, the walls black, with silver accents on them, and there was a lot of glass. Cases of glass housed a myriad of piercings and special inks. And books with designs filled an entire glass-cabinet. In the corner was a record player which emitted a rather noisy song from a Muggle band Draco didn’t know. There was a lot of screaming between the music.

Still, the most jarring thing was Pansy herself. She wore black-leather shorts and a black crop-top that left much of her painted skin out in the open. Since she was at work, she had nixed the charm on her tattoos that made them move.

“Draco, what a surprise.” She gave him a one-sided smirk. “Nice of you to come by, during your honeymoon, no less. What will Granger say if she finds out you visit old flames during a time such as this?”

He waved her off and strode into her workspace. “Granger is in Sweden with her parents. And this is not a social call, Pans. I’m thinking of becoming a client.”

A wide and devious smile tore at her face. “Excellent. What do you want done? I have ideas. After Blaise, you are the biggest canvas I know who would let me try new things. And your pale skin would probably love some color.”

Draco snapped his fingers and one of Pansy’s sketchbooks sailed to him, along with a pen. “Maybe another time. As long as you don’t paint genitals on me, I’ll be open to anything. But I had a rather specific idea for starters. May I?” He pointed the tip of the pen at the sketchbook and Pansy nodded.

Quickly, he sketched out the flower arrangement from memory and slid it over. “I’d like these on my right underarm. Oh, and can you charm it so they smell of their natural scent? If I use the right spell?”

Pansy blinked at him, then at his sketch. “I… Well, that is a rather singular request. We’d have to work on a spell and I’d need some very special ink.” Her gaze turned calculating. “Mind telling me what the reason is? I mean, I know you’re a posh prat, but you don’t need to smell of flowers to woo a woman, Draco. If Granger is resisting your charms, give it time, I know how lovely you can be, when you want to.”

“This is not about Granger,” Draco said. “And no, I will not tell you why…” He trailed off when Pansy laced her fingers and leaned her chin on them, batting her lashes at him. She might look all innocent, but there was a tenacity in the depth of her hazel eyes that told him all he needed to know. Pansy was not going to let this go. And she might not help him at all if he didn’t tell her why.

“Ugh, fine. You are a bloody menace, you know that. Seems like the women in my life have that in common.” Draco scowled at his friend, who nodded happily.

“We so aim to serve, darling. Demure and docile, the lot of us.” The piercings in her lips glinted as she smiled and Draco scoffed. “Now out with it. Why, pray tell, does Draco Malfoy want to smell of Honeysuckle?”

Pansy did know a bit about his episodes. Her, Theo and Blaise all did, with Theo being the only one to have witnessed one yet, thank Merlin. Draco told her about how the flowers were part of his occluding space and that he had worked something out with his therapist to not have to occlude every time.

“Hm,” Pansy made, the calculating gleam back in her eyes. “So it’s for therapy?”

“Pretty much, yes,” Draco said, having left out what Granger had to do with all of it. As close as he was to Pansy, he didn’t feel like telling her. Not that she would make fun of him—well, probably a little—but if she ever said something to Granger…that would be unacceptable.

“That’s good then,” Pansy said. “Let’s get busy working out a spell.”

They spent the next few hours working on a potion that could be added to the ink and a spell that would activate the properties.

In the end, they would need three different potions, one for each flower, but the spell would be only one word. Pansy would order the inks the next day and Draco would brew the potions himself. He had been rather good at potions during his school years and he did enjoy the focus of the work. It was a lot like painting in a way.

When he got back home, the sky had already darkened and he was welcomed by a meow and a purr, before he almost stumbled over Crookshanks, who wound around his legs. Draco crouched down and held out his hand, curious as Crookshanks pressed his head to Draco’s palm. It felt very different from any other touch, and much safer in a way.

Draco drew his hands through the cat’s fur with a smile. “I think I like this, Shanks,” he said softly and the cat mewled knowingly, before traipsing off into another part of the house, done with the interaction.

Getting up, Draco made his way across the sitting room he had flooed into, heading for the liquor cabinet to pour himself a whisky. Once done, he was just about to wave his wand at the hearth, when a log floated into the fire, feeding it.

“Thanks, Douillet,” Draco said and sat down on one of the sofas, drink in hand. As he sat there, nursing his whisky, his thoughts found themselves pulled to Granger. He hoped all had gone well and she would be back with less strain on her small shoulders.

A sting went through his left hand and Draco hissed. The silver lines of his bond lit up, sparkling like a chain of jewels. He felt something pull at his middle, where his magic swirled. It was a feeling of rage and something primal, bottomless. His breath hitched as he felt his magic being pulled from.

“Granger,” he choked out and was on his feet. An insurmountable sense of urgency sailed through him, making his heart beat faster. He needed to get to her, now.

Draco racked his brain for a solution, he couldn’t just Apparate that far. He would most surely splinch himself, plus Apparating across borders was illegal, and he had no idea where exactly she was.

His head snapped up and he Apparated to the one person he knew would know.

The manor made him instantly feel cold, as Draco cracked into existence in the entrance hall. “Lucius!” he bellowed, jogging in the direction of the dining hall. At this time, they should be eating dinner.

Draco threw open the doors, coming to face his parents having jumped from their seats and already halfway across the room.

“What is it, darling?” his mother asked, her eyes wide.

“I need to get to Sweden, where Granger is. Right now,” Draco said, addressing his father.

Lucius raised a brow. “Why would y—”

Draco held up his left hand without a word, letting his father see the glinting and lit-up binding-lines for himself.

Lucius’ lips thinned and his gaze narrowed. “A moment. Nips!”

The elf popped into existence and Lucius ordered him to get ‘the box of things on the right shelf’ in his study. Nips nodded, his eyes big and he was gone and back again in the blink of an eye.

Lucius held the pretty wooden box out to Draco. “Float out the silver hair-pin, son. Don’t touch any of the others.”

Draco spied it and levitated it into the air.

“Do you need us to come with you?” Narcissa asked.

Looking from his mother’s determined face, to his father mirroring the same, he was hit with a strange sensation. No matter how deep the cracks in their relationship were, Draco realized he could still count on them in moments like these. It was a small consolation and one he didn’t want to think of now, but it calmed him a bit.

“No. We’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll send word if I need anything.”

“Go, help her,” his mother said with a decisive nod.

Draco gave her one back and grabbed hold of the pin where it still floated mid-air. The Portkey pulled him through space, starting with the familiar tug behind his navel.

When he landed in the lobby of a classy hotel, Draco felt the pull on himself and his magic more intensely, just as he saw the lights flicker, the chandeliers sway and felt the ground rumble. Men in uniforms ran toward a figure, their wands drawn.

Hair crackling until it stood completely on end, Granger was balling her fists, yelling at someone hidden behind her hair, as the security guards grabbed hold of her. The moment Draco saw their hands curl around Granger’s arms, something snapped inside of him and acidic wrath tore through his chest like a maelstrom.

Draco snarled, got out his wand and strode across the room, his entire field of vision and focus narrowing on one single thing. Her.

“Hands off my wife,” he seethed when he closed in on the scene. “Or prepare to lose them.”

Chapter Text

Skövde

Hermione

In which Hermione swears most unladylike, again.

This chapter is dedicated to Chellero. Also, again. :D

As she walked down the road leading from the Skövde Klinik För Sinnesläkare, situated in the woods, into the outskirts of the city on Monday afternoon, Hermione breathed in the crisp autumn air deeply. The chill burned her lungs and stung on her nose and cheeks, so she tightened her scarf and marveled at the many colors around her. It was a beautiful combination of reds and oranges, the slight breeze making it seem as if the trees wore dresses of fire.

It felt as though a ton of weight had shifted from her. For the first time in… Well, since her parents had surpassed that first deadline for getting better, which had been a year ago. So, for the first time in a year, Hermione felt true hope and not just that meagre thing she forced herself to focus on so she could trudge on. No, this was strong, bouncy and glowy, warming her up from the inside like hot chocolate.

When she had landed here the day before, she had been brought to the clinic and met both Healer Carlson and Healer Nilsson. They had been very forward in answering all her questions and seemed extremely competent. While Healer Nilsson was a no-nonsense type of witch—which Hermione greatly appreciated—Healer Carlson was warm and smiled a lot. After their initial meet-up, all of them had migrated through the facilities and toward the rooms Hermione’s parents would inhabit. Everything had been altered to Hermione’s specifications and a young Healer from Denmark—Healer Hansen—had even flooed to Australia to view the Wilkins’ house himself. He had done stellar work on the replication.

Her parents had been safely transferred while sedated and she had been there with the healers to see them wake in an exact replica of their house in Australia, complete with the sound of waves crashing, the smell of the sea and the soft clinking of the windchimes they’d had back there. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Hermione felt as though they had seemed more settled at once. More than they had ever been in St. Mungo’s. Which was probably untrue, but she could not shake the feeling.

Healer Carlson was ecstatic when Hermione presented him with the two memory vials she carried everywhere.

“Oh, this will be wonderful, Mrs. Malfoy,” he’d gushed, raising them to his bespectacled face and staring at the swirling contents, while ignoring Hermione’s shocked face as he said her new name. Clearly, she still had to get used to that…

“I think these will do wonders once we can implement them,” Healer Carlson had carried on letting them sink with a gentle smile. “It’s too bad that we still only see and hear the memories, don’t you think? Smell and temperature help so much in creating the right atmosphere. You wouldn’t believe how much of a difference that makes.” His blond brows furrowed a tad. “We have ways and spells to add a certain amount of it, but alas, something always seems off. Luckily we are able to recreate exact replicas of spaces in the real world, which is always imperative.”

Hermione had blinked at him. This had been her theory all along, something she’d told the Healers in St. Mungo’s over and over, and she’d been told that it didn’t matter at this stage. Well, it seemed to matter.

She could have cried when she had watched through the magically see-through wall, as her parents danced with each other in their kitchen, the way they had used to do spontaneously. It was something she hadn’t seen them do in over a year. Merlin and Morgana, if only she’d had gotten them there earlier.

Healer Nilsson had clearly outlined a treatment plan, telling Hermione the goals and procedures in easy terms and without trying to make promises.

“It will not be easy,” she’d said. “Your father already shows signs of decline and much time has passed since the Obliviation took place. But I am confident we will see betterment in around two months.” She had told Hermione the specifics of brain-healing spells, techniques and therapies that were planned in certain stages and all of it was absolutely fascinating. Some of the measures were things Hermione had never heard of and she could have asked a thousand questions.

At first, it had seemed as though Healer Nilsson disliked Hermione, by the way she glared over the edge of her thin glasses sourly, but as Hermione had asked thought-out questions and deduced many things on her own, the Healer seemed to be impressed and by the end of the visit, the sour curve around her lips had vanished. There was no smile, but Hermione felt the tension coming from the Healer lift. Not that she cared either way, making friends was not on her agenda here and Healer Nilsson seemed very competent to begin with.

Hermione had stayed glued to the wall she could see through for the remainder of the day, basking in the relaxed atmosphere her parents exuded, until visiting hours were over. The hotel Lucius had booked for her was magical and came with many amenities, such as a pool, spa and sauna, and a gym. Her suite was large and comfortable, the food in the accompanying restaurant delicious. Hermione cared little for any of it. She would have camped out next to the clinic on a stretcher, if she’d had to and was back there as early as they would let her in the next day.

This time, the Healer from Denmark, Rasmus Hansen, took Hermione on a tour around the entire clinic. He was maybe a year or two older than her, with strikingly blue eyes and sandy-blond hair. His beard was well-trimmed and made him look a bit like a tall, fit lumberjack. He was quick to laugh, very sharp, bordering on witty, and answered any and all of her questions with a warm smile. All in all, Hermione found him agreeable and competent. And he was certainly easy on the eyes, not that she cared about that either, it was more of a mild observation she made as she watched many of the female trainees and Healers grin and blush when they walked by.

As she gave him a sidelong look, Hermione decided that he had nothing on her husband, though. He was broader, but not as tall, and Malfoy was… Well, he had a different presence about him. While Healer Hansen seemed jovial and open, Malfoy had an air of mysterious magnetism around him, paired with a sense of control and calm that was like a balm to Hermione—on the occasions she had felt it. Besides, thoughts of Malfoy made a shiver run up her spine, sending tingles throughout her body, while spending the entire day with the good-looking Healer did absolutely nothing but remind her of her husband. In a way she should not be thinking about him, Merlin, damn it!

By midday, they both shared two inside jokes and Healer Hansen had asked her to call him Rasmus. Hermione had accepted and continued to grill him about the more obscure therapies Healer Nilsson had told her about the day prior. He was elaborating while she got to watch Healer Carlson in action, as he used an array of spells on Hermione’s father—his first healing session—to enlarge an image of his brain, which the Healer then gently perused. He healed what looked like worn-out synapses, one at a time. This was grueling work and would take a very long time, yet Hermione was fascinated by the image and the way the Healer worked, his wand twisting and swirling in intricate patterns, his lips mumbling one incantation after the other. The total focus it took was palpable and when he was done for the day, both him and Hermione’s father—who had been in a waking-coma—seemed strung-out.

After finally pulling her away, Rasmus showed Hermione other wards, even after visiting hours, and she got distracted by thoughts about Malfoy again when she watched her tour-guide write down something on his clipboard. His hands weren’t nearly as dexterous and long as Malfoys. Blushing, Hermione had berated herself and tried to force her mind to think of something else.

Also, she got the feeling that Rasmus was somehow stalling. Eventually, he asked her whether he should show her a good restaurant in the city. His smile was almost hopeful, but Hermione declined, opting for a walk to her hotel and dinner there. It was pretty close by and she did not fancy an impromptu diner-date, no matter how nice Rasmus was..

Which was how she found herself between autumn leaves and a brisk breeze that stung her cheeks. For a moment, Hermione had the mad notion to write a thank-you note to Lucius, as the hope in her heart seemed to have morphed into a bouncing helium balloon, nearly lifting her off her feet with the joy she felt. But no, it wasn’t as if this deal didn’t benefit him as well. Now that her worry about her parents was lifting a bit, Hermione began to ponder that contract and some of the stipulations in it more in depth. She obviously had thought on it—specifically what it meant for her—but not the reasons behind it and how it impacted Malfoy.

Kicking at a pebble in front of her, she frowned. Hermione did not understand the need for the dinners, for example. Neither Malfoy, not his father seemed very fond of one another. They certainly hadn’t said anything to each other during dinner. Maybe it was so Narcissa could see her son more often? This seemed like it could be the reason, but Narcissa and Malfoy wouldn’t need mandated dinners to see one another, as her visit had proven. They seemed to be on somewhat amicable terms. Leagues ahead of him and his father, in any case.

Hermione trailed her fingers along the bark of a birch at her side. She could always ask him. She probably should ask him a lot of things. But… A sigh left her and she meandered across the road and toward the warm lights of the hotel. Talking to Malfoy meant being around him. Being around him meant being exposed to that magnetism she felt pulling at her. The temptation was there and her talk with Ginny had not helped with it. Hermione had come to a decision, which was to not pursue her growing interest in the man—physically, of course—but that did not mean the interest had gone away.

“Cicre,” she mumbled to herself. Even being away left her thinking of him, as today had showed. Coming up to the glass-walls of the lobby, casting light on the darkening sidewalk, Hermione stopped short. This time her cursing was loud and foul, making a man passing her click his tongue and hiss in outrage, before speeding up his steps. Hermione didn’t even see him; all she saw was the man standing inside the lobby.

Carrying a bouquet of red roses, Ronald was lingering in front of a set of sofas, wearing his best suit. One she remembered them buying together. It had been a lovely day, the two of them out shopping from their first paycheck as adults. And Hermione had picked the suit for him, happy with how the dark-blue fabric complemented his features and brought out his eyes.

It was a little tight around his waist now, the button straining just a bit. Strange how that was what went through her mind in that moment. In the next second, Hermione was hit with a debilitating cocktail of feelings. First came rage, hot and endless, surging inside her like a tidal wave. It made her hand twitch toward her wand and she had to force herself not to walk in there, wand aloft, curses ready to fling at him and his stupid suit. Maybe she could get it to eat him, yes that would be a satisfying sight. Hermione shook her head and forced herself to breathe and keep that twitchy hand still at her side.

When she had breathed through it, sadness made her swallow at his sight, pushing at the rage. A sense of profound loss for what they had shared, for the years between them. Because it was over now, there was not a thing he could say to mend any of it. Their friendship was dead and gone, and seeing him there obviously waiting for her, made it all too real. Ronald with flowers in his hands and a suit made her almost tear up. She would have given much to see him make an effort like this during their relationship. Even if it was barely that. The suit was something she had picked and the roses… Hermione didn’t even like roses. As a matter of fact, she had often enough hinted at Dahlias being her favorite but it seemed as though he hadn’t listened.

Hermione felt torn over hexing his suit into the fabric-version of a Chomping Cabbage and running away. Go home and crawl into her bed with Crooks for a good cry that was equally one of anger and sorrow. How the fuck could he? What had ridden him to betray her so? And how the heck had he found her? Ginny and Harry knew she was in Sweden, maybe he had spoken to them?

None of it truly mattered as Hermione remained rooted to the spot, debating to flee the scene. But where would she go? She couldn’t Apparate home. Her Portkey was in her suite and would only set off in the morning, and she could not Apparate into her room. The wards saw to that. She didn’t want to send a Patronus to Harry, because she didn’t want to pull him into this. She would have to storm past Ron and ignore whatever he had to say, or hex him, or…

Nibbling on her lower lip, while tilting her head, Hermione pondered her next move. How could he, indeed? What had he been thinking? Why? He told her he was still in love with her, which couldn’t possibly be true. Was it pure envy? Spite? As she scrutinized her yearlong friend and ex-boyfriend, Hermione was overcome by a sense of curiosity. The sadness abated and the anger bubbled back up, simmering alongside the curiosity now. Ron had changed during their relationship, as much as she had, but had he really changed so drastically that she didn’t understand him anymore? To the point of not caring whether she got hurt or not?

Maybe there was a way to figure it out. If she could curb her rage and stay calm. Was it worth it? Hermione didn’t know. She also had no idea whether she’d be able to pull it off.

For a few minutes, she walked up and down the sidewalk, careful to stay out of his sight. During this time her sadness was burned away further by the rage simmering ever closer to the surface of her mind. Yes, it was sad that their friendship was at an end. But seriously, who’s bloody fault was it? She had not been acting like a complete arse. She had not lied, gotten drunk and lied some more. To the point of it turning dangerous. Well, hypothetically dangerous. She knew Draco would not have hurt her. But Ron had no idea. In fact, maybe he had been counting on it. That thought made Hermione nauseous, then she stopped, realizing she had just used Malfoy’s first name in her head. The fact made her head spin a bit.

She could call him. Malfoy could meet her somewhere in another city she could Apparate to and bring a Portkey. Hermione bit her teeth together, tapped her index finger to the wand in her pocket and grimaced. No. She didn’t need him to. She could do this. No matter how much safer she would feel—Hermione snorted. Had she really just thought that? Preposterous.

Wrangling her anger and her nerves into submission, Hermione firmly stowed her wand into her left pocket, so she would be forced to think on it if she reached for it and it would be in her latent hand. Ron wasn’t the only one who could lie to people’s faces. And he certainly wasn’t the only one who could play this game. After all, she was devious when motivated by anger.

Hermione tightened her scarf, pulled up the lapels of her jacket and squared her shoulders, then she headed for the sliding doors.

The way Ron’s face lit up with joy when he saw her was like a punch to the gut. Hermione could remember a time when that look had meant the world to her. It had always been followed by a warm and long hug—for a time, it had even been followed by long and tender kisses. Hermione wrenched away from those thoughts.

“Ronald,” she said, feigning surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Hermione!” Ron walked up to her with purpose, holding out the roses. “How are you? Are you alright?” He glanced past her and around. “Is he here?” Ron then asked in a lowered voice.

“I’m fine, Ron. But who are you talking about? My husband?” Hermione asked, taking the flowers and holding them in front of her chest to keep Ron from pulling her into his arms.

Ron grimaced at her words, but nodded. “Maybe we should go to your room,” he suggested and Hermione froze.

She would never have thought it possible, but she felt something icy slide down her spine at the thought of being alone with him. It was jarring how uneasy the prospect made her. He used to be able to make her feel so safe.

“Oh, Draco is upstairs, actually. He’s waiting. We have dinner reservations,” Hermione made up on the spot, with a tight smile she hoped would fool Ron. Her voice did sound steady, if only she would be able to turn off the blushing—something that had always hindered her at lying believably.

But Ron seemed to have no suspicions whatsoever, as he shuddered visibly while looking over his shoulder at the lifts and stairs. On the one hand this was a good thing, on the other it brought forth her ire again. As if meeting Malfoy would be the worst thing to happen to Ron tonight. He had sealed his fate the second he had turned up.

“I do have a bit of time, though,” Hermione said, tempering her anger. “Want to have a drink at the bar?”

Ron nodded and a wide grin spread on his face. “Yes, absolutely.” He followed her through the lobby and into the bar area. Hermione felt the heat of his hand hovering near her lower back and she stepped to the side, away from his touch as discreetly as possible. Ron looked confused for a second, but she gave him a smile she was not feeling and slid onto one of the bar-stools, laying down her bouquet of flowers. To give her smile more realism, she imagined transfiguring Ronald into a rose and adding him to the hastily tied-together stems. The cellophane around them—filled with moving and bursting little hearts—would rustle and she’d make sure to stick him between the few thorned stems she saw. It was shocking how much that thought helped to keep from scowling at him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, after ordering a glass of rosé for herself.

Ron wriggled around in his seat, then opened the button on his suit-jacket, which had been holding on for dear life the moment he’d sat down, before glancing at her. “I wanted to see you, obviously. I had no way of knowing how you are. With him, I mean.” He leaned closer and placed one palm over her hand and Hermione raised a brow. “I was so worried.”

“You could have sent an owl,” Hermione suggested, sliding her hand from underneath his to place it in her lap.

Ron looked at her, then at his empty hand. He fisted it once before relaxing again. Frowning, he accepted this drink and shook his head. “That’s why I’m here. I did send you owls, you never replied. I needed to know how you were. Malfoy looked so…angry when you left together on your wedding.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, aiming for a look of confusion. She was confused, at least a bit. Either, Ron was lying through his teeth—digging himself an ever-deeper grave—or there was something else going on here. Malfoy had told her his version of events under Veritaserum. Plus, his actions matched his words. Ron’s did not.

Speaking of which, Ron drew a hand through his copper strands and swallowed down a huge gulp of his butterbeer. “Did he…” He turned toward her, the picture of concern. “Did he hurt you, Hermione? You can tell me. I’m an Auror, I can have him arrested and carted back where he belongs in the blink of an eye.”

Now her eyes narrowed. “Why on earth would Malfoy hurt me?”

A crease appeared between his brows and something close to annoyance flashed across his features. “Because he’s a git, ‘Mione. A Death Eater, a convicted criminal.” His gaze darkened. “Do you think he has that tattoo on his neck for show? Or the Mark on his arm? He hates us and we hate him. It has always been like that. How could you, of all people, forget?” Another sip silenced him for a second and Hermione placated herself with thoughts of unraveling Ronald to string him around the chandelier blinking above their heads. Bloodthirsty? A bit, but her thoughts were free and while her wand hand twitched a few times, she tried her level best to stay composed and keep listening.

“When I saw him pull you along on your wedding night, looking murderous, I thought the worst,” Ron said, putting down his glass. It was already empty and he signaled for another.

“If you were so worried, why didn’t you stop us?” Hermione asked, keeping herself from snarling the words at him. “Or follow? Or send a Patronus? You said so yourself, you’re an Auror, Ronald.”

Ron blushed. “I… Well, it was your wedding night,” he said sheepishly. “And I couldn’t bloody-well abuse my status as an Auror to Reducto through your front door on a hunch.”

Her brows raised at that lame excuse. As if he would ever let himself be held up by such a flimsy reason, if he had truly believed—or cared—he would have stormed Douillet. Ron blushed even more, seemingly coming to the same conclusion. Just as Hermione opened her mouth to force him firmer into this corner, he quickly spoke. “So I was just imagining things then? He wasn’t angry with you?”

Hermione staved off the memory of that particular moment. It wasn’t a good one. Thanks—in large parts—to Ron. “Not at all,” Hermione said instead, her mind quickly supplying her with an opening to take. She decided to push Ronald a bit and see what came loose. “Draco was a bit…” She glanced down, trying for demure and abashed and smiled. “…eager to get home.” Her words were more a whisper than anything else and the lie made her cheeks flash red, but she guessed it only helped cement her ruse in this instant. “Maybe that was what you saw.”

A hiss sounded from beside her and when she looked up, a glare met her, paired with a disgusted expression. “I fucking knew it!” Ron spat, lowly. “You couldn’t wait to fuck him, could you?”

The twist in atmosphere and temper was jarring, and while Hermione had somehow expected it, it still stung. Everything Malfoy had said was true. Hermione hadn’t known she’d still clung to some semblance of hope, but as she felt it slip away, she was left with nothing but ire and the need for vengeance singing in her very bones.

She needed to collect herself a bit, so she took a long sip from her glass, letting her finger glide across the perspiration to gather a bit of moisture. Then she let her own glare flick over him. “Yes, Ronald. I slept with my husband. Not that it’s any of your business.” As his face flushed crimson and the vein in his neck began pulsing frantically, Hermione was about to high-five herself. Nearly there. “Is this the reason for you being here? To insult and attack me? Or because you were worried? I’m confused. It can’t be both, Ronald.”

She watched with a certain amount of glee as Ron spluttered and choked on words, his face changing color from red, to pale and back to red. It was a wonder to see and Hermione calmly sipped her drink, marveling at the sight. Back when they had been together, she never would have resorted to such trickery—she knew his buttons well after all—to get him this far out of sorts, but she felt the need to flatten him. He had lied, manipulated and finagled her into a dangerous situation, then he had followed her to a different country, only to burst into self-righteous anger when he was told something he didn’t want to hear. And he was still bloody lying to her.

After half a minute, Ron had gathered himself enough to glower at her darkly. “I came, because I was worried sick. I still am. You just up and married bloody Malfoy, not caring that he is a criminal, evil, and only using you. When my owls went unanswered, it got worse, and I needed to know if you were fine.”

Hermione bent closer, her own glower searing into him. “You still could have flooed by. Harry and Ginny were there. Neither one seemed worried. Spoke to them, have you? About your worry? Seems like the next best idea, not stalking your ex-girlfriend to a different country.”

“Stalk—I have not!” Ron snagged up the full glass of butterbeer in front of him and emptied it half way in one go. “Obviously, Malfoy is keeping my owls from you. He probably would have attacked me on sight if I had tried to come by.”

“So you’re scared of him now?” Hermione paired the question with a lifted brow and a mocking smirk.

Ron nearly combusted on the spot. “Of course not! Merlin, that will be the day. I just wanted you to be safe and when I overheard something about Lucius ordering a few international Portkeys, I looked into it and saw that one would go to Sweden for two days.” He polished off his glass and stared into the empty thing with a miserable expression. “But it seems I worried and did all of this for nothing. Since you and Draco have dinner reservations and are apparently fucking. Congratulations, Hermione. I’d never imagine you’d stoop so low as to become a Death Eater’s whore. Certainly not his.”

In loops, she would wind him around the chandelier in loops. After she’d made his suit chew him up and spit him out. Her hand twitched again and this time her magic tingled through it.

“Just so we are clear and I am not misunderstanding. Since me misunderstanding things you did used to be an ongoing topic in our relationship.” Hermione slowly slid from her stool, her glare finding Ron. She let her anger wash over her, basking in it as it lit her up like an inferno. “You thought I was in danger of my husband mistreating me, but refused to say something—not only to me, but to my friends, who are your friends and family—or do something about it. And instead of abusing your status as an Auror to do a check-up on me, you did so to sniff around to find me in a place where you thought I’d be without said mistreating husband. Right so far?”

Ron had nearly fallen off his stool and now stumbled back, his face a mix of indignation and trepidation. “I… Yes – no! The owls, ‘Mione! You never answered.”

Feeling the waves of her rage crash over her skin, Hermione noticed her hair lifting. Leave your wand in your pocket, she told herself. You’ll kill him if you take it out now.

“There were no fucking owls, Ronald Weasley!” she hissed.

“Of course there were!” Ron fumed. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Hermione clicked her tongue, her hair raising higher, crackling with magic. The same magic she felt thrumming under her skin. “I am.”

Ron looked affronted and it would have seemed convincing, if he hadn’t been as pale as the wall next to him.

“I am calling you a liar, a manipulator, and a fucking coward!”

He raised a finger at her. “You take that back, right now! Can’t believe this is what I get for worrying.”

Hermione laughed, her ire rising and rising. The gall of this man. She shook with cackles, even as she felt her magic build further.

“What? You think this is funny?” Ron spat. “You are out of your mind.”

Her chuckles dried up and she advanced on him, making him retreat. It must have seemed funny to onlookers. Hermione, small and dainty, crowding a much larger Ron with only her glare and crackling hair. But she didn’t care or looked around to find out.

“Maybe I am, but then so are you.” She cocked her head to the side. “And it is funny to me how you say that you care about me—going so far as to profess your love to me—but can call me a whore when I have the nerve to sleep with my own husband.”

“Your marriage is a sham,” Ron roared, trying to straighten and make himself appear bigger and more threatening. The days of him being loud and big being things to shock Hermione into giving in were long gone. It only mildly amused her now. For she knew—Auror training or not—she could still hex him into oblivion with her eyes closed and her hands tied behind her back.

“Perhaps, but at least the sex is fantastic, as opposed to bland and repetitive.”

A growl sounded from him and all false bravado vanished to make space for something dark and cruel. “Enjoy being degraded and called a Mudblood, do you? You always were so eager to please. Fucking pathetic.”

Hermione had to consciously tamp down her anger to keep from ripping him apart. “No, Ronald. The first person to say that word to me in years was you just now. And it was fantastic because he actually cares about getting me off. Oh, and his cock reaches places yours has not even waved at from afar.”

Color surged in his cheeks and his blue eyes darkened. Hermione saw the exact moment he snapped, her own breath ragged. Ron’s hand wandered up to where his wand-holster would normally be, before sliding back down. His face contorted into a mask of vitriol. “Classy,” he rasped. “Real classy, Hermione. Your parents have to be so very proud of you—oh, wait…” He blinked at her in a disturbing imitation of innocence. “They can’t.” His face darkened again and he sneered down at her. “Because they don’t fucking remember you. And whose fault is that?”

His words pelted her like curses. Had she not been as livid as she was, Hermione would have crumbled under them. Which was what he was aiming for, of course. But unlucky for Ronald Weasley, Hermion was past better reasoning already. Past caring. And past any sense of rational thought.

Something peaked inside of her and she almost hovered into the air from the power surging through her veins. To Hermione it felt like anger, a well of it that had been building and left untapped for years. Every cruel word, every manipulation, every passive-aggressive comment… It had all led to this.

She did not feel the ground rumbling beneath her, didn’t see the chandeliers swaying, or the roses Ron had brought along welt and shrivel up where they still lay on the bar. She did not hear the glasses and bottles behind said bar burst and shatter, or the yelps and shouts of the personnel.

“You sorry excuse for a man, Ronald!” she yelled, her hair standing completely on end. “I had my suspicions but now I know. You don’t care one lick about me. I wonder if you ever fucking did.”

In that moment, Ron stepped back, his face void of any color and Hermione felt hands clasp her wrists on either side. Just as she was about to shake off the bodily intrusion, using the overabundance of magic drowning her, she heard a new voice.

“Hands off my wife!” Malfoy snarled from behind her. “Or prepare to lose them.” His voice cut through the turmoil of anger boiling within her like a cold knife. His tone icy. Hermione knew exactly what he looked like, sounding that way. Eyes like flint and a face as cold as a winter’s night. In an instant, the hold on her was gone and her wand-hand twitched again.

“Ah,” Ron sneered as Malfoy stepped up to her, somehow supplementing her magic even further. His presence tempered her though. It was as if she could breathe deeply again and for a very small and pathetic moment, Hermione felt like bursting into tears. He had come for her.

“There is the ferret,” Ron jeered. “Brave of you to show your face in my presence. Fucking scum.”

“If you don’t shut your mouth I will hex it to your arsehole,” Hermione snarled, finally unearthing her wand. “Pucker to fucking pucker, then that shite you spew can be met by its equal.”

“Careful, Hermione,” Ron growled, his wand at his side. “You are threatening an Auror. That is an offence.”

“I haven’t even started threatening you, you side-ways fucked heap of troll-spunk! When I am done with you, you will be shitting and coughing snails, you two-faced, hag-rimming, piss-drinking, mouth-breather!”

Ron gaped at her and Malfoy actually chuckled darkly at her side. “Oh, how I love that mouth of yours, Granger,” he said, while banding an arm around her middle. Only then did Hermione notice that she was busy prowling toward Ron. Malfoy’s touch, his closeness and his scent calmed her a tad.

“You better hold her back,” Ron said, but it sounded more like a squeak as he stumbled back. “Or you’ll share your cell in Azkaban.”

“Is that a threat, Weasel?” Malfoy asked, his voice as cutting as before. “I would be very careful with those, or I will make my own. Contrary to yours, mine are never empty. As you keep reminding my wife, I am a convicted criminal. You would do well to remember this as well.”

Ron glared from him to Hermione and back and she could see the way his wand shook at his side. “This isn’t over.” He pointed at Hermione. “You threatened me and you—” Ron glared at Malfoy. “Will be back in your cell before you know it.”

“Try it and see what I do,” Hermione spat, wanting to pounce on him. Wand, nails and heels first.

Ron scoffed. “You two fucking deserve each other.”

“Why thank you, Weasel,” Malfoy drawled. “Now piss off, before I let my wife go and look the other way.”

With a huff and stumbling backwards, Ron exited the hotel, his wand held in a white-knuckled grip. He Apparated as soon as he was out the door and Hermione released a pent-up breath.

Malfoy pulled back and turned to look at her. “Are you hurt, Granger?”

Hermione felt her anger run from her in pulses, leaving her jittery. She knew the way her adrenaline had coursed through her veins in the past few minutes would have her crashing down in a bit. “I’m fine,” she said. “H-he found me. He said- I…” The rest of her anger, the remains of sorrow and the utter shock of being so easily followed and found caught up with her and she blinked tears away.

Malfoy slowly drew closer. “Do you… Do you need a hug?” he asked, his voice rough.

A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek and Hermione scowled at her inability to keep it in. She couldn’t look at him as she nodded once.

His arms came around her gently and Hermione leaned into his chest, breathing him in. He had come for her. Not that she had needed him, but he had. And he was hugging her, even while it had to be difficult for him.

Malfoy’s hands roamed her back in gentle circles. “I have you, Granger. You’re safe.”

Everything culminated in her chest, filling her to bursting. Anger, frustration, hurt, sadness, relief and Malfoy so close, providing warmth, protection, touch and solace… It was too much and she sniffled, then hid her face in his chest.

His voice rumbled against her but she knew he was talking to the people around them so she tuned it out. For a small while, she nuzzled into him and relished the healing and calming warmth being in his arms exuded. It seeped into her and Hermione soaked it up like a sponge.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said. “That would be amenable to me.”

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy,” a man answered. “Again, I am very sorry.”

Hermione pulled in a few shuddering breaths. Gods, she should be apologizing to the staff, shouldn’t she? That fight had been spectacular and embarrassing.

Hermione freed her face and wiped at her cheeks. When she wanted to turn to speak, Malfoy hugged her tighter.

“All is good,” he said and looked down, catching her gaze with his. His features were open and worried. “What do you need?”

Hermione felt, more than she saw that the staff had left around them. “Home. I- I want to go home.”

His smile was radiant and she felt helpless in not letting it warm her further. “Home it is.”

A second later, she felt a pull behind her navel, his arms still around her, even while they shook a bit by now.

Before she knew it, Hermione was in her room and Malfoy stepped back from her. It felt strange and Hermione could have used a bit more of his closeness, but he had done more than he’d had to already. The simple fact that he had come for her, threatened people on her behalf and stood by her side to face Ron had been… It filled her with something she could not place. And her mind was too frazzled to make sense of it now.

She eyed her bed longingly, feeling very drained all of a sudden. The entire day had been exciting, but tiring, and then… Hermione couldn’t remember ever being that angry at anyone. Well, she had gotten close during the Yule ball, and when Ronald had snogged Lavender, and when he had demanded she let her parents go. Seemed like the common denominator was Ron. And yet…that anger had been something else.

“You want to rest?” Malfoy asked crossing his arms, his voice low and gentle.

“I… Yes. I feel a bit light-headed. Sorry.”

Malfoy clicked his tongue, rounded her and drew back her blankets. He waved his wand to transfigure her shirt into something longer, before vanishing her pants and shoes to the closet. “Get in.”

Hermione was helpless not to slip into bed with a sigh. He drew the blanket up around her and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. “Sleep, Granger.”

Crookshanks skidded through the door with a yowl, then streaked up to the bed and flung himself at Hermione. She gasped and hugged him to her chest. He started up his purring engine immediately and Hermione smiled into his fur. “Hey, Crooks,” she whispered.

Hearing steps recede, Hermione sat up, battling the leaden feel of her limbs. “Malfoy, thank you. Do you need… Merlin my stuff is still back at the hotel. I need to—”

“What you need, is sleep. I’ll handle the rest,” he said upon turning back to her. His expression was steady, his eyes firm. Confident.

Hermione slumped back, her lids fluttering as Crookshanks rolled into a ball on her chest. “I… Thank you.”

Malfoy’s face appeared above her once more. “Rest, Granger. You need it after what you just did. And never thank me for something as trivial as this. You are my wife; looking out for you and after you is the least I can do.”

“No, it’s not, but thank you, Draco.” Her lids shut and she lost his face in the darkness. Her last conscious thought was one of warmth and gratitude. Gods it felt good having someone fuss over her a bit, that it was Malfoy was an added bonus. Maybe that was untrue. Maybe she enjoyed it precisely because it was him.

Chapter Text

Cereal and a Weasel

Draco

Draco debated whether or not to wake Granger the next morning. He was about ready to floo-call Astoria and tell her Granger would need an extra day, when his wife breezed into the kitchen two hours before she had to go to work.

“Morning, Malfoy,” she mumbled, without looking at him, which was a good thing, because Draco gaped at her like an absolute idiot.

He clapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat. How the hell was she even more gorgeous than the day before?

“Hi, Granger,” Draco said, concentrating on an even voice as he filled a mug with coffee and slid it across the island toward her. “You’re up early.”

She had loosely plated her curls, leaving a few strands to frame her face and chin and for the first time since their wedding, he saw her wearing light make-up and a set of dangling, golden earrings. The black blouse she wore was loose around her chest and arms, folding down in waves to her elbows and cinching in at her slim waist. A maroon skirt that ended just above her knees hugged her arse tightly, which was accentuated by a pair of black pumps, making her taller. For a stupid moment, Draco thought that he wouldn’t have to bend as far to kiss her now. He shook the thought from his mind. There would be no kissing.

“Thank you,” Granger said and accepted the coffee, then both sugar and milk, which he also pushed her way. “Yes, I’m ready to go to work again and I…” She took a sip, closed her eyes, then tilted her head and looked at him. “I wanted to talk beforehand.”

“I didn’t make anything to eat yet,” Draco said and Granger waved him off.

“Care for cereal?” she asked and he shrugged. It wasn’t as if he’d ever really had cereal before. Most of the time—including at Hogwarts—breakfast had been made for him by elves. He’d learned to do it himself during the war, because he’d wanted the elves to be out of sight as much as possible, lest Greyback or Aunt Bella got any glorious ideas at seeing them. Target-practice had always been the first go-to. Draco shook those images from him with even more vehemence.

Granger smiled and pulled her wand from a hidden pocket in her skirt. She waved it and boxes of cereal shot from one of the cabinets, as did two bowls and spoons. Snatching the milk and her mug, she nodded at the dining-table and click-clacked her way there, trusting him to follow.

Circe and Morgana the way her arse swayed when she wore heels should be illegal, Draco decided as he stumbled slightly when following her. They sat down and Draco watched and copied what Granger did—didn’t look too complicated—before he dug in. “Tasty,” he said after swallowing his first mouth-full. “What did you want to talk about?” Draco had several things he wanted, maybe even needed, to say, but he would let her speak first.

Her cereal crunched as she chewed, her cheeks looking almost hamster-like. It was kind of cute. “Yesterday. How did you get there so fast? Also, how did you get my things back? I checked and everything is in the closet,” she said after swallowing.

“My bonding lines lit up and I knew something had to be wrong.” He flashed his bondlined hand at her. “I Apparated to my parents and asked my father whether he had another Portkey to your destination. He did and I took it.” Draco ate another spoonful. “After you fell asleep, I went back again, made some arrangements and packed your things. I placed your suitcase by your door, Douillet probably unpacked it.”

The table shuddered once as if to agree.

Granger patted it fondly. “Thank you, Douillet.” Her amber eyes found him. “And thank you. I didn’t… You didn’t have to come.” The words were said in a quiet manner and her gaze shifted down to her bowl. “I had it under control.”

Draco almost burst into laughter. In his surprise, he made the mistake of sucking in air with his mouth full and ended up in a coughing fit.

“Are you alright?” Granger asked, looking worried. “Do you need me to—”

He raised his hand and shook his head. Punching his chest a few times and with watering eyes, Draco finally dislodged the ‘Corny Flakes’ and breathed freely again. As he gathered deep lungful’s of oxygen, Crookshanks hopped onto the side cabinet standing against the far wall and tilted his head, yellow eyes puzzled and fixated on Draco. Douillet made the surface of the cabinet undulate, then snapped one of the drawers at Crookshank’s tail when the cat didn’t want to get off. A yowl and a reprimand from Granger later, the half-Kneazle fled from the room like a red, hairy comet, his ears flat and his talons scraping along the wooden floor.

Draco cleared his throat, fighting off another bout of laughter.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” Granger asked. The worry was still showing on her face, even if her lips twitched. She had half-reached for him across the table and Draco saw with a start, that she had not glamoured the scar on her arm, the word his aunt had cut into her skin glaring at him. It was the first time he saw it and he wondered whether or not she normally hid it or if that was just from him.

“Fine,” Draco rasped. He pushed his half-eaten bowl from him and looked at her, decidedly ignoring her bare underarm. “But you didn’t have it under control, Granger. Pulling on my magic as you did, on our family magic, it was dangerous. Not only to those around you, but yourself as well.” While he inwardly debated how to ask her to promise him she’d be more careful, her features turned…confused.

“What are you talking about? Family magic? Your magic?”

Draco blinked dumbly. “You… Granger you nearly leveled the hotel. There were cracks in the walls, every bottle and glass was shattered and the chandeliers were in pieces.”

Her eyes grew wider. “I… The hotel… Oh, Merlin I had no idea. I didn’t notice.”

Raising a brow at her, Draco laced his fingers. “You did not notice that the ground was shaking?”

She shook her head and swallowed. “I know I was angry. Beyond angry. Ron… Gods he aggravated me and I was dimly aware of how much power was at my fingertips, but I…” She gasped. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“No. Everything is fine.”

She wrung her hands beneath the table. “I hardly…” Her cheeks bloomed red and then her brows furrowed. “Exactly how much did you have to pay in order for it to be ‘fine’?”

Clever witch. “It hardly matters, Granger and that is not why I brought it up.”

An indignant splutter sounded from her. “It matters! I can’t believe I… Merlin’s socks! I have to… I’ll pay you back… I-I’ll—”

“Stop it. Please, Granger,” he added when her fiery eyes landed on him in a glare. “It doesn’t matter. Truly. I mended much of the damage myself. It was quite easy, since the power you pulled on was accessible to me as well. For a short time, at least.” He blew out a breath.

“I will still pay you back,” she said, her expression drawn.

“I won’t accept it.” He leaned onto his underarms and smirked. “Believe me, Granger, I can be as stubborn as you, if need be. Also, I will not miss the money, you might, and I’m saying this with no condescension at all.”

She snorted. “How unlike you.”

“Quite.” Draco leaned back again. “Listen, neither you nor I knew this could even happen or I would have warned you. I mean…” He drew a palm through his hair, “I knew that spouses can share magic in our family. It’s kind of like an exchange of energy. If you need it, I give and the other way around. I’ve seen it with my parents, when one was sick or wounded, the other could bolster them, help them. But what you did…” Draco shook his head. “I asked my mother about it when I got back. She was as surprised as me at first but then told me there had been instances of ancestors being able to pull on the well of family magic itself. The magic Douillet is connected to.”

For a few moments Granger just looked at him and Draco could see the wheels turn in that exceptional brain of hers. She drew her spoon through her cereal, then took a bite, still gazing at him thoughtfully, as though she were looking through him. “You know,” Granger pointed her spoon at him, her eyes focusing once more. “I haven’t yet read all the texts your mother gave me on Douillet, but I remember a passage I found very interesting. As this is an ancestral home of the Black family, every person and generation has left traces and parts of their magic within this house. It is what makes it sentient. Could that be how the ‘well’ of magic filled?”

Draco shrugged. “It might be. I’ll take a look at those texts as well, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s fine. They’re in my room, but I’ll bring them into the sitting room when I get back from work. I’d like to find out what triggered it and how I called it forth. Don’t want to put anyone else in danger just because I get irritated.” She pursed her lips. “The Ministry would be in shambles by the end of the week.”

“Well, I do think Weasley has a knack for angering you,” Draco said. “In a way that is beyond normal, I mean.”

To this she nodded. “He does.”

“I have been meaning to talk to you about him, actually,” Draco said.

Granger frowned. “Ronald can go and piss into the wind for all I care.” She munched heartily on her next mouthful, as if to underline her words.

“Right. While I share that sentiment, I think I should talk to him.” She stopped chewing and Draco placed his hands in his lap so she wouldn’t see how he clenched his fists. “I don’t want him near you again and I have the feeling he will not be deterred by what happened. You heard him rambling about how you threatened him. If he plans anything, I want him to know there will be consequences.”

“Absolutely not,” Granger said. “He is my problem. And while I won’t put anything past him at this point, there is nothing he can do. I will be the one talking to that lying sack of dragon dung if it becomes necessary.”

“Granger, you almost leveled a hotel the last time you spoke to him. And excuse me, but necessary?” He raised his brows. “Weasley lied to me; with the best intention being me divorcing you on the spot and the worst being me hurting you. He abused his authority as an Auror to stalk you and who knows what else.” His fists shook in his lap as anger built inside his chest. “I will not take the chance of doing nothing, just so he can accuse you of threatening a member of the DMLE.”

“And what makes you think talking to him will do any good?” Granger asked. “The way I see it, you’ll probably end up dueling, giving him exactly what he is after: A reason to lock you up.”

“That will not be happening, but you make a fair point. It’s not just about him stalking and troubling you, it’s worse. I’d imagine Weasley knew about the reason for you marrying me?”

Granger gave him a slight nod.

“So he knew what would happen if we got an annulment. How all support for your parents would be taken away and I would end up in Azkaban again.” Draco shook his head as Granger paled somewhat. “The consequences of his actions would have been far-reaching; something he was either counting on, or acceptant of.”

“I… I didn’t even think that far,” Granger mumbled, then frowned. “He probably didn’t either.”

“Don’t give him so little credit. Weasley has aways had a penchant for being petty. You lived with the bloke, you should know.” A thought occurred to him then and his lips flattened in response. “Is that why you are so against me speaking with him? You think he didn’t mean for anyone to come to harm?”

Her face lifted and her fiery eyes burned into him with a scowl. “Absolutely not! Ronald knew what he was doing, he also knew I would cut him from my life if he didn’t behave at out wedding. But I seriously don’t know whether he would have accounted for the severity of the repercussions of his actions.” The fire in her eyes turned dull and the sight nearly made Draco curse out loud. “And if he did… It scares me to think that he did.”

“So let me speak with him and make it clear what will happen if he darkens our doorstep again, Granger.”

“You can’t threaten him, Malfoy, he’ll arrest you.”

Draco smirked at her aghast expression. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were worried about me.”

She huffed and his smirk widened. “Of course I’m worried, you buffoon. Who knows what your father will do to my contract if you are incarcerated again.”

“Ah, and here I thought it was because you’re so fond of your terribly handsome husband.” Draco knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t help teasing her. As it was, his efforts were rewarded with the fire returning to her gaze.

“I might miss you making breakfast,” she said in mock-thoughtfulness. “Oh well, I can always eat cereal.” She ate another spoonful as if to emphasize her words.

“Cheeky witch,” Draco drawled and she grinned broadly, her cheeks stuffed. He was relieved at how her demeanor had shifted, but they were not done with this conversation. “Nothing will happen, Granger,” Draco said after a few beats of silence between them. “We’ll only talk.”

“You really think you can ‘only talk’ to him?” she asked, sounding unsure. “He loathes you and you probably hate him as well.”

“Yes, and I do. But unlike you, darling wife, I don’t have an anger management problem.”

She huffed in outrage and he smirked again.

“If you want to handle it differently, by all means. We can go directly to Potter, Weaselette, his parents, and the Head Auror, telling everyone what he did.”

“No, I don’t want that.” Outrageously, Granger picked up her bowl and drank the rest of the milk from it. Had his mother been present, they would have had held Narcissa’s funeral next week. She placed the bowl down sank into her chair. “I just… I don’t want to deal with him anymore. I know if I have to, I’ll say or do things I’ll regret, like yesterday.” Brown eyes found his. “I apologize for that and I’ll find a new hotel to stay in when I visit my parents.”

“No. The hotel will welcome you back. They are instructed to not let anyone in who asks about you and isn’t me and I have been assured that all is forgiven and you will be treated with the utmost curtesy. Besides, it’s the only magical hotel in that area.”

Granger looked a tad suspicious. “Fine. But only because I want to apologize in person and I will buy all of them gift baskets from my allowance.”

Draco nearly laughed at her disgruntled mien and refrained from telling her that this wasn’t the rebellion she thought it was. Now that he had gained his inheritance, he was the one paying her allowance, as many Pureblood men did for their non-working wives. Convenient for Lucius, fine by Draco. She was his wife after all and deserved to be treated as such.

“Fine, you do that. When it comes to the Weasel, maybe we should talk strategy. You know him better and we need leverage.”

“I did not agree to you doing this,” she snipped and wound a curl around her index finger. Granger tugged on the strand. “Why do you want to anyway? As I said before, he is my problem. You could just let me deal with it.”

Reminded of their wedding night and what she had said to him when she’d stayed to watch over him, Draco nearly smiled at her. “Because I can and because you need it.” The way her eyes widened had something warm float into his chest. “You’re not alone in this, Granger. Let me do this for you.” He swallowed at the heavy implication of his words and tried to lighten them. “I’d rather not have to appear for conjugal visits in Azkaban if I can help it.” He shrugged. “I mean, when you eventually kill him because he doesn’t stop.”

Granger grimaced at his words. “As if you’d visit, Malfoy.” Then she scrutinized him with a long look. “Alright, we’ll do this. But we’ll plan it well and I am coming with you.” She held up her hands when he wanted to protest, looking strict. “I’ll stay outside, so you’ll have a witness if anything goes wrong.”

Draco deflated a little in his seat as the words he had been about to protest with vanished into nothingness.

“Also, I think I should tell you a few things,” Granger said, drumming her fingers on the table without any rhythm whatsoever. “You’ll need the whole story so he can’t get one over on you.”

Pulling in a deep breath, Draco settled in, knowing whatever she was about to tell him would make him angry. He had a feeling that the way she’d been acting—the dulling of her eyes, the avoiding of conflict—were all directly tied to Weasley. Draco didn’t want to look closer at why all of it would anger him, for in this case it was an advantage. Safe-space and all that.

Draco had been wrong. The things Granger told him hadn’t angered him, they’d made him livid, on the verge of murderous. At least the plans they had come up with were something he could work with and concentrate on.

As they traversed the DMLE together, getting odd and disdainful looks from all round, Draco calmed his rage a bit with how he’d unleash it on the Weasel in a way the arse was probably not expecting nor prepared for. Still, when Granger wasn’t looking, Draco occluded for a few seconds when he could, just to calm himself further. Half of the things she’d deemed as ‘irrelevant’, made him want to strangle Weasley and when it came to what he had done and said during that ominous night before their wedding? Draco was still debating on what he would like to do with the red-haired moron regarding it.

Yes, they had planned their strategy, but that did not mean Draco couldn’t throw in his own brand of retribution. Not that it would ever be enough. Gods, he should destroy the fucker. One piece at a time. And maybe he would. But right now, he needed him to stop going after his wife. Revenge would have to wait and follow later. Regrettably.

Granger walked them past a few cubicles, greeting some people who smiled at her, but looked at him warily. They came upon a short hallway lined with dark doors.

Taking a deep breath, Granger plucked a pin from her hair and transfigured it into a chair, then she gestured at the door to her left. “That’s his. Be careful and remember what we spoke about. I’m right here, listening, and…” She nibbled on her lower lip. “I should go with you.”

“I don’t think Head Auror Robards will look kindly on you if you flattened this part of the Ministry,” Draco said. She gazed up at him, unsure. For a strange moment, Draco found himself wanting to reach for her. To do what, he had no idea, but some part of him knew he would have touched her to comfort and calm her if he were normal. But how and where? Would she even want him to? He could ask, as he had the day before. His heart beat faster at the memory of that hug. It had been long and obviously what she'd needed, but as much as he had enjoyed—yes, enjoyed—it Draco had fought to keep from pulling away after a while. But right now, they stood in the DMLE and Granger probably didn't want or need a hug. And Draco lacked the courage to just reach out and squeeze her shoulder or something. “All will be fine, darling,” he chanced to say instead, since they were in public.

The surprise on her face, followed by a slight blush was lovely, and Draco forced a smirk to his lips before he knocked on the door, reading: ‘Auror Sergeant Weasley’.

“Come in,” the git’s voice sounded from within.

Draco gave his wife a nod, seeing her covertly placing something in her ear as she brushed a few curls behind it. Then he entered.

Chapter Text

Proprietary Notions and Emotions

Draco

The moment Draco stepped into the office; he held off from curling his lip upwards in distaste. It was…in complete disarray. Boxes filled with files and parchment-rolls lined the floor, were stacked on top of one another until they brushed the ceiling. Memos hovered around in one corner, seemingly kept there by a shielding charm. Some still flitted with vigor, while others barely floated, the magic having depleted over time.

It seemed as though—in addition to being an absolute slob—Weasley didn’t much care for keeping up with his work correspondence. Draco knew how the red-headed wonder got the job and the raise, but this affirmed his notion that it had absolutely nothing to do with work-ethic or even competence. How was the bloke able to solve cases when he was positively drowning in files?

The Weasel himself was lounging behind his desk, his feet propped up on the surface, his robes disheveled and askew, while tossing a languidly fluttering snitch into the air and capturing it. Their eyes met and the twit nearly fell out of his chair in his haste to scramble to his feet. The snitch was disregarded and landed in the Weasel’s shaggy mop of hair, where it batted its wings against steadily reddening cheeks.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?” Weasley snarled, tugging the tired snitch from his hair with some difficulty.

The whole situation would have been hilarious, had Draco been in a different mood, with a different agenda. But as it was, the inclination of humor pinching his ribs was stamped out by the desire to wrap both hands around the man’s stocky neck and squeeze, until something gave out.

Draco didn’t give in to either, focusing on the wrath running through him like a steady stream. “You and me have a few things to discuss, Weasley,” Draco said. Before the ginger twit could protest, as he was looking to do, Draco waved to the still open door. “Should I leave it open? For your comfort?” He made his lips twitch. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable, or scared.”

The Weasel—as though he were a running clockwork of idiocy—waved his hand and the door snapped shut. Gods, he was easily manipulated. If Draco was able to keep his wits about him and not give in to his need for eviscerating the bloke, he would play him like a bloody fiddle.

“I’m not scared of you, filth,” Weasley growled, tossing the poor snitch into his overflowing wastepaper bin, where it feebly rustled through the discarded and crumpled-up papers.

“Very good.” Draco nodded and wound his way through the clogged-up room until he reached one of the two plush chairs in front of the idiot’s desk.

“That does not mean I want you to sit down, or that I want to speak with you,” Weasley snipped, his face turning even redder.

Draco schooled his features into an expression of surprise. He picked up a stack of files from the seat of one chair and plopped them down on the other. Dust billowed through the air and tickled his nose. “Really? Then why did you close the door?” Draco looked from him and back to the door, then shrugged. “Seemed like an invitation to me.”

The Weasel blinked dumbly for a second then scoffed and threw up his hands. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” he said, rounding his desk while clasping his wand tightly, before he flopped back into his chair. “You should leave, if you know what’s good for you, Malfoy.”

“Well, since you took it upon yourself to harass my wife, I do think we have a few things to discuss,” Draco said and sank into the chair. He desperately wanted to scratch at his nose but refrained. That sodding chaotic Weasel and his dusty office.

“Harass?” Weasel glared at him. “If anything, she attacked me.” He leaned across the table and pointed his finger to a document. “I was debating whether to send this to Kings today or not, you know.”

Fairly sure that it had to be an official complaint, Draco didn’t even look down, his gaze searing into Weasley’s. “Really?” Draco asked, his voice deceptively calm and smooth.

Weasley rolled his eyes. “You bloody saw it! You were there. Hermione threatened a senior Auror. I could have arrested her on the spot.”

“Why didn’t you, then?” Draco asked.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you arrest Hermione yesterday?” Draco asked again, clinging to his patience as if his life depended on it.

It was comical. If this Auror thing didn’t work out for Weasley—which it probably would not by the state of this office—he should be looking into comedy. The man certainly had the capacity to make abnormally stupid faces. As his chin dropped and his eyes bulged, Weasley’s cheeks did something amazing. They blanched within seconds, only to redden again as his mouth opened and closed a few times.

“I… She…” He scowled. “Hermione is my friend. She was my girlfriend. I wouldn’t…” The veins in his neck prominently stood out and began to pulse. “I don’t have to answer to you!” he spat, his eyes narrowing.

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “That is true, you don’t have to.” He leaned his elbows on the armrests and laced his fingers in front of his chest. There was no tremor to be found, but his skin was as cold as his wrath. “Even so, I know you are lying. You lied on the night of our wedding, when you claimed to have slept with my bloody wife the night before. You lied when you said you decided to give it another go. And you are still lying. You didn’t arrest her because you knew it would lead to you being in a cell instead of her. Besides, you were scared shiteless of her. It was quite a funny sight.”

Weasley sputtered, looking about ready to either levitate off his chair, or combust on the spot. “Get out. Now. Or I will hex you and tell everyone you tried to attack me in my own office. Accidents happen, you know.”

Draco raised a brow. “Careful, Weaselbee, that sounded like a threat.”

Shooting from his chair, Weasley nearly jumped over the table. “I will fucking threaten you as much as I bloody want. What can you do about it? You’re a convicted criminal, a Death Eater, fucking scum. I could Avada you on the spot and no one would care. No one, Malfoy. Everyone would believe me, hell, I’m sure they’d even give me a medal for ridding the world of you.”

Slowly, Draco unlaced his fingers, pulling his wand from where he had hidden it in his sleeve in one swift movement. Two waves and two silent spells had Weasley stuck to his chair and silenced. Draco leaned forward and plucked Weasley’s wand from where it was wedged between his hand and armrest.

“I really don’t hate disappointing you, so I say this with as much gloating as you probably think I am.” Draco carefully laid both wands on the table and leaned back, watching Weasley’s horrified face turn into something murderous. “But you can’t even threaten me at wandpoint, as we have just seen. Furthermore, when it comes to whom to believe,” he drew three vials filled with swirling silver liquid from his breast pocket. “This one;” he placed it on the table, “has my memory of what you told me at our wedding. How you tried to goad me into leaving her, or hurting her, with no care for the consequences of what that might do to her, or her parents. And this one;” Draco gently placed the second one beside it, “has Hermione’s memories. Of the night before our wedding, when you flooed by completely drunk, berated her, called her names, propositioned her, and almost bloody assaulted her.” The chilling anger radiating from him was palpable, as a discarded piece of candy wrapping-paper on the table crumbled as it froze. “For that alone I could demand satisfaction as per the old laws. I know the Ministry has done much to overturn many of them, but this one—as you well know—has stayed in place, and as a Pureblood yourself, you would have no choice but to indulge me.”

Draco reveled in the challenging gaze he received, along with a mouthed ‘fucking do it. I dare you.’

“The last one;” Draco placed the third vial down next to the other two, “contains yesterday. While I found all of it very interesting, the one thing that would stand out to Chief Auror Robards and the Minister of Magic, would be how you used your position to find out private information about my father and Hermione by extension. I don’t care you sniffing around my father, but his very talented and highly-paid solicitors will. People like him take their privacy very seriously and the Wizengamot takes Aurors misusing their powers very seriously.”

With no small amount of satisfaction, Draco watched the Weasel swallow a few times, his eyes alternating between glaring at Draco and the vials.

“What I care about, and what should worry you, is your treatment of my wife. Not only did you call her despicable things ever since she decided to marry me, you tried to take away the only opportunity she had of getting her parents back. And while I very much would like to skin you alive for what you said and did the night before our wedding—as well as during it—that is something she will never forgive you for.” Draco leaned forward, pegging Weasley with a cutting glare. “As I have told you yesterday, I do not make idle threats, so listen very closely, Weasel, this is important. If you do anything to contact Hermione again, if you try to harm her reputation, her as a person, or so much as breathe a bad word about her, I will rain hell down on you. While I do feel like doing so regardless, my wife just wants this over with and never to speak to you again.” Draco let his anger show a little more and he saw Weasley shivering slightly, his expression losing the wrath it had harbored.

“She will tell your family and friends that you are no longer on speaking terms, leaving out the reason. These,” he pointed at the vials, “will stay somewhere safe in our home and not be shown to your boss, Shacklebolt, or your family. And I will not demand satisfaction on account of you trying to hurt and manipulate Hermione. Never mind stealing her from me. From this day on, you don’t know her. Do you understand?”

Weasley blinked and Draco braced himself on the table with both fists, leaning over it with a dark glower. He saw Weasley shrink back as far as he could go, while goosebumps flashed over his rapidly working throat.

“Nod if you understand,” Draco hissed.

Frantic nodding ensued.

“Good,” Draco said. “Make no mistake, I will not hesitate a second if you force my hand. You can thank my darling wife for her big heart and preference of harmony. Otherwise, you would be out of a job already, and facing the consequences of your actions in untold ways.” Draco sank back, pocketed the vials and swiped up his wand before he stood.

A small rustle had him bend down to pluck up the snitch from the bin. “Mind if I take this?” he asked and Weasley shook his head, still pale and staring. Draco nodded and slipped the small golden sphere into his trouser pocket.

While he straightened his cuffs, Draco unglued and unsilenced Weasley, who wheezed in audible breaths.

“You… How dare you? In my office. I ought to—”

“Yes, Weasel, you ought to get back to work. Or start on it, by the looks of it. Hey, I have an idea, why not focus on these? They seem to be unanswered.” Draco waved his hand and the shield-charm holding the memos disintegrated and the little paper birds collectively fluttered toward the Weasel.

“Oh, and since you have so much bad luck with thinking in general, let me give you a tip,” Draco drawled. “You can certainly try and arrest me for attacking you in your own office, but let’s be honest… Do you really want people to know how it came about? In detail? With you armed and me just being faster?” Draco cocked his brow and the slowly rereddening wonder across from him made a curious sound. Part gurgle, part whimper. It was quite pathetic, really. “I mean, you are an Auror, right?”

Draco turned his back on the huffing man and walked to the door, hearing some jerky move, Draco swiped up his wand and cast a shield at lightning speed as he turned, watching a bolt of purple bouncing off and Weasley’s lip curled into a snarl, his wand aloft.

The jet of purple bounced through the room, incinerating boxes of files before shooting toward Weasley, who shrieked and jumped under his table.

With a loaded sigh, and clinging to the last remnants of his patience, Draco nixed his shield and dispelled the curse with a dark-magic version of a Finite ‘mori maledictum’. “A dark curse, really Weasel? Maybe I ought to tell your superior to test your wand for the spells you’ve been using.”

Weasley stammered something from beneath his table and Draco just turned on his heel and left, before he would cause him bodily harm. What a fucking coward.

As he wrenched open the door he found Granger almost vibrating with agitation in front of it. She was rocking on the soles of her feet, most of her hair had unfurled itself from the confines of her plait and had begun rising as if it was alive.

“What… How…” Granger looked him over, seemingly worried. “Are you alright? The door is warded, I couldn’t hear a thing. I almost barged in several times.”

“Fine, dearest. We had a very amicable chat.” Draco offered her his arm and breathed evenly when she laced hers through it. It was smooth and warm, her skin seemingly unmarred as she had glamoured the scar before they had left.

This was fine. Nice even. His anger still simmered so close to the surface that he barely felt the instinct to shy away, and with that advantage, Draco enjoyed her touch casually as they walked through the Auror’s floor, ignoring the countless eyes following them.

Hermione

She kept her gaze straight ahead until they stepped into one of the lifts. They turned and faced the Auror floor, then Draco pressed the button that would bring them to her department. In the distance, Hermione saw that Ron’s door stayed closed. The lift-gates slid shut and her curiosity soared, same as her stomach when the little box started to plummet.

Her hand lay on Malfoy’s underarm comfortably and while her nerves were buzzing, she did enjoy the closeness, as well as the warmth and steadiness his body provided. Yet, she knew he would have to be concentrating on not shying away so she made to pull her arm back.

Malfoy pressed his arm closer to his side, trapping hers from slipping away. “Don’t. Please,” he said in a low voice. “I can bear it for the moment.”

Whether that meant he wanted the touch, remained unanswered, but his words did make something other than gravity lurch in her belly. Gingerly, she relaxed and even leaned a bit into his side, enjoying the feeling of his body so close. Gods, she shouldn’t, plus, she was dying to know what had happened.

Obviously, as it was the office of an Auror, it had been warded against listening in. As the office of a Weasley, it made sense that Ron would add specific spells to protect it against things such as the newest update to the extendable ears George had gotten her for her birthday.

“What happened?” Hermione finally asked.

Malfoy cleared his throat and swayed even closer as the lift moved sideways. His arm clenched around hers, making a warm shiver dance down her spine. “I made it very clear to Weasley what will happen if he tries to contact you ever again,” he said. “In essence, you didn’t miss much, there was some name-calling and very uninspired threats, but I was able to make him listen.”

“You didn’t harm him, right?”

Malfoy’s lips pursed slightly.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, her tone carrying a warning as well as a question.

“No, I did not. But he understood my meaning by the end of it. He might still cower under his table, though.”

A stricken sound left her as she ogled her husband. For a moment, fear flared to life inside her. If he had attacked Ron, it would land Drac-Malfoy in a cell. Her chest clenched with something cold. “Why?”

“He tried cursing me when I left. I deflected it and the dark magic bounced through his office. Ronsikins dove under his table and I dispelled the curse.”

Hermione blinked. “He did what?” The cold feeling was singed away by wrath. She pulled her arm back and stepped toward the buttons, about to hammer at the button that would take them back again. “I’ll talk to Robards. This can’t stand.”

Malfoy reached out and captured her hand in his. While his skin was cold to the touch, the sensation emanating from the contact was enough to stop her anger in its tracks.

He pulled her back to his side, running soft circles over her wrist with his thumb before his fingers twitched and he threaded her arm through his once more. “It’s fine. Nothing happened. Like this we have one more thing against him in our hands. If we use our leverage now, he might lose a lot, but that would only make him more vindictive and dangerous.” Malfoy’s eyes seared into hers, the calculating gleam of silver very reminiscent of his father. “Right now, he knows he would be fucked if he tried anything. Let’s keep it that way for now, darling.”

Hermione had to swallow at the burst of heat erupting across her entire body at the way he looked at her while using that endearment. Did he even know what this was doing to her?

The lift dinged and lurched to a stop and Hermione’s knees of putty had her stumbling. Again, his arm clenched around hers, steadying her and Hermione stifled a sound that would have been suspiciously close to a whimper. Bloody hell, she had to get away from him. The proximity, his voice, his smell, and the words he said—not to mention the entire reason for him being there—was doing very strange things to her mind and body. If this had been anything even resembling a relationship, she would have halted he lift and pounced on her husband then and there. It was maddening. Hermione Granger—no, Malfoy—was thinking of having her way with her husband at the Ministry. Outrageous. She was adventurous, but this was a thought that had never crossed her mind before. Thank Merlin the gates opened and she stepped out and onto her own floor.

Hermione turned to say her goodbyes, when Malfoy followed, nodding for her to go along. “I’ll drop you off,” he said.

With slightly wobbly steps, Hermione led the way, receiving strange looks where she would have gotten waves and smiles before the announcement of her wedding. Malfoy’s presence was making the staring worse, but Hermione was still glad for it, as her card house of nerves was bolstered by him walking at her side. So confident and sure, his expression one of pure indifference. He had to teach her how he did that. As far as she could tell he was not Occluding as his eyes seemed awake and present. No shutters in sight.

Still, the way people were staring had her fighting off a blush and only when she saw Astoria beaming at her from her cubicle, did Hermione’s nerves shift off her shoulders entirely. To her utter surprise, the witch jumped from her chair and rounded her desk, looking as if she wanted to hug her, but refrained.

“Salazar, I have missed you,” Astoria said instead. “This place was chaos without you.”

Hermione smirked. “I’m sure you did very well in keeping everyone on their toes.”

“That she did,” Archibald Bills said as he waddled up to them, his eyes dreamily coasting over Astoria for a second. “Runs almost as tight a ship as you do, boss.” He grinned, then looked a bit stunned as he glanced up at Malfoy’s face. “Good to have you back,” he said while changing direction. “And congratulations on the nups.” With that, he was gone and Astoria giggled.

“You still have a way about you, Drakey,” she said. “Just draws people in.”

“I will have you know I can be very charming, Tori,” Malfoy said.

“Certainly,” Astoria quipped. “If you call that whole brooding and scowling thing charm.” She shook her head with a smirk. “Anyway, welcome back, Hermione. The team collected for you and I have a small present waiting on your desk.”

“That was seriously not necessary,” Hermione said, feeling touched.

Astoria waved her off. “It totally was. And since I was in charge of the present-shopping, it’s something really good.” She winked.

“Ah, good, Mrs. Malfoy, a word,” the familiar voice of Kingsley said behind her.

Murmurs of good mornings and nods followed the man and his billowing purple robes as he strode their way.

Hermione raised a brow at him, completely taken aback by him using her new name. Gods, she really would have to get used to it.

When the Minister reached them, he smiled at Astoria in greeting, before holding out his palm to Malfoy. “Congratulations on your marriage,” he said when Malfoy took it and they shook. “You will have to tell all about how you managed to reel in the brightest witch of our age.”

“I am a very lucky man, indeed,” Malfoy said and Hermione noticed the slight tremble in his hand when he let go. He clenched that hand at his side subtly, showing nothing on his face. In fact, he was smiling at her in a very unsettlingly proud way. That was a look she hadn’t received from him before and it took her a second to kick her brain back into thinking properly.

“Might we talk in your office?” Kingsley asked. “I have something to discuss. You are welcome to join, Malfoy.”

Hermione frowned, but led the way, only marginally distracted by the large present sitting on her desk and the bouquet of flowers on the side-board. What the hell could Kingsley want that would allow Malfoy to be part of the discussion?

Kingsley didn’t hesitate as he flung himself into one of her visitor’s chairs, while Malfoy closed the door behind him, then sauntered over to her, standing by her chair as if to bolster her side.

Hermione sat down and noticed how Kings gaze shifted from her to her husband a few times, looking strangely calculating. Oh, hell. She knew this look. It was the one he would get during the war. When they discussed plans or missions. It was a mixture of excitement and calculation and did not stir fond memories for her.

“I have to say, I was very surprised to hear that you two got engaged, never mind married so quickly.” His dark eyes shifted to Hermione. “I didn’t even have time to talk to you about it.”

Hermione clicked her tongue. “Well, you know my stance on your horseshit law, but in our case, a union benefitted the both of us.”

Draco made a strange noise and Kings sank back into his chair and laughed. “It’s good to see you are still yourself, Hermione. I have to confess; I was worried for a second or two.”

Her eyes narrowed at the man. “Are insinuating something, Kings? If so, out with it.”

Kingsley held up both palms in a gesture of surrender. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

Focusing her most impressive glare on him, Hermione huffed. “Draco and I have come to a mutual decision and if you have any doubts about the validity of this marriage, or anything unfavorable to say about my husband, I will turn you robes red permanently. All of them. Gryffindor red.”

The Minister grinned broadly. “Red, eh? That is a low blow, Hermione.” Even through his grin, the calculation did not leave his eyes. He sighed. “I was just surprised, is all. Especially after how firm you stood against this law.”

Hermione’s eye twitched. “Well, I didn’t change my mind. It’s still horseshit and you should not have passed it.”

For a moment, Kingsley’s features turned solemn. “Maybe not. But what’s done is done. Besides, I’m not here to rehash this. I’m here because—” He tugged out his wand and swished it, silencing the door. “—I need to establish a secure and secret correspondence with someone. Someone you have access to now that I don’t. Not covertly, at least.”

“What are you saying, Kings? Who are you talking about?”

The Minister glanced at Malfoy and looked a bit undecided. “Would you be open to a vow of secrecy before we continue?”

“Since when have you stopped trusting me?” Hermione asked, tilting her head.

“Never,” Kings answered. “It’s just…”

“If you trust me, you can trust Draco.” She crossed her arms

Kingsley looked a tad apprehensive and Hermione rolled her eyes. “For Circe’s sake, you invited Draco to this impromptu meeting, now you want a vow?”

“It’s fine, darling,” Malfoy said beside her. “I know exactly where this is going.” She looked up at him and saw a coldness enter his features that stunned her.

“You want Hermione to act as an owl between you and my father, right?”

The question hit Hermione out of nowhere but Kingsley just folded his fingers and leaned his chin on his knuckles, his gaze heavy as it was glued to Malfoy’s. “Why would you think that?”

Malfoy scoffed. “Because whatever my dear father has done to get out of Azkaban before his time was up—it was probably a deal. He gave you something in return. Not money, that’s something you could have just taken, something else. Information, or an obscure connection.” Draco’s eyes slitted. “And now you need more. For whatever reason you think he can give it to you.”

Kingsley looked from Malfoy to Hermione. “Very perceptive, your spouse. And right, unfortunately. I have—”

Holding up a hand, Malfoy cut him off. “Forgive me, Minister, but the less we hear about this the better. Whatever you need, whatever my father knows, we want no part in it. And you will certainly not pull my wife into whatever mess you have made together.”

“Excuse me? You think you can…” Hermione trailed off when Draco’s dark eyes met hers, having turned to a dangerous anthracite.

“Excuse us for a second, Minister,” Malfoy said and cast a Muffliato around them. He sank into a crouch beside her chair so their eye-level was the same. “I know you, Granger,” he said. “And while I very much admire your penchant to do the right thing and help where you can, nothing good will come of this.” His eyes lightened a tad. “I will not see you drawn deeper into the webs my father spins. Please, you fought a war for people like Shacklebolt. You have done enough when it comes to things like this.”

Hermione’s sudden rush of anger flagellated at his words and the way he looked at her. Still, she clung to the shreds of it, being the stubborn woman she was. “You can’t just decide for me, Malfoy. I am a grown woman. If Kingsley needs this and I can help, maybe I should.”

“You are my woman, Granger,” Malfoy growled in a way that had her stomach do a looping and her toes curling involuntarily. “And I protect what is mine. You might not like it and you can yell and sling hexes at me when we get home, but I can and will protect you from your own damned bleeding heart.”

In a mix of outrage and very much displaced arousal, Hermione opened her mouth to fire a tirade at him, when his hand landed on her own. That alone halted her brain in its tracks. His skin was still cold, and the subtle pressure of his fingers made her want to… Well, she was sure it was something untoward and naughty. Not that she was giving the thought any sort of leeway. At all.

“You don’t have to be part of it and put yourself in danger. Think about it, if this is so secret and important that the Minister of Magic comes to your office first thing on your first day back, demanding a vow of secrecy, it is dangerous. Let my mother’s house elf be their owl. That would be a lot more direct and safer.” His gaze turned imploring, as he squeezed her hand gently before removing his fingers.

“Fine, but this is the first and last time you try and decide for me,” she said with a sharp glare.

The ghost of a smile flashed across his shapely lips as he stood. “I would promise you many things, darling, not protecting you—even if it is from yourself—is not among those things.”

“Hgnf,” Hermione made eloquently, swaying between anger, being flustered and oddly touched. Why on earth there was anything else but anger coursing through her was a mystery and she very much wanted to nail Malfoy to the wall. With words, or hexes, or her body. The way he had said ‘You are my woman’, had sent a rush of heat through her abdomen and a tingle now pulsed from there. Holy hell, how fucking inconvenient. She was angry and turned on, sitting in front of the Minister of Magic while bickering with her husband.

It was a bit as it had been during their wedding night. The flames of her anger stoked those of her attraction to him. But this was stronger. Exponentially so. She knew him, his body, how he tasted and felt, how he sounded… And the question that had been keeping her awake for several nights flitted through her. Would it be the same without a joint?

Hermione bit her teeth together and swallowed everything down. None of it mattered. It was never to happen again. Her being turned on by his proximity and how he stood up for her—even if he was being an arrogant prat about it right now—was a problem, but one she could not focus on right now.

“This is not the end of this discussion, Malfoy,” she hissed. “I’m fine with your suggestion because it makes sense, but not with what you said. You don’t get to make decisions on my behalf.”

Before he could answer anything, Hermione waved a hand and nixed the Muffliato. “I will not be doing it, Kings,” she said. “But Draco has a way that is much safer and faster anyhow.”

After he had called an elf named ‘Nips’, Malfoy explained who was present to the small creature. Trembling with excitement in his flashy, red overall, Nips had stared at Hermione and then smiled widely. He said nothing to her, but his blue gaze returned to her again and again while Malfoy asked him whether he would be comfortable taking letters from Shacklebolt to Lucius and back. For a fair compensation, of course. And while Hermione was busy thinking of how best to address and prevail when telling her dear husband he was overreaching if he thought she was the type of woman who he could decide for, she melted into a puddle when Malfoy entered into a stern haggling process with Kings about the cost of Nips’ trips.

Thank Merlin the discussion ended amicably and at a good price, and Kings gave over a letter, which Nips popped off after one last look at Hermione. Then Kingsley left and Hermione forced a miffed expression to her features.

“I have a lot to do, Malfoy,” she snipped when he sat down in the chair next to the one Kingsley had vacated. “You know how to get to the Atrium, I imagine.”

“Still tetchy about what I said, are you?” he asked, seeming leagues more relaxed now that they were alone. Annoyingly, he looked rather edible the way he sat there so casually, all buttoned up in his well-fitting Muggle suit.

“I did not appreciate it one bit,” Hermione grumbled.

“I will not apologize for it, Granger,” he said. “You are important to me and I will do everything I can to keep you safe, as is my duty as your husband. I owe you at least this.”

“Oh, because somehow being your wife means you own me? I’m important because you view me as a belonging?” she snapped, feeling her anger rise again. Thank Morgana it was back.

“No,” Malfoy said, his tone earnest and soft. “But being my wife does make you my family and I have precious little family I like. And I find myself rather fond of you, more so than I thought I would be. It has nothing to do with you being my wife, but with who you are. The fact that I can’t give you more than my protection, means it is how I show my gratitude for what you are doing for me.”

Hermione groaned and ran her hands through her unruly curls, unfurling the last semblance of the plait she had been wearing all morning. “There is a difference between protecting and deciding for another person. And I don’t need you to think of ways for paying me back, I’m barely doing anything.”

Malfoy’s pale brows rose. “You think uprooting your life and marrying me, receiving nasty words and looks for it—from strangers and friends—having to consummate and living with someone who once hurt you and being amenable to making it work is nothing?” He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Granger, but I deserve way less from you and you deserve way more from me.”

“Stop it,” she said, her anger dissipating. “I’m not a martyr for marrying you, as you seem to believe. We both know our initial reasons were very selfish, on both parts. I…” She swallowed, unable to convey how conflicting her feelings were. On the one hand, she adored how he took charge in some situations, how he stood up for her, stood by her side. His confidence was incredibly hot in those moments. Plus, it wasn’t as if many people had done so in the past. It made her heart beat a little faster that he was fond of her, but on the other hand, she was her own woman, no matter how sexy his possessiveness was. And no, she would never admit to it.

“I understand, Granger,” Malfoy said after a while. “And while I can’t promise it won’t happen again; I will try my best to not act as proprietary as I have just now.” He got up with a sigh. “I know this wasn’t the calm start to your first day back at work you probably would have liked, but I hope the rest goes smoothly.” He nodded once and then walked toward her door.

“Malfoy,” she called as he reached out his hand. He looked over his shoulder, his grey gaze meeting hers across the room. For a moment the intensity springing to life between them, even across the room, made her heartrate pick up. “Thank you. For dealing with Ronald, I mean. I would have done it and made it worse and hated every second of it.” A trembling smile took root on her lips.

Malfoy gave a small smile in return. “Thank you for letting me,” he said. Then he was gone, leaving Hermione with a mess of tangled feelings and notions, that she forced to the side in order to get some work done. Maybe it would clear her head. So she could think on things more clearly.

Chapter Text

Fond?

Hermione

Her first day at work had left Hermione with many things to ponder. Most notably was her warring with her stupid self when it came to one undisputable truth. Hermione was in trouble.

Being attracted to her husband was one thing. Being unable to stop herself from looking, thinking and even fantasizing about him was certainly inconvenient and embarrassing, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Hermione felt seen and cared for in his presence for the first time in…she couldn’t even remember. The things he had done for her and continued doing, were beyond reasonable in her mind and yet he tended to them with a naturalness that made it seem as if all of it was completely normal. It didn’t hurt that he looked damned good doing all of it.

Part of her didn’t want to trust it and looked for any devious reasons he would have for doing as he did, but another part of her was lost in sighs and daydreams when she remembered the decisiveness and confidence with which he had her back. Which aggravated her. She was not the type to sigh and daydream. As if she had time for such nonsense.

But gods, this was the first time she felt she could actually rely on someone else. And it wasn’t even a Merlindamned relationship. Consequently, Hermione found herself in deep shite. She was developing feelings for him. Feelings that went further than that pesky knowledge of being attracted she had come to terms with already.

It was terribly vexing and she knew if she didn’t stomp on the small flames of her feelings, she was going to get hurt badly. She could not allow herself to go past an agreeable fondness, which he seemed to feel for her and was fine. It was fine.

And it was bloody inconvenient, to say the least. Especially as they started spending a bit more time together during the next two weeks. Not only had they settled into an agreeable morning-routine way too easily, but due to the need of figuring out Douillet and the family magic, they read the texts on the house together, seated on the sofas in the living space, while Crookshanks sauntered from lap to lap, generously doling out his royal affection equally. Though Hermione did notice that he purred a bit louder in Draco’s lap. Not that she could truly fault him for it. Still…the audacity.

The mornings were bad enough, when Hermione was greeted by Draco—another result of that first day had been her referring to him by his first name in her head, thank Merlin she hadn’t slipped up and done so to his face yet—and the breakfast he had ready for her. No matter the day, he was always waiting for her, immaculately put together and greeting her with a warm smile that made her stomach flutter. The conversation was sparse, but civil and Hermione had to tear her gaze away from him more often than not. If he noticed, he said nothing.

It was worse in the evenings, when she came home and they would settle in the living space after dinner—which they alternated on making—to read. The fire would paint Draco in gold, making his features both stand out more while softening him and he would look so damned comfortable. The first two buttons of his shirt would usually be undone, showing off the column of his throat and a hint of his clavicles. The sleeves would be rolled-up, with tiny hints of color marring the fabric, while he leaned back looking devastatingly relaxed. His signet ring and their bonding lines would catch the firelight as his long fingers wound through Crooks’ wiry fur and Hermione felt awful for being envious of her familiar.

On the other hand, she felt something very warm surge in her chest on these occasions, glad that Draco was able to receive the half-Kneazle’s affections without problems. But Circe, she could also picture those pale hands card through her hair as she was snuggled up to him.

Fond. He had said he was fond of her. It was a nice word but carried none of the heat she was feeling. It wasn’t like any of it mattered, since her plans had not changed, no matter how often she shivered at the sight of him drawing a hand through his hair, tousling the platin strands the way she wanted to do, or how the light caressed his skin so mesmerizingly that she spent an inordinate amount of time staring, instead of reading. No, it did not matter. Fondness was fine. Fondness did not equate desire and the balance of peace and comfort they had found felt fragile. Fragile and important. Hermione had no plans to threaten it in any way. Theirs was a mutually beneficial deal and wanting anything beyond that would only end badly. Which meant that—again—fondness was fine. And it was enough. It had to be.

When it came to the puzzle that was Douillet, it was as simple as it was fascinating. Due to the place being an ancestral home, many rituals, bindings, and ceremonies had taken place there. In addition, some of the ancient Blacks used to invent new spells and experiment quite extensively and as with all magic, there was the normal amount of excess. It was rare that one spell used exactly the amount of magic it needed, as the caster didn’t always focus all his intent on the action.

Hermione had been elated at this discovery. “This is why Hogwarts is so filled with inexplicable magic,” she’d gasped, hitting the page with her index finger. “Centuries of magic leaking into the space soaked it and it eventually developed a mind of its own. Sort of. Douillet is much smaller, so it is more concentrated and more…willful. That’s it, right?”

Her husband had smirked at the outburst, making her pulse speed up. “It makes a lot of sense, Granger.” He’d handed her the text he’d been reading. “And look here, once Douillet showed signs of becoming sentient, my ancestors fed it with more magic, striving to form a well of family magic that could be called upon. Douillet was the perfect place to store such a well, as it made it very strong, only accessible to family, while being able to protect itself.”

She had snatched the text from him and grinned like an idiot, giddy with their discovery. The answer as to why she—Hermione—was able to call on the well so effectively was still a mystery. The one ancestor who had been able to do the same, Caelum Black, had never written about it, and little was known about him in general.

Upon Draco asking his mother, Narcissa had told them that he had apparently been a very powerful wizard, but met a very sudden and young end. That his untimely death was connected to the well of family magic, was implied, if unproven. Narcissa had then urged them both to be careful, while arching a brow, before she had primly scooped up her spoonful of soup, signaling being done with the topic.

Beside these discoveries, Hermione burned to ask Lucius about Kingsley, but for some reason she was loath to do so in front of Draco. The way he had adamantly insisted on her not getting involved in anything to do with his father made her cautious, hesitant, curious, and a little indignant. She still wrestled with the fact that his show of possessiveness and the words he’d said riled her up and undid her in equal measure. ‘You are my woman.’ That sentence pulsed through her on many occasions during those two weeks and gods, sometimes—in weak moments, usually when she was watching him—she wished she truly was, with all it entailed.

Regarding Lucius and the enigma that was his release; since she never saw her father-in-law alone, there had not been an opportunity to ask him anything. She knew Draco would probably throw a fit if she disregarded his wishes on this.

In general, the relationship between father and son was… Strained was too mild a word. Draco never looked at his father with anything less than a withering glare and if he addressed him at all, his tone was icy and sharp. Lucius in turn, ignored his son’s chilliness and normally conversed with Hermione during their dinners, if he spoke at all.

All in all, the dinners proved to be a fragile mix of forced politeness, very safe topics, and long stretches of silence. Hermione did not understand the need for them. It was not like they accomplished anything. Lucius and Draco never spoke more than two words to one another and Narcissa would guide the discussion gently and eloquently, her face sometimes revealing signs of hope when she looked from one man to the other. It grated on Hermione and she knew she would have exploded by now, forcing everything into the open that was not being said. But it wasn’t her family, and while she felt…something for Draco, it was far from her place to say anything.

When Hermione flooed home from work on the second Friday following that eventful first day of work, she was met with soft voices coming from the dining hall. Contrary to the norm, Crookshanks was nowhere to be seen and when Draco’s voice floated her way, it sounded clipped and on the verge of heated.

Hermione shrugged out of her coat, held it up thinking ‘closet’, then watched it zip in the direction of the stairs. “Thanks, Cozy-pants,” she murmured and the floor drummed against her heels gently.

She frowned when she heard a jubilant laugh answer Draco’s clipped words and made her way to the dining hall.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Theodore Nott said, seated at the head of the table, grinning from ear to ear. “How’s the old grind?”

Draco was standing beside him, looking less than thrilled, his grey eyes flashing to Hermione as his face adopted something close to apologetic. Truth be told, Theo did look a tad mad. His button-down shirt was ripped, his hair was disheveled and his right eye sported a shiner.

“Hello, Theo,” Hermione said, striding through the room. “I’m fine, thank you. What happened to you? You look like you got into a fight with a hippogriff.” Her questioning gaze danced to Draco and his lips thinned.

Theo waved her off. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “A simple case of mistaken identity. Luckily Drakey was there to…” He trailed off and frowned at Draco. “Why were you there?”

Draco blew out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because you begged me to have a beer with you. One. And it was not a case of mistaken identity, you hit on a witch who was clearly frequenting the Cheeky Hag with her boyfriend. You know, the guy holding her hand?”

“Ah,” Theo made, now grinning once more. “Explains the throbbing in my head. Also, I was certain I knew her.” He slapped his thigh, his brows rising. “I do know her. Biblically. Shagged her on Tuesday. She has a tattoo of a butterfly under her left tit. I remember now.”

“I know, Theo,” Draco ground out. “Telling her how you knew her to her face got you into this mess. Her boyfriend didn’t take kindly to you knowing her biblically.”

“Pfft. Some men never learned to share.” Theo rolled his eyes. “Ouch!”

Hermione swept through the room and whipped out her wand. “Why have you not healed the wound yet?”

Theo squinted past his hand, which he had clamped to his eye. “Because I am quite high, my lady and Draco was busy being terribly dull and reprimanding me instead of healing me, like a good friend would.”

Up close, she could smell it. Theo did exude the sharp scent of alcohol and even his unmarred eye was a tad unfocused. With a shake of her head, she bent closer. “Hold still, then.” Holding Theo’s chin steady with one hand, Hermione’s Episkey made quick work of the shiner. “There you go. Now, you look like you could use a bit of sleep. Let’s get you settled into one of the guestrooms.”

Theo blinked his healed eye a few times, then turned to Draco. “I like her. No wonder you—”

Draco’s hand came down on his shoulder and he unceremoniously yanked Theo to his feet. “Up with you. Time for bed, Nott.”

Theo winked at him. “Only if we shnuggle, darling.”

“You’re lucky I’m not throwing you into the floo and sending you home, you imbecile,” Draco growled, pulling his mate along.

“I’m really starting to like your wife better, Drakey,” Theo bemoaned his rough handling, his lips puffed into a pout as he stumbled along.

Hermione had to smirk at the entire scene, but followed the two men into the hall and up the stairs.

After Draco had deposited Theo into the bed of a guestroom and denied huggies and smoochies his friend’s face fell a bit when he turned from him, but Theo was already snoring softly when Draco dimmed the light with a flick of his wand.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to Hermione when they traversed the hall and walked down the stairs. “Theo came by, then he practically dragged me to the pub and…” He trailed off, his face grim. “I have no idea how he got so drunk so quickly and I thought it best if I came back here to—”

Hermione smiled and fisted her hand to keep from squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s fine. You don’t have to explain anything. He’s your friend and this is your home. Friends are always welcome.”

Draco looked at her fully for the first time, his grey eyes catching hers and Hermione suddenly had trouble putting one foot in front of the other without tripping over her heels. “Even if they’re insufferable, drunk and general nuisances?”

A giggle left her and Hermione cleared her throat as she walked into the kitchen to hunt for an after-work snack. “Even then. You said nothing when Harry and Ginny came by, so why should I worry about Theo?”

“Well, they didn’t overstay their welcome,” Draco grumbled.

“It’s absolutely fine,” Hermione insisted and raised her brow at a container in the fridge that hadn’t been there before. She held it up with a questioning look and Draco shrugged.

“I used the opportunity of being out to bring you some of those chips you’ve been raving about.”

Hermione blinked at him, then tore open the container. “You brought me chips form the Hag?” Sure enough, the scent of heavenly seasoned chips—nearly drowned by the smell of vinegar—had her almost moaning. “You are the absolute best.”

Draco’s grin looked too damned good on him. “Care to share?” he asked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and seriously considered making a run for it with her container, then she scrunched up her nose. “I can’t bloody-well say no, since you were the one to get them.”

“There are two portions. I was curious after you told me about them.”

She had told him about them. Weeks ago. Some time after she had been there with Ginny. It was curious he would remember such a thing. “Fine, then. Let’s eat.”

It was incredibly easy and familiar by now, the way Draco set the table with a few flicks of his wand while Hermione heated the food and divided the portions. It felt devastatingly homey. And way too good. Nope, bad thought, Hermione admonished herself.

Crookshanks mercifully tore her from her dangerous musings by winding around her claves with loud meows.

“He acts as if he never gets fed,” Draco said with a mirth-filled smirk. “Rascal.”

That was another thing; Hermione could count on Crooks being fed, knew his water bowl was always filled and that he was safe and content with Draco. She had seen her familiar follow him into his shed, had witnessed him carrying squealing gnomes Draco’s way and that tender feeling which had surfaced when the two had first interacted with one another would grow. Bollocks. She was getting out of control.

“These are great,” Draco said after trying some chips. “A bit…soggy?”

Hermione grinned and relished the taste of the drenched chips with closed eyes. “That’s what’s so fantastic about them.”

As they continued eating together, Hermione noticed the slight frown that had settled on his features and wouldn’t leave. “Is everything fine?” she asked. Two weeks ago she wouldn’t have mentioned anything, deeming it none of her business and maybe it wasn’t, but Draco seemingly worried needled at her and she was unable to ignore it.

Draco nodded once, a strand of platin falling over his forehead as he breathed in. “Yes.” He carefully placed down his fork and looked at her. “I need to speak to you about something, though.” The graveness carved into his features made Hermione’s stomach sink.

She swallowed.

“Theo had a reason for coming by and I apologize in advance, but I showed him your contract.”

Hermione furrowed her brows, not rightly knowing what to do with that information. It was a very private thing, her contract. “Why?” she asked cautiously, trying hard not to jump to any conclusions.

“Because he is good with contracts.” Draco scoffed. “Shocking, I know, but he got out of two marriage contracts just by exploiting loopholes.” He tilted his head a bit.

Something heavy slammed into her gut. Was he looking for loopholes to get out of their marriage? She wouldn’t fault him for it, but that was…unexpected.

Draco looked thoughtful as he continued. “I went over yours myself a few times and it seemed… It seemed too easy to break, in my opinion. For example, if either of us doesn’t feel like going to the dinners, the contract would be void and with it, our marriage. That was what I essentially wanted to know, whether the contract dissolving would equally dissolve our marital bond.”

Hermione gaped at him and the heaviness lifted a tad. She could have cursed herself for not thinking of this sooner. It had seemed so ludicrous having a contract like this in the first place and what good would it do to be so easily broken?

“…need to stay married for at least two years. As you know. Granger?”

Draco’s voice shook her from her thoughts and she clapped her mouth shut. “What did you… Pardon me, I was a bit… How have I not thought of this?”

“I don’t blame you, Granger,” he said, his long fingers folded and his chin resting on his knuckles. “You were desperate and my father presented a way out. I don’t think he even thought of it, but as it turns out, if the contract dissolves, so does our marriage. Even if we…” He swallowed visibly and his silver gaze dropped to the table. “…completed the bond on Black ancestral ground. This means we have to be very careful.”

“But that makes no sense,” Hermione said with a frown. “Why would Lucius make it so easy for the marriage to be nullified if that would land you straight in Azkaban? The law clearly states that we need to be married for two years. At least.”

“I know. Personally, I think he is very confident he has enough leverage on you and me both, that we’d do anything to keep this contract intact. Maybe that is exactly what he is counting on and why he infused it so closely with the marital bond.” A bitter smirk passed over his lips. “My father so adores his control. I further think he did it so we were unable to work something out between the two of us that leaves him on the sidelines.”

“What do you mean?” Gods, if Draco was right, Lucius was more devious than she had thought.

“Well, we could have made our own deal. Done away with the dinners, the functions, the heir… I would have offered to take over the payment for your parents and we’d only have each other to answer to. The way it should be in a marriage.” He scowled at his plate. “Fusing the contract to our vows makes this quite complicated to accomplish.”

“You’d do that?” Hermione stared at him. “You’d offer to…” Her head was spinning and for a mad moment, she wished that Draco had found her and proposed, before his father’d had the chance. Which made no bloody sense at all. It wasn’t as if he would have and even so, she would have shrieked like a banshee and said no.

“Of course,” Draco said, frowning at her. “You married me and are stuck with me for two years, the least I could do would be to honor the reason you did so in the first place.”

A strangled sound escaped her. “Too bad your father is such a conniving snake.” She chuckled mirthlessly, a lump forming in her throat. It was harsh, being confronted with how fragile the entire affair seemed to be.

“Theo found a way,” Draco said and grimaced. “It’s not really plausible and not something I would ask of you, but I wanted you to have all the information and options that I have.”

Hermione waved at him to go on. “Consider me on the edge of my seat, Malfoy.”

“Since we used both, the Malfoy and Black marriage rituals, it weakened the bond to the point of where it is now. Theo says the wrong components were taken, or something like that. He translated the rituals in their entirety and worked out a new one. The thing is, it would be permanent.”

An undignified noise flew from her and Hermione blushed when Draco raised a brow at her. “Uhm, excuse me? What exactly does that mean?”

Draco’s lips thinned. “It means that in order to strengthen the marital bond enough so it would outlast the contract breaking, we would have to perform another ritual, which would bind us forever. As in one that can’t be severed. We would not be able to divorce. The magic would not allow for it.”

His words quite simply punched any rational thought from her and she blinked at him.

“As I said, it’s not viable and I would never expect you to commit to such a thing,” Draco said. “It is the only other option we have, so I say we stay careful and within the lines of the contract.” His grey eyes shuttered to steel and the sight robbed Hermione’s breath in a cruel way and made her chest twinge with hurt. “Even the ones that could well be unbearable.”

She knew exactly what he was thinking: A child, or bind himself to her forever. It was essentially the same thing. As having a child with someone would entwine their lives irrevocably. But it would give them both the option of finding happiness with other people. Hermione’s heart sank. It was one hell of a predicament. Her plan would not work. Even if she had enough funds to keep her parents in Sweden in a year’s time, she would not risk the contract breaking and as such sever their vows, landing Draco in prison. Which meant… Gods, it meant she had to make an impossible choice.

“You’d uhhh… You’d consider it? The ritual Theo came up with?” she asked, her breath short.

Draco’s eyes cleared as he came out of his occlumency and he looked at her for a long moment. “Since I don’t plan on ever marrying again, yes. I’d consider it.”

Hermione stifled a hysterical laugh.

“I always knew I’d have an arranged marriage. Well, for most of my life. I had all but two months to come to the conclusion that I could also just stay single, or marry whomever I please, but then my father returned. And then that directive was passed.” Draco sighed and sank back in his chair. “Honestly, I’m not unhappy about us being married. We have something nice and agreeable; we are friends. It’s more than most people have and I can picture a good life at the side of a friend.” His smile was warm and…fond and Hermione wanted to smash her head against the table.

“Please don’t let that influence you in any way. I understand that you come from a different mindset than me and I would never want you to tie yourself irrevocably to me.”

“I… I think. I need to ponder this a bit,” Hermione croaked.

Draco gave her a solemn nod. “We need never speak of it again, Granger. I’m sorry it’s the only option I can give you.”

She gurgled out something in agreement and then stumbled from the room. Only when she sat in her tub, having no idea how she’d gotten there, did she remember that she hadn’t even cleaned up and left it all to him. “Bollocks,” Hermione murmured into the fogged-up air.

Chapter Text

Men in Bushes

Hermione

A week later Hermione was a nervous wreck. She fled Draco’s presence now as soon as she could, hating how seeing him made her already simmering guilt flare up. He said nothing, but something tinged his features when he looked at her and she didn’t like it, it looked too close to her own guilt and he was far from the one at fault here. No, she was. Firmly and absolutely and what was worse, she had no idea how to make it right or even bring it up.

After she had nearly emptied the wine decanter at the last Malfoy dinner, shocking Narcissa into a slight sneer doing so, and then misplacing directives at work twice, Hermione knew she needed to do something. Thanks to Astoria, mayhem had been prevented and also thanks to the same witch, Hermione was walking into a cute little Muggle café on Friday.

Astoria had given Hermione a long look after the second mishap and told her that this was unlike her and something was going on. Hence, Hermione had been summoned to lunch. It was a good thing, Hermione told herself as they wound their way toward a cute little table by the window-wall overlooking a busy shopping alley. Astoria was neither a close friend of Draco’s, nor had she been involved in Hermione’s life for years. And she knew about the contract. Yes, Astoria was the right person to speak to.

When they sat down and ordered, Astoria as proper and classy as ever, Hermione busying herself with ripping pieces off her napkin and rolling them to small spheres, she knew her nerves were absolutely getting the better of her. The thing was, she was unable to think of anything else, she hardly slept through the nights and her eating habits were dangerously close to when things had been bad between Ron and her. Not that Ron had cared much, past a ‘Not eating again, ‘Mione? Hm, more for me then.’ But Draco seemed to care. She had seen his shoulders bunch up the last few times she had said she’d already eaten, or that she’d catch breakfast at the office.

Hermione hated it and it broke her heart, because breakfast had always been some kind of baseline for them. It was part of their agreeable routine and she was breaking that fragile thing between them apart bit by bit.

“Speak, Granger,” Astoria said, taking a sip from her carbonated water.

“Pardon?” Hermione asked, having been yanked from her miserable thoughts.

Astoria gestured at the napkin confetti on Hermione’s side of the table, at Hermione in general and raised a delicate brow. “Obviously, there is something going on with you. I brought you here to talk, so please, feel free. If you want to that is.” She brushed back a sleek strand of hair. “I would never force you, but we are both here, no one knows us, and I am offering to listen.”

The salad and sandwiches they had ordered came and after giving the waiter a dazzling smile which left them breathless and with a spring in their step, Astoria covertly cast a Muffliato around them.

“Your choice, Hermione,” Astoria said. “I am also content just having lunch with my friend/boss.”

Hermione immensely appreciated Astoria in that moment, offering to listen without pushing her. It was something she was unused to. Ginny would have sat on her head by now, demanding answers, while Harry would probably have slyly gotten her to admit something via convoluted and bizarre questions. Ron would not have noticed anything amiss.

With a deep breath, Hermione began. She was still manhandling her napkin—or what was left of it—sitting over her untouched food once she was done.

Astoria, who had eaten up to a certain point in Hermione’s explanation, now sat before her with wide eyes.

“Yeah,” Hermione said with a hysterical giggle. “I have firmly parked my arse in a set of brambles on this one.”

Her friend snorted. “Well, you certainly messed up, but I don’t think this is unsolvable. I read the contract and I would never have predicted something like this.”

Perking up a bit, Hermione licked her dry lips. “What did you mean ‘not unsolvable’? I have been wracking my brain and have only come up with one solution.” She grimaced. “And it has horrendous consequences. Why do you think I’m this out of sorts?”

For a few moments, Astoria just sat there with pursed lips and a thoughtful expression. “I think you have three, maybe four options, actually. One would be ‘the right thing to do’, as you Gryffindors would say.” She smirked, having done air quotes.

Eagerly shifting in her seat, Hermione dropped the poor napkin in her lap. “I want to hear all of them.”

An hour later, Hermione stomped from the floo into Douillet’s sitting room. She brushed off ash and soot with a wave of her wand, stuck it into her pocket and stopped short when she saw Draco fiddling with something across the room at the windows.

Her heart jumped to her throat when he turned. He looked abnormally good. Over his fitted, black button-down, he wore a grey vest—in the same color as his suit pants—which molded to his body and emphasized his tapered waist and slim hips. Gods, his eyes seemed to glow by the way the color set them off. It was unfair really.

“Oh, good,” he said with a nod. “I was hoping you’d get home on time.”

It was a slightly odd thing to say, since this was very early for her, but Hermione had important things to discuss and shook it off. The talk with Astoria had braced her in the end, after it had become clear that there was in fact only one way to go. Hermione was not about to “Seduce him and oops a baby into his life.” just to earn his eternal hate and divorce after two years as planned. Neither was she going to “Say nothing, just do the ritual and marry him forever. He doesn’t need to know. Strictly.” Because that would not weigh on her or their relationship at all. The idea of just waiting until something came to light and the contract broke did also not sit right with her. No, there was one way and one way only. And Hermione was not looking forward to it.

She had downed two glasses of the whisky Astoria had stashed in her desk when they’d gotten back for courage and she knew if she didn’t do it now, she never would.

“Draco,” she squeaked, making his brows nearly pop from his forehead. Blast it! She’d never called him that to his face. She shook her head. It wasn’t relevant in the grand scheme of things. “We need to talk.”

“Now?” he asked, his shock turning into surprise and something wary.

“Yes, now.” She waved at the sofa and sat down herself, waiting until he rounded them and sat down on the other end. It hurt how stiff they both were. It was a jarring contrast to how they had read and spent evenings together only a week prior. Gods, she missed that. And she would miss it in the future.

Hermione blew out a breath to calm herself and settle her haywire nerves.

“If this is about the contract,” Draco said. “I… We don’t—”

With a trembling smile she shook her head. “Please. I need to get this out and I know it will be hard and I’m sorry, but I have to.” She sucked in air, suddenly unable to get enough of it past the lump in her throat.

Draco looked so worried that she felt the full force of her guilt slam into her, along with a heavy sadness. She did not want to lose him. And she would, she knew she would. There was no way he’d want to stay. Not with the choices—or lack thereof—they had.

Clasping her hands firmly, Hermione squeezed her lids shut for a second, then she opened her eyes and squared her shoulders. Enough freaking out. Enough.

“On the day we consummated our marriage, I asked you to trust me,” she said, her voice frail and she strengthened it with as much body as she could muster. “I told you I couldn’t tell you what I had planned concerning the heir clause, only that we’d both be fine with it.”

Draco blanched. More than should be possible for someone of his complexion. “Don’t… Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant,” he rasped out.

“No, not at all.” Hermione shook her head, burying the hurt twinging in her chest at his reaction. She knew it was fear rooted in a weird sense of inadequacy on his part and had nothing to do with her specifically, but it still stung.

He sighed out a long breath. “Good. Alright.” His eyes found hers and she saw that they’d been shuttered as his vision cleared and his occlusion vanished. Seeing that hurt even worse. “You know I would do what I could and hopefully grow into a worthy—”

“Godrick, Draco. Please stop,” she said, near tears. “Stop being so Merlin-damned understanding and good to me. I don’t… I don’t deserve it.” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth, looking indignant on her behalf. “Please, let me explain.”

He clapped his mouth shut.

“Alright.” Hermione brushed over her skirt, ordering it and frowned when she found a little sphere of napkin stuck to a fold. She plucked it away. “I said we’d both be fine with my plan and I truly believed we would be.” She cleared her throat and looked at him straight, feeling like she owed it to him not to hide. “Before we married, I got a contraceptive implant. It’s Muggle medicine that keeps one from getting pregnant. I was planning for us to try, as the deadline got closer, only to find out I couldn’t conceive. I did not know it would have nullified our marriage as the contract would have been broken. What I thought would happen, was that we’d stay married on paper—obviously, so you didn’t end up in prison—once it was clear I couldn’t give you an heir and your father would pull his support for my parents. I was planning to work on a way until then to keep them in Skövde. If they weren’t healed by then. But since you told me that something as simple as us not showing for dinner would end our bloody marriage, I am inclined to think something as big as me not getting pregnant will definitely do it.”

Draco blinked, looking as if struck by a body-bind curse.

Hermione spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry, Draco. I never thought Lucius would risk your imprisonment, especially not after what he said and how persistent he was with me. And while I didn’t know, I should have accounted for something like this. I know it looks like we will be bound to each other forever in one of two ways, but I swear to you, I will find a way that leaves you a better choice.”

A strange sound came from him and he seemed to unfreeze, his gaze hardening on her. “A better choice? What the bloody hell do you mean? It’s not like I—”

A chime floated through the space and they both jumped. Something tickled the back of Hermione’s neck and the sofa started rattling beneath their arses.

“What the—” Hermione started, but the sound of the door opening and closing stopped her. Someone squeaked, another person yelled and a second later Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass stood in the living space, delivered by Douillet in a wave of floor. They looked a bit caught off guard, but dressed to the nines in their individual styles.

Momentarily, flutes of champagne floated their way and the sofa tilted, effectively throwing Hermione and Draco from it and the rumble from the chandelier felt almost…disgruntled.

“What is happening?” Hermione whispered to herself.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “The housewarming party you wanted, remember? It’s today.” The way his gaze was cold when it hit her made her shiver. He ordered his features into something blank and agreeable, then he walked toward the two women and greeted them.

“Draco, you could have told us your floor was alive,” Pansy admonished and Daphne chuckled, snatching a flute of champagne from the air.

“I rather like it. Gave me a fright, but this is certainly useful.” She winked at Draco and took a sip.

Hermione felt like sinking into the ground. For a moment she wished Douillet would open it up and encase her there forever. How had she forgotten? And today of all days? Right after she had told Draco… Gods, he’d said nothing. She hadn’t even been able to tell him exactly how sorry she was and what she planned to do to make it right.

With unsure steps and retrying to smooth her crinkled skirt with a few swipes, she came up to the small group. “Hello Pansy, Daphne,” she said and nodded at the two.

Daphne grinned and gave the air next to Hermione’s cheeks a kiss each. “So nice of you invite us,” she chirped.

Pansy took a sip of her flute and gave Hermione a bemused once-over. “Yes. I must say, though, you look a little…worn, Granger.”

Draco chuckled and Hermione almost yelped when his hand landed on the small of her back in a show of affection he couldn’t possibly be feeling. “Be nice, Pans. Hermione just came home from work.” He bent toward her. “Why don’t you go and get dressed, darling? I’ll hold the fort in the meantime.”

Feeling dazed, overwhelmed, and completely caught off guard by how seamlessly Draco had switched from ice-cold to seemingly fond, Hermione nodded. “Yes, thank you, dear.”

“Salazar, the two of you are like an old couple,” Pansy said. “It’s scary, really.”

An hour later, Hermione wanted to scream as she walked through the sitting room. She wanted to throw every single one of their friends from the house and find Draco, to talk to him, to tell him what she had planned, to know whether he was fine. Merlin, she did not want to lose him. That was the crux of it. She really didn’t. And she knew that she could not expect him to still be fine with life-long vows. Not after convincing him to trust her so completely, only to be so fucking wrong about it.

Harry was busy chatting with Ginny and Astoria near the fireplace. He waved Hermione over and she plastered on a smile as she walked their way. “Have you seen my husband?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Astoria raised a brow, Ginny giggled suggestively and Harry shook his head. “Thankfully no,” Harry teased. “But I have—” Harry cut himself off, his green eyes going wide as Blaise Zabini walked past them.

Ginny snorted and Astoria sighed, while Harry gaped. Zabini did look rather dashing. He was a handsome wizard and wore the black, Muggle-suit unfairly well. And the way he moved had a certain beckoning elegance to it, while an air of mystery surrounded him like a cloak.

Ginny elbowed Harry. “Need me to get you water, love?” she asked and Harry shook his head.

“I swear he wasn’t that hot in school,” he said. “What the fuck happened?”

“You didn’t look back then,” Hermione said. “Not at him at least. That’s what happened.”

Harry smiled sharply, his expression turning into something Hermione knew very well. It was the way he looked when he was close to catching a snitch during Quidditch. He downed his glass, put it on the mantlepiece of the hearth and squared his broad shoulders. “Wish me luck, witches.”

“Go forth and conquer,” Ginny said, raising her glass with a toast, watching as Harry slunk after Blaise in the direction of the dining hall.

“So, looking for Draco, are you?” Astoria asked when Harry was out of sight.

Hermione grimaced when her own current plight came back to her. “Yeah.” She eyed her friend. “You could have told me that today was the day of the party.”

Astoria huffed out a laugh. “I knew you where off, Hermione, but I did not know you were so far down your own mind that I would have to remind you of your own parties. At your own house.”

With a mirthless expression, Hermione plucked two glasses of champagne from where they suddenly floated next to her. “Thanks, Cozy-pants,” she said and downed one, then the other.

Ginny looked at her with a cheeky smile. “Something you aren’t telling me, Herms?”

Shaking her head, Hermione cleared her throat. “Plenty, Gin.”

“Oh, that won’t do at all, sweety.” Ginny turned the beer in her hand. “We need another girl’s night. You’ll come too, right, Greengrass?”

Astoria looked a bit stumped.

“Of course she’s coming,” Hermione said and her secretary smiled broadly.

“Hah, look at that,” Ginny said as Luna emerged from one of the doors leading to the garden. “Excuse me, need to get info from people who are still telling me things.” She smirked and kissed Hermione’s cheek soundly, before making off toward a very disheveled and dreamy-looking Luna.

“You look like you’ve had better days,” Astoria said.

“I forgot,” Hermione blurted out. “I completely forgot about today and just told him half of it before Pansy and Daphne arrived. I have no idea what he is thinking but I think he is avoiding me and… Gosh, I’m such an idiot.”

Astoria gently patted Hermione’s back. “Maybe speak to him when everyone is gone? I don’t think he’d appreciate you wanting to clear the air now. In midst of your shared friends here. He’s a rather private person from what I know.”

Hermione nibbled her lower lip. “I know. I just…” She huffed out a defeated breath. Astoria was right.

“I did saw Theo leave into the gardens a while back,” the witch said thoughtfully. “Maybe him and Draco are smoking?” She shrugged. “Maybe you could just see how he’s doing?”

“Thank you, Astoria,” Hermione said. “For everything. Listening and helping and…”

“It was my pleasure. I hate seeing you so worried.” Astoria tilted her head to the side. “You didn’t have to tell him the truth, you know. But I’m glad you did. He deserved to know.”

Hermione hissed as she pulled in a breath. “How did you know?”

“Please.” Astoria waved at her. “You are way too tense to have done anything else but ‘the right thing’.” She smiled warmly, her blue eyes glittering in the dim light of the muted chandelier. “Go find him. See if he’s alright.”

Hermione grabbed Astoria’s hand and squeezed it once. “Thank you. If you want company, your sister and George were in the kitchen when I came that way.”

Leaving her newest friend behind, Hermione gathered her courage and slipped from the house and into the garden. Of course, she could have asked Douillet to bring her to Draco, but if he was truly avoiding her—she didn’t want to make things awkward for him by riding into his vicinity all spectacular-like.

She walked across the nature-tiled terrace and traversed the two steps leading down to a path slinking through the grass and past hedges. A shadow leaned ahead of her and she walked up to the man.

“Neville?” Hermione asked as she rounded the hedge fully and found her friend leaning against the back of a bench.

“Hi, Hermione,” Neville said with a smile. “Your garden is so pretty.”

She had forgotten her jacket and cast a warming charm over herself. “Thank you. I think Draco had it redone before we moved in.” To her knowledge Douillet had been without proper care for years. Surely the garden had been in a bad state.

“Well, he did a good job. It flows nicely.” Neville nodded to himself. “Could use a bit more herbs and a Venomous Tentacular or two, but I like it.”

“Nev,” Hermione said. “I’ve been meaning to ask… That joint you gave me for my birthday…” She blushed when she remembered the night she and Draco had used it. Even while more than a month had passed since then, she still thought about it more often than she should.

Neville’s brows rose and he grinned broadly. “Ah, you tried it. With whom? Was it fun?” His grin turned suggestive.

Hermione glared up at him. “It was certainly fun and I used it with my husband, of course.”

That had Neville looking surprised. “You… You smoke a joint with Malfoy?”

Hermione nodded and blushed some more.

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione,” Neville said. “From the look of you, it worked as intended. Which is certainly surprising, given whom you did it with.” He chuckled. “Pun intended.”

“Oh, piss off, Neville. What were you thinking? What if I had smoked it with Ginny, or Harry?” Hermione shuddered. “A warning would have been lovely. What did you put in there exactly?”

Neville sighed deeply and wound a large hand through his hair. “It’s doused with a mild form of Amortentia. And I hate to tell you this, but that brand of weed only works if you generally feel attracted to the person you’re around. Smoking it with Harry would have done absolutely nothing for you, is suspect. Except given you a mellow high.” He huffed out a few chuckles. “Which means that you one, are attracted to Malfoy, and two, probably slept with him. I thought this marriage was a business deal, that’s what Harry said, anyway.”

Hermione glowered at him, her expression hardening the longer he spoke. “First of all, Amortentia? Are you out of your bloody mind? Secondly, whether or not I’m attracted to Malfoy is my sodding business. And thirdly, if I want to sleep with my own husband, I will fucking do so. Understood?”

Neville held up his hand, a lazy smile on his relaxed features at her outburst. “Fine by me, ‘Mione. It’s just a nice development, is all. I’m happy you experienced the full potential of my gift.”

Hermione grumbled a bit, but then something occurred to her. “The uh… The way it works. Is it always so explosive?”

“Explosive?” Neville asked.

She waved her hands around. “You know…” She rolled her eyes when Neville just blinked in a confused fashion. “You know, how it makes you go all…feral and fills you with need? How the sex is explosive and…unbelievable?”

His brows rose. “Uhm… No? I have tried it myself and I know that it makes the sex last a lot longer and heightens the arousal, but feral? Explosive sex? Nope, can’t say that’s what was intended there.” Neville frowned. “I think that means—”

“That means I need a sample,” a man’s voice said behind them and Hermione shrieked in surprise as she whirled around.

Thoedore Nott emerged from a hedge, leaves and small sticks sticking to his suit and in his curls. “Charmed,” he said to Hermione and grinned. “Raving review. Although I do think the review is rather geared toward my mate than the joint, but hey, there is no harm in trying, right?” He winked and took in a bracing breath. “Sex-joints, Longbottom? Why don’t I have these in my possession already?”

Neville sighed and plunged his hands into his pockets. “Because you’d never stop fucking if you did, Nott.”

Theo blinked. “And that is a bad thing, because…?”

“Oh, my gods,” Hermione ground out and threw up her hands. “I’m done. This conversation is over.”

“Tetchy,” Theo said with a tsk when she stomped off. “Now, about these joints…”

“Experimental, Nott,” Neville said. “Not up for sale yet.”

“You mean sexperimental!” Theo crowed. “I would make the perfect subject, Longbottom. Who in this world has more sex than me?”

“As if you’d ever keep book on your exploits and how each encounter differs from the last in correlation to the joint and how much you smoked,” Neville drawled.

“Ah. Yes, I guess that will be a slight hiccup in our working relationship,” Theo said, sounding put-out.

Hermione snorted despite herself as she legged it through the garden and back to the house. Ridiculous, the two of them. Then what she had discussed with Neville occurred to her and she blushed once more. So the joint had not been at fault. Or a supporting factor in how things had gone between them. It should have made it last longer. Gods. Did that mean—No. She was not thinking about it. And she was absolutely not bemoaning the fact that she would surely never find out now. If they had decided on the forever ritual, they might have eventually worked on the touch-aversion and maybe— “Fucking hell,” Hermione hissed. “Stop it already, you idiot.”

As she walked past the windows of the dining hall she jerked to a halt. Draco and Blaise sat together, a bottle of Ogden’s between them. She slipped into the sitting room and headed for the arch connecting it to the dining hall.

Blaise was seated at the head of the long table, his jacket slung over the backrest, while Draco lounged to his right, his vest still on, but his shirt unbuttoned at the top and his sleeves folded up just shy of revealing his mark.

Hermione halted by the door, just wanting to catch the feel of the room and Draco’s demeanor, before she would leave again.

“Autem altro?” Blaise asked, raising the bottle.

“S’il te voluptas,” Draco answered and Blaise poured a few fingers into his tumbler. Draco sighed. “Plus.” Blaise raised a brow and poured more. “Di più,” Draco said when his friend looked like he’d stop. Once the glass was filled to the brim Draco nodded. “Grazie mille fois.”

Hermione frowned. What the hell where they speaking? It sounded like part French and part…Latin? With Italian mixed into it.

“Qu’est-ce qui torque le tue mutanda?” Blaise asked.

Hermione’s brows shot up and she silently repeated the words back to herself. Had Blaise just asked what was twisting Draco’s underwear?

Draco glowered at his friend, his eyes reddened slightly and for a moment Hermione wondered how much he’d already had to drink. “Fous le camp.”

Blaise grinned at the rather crude way of Draco telling him to ‘fuck off’, which Hermione understood as it was only French. “Ah, tribulation dans paradiso?”

Hermione gaped stupidly. Was that supposed to be ‘trouble in paradise’?

“La bella épouse pas jucundus?”

“Another word about my wife and I will wipe this table with your face, Zabini,” Draco said darkly.

Blaise grinned and held up his hands in surrender, then he pointed at Draco. “Mutanda… Torque.”

Draco flipped him off, then circled his long fingers around the glass and took a long sip. Hermione’s worry mounted as she had never seen him drink.

“They’re at this stage already?” Pansy said and Hermione jumped when she sidled up to her. With crossed arms, Pansy looked slightly annoyed at the two men inside the room.

“What are they talking?” Hermione asked. “I can understand some, but it’s…”

“Stupid? Juvenile? Absolutely unneeded?” Pansy grinned, the piercings on her lips glinting. “Yes, it is. They call it ‘Speaking Frankly’. And it’s frankly annoying. When drunk, Theo, Draco and Blaise revert to a mix of Italian, French and Latin. It started as an idiotic joke and has become habit over the years.” Pansy shook her head. “Oi, bucos du cul!”

Draco and Blaise swerved on their chairs and Pansy flipped them both the finger and laughed.

Hermione shuddered when Draco’s gaze landed on her for a second. He swallowed, his eyes turning shuttered and he grabbed his glass once more, emptying it in a few gulps while Pansy and Blaise shouted a few colorful and three-language-butchering curses at each other.

Pansy threw and arm around Hermione’s shoulders, catching her off guard. “Let’s go, Granger. These idiots are such a bore.” With that, she was pulled from the arch, leaving behind a chuckling Blaise and a miserable-looking Draco.

Maybe it was really better to wait and avoid him as well until everyone was gone, Hermione thought. She tried to listen to what Pansy was saying, but couldn’t get Draco’s face from her mind. He’d looked…almost tortured and it tore at her heart.

Chapter Text

Speaking Frankly

TW: A memory episode at the end of the chapter that deals with pain and trauma. Skip the italics if you don't want to read it.

Draco

Drinking was a bad idea. It was an abysmal idea to be exact, but as he felt the buzzing burn mix with the horrid scorching anger he felt, Draco was unsure why. At times it would fan the flames, at others dull the intensity to a low simmer. He had started half an hour after the party started. That Merlin-damned housewarming party Granger had talked him into half a week ago which she somehow didn’t even fucking remember.

‘It’ll be fun,’ she’d said. ‘Your friends and my friends mingling, putting to rest old grievances and such. Besides, Luna really wants to see Pansy again.’

Draco had agreed, anything to see his so sure and stoic friend a bit flustered. And if Pansy was really getting it on with Luna of all people, he could be happy for her and he would be able to tease her with matchmaking until the end of time. Good prospects. But no. Granger had to barge into the sitting room, all crinkled and adorably flushed, only to demand a sit-down at the most inopportune time.

He'd fucking known he shouldn’t have told her about the changed ritual. Draco was sure it’s what spooked her and now… Now she was apparently so unsettled by all of it that she was constructing plans to leave him; to leave their marriage. He didn’t even know what to make of her revelation about that stupid heir-clause. Of course, she hadn’t known the contract would be tied to their marriage. Of course, Lucius wouldn’t tell her something so important, and of course she would believe his father wouldn’t want to see Draco in prison and therefore wouldn’t annul their marriage if she was ‘unable’ to conceive. Her plan had been pretty reckless, but also kind of brilliant. If his conniving snake of a father had not been involved.

It was equal parts devious and mad. No one wanted to dwell on things such as infertility—especially in pureblood circles, it was a taboo topic—and technically it was no one’s fault and not something magic could cure. Also, who would think of Muggle medicine being the culprit? Surely no pureblood wizard. So yes, the plan would have probably worked. Had they not both been hoodwinked into this impossible situation.

Draco could understand that she would be averse to tying herself to him forever. He had nothing to give her outside of money. And Granger was a woman who didn’t value wealth the same way people with his own upbringing did. Yes, she did have need of it now, but it was not something she looked for in a partner. If the situation with her parents was resolved he very much doubted she’d want to stay. Which was obviously what she’d tried to tell him earlier, that she would have a plan for them both. So she could leave.

The question was; why the fuck did he care so much? Yes, he had told her he’d be willing to do the forever vows and he was serious about that. He would not have chosen her specifically, but she would not have chosen him either. Still, they had kind of found an agreeable groove into their new life—before he had gone along and fucked it up by suggesting they’d make this entire thing irreversible.

As he watched her worried gaze land on him, he felt it sear into his being. And when Pansy pulled her away, Draco felt as if a part of him was being removed from the room. He hung his head, grabbed the firewhisky and let go of all pretenses as he drank straight from the bottle. Why did he care so much? It was simple. He had started to care for his wife. Beyond calling her his, beyond her being his wife and beyond finding her attractive.

Draco had not lied when he’d told Granger that he had grown fond of her. But it was more than that. The few weeks they had spent finding their agreeable routine had been tethering. Grounding him in a place that felt good, warm and healing. He knew exactly what to expect and—maybe even more importantly—what not to. She was steady and calm and her presence soothed him in a way he had never thought possible.

The hours they’d spent in the living room, reading, throwing ideas about Douillet and its magic back and forth, the silence that had never grown heavy or uncomfortable, the way he could watch her from behind the texts and books he was reading, it had been calming and led to thoughts that were…not that calming.

He knew exactly how she liked to tuck her small feet under herself on the sofa, how her hair would loosen from whatever confinement she had stuck it in because she could not stop playing with the strands when she was in deep thought. How her brows would pull together, making tiny creases appear between them and how she would nibble on her lower lip with drawn-out drags of her teeth. Draco did still remember how those sweet lips tasted and felt.

“Merda!” Blaise said, his eyes practically bugging from his skull when Draco placed down the bottle with a sigh. “Tutto va bien?”

“Non. Même pas vicino.” No, Draco wasn’t even close to being fine. He held up his hand when Blaise opened his mouth. “Silentium.”

Blaise raised a brow and looked from the half-drained bottle of Ogden’s to Draco and back again. He was clearly not letting this go.

Draco sighed and broke their frank-speaking. “I said nothing when I…” He stifled a burp. “When I stumbled in on you snogging Potter—of all people—in my fucking dining hall half an hour ago. So we are not talking about this, merci bien for understanding.”

“Pas de problema,” Blaise said with a grin. “Sebbene…” He drummed his long and beringed fingers on the dark wood of the table. “Non ero io qui ne voulais pas parler.”

“Ouais et rien n’a mutatum.“

„Potter?“ Theo cried, poking his nosy head into the room. “You snogged Potter?” He pointed at Blaise and a wide grin spread on his lips.

Draco groaned. He really, really didn’t want to know anything about that. Seeing Blaise and the Boy Wonder wrapped around each other had been traumatizing enough.

“Affirmativo,” Blaise said as Theo hopped through the room and plonked his arse on Blaise’s other side. He reached for the whisky and Draco snatched to bottle with a snarl.

“Get your own bottle,” he rumbled. “If you two really want to talk about this, I will hold onto this one.”

Theo blinked at Draco, then leaned back and swished his wand, conjuring a glass and a bottle of finely aged Ogden’s, probably from the Nott cellar. He placed the bottle down and bent toward Blaise, talking out of the corner of his mouth—loud enough for Draco to hear, obviously. “Did the house eat his hair products, or what’s going on?”

Blaise snorted and Draco glowered. “None of your business,” he hissed darkly.

“You know,” Theo said, tilting his head to the side. “Ever since you got married your manners have left much to be desired.” His eyes widened. “The wife!” he yelled triumphantly. “That’s the problem, right?”

Blaise poured them both a glass of Theo’s whisky. “Affirmativo.”

“Saler mes oignons!” Theo crowed. “Chiamatemi génie!”

Draco raised a brow and took a sip from his bottle, like the pathetic sulking idiot he was. “Did you just tell us to ‘salt your onions’?”

“Ovviamente.” Theo grinned happily. “C’est un modo de diction.“

„It is neither a saying, nor did what you just say make any kind of grammatical sense,” Draco drawled.

“I am rather impressed that you can still talk straight, mate,” Blaise said. “Never mind correct the grammar of a language meant to have no grammatical rules. But please, tell us what has your oignons dans le torque.”

“Merlin, I am not even close to drunk enough,” Draco huffed out and drank, watching with a sneer as his mates toasted and smirked.

“I bet he is actually falling in love with the golden girl,” Theo theorized. “Who can blame him? That woman has me weak in the knees.”

“Everyone has you weak in the knees,” Draco said.

“I think he is calling you a slut, Theo,” Blaise said.

Theo gasped and clasped his chest in outrage. “How dare ye? I am a lady! And a slut. But what did Aristoteles always say? Right: Il n’y a pas vergogna nell’edonismo.”

Despite himself, Draco nearly snorted out his whisky. He coughed and slammed a hand to his chest, his eyes burning as well as his throat.

“I thought that was Plato?” Blaise asked and Draco started wheezing. He coughed some more and both his friends grinned at him.

“I’m still…not talking…about it,” Draco huffed out between coughs and wheezes.

Blaise shrugged. “Suit yourself, mate. But we’re here if you get your onions out of that twist.” He turned to face Theo. “Now, you wanted to know about the Savior of the Wizarding World?”

Theo scooted closer, his eyes big and his grin bigger. Draco rolled his eyes and sank into his chair. He did not want to hear this. He also didn’t want to venture from the room and inadvertently face his wife. Gods, he’d fucked this up.

Apparently, Potter had found Blaise in the dining hall as Blaise was searching for an ashtray. That was before he discovered that one had popped into existence on the long dresser next to him. “Super maison, a proposito,” he threw Draco’s way during that part of his story.

Blaise had opened the doors to the garden and rooted around his jacket to extricate his silver cigarette etui, when Potter had asked whether he needed a light from where he was leaning against the arch. The Boy Wonder had stridden in, his green eyes apparently ‘smoldering like embers of emerald fire’ as he’d lit Blaise’s cigarette. They had spoken a few words about the house and what they were up to now work-wise, and then Potter had taken Blaise’s offered cigarette, taken a drag without looking away and the gleam of the burning ash had set his eyes alight with carnal hunger. The way his sensual lips had pursed around the cigarette had heated Blaise’s blood and Potter had flicked the cigarette out the door and past Blaise, then stepped closer. He had looked deeply into his eyes and breathed in, then smiled and asked whether Blaise liked what he saw.

Blaise had pushed him back against the next wall and let Potter know he was about to kiss him and if he had a problem with that he should say so. When the Boy Wonder had only grinned further, the snogfest had started. Unluckily, Draco had interrupted them before Blaise could feel up the Boy Who Lived and Turned Into a Hotty.

To Draco’s luck, or detriment, his focus drifted in and out of the story. As much as he didn’t want to, he tried to concentrate on what Blaise was saying, but his mind was on Hermione—Granger. His mind was on Granger. On how she had looked at him when she’d been dragged away by Pansy. On how it was absolutely fucking wild that Draco did not want to have her leaving. He blamed his upbringing and being ‘particular’ about matrimony as a result. Yes, that was it. A particularity. Like dunking Goldstein into the Black Lake for being a right shit to Astoria. As he emptied the bottle in his hand and the world went in and out of focus, Draco was almost able to make himself believe it.

He knew he shouldn’t be drinking this much, he should have stopped after two glasses, because being drunk and his lowering inhibitions were like gold to a Niffler for his episodes. Draco nearly always had one when drunk past a certain stage. But as he sat and listened to Blaise’s way too detailed ‘poursuites amoureses’, he was swaying between anger and acceptance, his brain too wound up and full to focus on what it would usually obsess over. It was the first time he was out of it to this extent with not a whiff of panic.

An hour later, Daphne and Astoria came to collect a very drunk and uncharacteristically demure Theo. “I will follow you wherever you may go,” he whimpered at Astoria, who rolled her eyes and plucked him from his chair.

Blaise leaned heavily on Daphne, a broad grin on his face. “Rembember, mate,” he told Draco. “Onions a-and words. I’ll be…there. For you. If you want to bring Potter… No.” He frowned, then shook his head. “Don’t come with Potter, but send him my way if you like.” He grinned at Daphne. “The snogging was so good,” he told her conspiratorially.

Hermione—no—Granger was waiting at the arch to the sitting room and said her goodbyes at the floo. It looked like the four of them were the last to leave. Theo whispered something to her that made her blush and look Draco’s way and Blaise pulled her in for a hug, which made her go a bit stiff before she relaxed and returned his embrace. Draco didn’t like his mate getting so comfortably handsy with his wife. Had he not known Blaise was absolutely gay, he would have—no. He would have done nothing.

Draco was still arguing with himself over whether this fact was because his mates would never be inappropriate with Hermione—Granger, for fucksakes—or because he didn’t care either way. Before he could come to the conclusion which it was (and the fact that he already knew), the house was empty and his wife slowly walked into the dining hall with unsure steps.

Her coffee-colored gaze swept over the empty bottles and then landed on Draco, who felt a blush of mortification come on. “Enjoyed you night?” he rasped.

“No,” she said softly. “It does look like you did, though.”

As bloody nothing could be further from the truth and Draco was miserable, he grinned at her falsely. “Well, excuse me for i-indulging with my mates aft—hicks—er what you told m-me earlier.” Salazar, now he was slurring? He cleared his throat and pinned her with a long look.

“I do not fault you, Malfoy,” she said. “I’m so—”

“So it’s Malfoy again, is it? Hermione?” His tone was chilly and he watched her flinch at him saying her name with that much venom. It had been a shock to him when she had used his first name earlier and for a second, he had felt all warm and tingly. Stupid!

She knotted her hands together and set her features into something level. “You have every right to be cross with me, but I would very much like to talk about this at length. Sober.”

Draco stood and swayed. Bloody hell, the floor had turned into an ocean. What was Douillet doing? He gripped the backrest of his chair to steady himself. “What is there left to discuss? I think you made yourself very clear.”

When he tried to move, his balance went to shite and he reached out, toppling over the empty bottles as his hands searched for stability on the table.

Hermione was at his side in a second. She hovered without touching him. “Do you need help to get upstairs?”

Draco braced himself on the table and threw her a glare and a hiss. Unperturbed by his obvious anger, she squared her shoulders. “Let me get you into bed.”

Immediately, salacious images rattled his mind and his anger and misery flickered to make way for a hefty does of heat. Draco pushed it to the side viciously and chuckled darkly. “As fucking if you’d ever want that again, darling wife.”

She pinched her eyes closed, then looked up at him, her gaze burning with held-back frustration. “I understand that you are angry and drunk, but could you stand not being a dramatic prat for a few minutes so I can bloody-well help you?”

“I think I w-will stay here, thank you very,” Draco said, then frowned. Had he forgotten a word there?

“Oh, stop it, you idiot,” Hermione fumed. “You did the same for me when I was drunk.”

Draco grinned at her; his sour disposition forgotten as he remembered that particular night. “Are you going to carry me?”

“I’d rather just steady you, or I can float you, your choice.” She watched him and Draco found himself thinking on it for a few moments.

“Steadying, I think. I might be sick if you float me.”

“Can I touch you?” she asked and something in the way she asked, paired with the dimly-lit room around them made Draco swallow down even more salacious ideas and impulses. For a second, he wished she had meant it differently and that he could answer ‘anywhere’ and mean it.

As it was, he nodded silently and raised his left arm for her to dip under. Hermione gently rounded his waist with one arm and pressed into his side so he could lean on her. She was very close and very warm against him. They slowly stumbled from the room together and thanks to his buzzing brain and lack of fear at anything, he was able to enjoy being this close to her. For such a short person, she was surprisingly strong and while they used the entire breadth of the staircase as he wobbled them from one side to the next, she kept him upright and from tumbling down.

Halfway up the stairs, Draco started chuckling at his no-doubt ridiculous movements and he saw her smirk, before she huffed a few chuckles herself. His laughter got louder and was supported by her giggles, making him think that she must have imbibed in a bit of alcohol as well.

They reached the second floor laughing and a bit out of breath. Traversing the hallway, they had to lean against the walls a few times to catch their breaths and leave room for the mirth that had grabbed them.

Eventually, they stumbled into his room and Draco’s laughter ebbed away when he noticed that he would have to let go of her now. They stood in front of his bed and he pulled his arm from around her shoulders slowly.

Hermione still chuckled a bit as she stepped away, then nudged him to sit down.

Draco was pretty sure he was dreaming as she sank down and unlaced his shoes, only to slide them off his feet, socks following. It was a strangely intimate gesture, like him tucking her in had been, like her using his wand… Fuck, he’d miss her.

She stood, got out her wand and blushed a bit. “You sleep in briefs only, right?” she asked lowly.

“I can undress myself. Go to bed, Hermione.” Draco hadn’t meant for it to come out as raspy as it did and when her blush deepened, he felt his own skin start to buzz with awareness of how close she still was, practically stood between his knees.

“Nonsense, you’d probably break your neck trying to step from your pants.” With a flick of her wand and a muttered spell, his clothes vanished and plopped back into existence next to him. She hovered them into his hamper after extricating his wand from his trousers, which she placed on his bedside table.

Hermione rounded his bed and drew back the covers. “Get in.”

Draco crawled across the bed inelegantly and when she pulled his blanket over him another bout of misery and sadness washed over him along with her scent of night-blooming flowers. He really had started to like her. She was steadiness and safety. Comfort and calming. But not only that. She was clever, radiant when she talked about things that interested her like Douillet, or her parents’ treatments, and she possessed a beauty that was as warm as it was enchanting.

Gods he didn’t want her to leave him.

Her brown eyes found his in the dark and widened. “I don’t want to leave you, Draco,” she whispered.

Shite, had he thought out loud? From the way she looked at him, he had. Fuck. Draco heaved out a long breath. “B-but you said you… Before the party… You said you’d make sure I had a better choice.”

“Because you deserve one, Draco,” she said. “A choice.”

He couldn’t help it. His heart hammered and everything in him screamed not to do it, to not relinquish this vulnerability, but Draco needed to make sure. Besides, his inhibitions were quite low as it was. “You don’t want to go? You want to…stay? With me?”

A shy smile—the kind he had only ever seen her give to him—tugged at the edges of her gorgeous lips. “If it’s possible and if that is what you want, then yes. I’d like to stay with you.”

“I want,” Draco croaked out, his brain reeling with this new revelation.

Hermione nodded, blushed again, and conjured a glass of water and a potion to his bedside table. “Sleep now. And be sure to drink that when you wake up,” she said and stepped away from his bed. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

She quickly walked from the room and Draco watched the doorway for long seconds after she had gone. She wanted to stay? She wanted to stay. His drunk brain simmered into some kind of relaxed haze as it came to grips with what his wife had just said.

A loud ‘meow’ had Draco looking up, then Crookshanks, who had been nowhere to be seen since half an hour before the party had started, hopped onto his bed. He began purring like an engine and rolled up next to Draco. It was the first time the cat actually lay down in Draco’s bed when Hermione was in the house.

“She wants to stay, Shanks,” Draco told him in a hushed voice. The cat raised its head and looked at Draco with an expression that personified the word ‘obviously’.

Draco was ready to sanctify Granger when he felt his hangover recede after downing the potion and water on his bedside table. He blinked his eyes open and groaned at how glaringly bright his room was. He smacked his dried lips to find that his tongue had apparently decided to stick itself to the roof of his mouth until further notice.

With another groan, he padded into his ensuite and kicked off his briefs before stepping into the shower. Yeah, he surmised, when the hot water washed life back into him, he would live here now.

Halfway through his heavenly shower, the happenings of the last day and night caught up with him and he stood dumbly as all of it slammed into his brain with the subtlety of a bludger. “Merlin’s tits,” he griped, unable to discern how much of the end of the night he had dreamed or wished into existence. If Herm—Granger really wanted to stay…

Draco walked into the kitchen ten minutes later, casually dressed and hastily washed, to find his wife at the dining table, a spread of breakfast ready and untouched. That same shy smile made an appearance when she lifted her head upon him walking in.

Crookshanks was curled on the chair next to her and she was absently stroking his wiry fur as she closed the book she’d been reading. “Good morning,” Granger said. “How are you feeling?”

“Morning,” Draco said and sat down across from her. He let his gaze sweep over the spread and nearly moaned when she slid a mug of hot coffee his way. The smell was intoxicating. “I feel fine, thanks to your potion.” Draco added milk and sugar, then took his first sip and closed his eyes. “Perfect,” he uttered.

“You always have breakfast ready for us,” Granger said. “I thought I’d return the favor for once.”

Draco drank deeply, then put down his mug and watched as Granger shifted nervously on her chair. “We need to talk,” he said.

Her eyes met his. “We do.”

“Last night… I don’t know—” Draco said.

“Did you mean what you said last night?” she said at the same time.

They both huffed out a somewhat nervous laugh and Draco waved at her to go on.

Granger swiped back a strand of sun coated hair, looking like a vision at how she was being lit up from one side by the rays falling through the window. “Did you mean what you said? That you don’t want me to go?”

Draco dipped his head once. “Did you actually say that you wanted to stay?” A lump was forming in his throat and he swallowed against it.

“I did. I mean I do. If that is what you want.” Hermione—Granger—grabbed a croissant and placed it on her plate, her eyes darting across the table. “What I meant to say, before Daphne and Pansy came by—sorry about forgetting, I was so hung up on what to do, it completely slipped my mind and I…” She trailed off, huffed and drew in a large breath. “I’m sorry about asking you to trust me, the plan was foolish.” A small, mirthless laugh floated his way. “The one time I should have overthought something and I completely bollocks it up. I didn’t know Lucius would tie our marriage to the contract in that way. I swear it.”

“Her—” Draco bit his teeth together. “I believe you. I mean, it makes no sense to do it that way and I truly believe it was only because of Lucius’ need for control and to give us as little room to change anything as possible. Hey,” Draco added and she looked at him. “It was a good plan. Daring and reckless and a little rash, but it would have worked. My…peers don’t like talking about infertility. It’s considered a taboo subject.”

“I didn’t know,” she said. “That’s sad.” Splaying her hands out on either side of her plate she rolled back her shoulders. “I do want to tell you what I came up with, alternatively. Because I meant what I said. You deserve a true choice.”

He had made his choice and it was more than just honoring the vows they had given each other already. He would choose her again, if that was what she wanted. Consciously, this time. Because he—quite simply—wanted her. As a wife, a partner and…a lover. In time, of course and if she was open to it. Yes, Draco had made his choice, but he nodded at her to go on.

“Directive 32 states that you have to find a Muggleborn wife until a year from when it came into effect. We could divorce and I would help you find someone else, without the influence of your father. Someone who you could divorce after two years with no strings attached whatsoever.”

His brows rose as she spoke. “Your solution is for me to marry someone else?”

Her lips pursed and she looked a bit…bothered. Whether it was the question itself, or that it implied him being with another woman, Draco didn’t know. “Well, you would be completely free after two years. No child, no Azkaban, no dinners with your father, nothing. A true one and done arrangement. With me… With me that isn’t possible.” Her voice had turned frail at the end and she cleared her throat.

“With me you would either subscribe to forever due to an unbreakable marriage, or you’d tie yourself to me through a child. Those are the two choices we have if we really decide to…give this a go.” Hermione—Draco was becoming sick of correcting himself inwardly so he was done with it—bit into her lower lip, looking unsure. “I know you might be inclined to do the forever thing because of how you view marriage as a whole and because you have this absurd notion that you’d be a bad father, but I think having a child would leave you freer than bound to me through a new ritual.” She smiled shakily. “You could find happiness with someone you truly chose after we divorce, Draco. Someone who fits into your life, who is more…” She shrugged. “Well more refined and classy. More so than me, at least.”

A grunt fell from him, the only thing he was able to utter at what he was hearing.

“I am ready for whatever you choose, but I do think you should give the option of leaving me a real thought. I can’t… I feel horrible for trapping you so completely. Unwittingly or not. I took your choice without knowing what I was doing and I am so, so sorry. I can’t excuse it and I don’t want to, but I will do anything and everything I can, to make it right, to give you a choice, if you’ll let me and if that is what you want.”

Hermione sagged into her seat and took a huge gulp from her coffee.

Draco sat silently as she busied herself with gathering things to her plate, her movements jerky and nervous.

“Her…” Draco cleared his throat. “Hermione, I… Thank you for trying to think up something where I’d possibly have more of a choice down the line, but that is not what I want.”

“Don’t—”

Draco held up a hand and she quieted. “You said your piece, now let me.”

She nodded, placing her hands in her lap.

“I propose something different. We have been married for one and a half months, that leaves us roughly ten months to definitely decide what to do.” Draco laced his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. “We don’t have to decide anything right now. It’s a rather big decision either way and I say we focus on getting to know each other more so we truly know whether one of the avenues could actually work. Because if we decide to do the ritual—which is my choice as it is now—I’d want…more.”

“More?” she almost squeaked the word.

Draco nodded. “More. Living side-by-side as we have the last few weeks is nice, but I’d want a relationship. If that is not something you’d be willing to think about, or even consider, then that choice will be off the table anyway.”

“Yes.” The word shot form her like a spell and her eyes widened a fraction. “I… Yes, that is definitely something I’d consider.” She nibbled on her lower lip. “I am fond of you as well, Draco. You have been…more than I could ever have asked for. I just want to make sure you’re not forcing something you don’t truly want out of obligation because we are technically married and you think you need to honor that. Because if that is the case—”

Draco breathed out as something fuzzy swirled in his chest at her words. “I’d want something real and I want it with you, Hermione. I know it would require work and some getting used to, but I would really like to try.” He leaned back. “We don’t have to decide on anything now, there is time, I just want you to know—honestly—what I would choose.”

“I…” Her brows furrowed for a second. “Yes. I will definitely consider it.” A blush crept up the sides of her neck and she swallowed with a click, then she gave him another of those beautiful and shy smiles. The picture of her like that, bathed in sunlight, smiling and agreeing to consider them as a couple… It made his heart race and swell as if it had been Engorgioed. If this was a dream, Draco would Avada the person who dared to wake him.

“I have to say, Hermione,” Lucius said between spaced-out bites that very evening. “Your views on sensory memories are certainly entertaining, but as we all know, Alistair Crookbumble refuted the possibility in the twenties.”

Draco and Hermione had both decided not to confront Lucius on the contract for now and she was doing an admirable job at not showing how angry she was. She was being a tad more aggressive in her argumentation, but as it was themed around the recovery of her parents it was not unusual. Draco could tell though, by the slight twitch of her hand, or the curl of her lips. She was agitated as was he.

He still couldn’t believe the conversation they’d had that morning. It was really heartening to know Hermione would give it an actual thought and seemed rather amenable to the idea in general, if he had read her correctly. Even if her being so unsure when it came to her self-worth in anything resembling a relationship was still sitting wrong with him. Draco had no idea whether she would be able to develop romantic feelings for him, but he was willing to work on making it happen. She had effortlessly conjured them for him.

He tried to simmer down, as they had not agreed on anything but to get to know each other better and think on what either of them wanted. It wasn’t like he should get ready to woo his wife. With a sidelong glance at her animatedly talking with that slight crinkle to her brow, her delicate hands waving around before she focused on her food, Draco thought that he was ready to do so nonetheless.

Hermione—who finished off her smoked salmon in record time and placed down her cutlery, in the wrong way—tipped her glass of wine in Lucius’ direction. “True, but that does not mean it is impossible. If only I could get my hands on a Pensieve, I might be able to make the necessary changes. There are things Healer Nilsson said the last two times I was there and some of it made me think. I’m quite certain it was never tried to alter directly using a Pensieve, only the memories themselves.” She frowned. “Silly that the Ministry is regulating the distribution so closely. And by Merlin, they are expensive.”

Draco went rigid when Lucius burst into laughter. Real laughter. The kind normally reserved for Narcissa. The one Draco had heard on the day Lucius had told him he would be marrying the curly-haired witch to his side.

Lucius chuckled and Narcissa looked as shocked as Draco felt. “There is much to unpack there, my dear. Firstly, I find it very curious you’d be outright critical of anything your Ministry does.”

At this, Hermione grimaced and took a sip of her wine.

“Secondly, it would never work but I do applaud your unusual approach. Thirdly, you are a Malfoy now, you have enough money to buy all the Pensieves your little heart desires. And while I very much disagree with you, I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy you using Draco’s money for such things instead of for dresses, shoes, and luxury items.”

Narcissa sent him a sharp glare and Lucius’ chuckles died instantly. “Not that those items aren’t important; one has to show station and taste, of course. I just always imagined Draco’s wife to be…different.”

Granger took another sip of her wine, her eyes narrow. “Demure and pretending to be airheaded?”

Lucius grinned. “Exactly. Demure. The way it is intended.” He tilted his head a bit. “And while I find you singularly entertaining, I must insist that these types of discussions stay within family confines. Don’t let me catch you mouthing off to people during galas and functions where you represent this family. Like for instance the New Year’s gala that is in a few weeks. We have to show an unbreakable family front and conduct us in an impeccable manner.”

Draco’s stomach plummeted through his pants, then anger flared in his chest. Lucius had not just said that.

Hermione blinked and opened her mouth, looking affronted, but Draco leaned forward in his chair. “You will not tell my wife what to say and what not to say, Lucius. Not here and not in public.” His tone was biting. “Neither will you tell her how to behave, or how to spend our money. You chose Hermione for me and you knew exactly who she is. Do not expect her to change herself to conform to your antiquated views, because that will not be happening. My wife is exceptional and has the career, not to mention accolades, to prove it. I will not have you dampen her character in any way. If she shows up any of those pompous twits you seem so fond of inviting by being her clever and brilliant self, I will be right beside her and cheering.”

It was quiet for a few seconds, only the hoots of owls and chitter of night-active birds sounding from the darkened cages. Hermione was looking at Draco, her mouth open, her eyes wide.

“Draco,” Narcissa said. “I’m sure your father meant no harm. But he is right, a lady does not get into arguments with men. And while we are all family here, even this discussion is a bit inappropriate in its scope and topic.”

Draco clicked his tongue and rose to a stand. “If that is how you see it, I have nothing further to add and this dinner is over.” He held out his hand to Hermione. “Let’s go home, darling.”

He couldn’t fucking believe it. As Draco twisted and turned in his bed later that night, he scowled at the ceiling. He had been so close to confronting his father even further, but Draco did not want him knowing any more than was necessary. Lucius would most certainly devise a new plan to exert control if he caught wind of them planning anything.

Still, Lucius had eyes in his head and a—somewhat—functioning brain. He should know by now who Hermione was and that she was absolutely spectacular. There was no way he’d let his father shame her into acting differently. No fucking way.

After tossing and turning a while longer, Draco finally sank into a fitful sleep.

He woke with a yell, his chest heaving, his skin clammy with sweat and panic racing along his every nerve. Draco had no idea whether his own screams had woken him or something else, but his surroundings blurred and a memory assailed his senses.

“How dare you thwart the Dark Lord’s plans in such a way?” she hisses, her foul breath coating his face like a blanket of filth. “You are so very lucky I love you, nephew. So very lucky indeed. If they ever found out, if he ever found out…” The tip of her wand jabs into his side, the touch sparking a burn that eats away his shirt until it singes his skin.

“Why, Draco? Why save a few Muggles from Dolohov and his group of imbeciles?”

The burn travels up and sparks across his ribcage and he can feel it working itself through his veins. Slowly etching into him, corroding him. Draco coughs and tastes blood. He knows he needs to placate her in some way. “I knew who they were,” he gurgles past the panic and blood.

“Who? The Muggles?” She frowns and her mad eyes search his face. Thank Merlin the burn halts and stops from spreading. “Were they important?”

“Yes,” Draco hisses. “Very important.”

His aunt smacks her lips and drops of saliva hit his cheeks. “What would make mere Muggles important?”

“It’s who they are related to,” Draco garbles out. “They are the parents of Potter’s…Mudblood.” He hates the word by now but it gets her attention.

“What? Why didn’t you say so? We need to be the ones to get them.” Bellatrix whips her wand away from him and steps back, leaving Draco to gather his thrumming body up off the floor. Everything hurts.

“That’s why I stopped them,” he says. He lies.

A demented cackle makes the hair on his nape raise with a shiver. “Show me where!” she demands and grabs his arm, the broken edges of her nails slicing into his skin.

Draco swallows at his panic and apparates them. Thank Salazar they are gone and the house is empty. Bellatrix doesn’t like this one bit and his blood coats the pictures on the walls of a toothily grinning Granger as he pays for being too late.

“Draco,” the voice hums through his pain and snakes into his chest cavity like a spell of warmth. It’s a nice voice, so unlike the deranged yells of Aunt Bella. “Draco. Remember the lake.”

He frowns. What lake?

“The moonlit lake, can you see it?”

An image works itself past the reality of his breaking body and slipping mind.

“Smell the air, it’s fresh and cold.”

He is able to breathe in deeply. Night blooming flowers.

“Yes, night blooming flowers. Remember?”

Draco opened his eyes and blinked, finding Hermione hovering before him. His mind whirled and he groaned, swallowed. Where the fuck was he?

“The war is over and you are in bed. Home at Douillet,” Granger said. She still hovered; her hands clenched to fists as if she tried very hard not to reach for him. Draco was thankful as he breathed in and out, her scent quieting his spiked nerves, just like her presence.

“What can I do?” she asked and retreated a bit.

As her scent threatened to vanish, Draco shook his head. “Stay. Closer. Please.”

She slowly sat down at the edge of his bed and he made space, curling his body around her without touching. Her warmth seeped into him and Draco reveled in her smell. It was like a balm to his frazzled being. He knew without a doubt that touch of any kind would send him straight back into the memory as it would be an overload he was unable to handle, but he wished he could be closer. He wished he could truly feel her against him.

They stayed like that for a while, Draco breathing her in, soaking up as much of Hermione as he was able and her just sitting there, her hands clasped in her lap and her lips thin.

For a few moments, Draco was even able to think on the memory itself. It was one that he seldomly relived, thank Merlin, but it was a horrible one. He had overheard Dolohov and Greyback getting the order to collect a few Muggles and knew if they succeeded in getting her parents, she would be next. There was no doubt in Draco’s mind that Granger would come for her parents, she seemed like the type and she was damned Gryffindor. And if she got caught, Potter would be too. Bleeding-hearted idiots, the lot of them. While he had hated it, Draco had known by then that the only person to really stand up to the Dark Lord—because he had done so ever since he’d been eleven—was Potter. If either he, or his big-brained friend was caught, there was no hope for them, or anyone.

He had truly believed this and acted on pure self-preserving instinct as he had hidden himself and Confunded Dolohov and his mates into turning around. He had never told anyone and to his knowledge, neither had his charming aunt. It had sparked a series of things that had led to severe trauma for Draco, but in that moment, with Hermione’s eyes on him, big and shiny, and knowing she still had hope of getting her parents back, Draco was thankful to his selfish younger self. He would do it over in a heartbeat, even if he had to live through all that followed again.

“Can I do anything more?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Draco cleared his raw throat. “You’re doing it. Just…stay close. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered. “I wish I could help more.”

A jerky smirk pulled at his lips, his chest rising and falling steadily now. “You are doing more than you know.”

Hermione shook her head. “It took me way too long to get you out of it and…” She drew her teeth over her lower lip. “And clearly you could do with a comforting touch right now.” She gestured at how impossibly close they were and how Draco was curled around her as much as he could.

Her brows furrowed and he could see her mind working something over. “We need to work on this. No matter what we choose in the end, this is something I can do for you. If you’ll let me.”

Heavy exhaustion settled over him then and Draco drew up his legs even more, until he could feel her warmth against his thighs. “What you mean?” he slurred, suddenly very tired. Huh, normally he would spend hours coming down from an episode this strong, but just feeling Hermione so close, knowing he was truly safe, simply plucked that anxiety from him.

“I’d like to come along for your next therapy session, if that is fine with you.”

“Hm,” Draco made, his lids fluttering shut. “Anything you want, darling.”

I didn't get to share this in the last chapter because I only finished her two nights ago. But have LAS Pansy!!!!

Chapter Text

Complicated Touch

Hermione

Healer Arturius Herp was a small and very wrinkly fellow. His eyes looked slightly too big behind his glasses as he blinked at Hermione and Draco, seated on an unfortunately colored sofa. The shade of brown was warm, but uncanny and Hermione tried to ignore it by looking at the wood-paneled wall behind the Healer.

Beside her, Draco’s leg was bouncing for a moment, before he reeled the movement in and stilled. It seemed controlled and deliberate, as if he concentrated on doing so.

“I don’t normally do couples counseling,” the Healer said with an apologetic smile and a stifled sound came from Draco.

Hermione shook her head. “Oh, no. That is not…” She chuckled nervously. Somehow the idea of viewing them as a couple had her stomach in knots. While they had not decided, it was a possibility and it…excited her? Pushing at the thought, Hermione focused on the present. “I apologize if the owl I sent wasn’t very clear. I know I merely asked to be able to join Draco today. But I do not want to intrude on his sessions.”

She took a deep breath and glanced at her husband, unsure of how much he had told his therapist about…well, everything. Gosh, they should have talked about this more. But he had seemed so nervous about it and she didn’t want to jeopardize his decision in letting her help by forcing the issue. This was something she could help with. Something she wanted to help with, if he was amenable.

Draco’s chin rose minimally. “You know of my aversion to touch,” he said and the Healer nodded. “We haven’t spoken on how to tackle that, but Hermione has offered to help.” He turned, his grey eyes finding her.

She gave him a smile. “I have. And I would like to learn how to do so in a healthy way.”

The Healer looked from Draco to Hermione and back. His brow raised. “May I ask why you have decided on helping Draco?”

“I don’t see why that is important,” Draco said with a scowl. “And if you are accusing my wife of—”

Hermione raised a palm at him and felt something very warm surge in her chest. Here he was again, standing up for her at even an inkling of question when it came to her person. “It’s fine, Draco. I don’t mind the question.” She squared her shoulders and fixated Herp. “He is my husband and want to help him in any way I can. Draco can’t go through life suffering every time someone touches him. I won’t allow it.”

Draco shifted beside her, his hand clenching on his thigh.

“Does that answer your question, Healer Herp?” Hermione asked.

The Healer had watched her and Draco closely. “I understand. Still, I must ask; this is not sexual in nature with the intent of conceiving a mandated heir?”

Draco stiffened, seemingly ready to launch himself from the sofa and at his therapist. How had the little man survived earlier sessions, being this confrontational and up front with Draco?

Hermione shook her head and scooted to the edge of her seat, placing herself slightly in front of Draco. “No. Although if we decide to take our relationship into something physical on a regular basis, it would be nice to be able to do so without relying on artificial or magically calming means.”

A stricken sound floated from Draco and Hermione continued, feeling herself blush. “But no, that is not the reason. I want to provide Draco with what he needs, as he does for me. I want to be able to hold him after one of his episodes, or touch him when he craves it, without being scared of making it worse. I want to make Draco feel safe in the best way I know how.” She swallowed. “Some people don’t need a lot of touch, some—like me—thrive off of it. It is hard knowing my husband probably also belongs in the latter category, even while unable to stomach it. I know what it is like living starved of affectionate touch and it kills me that my own husband is forced to accept a life void of it.”

Now Herp was smiling softly. He leaned back and drew his right foot up so it rested on his left knee. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Malfoy. I’m sure you understand that the safety of my patient comes first. Not that I’d believe you have ill intent toward Draco, but I know of the contract and had to be certain.”

“No offense taken,” Hermione said, her smirk broadening when Draco scoffed softly next to her.

“Good.” Herp laced his fingers and placed them in his lap. “The first thing you need to understand is that every process of healing is different, just as every experience of trauma is different. What one person might need and be fine with, will cross boundaries for the next. The key to avoiding as much added strain as possible—because there will be strain either way—is to communicate openly and clearly. And to not get discouraged or even worse, impatient. With oneself, or each other.”

His glasses glinted in the light as he turned his head from Hermione to Draco, giving him a meaningful look. “You should set boundaries before starting, that is something I can help you with, if you would like.”

“Please,” Hermione said. “That would be lovely.”

Herp nodded and made the clipboard on his desk float up, a quill hovering beside it as it jotted down a few notes. “Firstly, you should both discuss where and when touching of each other would be welcomed. For example, I’d imagine that Draco would like a warning beforehand, whether you’d need or want one, Mrs. Malfoy, is up to you. Secondly, it should help if you incorporated routine in the beginning. For instance, a slight greeting or good-bye touch could very well be enough in the beginning. Thirdly, make sure to always be in a calm and set state of mind, that will help Draco’s mind associate your touch with the same. Once you are fine, or somewhat fine with that, Draco, you can try slightly comforting touches when needed and only when asked for.” Herp raised a finger. “Do not touch him when he can’t explicitly consent or ask for it, Mrs. Malfoy. That is very important.”

Hermione nodded, immediately committing all information to memory. It all sounded very reasonable.

“As I said, the most important thing will be communication. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you feel you need or want to try and do not fault the other for doing so. The worst that could and should happen, would be a respected no.”

Healer Herp’s words stayed with Hermione as she flooed home, leaving Draco to finish his session alone. She could imagine that the Healer would ask Draco again whether he was truly fine with this course of action and she was in full support of that. While she really wanted to help, for the reasons she presented, Hermione was also not unselfish in all of it. How often had she pulled back from wanting to touch? How often had she wished she could? She had not lied when telling the Therapist that she thrived on touch as well. While her friends were all very affectionate and loving people, Draco was…different. Touching someone one wanted usually was. She bit into her lower lip. That wasn’t why she was doing this, yet, it could pose a problem and distract her, so—hard as it would probably be—Hermione had to be objective about this. She was doing this to help Draco.

She made her way toward the kitchen and prepared a pot of tea. While she steeped the tea, Crookshanks hopped onto the island and plopped his head against her shoulder, purring up a storm.

“Hey, Crooksy,” Hermione crooned and petted him fondly. She sighed and leaned further onto the island, drawing both arms around her familiar to snuggle him. The half-Kneazle gracefully allowed such nonsense for a few seconds, before the purring stopped and Hermione opened her arms, knowing what would come next if she held on. He shook himself and sat down, licked one fluffy paw and drew it over his ear and muzzle. Then a small ‘mrauw’ left him and his yellow eyes darted to the door. A second later the ‘whoosh’ of the floo told of Draco’s return.

Crooks hopped from the island and traipsed from the room, probably to go and greet Draco.

Hermione smirked and floated over two mugs, which she filled before placing a stasis charm over the pot for later refillings. She added milk and sugar to the mugs and made them stir themselves as she turned, her gaze shifting to Draco as he entered, Crookshanks winding around his legs.

“Tea?” she asked and Draco walked over.

“Yes, thank you.” He took the mug she nudged his way and they drank for a few seconds.

Hermione’s eyes roamed him and her heart squeezed when she saw his jaw clench slightly and how tight the muscles around his eyes were.

“Was it wrong of me to come with you?” she asked. “You can always change your mind, Draco. I will not be offended.” She’d be sad, but not offended, but that wasn’t something that should burden him.

A pale brow rose at her question. “What? No, I…” He sighed and set his mug on the island with a soft thud. Crookshanks meowed and purred around both their legs alternatingly, before stalking to the glass door and staring outside.

“Are you sure, Granger?” Draco asked. “You don’t… You don’t have to do this. It’s my failing, my problem.” He frowned. “I should be the one…” His throat clicked as he swallowed. “I don’t want to be a burden, least of all to you.”

She turned and stepped closer to him, hovering next to him without touching. “You are not a burden, Draco, you are my husband. If our roles were reversed, what would you do?”

His brows furrowed, his sharp gaze telling her all she needed to know and she smiled. “Then why deny me doing the same for you?”

“I’m not denying, I just need to know.” His storm-colored eyes chased over her face, in search of something. “Did you mean what you said to Herp? About why you’re doing this? Because if it’s out of pity, I don’t want it.”

Hermione took a measured sip from her mug. “I do not pity you and yes, I meant it. All of it.” She cocked her head. “But I will not proceed if any of it makes you uncomfortable, or anxious.”

“Of course I’m anxious,” Draco said and a small jolt of hurt laced through her chest. “But not because I don’t want it. I don’t…” He murmured something and looked at his shoes, the tips of his cheeks pinkening.

“Pardon?”

Draco looked back up, but avoided her gaze. “I don’t want to disappoint you, or make you feel rejected if I can’t take it, or—” He cut himself off and cursed.

The hurt in her chest vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Hermione pushed off from the island. “Will you sit with me?” she asked over her shoulder as she walked toward the dining table.

She felt him move behind her and slid onto a chair, waiting for him to sit. They sat in their usually places. On the right side of the table and opposite each other.

Hermione drank deeply and then set down her mug, cradling it in both hands. The warmth would leave soon, as it was nearly empty. She took in the wizard across from her and noted how up tight he seemed. His brows furrowed and his lips thin, while his stormy eyes glared into his mug as if it had offended him.

“You could never disappoint me,” Hermione said softly. “I want to thank you for trusting me enough to try and that is all I will ever ask of you. To try. And to talk to me.”

His gaze lifted and she sent a warm smile his way. “Yes, I might feel some type of way if you deny my touch, or if it gets too much, but that is only natural and not something either of us can change. What matters is that I will know it’s not personal, so I will get over it. Because if you tell me now that you want to try—with me, specifically—then I will believe you. If that changes in the future, we will speak about it, but until then, I will trust that you know what you want.”

His long fingers rounded his mug and he took a sip. “I do. Truly, Hermione. I trust you and I want to try, with you. If there is any touch I think I could welcome or get used to, it’s yours.”

His words sang through her and she felt as if she was floating. A smile spread on her lips and she watched his twitch in answer. “Good. Then that is what I will keep in mind, no matter what happens.”

Hermione downed last of her tea and Accioed the pot, sugar and milk to the table. Once she had poured them another cup, she took a deep breath. “Now, would you like to discuss specifics? Boundaries and such? Or do you want to wait until later, or tomorrow? Or some other time?”

Draco added milk and sugar to both their mugs and then sat back. “No, we can talk about it now, if you like.”

“Alright.” Hermione took another deep breath. It felt strangely intimate, discussing something like this so openly. It should have been clinical and objective, but she couldn’t help it as a kernel of excitement wedged itself into her chest. “I will consent to your touch at any time and any place you want or need it.”

His eyes had widened at her words. “A-are you sure about that?”

She raised a brow at him. “Were you planning on grabbing my tit in public?”

“Merlin, no!” he said, looking aghast.

Hermione smirked cheekily. “Then I don’t see a problem and I’m sure.”

Draco stared.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll amend it. I’ll consent to your touch unless specifically voiced otherwise and as long as it is appropriate and not sexual. Happy?”

Something close to a grunt left him. The he shook his head and focused on her. “Fine.” His voice was warm and gravelly, doing strange things to her belly. “I would like to start a routine, then. I liked Herp’s idea of a greeting and good-bye touch. So I’ll try that when entering a room you’re in.”

Hermione nodded.

“If you… If you want to—I mean besides that, then you can too, if it’s not too often. But maybe ask?”

She smiled. “Perhaps once you’ve gotten used to me a bit more.”

He drew a hand through his hair. “I’ll feel stupid if I’m the only one initiating all the time.”

“Alright. Once a day, I’ll ask. Is that fine?”

This time she was treated to a genuine smile from him. As always, the radiance of it overwhelmed her. Gods he was breathtaking when he smiled like that.

“That is more than fine, darling wife.”

It was easier than she’d have thought. And harder than she had anticipated.

Draco made good on his word and gave her a little touch every time he came upon her or left. At first, he seemed to have a problem believing in her consent. His fingers would brush her arm or hands, or shoulder in a barely-there graze, then he would apologize and step back immediately. Hermione had been very patient, telling him each time that it was no trouble. Then, after the third day, she gently reminded him that she was very fine with him touching her and he didn’t have to apologize each time and while he did so once or twice more, his apologies ceased.

When it came to the deal of her asking once a day, it was different. Hermione sought out silent moments, when they sat together in the living room in the evenings and read, she would ask: “Alright?” Then, after he’d nodded, she’d nudge his shoulder with hers, or push on his knee with her toes before tugging her feet under herself. Careful to use a mix between firm and light touch, not lingering, she tried different things. So far she had discovered that Draco was ticklish on his sides, which had horrified her at first because he’d jerked from her so suddenly. They had both laughed when he’d told her the reason. His remark on how ‘I can’t remember the last time someone tickled me.’ had made her heart sink with heaviness.

Hermione had taken to sitting on the same sofa as him. This had the added bonus of Crookshanks being able to curl up between them and enjoy scratches from both sides. Which led to accidental and inadvertent touches. The first time had been a slight shock to both of them and Hermione had stilled completely, scared she had crossed a line, but Draco smiled and said it was fine.

From then on, Hermione made sure to keep her hand very visible for Draco. Sometimes she felt his fingers brush hers and she wondered how much of that was intentional, as he lingered here and there as the time went on.

That was all fine and nicely developing, but the touches themselves… They were the actual problem. Hermione noticed that her skin would be covered in goosebumps the moment she saw him enter a room, as if anticipating what always happened next. Where her heart had beaten fast at seeing him in general—because she was madly attracted to him—it now raced while her belly did swoopy things. His long fingers traversing her skin, even just for the few seconds it lasted, would have her shiver and the sensation lingered like a small brand. As they sat closer now, discussing their day and what went on the next week, she could smell his delectable scent more prominently. She could look at him while they spoke and would get lost in the grey of his eyes, or the small dimple on his left cheek that she discovered when the laughed together. Ever since his face had filled out and lost the rest of Azkaban’s gauntness, it seemed to have appeared overnight. Then there was the way his hair would fall over his eyes, or how enchanting his lips were when he spoke, smiled, or just the way they moved when he was in deep thought. The slightest purse, a tug at the corners, or the dent his teeth left when he drew them across the lower one.

It was hard, because the tension she felt in his presence was slowly driving her insane. Worse than just wishing and wanting, was that she bloody-well knew how his hands felt on her skin, how his body felt against hers, how he tasted and felt inside of her. All of it led to her being in a heightened state of awareness, frustration and unwelcome arousal. She squashed it. Draco needed none of it.

Hermione took to forcing her gaze away from him as best she could as the weeks wore one. It was difficult and impossibly complicated doing so while still being open and welcoming to conversations and his touch. Somehow she managed.

They learned many things about each other, spoke on books they had both read, art they admired and even their childhood. Safe topics at first. Like the different teachers and their favorite places in and around Hogwarts. Hermione actually nearly fell from the sofa with laughter when she discovered that Draco apparently had an affinity for Divination and had enjoyed it, especially after Firenze had taken over the lessons.

“Seriously? Divination is such a wishy-washy kind of magic, if you can even call it that. How on earth can you take it seriously?”

Draco smirked and shifted to face her, his right knee closing in on hers. She could feel the warmth radiating from him and her stomach started to buzz. “It might be a field that is more innate and open to interpretation as others, but I had fun with it.” Draco nudged her knee with his own playfully and the touch jolted through her. “I wouldn’t expect someone who quit after a few lessons to understand.” He smirked broadly and that damned dimple made an appearance, making her heart bob and she nearly lost it. How the fuck was it fair to be that good-looking? Wait, he had insulted her, right?

“A few lessons?” She scoffed. “If you could call those erratic yowls lessons.”

He leaned forward. “Face it, Granger; you quit.”

Hermione glowered at him. “I have never quit anything in my life, Malfoy.”

“Except for the art of Divination, darling.” His knee bounced against hers once more and the sensation of it, coupled with what it did to her when he called her darling, made heat pool in her belly.

She swallowed starkly as her body sparked to life all over. “Art? I beg to differ. And I am not listening to such utter nonsense a second longer,” she snapped and jumped from the sofa. While fleeing the room, she felt her cheeks flush and blew out a trembling breath, listening to Draco’s chuckles behind her. Infuriating man! He had to know what he was doing to her.

It wasn’t always as tension-filled, though. Their conversations sometimes drifted toward maudlin topics, taking any levity or heat from the moment. Draco openly discussed and took ownership of his treatment of her when they were young, a conversation that was difficult for both of them and afterwards, Hermione felt both lighter and sadder. The memories were not happy ones and it was a strange thing to be this fond of the man who was responsible of them. But he wasn’t who he had been, neither of them were. And if she’d had only Draco’s words of regret, she might have felt differently, but she had his actions as well. Which spoke to his change more than anything else could.

Over the course of a few weeks, Draco became more sure in his touches, and was able to linger longer, seemingly absent-mindedly. While he seemed to be more calm, Hermione’s entire being almost combusted on a regular basis and she had taken to brisk walks or runs before going to bed to expel some of the tension. The immediate surrounding forest of Douillet was familiar ground by the time Christmas rolled around.

She put off girl’s night as the festive season drew closer, a deep sense of sadness engulfing her as it had the last few years. The Weasleys did not invite her this year, but Molly and Arthur sent a lovely letter, along with a knitted jumper for her. She was grateful, as Hermione had not heard from Ronald and didn’t want to see him either.

Harry and Ginny had asked about that, obviously, but she had only told them that she and Ron had nothing to say to each other anymore and their friendship was completely done. She knew they were curious, but both respected her wish to not further discuss it. As always, Harry would spend his Christmas at the Burrow and while Hermione didn’t begrudge him the company, she felt bereft, thinking she would have to endure the coldness of Draco’s parents.

That was until Draco said he had no desire to spend Christmas with them past the mandated dinner that week, which was very silent and stilted. Narcissa sent a few glowers at her husband, obviously painting him responsible for the fact that her son didn’t want to spend Christmas with them. Ever since that one dinner, where Lucius had been an utter twit, while Draco had made her heart stop with how he defended her, all dinners had been equally uncomfortable. Lucius said next to nothing, while Narcissa tried to hold up a conversation and Draco grumbled. This led to Hermione and Narcissa talking about mundane things. Basically they spoke without saying anything and Hermione hated every moment of it.

On Christmas morning, when Hermione had woken with the gut-wrenching feeling of knowing she’d spend another Christmas without her parents, Draco had surprised her with a Portkey to see them. He had even come along to meet them. Her heart had warmed and expanded past what should be possible. She knew he hated being out and about, but came along for her.

The situation had bettered and according to Healer Nilsson, the neural pathways had almost been healed completely and they could soon try tugging at some of the hidden memories, but neither still had no idea who she was.

Still, Hermione enjoyed being around them during a meal she helped her mother make. The way her mother hummed songs from her youth was reminiscent of her childhood and Hermione was hard-pressed not to start crying or hug her mother.

She smiled brightly when her father exclaimed his happiness at the hideously-knitted sweater she had brought along. He drew it on immediately. Her mother lovingly stroked over the copy of ‘Moby Dick’ Hermione had brought for her, not knowing that they had read the story together countless times.

In general, Hermione was heartened at how much more alive they both seemed and it filled her with hope for the future, while equally tearing at her. It had been so long since she had allowed herself true hope. Hope of betterment, yes, of course, but true hope. The kind that allowed for imagining them fully remembering her? It had been a long time since she had indulged in the like.

Draco was a steady and mostly silent company. He was gracious and very cordial, he even played a few rounds of Uno with her father and gently put his arm around Hermione when she cried after they left.

“Can I hug you?” she asked, sniffling, when they stood in front of the clinic, snow greeting them in twinkling white under the streetlights.

“Of course,” Draco rumbled and drew her closer.

Her arms came around him and while she tried to be gentle, she squeezed him, her face nestled to his chest. As her tears stained his coat, she blubbered out how grateful she was and how much she appreciated him coming with her. She hiccupped and he held her, drawing his hands up and down her back. Breathing in his scent of leather, mint and something warm, Hermione relished feeling him so close. It soothed her sadness, making it bearable.

Long fingers gently swept to her cheek and tilted her face back. Hermione shuddered under the direct skin-contact and forgot how she must look for a second as her eyes met his. Silver, just like the stars above them.

“Don’t thank me, Hermione,” he said, his voice low and coating her like a balm. “I wish I could do more.” His thumb drew over her cheek, brushing away a tear.

“You are doing so much more than anyone ever has, Draco,” Hermione said. She felt him suppress a twitch and knew he was fighting to stay pressed to her. It was a painful little thing and yes, it felt like rejection, but she did as she had promised. Hermione reminded herself of the fact that he wanted this, her touch. It wasn’t personal. Still, it hurt and she pulled away and wiped at her tears. “Thank you. This… It really means everything to me that we came. That you came with me.”

He offered her his arm and Hermione haltingly laced hers through it. “Home?” he asked.

“Home,” Hermione said.

Chapter Text

Gifts

Draco

Draco’s fingers flexed as Hermione stepped from him, unhooking her arm from his with a shaky smile. It was bracing how small the part of him was that had wanted to shrink back from the hug they had shared a few moments ago. Maybe her sorrow and the way it had made his throat tight was the reason. It had been something to cast his mind to.

Not that generally touching Hermione wasn’t getting easier—it was—but hugs were still different. The feeling of being unable to escape, being encased by another that way, made him severely uncomfortable. Draco knew she’d needed the two hugs he had given her so far and he was frustrated that he still had trouble with it. Less so, but it was there. Even if being so close also meant he could breathe her in to his heart’s content. There were precious little opportunities to do so without sniffing the air like a creep whenever she was around.

He knew that he was doing better when it came to touching, at least when it concerned his wife, but as someone who had believed himself nigh limitless in what he could do, corporally, and testing the bounds of what was possible in many ways, Draco was growing impatient with himself. Before the war, there had been nothing holding him back doing the things he wanted to do. Not physically. Yes, there had been that crippling, suffocating mountain of expectations heaved on him, very much restricting him in his options and choices when it came to his life, but not his body and mind. Draco had been able to count on those to never fail him. Not during Quidditch or flying outrageously dangerous maneuvers. Not when it came to a steady hand at casting magic and distributing the exact amount of ingredients into potions. Not in moments he needed a sharp answer, or goading words when it came to his perceived enemies. And certainly not when he wanted to get closer to a pretty witch. In fact, he had leaned into those things with vigor and the complete disregard for danger that youth and health provided.

Draco hated not being able to blink and get past the things that held him back like iron bars. Sometimes he felt like a moth in a jar. Looking at the outside and seeing what he wanted, but too fucking fragile and weak to break free. No, he had to work for every small motion that took him along the path of healing and often enough he would backslide, get hung-up on something, or was forced to take another path—if he so dared.

Now he had to force himself to fly, against shivers and cold sweat. Once in the air, it was fine, but on the ground, straddling his broom and about to kick off was daunting. Sometimes he stayed like that for minutes, unable to move, to bend his knees and shoot into the sky, and too bloody stubborn to dismount and head back inside. It was aggravating how much will it took—heartrate spiking, breath sawing in and out of him, and sweat curling down his spine—until he could finally make himself move.

His hands? They shook as soon as he needed them steady. Making the potions for the ink Pansy would use on him had been vexing. Brewing needed precise dosages and calm fucking hands. Draco had messed up so much in the beginning that he had melted a cauldron in his anger. Over time, he had been able to compensate and learned to add ingredients with swishes of his wand, or to make a knife cut precisely without using his hands. It was a slow process, but better than swearing so viciously and loud that Crookshanks sent him unamused glances from where he had turned into his liquid cat form on his cushion. Thank Merlin, it was over and he had sent them to Pansy a few days ago.

His wit and confidence would leave as soon as he was in unfamiliar spaces with too many strange people around. Like today. It had been hard keeping composed at all times, but Hermione’s reaction had been worth it. He knew he was unable to give her—give them both—a nice and family-oriented Christmas. Not with his parents and not by staying in, alone, like on any other day. So he had taken the plunge. It felt like a blur, his sensory overload so heavy, that it was more like part of a somewhat vivid dream. He had no idea how Hermione did it without losing her mind, though. His parents were far from perfect, but at least they bloody remembered him. Her mix of pain, joy, and tentative hope had been the only things to really get through to him. The only things that still felt real now. She had been raw and vulnerable in a way he was unused to when it came to her. He was thankful that he had been present enough to comfort her.

Before the war, it would have been a simple gesture. Now, he was left breathing in the familiar scent of Douillet (wood, warmth, and sun-kissed stone), getting his slightly trembling hands under control as he watched his wife walk toward the kitchen with tired steps. A wife he wanted to touch.

His lips thinned and he slowly followed her. Wishing to comfort her and struggling to do so was frustrating, especially since he had gotten to know her more and realized just how much strength and comfort she took from touch. He hated being unable to give her more of his.

In the beginning he had apologized each time he touched her, believing her blanket consent, but still not having internalized its meaning. It had been a strange thing to come to terms with the fact that she truly didn’t mind him touching her. No matter when, where, or how. Once he’d gotten used to it, Draco was able to focus on the small, ritual hello-and-good-bye-touches themselves. He was able to linger now and enjoy the feel of her smooth skin for a few seconds, before it got too much. And when they sat together in the living room or the library to chat, read, or play rounds of wizard’s chess, she would wait for languid moments before initiating a slow prod or nudge. While Draco knew they would come, those touches were special. Fleeting as they were, it was her touching him. Willingly. And they would burn him differently than him instigating. They were quite similar to the ‘accidental’ touches they shared when sitting together with Shanks in their middle.

Maybe it was because in those moments she was inordinately beautiful. Relaxed, soft, and settled. At ease with him and their surroundings. A constant presence of warmth and safety. And yet, in the past few weeks something had shifted. Thinking of it now, made a memory from last week rise, when he had talked to Herp about it.

~

“What is bothering you, Draco?” Herp asked.

Draco looked at his Healer, knowing denial was futile. The little man was way too perceptive. No matter how much Draco prized himself at being a good liar, Herp saw right through him. It was quite annoying.

He blew out a sharp breath and shook his head.

“Is it because of the touch-exposure?” Herp asked, his brows raising to crease his forehead in that spectacular way of his. “If it gets too much, you can always—”

With a huff, Draco cut him off. He braced his upped body on his elbows, resting them on his thighs, which were bouncing slightly. “No, I… Well…” Draco cleared his throat. “It has to do with that, I think.”

Herp’s expression turned to surprise. “You think?”

“The entire thing is working. So bloody slow that I want to tear out my hair at times, but it is working.”

“Being frustrated with progress is fine, Draco. You are allowed to feel frustration. It’s actually a good sign. Means you have a goal, that you haven’t given up.”

Draco threw his Healer a dark look. Normally he appreciated these statements, but in that moment, it frustrated him. “I don’t care about being allowed,” he spat. “It’s not even about me.” He looked at his bobbing knees while saying that last part, quieter than before.

“Is this about boundaries you set with Hermione? If you want, I can ask her to come by and we can talk to her together.”

He wanted to snarl at his Healer, but refrained. “No, nothing like that. Hermione has been…fantastic in every way. She is so steady, so calm and lovely with me. There are no expectations from her, no signs of frustration, nor does she deny my touch or makes it feel unwelcome.”

The Healer tilted his head to the side, making the light reflect in his narrow glasses. “But?”

“It’s not…perceptible. It’s more like a feeling,” Draco said slowly. “She is the same as ever, but sometimes I think she… I think she pulls back from me. Not physically, but mentally. And not when we speak or spend time together, but specifically when my touch lingers. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was occluding, but she has told me she doesn’t know how.” He frowned at his laced fingers. “I know she consents to my touch and I know there is—” Draco cleared his throat. “—attraction. At least I thought there was. What if I…” He trailed off, unable to voice his concerns.

Herp was quiet, waiting and Draco cursed inwardly.

“What if that attraction was lost because she is beginning to see how much work it is? What if I stay like this?” He spread his hands and scowled at the slight tremble in his fingers, sparked by his train of thought. “What if I can’t… Fuck, I know she needs more than what I’m giving her. And I want to, sometimes I look at her and want her so damned much that it feels like my mind will split in two.”

“Are we talking about intimacy here, or sex?” Herp asked. He shrugged when Draco looked at him. “Those can be two different things.”

“Both?” Draco said and then sighed deeply. “I told you about how we discussed getting to know each other more to see whether a real relationship is feasible?”

The Healer nodded.

“Well, I’d really like to try. I… I have grown very fond of Hermione and the thought of her losing interest because of my problem drives me insane.” Draco swallowed. “My progress is taking too long. Sometimes it feels like I’m taking two steps back, instead of going forward.”

Herp watched him for a long moment and Draco began to fidget under his scrutiny.

“Your progress is not slow, just to get that out of the way,” Herp said. “You know this journey isn’t a straight line by now, Draco. You have to stop expecting miracles to happen over night. Do not be so strict with yourself.” He tilted his head inquisitively. “How would you describe your fondness for you wife?” he asked, changing the topic and taking Draco by surprise. “Why are you fond of her?”

“Uhm… I mean you’ve seen her, what’s not to like?”

The little man pursed his lips and raised a brow, clearly seeing the deflection for what it was.

Draco groaned into his palms, then pulled his head free and sat up. He stared at the tassels of an old rug that lay upturned and rumpled in a row of neat ones. “She makes me feel safe,” he finally said quietly. “She is steady and warm. There are no games with her, no deception. Only honesty and understanding. She lets me see her and she is not afraid of her own vulnerabilities. I… I’m not used to being around people who are so genuine. And I don’t deserve…” He took a deep breath. “Hermione lights up every room she is in and I can barely look away from her. Everything about her draws me in and I just want to be able to reach for her and be closer. Our conversations are never boring, not even when we talk nonsense. Her mind is sharp and witty, she is so easily excitable and when that happens…” Draco smiled. “She’s radiant. Sometimes I can’t believe my bloody luck that she’s actually married to me. That she seems to care enough to want to help me and that she lets me touch her. Or at least she was fine with it, until recently.”

The silence following his outburst was loud and Draco blushed, pressing his lips together firmly. A mixture of relief at having voiced his feelings was coupled with embarrassment. He breathed. There was no danger in telling his Healer these things, no one would ever know. Still, in admitting it out loud, he admitted them to himself as well.

“I don’t want to lose her because of the way I am.” Draco stared at his open palms with disgust.

“Have you considered talking to her about this?” Herp asked.

“No. If I’m wrong, I don’t want to put thoughts or doubts in her head.”

“Draco, you are an intelligent young man. And we both know that is a made-up reason.”

Draco’s head reared up and he glanced at his Healer, who was looking at him with a soft expression.

“You’re afraid to open up to her on this, because it matters to you. She matters. And you’re scared once you tell her how you truly feel, she will not reciprocate.”

Frowning, Draco shook his head. “She knows how I feel.”

“I doubt that very much,” Herp said. “Have you told her what you just told me? That she makes you feel safe? That you are mesmerized by her? Want her?”

Draco swallowed once more and avoided Herp’s gaze.

The Healer sighed. “Didn’t think so. Maybe you should tell her, when you’re ready.”

Those words made him lace his fingers tightly, as if he could pull some strength from how firmly he was gripping himself. “I don’t know how,” he quietly admitted. Then, even quieter, he whispered; “I don’t even know what I feel.”

Herp’s chair creaked as he leaned in a bit. “That is fine, but be aware it’s a talk you will have to face. Once you know what you want to say and how you feel, we can talk about how to tell her.” He straightened again. “Now, onto her changing behavior. You said there was attraction for you on her side. Have you considered this could be the problem? Maybe that is what you sense in her.”

Draco was momentarily caught in the confusing realization that his feelings for Hermione had changed. There had been so much time spent insisting on fondness—pure and simple—that Draco had trouble voicing something else. Even to himself. Fond was nice. Fond was safe. Yet, while Hermione did exude safety to him, there was nothing safe or nice in the way he felt. It was…quite the opposite, really. It was vast and dangerous, tinged in a beckoning, delicious darkness. Possessive, yet reverent. Yearning with a touch of scalding heat. He shook off the thought, not wanting to look at this too closely yet, it felt as if any realization would be overwhelming.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to concentrate on what Herp had said after. “What do you mean? It feels like she is drawing back. If it was attraction, it would be the opposite.”

Herp raised a bushy brow. “Hermione is a very sharp woman, don’t you think she would work on hiding her needs from you as best she could? If those needs could not be met by you yet and would make you feel pressured if she voiced them or showed it openly?”

~

His Healer’s theory might make sense in an objective way, but it was highly improbable. It was much more feasible that Hermione simply lost confidence or patience; along with any attraction there might have been. Alas, it didn’t matter much right then. Or rather, Draco decided to ignore it for the time being. As well as the swell of…something gathering in his chest when he looked at her.

Draco watched Hermione rest her elbows on the kitchen island and sink her face into her palms, her slim shoulders bunching up and her curls tumbling onto the surface in a heap of wild beauty. He sighed inwardly at the sight and bit into his cheek. Fuck, he wanted to step up behind her and pull her in for another hug. His fists trembled in his pockets where he had hidden them, telling him it would be a very bad idea.

His episodes were fewer these days, but far from gone. After this day, Draco felt he was close. His senses had been plucked at by exposing himself to so much unfamiliarity and there was no telling when his mind would betray him. All he knew was that he was close. And yet, her sorrow was so glaringly visible to him. Like tendrils of agony brushing him, making his chest expand to accommodate his answering pain.

With a strained swallow, Draco poured water into the kettle and busied himself with making them tea. He was pathetic, but this was all he could do. Gods, maybe he was truly deluding himself.

“Don’t be so strict with yourself,” he heard Herp say in his head.

Slowly, Draco rounded the island and slid her cup of tea across it. All he could do for a few moments was watch as she shook, hunched in on herself. She looked so small like this and he was reminded how different in stature they truly were. It was easy to forget when she always seemed larger than life. Strong, exuberant and confident. And while he was unused to seeing Hermione so raw, he realized this was part of her as well. It hurt him to see, but it was real. She didn’t hide from him and it made him feel profoundly grateful that she seemed to trust him enough to show it openly.

Hermione raised her head after a while and reached for the cup, cradling it in her slender hands. She sniffed once and took a sip. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet and brittle.

Draco waited, unsure how to tell her that he was there if she needed to talk. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, creating an atmosphere of hidden calm. Something tense but somehow soothing. Magical. And he didn’t dare break it.

“I haven’t been able to spend time like this with them in years,” she said. “It was almost normal. Gods,” she choked the word out, tears leaking from her eyes to run down her cheeks. “I’m so scared, Draco.” Her eyes of amber fire found his, shining with a heart wrenching agony that almost felled him. “Every time I had hope like this… When I thought ‘this is it, they’re getting better’, they slid back and got even worse. I can’t…” She swallowed and her plush lower lip trembled. “I don’t think I can go on if that happens again. I- I gave so much to this, to them. I gave everything.” Her brows drew together as more tears ran down her face and she sobbed, the tiny plops on the island feeling as though they should be as loud as thunder. “What if I have nothing left?”

There was a breathtaking beauty in her sorrow. The way broken glass was beautiful. Shiny and sharp. All glittering edges and brittle mess. He had no idea what to say to her. He doubted there was anything he could say to make her feel better. Draco was a second away from rounding the island once more and try to comfort her, consequences to his mind be damned, but she let out a shuddering breath and rolled back her shoulders.

With resolute movements, she swiped at her tears. “I apologize,” she said and smiled shakily. “I didn’t mean to ruin your Christmas.”

Draco grunted and slid his lids shut as a bout of angry pain shot through him. “Don’t.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Don’t apologize. You ruined nothing.”

A teary chortle answered him and she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. I imagine you wanted to spend Christmas Eve with me, sobbing in the kitchen.”

“Hermione,” he said firmly. “Last Christmas I spent in a cell. The one before I don’t even recall. I am right where I want to be, darling. With someone I want to be with.”

She blinked at him slowly, her eyes bottomless pools of amber.

“It is our Christmas. And we will spend it the way we want to. Whether that means sobbing into our tea, or talking about things that are painful, or reading by the fire, or going to bed early, it doesn’t matter, because it’s ours and we do it together.”

Hermione stared at him for a few seconds, a stray tear traveling down her cheek. If he were different, Draco could have reached across the island and wiped it away. He swallowed at his frustration, trying to be patient with himself. Maybe one day, he thought. Hoped. Very slowly, her lips stretched into a dazzling, yet melancholic smile. It tore at his heartstrings as if she was playing them like an instrument. Gentle, but with a soft strength.

“You are quite amazing, you know?” she said.

Draco didn’t answer, not agreeing, but also at a loss. Something very warm shifted into his chest at the way she watched him. As if she truly believed what she was saying. It was a strange feeling and he was unsure whether he liked it. Draco was busy searching his mind for something adequate to reply with, when Hermione gasped as she looked past him.

“Look!” She pushed off from the island and hurried to the glass doors. Outside, thick flakes of snow fell to the cold ground, glittering in the nightly garden-lights. A carpet of white quickly began to cover everything. “The first snow.” Her whisper sounded breathless and she placed her palm against the glass.

A rumble went through the room and the doors opened. The small terrace beyond was wiped clean and the wicker chairs dried before their eyes before blankets plopped into existence in their seats. Candles flew past them and they both jerked in surprise. The candles lit and hovered around the space, while the garden lights dimmed, as did the ones in the kitchen. The iron fireplace that normally graced the space under the pavilion further in the garden thunked down and a lazy fire began crackling between the chairs.

Hermione gaped at the scene, then drew her palm over the doorhandle fondly. “Thank you, Cozy-pants.” She stepped from the house and sat down.

The answering rumble felt very happy.

Draco was reminded of the night Douillet had provided him with his painting of Hermione and a bath afterwards. It had been exactly what he’d needed. Now it looked as though the house was providing the same for her. The smile on his face was involuntary and he followed his wife outside into the cozy and warm space. Once they both sat, Crookshanks trotted from somewhere in the bushes, looking put-out by the sudden snowfall as he shook his paws hilariously with each step, his mien disgruntled.

He hopped onto Hermione’s lap with a mewl and let her hug him and bury her face into his wiry fur. The ensuing purr was loud enough for Draco to hear and he was grateful the cat was able to give her something he could not.

They watched the snow in silence as it grew thicker, shutting out any sounds beyond the crackling of the fire, making it feel as though they were in a bubble of warmth and wonder.

“I promised,” Hermione said unprompted. “My parents. Before I erased myself from their minds I told them why.” She shook her head and gathered Crookshanks a bit tighter. “It took me almost a month to make them understand, to make them see that the only way I could keep them safe was to have them forget me and leave.” A grimace grew on her features. “The thing that eventually swayed them was how they would never know the grief of me dying. It was a horrible thing to tell them, but it worked.”

Pulling in a shaky breath, Hermione closed her eyes. “They made me promise to find them if I did not. To bring them back and make them remember, no matter what. And yet all I did was make them suffer. Now I can’t go back. And if this doesn’t work, their minds will forever be altered. Too broken to live normally.” Again, tears ran down her face. “I did this to them. And I am still doing it.”

Draco could almost feel the depth of her sorrow and self-blame. It was as bottomless as her burnt-whisky eyes and broke his heart. “You promised,” he simply said, his voice rough with emotion. “You have done—are doing—everything possible to keep your promise.”

She turned to face him. “Does it make me a bad person that I sometimes wish I hadn’t? That I hadn’t told them? Or left them to live their happy lives, not knowing who I am?” Her admission wasn’t more than a pained whisper, broken and small.

“No, it does not make you a bad person,” Draco said. “Not even close.”

More tears slunk down her face and landed in Crookshanks’ fur. “Th-thank you, but I…”

“You devoted your life to this,” Draco said. “For years. You married me, for them. Sometimes wishing you had chosen differently does not take away from your actions. Anyone else would have given up by now, you have not.”

Her lips thinned, tears dipping into the line. “Maybe that just means I am too stubborn for my own good.”

“No, it means you are loyal, exceptional, and shows how much you love them.”

Hermione sighed and fell into silence for a few moments. She swiped at her cheeks and leaned back, watching the fire, her fingers carding through Crookshanks’ fur. “Would you believe me when I said this has been the best Christmas I’ve had in years?”

A mirthless chuckle left him. “Probably not.”

“It is.” She turned her face to him, the light of the fire glinting in her glossy eyes and lighting up her curls like spun gold. “I don’t feel alone when I’m with you. I… I’ve felt alone for a very long time. And I can’t remember when last I could talk so openly about my parents without feeling like I was boring or burdening the other. If I even wanted to speak of them.”

Again, Hermione had him lost in a wave of touched affection, leaving him scrambling for words. He knew what she was really saying; she trusted him and she felt comfortable being herself around him. As she should. Still, it was a wonderous thing for him to experience. Draco had never wanted to be as open with anyone before. It had always meant inviting vulnerability and exposure. He had worked hard on being fine with telling Herp things. It was straining and scary, but it worked, it was just never easy. Somehow Draco knew it would be easy sharing things with her. Safe. Like everything about her was.

“I’m glad you told me,” he finally said. “And it honors me that you trust me enough to do so. I will always listen if you need it, Hermione.”

Her spectacular eyes lit up with something for a second, before she blinked and it was gone. Draco was hit with an unknown and endless feeling in that second, something he could not fathom as it felt too inexplicable and foreign. He was reeling with it, but as that look had vanished so fast, he breathed and decided his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said softly. “You have no idea what it means to me—what all that you did means to me. Please know that I am always here if you need me to listen as well. If you ever feel the need to share anything. No matter what.” Her gaze turned earnest and steely, telling him she truly meant ‘anything’. Coming from anyone else, this might have seemed like an empty phrase, but Hermion knew some of his demons—they shared a few—and she knew exactly what she was offering him.

Draco gave her a nod, not knowing whether he would ever take her up on it, even while he knew it would be easier with her than anyone else. Like touch, like company, like talking in general, or sitting in silence. Hermione was effortless to him. More comfortable than solitude and able to quiet his mind better than any amount of occlusion or weed. In that moment his resolve to work harder on himself mounted. There was no way he would lose her to his own failings. None.

“Here,” Hermione said with a slight blush, presenting him with two neatly wrapped gifts. “Happy Christmas, Draco.” She looked fetchingly cozy in her tights, over-sized jumper and fluffy socks, her hair tumbling from the bun she had wrangled it into. “It’s not much, but maybe you can use them.”

She scooted back on the sofa, grabbing her mug of hot chocolate to hide behind it.

They had woken quite late after spending another hour or so just watching the snow fall silently the night before. It had been heavier than most their silences, but also warmer and more intimate in a way. Now, they were sat in the sitting room, surrounded by decorations he and Douillet had put up a few days prior. Draco had even set up a tree next to the hearth and Douillet had conjured a mix of silver and blue baubles that now hung on the branches. The space smelled like pine, cinnamon and dried oranges.

Hermione had been elated at seeing the tree, telling him how she used to go cut a tree with her father and then they’d decorate it together as a family. Draco had felt slightly bad at not having waited for her and promised himself they would do this together next year. If they were still together by then, his mind added darkly.

He frowned at his presents, then looked at her. “You didn’t have to.”

She waved him off, then recupped her mug with both hands. “Pish posh, of course I did. You have given me such a beautiful present yesterday; this doesn’t measure up at all.”

Draco remembered his childhood Christmases for a beat. Surrounded by mountains of costly gifts, tearing through the elegant wrappings with glee and excitement, he had measured their worth and numbers, seeing it as a visual representation of how much his parents loved him. He supposed when it came to his mother, this was true, even if he had been happiest when she just spent time with him in an unguarded fashion.

This was different. He could tell Hermione was waiting with bated breath, excitement shining from her face, interlaced with that slight blush. Was she nervous he wouldn’t like his gifts?

The first one was a solid square, about the size of a jewelry box. “Aw, did you get me a bracelet, Granger?” he drawled, peeling back the green paper.

Hermione scoffed. “Just open it, you prat.”

Draco smirked and lifted a wooden box from the wrapping. It was simple and without any carved designs. He opened the lid and frowned. His brows rose as he beheld glittering, grey powder. Inside the lid was a word. Excito.

“Uhm… Thanks?”

Hermione giggled and extended one of her feet slowly. She gave him time to scoot away before she prodded his knee with her toes once. Draco didn’t move, only watched and waited for the touch. It was gentle and small. Spiking nothing negative.

“I bespelled it,” she explained. “It’s for your paintings. You can mix it in with any color and based on intent and feeling, it brings the painting to life when it’s done. After you said the spell.”

He stared at her and she shifted a bit, looking nervous. “I have been experimenting with sensory magic, for my parents, to maybe be able to make sensory memories in the future. So I used some of my findings on this. For example, if you draw the ocean, you should be able to hear it and smell it by looking at it. If that was the intent.”

Draco swallowed starkly. “You… That is incredible. How did you…”

She blushed even more. “You’ll have to try and see if it works, though.” Taking another sip, she nodded at the remaining present. “Open the next one.”

A bit dazed, not knowing what to say at the unfathomable thoughtfulness of her gift—something she had made with magic and creativity, for him, specifically. Draco set the box down and grabbed the small parcel. It was soft and felt as though there was fabric inside. This one was wrapped in silver. Gently, he plucked at the paper and found a pair of black, leather gloves. They were incredibly soft to the touch and looked sleek and posh, with small silver buttons on the wrists, carrying the Malfoy sigil.

“They’re dragon-hide. And I bespelled these too,” Hermione said nervously. “You can adjust how sensitive you’ll feel touch through them.”

Draco looked from the gloves to his wife and blinked slowly.

“I- I thought you could wear them in public, so shaking hands would not be as uncomfortable for you.” Her breath was shaky and her eyes fled his. “They have a temperature charm as well, so your hands will be warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Maybe it will make things…easier? If you don’t need—”

“Hermione,” Draco rasped out, his voice dangerously thin. “This is… This is incredible. Thank you. I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“You like it?” she asked, her voice tentative and nervous.

He caught her gaze firmly. “I love it. Thank you, darling.” Draco reached out with an open palm and she placed her hand in his. Skin to skin. He squeezed her hand, able to enjoy the feel of her warmth as she smiled shily through her persistent blush.

Draco pulled back and drew on the gloves. “Show me?” he asked.

Hermione placed down her mug on the coffee table and moved closer, so close he could feel her body-heat on his thigh and side. She plucked her wand from her hair and tapped it to the button on his right glove. “This takes away sensation,” she said, so close as she reached over him that her breath ghosted across his neck. It made him shiver with desire, her scent surrounding him. “It has three stages.” She tapped two more times and held out her hand. “Try it.”

Draco took her hand and…nothing. He was aware that he was touching her but there was no exchange of anything. It was as if he was touching an inanimate object. She grinned widely when his brows rose in surprise, then tapped his left button. Gradually, Draco felt the sensation shift, as if the thickness of his gloves was shrinking.

“This has three stages as well,” Hermione said, still holding his hand.

Draco laced his fingers through hers and concentrated, by the third tap it was as if he wasn’t wearing the gloves at all. He could feel her skin, the dips between her knuckles, the brush of his thumb between her thumb and index finger, the creases hiding there.

“This is amazing. I can’t… I don’t know what to say.”

Hermione smiled and gently gave his hand a small squeeze, before brushing her own thumb over his. “’Thank you’, is always an option,” she quipped.

He unlaced their fingers and lifted her hand to his lips. Her fiery eyes widened when he gently kissed her knuckles. “Thank you, my darling wife. I love my gifts.”

And there it was, for a moment, Draco saw her breath hitch, then her eyes dropped and her expression leveled out. She was pulling away without moving. He staved off the stab of hurt and fear and gently let go of her. “Your present is in your study,” he said.

Her eyes flew to his. “I thought the portkey—”

Draco forced a smile to his face. “You got me two as well, Granger. Go take a look.”

Hermione stood from the sofa and strode through the arch, leading in the direction of her study. Draco breathed out, grappling with everything he had felt in the last few minutes. Excitement, joy, desire, fear, and despair. Merlin, he wished Herp was right and he himself was wrong. But only fools relied on hope. He stroked over the box of his magical painting powder and got up to follow his wife.

He leaned against the doorframe and beheld her rooting around. “That way,” Draco said, nodding at the very back, to where her plants and potions laboratory was. “Happy Christmas, Hermione.”

In a nook, a silver basin was perched on an intricately carved stand. The stand was gleaming onyx, three arms winding around each other to end in clawed feet, holding the basin in their talons, very reminiscent of a dragon’s.

Hermione shrieked when she found it. She darted across the room and hovered over it, her hair bouncing by how she rose and sank on the balls of her feet. “You didn’t!” she squeaked. “You fucking didn’t, Draco Malfoy!”

She turned to look at him, her face a mix of pure wonder, happiness, and incredulity.

“I did,” Draco said. “You said a pensieve would help you work on sensory memories.”

A very odd sound escaped her at his words. Something between a yelp and a sigh. She looked as if she was close to vibrating out of her skin. A smile so dazzling and wide grew on her face that it felt as if he was looking into the sun. Her fists clenched on either side of her a few times.

“I… I’m going to hug you now. Alright?” she said, already walking up to him.

Draco swallowed, feeling an answering smile grace his lips. He opened his arms and she crashed into him. His eyes closed when he was hit by her smell once more as her curls tickled his nose. He held her and they swayed, his heart pounding with how much joy he felt at seeing hers. For the first time since…what felt like forever, Draco did nothing but enjoy a hug. Enjoy being close to someone.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered somewhere around his chest-height. Then she pressed her face to him, nuzzling closer, her arms tentatively gathering him tighter. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

Draco looked down at her with an unbearable amount of affection. “After yesterday, I think I do.”

Hermione nodded, her forehead bumping against his clavicles. “I suppose you might.” Her shoulders rose with a deep breath, as if she was inhaling him. She tilted her face up. “Thank you, Draco.”

He nodded; his throat tight. If there would have ever been a natural moment to kiss her, this was it and Draco knew he wanted to. He watched her gaze dip to his lips while she pulled her lower one between her teeth. He cursed the way his mind shrank away, how his body was shaken by a tiny tremor and stiffened.

Hermione pulled free of him immediately, her face drawn into an expression he was unable to read and Draco felt like hexing himself in the face. He should have controlled that tremor. Should have—

The sound of the floo and a prickling awareness conjured by Douillet made them both pivot to the door. “Are you expecting someone?” Draco asked.

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “Harry and Ginny are at the Burrow. Astoria went to France with her sister.”

Draco frowned and a sinking sensation hit his stomach. What if it was is parents? He did not want to deal with them today.

“Hello?” a familiar voice called from the sitting room and Draco exchanged a surprised glance with Hermione, as they both sped up their steps. “Anyone home? And if so, are you decent?”

“Well, I’m here to change that,” another voice said with an edge of mirth.

“A most noble endeavor, Pans; I approve.”

Hermione and Draco finally entered the sitting room, to find Pansy and Theo in front of the hearth, both looking very pleased with themselves.

“Pansy, Theo,“ Hermione said, having caught herself quicker than Draco. “Happy Christmas.”

Theo grinned and skipped over to hug her. “Merriment and debauchery, Granger!”

Pansy hung back, but she smiled at Hermione. “It’s Malfoy, Nott,” she said. “And yes, happy Christmas, you two.”

Draco inclined his head once; not sure he was happy with the interruption of his and Hermione’s day. He was very much fond of his two friends, but together, they were harbingers of chaos often enough. “What are you two doing here?”

“Draco,” Hermione admonished. “Be cordial.”

“Yes, be cordial, Drakey,” Theo squawked and plopped down on the sofa, his eyes bright and mischievous.

“Cordial is overrated when it comes to you, Nott,” Draco said.

“Rude,” Theo huffed and placed his feet on the coffee table. The table shrank back and his heels hit the floor hard. “Ouch!” Theo griped and glared at the table. “Your house is as rude as you are.”

“My house dislikes your lack of manners,” Draco drawled. “Rightly so, I might add.”

“If you two are quite done,” Pansy cut in, placing the bag she carried onto the table gently. “I’m here to give you your Christmas present, Draco.”

Draco raised a brow at her. He had received a beautiful and personalized diary from her. Leather-bound and embossed with his initials.

She pulled small flasks from her bag and lined them up, next was her tattoo gun. “Ready to test our new inks?” Pansy asked with a cheeky smile. “I also made an additional design apart from the flowers. As you so graciously offered to be my canvas, I think now is the perfect time.”

Hermione looked from one person to the next and Draco felt her curious gaze come to rest on him. “Am I right in assuming that you will not show me this new design before it’s on me forever?” he asked.

Pansy clasped at her tattooed décolletage. “You know me so well, sweetheart.”

Taking a deep breath, Draco found Hermione’s eyes. “Fine. But you’ll show Hermione first. If she likes it, you can go ahead.”

Theo cackled from where he lounged like a king and Pansy rolled her eyes. “So particular,” she murmured. “Get over here, Lady Malfoy.” With that, she opened a piece of parchment she plucked from her back and unfolded it.

Hermione walked up to her and Draco watched with a small sense of trepidation. Would she have anything to say on him getting inked in the first place? He had never spoken to her about it. What if she disliked tattoos?

She gasped when she rounded Pansy and looked at what she had drawn. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Pansy.” Her eyes snapped to him, suddenly a tad darker than before. “I had no idea you were planning on getting tattoos.”

“Interesting,” Pansy said and clicked her tongue. “Draco even made special inks for his own design.”

“Really?” Hermione asked. “What do these inks do?”

“It’s a sensory thing,” Draco said, trying to bolster his voice and keep it from sounding frail.

“Fascinating,” Theo said. “Please tell me it’s something naughty.” He wriggled his brows.

“Of course not,” Pansy said. “Our Draco is way too up tight for that.” She grinned and then turned to Hermione. “You approve of this going onto your husband?” She shook the parchment for emphasis.

Hermione bit her lower lip and nodded once, the look in her eyes unreadable. “Absolutely.”

“Fine, Parkinson,” Draco said. He raised a finger. “But no genitalia. We talked about this.”

“I object!” Theo hollered, jumping from his seat.

Chapter Text

The New Year’s Ball (Part One)

Hermione

If avoiding her husband had been a sport, Hermione would be exceeding at it. Not overtly and not to the point of him noticing (hopefully), but in the days following Christmas, she disappeared as much as she could into her study. She had reasons. Quite a few at that.

Reason number one; she was busy with experimenting on the pensieve and her own memories she had gathered for this specific endeavor. Memories that were as vivid as could be. Her room in the Gryffindor tower during a rainstorm. Christmas in the Great Hall in their first year. Studying in the library after everyone else had gone to bed. Camping in the forest of Dean. There was nothing special about these memories as such, but each one held a profound combination of senses she tried to incorporate. The scents, the exact temperature, the sounds, the atmosphere. Her progress was frustratingly slow, the incorporation of sensory stimuli nearly impossible, meaning she was very focused on it and it took up much of her time.

Reason number two; the less she saw Draco, the smaller the chance of her ogling him like the stupid bint she was, longing for…more. He was working hard on himself and the touch-exposure, and she didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. No matter how much she wanted more of his touch, more of his company—more of him—Hermione knew he wasn’t at a point where he could give it to her. They also hadn’t spoken further on a decision regarding their relationship and its future and she had no idea whether his mind had changed or if he still wanted to try. Hermione was set to waiting for Draco to speak to her when he was ready. She wanted Draco to make a decision that suited him, free of any influence from her. She owed him that much. And maybe, just maybe, she was a bit scared of her own wishes on the matter.

This led to reason number three. The true reason. The one she hid behind the rest. Hermione was hiding her growing infatuation from him, trying desperately to guard her heart. Wanting him was one thing—which wasn’t even up for debate anymore as she practically lit up with hunger the moment she laid eyes on him—but there was something deeper now. It had grown with every conversation, each moment spent together, every timid touch and slow curl of his lips. It had blossomed on each occasion Draco had her back, had cared for her, had shown her how she mattered. It was rooted in her very essence now, twining through her like a vine of smooth steel. And Christmas had only strengthened it.

Before those two days, Hermione had teetered on the brink of a nigh unbearable amount of need and want, but now… After his gift of a portkey, after coming with her to meet her parents, braving his anxiety and even holding her while she knew how hard that had been for him, after sitting with her as she cried and saying all the right things to make her feel cherished and cared for… Gods, after he’d actually listened to her and gifted her a bloody pensieve of all things, after all that she didn’t merely want or need. She yearned. She yearned with a desperation that bordered on madness.

Hermione knew she wasn’t merely crushing on Draco anymore; she was in the process of falling for him. Barreling toward what could well end in total and absolute heartbreak. Hermione had no time for heartbreak, she had no energy for it. She had been on the brink of ruin before marrying him and could not allow herself to grow vulnerable in another way. While this was not a choice she could make, Hermione still tried; scared of how delicately hopeful her heart was slowly opening, no matter what she had to say about it.

It was all Draco’s fault, really. And Hermione would want to curse his thoughtfulness, his confident care, the look in his silver eyes that would run through her like an electrical current, his touch and the way it made her body sing… She would want to curse all of it, but got stuck in memories and daydreams that would make her sigh like a moondrunk Mooncalf. It was quite pathetic. And there was no way she’d tell him any of this, because it would be detrimental to him making his own decision.

There it was, the reason she hid like a coward. Hermione was sure her eyes would betray her if she let herself be too close to him for too long. It had been hard enough hiding her incessant hunger for him, while being lit up by his tentative touches every day, and she thought she had done a good job at that. But she had no idea how to hide her feelings, or how to stop said feelings from growing even further.

She frowned at her mirror image, almost grateful at knowing that tonight she’d be occupied with braving Malfoy Manor and her memories of the place, while equally braving what would no-doubt be a gathering of Pureblood ponces. It should minimize her obsessive pining over her husband.

Her make-up was subtle, but dazzling after some pointers from Astoria, who would also be there, thank Merlin. She had lined her eyes with black, the wing on the top lid sharp and delicate. Her lashes feathered up and seemed longer, enlarging her eyes. The small amount of dark-red lipstick fit perfectly with the indigo-blue dress she wore. The velvet hugged her frame almost indecently, seemingly opulent, but was impossibly light. Small white crystals lined her neckline where it dipped in the middle, enhancing her cleavage without being tacky.

She turned her face, nerves flaring to life in her belly as she examined her half updo. For once, her hair was tamed by sleek eazy, glossy strands curling around her face and tickling her shoulders. Hermione nodded at herself once. She looked stunning. Put together and fit for where she was going.

Drawing on the long, blue gloves that would hide her scars, she breathed deeply. Draco would be with her and there would be many people around them. There was no need to be afraid of facing the drawing room. And she doubted the atmosphere would be the same as it had been when she’d been dragged through the halls.

Scuffed shoes squeaking on polished marble. Nails raking over her scalp, as she is tugged forward by her hair.

“Stop it,” she berated herself. Hermione leaned onto the bathroom counter, staring at her blanching face.

Brown eyes glinting with madness. Pupils blown so wide they look black. Brittle lips snarl to reveal sharp and broken teeth…

A soft knock on the door snatched her from the brink of spiraling into darkness and pain. “Merlin,” Hermione huffed and pushed back, walking from her ensuite and into her room. “Get it together.”

“Hermione?” Draco’s dark voice said from beyond the door. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, you can come in,” she called back, balancing on one leg to pull on the blue heels she had charmed to the exact same color as the dress. She wobbled precariously, steadying herself on the bedframe, when the door opened and her husband stepped inside.

“We should get going,” he said, just as her shoe slid past her heel and she put her foot down.

Hermione looked at him, ready with an answer and a smile, but everything halted when she met his storm-colored eyes. The way he stopped short—righting his cuffs over the gloves she had gifted him—his expression flashing with something calling to the yearning in her bones, had her still and sent a tingle racing down her spine. Draco’s jaw feathered as he clenched it, his features caught in something heated for a second and he gave her a slow once over. Hermione felt his gaze traveling down her body and she swallowed repeatedly, staring at him in turn. In what bloody world did that man have the right to look so fit? Never mind looking at her in a way that had her entire skin buzzing?

Draco wore a Muggle suit, the color a touch darker than her dress, with a black shirt underneath the jacket. He had steadily filled out after their wedding, making the sharp lines of his shoulders look impossibly wide, yet crisp. There was an almost lazy elegance to his tall stature that blew her away. She was used to him in nice clothes, always looking edible, but fuck… Something about the clean-cut lines, the way his hair was styled perfectly—begging for her fingers to run through and muss it—while she knew what was underneath, had her knees knocking together. Especially now that she knew what else was hidden by the pristine attire. A recent add. Or two, if one wanted to get technical. For a moment, her mind was drawn to the morning Pansy and Theo had flooed by.

~

Pansy was quick as she drew what looked like a miniature recliner in black from her bag. She swished her wand and the thing plopped into the sitting room in its original size. It was a tattooing chair and Pansy folded up the right armrest, then gestured for Draco to take a seat.

He seemed a bit hesitant, his gaze flicking to Hermione once, before he sat. Unbuttoning his cuff, he asked: “How do you plan on doing this, Pans? You can’t touch me too much or this will take all day.”

The smile she gave him was sharp, but tinged with a crook at the edges that looked almost like worry. “Thought of that, darling. Once I apply the stencil, the gun will do the work on its own. All I have to do is change the colors, sit back, and enjoy your whining. Oh, and it would help if you held very still.” Her smile turned goading at that last sentence.

Draco scoffed, but rolled his sleeve up, exposing the very pale skin, muscles and tendons Hermione had been obsessing about ever since she’d taken notice of his arms for the first time. She watched on in fascination, wondering when Draco had thought of getting inked and why. He had called it a ‘sensory thing’. At least when it came to the special inks Pansy was now inspecting before she set up more stuff on the coffee table. What exactly did they do?

“As surprised as I am, curls?” Theo said at her side when he stepped up to her. He held a tumbler of what looked like whisky in his hands and sipped heartily.

“Yes,” Hermione admitted, then frowned. “Where did you get that?” She nodded at his drink.

Theo wagged his brows and smirked. “I visit when you work. Sometimes. I know my way around.”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“Astutely observed, curls.”

Hermione stared at him and the nonchalant way he continued to nurse his drink. “Would you like some tea instead?”

Theo grimaced. “You’re as bad as your husband. Speaking of which, any objections to him getting tattooed?”

He looked at her with a sly glint in his hazel eyes, as if he was waiting to catch her in a compromising admission.

“Not really. It’s his body and what Pansy showed me looks brilliant.” Hermione tilted her head to the side, noticing how Draco seemed to try and listen in on the conversation with a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks. Was he worried about this as well? It was the truth, but she still wondered why Draco hadn’t told her anything about it. “Besides, I find tattoos kind of…hot. Just look at Pansy.”

Theo coughed on his mouthful of whisky. “Please,” he rasped between coughs. “I do not want to think of her in that way. Makes me nervous.”

Hermione grinned at Theo. “Is that because she would eat you alive if you did?”

Pansy chuckled, walking past them with a paper cut-out in one hand and disinfectant in the other. “It’s one of the reasons, I’m sure. The other is that Theo would have to admit being attracted to someone else than himself, which he’s had problems with since he first saw his face in the mirror.”

Theo scoffed. “Not unwarranted.” He sighed heavily and threw back his hair dramatically. “I am a work of art, after all. Besides, I do admit to being attracted to people.” A suggestive smirk graced his lips and he fluttered his lashes at Hermione.

Draco’s hand closed around his armrest, making Hermione’s breath hitch, but she covered it with a chuckle. “As if you had a chance, Theodore,” she said lightly, teasing.

Clutching his chest with a crestfallen face, Theo gasped. “Ouch, curls. That was mean.” He took another hearty swig from his glass. Watching as Pansy sprayed Draco’s arm with the disinfectant, he continued: “Well, seems as though our torrid love-affair will have to stay fantasy. For now.”

“Careful now, you rake,” Hermione said. “I am a married woman and my husband is quite the notorious character.”

“He does know the one or other handy curse, that’s for sure,” Draco said darkly. He was glaring at Theo with an edge of earnestness, so focused on his friend, that he didn’t seem to notice Pansy applying the stencil to his arm in smooth movements. He didn’t even spare her a glance.

Theo seemed unbothered by the glower and blew him a kiss. “Darling, you are part of this fantasy, you know that. Wouldn’t mind being the Nott-cheese in a Malfoy sandwich.”

Draco groaned, looking exasperated and Hermione noticed the small look passing between Pansy and Theo. It was knowing and paired with something close to relief. Theo had goaded Draco on purpose, she realized, to distract him from Pansy’s touch. It made her heart swell with fondness for the both of them, even as it simultaneously sped up at her husband’s apparent show of possessiveness.

Slowly, Hermione meandered closer to where Draco sat, to look over Pansy’s shoulder. She tilted her head when she saw the motif. It was the same arrangement of flowers she had seen Draco draw shortly after their wedding. A bit stylized, but the same nonetheless. For a second, she wondered at their significance. The lily had to be important, because the design Pansy had shown her earlier featured that one as well. Big and white, with a small, green dragon nestled on one of the petals, its tail twining around the stem as its wings unfolded. It was a beautiful design, both delicate and powerful.

Pansy conjured a small table to her side and made the colors hover across the room to settle on it. She dipped the gun into some black and spoke a few incantations. “Ready?” she asked Draco. At his nod, she tapped her wand to the gun and it buzzed to life.

It was quite fascinating to see the gun work, following the lines of the stencil on Draco’s skin, while Pansy directed it with minute movements of her wand. Hermione was dying of curiosity, wanting to ask Pansy how she had charmed it and how the directions worked, but she didn’t dare interfere.

Theo soon pulled her into a conversation, voicing his interest to go to the ‘pictures’, as he called it. Apparently, he was an avid fan of the cinema, gripped by how the technology worked and surprisingly knowledgeable about the process. He knew all the latest movies and was a fantastic storyteller, venturing into explanations when Hermione expressed her interest in the one or other film.

Draco’s tattoo took form quickly and once done, Pansy pulled Hermione aside, leaving a huffing Theo behind, who seemed miffed at being excluded from their talk.

“Where should I put it?” Pansy asked, to Hermione’s genuine surprise.

“The other tattoo? Why ask me?”

“You’re the one who’s going to be looking at it,” Pansy said matter-of-factly.

Hermione had no idea how much Pansy knew about the nature of her and Draco’s relationship, or lack of physical intimacy, and she felt herself blush at the insinuation. It wasn’t like he was hers. Gods, she shouldn’t even think along those lines. And yet… The thought was there now and it grew roots in her very essence, making a heavy pressure expand in her belly.

Pansy was still waiting for an answer and Hermione pushed at the nonsensical notion of viewing Draco in a possessive way. Hers to confide in. Hers to keep. Hers to touch… She wrenched her mind away brutally. No, it wasn’t right. She had no right.

Quickly, she thought about the question of placement, trying her hardest to stay detached and clinical about it. Not around his right shoulder or anywhere near it, obviously. His back? No, then he would never really see it. “What about down his side?” she suggested eventually.

Pansy’s eyes lit up. “Yes, that would work. Oh, and we could place the stem low and inward, next to his hipbone. A trail to follow, so to speak.” She grinned openly and Hermione reeled a bit, seeing the expression directed at herself. “That would be so sexy. Good choice.”

A bit dazed, Hermione followed Pansy back to the two men, who appeared to be in a low conversation and she was treated to the sight of Pansy vanishing Draco’s shirt and directing him to lay on his side, after having straightened the recliner with a few practiced movements.

“No peeking,” Pansy admonished, while getting her stencil ready, this one quite a bit larger than the first.

Draco looked past his friends, his silver eyes coming to rest on Hermione. “Are you sure it’s going to look—what the fuck, Pans?” He gaped at his friend, who was busy pulling his trousers past his hipbone and exposing the prominent v-line of muscles leading lower.

“Oh, hush, you big baby,” Pansy said, not disturbed in the slightest by his protests. “It’s not like anyone here hasn’t seen you naked before. Besides, the tattoo will stop around here.” She poked at a space right atop that muscle with her wand, making it clench. Hermione almost fainted on the spot. It was the most she had seen of him since their two nights together and granted, back then she had paid minimal attention, too caught up in anger, or lust, or both, to really look. Gods, he was divine. Even with two other people around, she had to shift and blow out a heated breath to hide how much he affected her.

And then he looked at her, his expressive eyes holding a question, coupled with uncertainty. It wasn’t something she witnessed on him too often. Yes, Draco’d had moments of weakness in her presence—moments of horror and vulnerability—but in company he was always confident. Whatever made him unsure now, it would be made worse by the fact that Pansy was about to touch him.

Hermione walked to his side with a smile and bent close to him. “Want to show me?” She gestured at his newly inked arm. He held it out to her and she hovered her fingers over the design. Watching it grow under Pansy’s needle from a distance was one thing, but up close it was vibrant and breathtaking.

“It turned out really nice, just like your original drawing,” Hermione said. “I can almost smell it.”

Draco’s gaze fled her at those words and while Pansy and Theo had gotten into a small argument over the lack of ‘numerous peni’ to which fact Theo was taking offence, Hermione bent even closer.

“What do the inks make it do?” she asked, noticing that Pansy was waving Theo off and getting ready to apply the stencil on Draco’s side.

“What you said; it makes the flowers smell like their original counterparts. For when I need a…” His lips twitched into a grimace. “…distraction.”

Hermione immediately understood what he was saying and gasped softly. “How did you manage to do that? Spellwork?”

Draco shook his head. “Potions. I made one for each flower, or color, as it is.”

“That is amazing.” Her brain immediately began to unravel the possible courses he’d taken, the likely compositions of ingredients and she wanted to ask him all about it, when Draco bit down on his lower lip, thoroughly distracting her.

“Can I try something?” he asked, his voice low, but rough, his eyes firmly finding hers to gauge her reaction. Hermione gave him a small nod and felt her heart jump when he reached up to her still-hovering fingers. His hand was warm as he slid his fingers up her palm to twine them with hers and a rush of goosebumps tingled to life between her shoulder blades.

Hermione closed her hand around his gently, surprised, but understanding what he was doing. The entire touch-exposure venture had started so that she would eventually be able to calm him when he needed it. This was the most controlled situation to test it. It also meant he was getting more comfortable with it, hopefully.

She sank into the pools of mercury keeping her captive, noticing Pansy and Theo having gone very quiet.

“I’m ready, Pans,” Draco said, not looking away for even a second. In fact, he tugged Hermione closer, his chest rising and falling with deep and even breaths.

His grip tightened when Pansy went to work and Hermione saw his brow twitch. His entire body seemed to harden and clench as Pansy stroked the paper into place, but his gaze never wavered as if he was anchoring himself to her. As if she was the only person in the entire world. It was both thrilling and devastating to be the focus of his attention like that. So intense,

“Am I going to like it?” he asked lowly.

“I think so,” Hermione answered, then winked to alleviate some of the tension from him. “I certainly do.”

His features flashed with surprise, then his gaze darkened a bit, his eyes dipping to where she had begun to inadvertently nibble on her lower lip. “Then it can stay, no matter what it is.”

Theo scoffed audibly, pulling them both from the spell they had woven between them. “Salazar, get a room you two.”

The pressure of Draco’s hand around hers let up as he scowled at his friend. “Says the twit who I’m sure wasn’t even invited along.”

Theo clicked his tongue. “You wound me, darling. I am always wanted, invited or not. Count yourself lucky I decided to dazzle your sour disposition with my radiant one.” He grinned at Draco’s glower. “No appreciation for the finer Notts in life… Typical. But hey, not everyone can be perfect, speaking of which, the tail needs to be lower, Pans.”

“It’s exactly where it’s supposed to be,” Pansy said, sitting back after peeling off the paper.

“But we can’t even see his best part,” Theo whined. “Tail to tail would have been so much better, no? The jokes pretty much would write themselves.”

~

“You look…breathtaking,” Draco said in a gravelly voice, pulling Hermione from her memory.

“Thank you,” she squeaked, then cleared her throat. “So do you.” She forced her eyes away from him and clenched her fists once. Yes, it definitely did things to her knowing about the tattoos hidden underneath those crips clothes.

“Are you nervous?” Draco asked.

“I will be fine.” Hermione blamed her brain apparently shorting out whenever her husband was close for her next admission. “As long as you stay close to me.” Heat grew up the back of her neck and she was about to try and lessen the earnestness of what she’d said with a joke, when Draco stepped forward.

“That I can do.” He held out one begloved hand and gave her a lazy grin. The only sign of his own nervousness was a slight tightness around his eyes. “If you promise to do the same.”

“Of course,” she said, her breath hitching when he threaded her arm through his and she felt the warmth of his body at her side. “I promise,” she added breathlessly.

If Draco noticed her clumsy legs during their trip down and toward the sitting room, he said nothing. His steps were sure, his posture straight and confident. For the first time since their wedding, Hermione truly thanked her stars for the way he affected her. There was no way she’d be able to panic at facing the manor for the first time since being tortured there. Not as long as she was busy stemming the urge to rub herself against Draco like a Kneazle in heat.

The manor was a far cry from what Hermione remembered. The gleaming marble floors were white, thousands of candles floated overhead, lighting up the vaulted ceilings, and the chandeliers glinted pristinely. Trays with champagne and hors d’oeuvres hovered around between the mingling guests who were decked out in their fineries and soft music floated through the large ballroom. If Hermione hadn’t known it was the same place as the dark and drab cavernous spaces she saw in her nightmares, she would never have associated the two.

Having Draco at her side helped too, even as she was still knocked off kilter by his continued proximity. Narcissa and Lucius greeted them both and Hermione was treated to a very strange dance of clasping hands and having the air beside her cheeks kissed. She had never as much as touched her in-laws. It definitely put a damper on her haywire thoughts.

“You two stand here,” Narcissa directed them to a space near the entrance, opposite her and Lucius. “Help us greet everyone.”

“And behave,” Lucius added, his stern eyes sliding from Draco to Hermione.

Swallowing down the scathing retort she had on her tongue, Hermione tugged Draco to their assigned spot. She looked up to see him glower at his father and she nudged him gently with her elbow. “Ignore him,” she suggested.

“Wish I fucking could,” Draco growled. He turned his face to her and his expression softened immediately. “Please don’t feel like you have to swallow down anything you mean to say on behalf of my parents. If someone is an arse, we tell them. I will not smile and make nice to people who try to insult us and our marriage.”

“Do you think they will?” Hermione asked, a sense of trepidation settling around her shoulders like a shawl.

“Without a doubt. Not yet, maybe, but certainly once alcohol has flown for a while.”

Hermione subtly stepped a bit closer to him, then cursed herself for it. It must be hard enough for him to have her arm wound through his as it was. But gods, at being faced with throngs of people that looked her over as if she was exuding a bad odor, she needed to be a bit closer to Draco’s confidence.

He was right. No one said anything. Not directly. Most of the people coming up to them—of which Hermione knew very few—greeted Draco and ignored Hermione until Draco introduced her as is wife with a cutting smile and a dangerous glint in his eyes. After that, most would acknowledge her, with a decidedly superior air. It was quite funny, actually, since Hermione knew that many of these people had sent her proposal letters, begging for her hand in marriage to them, their brothers, their sons… It made her wonder how she would have been treated by them had she said yes. It was all such a farce.

Hermione tilted her head up and splayed her fingers on Draco’s arm where they rested. As strange and rocky as their marriage had begun, and as unsure as their future might be, Hermione knew there was no one she’d rather have at her side right now. If she knew anything about Draco, it was that he had her back in any and everything, much as she did for him. Facing poncy Purebloods was nothing. Still, it was an exercise in control to smile at them, when all she wanted to do was yell.

As the minutes passed Hermione did grow a bit concerned for her husband though. They had stood very close together and touched for an awfully long time. When she asked Draco for the fifth or sixth time whether he was still fine with her hand on his arm, he chuckled and placed his hand on hers, the leather warm.

“Don’t worry, darling. I will let you know when it gets too much. Truth be told, it helps, just as it did when Pansy placed that stencil on me.” He greeted an older couple, adopting a rare and genuine smile.

“Young Malfoy,” the woman said, her almost mousy face shining with unfettered fondness. “And his radiant new wife. It’s been ages, my boy.”

“Lord and Lady Shafiq, it is very good to see you both.” Draco took the offered hand and bent over it with grace. “I wanted to thank you again for your lovely words of congratulations.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Lady Shafiq said and waved him off.

Lord Shafiq stepped forward and held out his palm to Hermione. She placed her free hand in his and watched with surprise as he bent over her knuckles in the same way Draco had. “Charmed,” he said with a warm wink to his stunningly blue eyes. “Lady Malfoy.” He straightened and then shook Draco’s hand firmly, while his wife did those same air-kisses the Malfoys had done with Hermione. It was truly a surprise being greeted so warmly. If she wasn’t mistaken, the Shafiqs were also part of the Sacred 28.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Hermione said.

“Oh, the pleasure is all ours,” Lady Shafiq said, throwing her husband a warm smile. The motion made her face light up and her laugh-lines deepened. “My darling husband has been so excited to meet you, Lady Malfoy.”

This had her almost recoil in surprise. “Oh? Why is that?”

Lord Shafiq grinned broadly. “I have followed your career with great interest ever since you rose to being head of your department. My nephew was set to take over, but you snatched the position right from him.”

Hermione frowned. Was she misunderstanding something here? “I’m sorry?” she murmured cautiously.

Lord Shafiq waved her off. “Oh, absolutely not, my dear. My nephew is a useless prat and has relied on family wealth all his life. As entitled as he is, he was sure that you only got the job because of your friendship with the Minister.” He leaned forward and wagged his grey brows. “We both know that isn’t true. It was bracing to witness Lyle not being handed what he wanted.”

“Yes, yes, dear,” Lady Shafiq said and patted her husband’s shoulder gently. “You will surely find a time to talk to Lady Malfoy about her work and career later. We are holding up the line.”

It was true, as Theo, Pansy, Astoria, Daphne, and Blaise had lined up behind the pair to greet Draco and Hermione. The elderly couple said a quick good-bye and left them to greet the Slytherins.

Somehow, Theo already had a drink in hand, without even having entered the ballroom and he and Blaise scuttled off to find a tray of ‘Narcissa’s famous chocolate pudding’. Astoria glared after them and Hermione felt she would have to ask her friend about this again. Obviously, there was some sort of bad blood between her and Theo.

The three women chatted with them a bit, then mingled with the other guests. After they were gone, things turned uncomfortable again. It was a pity, really. Hermione had nearly forgotten the cold disdain she had been met with before.

After a few minutes, Draco bent lower to murmur into her ear: “I think the touch-exposure we’ve been doing is working as intended.” Hermione looked up, the brush of his voice at the slope of her neck sending languid shivers down her arms and back. He squeezed her arm between his own and his side tightly for emphasis. “I don’t think I would have been able to stomach this entire shindig well without you.”

He straightened when they were passed—and openly ignored, thank Godric—by a group of people who had Marcus Flint in their midst. A sliver of pure joy poured into her veins and Hermione beamed at him. “I’m glad. It’s the same for me, truly.” She meant it, and not only because it was Malfoy Manor, but because Hermione knew that many of the withering glares and vicious whispers she had seen and heard aimed at her, would have not rolled off of her in the same way. Draco was like a shield. His cutting glares making people acknowledge her begrudgingly, but also had them scattering fast if they dared to show Hermione any disdain.

Once they were done with greeting duty, Draco and Hermione walked around the ballroom. They snatched two glasses of champagne from a tray and nursed the bubbly drinks as they made their rounds.

The stuffy conversations Draco had with some of the people were interspersed with Theo popping up here and there sporadically, dishing the latest gossip he had caught. Apparently Goyle had somehow been able to secure a match with a Muggleborn woman, making him the envy of people like Flint and Berny Selwyn—whose cousin had been a Death Eater and who Hermione remembered also getting a proposal letter from. Of course, Draco and Hermione seemed to be the ‘hot topic of the night’ and people were incensed at Draco ‘parading about his muddy wife’ as proudly and openly as he was. Hermione knew this was the general consensus. It was hard not to guess as much from the disgusted glares, but Draco seemed none too pleased to hear it confirmed by Theo. His lips got thin and his brows drew together steadily.

Theo was about to say something more, when Astoria and Daphne turned up in his line of sight. He vanished as if he’d Disapparated.

“Do you know what Theo and Astoria’s deal is?” Hermione asked Draco.

“No idea. I have noticed him acting strange when around her or when her name is brought up, but I haven’t asked about it.”

“Astoria seems to harbor some anger toward him,” Hermione mused. “She called him a vandal. Even before we got married.”

Draco frowned nodding at Millicent Bullstrode, who was waving at him, then he turned them and walked in the opposite direction when it became apparent that she came their way. “How come you spoke to Astoria about Theo before we were married?”

For a small moment, Hermione was left with a very strange and mollified feeling. Was he jealous? No, he had no cause and he had never… Their relationship was not like that. “I asked her about her sister’s friends, once I knew I’d likely marry you.”

His frown vanished, chased away by a smirk. “Hmm. Found out anything interesting?”

“Well, Theo is a vandal, as I said, and Blaise appears to be hilarious.”

“About me, I mean.”

Hermione grinned at Draco. “Feeling left out?”

A pale brow arched with mirth. “I was the reason you asked, wasn’t I?”

She softly squeezed his arm. “Yes, you were. She didn’t have much to say, to be honest. Astoria only saw you once and that was two weeks after you left Azkaban.” She left out what Astoria had said, by the looks of him, Draco had already guessed.

“I can imagine her rendition of me was a tad unflattering,” he drawled darkly.

“Maybe, but it calmed me,” Hermione said. “She did not describe the spoiled boy I knew and was afraid I’d have to marry.”

Hermione felt his eyes on her and she knew he was about to ask further. Her heartrate spiked when he leaned in to say something, but they were interrupted by a throat clearing obnoxiously.

They both looked up and beheld Flint. From the looks of him, he had worked up the courage to make is displeasure known. Lucky them. Bolstered by Berny Selwyn and a rather sickly pale and thin chap she didn’t know, he stalked up to them.

“Malfoy,” Flint didn’t even look at Draco, but smirked disdainfully at Hermione. “Granger. Nice party, isn’t it?” He eyed her up and down in a way that made her want to snarl at him. “Even if the guest-list isn’t as…elitist as it used to be.”

Draco stiffened at her side. “I know you are not talking about my wife, Flint,” he drawled. “Who you will address as Lady Malfoy, or not at all.”

Flint’s beady eyes flew to Draco. “Proud of that, aren’t you? How much did daddy pay for Lady Malfoy to say yes?” he spat the title at her with ire and no small amount of spittle. “I seem to recall that you hated each other during school. There is no way—”

“Well, for starters,” Hermione said lowly, her free hand fisting around her wand which she had stashed in a hidden pocket at her side. “Draco didn’t tell me I was lucky to be asked by him.”

Flint scowled and Selwyn sniggered. “Way to lead a proposal, Marcus,” he said.

Hermione eyed Marcus sharply, not done with him. “Furthermore, he actually made an effort to speak to me without ogling my tits the entire time.” She felt Draco stiffen further at her side.

Flint blushed; his embarrassment obvious when his two cronies burst into guffaws. “You are nothing but a paid mud-whore,” he spat. “And little Drakey only married you because daddy Malfoy thinks you’re the best Mud—”

“One more word and I will make your own colon strangle you, Flint.” Draco’s anger wafted from him in freezing waves as he had his wand aimed at Flint in the blink of an eye. It was the same ice-cold anger Hermione knew already and while she was busy melting into a puddle at his protective stance, she was furious with Flint herself. She also knew they were about to create a scene, which would not help in any way.

“Marcus,” a low baritone said and Hermione watched the group of men before them stiffen with recognition. Lord Shafiq appeared at Hermione’s other side, glaring at the three young men. “What kind of despicable display is this? Hasn’t your family suffered enough from your actions during the war? Now you have to stoop so low as to belittle Lady Malfoy? Your host? The woman you—I might add—vigorously pursued a few months ago? Methinks it’s no wonder she didn’t fall for your questionable charms.” He waved at them. “Run along now, you three, before Draco demands a duel, which we all know he would win.”

“Lord Shafiq…” Flint started, pale and with gritted teeth, but the older man stared him down with eyes made of iron.

“Be sure I will remember this, Marcus. I shall make sure others will too,” Lord Shafiq said and the trio tucked tail and dispersed.

“Ridiculous behavior, honestly,” Lord Shafiq said. “I am mortified you had to experience that, my lady. Rest assured, not all our peers are as short-sighted and idiotic.”

Hermione didn’t want to tell the man that she believed exactly that, since he had just avoided a scene, so she just wrestled down her anger and smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said and saw Draco pocketing his wand again.

“Yes, thank you, Lord Shafiq,” Draco said, his voice tinged with that freezing wrath. “I almost eviscerated him.”

Shafiq raised his brows. “No one would have blamed you, Draco. It is very bad form to belittle the spouse of a fellow gentleman like that, no matter how misguided the disdain for her heritage.” He winked at Hermione. “A low blow, to bring that blood-purity nonsense into what should be a civilized conversation.”

Hermione was pleasantly surprised at his apparent lack of bigotry and immediately liked him even more. Very quickly, he struck up a conversation about the work Hermione did and they fell into an easy chat. Draco, after having lost the last vestiges of anger, jumped in and told Hermione of Lord Shafiq’s charity work for different Ministry branches. He was especially interested in creature rights and innovation. He was a fascinating conversationalist and very soon more men his age stepped into their circle to listen in and give their unsolicited opinions.

Hermione, never one to be intimidated, continued her conversation with Lord Shafiq about magical theory and spell creation, when a snide voice interrupted them.

“Ah yes, invention of spells. Something my great grandfather knew much about,” a middle-aged man with pasty skin and a perpetual sneer interjected. “No offence, deary, but I don’t see your argument about spell creation making sense. The way you approach it seems chaotic and inelegant. Not that I’m surprised.”

“On the contrary,” Hermione said mildly, smiling at the pasty git. She sipped at her champagne. “Many original spells lack creativity and are limited by the rigid and stuffy approach of their design.”

Pasty-face sniffed haughtily. “Preposterous. Had you read ‘Spell Creation and its Rules’ by Mandrake Pennypound, you would know that—”

“That ‘creative thinking leads to convoluted and faulty spells’?” Hermione emptied her glass. “Yes, that’s what he said, isn’t it. But see, creativity and differing influences can lead to countless opportunities of complex spells.”

The man scoffed. “Who needs complex? Spells need to do what they are designed to do, without all the added hocus pocus.”

Hermione almost snorted at his wording, wondering if he noticed the irony in them. She shared a small smirk with Draco. “I was always rather fond of Reynard’s approach to spell invention.”

“That fraud!” the man cried, flecks of red blooming on his sallow cheeks. It looked patchy and unhealthy.

Shafiq and the other men watched the discussion unfold with what looked like growing glee and Hermione spotted Lucius entering the circle. His grave eyes settled on her with a clear warning, behave. Hermione winked at him and his lips twitched.

“Reynard had no clue what he was talking about. Lumos Maxima? Why would a perfectly good spell need an addition?”

“More light?” Hermione offered and chuckles erupted around the space. “Besides, didn’t Pennypound eventually venture into obscure ‘creativity’?”

“What is that supposed to mean, exactly?” Pasty and blotchy asked, his nasal voice climbing high. “My great grandfather was a pioneer of spell invention.”

Hermione bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “So Pennypound was your ancestor?”

Pennypound threw back his head, as if there was enough hair to make it a suave move—there was not. “Yes, and he was a great man. It is no wonder someone like you can’t grasp his brand of genius.”

Hermione felt a kernel of pettiness grow in her chest at his words. She’d had enough belittlement of her person for one night. She breathed out, tugging Draco back, who looked about to say something. “Well, I do remember having a good chuckle reading ‘Rotund Charms & Spells’ not too long ago,” she said. “Trying to implement variations of Engorgio on his own person did seem rather odd at first.” Hermione frowned. “Then I got to the chapter that explained it all. It was rather short,” she let the word linger before continuing, “but poignant.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, is it a family ailment?”

Laughter burst out around them and by now even Theo and Blaise had joined the circle.

“How dare…” Pennypound looked close to combusting. “I have never… The absolute… He was dealing with dementia by then!” He reddened even more and then turned on his heel with a very girlish squeal, before he barreled away.

Shafiq laughed out loud and bowed his head to Hermione. “Thank you kindly, my lady. We have been dealing with Pennypound’s self-righteous nonsense for far too long.”

Similar sentiments sounded from the other men, smiles meeting her all around. Lucius looked a tad taken aback, but again, his lips twitched softly.

Soon after, their group was broken up by the music growing louder, indicating the dancefloor to be opened. Lucius and Narcissa glided over the marble first and Draco’s expression hardened. Hermione tried to distract him by pulling him into a conversation with Blaise and Theo, but he remained stiff, sending back the meaningful looks Lucius sent him when he twirled by.

“Ignore him,” Hermione said once again, rising to her toes so she could speak into his ear.

“Easier said than done,” Draco murmured, tilting his face her way while still glaring at his parents. “I should be able to just fucking do it by now.”

“Hey, look at me.” Hermione waited until his silver eyes settled on her. His gaze hit her in its intensity but softened momentarily, making something warm and golden drip into her chest. Like honey. “You don’t force yourself to do anything, Draco. And if your father has the nerve to say anything about it, I’ll hex off his ponytail.”

A small smirk grew on Draco’s lips, the corners curling up. It seemed as though some weight shifted from him and the sight left Hermione with a surging sense of relief. “I’d like to see that,” he whispered, bending lower.

The brush of his breath left Hermione buzzing with nerves and close to a whimper. Gods, the effect he had on her was getting out of hand. At this rate she’d need a looong shower when they got home. Warm, with a detachable shower head. Yes, that would reconfigure her bodily settings. The longer she was exposed to Draco, the harder it became to think straight. Especially when he looked at her like that, or let his words travel along her skin.

“Want another?” he asked.

Hermione blinked at him. Her mind jerking back from the indecent tangents it had gone on. “What?”

Draco tugged on her empty glass for emphasis and Hermione felt herself flush. “Oh, yes, thank you.”

His arm pulled from hers and she felt his hand brush her lower back and nearly folded in on herself. “Be right back, darling.” Thank Merlin she was wearing a long skirt. The way her legs were shaking would have been visible. But gods, how dare he be so…

Hermione was still searching for something adequate, when she noticed Theo’s shrewd look on her.

“Huh,” the Nott heir made, before taking a deep drink. “Something seems to be working.”

“Leave it, Nott,” Blaise drawled.

Hermione opened her mouth to ask what that cryptic comment was all about, but she never got the chance. She noticed Draco stalled next to a tray, cornered there by Millicent. A scowl grew on Hermione’s face and something very unwarm and ugly reared its head in the pits of her mind. Mine. Oh gods, no! She had not just thought that! And yet, her possessive thoughts coiled through her like a small dragon winding around its hoard, hissing protectively.

She had nothing to worry about—not to mention no right either way—as Draco’s face was drawn and he shrunk away from Millicent. The way his lips moved looked cutting and firm. He slowly pulled away when Millicent laughed and placed a hand on his arm.

Hermione glowered, holding onto the last shreds of her patience. Being an apparently covetous woman was one thing—and very new to her—but she would not let anyone touch Draco and make him feel uncomfortable.

She dimly noticed Theo and Blaise finding the cause of her very visible ire, but she had no idea what they said.

Draco took a step back, his expression close to cold anger, but Millicent wasn’t having it, she reached out and clasped his shoulder, pulling him back to her with a playful grin. His right shoulder. Something inside Hermione shattered. She saw Draco’s face fall, losing all color and his eyes shutter to blank grey.

“Excuse me,” she growled and stomped toward Draco. Rage and worry intertwined and raced through her veins, beat alongside each other in her heart and urgency flickered in the depths of her belly. Her strides grew longer and faster. There were too many people between them and Hermione dodged and twisted sidestepped until she finally came upon her husband.

Godric, she hoped she was able to help him stave off an attack. Something cold and horrible snapped at her when she saw Draco visibly shudder, his eyes fluttering closed.

Chapter Text

The New Year’s Ball (Part Two)

Draco

Subtly clenching and unclenching his fist, Draco made his way toward one of the hovering champagne trays. His side felt cold without Hermione against it and as if someone had nixed a Muffliato, the sounds and countless bodies around him surged into his senses. As if creeping into him, tremors tingled in his hands. Fuck. Draco hadn’t even noticed how much her proximity had helped him brave this party. Bloody hell, he was pathetic.

Gritting his teeth, Draco consciously fought his go-to reaction of chastising himself for his weakness. It took effort. He hadn’t been around this many people for a good long while and the invading sensations had his heart climbing to his throat. He had known and expected a reaction along these lines. What he had not expected was for Hermione to drown out the majority of it. It hadn’t even bothered him to feel her arm curled around his for the entire time. He had been so focused on her warmth next to him, her scent wafting around him, that he had been able to ignore the assault on his senses. Besides, his rising ire at all the tossers who had given her dark looks and snide whispers had kept him sharp. In control. His lips twitched unbidden when he thought back to his father’s evident surprise at how Hermione had pulled an entire group of aristocrats into her spell. Gods, she was exceptional.

Draco spied a tray and was beside it with a few long strides, swapping out their two empty flutes for full ones. He turned and beheld Hermione tilting her head at something Theo said, looking him over as if he was puzzling her. She was an absolute vision in that dress and despite being among so many people—the majority of which were arseholes—he’d very much enjoyed being so close to her for longer than a few moments. She had been so very busy with her pensieve since Christmas. It was to be expected and Draco was amazed at the findings she’d filled him in on during meals, but he missed their shared reading times in the evenings.

She looked absolutely stunning and had been unable to form a clear thought when he’d first seen her. My wife. Those two words had played on a loop in his brain, eliciting a surge of pride and covetousness that grew each time a man ogled her with clear desire. And there had been many looks.

With a deep breath, Draco calmed his spiking pulse and the tremble in his fingers. He was about to venture back, when a voice behind him had him twist marginally.

“Good evening, Draco,” a familiar female voice said.

Draco hesitated for a second too long while debating whether or not to ignore her, which was a mistake. Millicent Bullstrode rounded him with a beaming face, looking at him through her lashes.

“Hello, Millicent,” Draco said.

“I have been waiting for you to leave her side all night.” Millicent fingered the necklace enhancing her opulent cleavage, obviously trying to draw his eye. “Now that we are talking, how have you been?”

Draco bristled at her first sentence, but clenched his jaw to keep from snapping at her. “I am doing well, thank you. Yourself?” He was short, rudely so, but he had no interest in speaking with Millicent.

“I’d be doing better had you answered any of my letters,” she said with an unattractive pout. “I did write to you every week when you were in Azkaban, and after.”

Looking straight into her eyes, Draco answered: “I had nothing to say.”

For a second, her face fell, but she quickly plastered a smile to her thin lips and giggled, waving him off. “Oh, you and your jokes.” She softly placed her hand on his arm and stepped uncomfortably close. “I understand that you have to pretend, but not for me, Draco.” Her voice was low and she winked at him.

Firmly stepping back so her hand slid from him, Draco scowled at Millicent. “And what exactly would I be pretending about?”

She fidgeted with her dress slightly and a blush rose on her cheeks. “I- You had to marry one of them.” She threw a venomous glare in Hermione’s direction. “Her. I know you can’t be happy about it. It’s painful to see you act as if you care for her. I know you don’t. Especially since you never really answered me when it comes to—”

Something in him snapped. Draco had been friends with Millicent for the first few years they attended Hogwarts, but her infatuation with him had been so painfully obvious from year three onward, he had distanced himself from her. Mostly because she never took a simple no for an answer and he had wanted to flee the situation. And because—for the sake of those first two years—he didn’t want to truly hurt her feelings. They were grown people now, though, and she had no bloody right to say those things about his wife. “First of all, I have answered you. I told you time and again that I am not interested in you in that way; never have been. Secondly, who I married is none of your Merlin-damned business and if you ever allude to my wife not being good enough again, there will be severe consequences.” Draco glared at Millicent, who looked absolutely dumbstruck by the bite in his voice and words. “And for the record, just so there is no misunderstanding, I am very fond of Hermione and bloody lucky she said yes to marrying me. I don’t need to act when it comes to her.”

With that, Draco pivoted and proceeded to storm off, trying hard not to shatter the glasses in his hands with how angry he was. He made it exactly two steps, before a hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was as if a curse shot through him and he stilled immediately.

“You don’t mean that,” Millicent hissed, pulling on him until he faced her again. “You can’t mean that. She’s nothing but a know-it-all Mudblood, a buck-toothed nuisance.”

Draco blinked, her words and the ugly sneer on her face fuzzing out as memories breached his mind. Sharp as glass, slicing like a serrated blade.

The smell of blood and vomit, of unwashed skin and wet fur.

He shook his head and stumbled back, but the hand on his shoulder did not let up, gripping him firmer.

Teeth and nails. Ripping. Skin and muscles tearing apart. Bones cracking.

He fought it with all he had, the scenery of his moonlit lake winking in and out of existence in front of his inner eye a few times.

Moonlight on tiny ripples. Frogs croaking and crickets chirping. Blades of grass in his palms. The scent of water and night-blooming flowers. Of her.

Blood running down his shoulder and neck hotly, only to cool around him, sticking to his cheek, invading his mouth.

The flutes dropped from his fingers, but he heard no glass shattering.

“You will unhand my husband this instance, Bullstrode,” a voice cut through all of it. It was blistering with ire, but Draco felt as if bathed by warmth. In a flash, the voices around them were cut off and the hand on his shoulder vanished. Draco’s gaze was able to focus and his view was nothing short of glorious.

Hermione stood in front of him, her hair tangling in an unfelt breeze, her eyes blazing with unholy light. She thrummed with held-back fury and magic. Her wand was pointed at Millicent, who seemed rooted in place, straight as a rod, and curiously pale.

“I will not hesitate to turn you inside-out—literally—if you ever touch Draco against his will again. Understood?” Her tone was so vicious, Millicent actually whimpered at Hermione’s words. “I asked if you understood.” She enunciated each word clearly, her voice as sharp as a knife.

Millicent squeaked out a ‘yes’, pure terror showing on her pale face. Hermione flicked her wand once and Millicent’s rigid posture crumbled.

“Good. Now fuck off or I’ll do it either way,” Hermione snarled. She watched Millicent’s eyes water before the woman scuttled off, right into the waiting glowers of Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria.

Hermione huffed, then whirled around to face him, all anger peeling from her features as if blown away. Still, Draco was unable to hear a sound beyond her quick footsteps as she approached him. Had she silenced the air around them?

“Draco?” Hermione asked, stopping in front of him. Her wand was gone and he saw her hands shake as she reached out, then dropped them to fists at her sides. “Are you… What can I do?” Her eyes of amber fire found his, wide and concerned.

Draco swallowed, his vision fuzzing once more. “Need…” he croaked.

“What do you need? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“Closer,” he gasped out.

Hermione drew closer and Draco reached out on pure instinct. He didn’t feel her hands in his, courtesy of his gloves, but as he pulled her to him, her scent washed over him and he groaned. It was as close to bliss as his current state of mind allowed. He dipped his head until his nose brushed her curls and inhaled deeply.

Safe. Steady and comfortable.

A tremor went through him on his exhale and Hermione made to pull back once she felt it, but Draco tightened his hold. “No. Need you, please,” he uttered, unable to form complete sentences. “Closer,” Draco whispered and Hermione laced her fingers through his and shuffled closer until she was almost against him. Draco leaned forward, closing the gap. Her touch did not overwhelm him, but warmed. Everywhere she was pressed to him stroked and smoothed the edges of his mind gently. He could feel something added, as if tendrils of her magic wound around them to shield and protect. Draco swore he smelled hints of Douillet in the air, but that could have been a figment of his rattled mind.

He breathed, concentrating on the witch nestled to his chest, letting her presence soak him entirely. Draco had no idea how long they stood like that, his face hovering close to her neck, his nose in her hair and her cheek gently pressed to his heart. The fuzziness lessened and his pulse and breathing slowed.

Draco lifted his head and looked around, noticing that no one seemed to care for their position. Actually, no one seemed to even see them.

“What…” He cleared his throat. “What happened? And why is no one looking this way?”

Hermione shifted and tilted her face up to look at him. “I cast a Notice-me-not and a repellant around us.” She shrugged. “And a Muffliato. I think Theo also staged a distraction with Blaise’s help. At least I think I heard him say something along those lines.” A small blush rose on her cheeks and she fled his gaze, her brows drawing together. “I was a bit…preoccupied with getting to you to listen properly.”

Her shoulders rose and fell on a bracing breath before she looked at him again. “Are you alright? I saw you Occlude, then your eyes went blank completely.”

For a moment, Draco got lost in her gaze of fire. She had not hesitated to protect him. Not one second. It was…unexpected. As was the feeling accompanying that fact. As a man—an aristocratic pureblood, at that—Draco was supposed to deal with things, be the protector and the provider. Anyone else assuming this role would lead to humiliation and indignation. Draco felt neither. He knew by now the world didn’t work that way and everyone needed support now and again. Hermione hadn’t just supported him, though, she had threatened someone on his behalf. At wandpoint. At a high-profile gala. And she’d made sure he was fine and cared for afterwards, going as far as to protect his reputation around these wankers while doing so. Maybe that had been to keep his parents out of it, but it had the same outcome.

“I’m alright,” he managed to say. Warmth bloomed in his chest, expanding endlessly when she smiled at him in a way that made his knees weak.

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked, studying him closely.

Draco squeezed her hand once, noticing that his tremors were less. “I’m sure.” He looked around, dreading picking up where he had left off. Socializing and mingling. Draco felt exhausted having staved off the episode. He knew he was duty-bound, though.

“I- I’d like to go home,” Hermione said looking at him, then frowned. “I’m afraid I’ll go looking for Bullstrode if we stay.”

A wave of relief and gratitude swept through him. “We wouldn’t want another scene.”

“No, we would not.”

“My parents would be livid.”

“Won’t they be livid either way? If we just leave now?”

Draco felt the corners of his lips twitch. “Who cares? Let’s go home, darling.”

Hermione nodded once and they traversed the ballroom unnoticed. Once Draco led them through a few hallways and doors and to a quiet sitting room with a connected hearth, he turned toward his wife and motioned her closer. “You go first.”

Draco followed her through and the second he walked from the gigantic hearth in Douillet’s sitting room, he relaxed. The atmosphere rolled through him until he felt it in every cell of his body. He was home, he was safe. A rumble sounded and the carpet under his feet rose a bit, like a gentle touch. The feeling conveyed was one of worry and comfort. Draco smiled and stroked a palm over the wall next to the fire place. “Thank you,” he whispered. “And thank you for helping Hermione.”

Draco knew she had drawn on the house’s magic when confronting Millicent. He had only ever seen her magic visible that way once, which had been in Sweden, when she’d nearly leveled the hotel because of the Weasel. Granted, tonight it had been more subdued, but maybe that was due to the fact that it had been over rather quickly. Her discussion with Weasley had taken a bit of time, as she had told him.

Speaking of which, Draco saw his wife move about the room, her shoes next to the coffee-table and her dress hiked up with one hand so she wouldn’t stumble over the now too-long edges. Whatever updo she had tamed her hair into, had not survived her anger and her curls tumbled down her back. Her cheeks were still a bit flushed and a small scowl graced her features as she halted in front of a cherry-wood cabinet filled with an assortment of alcohol. Draco’s eyes followed her and he was hit with something unidentifiable. She had never looked more gorgeous. And that was after seeing her bathed in magic and otherworldly, dangerous and exciting.

This was different, though. Her back was to him as she poured drinks, the dress hugging her slim waist and the generous flare of her hips, while one of her bare feet was propped up so he could see the sole peeking out from the train of fabric. The movements she made had the ends of her hair brushing right over the swell of her spectacular arse. She shifted, pulling back the foot and making her hips move to dip in the other direction. The fabric of the dress caressed the move almost lovingly and Draco stared, feeling a very unwelcome twitch in his trousers.

It wasn’t as if he had ever forgotten how fit she was, but somehow, he was hit with the view of her in a different way. Maybe his mind was searching for something to focus on, other than the last few moments.

He had not really allowed himself to think back on the beginning of their marriage and those two nights. Well, yes he had, but in a detached sort of way. It had all been hypothetical anyway; it sure wasn’t like he could act on his thoughts. There had never been a question of whether or not he wanted her physically, because he very much did, but other things had taken the forefront. Like being grateful, worried, and working on himself and getting to know his wife. Yet, he sank into the sofa, his gaze burning into her as he remembered just how her lips had tasted and felt, how soft her skin had been… Those Merlin-damned noises she’d made and the feel of her cunt clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

Draco blinked, stifling a groan. What the fuck was going on? Where was his control?

In that moment, Hermione turned and walked over with two tumblers in her hands. She sat down beside him, but left ample space between them and place one of the glasses down. After she took a long sip, her beautiful eyes found him and Draco forced himself to stay focused, even as he saw her lick her lips. His gaze would not dip.

“What do you need, Draco?” Hermione asked lowly, her voice wrapping around him like a swath of silk and the truth almost spilled from him. In that moment? He very much wanted to tell her it was all her. Not that it was feasible or practical, but tonight… She had stood in front of him, she had brought him back, she had been brilliant, scary, quick-witted and imbued with magic and power in a frighteningly sensual way. And now she looked more edible than she ever had.

“I don’t know,” Draco said after a while. He truly didn’t. What he wanted was to be able to touch his wife, fucking hell. What he needed? He had no bloody idea.

He looked at her, noticing the way she was lounging to the side in a relaxed way, her long legs hidden beneath her dress, the skirt of which pooled down the side of the sofa like a waterfall of indigo. Draco knew her by now, though and the way her eyes were a bit too narrow and her lips a tad too slim, he deduced she was not as calm as she tried to portray. She said nothing, just kept looking at him and slowly nursed her drink.

“I probably shouldn’t drink much more,” he said and motioned at the glass in front of him. “I… The episode didn’t take over completely, thanks to you, but it was still close. I don’t want to risk it coming back for you to deal with again.”

“Draco, I don’t mind it. Yes, it scares and pains me to see you suffer in your memories, but it neither makes me think less of you, nor do I mind helping. It’s what I can do for you. And it’s what you need. I’m very happy to be able to provide for your needs.”

Draco nearly groaned at the way she’d phrased that last bit. He clamped down on this ridiculous train of thought, and wrenched his mind toward more important things. There was something he needed to say.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he rasped, his voice a bit rougher than before. “For what you did tonight.” Draco meant it. He was proud for the way she’d carried herself calmly next to him, and grateful at how she had intervened and cared for him after, and… Draco clenched his teeth. “I know you asked to come home on my behalf, because you knew I’d have a hard time after that.” He grimaced at the table. “It was a huge relief when you took that decision from me, I know I’d have made the wrong one out of obligation.”

“That is not a problem,” she said, taking another sip of her whisky. “I was serious, though. Had I seen even a twirl of that hideously yellow dress of hers, I would have chased after it and probably strangled her. Or something.”

“Or something,” Draco said, letting the words hang in the air. He didn’t doubt her for a second. It was a notion that burned through him, something unexpected and freeing. Was she as covetous of him as he was of her? Was it because she cared for him? Or was it simply something territorial? As much as he wanted to know the answer, Draco shied away from asking.

“I will not apologize for threatening the cow, Draco, if that is what you are concerned about.” Her tone was hard, unyielding. “She touched you when you clearly didn’t want her to and there is no excuse for that. I will never stand by and watch anyone mistreat you.”

He nodded absently, eyeing his tumbler. So she’d done it because of her very nature, then. Because she was Hermione Granger, who could not abide bullying and injustice. Seemed as though it had nothing to do with him per se. Somehow, the knowledge cast a damper on him, akin to a heavy, cold and wet blanket.

“I am sorry if I made it worse for you, though,” Hermione said gingerly, her words halting and frail, void of all hardness from before.

Draco’s gaze shot to hers in surprise. “How do you mean? You did nothing wrong.”

She visibly bit down on the inside of her cheek, looking unsure. “We did touch for an awfully long time beforehand. I imagine it put a strain on you and Bullstrode might have just been what made it all boil over.”

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t believe I could bare skin to skin contact over a longer time, but I was not uncomfortable in the slightest with your touch tonight. In fact, it helped me focus immensely.”

She tilted her head and raised the tumbler to her mouth. When she licked her bottom lip, Draco shifted in his seat, trying hard to mask the effect she was having on him. “That is good to know.” The expression on her face was unreadable as she emptied her glass and put it down. “Are you going to drink this?” she asked and pointed at the drink she had brought for him.

“I don’t think I should, not entirely at least.” Draco raised a brow. “Care to share?” He glanced at the big clock standing next to the arch leading into the foyer. The pendulum swung steadily from side to side, and the hands were at three minutes to midnight. “Isn’t it tradition to herald in the new year with a drink?”

Hermione nodded and was quiet for a while afterwards, her gaze turning inward. “Muggles have an additional tradition when it comes to the new year,” she said, then shook her head. “But that is… Never mind, it’s silly to even bring up.” For some unknown reason, her cheeks tinged with pink, intriguing Draco.

“What is it?”

She crinkled her nose and shifted closer, bending forward to reach for his drink. Draco was hit with the view of her cleavage and he was briefly drawn into the memory of feeling her bare tits, of squeezing those perfect handfuls.

“It’s silly,” she repeated and sank back, took a sip and handed him the glass.

Draco accepted the tumbler and placed his lips on the trace of her mouth. The rich taste glided over his tongue and he imagined he was able to catch notes of her in it. Which was pretty much impossible, but the thought was there, drawing his gaze to her plush lips. “You said that already.”

Her hands laced together and she blushed a little more. “It’s not like…” Hermione huffed and Draco saw the moment her brazenness took over whatever made her hesitate and nervous, as a steeliness entered her eyes, making them resemble the Ogden’s in his glass. “It’s considered good luck to kiss at the stroke of midnight. Specifically to kiss the person you want to spend the next year with.”

She plucked the tumbler from him and took a big gulp, her cheeks flaming. Draco stared at her.

“But as I said, it’s a silly superstition and not like you could- want… Especially not after what happened tonight. I… Gods, I’m an idiot. Sorry, uhm… Ignore everything I just said, please.” Hermione clutched the glass in her lap with both hands, looking mortified. She seemed as though she was trying to vanish into the sofa.

“Is that what you want?” Draco asked, suddenly breathless.

She looked at him, her burnt-whisky eyes wide.

“To spend the next year with me, I mean,” Draco clarified, even if he was curious about her wanting to kiss him as well.

“I… I think so, yes,” she said, making his heart jump in his chest. The feeling expanding throughout him was almost painful in its heaviness and yet it was beautiful. It was wrapping around his throat while making his heart sing at the same time. Draco had caught hints and flashes of this feeling before when around Hermione, or when thinking of her, but this was the first time it completely overwhelmed him. Maybe it was because they hadn’t spoken of the future since their initial talk and he had not allowed himself to envision it. Now he did.

He pictured lazy mornings, looking across the table and seeing her disheveled and heavy-lidded, still half asleep. He saw them in deep discussions about interesting topics, Crookshanks between them as she lit up in that uncanny way of hers. Things they already shared. But there was more. Her reaching for his hand absently, just to hold it. Or him waking to find her in his bed. Them touching, kissing fucking. In every room. And then falling asleep wrapped around her, suffused by her. The way he had when they’d consummated. Draco craved the feeling of that ever since he had experienced it the first time. He craved her in all ways she’d have him.

The pressure expanded and Draco cursed inwardly when he admitted to himself that there was nothing in this world he wanted more than her. A life with her. Salazar be damned, he was falling in love with his wife. The realization hit him like a bludger and he swallowed starkly. The absolute clarity of that fact made everything else fade away. It twined through him and sprouted roots. Draco was at the very edge, the precipice, and he knew he was going to jump, no matter the depths it would take him to. And damn his mind, but he would do everything in his power to give her all he could. Including what he was unable to yet. He clenched his fists. He would get there. And he would start right fucking now.

Determined, Draco drew his gloves from his fingers and set them down on the table, then he turned toward his wife and plucked the whisky from her grappling hands. He shifted closer, suddenly very nervous. A click sounded, before a heavy ‘gong’ reverberated through the space. It was midnight.

“In that case, will you let me kiss you, darling?” he asked, his voice gravelly, filled with nerves and need.

Something flickered across her face as she stared at him, then leveled out. For a moment seeing it pinched at something inside of him and he was sure she’d decline, but then she sat up and drew closer.

“Yes.” The word hovered between them like a whispered promise and it was all Draco needed.

He dipped his face until feeling the heat of her skin, her breath ghosting over his chin, then their lips met in a gentle brush. It was different than the first time they had kissed, void of the tranquility the joint had provided back then, but no less magical. Tentative and a bit shaky.

Draco breathed, his heartrate climbing steadily as he kissed her firmer. Hermione moved with him, a slight gasp slithering into him. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her softness… It sent a current of need across his entire body, culminating in a tingle that traveled along his skin, making his cock twitch again. A thrum of warning, from the far reaches of his mind nudged at him, but it was faint and didn’t make him worry.

Kissing along the seam of her lower lip, Draco explored her carefully. As if he had no choice, his hands reached up and cupped her face, his fingers digging into her hair. He pulled her closer and slanted her face to deepen the kiss. Hermione let him take the lead, little sighs tumbling against him when he dug his fingers deeper and nipped at the corner of her lips. She opened with a groan and Draco slid his tongue across her lower lip. Her taste was electrifying, sending his need ratcheting up to new heights, then heat engulfed him from head to toe when her tongue met his.

Silken slides. She tasted like whisky and something sweet. Small moans danced with his breaths when he explored her and her hands stroked up his chest to grip his shirt. The thrum of warning grew louder and Draco knew that tremors would soon follow, but he’d be damned if he stopped kissing her now.

Hermione whimpered and pulled on his shirt, her mouth closing on his lower lip before she sucked on it. The sensation was like a jolt of magic and she shifted at his moan, seemingly about to climb into his lap, but before Draco knew what was happening, Hermione pulled back instead. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips glistening and puffy. She opened her shaking hands and pulled her head free from his palms.

“I… I’m… I’m sorry, it’s too much. I can’t…” she stammered, fleeing his gaze.

Draco swallowed, taking in how enchantingly debauched she looked. Then her words pierced his mind and his heart sank. “I… Of course. I’m—”

A deep rumble went through the house, making them both jump. The chandelier clinked and swayed, as the sound of grating stone and breaking wood had their heads snap up.

“What is happening?” Hermione asked, standing up.

Draco got up as well, staring at the ceiling from where the sounds came. “Douillet is clearly doing something,” he said.

They glanced at one another, then hurried from the room. Draco was both glad and annoyed by the interruption, as he wanted to know what was going on and also wished to remain ignorant of why Hermione thought of the kiss as ‘too much’. Maybe he had come on too strong? But Merlin, he wanted to do it again. Even as he fisted his now trembling hands. Gods, had it really been that close?

When they reached the top of the stairs, they both stopped short.

“The doors to our rooms are gone,” Hermione observed. She hurried down the left of the corridor as Draco did to the right.

“All doors are gone,” he said. “Except for the—bollocks.” He scowled at the winged doors leading to the master bedroom. His confusion and worry switched to anger. “Douillet,” he growled. “Give us back our doors.”

The floorboards clacked once, then the doors to the master bedroom opened invitingly. Hermione walked up to him and blinked at what was revealed. “What the…”

They slowly ventured into the once overly-opulent room and saw it had changed completely. Gone was the marble, the gold, and the balcony above the bed. It seemed as though the house had fused both their original rooms into one. The bed was high and impossibly wide, decked out in two sets of duvets, countless cushions and faux-fur blankets. The carpet had the same pattern as his and the shelf spanning the side of the wall to their right was filled with Hermione’s books. Across from the bed was a hearth, housing a low fire whose flames blinked in the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the garden. Right between bed and fireplace was his own chaise lounge and a wingback chair with a footstool. Crookshanks was perched on it as if he had been there the entire time.

“It seems like our house had some form of interpretation to our kiss,” Draco mused, to which both bedside tables rattled in answer.

“Oh fuck, no!” Hermione fumed. “I want my room back, and I want it now!”

Nothing happened and she whipped out her wand. “Douillet, I said now.” Her face was contorted in anger and Draco sighed, not knowing how to feel at her ire.

“Darling, you can’t keep threatening our house with fiendfyre.”

“Bloody watch me.”

The bedside table shuddered once, but nothing happened. A clear sense of stubborn glee surged through the space and Draco scoffed. “It seems as though your threat is being called.”

Hermione’s lips thinned and for a second Draco was worried she’d truly set fire to everything. She did look angry enough. “You think you won, do you? Well, we’ll see about that.” Marching toward the two doors on the left, she flicked her wand to open both, stepped into the closet and emerged with pajamas, before huffing and stalking toward the exit.

“Hermione, are you really going to try and fight a stubborn old house?” Draco asked, deflating under the glower she sent his way. “I mean… The bed would fit up to ten people by the looks of it.”

“Do not patronize me, Draco Malfoy! This is about principal and I did not consent to this.” She threw back her hair and stomped from the room, her small feet making an inordinate amount of noise.

Draco was left behind with a mix of bemusement and sadness. Would it really be so bad to sleep in one room? Was it because of the kiss? He drew his hands through his hair and tugged, eyeing the room sharply. “You know, you could stand to not be so cheeky.”

A rattle of pure smugness sang through the entire room and Draco sighed. Resigned to his fate, he got ready for bed in his new room, wondering idly where Hermione had stomped off to. He didn’t dare follow her. Not when she looked ready to hex his balls off. Instead, Draco replayed their kiss in his head, trying to deduce where he had gone wrong.

The answer to where she had taken up shelter was revealed during the night. Draco woke to the door creaking open and the sofa from the sitting room scuttling inside silently. He blinked, half-sure he was dreaming as the sofa tripled to the far side of the bed to dump a sleeping Hermione into it. Then the piece of furniture snuck from the room again.

Draco watched on as the blanket wrapped Hermione up gently, eliciting a soft snore from the witch. He sniggered into his pillow and shook his head. Dream or no dream, the morning would prove to be exciting. He was dreading it, but they would have to talk about the kiss, or rather, maybe he should apologize for what he did wrong. As he looked at his wife, soundly asleep and so beautiful she made his body ache, Draco hoped she’d forgive his forwardness.

“Are you fucking serious?!” A shrill shout woke Draco and he blinked into the morning light blearily. “Draco, did you float me into this bed?”

Draco groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes and then came to face a furiously flushed and very disheveled Hermione, hovering next to his bedside. Her hair was impossibly wild and it seemed like it was crackling with anger.

“So it wasn’t a dream,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“I thought I saw the sofa depositing you into the bed, but I thought that was a dream,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes and scowled, her face reddening even more and her hair rising further. “DOUILLET! You absolute fiend! How fucking dare you resort to witch-napping in the middle of the night? I want my room back!” She actually stomped her foot at that and Draco smacked his lips to get the fuzzy taste from his mouth and keep from chuckling at the sight.

“We’ll figure something out, Hermione, I promise you won’t have to sleep with me if you don’t want to.”

Her face fell and she gaped at him. “That is…”

Draco felt a blush prickle up the back of his neck when he realized how he had worded that. “I didn’t mean…” He sighed, suddenly miserable. “I’m sorry our kiss turned heated, I understand you weren’t ready for it. And I’m sorry our house is being a little shit and forcing you into bed with me. I don’t mind it because there is enough space, I think I’d need a passport to cross over to your side, but if it makes you uncomfortable, we’ll find a solution.”

“This is not about comfort,” she said, her face growing enraged once more. “And don’t you dare apologize for the kiss turning into… It’s my problem, not yours.”

“It’s fine if you don’t…” He stopped and looked at the ceiling for a second, bracing himself. “I would obviously like for you to be as attracted to me as I am to you, but if you’re not, I understand.”

“Hah!” Hermione made, looking close to hovering into the air with fury, eliciting a jerk from him. “You think I’m not attracted to you?”

Draco shrugged, his misery deepening. “It’s fairly obvious you’ve been pulling back in the past few weeks, and I really don’t blame you. I know I’m not—”

“I pulled away because I am constantly a hairsbreadth away from jumping you to climb you like a fucking tree, Draco. I stopped the kiss last night because I was about to slide into your lap and grind on you like a cat in heat. If I sleep in the same bed as you it will only get worse.”

Draco looked at her dumbly. He blinked once. “What?”

As angry as she was, she folded her arms across her chest and harrumphed. “I can’t be in the same vicinity as you without wanting you. Is that clear enough?” She glared a bit, then growled something and fled the room, still dressed in pajamas.

Draco watched her leave, completely flabbergasted. She…wanted him? That much? A very broad and quite idiotic smile grew on his lips and his heart began to bounce in his chest like an over-excited Pigmy-puff.

Chapter Text

Shouldn’t Have Said That

Hermione

Hermione couldn’t believe herself. This was exactly what she had wanted to prevent. “Stupid,” she mumbled, padding down the stairs her hands clenched and her jaw firm. “Shite, piss, bollocks, fucking… Fuck!” Why on earth had she told him? What now?

Anger at herself and fear at what her revelation meant surged together in a frightening mix, making her shake with the onslaught. Gods, where was a time-turner when she needed it? She could have gone back and just breathed a bit, settling her nerves after waking up and realizing where she was. But no. Curse her temper. She had been stretched so thin when it came to Draco that all it had taken was to look at him sleeping soundly, so stupidly beautiful that it made her core ache with need and her skin tingle with want, to completely lose her mind and air her frustration.

She would have been able to stick to yelling at Douillet, if Draco hadn’t brought up the kiss, reminding her of that colossal mistake. But gods… That kiss. It had set her entire being on fire and stoked that bloody yearning to an impossible degree. She had longed for him to touch her like that, for his taste, for the feel of his lips on hers. It had crumbled the walls she’d built to protect herself, making them tumble and disintegrate into dust. She had been so very close to pouncing on him and only knowing what danger it would put his mind in had given her the strength to pull away. Then Douillet happened. The thought of having him so close, of hearing his breath at night, of smelling him… It had made her body sing in a very dangerous way.

All of which would still have been bloody fine, but then he’d gone along and misinterpreted her actions. Too overwhelmed by all of it, she had snapped like a stick of bamboo. “Idiot. I’m such a Merlin-damned idiot.”

When she sped through the foyer a thought stilled her and she halted in her tracks, paling. He’d want to talk about it. They would need to talk about it. And there was no way she could lie to him now. It would influence his decision, how he acted, and…everything. Her thoughts began to spiral, the initial fear ratcheting up to drown out the anger. She needed to talk to someone. Ginny! Ginny knew about a lot of it. But Hermione had no idea where she was and she was not about to floo to the Burrow and run into Ronald.

Before she knew what she was doing, Hermione stood in front of the floo and threw in a handful of powder. “Number 12 Grimauld Place,” she said and stepped inside. Harry would know and there was a small chance Ginny would be there, as she sometimes crashed at his place, having her own room tehre, away from the Burrow.

Hermione was spat out into the gloomy sitting room and dusted her pajamas off. When she righted herself, she beheld a very wide-eyed and half-naked Oliver Wood, who looked as if he was coming from the kitchen, two mugs of what smelled like coffee in his hands.

“Hermione?” he asked, blinking slowly and taking in her appearance from socked feet to ash-dusted pajamas and bed-hair.

“Oliver?” Hermione squeaked, staring at him in return. “What are you doing here?”

Before the man could answer, footsteps announced someone new arriving. “Did the coffeemaker swallow you, hotness?” Ginny shouted, her voice floating through the space as she came upon them, dressed in a large shirt and little else.

“I helped,” Harry said, drifting from the kitchen behind Oliver, his messy hair standing at odd angles. “Muggle coffeemakers can be—Hermione?”

“Oh,” Ginny said and sped over, gathering Hermione in a hug. “Happy new year, ‘Mione!”

A bit stunned, Hermione hugged her friend back, her eyes traveling between Oliver and Harry. “Happy new year,” she mumbled, then blushed a bit. “Uhm… Sorry if I interrupted…something.”

Harry spluttered at her gaze and then chuckled. “No, and if you had, I was not part of it.”

Oliver smirked and shook his head. “I’ll let you guys catch up.” He looked down his bare torso. “Not exactly dressed for company.” Walking past Ginny, he handed her one of the mugs, kissed her neck, then gave her a lingering look. “I’ll be waiting upstairs, love.”

Ginny watched him walk away, sighed dreamily and then shook herself, one arm still around Hermione’s waist. “I so love watching him leave.”

Harry strode up to them and tugged Hermione into a hug of his own. “Happy new year, Herms.” He smiled at her warmly. “It’s good to see you, but…” Her friend looked her over with a cheeky gleam in his eyes. “You do look like you just flooed here from your bed. Let’s sit down.”

“Well, I didn’t think I’d tumble into Oliver Wood, to be honest,” she said, looking at Ginny pointedly.

Ginny bit her lip and smirked. “We kind of ran into each other last week in the Leaky. We’ve been catching up since.”

“Uh huh. That’s what we’re calling it, is it?” Hermione asked, feeling a bit of her anxiety lessen.

“It is,” Ginny said with a wink. “But let’s talk about the obvious first. Harry’s right, you look all tousled and fresh out of bed.”

“It’s a…long story,” Hermione mumbled.

Harry’s face turned worried, he grasped her hand and pulled her into the kitchen. He deposited Hermione on the L-shaped bench that sat in the corner, rounding a small table with two chairs on the open end.

“Coffee?” he asked and Hermione nodded as Ginny slid in next to her with a strange expression. Something between worry and mirth.

Within a few seconds, Harry was back and sat opposite the two witches, sliding a mug across the table.

“Thank you,” Hermione said and took a bracing sip. It was hot and black, with two sugars. Just how she liked it.

Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair, allowing the bathrobe he was wearing to open up indecently and Hermione snapped her eyes shut with a groan. “Honestly, Harry, I did not need to know you’re naked underneath that robe. I’ve seen enough of you during the war, please cover up.”

Ginny sniggered and Harry shifted audibly, allowing Hermione to open one eye cautiously. Thank Merlin he was decent again.

A small and warm hand threaded with her own and Hermione glanced at Ginny, who squeezed her fondly. “What happened, love?” she asked. “What is this long story?”

Hermione nibbled on her lower lip, looking from Ginny to Harry, who nodded at her, the same worried expression on his face.

“I messed up spectacularly,” Hermione admitted. “I just told my husband how much I want to climb him like a tree.”

Harry nearly spat out his sip of coffee and Ginny laughed.

“Finally came around to it, then?” Ginny asked between chuckles. “Took you long enough.”

“You finally what?” Harry asked, looking aghast.

“Come now, Harry,” Ginny said with a teasing tone. “You have to admit he’s fit. No matter how much you dislike him. And besides, I already told you the ferret is being very attentive and all husbandly toward our Hermione.”

“But he’s Malfoy,” Harry insisted, his brows furrowing as he glanced at Hermione. “You never told me about any of this. How did…” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking a bit hurt, then he leaned back and took a deep breath. “You know what, never mind. I have not been by as often as I should have and we haven’t spent a lot of time together since all of this started.”

“I could have reached out more,” Hermione said, her gut tightening with guilt. “Besides, we have never really talked about these things, you and me. But I’m sorry, Harry.”

“Ginny did tell me not to worry and Ron has been…demanding. The moment I’m not traveling, he pops up at my doorstep, wanting to hang out or go out.” His lips narrowed. It seemed Harry was not very happy about that fact. “Still, I should have made more of an effort.” His green eyes leveled with hers. “I’m sorry too. Please start from the beginning.”

Hermione ignored Harry’s comment about Ron, not wanting to go anywhere near it, but she did understand. Even when things had been normal, Harry and her hadn’t gotten together as much as they both would have liked. She sighed once and started at the beginning—for Harry’s benefit—telling her friends everything. From how Draco had behaved ever since before their wedding, to her attraction growing in response, to the touch-complications, to parts of the contract and how it complicated things further, to the talk she’d had with Draco on their future, to the last few weeks and her miserable yearning for her husband. She continued on, despite Harry’s eyes growing wider with each word. By the time she told them about Christmas and last night, Harry was gaping like a carp on land.

“I have no idea why I said yes, but I did and he kissed me and I nearly climbed into his bloody lap. Then our house vanished all the doors to our rooms and made a new one, with one bed and I lost it. I slept on the sofa and woke up back in that bed, with him. Bloody witch-napping house. And he… Draco thought I was so adamant and angry because he was making me uncomfortable—which he is, but not in the way he thinks—and I just… I told him.”

“Hold on,” Ginny said with a stupid grin. “Your house is playing matchmaker in this? Did I understand that correctly?”

“Yes, Douillet is being a serious pain by—stop laughing, Ginny! This is serious. My house is being a complete arse, and smug about it to boot.”

“That is certainly a sentence I thought I’d never hear,” Ginny mused, still chuckling.

“It’s not the worst of my problems, though,” Hermione griped. She pulled her hand from Ginny’s and sank her head to the table where her forehead thumped on the wood. “I ruined my plan. I wanted him to decide for himself, when he is ready and not… He deserves to make his own decision, one not influenced by me. Gods, I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

Hermione groaned and bounced her forehead once. “And now he knows and he’ll want to talk and he’ll… I don’t know what to do.”

“’Mione,” Ginny said after a few moments. “I don’t think it’s bad for him to know how you feel. He might have decided differently if he thought—”

“Exactly! That’s what I’m afraid of,” Hermione interrupted, pulling her head up.

Ginny looked at her, unimpressed. “If you would let me finish?”

Pressing her lips together Hermione waved her on.

“Thank you. As I was saying, from what you told me about the ferret and from what I have seen, he seems to have changed and he is taking his commitment to you very seriously. What if you never told him, he thought you were uncomfortable and decided to leave, thinking that is what you wanted?”

Ice shot through her veins at the thought. But Ginny was right, that was exactly what Draco would have been likely to do if he believed she was pulling back and uncomfortable.

Ginny nudged her gently. “I think if you guys are talking about possibly staying together, you owe it to him to be honest and open about what you want and need from him.”

As Hermione contemplated her friend’s words, Harry still seemed stuck on the specifics. “Malfoy did all of that for you? Draco Malfoy?”

“Well, I’m certainly not talking about his father, Harry,” Hermione said with an eyeroll.

Harry cleared his throat. “I still don’t understand, then.”

Hermione frowned at him and he raised both brows. “I mean, I get that he changed and is being a good husband to you.” He looked puzzled for a second. “Even if that sounds very unlike him, but if this is only about you wanting to shag his brains out, then what’s the problem? You said you’ve been working on the touch-thing. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Hermione stared at her best friend. “I love you Harry, but this isn’t about ‘shagging his brains out’. It’s about me swaying his decision.”

“Which was refuted by Ginny just now,” Harry said, taking a sip of coffee. “Quite easily at that. You are smart enough to have figured it out on your own, so I’m thinking all of this is a front.” His features took on a shrewd expression and Hermione wished she could sink under the table. She knew that look. Few people knew he as well as Harry did and that look told her he was about to tell her something she didn’t want to hear, or ask something she wasn’t ready to think about.

“What is this really about, ‘Mione?”

Ginny’s gaze was a carbon copy of Harry’s, clearly on the same page as him. When it came to some things, these two were like one and the same person. It was eerie, really. And vexing.

Confronted by the piercing looks from her two friends, Hermione’s built-up defenses fell. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “I- I think I… I’m starting to fall for him.” She swallowed. “And if we go further physically, I have the feeling that it will only make me fall faster and harder. I can’t…” Hermione looked at the tendrils of white steaming from her coffee.

“How much of this because you are hung up on who he is?” Ginny asked.

“None of it. I know the last time we spoke; this was a concern for me, but I have gotten to know him better since. He doesn’t care about my blood and protects me fiercely from people who do—and everyone else who threatens me. I feel equally as protective of him. I know who he is now and it’s not who he was. And I don’t care what anyone thinks or says about us.”

“So what is it that scares you?”

Hermione shook her head, glaring at the table to flee the gazes of her friends. “I feel held together by nothing more than pure will and stubbornness as it is. If I fall in love with him, I expose myself to complete ruin.”

“Or complete happiness,” Ginny mused. “If you are seriously considering staying married to the bloke, then wouldn’t it be nice to be in love with your husband?”

Hermione laced her fingers around her mug, uttering a shuddering breath. “What if he doesn’t feel the same?” She pressed her lids shut, letting all the fear that thought sparked wash through her. Gods, she wouldn’t survive that level of rejection. Not again. “If we decide on staying together, we’ll be tied to one another indefinitely. I couldn’t stand being with him knowing he doesn’t reciprocate. Besides, the last time I…” Hermione grimaced. “It didn’t go so well the last time. With… With Ron.”

She felt Ginny’s frown and Harry’s speculative gaze and knew they were still curious, but neither pressed her. Perhaps they didn’t dare ask about what really happened with Ron because he was family to both of them. Or maybe they simply respected her wish not to detail anything.

“As much as it surprises me to say this,” Ginny started, “I don’t think your fears are warranted.”

Hermione scoffed and eyed her friend.

“I’m serious,” Ginny said. “The things he did for you? The way he treats you? Taking a marriage seriously is one thing, but either Malfoy is a belated overachiever, or that man is gone for you.”

Hermione was unconvinced. She saw Ginny smile at Harry fondly.

“I was with a great man,” she said. “A crush-turned-lover-turned-friend, who made being in a relationship as easy as breathing, but even he wasn’t half as attentive as the ferret.”

Harry clicked his tongue. “Are you saying Draco Malfoy is a better husband than I was a boyfriend?”

Ginny giggled and squeezed his hand once before pulling it back. “No Harry, what I’m saying is that we had something beautiful, but we weren’t deeply and completely in love. We weren’t right for each other.”

Hermione laughed nervously. “That makes it sound like you think Draco and I are right for one another.”

Tilting her head, Ginny took her in. “Aren’t you, though?”

“It… I suppose,” Hermione said after thinking on it for a beat. “He is interested in the things I tell him, asks questions about my work, what I read. And we discuss it at length. His questions are clever and he makes valid and surprising observations. It’s stimulating.” She ran her thumb over the rim of her mug. “He’s thoughtful.” A small smile tugged on the corner of her lips. “I mention something once, in passing, and next thing I know—poof—he brings it along. No matter if it’s take-away food, or a bloody pensieve. And we communicate very well.” Hermione grimaced. “At least when it comes to everything other than what I just ran from.”

She felt safe and at peace in his presence, especially when it came to situations like last night. No matter who they faced, they did so together and it felt as though she could rely on that. She could rely on him. It was curious how something that should be so simple and self-evident truly wasn’t. Yes, she was able to rely on her friends, but when it came to a relationship—which wasn’t what her marriage was, not yet at least—Hermione discovered that it settled her to the point of it being almost as sexy as his confidence. She knew who and what she was coming home to. Draco, as haunted and darkly beckoning he was, provided her with a stability she was unused to.

“We are still talking about Malfoy, right?” Harry asked.

Hermione threw him an annoyed look and he just contemplated her for a moment, then sighed. “I mean, I’d marry a guy who treated me that way.” He tilted his head and a warm expression bled into his features. “Do you truly believe you could be happy with him, ‘Mione? Besides missing the physical part, I mean?”

She didn’t really have to think on the answer. “Yes, Harry.” She chuckled and brought her mug to her lips. “I am already happier than in any other relationship, even if we aren’t in one officially. I feel…seen and cared for.” She hid the oncoming blush behind the mug. “Cherished.”

Ginny groaned. “How often do I have to say it, Herms? You’re married to the bloke, that state of being trumps affair and relationship.”

Hermione felt a smile tug at her lips, the obvious acceptance from her friends and their encouragement meant the world to her. “Speaking of relationships…” She trailed off and wriggled her brows suggestively, jerking her chin in the direction of the bedrooms upstairs. To Hermione’s complete surprise, Ginny actually blushed. That never happened.

“It’s too fresh to say,” Ginny mumbled. “We had this thing going on for a few months now, hooking up here and there.” She pursed her lips. “Well, everywhere we met each other, really. But this is the first time we spent more time together. It’s…nice.”

“Oh, I need to hear all about it,” Hermione said, but Ginny shook her head.

“What you need, is to go back home and talk to your husband. You just vanished after what you said, I’d be freaking out if I was him.”

Hermione doubted that very much. Draco was not prone to freak-outs, but he might be worried. And yet…Hermione dreaded facing him after her admission. She knew she had to. Harry, the traitor who lived, agreed with Ginny and they both escorted her to the hearth.

Ginny did tell her she was going to owl for a get-together and told Harry he was to come along since he was ‘painfully single’. A night out dancing was the furthest from Hermione’s mind, but she had neglected her friends these past few weeks and maybe it would be nice to just hang out and dance the stress from her bones.

“Bring the ferret,” Ginny said with a grin, her arm thrown around Harry’s shoulder. “If you intend to have him in your life it’s time we got to know him better, and I kind of doubt you want to bring him around for a Sunday brunch at the Burrow.”

Hermione shook inwardly. The notion alone made a mix of unease and mirth sing through her. “I doubt he’d come to either, but I’ll ask.”

She hugged both her friends, thanked them for the talk and being there for her pathetic meltdown—which they both sternly denied being one—before she was through the floo, arriving in Douillet’s sitting room.

A surge of something unidentifiable went through her entire being when she saw Draco sitting on the sofa, reading the Prophet while drinking tea. He had his one leg up, resting his ankle on his other leg’s knee, wearing a crisp, white shirt and grey trousers. Of course, the first few buttons of said shirt were undone and his sleeves were rolled up to show his flowers on the one side and the Dark Mark on the other. Bloody hell, he would be the death of her. Hermione needed to find a way to get the one-bedroom situation settled, or she’d simply succumb to madness soon.

“Hello, darling wife,” Draco drawled, folding the paper and looking her over.

Hermione shuffled awkwardly, very aware that she looked completely crazy in her sooty pajamas and bed-hair, wearing nothing but socks on her feet. She grimaced, looking at them. They were grey with ash. She felt like a fucking ogre next to him in his proper and sexy clothes.

When Draco said nothing further, Hermione hoped he would simply ignore her outburst and words from earlier. She was not a coward by any means, but when it came to him it was somehow different. He had the uncanny ability to both strengthen her in untold ways and weaken her to the point of folding like a lawn chair.

“Going to change,” she mumbled, blushing on the account of a few different things, still hoping he was amenable to forget what she’d said.

“Sit,” Draco said, the tone he used making her straighten like a whip.

When she gaped at him incredulously, he raised a brow and indicated to the place next to him with a jerk of his chin. His eyes held no softness, but also nothing else she could recognize. Firm and unyielding. Gods, it brought back memories of their wedding night; when he’d ordered her around, assuming the worst of her. Hermione had diligently avoided thinking on that particular aspect of said night and how deeply it had affected her. The Draco she had gotten to know since, her husband, was kind and thoughtful, always solicitous when it came to her comfort, but she knew he had a different side to him as well. The darkly beckoning one that was as knickers-melting as it was unsettling.

“I will change first,” Hermione announced, her tone lacking any conviction, sounding so defiant and whiny that she cringed inwardly. “I won’t soil the sofa.”

Draco’s jaw clenched and he waved his wand at her, scourgifying her clothes. “Sit down, Hermione.”

Her body moved unbitten and she slowly sat down, holding his stern gaze with that same defiance while feeling her blood beat against her cheeks. Merlin’s soggy unmentionables, what was it about him that had her so bloody weak? She was acting like an absolute idiot.

Draco’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he was battling something as well and he poured her a cup of tea, then leaned closer to place it on the coffee-table in front of her.

“I apologize for my tone,” he said, his voice haven taken on a gravelly quality that had her stifling a whimper. “But you have a habit of hiding from me when you don’t want to talk about things. I’m pretty sure this is one such instance.” His steely gaze softened. “You should know by now that you don’t have to hide from me.”

Guilt clambered through her. He had noticed. “I know,” Hermione said, wringing her hands in her lap. “To be fair, I had reasons. I didn’t want to…” She swallowed. Gods, why was this so hard?

“Did you mean it?” he asked, taking her by surprise. “What you said before you vanished?”

Hermione gulped down her denial. The damage was done, she could not take back the words. And if she did, how would that look? No, denial was futile. And unfair. “I did,” she admitted. “But I shouldn’t have said what I did. I had no right to burden you with it.”

His brows shot up. “Burden me? How on earth would it be a burden knowing how much you wanted me?”

Hermione fled his gaze. “Because I know you aren’t ready and I would never want to push you to try things you aren’t ready for. And because I want you to be the one to decide, for once.” Her voice was shaky, weighed down by guilt and embarrassment.

Draco shifted in his seat, lifting his foot from his leg and planting it on the floor. “I have decided. I told you what I wanted.”

Something heavy twisted inside her. “Maybe you changed your mind, you are allowed to do that. You don’t have to force a future just because the alternative is even more unpleasant. I am not your only option, Draco, and I want you to know you have a choice.” She laced her fingers tightly, battling with the uncertainty she felt rising up. “Just because we’re married and you take it seriously, doesn’t mean you have to settle.”

The silence greeting her words was wrought with tension and finally, Hermione lifted her face to look at him. Her breath hitched. Draco’s anger had always been cold, frigid and controlled. There was none of that showing on his features. It was a hot kind of anger. Something unbridled and wild. His eyes the color of a thunderstorm.

“That fucking Weasel. I’ll wring his stupid neck like a twig,” he growled, taking Hermione by complete surprise. What did Ron have to do with any of this?

Heaving in a large breath, Draco seemed to beat back his anger forcefully. “I have watched the light leave your eyes every time you thought a confrontation or discussion between us was going a certain way. You assume things and then slip away without a fight. I know that isn’t you, because I have never seen you back down in any other scenario, and I can spot the way this behavior was conditioned over a period of time. It’s why you don’t believe me when I tell you I have decided, or that I am fond of you, or that I am attracted to you. Even when I have told you before.” He leaned forward a little, gifting her a look down his shirt to the expanse of his chest where she could make out the lines of his scars. “Even when I try and show you.”

Hermione snapped her eyes away from his chest. “I don’t know if…” She trailed off when he moved.

Draco slid from the sofa to crouch down in front of her. He was level with her and leaned in, so close that his body-heat prickled along her skin.

“I need you to look at me and hear me very clearly, darling.” His face was centimeters from hers, his eyes holding her prisoner. “Whatever he told you, or made you believe, it’s rubbish. I will not ask about it, but I am here if you ever want to tell me, and I am done with you hiding from me. I welcome your thoughts—even the contrary ones—and your opinions. I want you in my life and I…” His throat clicked with a swallow and his eyes burned. “I want you. Knowing that you want me too, it… Fuck, Hermione, it makes me hard just thinking about it.”

She was helpless not to look down to where his hips hovered close to the edge of the sofa. Sure enough, a very telling bulge verified his words and she stifled another whimper. Gods, he would drive her insane. Hermione pressed her lids shut, her breath heavy and near gasping past her open lips.

When his palm slid up her cheek, his thumb softly grazing the outer corner of her eye, she wanted to purr and nestle into the touch, but she stemmed the urge and pressed her lids shut further, sinking back until she was reclining into the sofa.

“Look at me darling,” he said, his words brushing along her chin and across her neck. “Look and see what you do to me.”

Her brain was about to fry itself, unable to form a coherent thought, but she opened her eyes because he’d asked her to. And there it was, shining from his features and his darkened eyes in absolute clarity. Need. Heat. Endless desire. Open and vast, sliding into her being and grabbing hold, forcing her to finally understand the truth of it. This time her whimper pitifully stumbled from her lips, as her entire body thrummed with answering arousal.

Feeling seen and cherished was one thing, but it had been ages since she’d felt truly desired. Hermione did now, there was no mistaking his intense look for anything else. He leaned in, pressing his hardness to the side of her leg, letting her feel it. She almost burst into fucking flames.

“If I could, I’d worship every delicious part of you and then fuck you into this sofa, before taking you to our bed and doing it all over again,” he growled, his face closer now so his mouth was next to her ear. “I bloody hate that I can’t. Yet.” He breathed in and ran his nose up the slope of her neck, eliciting a moan from her. “Will you let me work up to it, darling?”

Hermione clenched around nothing at his words and the feel of his skin lightly brushing hers, knowing that her knickers were completely ruined by now. She inhaled his scent as if drowning, shaking with the effort of not launching herself at him.

“Yes,” she croaked, then licked her lips when he pulled back a bit to look at her. “Yes, I will.”

A truly devilish smile formed on his gorgeous lips. “Thank you.” He sank back to his haunches, his gaze never leaving hers. His hand slid from her cheek and down to her neck, then ghosted along the valley between her tits until he lifted it and flexed it once.

Hermione could only breathe and shiver where she was perched like a boneless mess. She looked him over, waiting for her stupid heart to slow the fuck down.

Draco looked…as unraveled as she’d ever seen him. His cheeks were tinged in pink, the blush traveling down the sides of his neck and bleeding over the parts of his chest she could see. His shoulders rose and fell as rapidly as her own breaths came. Letting his tongue travel over his slightly open lips, made them glisten and she wanted to close the distance between them so desperately that she had to shut her eyes again.

“I… I have to…” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “I need to change.” Fuck coating the sofa in ash and soot, she was about to ruin the upholstery in a very different way if she stayed.

Opening her eyes once more she saw him narrow his gaze at her suspiciously. “I’m not… Not hiding. Promise. But if I don’t leave this room right now I…”

He smirked, his eyes flashing with heated longing, then his smirk vanished and his expression turned disappointed. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I wish I could—”

“Shut up,” she said without heat. “We’ll work it out. But I have to go and… Yes, take a shower. A long one.” She dropped her head back until it lay on the armrest and she was blinking at the ceiling. “Fucking hell. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

His low chuckle reached her and she heard him rise to his feet. “I presume it’s close to what you do to me, darling wife.”

That was it! As much as she didn’t want more distance between them, she needed some. Hermione rolled from the sofa and almost sprinted from the room on very unsteady legs. If he said another word to her, she was sure her body would spontaneously combust. Was that a thing? Hermione raced up the stairs. If it was his voice, saying those things to her… It seemed entirely possible.

She hastened to the bathroom they now shared—thanks Douillet—and closed the door firmly, before leaning her back against it and just breathed for a minute. Her body was alight with arousal, close to shaking with it. She could actually feel her heartbeat echoing in her core. “Bloody hell,” she whispered to herself, pushing off from the door. Running her shaking hands through her curls, she tugged on the mess. “Bloody hell!” she repeated and blew out a lungful of air.

Stepping up to the wide mirror set above twin washing basins settled into a marble counter, she glared at her appearance. Flushed cheeks, gleaming eyes and a heaving chest greeted her. “You need to get ahold of yourself,” Hermione told herself. Her mirror image didn’t seem to be inclined to listen. She groaned and started to pull off her clothes. A grimace took hold of her when she stepped out of her positively drenched knickers. Quickly, she threw everything into the hamper and stepped into the shower. Regrettably, Douillet had not seen fit to add a detachable showerhead, cheeky fuckeress.

Before Hermione even started the water, she felt her thighs get slick and cursed. Biting her lower lip, she decided against finding some release. It would be a poor substitute for what she wanted and would only leave her frustrated. She’d take a run later to get rid of the pent-up energy. She groaned when stepping under the positively scalding spray. For a while she just stood there, her head bowed, letting the water loosen the tight muscles in her shoulders.

“I can do this,” she said in the confines of the shower. Part of her was glad Draco finally knew and she didn’t have to hide from him anymore, but another part was fearful. She was still afraid of her own growing feelings and she had no idea how she’d be able to ‘work up to it’, without losing control. The tension between them was absolutely insane. And it would only grow as long as it wasn’t satisfied. Hermione had no idea if she would be able to endure it. Never mind how. Maybe she should ask Draco to tie her down so she wouldn’t jump his bones. That image didn’t help and she cursed some more.

Gods, she’d be a whimpering mess by the time they got anywhere. She ran her hands over her body and stifled a moan. Her skin was so sensitive that her own touch felt heavenly. Who was she kidding? She was already a fucking mess.

It took her a bit to reel in her lusty thoughts, but she forced herself to soap up without lingering anywhere too long. Bit by bit, the tension coiled from her and she was able to regulate her breathing. By the time she worked unholy amounts of shampoo into her hair, Hermione was able to think a bit clearer. Yes, this was a challenge, but if Draco felt even a fraction of the attraction for her, she felt for him, it would be equally hard on him. Quite literally. And by the look in his eyes and what he had said, it was. So they’d be in it together.

A frown caught on her lips as she massaged her soaped-up scalp. The things Draco had said about Ron and how she was behaving as result of it ate at her. It wasn’t the first time she realized how much her relationship with Ron was influencing her actions and assumptions of this one (Maybe Ginny was right regarding this too and marriage trumped affair and relationship). It galled her that she behaved against her nature when it came to this, but Draco had astutely observed correctly. She’d been conditioned to give in, to relent. Part of it was that Ron would be impossible whenever they had a fight, but another was darker. It amped up the fear of rejection she’d felt toward Draco, because Ron would frequently use her need for touch and intimacy to deprive her of both and shame her for her ‘unusually high drive’. As if it was a bad thing. Apparently being made to feel undesired and shamed for wanting a healthy and fulfilled sex life had broken something in her.

Hermione did not want a repeat of that. She was terrified of Draco confirming Ron’s words. Of his rejection, of his face turning cold and distant in the way Ron’s had. Disdainful. Gods, she would not be able to deal with it if Draco did that to her. She would—

Freezing water hit her skin and Hermione screamed in surprise and jumped back, her knee catching on the glass-wall of the shower making a loud ‘bang’ echo through the room.

“Fucking fuck!” she griped, holding her knee, careful not to slip and land on her arse on top of everything.

Steps pounded closer and she barely had time to shield herself before the door was ripped open and Draco rushed inside. “Hermione?” he called out, then skidded to a stop, his eyes widening as they caught on her.

Warmth billowed behind her, telling her the temperature had gone back to normal.

“Are you hurt?” Draco asked, striding closer, his worried gaze scanning her up and down.

“No,” she said—or rather squeaked—and stepped back. As if that did any good, the walls were made of glass. “I… the water turned cold and surprised me, then I hit my knee. It’s fine. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Draco let out a sharp breath and nodded, then swallowed visibly as he gave her another once-over, this one not worried at all. “I… That’s good. I… I’ll go then.” He nodded to himself and turned from her. The moment he was in the doorway, the water simply went out.

Hermione blinked, hearing the soap bubbles in her hair crackle softly in the resulting silence. Suspicion reared to life inside of her and she covered herself as much as she could, before clearing her throat. “Draco, can you come back for a second?”

His shoulders tensed, but he turned back around slowly, walking into the fogged-up room once more. The water started up again and Hermione groaned.

“Douillet, you bloody menace!” she yelled. The spray pulsed with glee and she shook her head. “Stop this right now!” The water happily continued to run, with the perfect temperature. This house was trying to kill her, she was certain of it.

“What’s happening?” Draco asked, looking confused.

“Your house is being an arse,” Hermione said, then sighed. “Try to leave again.”

He gave her a lingering look, curiosity paired with heat, and turned. This time he didn’t even have to leave before the water stopped. Hermione swore viciously. She had to rinse her hair and use conditioner, no two ways about it. If she dried it now, using a spell, it would be unmanageable.

Draco’s shoulders vibrated with a chuckle and she felt like throwing a loofa at him. “Yes, laugh all you want, dearest husband. Now make your house snap out of it.”

He glanced over his shoulder and a trickle of water picked back up. “Darling, it’s our house. And I really doubt it will listen to me. Not even your threats faze it anymore.”

Hermione glowered at him, hindered a tad by soap running into her eye and Draco conceded. “Fine,” he said. “Douillet, stop being a brat and let Hermione shower in peace.”

The pipes rattled in answer and it sounded suspiciously close to a snigger. He turned his head away and…nothing. No water.

“Piss, bollocks, shit, fuck,” Hermione uttered, swiping at her eyes.

Draco’s shoulders shook again. “Told you,” he said, sounding breathy.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t enjoy this,” Hermione snapped.

“I’m not,” Draco said. He

He faced her fully again and immediately, the water was back. Folding his arms, he smirked. “I do enjoy this quite a bit.” Jerking his chin, he let his eyes roam. “Go on, darling. It’s not like I haven’t seen all of you before.”

Hermione glared at him, but the shampoo sluicing down her face got worse and she felt her arousal return with a vengeance at the look in his eyes. Along with it, her courage roared to life inside of her. Fine, he wants to look, she thought, ignoring that he didn’t really have a choice. Let him fucking look.

His fingers flexed and clenched where he gripped his arms when she slowly let her hands sink, mollifying her mortification. Draco stared when she stepped back under the spray, letting the soap coast down her body as she ran her hands up and into her hair. She could have given him her back, but why should he be the only one enjoying himself? And while she felt like cursing Douillet into oblivion, need curled into her center, ratcheting up the sensitivity of her skin once more.

It was madness, seeing his eyes darken further the longer he watched. His jaw feathered and his mouth opened on a sharp inhale when she drew her hands over her tits and ran them down her belly and up and down her thighs. She could imagine him snapping, walking into the shower fully dressed, his shirt clinging to his body within seconds, his hair drenched, drops of water creating paths she would follow with her tongue. His hands on her skin. A moan rattled from her and Draco cursed lowly, his eyes flying up to meet hers.

He slowly unwound his arms and slid his hands into his pockets. She saw them turn into fists, making the muscles and tendons on his bare underarms dance enticingly. The bulge in his pants was back and by the way his fisted hands stretched his pants she was able to get a good look. He was absolutely delectable and she was close to dropping to her knees and crawling his way.

Instead, she stretched her arms up languidly, running her fingers through her now soap-free curls, watching his face slacken. Hermione felt powerful in a way she hadn’t experienced before.

He shifted; bit into his lower lip and let out a very strange sound when her hands came down to run across her body once more. His slate-grey eyes met hers. “You’re fucking killing me, Hermione.”

The feeling was decidedly mutual, but she wouldn’t tell him that, even as his words had her insides positively trembling with desire. Hermione had no idea whether she wanted to curse the house or praise it. Regardless, one thing was for sure; her fear of being rejected and undesirable was reduced to near nothingness. She felt…radiantly beautiful and sensual under Draco’s heated gaze and it soothed something in her very soul, knitting together a part of her that she’d thought was gone.

A/N: I did a new drawing of Draco. If you haven't seen it yet, here ya go. Kind of a consolation prize for all the tension and sexual frustration...

Chapter Text

Get Creative

Draco

His throat remained dry no matter how often he swallowed and his fists shook from how firmly he was clenching them. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard and confined at an uncomfortable angle.

None of it mattered. He was spellbound by the sight before him. Draco knew he had never seen anything as erotic in his entire life. Nothing held a candle to the sight of his wife under that shower. He just knew he’d revisit this moment again and again, which was why he paid very close attention to every little detail, not allowing anything to slip past him. It wasn’t the easiest of endeavors, when all he wanted was to walk over and join her, not caring for any fallout. He knew that would be reckless, so he planted his feet firmly, consoling himself with watching her intently.

Her tan skin glistened as the water brushed past her shoulders to curl around her budding nipples and rippled further, down her soft stomach and broad hips, flirting with and trickling through the trimmed patch of hair at the apex of her silky thighs, only to continue caressing paths along her shapely legs. He noticed small things. The way the diffuse lighting made it look as though liquid gold was dripping from her in places. That one curl stuck to her shoulder in a delicate swirl he wanted to let his fingers follow. Her toes, painted in metallic purple, which surprised him. The way her glances found him, running over his entire body just as his did with hers. Their eyes catching on the parts of each other that their touches could not.

Yet, Draco told himself. He wanted nothing more than to be able to feel her. Without occluding, without anger, without a joint mellowing him out. Just him and her. Fuck, he wanted that.

Hermione was a tantalizing sight and when she bent to the side and snatched up a bottle from the ledge in the wall, her tits swayed and the roundness of her hips jiggled as she worked conditioner into her hair. Her eyes closed, her face turned up, she looked like a goddess, basking in her divine beauty. The scent of honeysuckle spread through the space and Draco inhaled deeply.

He bit his lower lip and groaned when she twisted a little, letting the spray hit her chest directly. Sudsy hands ran down, cupping her generous globes of flesh and she arched her back, then opened her eyes. They found his, heat and need prominent in those burnt-whisky depths.

Draco swallowed again and shifted, making her gaze travel down his body. Deliberately, he waited until she looked, then pulled one hand from his pocket and adjusted himself in his pants more comfortably. He had to stifle a moan at the very indirect touch, but paired with the visual of her, it was amplified in an extraordinary way. Quickly, he stuffed his hand back into his pocket.

He saw her breath hitch as she followed his movements and her lips opened on a soft ‘o’. Her hands sank to her sides and clenched a few times, before she visibly shivered. “You are not playing fair,” she said, her voice rough with arousal.

“You’re one to talk about fair, darling,” he said. “All wet and naked.”

Hermione blushed, her brows drew together and she closed her eyes before vanishing under the spray completely to rinse her hair. She emerged and shut off the water. Her cheeks flaming, she stepped from the stall, pearls of water running down her entire body. “You, uhm… You can go now. I’m done.”

“I don’t think I can move,” Draco said, his voice coarse and close to a growl. If he did, he was prone to pounce on her, which would be a very bad idea.

Taking a bracing breath, Hermione passed him with a wide berth, her wet footprints vanishing as soon as she left them. Technically, he didn’t have to look at her anymore, but he found that his gaze followed her as if by magnetism. When she gave him her back, Draco nearly sank to his knees at the way her arse swayed beneath enchanting twin dimples. If only he could catch the droplets of water casting paths down her skin with his tongue. His pulse thrummed through him heavily, resounding in his cock at the thought. It took him monumental effort not to follow her.

A whispered spell had those tempting beads of moisture vanish and she dried before his eyes as she slunk from the bathroom, her curls springing up into their natural, chaotic form.

Draco huffed out a long breath and screwed his eyes shut. For the first time he used his Occlumency to calm his desire, as opposed to his panic. His lake came into view. Calm and serene. It didn’t help as much as he needed it to, but he felt a little more grounded when he opened his eyes again. Not on the verge of throwing caution to the wind anymore.

He walked from the bathroom as well and heard Hermione rummage through the closet. Not allowing himself to follow her into the small space, Draco sat down on the foot of the large bed to wait for her. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea and he should just leave, take his broom for a spin or draw something, but he felt that he couldn’t part from her. They needed to talk, find a strategy, or something. He needed this settled, with a plan—an outlook—for the future, or he would go mad.

Hermione emerged from the closet, dressed in jeans and a form-fitting jumper. Her hair was up, held there by her wand and her gaze dropped to her feet when she saw him waiting. Her lower lip folded into her mouth and she seemed shy all of a sudden. Or maybe she was just embarrassed at the situation. In any case, it was a far cry from the vixen who had looked at him with a clear challenge and heat a few minutes ago, stretching in the shower and running her hands all over herself sensually.

“No hiding,” he reminded her. “Come here.” Draco patted the space next to him and slowly, Hermione came closer until she sat down, leaving room between them.

Silence stretched and she picked at her nails, not looking up. “Well, this is not awkward at all,” she finally said with a nervous chuckle. “I… I don’t know what to say. I can only hope this was a one-time thing and Douillet will let us shower in privacy from now on.”

“If not, it wasn’t a hardship watching you at all, darling,” Draco said, meaning every word.

Hermione smirked shyly and blushed to the roots of her hair. “I supposed I am owed a show of my own.”

When she looked at him, Draco made sure his face showed nothing but earnestness. “Anytime.”

Her eyes darkened and she swallowed.

Draco cleared his throat to keep himself from getting lost in that fiery gaze of hers. “I think we need to come up with a plan and I have a few ideas for that,” he mused. “Or maybe we should—”

“What is—” They spoke at the same time, then chuckled, the tension having grown with every passing second dissipating a bit.

Draco waved her on. “Please. You first.”

Hermione’s shoulders sank with an exhale and the smirk faded from her lips. “You… I think…” She laced her fingers, bit down on her lip and then lifted her face. Draco knew exactly what was happening; she was embarrassed, but having decided to say her piece had brought forth that much lauded Gryffindor courage, and nothing would be able to keep her from saying what she needed to. It was one of the most fascinating things about her. He could see the determination and grit in her expressive eyes. Steel wrapped in silk.

“If we do this, or find a way to ‘work up to it’, what then?”

Draco frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, what will we be, then? To each other?” Her blush was still very much there, yet she didn’t flee his gaze for a second.

Understanding took hold of him and Draco thought on it for a few heartbeats. He found it a tad strange that she needed the nature of their relationship defined. When it came to him, it was as defined and final as it got, but he didn’t want to frighten her. No matter how it had played out, Draco was still pretty sure he had spooked her into overthinking when he’d told her of the ease with which the contract could be broken—and his plan to strengthen their marital bond to keep it intact. He did not want a repeat of it.

“We can be whatever you want us to be. If you need the security of a label, you can pick one, but we can also forgo that and the pressure coming with it.”

Now it was her turn to frown. “That is a non-answer.”

Draco looked her over, thinking on his next words.  “We are married, Hermione,” he said carefully. “I understand that our relationship is unorthodox, to put it mildly, but that is how I think of you. As my wife.”

She blinked at him a few times. “Right. Married.”

“Do you mind terribly how I see you?”

“No!” The word shot from her and she shifted awkwardly. “I mean, that’s absolutely fine. I just…” A small chuckle fell from her. “I tried to not think of this as a relationship for the longest time. Made it simpler. Rules and lines. I’m good with those.” Her shoulders rose and fell once. “I’m not good with…uncertainty.”

“How about looking at it like this? All we are doing is getting to know each other better. We are following our original plan.” He shrugged and smiled. “We’re just…expanding on what that means.”

Hermione thought on in for a moment then nodded. “That is acceptable,” she said and Draco held in a chuckle. “I mean, it would be nice knowing whether we are actually compatible sexually, before committing to anything.”

Draco laughed out loud and she tilted her head at him, a half-smile, half-frown gracing her features. “What’s so funny?”

He leaned closer, a suggestive brow raised. “I don’t think we need to worry about that, Hermione. Once I get over myself, I think compatibility will be the least of our problems. As I remember it, the fucking was fantastic.”

She pursed her lips repeatedly and looked at her naked toes. “Yes, well…” Her voice was hoarse and she cleared her throat. “We were both either under the influence or exposed to too much stress to really get a clear picture.” Her delightfully colored toes twitched as she regarded them.

There wasn’t much to be said to that, even if Draco did not fully agree. He was pretty sure the fucking would be fantastic regardless of circumstances. He knew how sensitive and receptive she was. Breathing deeply, Draco stemmed the memory of her body bowing and arching as she held his gaze, shattering for him.

“You said you had a plan to ‘work up to it’,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “Whatever it is, we’ll need a few rules to prevent it from getting too much for you. I don’t want this to harm you in any way.”

Her worry for him both touched and needled him. It was nice having someone truly care for his wellbeing, but he was also frustrated that it was necessary.

“Well, I think rules are a good thing.” Draco shifted in his seat. “Are you sure you want to—”

“Yes. I am sure.” Her lips thinned. “I’ve no idea how I’ll survive ‘working up to it’, but that is why we’ll need rules. Firstly, my consent is the same as it was before. Anywhere, anytime. Whatever you are comfortable with. You will need a safe-word and…” Hermione’s gaze shifted to her laced fingers. A curl of brown swayed past her temple and Draco wanted to tuck it back. It took him a full second to come to terms with the fact that he actually could.

He reached out and wound the silken strand around his index finger before tucking it up and behind her wand. “And?” he prompted, meeting her surprised look at his casual touch. It hadn’t really been a touch, but something about it was intimate and new.

“And I lost my train of thought.”

Draco laughed and she fell in. He pulled his hand back and they both gave themselves over to a few chuckles.

Hermione caught herself after a few moments. “You actually have that effect on me rather often.”

“I do?” He was pleased with this admission and it made his heart bounce in his chest.

She gave him a small nod and smiled unguarded. It was still a strange feeling having her smile at him like that. He loved seeing it, loved being the cause of it.

“Are you sure about what you said regarding your consent?” Draco asked after a few beats. The thought alone stirred his blood. It wasn’t as if he could really do anything substantial with it, but Merlin, did it give him ideas. Obviously, she wasn’t giving him a blanket consent anticipating anything naughty, but rather to simplify things for him. Yet, if they ever got to a point were more was possible, he’d have ideas to make this offering very interesting.

“Of course I meant it,” Hermione said with a frown. “Now, safe-word. Go.”

Draco grinned inwardly. If she knew half of the salacious thoughts blooming in his mind, she’d probably retract, but they could revisit this at a later date. Once he was able to actually follow through. “Datura,” he said.

Hermione tilted her head questioningly and Draco flashed the inside of his right arm at her. “It’s the name of the devil’s trumpet.” He tapped his finger to the flower.

“Datura,” Hermione repeated, apparently memorizing it. “So, you had thoughts on a plan?”

“It’s nothing grand, actually,” Draco said. “I was thinking we could simply expand the casual touching. Like when we read together, we can hold hands, or something similar. That is a relaxed environment and I could pull back whenever it got too much and it would give me a chance to get used to your touch over a longer period of time.”

She nodded at his words. “I think that is a good idea. Do you still want me to initiate my own touches and prolong them as well?”

He nodded once. “I would like that very much.” Draco drew his teeth over his lower lip. “I’d also like to kiss you.”

Her large eyes snapped to his. “A-are you sure? Won’t that—”

“Daily.”

She blinked rapidly. “I don’t know if…” She trailed off, mumbling something incoherent.

“I’m not talking about making out, just kissing. First without touching and chaste-like, then we can see where it goes.”

“Chaste-like?” Hermione squeaked. “See where it goes? Do you have any idea how much—mmpf!”

Draco had bent forward, catching her rapidly moving lips in a kiss. It was firm at first, to shut off her doubts, then, as she relaxed into it, he turned it soft, before pecking her lower lip once and drawing back.

“There, like that,” he whispered, his heart beating behind his ears. It had been swift and controlled, but kissing Hermione was… Draco was unsure whether he would ever get used to it. His lips burned with the aftereffects of touching hers and his entire body felt like a tuning fork. Humming with desire. “That wasn’t too bad, right?”

Hermione looked at him, seemingly lost for a second and the sight made him want to do it again. “Hmm?” It was adorable how she visibly came back to herself with a tremble. Her eyes cleared. “No. It wasn’t too bad,” she whispered. The look she gave him and his racing heart told him they both knew differently, but Draco also knew he would not bend on this. He would learn to kiss her alongside expanding the touches. He would be damned if they ever got anywhere and he was unable to taste her. That was simply not happening.

When they sat down for a late breakfast—or brunch, as Hermione called it—the tension between them both had eased somewhat. After tackling their newest problem (or opportunity) like a business meeting, or trying to anyhow, Hermione seemed more relaxed around him. She did fidget a bit more than before and her gaze would often linger on him when she thought he wasn’t looking. While Draco did have control over his own need to fidget, he found his gaze pulled to her every few seconds. Knowing had changed something for both of them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was a slight awkwardness to their conversation that only slowly seeped away bit by bit.

Draco was listening to Hermione chat about work, her thoughts on the memories and her latest visit to her parents, while Crookshanks occupied the chair on his left, letting him know that any pause in petting was not appreciated by swatting his wrist with a soft paw.

The very air around them felt hopeful—courtesy of Douillet, no doubt—and now that he knew his wife was on the same page as him (in the desiring each other department, at least), Draco couldn’t quite keep a leash on the smile wanting to take hold of his lips.

Was this what a future with Hermione looked like? A true one? Was this happiness?

As he watched Hermione talk animatedly between bites, her hair bouncy and her fiery eyes shining, while her plush lips carved dazzlingly complicated theories, Draco decided that whatever he was feeling, it was beyond agreeable. Thank Merlin he was fast enough to follow those theories of hers and the small and surprised looks she gave him when he asked some questions made a very warm feeling surge in his chest. Draco was pretty sure not many people cared to actually listen to his wife when she got this animated, or they simply didn’t understand. One option was unacceptable and the other more than likely when it came to most people in her life. Still, she seemed unused to interest in what she was saying—as he had noticed before—and the shy smiles she threw him as she continued on with explanations and thoughts made him almost preen.

“That reminds me, I would love to know more about the potion you brewed for the inks,” she gestured at his arm. “Maybe it will give me an idea. If… If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”

“I can give you the recipe, or show you. Whatever would help more,” he said.

She twisted her lips in thought and wagged her fork in the air. “I think actually brewing it would help. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.”

Hermione smirked and poured herself some tea, before continuing to eat. She shifted as she did, then her free hand began fussing with her folded napkin, then her spoon, then the saucer. Draco could practically see the gears in her head turn to come up with something to fill the air as the tension grew again.

“Are you going to tell me?” he finally asked, taking a sip from his tea.

Amber eyes met his, filled with clear surprise. “Tell you what?”

“Where you flooed off to earlier. In your pajamas, no less.”

Her face dipped down and she scrutinized her plate, a very enchanting blush growing up her neck. “Uhm, yeah. I went to visit Harry and Ginny.”

Draco nodded, not knowing how he felt about that. It was clear to him that neither the Weaselette, nor the Git Who Lived were very fond of him and he wondered what she had told them. Or what they had said in return. If anything. Whatever had happened, she’d come back to talk to him and their discussion had gone well.

“Speaking of which; they want to go out some time. Clubbing, I think.” The glance she threw him was a mix of apprehension and discomfort.

Both that and her words hit him in the pit of his stomach. Dancing. She would go out dancing with her friends. Not that he would begrudge his wife fun with her friends, but he just knew she would be looking incredible, no doubt gaining the attention of any number of men. A flare of possessiveness flickered to life in his chest and Draco had to consciously fight his expression mirroring his growing dislike at the idea.

“They…uh… They asked me to bring you along,” she said so softly that he nearly missed it. The sudden buzz in his ears was not helping.

When her words sank through, Draco stared at her. “They what?”

Hermione set down her fork primly, squared her shoulders and looked straight at him. “Ginny thinks it’s time they got to know you better. You didn’t really talk to any of my friends during our house-warming party and if we end up giving this—” she gestured between them “—a shot, it would be nice if you could be around my friends and I around yours. Don’t you think?” She looked almost hopeful.

“I had other things on my mind at our party, darling,” he drawled darkly.

“I know, and that is my fault.” She tugged on a strand of hair and straightened the curl, before rolling it around her index finger. “So, will you come? Along, I mean?”

He wanted to say no immediately. Merely a month ago he would have. But now… They had braved the New Year’s gala together and he’d been fine with her at his side. And the thought of her in something skin-tight and short (similar to that black sheath dress she had worn on her night out with the She-Weasel) without having him around to glower at, punch, or curse would-be suiters was unacceptable. She was his.

“I might,” he said, clenching his teeth around the words.

Her head tilted in that birdlike fashion of hers and he knew she was about to ask more, when the sound of flames roared from the sitting room. When Douillet didn’t kick up a fuss by rolling the visitor their way, or even warning them with a flicker of the wards, Draco knew it had to be someone familiar.

“Draco!” the voice of his mother called through the house, as close to an angry shout as it had ever been. Crookshanks stood, rounded his back and hissed with very flat ears, then he sprang from the chair and shot toward the doors leading to the garden. Douillet accommodated him and opened and closed them.

Draco sighed and rubbed his temples. “In the kitchen, mother,” he called. Momentarily the sound of heels clicked their way and he stood, registering Hermione shooting up as well, just as Narcissa glided through the archway with an expression fit to fight a thunderstorm.

“Draco, do you have any—”

“Good morning, Narcissa,” Hermione said, sounding a little breathy. “Would you care for some tea?”

Narcissa stopped short, looking taken aback, but within a second her features leveled out and she nodded. “That would be nice, thank you. Not that it is anything close to morning, but tea is always welcome.”

Hermione’s smile flickered, but she gestured to the chair at the head of the table, the one on either of their sides. “Please take a seat. Are you hungry?”

His mother sank into the offered chair with utmost grace, her nostrils flaring slightly at the chaos on the table. The china was a bag of mixed sets, Hermione’s mugs lumpy and obviously hand-painted by either a child or a troll with impaired vision, and the cold cuts and cheese stood around in plastic boxes. Some jam-glasses had spoons in them, rounding off the affronting view. Draco rather enjoyed this unconstrained way of eating—which happened whenever he and his wife shared setting the table—even if his preparations alone were always more refined. By leagues. It was habit, meaning he enjoyed this chaos all the more the few times it happened.

Apparently Narcissa didn’t care for it, as she sniffed subtly when both Hermione and he sat back down. “No, but thank you for asking.” She flashed Draco a look as she accepted a lumpy mug from Hermione with thin lips, telling him he was about to have it.

“To what do we owe this impromptu visit, mother?” Draco asked to get this unpleasantness over with. He knew why she was there and he had no patience for it.

“You know exactly why, young man,” Narcissa said sharply, leaving her mug of tea untouched. “Do you know how it made us look when you two just vanished before the stroke of the new year? You were supposed to stand at our side for the toast. I had to lie to people asking about you, telling them you had an emergency. Not to mention the absolute spectacle Theodore and Blaise made of themselves. It was quite embarrassing.”

“I can imagine,” Draco said, sinking back with feigned nonchalance as he prepared to spar with his mother. “Theo certainly knows how to cause a distraction. But I find it hard to believe you had a hard time coming up with an excuse for our absence, or with lying.”

Narcissa glowered. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?” She shook her head, then a calculatedly pained expression took hold of her. “I thought I raised you better than this. I am very disappointed, Draco.”

Gods, she was exhausting him. “I know, mother. Disappointing you has been all I’ve been doing lately, hasn’t it?”

“Stop playing the martyr, son. It is unbecoming.”

Draco grinned darkly. “Oh yes, I forgot. That is your forte, is it not?”

“How dare you speak to me that way? And in company?”

“Company?” Draco’s brows shot up. “You mean around family?”

Narcissa waved him off with a slight sneer. “You know what I mean. I will not be spoken to like that.”

Leaning forward, Draco laced his fingers and rested his chin on his knuckles. “I do, regrettably. But fine, what do you want me to say?”

“An apology would certainly be a start.”

“It was my fault. I asked Draco to leave,” Hermione said gently.

Narcissa blinked in irritation, glancing at Hermione as if she had forgotten she was there at all.

“I apologize for—”

“You will do no such thing, darling,” Draco interrupted his wife in a soft voice. He reached out across the table, his palm turned up. When Hermione haltingly laid her hand into his, he closed his fingers around hers, then turned his face toward his mother. “Yes, Hermione asked me to leave, after she stopped me from having an episode in the middle of that overstuffed ballroom.” His voice was no longer soft. It was cold and hard, even as he felt calmer with Hermione’s hand in his. “She kept me from losing my shite the entire night, then Milicent pawed at me and my wife stepped in to get her grubby hands off me and stem the fallout from my useless mind. Even though Hermione spent the entire night being attacked, belittled and scoffed at for simply fucking existing, she stood by me. Theo and Blaise distracted your precious ponces from noticing anything and then Hermione asked to leave, knowing I would have stayed, no matter in what state I was in. Out of obligation. That is what you have raised me to be, mother.” His eyes narrowed. “A perfect little pawn. Showing nothing on his perfectly bred face because it would be ‘unbecoming’. If nothing else, you can be proud of that.”

Narcissa seemed shocked into silence at his outburst. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, then her eyes fell on Hermione’s hand in his and they widened slightly. “I didn’t know…”

“You could have asked,” Hermione said softly. She squeezed Draco’s hand once, pulling his gaze to her. “I understand the frustration, but patronizingly flinging accusations at your son before even understanding what happened will not make your relationship better, Narcissa.”

“You know nothing about our relationship, about what we endured together,” Narcissa sneered, her face having hardened again. “Do not attempt to tell me how to speak to my son.”

“Perhaps I don’t know,” Hermione said, tugging on Draco as he was about to go off on his mother. “But I do know that the way you are going about it isn’t helping either of you. Draco and I once hated one another. He was unkind and hurtful to me for years; he bullied me and my friends. He was the first person to call me a Mudblood and he stood by—at your side—when I was tortured.”

Guilt iced up his chest, freezing him in place at her words, but Hermione’s eyes on him were warm and kind, smiling without her lips, before she looked at his mother.

“And yet we found a way to communicate and make our relationship work. I know he isn’t the boy I hated anymore. Maybe it is time you stop seeing him as a child you can scold and force into a mold that you think befits your standards the most, and understand the man he has become. A grown man. A good man. My husband, who I have grown very fond of. While it might be hard for you to grasp—me being what I am—I will protect him the way he does me. From whatever and whomever threatens him.” Hermione’s brown eyes grew firm and unyielding, telling Narcissa she was included in that latter category.

For a moment, Narcissa’s expression pinched with absolute outrage, then she breathed in deeply, her eyes flicking to their joined hands once more. “I see.” She cleared her throat once, visibly trying to regain her composure. Draco saw how much it cost his mother not to snap at Hermione for daring to tell her off, but she folded her hands in her lap and stemmed the urge. “Well, I guess that leaves nothing to say.” She rose from her chair and walked off stiffly. “I will see you next week.” With that, she was gone and a few moments later the fire roared, telling of her absence.

Hermione sighed and slumped in her chair, looking worn. “Your mother is very intimidating, Draco.”

Draco didn’t know what to do with the bout of affection and wonder engulfing him. “You… I couldn’t tell you were intimidated. Not even for a second.”

She squeezed his hand and pulled back with a tired smile. “That is good then.”

While he was searching for the right words to express the mix of feelings welling up inside of him, Hermione downed the rest of her tea.

“You could have stood to not be as nasty to her, you know. You both rile each other up. If you ever want a normal relationship with her, you’ll have to work on that,” Hermione said and got up from her chair. She waved her wand, clearing the table and Douillet happily started to rinse their used dishes.

For a second, the implication soured his feelings of warmth, but he also noticed—beside her probably being right—she had not said a thing in this direction in front of his mother. Draco shot from his chair and stalked toward his wife, he pulled her around to face him, cradled her face in both palms and kissed her. It was firm and fast, a connection without heat or tension. “Thank you, darling,” he rumbled against her lips, then pecked her once more and stepped back.

Hermione seemed a bit out of breath. “I like the kissing rule,” she said, glancing at his lips.

This did make heat flare to life in his veins and he smirked. “Me too.”

The next week was a precarious dance of awkwardness, tension, need, and bliss. It took a bit for them to implement their new rules and while Hermione still grumbled, she had resigned to sleep in the same bed as him. The size did help and no matter how much space they both used, there was ample room between them. Douillet had refrained from forcing the shower/bathing issue, which Draco found to be a pity, but the doors to the other rooms remained gone.

He slept better, hearing Hermione’s breathing, smelling her scent and feeling her comforting presence bleed right into his dreams, making them safer, but he would be lying if he said it wasn’t trying as well. Knowing she was so close had him in an infuriating state of near constant arousal and their attempt at ‘working up to it’ didn’t help with that. At all.

Draco had decided to swap his greeting touches to firm and swift kisses. Sometimes he’d find her hunched over a book and would gather her hair to the side and kiss her naked shoulder or neck, delighting in the goosebumps and soft sighs escaping her when he did, or he would bend down to peck her cheek, making it blush enticingly. But his favorite was when he got to crowd her against the kitchen island or a wall, to tenderly kiss her a few times, feeling her body meld against his. Doing so without letting his hands roam was torture, even as he knew it was for the better and he could see the way she was clenching her fists to stop from reaching for him, which made it even worse.

Sometimes he wanted to curse his mind for all of it and he drove himself to the point of tremors he hid from her. When they sat in comfortable silence together, reading and only trading a few words here and there while holding hands, he would force the touch to be a few seconds longer even as his mind prickled with awareness and warning. It was strenuous how much his body and mind fought each other and, on some days, he grew irritable with himself, his sexual frustration mounting while his mind was still shying away from what he clearly wanted and needed. Being able to shower alone gave him the privacy to wank to his heart’s content, which had picked up in frequency at an alarming rate, but it was a poor substitute and barely scratched the surface of his frustration.

Yet, there was progress. Slow and hard-won, but it was there. Hermione leaned into his side on the sofa one night, making him round her shoulders with one arm so she could snuggle up. Since there was no direct skin contact, it worked wonderfully and he was able to sit with her curled into his side for close to two hours. The longer they had sat like that though, the more his side had buzzed with heat, his arousal surging at her proximity. It seemed to have been the same for her, as she began to fidget with her feet, crossing and uncrossing her legs, her breath speeding up.

A few instances—few and far between at the beginning—stuck to him and dogged his days and nights, driving the incessant need he felt impossibly higher. There was that one kiss they shared when she came from the shower. Her hair still wet and only clad in a towel, she had looked so delectable that his brain shorted out for a few moments. Draco intercepted her before she made it to their closet, pinning her to the wall between the two doors and kissing her hungrily. It was the first time he let his hands grip her hips to hold her. The first time since the new year he had deepened a kiss and swiped his tongue across her lower lip until she opened for him with a groan. Tasting her had him moaning into her, burning with desire from his hair-tips to his toes. When he pulled back, his mind scrambling and yelling, they both breathed heavily and the way she looked at him—her eyes molten chocolate, her face flushed and her lips puffed—made him curse lowly and rather foul.

Hermione bit her lip and whimpered. “You have to… You can’t… Too much, Draco…” Her voice was rough and riddled with lust. They needed to be more careful.

Then there was the afternoon when she came home from work and they had brewed the potion for his inks together. Something about working in such close proximity and the little accidental touches and swipes heightened the tension between them monumentally. There were heated glances, bitten lips and drawn-out breaths, adding to something combustive and nearly unstoppable. Hermione had eventually thrown the ladle, so to speak, when his hand found her waist to bend past her and see whether she was stirring right.

“Two counter-clockwise, darling,” Draco rasped near her ear. With a squeak, Hermione let go and stalked off, her hair rising as she left the shed, her fists clenched. Draco saw her running the perimeter and vanish into the forest a few minutes later.

While he had apologized, of course, Hermione waved him off. “It’s not your fault, Draco. I just… Sometimes I can barely stand being around you. Not in a bad way,” she added hastily.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Draco said. “Still, I wish I could make this go faster. I… Fuck.” He stared at her with everything he felt. “I want you so much it’s driving me mad.”

A strangled noise later and she had walked away. “When you say things like that, it makes me want to ride you for a week,” she threw over her shoulder.

Draco ran to the shower, wanking twice before his head was clear enough to even think of facing her again.

It was madness. Both in the best and worst way possible.

The dinner with his parents put a damper on the situation as it was frigid and silent. Narcissa had forgiven neither of them for her visit and Lucius was moping about something but he didn’t voice anything besides his own disappointment of them both vanishing early from the gala. Narcissa shot him a glare and hissed for him to leave it and that had been that.

Draco had been cordial with his mother, knowing what Hermione had said to be right. He was unsure whether they would get to a place of comfort ever again, but the part of him that had known her unconditional love and affection wished for it desperately. He knew it was a two-way street and he couldn’t force her to see how her actions and words affected him.

Thankfully, or regrettably, Draco wasn’t sure which, Theo and Blaise flooed by the day after the dinner. Finally, he was treated to the short and disastrous story of their ‘distraction’ for Draco’s benefit. Apparently, Theo had waltzed Blaise onto the dancefloor where he’d proceeded to snog him silly. Theo looked miffed that it hadn’t caused a bigger uproar and was sad that his fantasy of snogging Blaise had been anticlimactic.

“No spark. None, Drakey. Can you believe it? All that fuckable hotness and those cheekbones, and…nothing,” Theo moped from where he had thrown himself onto the sofa like a dying Victorian child, while Blaise sat next to him and rolled his eyes.

“Are you talking about your own cheekbones or Blaise’s?” Draco asked, fixing his friends a drink.

“Mine, of course! How can there be no spark between my fantastic self and Blaise? The man is sex on legs.” He gestured at Blaise.

“It’s not like I’m sitting right next to you,” Blaise said.

“Stay out of this, you slag,” Theo groaned, then perked up when Draco walked over. “Thank you, darling,” he said, while accepting his drink.

“I can’t roll my eyes any louder here, Nott,” Blaise hissed, nodding to Draco as he received his own tumbler.

“You are being very dramatic, Zabini,” Theo mused.

Blaise snorted and shook his head. “You are one delusional little shit, you know that? Besides, we have known each other for too long. There has never been even a hint of attraction between us.”

Draco sat down opposite his friends.

“And what a shame!” Theo lamented. “Could you think of a more stunning pair of fuckers than us?”

“Several,” Draco said drily.

Theo threw him a two fingered salute and a pout, then changed the topic thankfully and gleefully hinted at Milicent falling prey to Astoria’s sharp tongue and a few stinging hexes from Pansy, before Daphne had pulled a few strings, effectively ostracizing Milicent from certain circles of high-society.

“How are you, by the way? Did your lovely wife get you home safe?” Theo asked, his face serious. Draco knew what he was really asking. Theo didn’t touch much on the subject of Draco’s episodes, but he let his worry show.

“Yes, she did. She… She actually kept me from going over,” Draco said, staring into his own glass before taking a bracing sip.

Blaise looked almost shocked. “That’s…something, mate,” he said.

Theo sat up, his expressive eyes narrowing. “I know I tease you about this all the time, but in all seriousness; what is going on between you two?”

Draco cocked a brow. It wasn’t like his friend to be forward. Not often anyway. He drank deeply and cleared his throat. “I think I’m starting to fall for her,” Draco said.

“Uhm… Not to pop your quaffle, darling, but that isn’t exactly news here,” Theo said. “Knowing you, I can tell just by looking at you being around her. It’s fairly obvious.”

Draco glared at him, but then Blaise nodded. “He’s not wrong.”

Theo grinned. “It is nice that you’re finally admitting to it, though. She’s good for you.” He nursed his drink in a rare bout of silence. “So,” he began and wriggled his brows. “Anything else you want to tell us?”

“She asked me to go clubbing with her, Potter and the She-Weasel some time this month. Apparently they want to get to know me better, or something like that.”

“Well good luck to them,” Theo cooed. “And good luck getting to know anything non-physical about anyone in a club. The music is obnoxiously loud. I rather approve.” He took another sip.

“Say, you wouldn’t want to invite us along for some…moral support?” Blaise asked, surprising Draco. “I like to go clubbing and besides,” he shrugged, “I wouldn’t mind getting to know one of them in a more physical sense.”

“Aha!” Theo yelled poking Blaise’s muscular chest with a finger. “I knew it! It’s not because I’m not dazzling enough to blind a unicorn, it’s that you have the hots for The Boy Who Grew Into a Hotty.”

“Theo,” Blaise said, swiping the affronting finger from his chest. “I’m not into you. As little as you are into me, you bloody pest. And yes, I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on Potter again.” He smirked.

Draco’s lips curled with disdain. “Really, Blaise?”

“Fuck off, Draco.” Blaise raised his glass in a toast. “I know what I want. At least I don’t hide from it,” he looked at Theo pointedly, “or fall in love with someone way too good for me.” He smirked at Draco. “Speaking of which, does she know? And if so, does she feel the same?”

Draco was momentarily taken aback at Blaise’s hint regarding Theo hiding from his feelings, then he narrowed his gaze at Blaise. “No. And I have no idea. We’ve been dealing with…something else.”

“Oh, dish, Malfoy!” Theo crowed with delight.

“No,” Draco said and downed the rest of his drink.

Theo nearly fell from the sofa with how much he was leaning in. “Oh, this is good. Did you fuck again? You did, didn’t you?”

“You fucked?” Blaise asked, his eyes wide. “Are you even able to?”

“Piss off, the both of you,” Draco snapped. “First of all, remember that you are talking about my wife, you imbeciles. Secondly, we had to shag for the marital bond to complete, which wasn’t easy, because… You know, me being me. And lastly, my marital relations are none of your Merlin-damned business.”

“’Marital relations’,” Theo mocked. “What are you, my grandmother? We’re asking whether you shagged her again, after that one night of you two being high as Thestrals on a sex-joint to do the deed, which was… What did you call it? Ah yes, fucking unbelievable.”

Blaise grinned. “This visit is turning out to be rather informative. It does beg the question, though,” he pointed his glass at Draco, “if someone like you, with your issues and your high standards in general, calls a shag ‘fucking unbelievable’, then you have to want more. Especially if you’re in love with the witch.”

“Thank you, Theo,” Draco said sarcastically. He wasn’t surprised at Theo pushing him for information with Blaise present. The three (or four, including Pansy) of them had little to no secrets from each other. And Theo was enough of a calculating shit to know that adding Blaise to be in the know, would rile Draco into telling some truths.

The idiot just grinned and winked. “I’m here for you, darling.”

“I’m not in love with her,” Draco said. “Yet. I don’t think. But yeah, of course I want her. She’s brilliant, and loyal, and safe, and… You have eyes, you know how stunning she is. Circe, she drives me mad with need. I have spent the last weeks thinking of little else but having her again. And by some fucking miracle, she wants me too. Bad.” He glared at his friends. “Do you have any idea what it’s like living with someone, being married to them, sleeping in the same bed, and needing them like you need your next breath? Knowing that person lusts for you the same way? I’m hard the second she walks into this house. Every. Day.”

“Muggle Jesus, Draco,” Theo said, his brows having risen to his fringe.

Blaise nodded along. “What he said.”

Draco let his head sink and groaned in frustration. He hadn’t wanted to tell them. It was none of their business, but he was… Fuck, he was yearning for her. And it wasn’t like telling her how much he wanted her would do any good. She knew, and telling her again would only make things harder for the both of them. Figuratively for her and literally for him.

“We’re working on it,” Draco finally said. “Prolonging touches and…trying to get me more comfortable with things. I… I fucking hate being this way. Useless piece of shite.”

“Hey!” Theo bounded across the space and conked him on the head.

Draco reared back and snarled. “The fuck, Theo?!”

“No one talks about my best friend that way. Not even my best friend. Understood?” Theo had folded his arms across his chest and glared, deeply affronted. “You lived through horrible things. You survived all of it. So your brain is a bit wonky, who fucking cares? You’re working on it.” He leaned forward, leveling his face with Draco’s. “Since you married Hermione, you have been making huge strides. You and her touched the entire fucking gala, that isn’t something you could have even thought about before. She brings you back from episodes, which no one has been able to do. I fucking know.” He looked stricken and Draco knew he was remembering that one incident where he’d lost control while at Nott Manor.

“If you can do it with anyone, it’ll be her. And by it I mean exactly what you think I mean.”

“Yeah, I got that, Theo,” Draco rasped. “It’s just… I feel like we’re barreling toward something fast with how high the tension is between us and I’m afraid it will end badly if I’m not ready when it hits.”

“Get creative then,” Blaise suggested.

“What do you mean?”

Blaise rolled his eyes for what felt like the tenth time. “Merlin, Draco, you have been too far up your own arse to think clearly. Obviously. There are ways to release tension. Together. Without touching each other.” Blaise gave him a look that told him exactly how thick he was being. “Get. Creative.”

Blaise was right, Draco finally decided, flying lazy circles above Douillet. He had been too far into the tension and need to think practically. To actually think at all. There were things him and Hermione could do together without touching. The question was, would it relieve tension or just add to it?

The chilly wind feathered through his hair and shirt, tugging on him and Draco closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Up here, he felt the tension coiling from his body, reacting to instinct and muscle memory, rather than intention. It had gotten easier to kick off and soar into the endless sky. Sometimes he still had to force it, but the more he did it, the faster he got up into the beckoning air. It was the same as with everything else he tried and he was grateful for his determination to try. The benefits came slowly, but felt earned in a way they had not before. Before, it had been easy and while he longed for the day when things would so once more, he appreciated his progress for what it was. Frustrating or not.

Theo had been right as well; Draco had made strides since marrying Hermione. His nightmares were fewer, especially with her so close, he hadn’t had an episode in weeks, and even in therapy, he skirted some of his darker memories, not ready to talk about them in detail, but close. Draco even entertained the idea of picking up a profession. It wasn’t like he had unlimited options, not having finished his NEWTs due to being incarcerated, but surely he could find something to do.

This too, was testimony of how far he had come. After Azkaban, all he had wanted was to escape his own mind, to hide from the world and see as little of it as possible. Tentatively, his natural curiosity and sense of adventure made attempts to return and he was glad for it. Still, he would have to be patient with himself and allow it to return naturally—according to Herp, at least. Maybe he could start by actually joining Hermione and her friends when they went out. The idea of it was daunting—loud music and countless people being the main hurdle—but he could invite his friends along for support. Not that he would need it, with Hermione close, but he couldn’t very well rely on her staying glued to him for the entire time. She was not his crutch. Yes, he could try this. But before he ventured into the Muggle nightlife, Draco had some planning to do. As Blasie had said, he would have to ‘get creative’.

Flying circles and loops, Draco let his mind roam to possible scenarios and ideas that involved his wife. He knew she was as pent-up as him, but he still couldn’t just jump the broom on this. Maybe he could use his gloves to touch her. Or was it better to have no touch at all at first? What if they actually did the deed, but with minimal touching? He snorted. That sounded so…clinical. He hated it.

With a sigh, he lowered toward the snow-covered garden. What he wouldn’t give to get lost in her. Completely. He wanted to be suffused, swept away, feeling her against and around him again.

His hands clenched around the broom-handle and he swallowed at the growing frustration with himself. It would happen. Eventually. For now, he needed to plan on what he could actually do.

Draco had settled on a few things he could possibly try by the time Hermione came home from work. He wasn’t kidding himself into thinking any of it would actually work well, or play out in the way he envisioned, but at least he had an idea. At least it was something to attempt before they both combusted from the ever-growing need between them.

The prospect alone had him eating next to nothing, staring at Hermione across from him instead. Should he have consulted her on this? Perhaps, but some of his ideas seemed…ambitious. He would try one of the simpler ones first. And the mood would have to be right. He couldn’t just jump right in. Well, he could, but he… Draco frowned at his own spiraling mind. He was being an idiot.

He could force himself to deal with things all he wanted, but he would rather hex himself in the nose than do the same to her in forcing one of his ideas. As opposed to letting it happen naturally. But how would that work? He frowned again.

Taking a deep breath, he noticed that she had quieted down a while ago, pushing her own food around her plate with a pensive expression. Hermione’s shoulders rose and she placed down her cutlery. “Is everything alright?” she asked. “You seem absent.”

“Just thinking,” Draco said. “I apologize, darling. It’s nothing, really.”

Hermione pursed her lips, then crossed her arms. “Are you sure?” Something about the way she looked at him seemed off.

Draco knew that look, but he hadn’t seen it on her in a long time. Something very cold and slicing ran through his chest. There was hurt and uncertainty flashing on her features for a moment and he froze. “What is it, Hermione?” he asked.

She shook her head and grimaced. “Nothing, I’m just being stupid. I—” Her eyes grew big when he stood and rounded the table to crouch next to her, bringing their faces to the same level.

“Whatever has happened, whatever I have done, tell me and I’ll fix it.”

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth she looked away from him. “It’s what you didn’t do, actually.” Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.

“I paid too little attention, I know,” he said, raising his hand to rest his arm on her chair. Gently, he let his knuckles brush over her cheek.

“That’s not it,” she said, her gaze finding his as she leaned into his touch marginally. “Usually you… When you see me… I—bollocks.” Her throat constricted on a swallow and she blew out a long breath. “Even while it kills me, I look forward to you kissing me when I come into a room you’re in. Why haven’t you… Is it something I did?”

Draco could have hexed himself. Being as twisted into his own thoughts, he hadn’t even acted out his favorite part of the day. “Circe, no,” he said, reaching up with his free hand to cup her cheek. He leaned in and brushed her lips with his, delighting in her surprised hiss. “You missed my lips on you, darling?” he purred, before kissing her just a little firmer.

“Yes,” she mumbled, chasing his mouth as he pulled back. A most curious sound left her when he evaded her. Something close to a small growl. “I miss your lips the moment they leave me, you walnut.”

Chuckling, he playfully nipped at her lower lip, then the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry. I was thinking very hard.” His fingers spread into her hair until he cradled her head, relishing the gasp leaving her lovely lips and the feel of her curls tangling around his skin, as if they didn’t want to let go.

“About?” Hermione asked, her lids fluttering as he pressed slow kisses along her jaw and to her chin. Her hands were knotted together in her lap and her chest rose erratically.

“About how I’m going to make it up to you,” Draco said, kissing her chastely, before nudging her nose with his own. “About how I’m going to make this,” he kissed her more firmly, swiping his tongue across her lips, “more bearable for the both of us.”

A stricken noise sang from her and into him, making his entire body sing with near painful arousal in response. Gods, if he got any harder, he would die. Her lips were so very soft, her hair enveloping his fingers like small tendrils of need, her scent as heady and comforting as ever.

Draco forced himself back with sheer will, seeing her eyes open. Dark and drunk on lust. “Follow me,” he said and stood, cautiously detangling his fingers from her locks. He reached out a hand and Hermione slid hers into it. He laced their fingers, happy with how little effort it took and how much he was able to enjoy it. Tugging her from her chair, Draco led her from the kitchen. Once in the hallway, he nudged her back against the wall and closed the gap between them with his hips, letting them sink into her plush body. His free hand curled around her waist and he kissed her again.

Hermione groaned, her body relaxing instantly, her mouth opening to greet him. Their tongues glided together and Draco couldn’t help but grind his hips forward, dragging his hard cock firmly against her. She moaned and shivered, her lips closing around his tongue as she sucked on the tip. His knees almost buckled and he jerked back, pulling her along. Fuck, he had to be careful. He could not afford to lose control, even as he already teetered on the brink of it.

They stumbled into the sitting room and Draco sat on one of the sofas, pulling her to his side. With deep breaths, he fought the overwhelming need to pin her into the cushions and take her. Instead, he let go of her hand, reached for her legs and pulled them up so she had no choice but to lie down. He rose, placing one knee between her and the backrest, hovering above her, bracketing her body. He lowered his head and kissed her again.

It was magic. It was torture. She tasted of apple juice and grapes, her lips impossibly soft while her wicked tongue dove into him and made him see stars. She didn’t dare touch him more, but with each passing second, every low moan and whimper, her body trembled worse from the way she forced it to stay still.

Draco sat up, looking down on her. She was…perfection. Dark curls haloing her flushed face where it spread around her, lips open, swollen from their kisses, her chest rising fast and her eyes… Gods, those pools of darkness lured him in with promises of ecstasy and escape.

He fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “Can I take this off?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rumble, too heavy for his throat.

Hermione trembled. “I don’t know, can you?” she asked, attempting to raise a brow with cheek, while her breath hitched.

“Sassy, aren’t we?” Draco said with a devilish grin. “Hands above your head, darling. Now.”

A gasp sailed from her, but she slowly let her arms fall over her head, sticking her fingers into her hair and grabbing hold.

One button at a time, Draco opened her shirt, letting the tips of his fingers make gentle circles on the skin he freed, bit by agonizing bit. She was silk and heat, her body sensually stretching and undulating beneath him as her gaze held him and little moans and sighs left her delicious lips.

Controlling himself with mental bands of iron, Draco opened her shirt completely. “Fuck, you are so gorgeous, woman.” Running his palms up her belly and ribcage until his fingers flirted with the cups of her bra. “Perfect. Beautiful.” Mine. He swallowed down that last word, but conveyed it with how he looked at her.

Her back arched up, a clear attempt to get more of his hands on her. Draco wanted to oblige with a fierceness he had not known was possible, but he felt his hands start to shake and without being gentle, his mind was prodded with the threat of memories. With ragged breath, he cupped both her clad tits and bent down for one last kiss, flicking his thumbs over her stiff little nipples. He drank her whine and sat back up.

She was ready, hell, he was beyond ready. Now he would see how well his plan worked. “Will you take off your shirt and bra for me, Hermione?”

Nibbling on her lower lip, her dark eyes glittered over him wantonly, then she frowned. “Are you…sure? I don’t think I can stand much more, Draco.”

Slowly, he hunched forward without touching her. “Do you trust me?”

Her lips opened on a breath. “Of course, it’s just—”

“Then lose the shirt and the bra.”

She groaned at his words, fisting her hair and tugging. “Draco, I… I’m barely hanging on as it is.”

Draco hovered closer. “My strong, stunning, stubborn wife,” he said, his words ghosting over her chin, eliciting goosebumps all along her neck and cleavage. “Let me ease both our aches tonight. Let me show you pleasure in a way I can.” He breathed out along her collarbones and heard her hiss in answer. “Strip.”

Chapter Text

Coming Together

Hermione

“Strip.” The word teased along her heated skin as her pulse pounded through her like a drum. It was a coaxing demand, a silken order. As if her body had no other choice than to obey, she drew back her arms and propped herself up so she could shrug off the shirt. Hermione reached back and unclasped her bra, letting it slip down her arms before tossing it from the sofa.

“Very good,” Draco rumbled. “Lie back again.” His mercurial eyes shone with unbridled lust as he watched her recline once more. “Now run those pretty hands over yourself, the way you did in the shower. Show me how you’d have me touch you.”

Her throat clicked and she drew her trembling hands along her sides, over her belly and up between her tits.

“Slower,” Draco said, watching her with open want, his eyes blazing a trail along her skin. Fuck, she was burning under him.

Hermione moaned when she ran her hand up her throat and down the side of her neck teasingly, imagining it was him. His lips, his hands. Having him so close, smelling him and still rattled from his actual kisses, it felt divine. Her skin was so very sensitive and having him guide her was insanely hot.

She feathered her fingers down her collarbones and rounded her tits a few times before cupping them and squeezing gently. Her back arched and she sighed, relishing how his gaze turned darker and his beautiful lips cursed silently. Slowly, she drew circles up the sides of her flesh until running the tips of her fingers over her nipples.

Her action was rewarded by a low groan from him and she smirked past her short breaths. “I could use a bit more…” Hermione arched up again with pleasure as she pinched her nipples. “A bit more visual stimulation. Take off your shirt.”

Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly, but he tore his shirt over his head, letting her see his spectacular torso. Merlin, he was unreal. The way his body had changed from when she’d first seen it to now was nothing short of glorious. He was broader, defined and those damned tattoos made her want to lick every inch of him. He had so many lines and curves she could follow with her fingers, her tongue…

“Like this?” he asked, his voice rough. “Or do you need to see more?” Draco palmed his very prominent erection without shame, groaning as he ran his hand up and down his clad length.

“Fuck,” Hermione breathed, letting her hands roam and grab more firmly. Was it possible to come like this? With only his eyes on her and the memory of his touch? Her back bowed and she whimpered. “Please, Draco. I need…more.”

“Happy to oblige,” he said and rose to his knees before unbuttoning his trousers. Not looking away from her, he smirked, hooked his thumbs into the band and pulled both trousers and briefs down with an agonizingly slow sensuality. The stem of the flower came into view, as did the muscles carving a sharp v, leading down. A trail of fair hair was revealed, then the base of his cock appeared.

Hermione’s mouth went dry, her ministrations stopped and she stared, spellbound by what she was seeing. She knew his body somewhat, had seen him naked before, but this… She furrowed her brow in concentration to not miss a second.

Draco groaned. “You minx,” he huffed. “I’ll come just from you looking at me like that.” He blew out a breath with a ‘whew’ sound, clearly bracing himself. With another tug his freed cock sprang up, looking painfully hard.

Hermione flexed her fingers over her breasts and bit down on the inside of her cheek, she wished she could touch and explore. Taste. Would he feel as smooth and silken as he looked?

“Hermione,” Draco groaned, bending to the side to pull off his trousers. “You’re…” A deep grunt interrupted him when she licked her lips as he slowly fisted himself with one hand. “Fuck, the way you’re looking at me…” He was absolutely magnificent, the muscle in his arm rippling and working, dancing along the tendons under his skin, making the Dark Mark move as he stroked himself once. His abs clenched with his movement and precum began glistening on the tip of his scrumptious cock.

She wanted to lick him, take him into her mouth and down her throat. To see how much of him she could fit, to see what he tasted and felt like, to hear him lose his mind when she swallowed around him. Fucking hell, she’d never wanted to go down on someone so bad. But then, she had never seen a cock quite so gorgeous.

“Who said you could stop touching yourself?” Draco rasped, his voice a bit unsteady, but gaining strength toward the end. His words, along with how he was wrestling for control because she’d simply looked at him, made her shiver and whimper. Languidly, Hermione let her hands stroke along her skin once more.

“You’re beautiful,” she told him honestly, letting her eyes roam up until they met his. “I got a bit distracted.”

“Says the most stunning woman I have ever seen,” Draco growled, leaning forward a bit while stroking himself up and down. With his free hand, he fished his wand from his trouser-pocket. “I need to see more of you.”

Hermione gasped but nodded when he lifted a questioning brow. He smirked and flicked his wand, making her shoes and socks slide free of her feet. “Lift your pert little arse,” he instructed and she did. Her pants began rolling down her legs. The feel of the fabric brushing over her skin had her breath short and she imagined it was him touching her, pulling the pants free with his hands. A small keen huffed from her chest when she pinched her nipples to the thought and twisted her body, pulling up her knees and lifting her feet to help him.

“Gods, look at you,” Draco said when he drew the pants off completely by magic, letting them drop in a heap on the floor. “You are a fucking vision, Hermione.”

The way he looked at her, his eyes dark as they ran over every part of her, had her heartrate speed up. Heat washed across her cheeks and while she arched and shivered, letting her hands skim along her skin, Hermione felt…wanted. Seen. The hunger in Draco’s eyes was delectably dark and tinged with covetousness. As if he at once couldn’t believe what he was seeing and staking his claim to her at the same time. It was the most insane thing, feeling as though she could combust on the spot, with only his eyes on her.

Draco dragged his fist up his cock and swiped his thumb over the head, spreading around the glistening liquid gathered there while uttering a dark sound, his brows furrowed. “Will you show me more, darling?”

Hermione knew exactly what he wanted, but she decided on teasing him a bit first. She drew her hands up and down her neck, then stroked the fingers of her right across her bottom lip, before sucking two into her mouth with a moan, looking straight at his twitching cock. Spreading her fingers, she licked between them and swiped them down, circling her left nipple with wet fingers.

Draco groaned, his abs clenching seemingly involuntary as his hips curled to thrust into his hand. “Fuck. Does that feel good?”

“Uh huh,” Hermione breathed, relishing the way he looked down at her, strands of his fringe falling over his silver eyes to tickle his cheekbone.

“Pinch your tight little nipple for me,” he rasped and she whimpered as she did, feeling a delicious stab of pain that feathered along her nerves and traveled straight to her clit.

He sat back a little, still stroking himself slowly. “Open for me.”

Her legs shook as she spread her knees, propping one against the backrest of the sofa and letting the other one fall to the side.

A breath wheezed from him and his lids slid shut for a second. “Circe, you’re trembling. You need to touch yourself, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Show me.”

Hermione felt her pulse thrum through her cunt at the gravelly sound of his voice and she threw her head back as she let her hands travel down her body. She barely grazed her skin, making the sensation all the more electrifying and tingly until she circled her hip-bones and then let her fingers flirt with the band of her knickers.

She dipped one hand into them, cupping herself completely. The pressure was just right, comforting and arousing at once, without focus. Even so, she felt how wet she had gotten, how swollen her lips were. Gods, she just knew she’d be beyond sensitive. Her hips canted up but she didn’t move her hand, only pressing more firmly against herself.

Draco visibly swallowed, his eyes trained on her knickers. “Let me see, darling. Show me that pretty cunt of yours.”

Her whimper echoed through the room and Hermione brought her other hand down to tug her ruined knickers to the side and slide her hand up, unveiling herself to his burning gaze.

A guttural sound broke from him and his fist jerked up and down a few times as a flush crept up his straining neck and onto his cheeks. “Merlin, you are glistening.” His voice almost broke with how he growled that last word. “Fuck, I wish I could taste you. Spread that desire with your fingers, love, paint your lovely cunt with it for me.”

Biting down on her lower lip until it stung, Hermione obliged, coating her fingers and folds in wetness. “Gods, that feels so… Fuck!” Her knees trembled and she mewled at the sensation of her sliding digits. It was not enough, she needed—

“Taste yourself for me,” Draco growled, rising to his knees and bending over so he hovered above her. His feral gaze was just like she remembered it when he’d fucked her against the wall in his bedroom. She was sure she’d see lightning in those thunderstorm eyes any second now.

Her hand shook as she pulled her fingers up her slit to gather more moisture, before lifting it to her lips. Holding his blazing eyes, she licked and groaned when he cursed and his lids seemed to grow heavy. Hermione didn’t much mind her own taste, but it had never been something she’d thought to seek out specifically, but the way he watched, the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips… It made it seem special and she hollowed her cheeks, sucking each finger down one by one, cleaning them thoroughly.

“That’s it, get every last drop,” he growled. “Bloody hell, do you even know how sexy you look right now? Spread out like that, your plush lips around your fingers. Fucking perfect.” He groaned low in his chest, stroking himself in the same rhythm as she sucked on her finger. He looked sinful—electrifying—and she ached for his touch, his kisses, his cock.

With a pop, Hermione released her last finger and sent her hand down again, needing to speed things along. She spread herself more for him and watched closely how his gaze followed her touch, followed her circling her entrance and dipping inside. Draco mimicked her movements with his strokes and gods, she wished it was him. Her hands were too slim, her fingers too short. Still, Hermione moaned and shivered at the feel of something inside of her, even if it was distinctly lacking girth and length.

“Fucking, Merlin!” Draco cursed, fucking his hand in tandem to her thrusts. “Do you have any idea how much I wish I could feast on you right now?” A moan surged from him. “I’d fold you in half and bury my tongue in your sweet cunt, fucking you with it so good. Then I’d spread you with both hands and suck you little clit until you screamed my name.”

“Ughn… Gods, yes!” she mewled, using her other hand to massage her clit. “Like this?” she asked, pinching it lightly between two fingers so he could see.

“Yes,” he hissed and sank down, reclining so his back was against the armrest, his face and chest flushed as he stroked himself. “Imagine it’s me, darling. Show me how you’d want me to touch you, to lick you.”

Hermione keened as she thrust two fingers into her cunt and rubbed her clit in tight circles. Her body bowed off the sofa, arching as she felt sensations shoot through her, as her muscles began to shake and tremble at thinking of his face between her thighs. Then she felt it. Coiling deep in her spine, the buzz of an impending orgasm spread steadily along her consciousness and she let herself be swept along.

“Come,” she whispered, staring at Draco and how his strokes sped up in correlation to her thrusts. “Come with me, Draco. Please. Let me feel you on my skin.”

His eyes darkened and he swore heavily, rising to his knees again. “You want my come on you, darling?”

She bit her lip and nodded, a whine escaping her as she held off her orgasm.

“Where?” Draco choked out, his entire body flexing and curling as he fucked his fist hovering above her.

“Anywhere! Gods, everywhere! I want… Need to feel you, Draco. Please.”

His brows furrowed and he groaned a low sound, his hand speeding up even more. “Come with me, then. Now, Hermione.”

His permission, his order, sang through her and washed her away in ecstasy. In that moment the tension between them reached a peak and exploded around them. Hermione yelled his name as she felt her cunt clench around her fingers, her orgasm pulsing through her like a beating heart. She rode wave after wave of white-hot pleasure and choked out a sob when Draco moaned her name before his face twisted in agonizing beauty and his hot come landed on her belly, her tits and even her chin. It felt like fire licking at her and she rocked her hips, searching for more of him, bathing in the evidence of his longing, riding out the last vestiges of her orgasm.

Boneless and sweaty, Hermione slumped back, her breath heavy and her heart racing as if it wanted to flee her. Looking down her body, she smirked on a shaky breath and languidly drew her palms through the work of art Draco had left on her.

“Fuck,” Draco grunted as he stared at what she was doing. His eyes widened when she brushed her thumb across her chin and swiped the pad of it with her tongue, drawing in a taste.

He was salty, with a slight tang and she smacked her lips, grinning when Draco fell back, looking at her in disbelief. His lips were open and he panted deeply, the blush covering his chest and neck slowly fading. A shame really, it made him look positively debauched.

“Gods, I needed that,” Hermione said when he just watched her from his prone position.

He chuckled, the sound a deep rumble that threatened to give her goosebumps. “You and me both, my darling wife.” He bit his lower lip, letting his gaze roam her entire body, catching on her legs, the apex of her thighs still bared to him, her rising and falling chest, until finding her eyes. “You can’t possibly know what you do to me,” he rasped. “I just wished—”

“This was perfect, Draco,” she interrupted him. “I enjoyed every second of it.”

A wry smirk answered her. “I could tell.” He ran a hand through his hair and let his head fall back with a sigh. “Trouble is, it makes me want you even more. Merlin, the sounds you make…”

He was so fucking beautiful the way he was draped back, his breath still short and a light sheen of sweat coating his torso, while his soft cock was nestled against one muscular thigh. And he was right; Hermione wanted to climb along the entirety of him and lie down, sink to his chest and be enveloped by his arms and his scent, kiss him until her head swam, until he grew hard again and she could ride him. She shook the thought from her mind. This was enough. For now. She could not get greedy. But by Circe and Morgana, if ever there was someone she craved, it was him.

“Just promise me we’ll do this again,” she said. “Until we have truly worked up to it.”

His face rose so he could see her. “Abso-fucking-lutely. We’ll have to, or I’ll lose my shite and take you, consequences be damned.”

“While that sounds hot, I don’t want us to undo what we have achieved so far.”

Draco looked her over, then let his head plop back with a groan. “It’s tempting as fuck,” he rasped at the ceiling, his chest glistening with slight perspiration as he breathed deeply, giving Hermione quite a magnificent show.

She chuckled at his obvious plight and Draco dipped his head and raised a brow, then fell in. They both laughed, lounging on their sofa, naked and glowing, with slightly less tension between them than before.

The following week was a trial-and-error situation, titillating, frustrating and filled with longing. Hermione knew Draco was pushing himself hard and there were a few instances when he’d walked from the room, clearly at the very edge of control. Normally, he’d find her the minute she stepped foot into the house and proceeded to make out with her until he was unable to hide his tremors. Twice that had meant he had to walk away from her. He saw it as failing her and was sour with himself the rest of those evenings. Hermione had worked around his frustration by ‘alleviating’ it, inviting him in to shower with her that first time, and demanding he talk her to an orgasm on the sofa the second. During both instances he’d been more demanding than before. Hermione let him. She understood Draco trying to regain control and while she liked his assertiveness in these instances, she could also tell he was unhappy with himself and his progress.

It helped to talk about it and Hermione was happy when he seemed to listen and understand that she didn’t mind him taking his time. What she did mind—and told him plainly—was him being unkind to himself. This she would not accept.

Draco did dial back his insistence on pushing himself to tremors after that, because he didn’t want to be ‘hexed in the arse for not listening’.

While she would call it a win, the trouble was that since they had found a small ‘outlet’, every glance and touch they now shared, was sizzling with sexual desire. It was nearly impossible for them to share any causal touches anymore.

The three times they had watched each other—as fucking delicious as it had been—left them both with a steadily growing yearning and it was never enough. On the contrary, it now felt like they were engaging in a never-ending marathon of foreplay, their orgasms only small pricks to release pressure. Hermione was afraid it would soon be too much to bear and they would snap. She was about to talk to him when she came home one day, suggesting trying a day of not engaging at all maybe, or concentrating on casual touch again—if that was even possible—when Draco met her with a devilish smirk the moment she flooed home. That lone dimple made an appearance and Hermione almost melted where she stood.

The fact that just seeing him sent a bout of heat throughout her body wasn’t new, but instead of it getting less, it grew each day. Hermione would only have to think of his eyes on her, hungry and dark, his voice, telling her how to touch herself, where to linger, or picture his face and the sounds he made and she’d be shaky and horny. No matter where she was. It was as if her body constantly tingled with an awareness that wasn’t there before and once she stepped through the hearth at home, it was amplified into oblivion.

“I have been thinking,” he told her as she vanished the ash from her clothes. “I’d like to try something new. If you would let me.”

The way he said it sent a buzz forking up her spine and her mouth went dry instantly. “My consent hasn’t changed, Draco.” She blew out a small breath when his gaze grew dark at her words and she forced back her excitement. “Will you be alright, or is this going to push you? I don’t think—”

The very confident, almost arrogant, way he smiled had he clenching her thighs together. Gods, that dimple should be fucking illegal, not to mention those lips.

“Don’t worry, darling, I think it will be quite safe.”

She noticed then how he had not moved to kiss or touch her in greeting. This was definitely new and intriguing.

Draco flexed his fingers at his sides and licked his lips. “Now,” he said, his voice so low that it wrapped around her like a swath of sin. “I’ll need us both to come before this continues. Where would you like to unravel for me?”

The sound coming from her chest was most mortifying. Hermione cleared her throat, watching Draco’s smile widen. “I really need a shower,” she said, shrugging out of her robes. “Care to give me another show?”

His smirk vanished and he swallowed visibly. “Any time.”

“I think I’m seeing things,” Hermione told her husband half an hour later, when they came from the bathroom. She felt at once sated and tingled with anticipation. It was torturous, especially since there had been no touching at all yet. Still, the image of him fucking his hand, leaned against the tiles, his eyes eating her up and moaning her name as he came was playing on a loop in her brain. It had sent her straight into her own orgasm.

Draco walked up behind her, the warmth of his naked body singeing her own uncovered skin. “What is it, love?” he asked, his breath brushing her shoulder and she shivered inwardly at both his newest endearment and the almost-touch.

Desperately, she clung to what she had been saying, staving off the need to just sink back into him. He was right there and she would feel all of him if she did. “The…uh… The bed seems to have shrunken. Right?”

She heard him inhale mere millimeters from her skin, then blow out that deep breath so it danced over her. Goosebumps formed and she shuddered. Before she could talk herself out of turning and snogging him, Draco stepped back and rounded her.

“Huh. I think you’re right,” he said, placing his fists on his hips as he regarded the bed. The visual was delectable. His back muscular and his fantastic bum on full display. Hermione had never wanted to grope him so badly.

“Still wide enough, though,” he mused. Then he walked to his bedside table and plucked up his wand. Swishing it at the chaise longue next to the hearth, he made the legs elongate, raising it up. “Hop on, darling,” he told her.

Hermione threw him a curious glance, but made her way over, swinging her hips once she’d passed him. The whispered curse he emitted when she felt his eyes following her movements made her smile. She’d never get enough of how she affected him. In their current situation it was dangerous and maybe she shouldn’t tease, but she simply was unable to help herself. The feeling of being wanted was breathtaking. Being wanted by him was… She had no words, but it made her chest expand with warmth and her abdomen clench.

The chaise was the perfect height to slide on for her and once she sat, Draco made it rise higher. He prowled closer, his gaze hungry again. “Lie back,” he instructed softly and she did without hesitation. She rose up until her body was level with his stomach. What on earth was he planning?

Apparently, her curiosity was showing on her expression as Draco chuckled and bent down, placing a lingering, but sadly, closed-mouthed kiss to her lips. It zapped through her like a Stunner, being the first touch she’d received since coming home. “Patience, my darling wife,” he rumbled close to her lips, then straightened.

“Accio gloves,” Draco said and a moment later, his dragon-leather gloves zipped into his open hand. He placed his wand down next to her upper arm and drew on one of the gloves. “I think about touching you constantly,” he rasped, his eyes holding her firmly. “And while I enjoy it immensely when I do, there is always that worry at the back of my head and it never goes away completely.” He flexed his fingers in the glove while pulling it on tightly at the edge. The movement had her mouth dry in an instant and she folded her lower lip between her teeth. Draco smirked darkly, bringing his gloved thumb to her face, tugging her lip free before letting his finger travel along her mouth. Her breath hitched and she pursed her lips to kiss his thumb. Even while she knew he probably felt little to none of it, the way he looked at her was toe-curling.

Draco pressed down a bit and let the rest of his fingers settle along her jaw, caressing her. “The actual problem is that if I do get to touch you, I know there is a time limit to how long I can do it,” he continued, “and you deserve so much more.”

His clad hand slipped down, cradling her throat for a moment before he pulled it back entirely.

“We both do,” Hermione said breathily, watching as he pulled on the second glove. She would never have thought it, but seeing him like this, completely naked and only wearing his gloves, did something to her. She covertly pressed her legs together.

He smiled down at her, lifted his wand and tapped it to the silver buttons on his gloves. “Let’s start with you.” Placing the wand down, Draco then walked around so he faced the crown of her head and she couldn’t see him anymore. In a firm but loving movement, his hands dug into her hair and under her head, his fingers rubbing along her scalp with heavenly pressure. Hermione couldn’t hold back the groan of pleasure. She adored having her hair and head touched, it was a sure move to have her instantly relax and close her eyes.

“You have been so good and patient with me, love,” Draco whispered close to her ear and her eyes shot open again. “And I really need to learn how to touch you without my stupid mind getting in the way, or while wanting to pounce on you and devour every part of you.”

A decadent sound left her when he began to massage the nape of her neck. “Hence the…uh…shower,” she said. “I understand. But why… Oh gods, yes,” she hissed as his fingers carded from her nape all across her scalp, until his thumbs brushed over her brows. “Why are we…” She moaned when he began drawing tight little circles all over the back of her head. “Wh…”

A dark chuckle sounded behind her and she felt him bend over her. “Having a bit of a problem with your words, darling wife?”

Glowering at him was hard when his hands made her feel like she was skimming along the clouds. “You are being very unfair.”

He quirked a brow, one of the corners of his mouth lifting. “Do you want me to stop?”

This time she managed something close to a stern look. “Don’t you dare!” She needed his hands on her. Needed it with a burning longing that made no sense. And while it was different than his skin on hers, she still felt his warmth through the thin leather. It was an amazing sensation. Hermione was sure she would have started purring if that were a thing.

“Weren’t you going to ask something?” His fingers swirled up the sides of her head until he was drawing the pads of his index fingers along the shells of her ears making her shiver.

“I… Yes, I was.” Hermione concentrated, furrowing her brows. “Why are we naked?”

Draco’s thumbs gently smoothed her brows, before he directed his attention to the lobes of her ears and the patch of skin directly underneath. Hermione almost cursed out loud. That was the spot.

“Well, you are naked so I can touch any part I want, I thought that would be fairly obvious.” He brushed down the slope of her neck and cupped her shoulders. “I am naked because I like how you look at me. And because it feels fair.” His hands closed and he massaged her shoulders.

“Sweet Circe, that feels amazing,” Hermione ground out. His hands should be illegal as well. She moaned and sighed as he worked her neck and shoulders, coaxing the tension from her muscles bit by bit. He then bent over her and pushed his hands down her arms in sweeping circles. Hermione froze when he kissed her. Upside down. It was a funny feeling that soon shut off her brain when he pulled his hands back up to cup her face around her chin and throat. With a strangled moan, she sucked his lower lip between hers when he did the same, running his tongue along it before nibbling gently. She let his lip go when his tongue pushed at her and opened for him. In this position, his tongue felt unusual, less controlled and a little messy. It was glorious as she tasted him better this way. She loved his taste and breathed in through her nose, catching his scent along with it. Leather, mint and something smokey. It swirled into her senses as she drank it down, suffusing herself with him. Hermione had to dig her hands into the rough upholstery to keep from sinking them into his hair to hold him to her. Her legs clenched again as heat pooled along her skin, stoked and fed by his kisses.

Draco’s hands flexed on her throat and he pulled up, his uneven breath whistling over her wet lips. “Fuck, you are delicious,” he whispered, sending a flash of arousal straight into her core. If he saw her legs clenching—yet again—he said nothing.

His palm traveled down her chest, between her tits and under as he stepped to her left side. The other hand fanned down her arm and caressed the inside of it. He lifted her arm and Hermione saw how his eyes ran over her marred skin with something close to anguish. “Every part of you is divine, Hermione,” he rasped, hovering his lips along her scar, before kissing each letter. His eyes found hers and they conveyed so much heartfelt tenderness, such an open apology, that she felt her throat grow tight and her eyes begin to prick. Then he kissed her palm and glided his hand gently along her skin as he placed her arm back down. He reached up to brush his knuckles over her cheekbone and smiled at her, before feathering his hand along her neck, between her breasts, drawing them along the scar there. It was one that had nearly killed her, but now was reduced to nothing more than a slight discoloration. A curse from Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries. Fifth year.

“My beautiful, strong, exquisite wife,” Draco said and dipped down to lick the scar, both his hands cradling her tits and squeezing. There was no apology in his eyes anymore as they darkened again, watching intently. The smooth glide made her skin sing and goosebumps rose to meet him.

Hermione bit down on the inside of her cheek and curled her hands into fists. With an almost boyish smirk, Draco licked one nipple, then the other, before pinching and rolling the wet tips until she moaned loudly, arching up to chase his touch. The slight sting of the chill, coupled with his warm hands was a maddening push and pull on her senses.

“So fucking sensitive,” he murmured. “So perfect for me.” As if he couldn’t help himself, he bent down and sucked one nipple into his mouth with a groan. He was warm, his tongue wicked as it flicked, the suction sending a rippling effect straight to her clit. “Wish I could do this forever.” He sighed deeply, the air fanning over her nipple, tightening it even further. “Have to pace myself.” That last sentence was said as if to remind himself of it. Hermione felt like whimpering. She was having the hardest time just lying there, receiving what he could give her, with her nails firmly digging into the rough fabric of the upholstery.

Draco stood, his broad chest expanding as his hands chased the path is eyes carved. Stroking her tits, squeezing, then bracketing her sides with spread fingers, his thumbs meeting in the middle. The fact that his hands were so large, they spanned her did something unexpected to her chest and that whimper slipped out, spiting her. With an answering smirk, he then spanned her waist, before drawing his hands up to stroke around her belly button and lower. He circled her hip-bones and the outer sides of her thighs. With something close to a growl, Draco bent down and nipped her left hip-bone, only to lave his tongue over it, taking the sting away.

Hermione was close to shuddering off the chaise, feeling unbearably sensitive. If he kept this trajectory… Gods, she was going to die before this was over. She was ridiculously wet by now and no matter how much she clenched her thighs, she would probably end up leaving a patch of arousal on the furniture. Maybe they should have put a towel down. That thought was cast into the ether when Draco placed both hands on her left thigh and began stroking his way down. He passed the danger-zone without missing a beat, working his little circles toward her knee, over it and lower. His hands dipped under her calf and he massaged her muscles for a few beats, then took a step further down and caressed her ankle, the arch of her foot and pressed his thumbs into her sole, making her eyes roll back and a moan sing from her chest.

This was a bloody roller-coaster. How did he expect her to deal with the differing feelings he plucked from her? He was playing her like a damned instrument. Fanning the flames of desire in one second, then relaxing her body the next. Hermione wasn’t even going to mention him nearly bringing her to tears with that moment passing between them when he’d kissed the scars on her arm.

But oh, the way he worked her foot with a mix of pressure and gentle swipes was making her lids flutter with elation. She was close to purring again. Too soon, he massaged up her calf again and Hermione swallowed when he came to the hollow of her knee. This time, his hands held her leg on both sides, rounding it, while his thumbs caressed the top. Any sense of relaxation left as if stroked away by his magical hands, when he reached her thigh. The pressure of his left hand—running up the inside—forced her legs apart just enough for Hermione to feel it. Moisture ran down between her legs, trickling past her lips and dipping into her cleft before being swallowed by the fabric beneath her.

It took all she had not to jump from the chaise. Maybe she could hide it? Cast a charm before he noticed? Draco took that moment to swipe up further. Hermione squeaked and slammed her legs shut. A very dark and all-male chuckle wrapped around her.

“Show me,” he demanded, his voice gravelly.

His words shut off everything. Her mortification fizzled away under his heated gaze and any inkling of self-consciousness was blasted to bits by the desperate flash of desire that engulfed her from head to toe. Legs trembling, she opened them a bit, enough for him to see.

Draco’s jaw dropped and he stared. “Gods, you… You’re soaked, love.” His left hand drifted up, fingers running along the space between her leg and cunt, not touching where she needed him most.

Hermione groaned, her hips shifting against her will. “What did you expect to happen? Touching me all over with your stupid magic hands and talking in that sinful voice of yours. And looking at me like that. Naked…” She huffed out a breath when he ran his hands over her belly, then let his fingers flirt with her hip-bones. “Ridiculous man. I’m not made of stone.”

He smirked, his eyes flashing with something heady and spine-tingling. Bending over her, Draco placed an open-mouthed kiss just above her mons, then winked at her. “I might as well be, darling. I’ve been hard since I kissed you.”

Straining her neck, she watched him with bated breath. His gaze never left her eyes as his mouth opened and his tongue shot out to take a very swift but branding lick. Her hips jerked, chasing him and she shuddered uncontrollably.

Draco’s eyes closed as he pulled back his tongue and seemed to swirl it around his mouth. “Fucking hell, Hermione. You taste incredible.” His hands grabbed hold of her hips, his thumbs slipping down on either side of her lips, stroking up and down. The pressure was so close, so utterly destructive and yet not nearly enough.

“Oh… Draco, please. Please, please, please. I can’t…”

White teeth bit into his lower lip, the look he gave her somewhere between ravenous and teasing. “You beg so prettily for me, darling. But I’m not done with my quest yet. You will wait.”

“I don’t… I don’t think I can.” She sounded pitiful, even to her own ears, but gods, he had reduced her to this state and she didn’t care.

“If I can, so can you,” he rasped, then belied his words and gave her slit another quick lick. He smacked his lips and hummed, holding down her twitching hips. “Now be still, my little minx, I have some exploring to do.”

An unidentifiable sound flew from her chest and Hermione reared up. She needed friction, touch…something, or she was going to combust.

Large hands pressed her back. One on her belly and one higher, just below her sternum. Grey eyes rooted her in place. “Stay.” Hermione shivered. “Be good and stay for me, darling. Let me take care of you.” Those words melted her and she slumped back.

She could be good. She could stay. If that meant he would actually touch her. “Hurry up,” she demanded and he smirked, kissed the very top of her lower lips and pulled back.

“No, love. I will savor you the way I need to, the way you deserve.”

The next few minutes had to be hours. And they were absolute torture. Draco gave her right leg the same treatment as her left, down and up, then he began running his fingers over hips, her waist, down and between her legs without touching her cunt. Hermione was a shaky, sweaty, and blubbering mess of firing nerve-endings and pure need by the time he hooked his hands under her knees and slid her toward him until her knees dangled off the edge. He palmed the inside of her thighs and opened her.

Hermione was too far gone for any shred of modesty and she eagerly spread her legs as wide as she could.

Draco hovered over her, his eyes roving as intensive and branding as a touch. Running his hands up so his thumbs could stroke over her outer lips, he huffed out a groan. “You have the most stunning cunt I have ever seen, love.” He ran his thumbs up and down in featherlight movements, sending sparks across her entire being. “So beautiful.” Stroke. “Perfect.” Stroke. “Delectable.” His tongue swiped between her folds and dragged up her cunt in one single lick.

Hermione bowed off the chaise and nearly came apart. That one singular touch, that unbelievable feeling of his tongue on her clit, even if it had only been a split-second. Gods… She needed it again. Just one more time.

A shuddering breath met her quivering flesh. “Fuck… I wish I could feast on you. I want to bury my face in your sweet cunt and drown. I want you to come on my tongue as I fuck you with it.”

She was close to sobbing now, canting her hips in a silent plea. “Draco…” His name was a broken sound on her lips.

“Look at me, darling,” he said as he rose, his fingers idly spreading her with languid drags.

Hermione found his gaze.

He cupped her with his right and she trembled beneath it. Slowly, maddeningly, he circled the chaise, sliding his left hand up her body, his eyes holding her prisoner. Her thighs instinctively parted a bit further for him. The leather dragged along her folds, both firm and soft as he dipped his fingers to her entrance agonizingly slow. His left fanned over her breasts, flicking and squeezing as he went. His touch sent currents of electricity through her, every part beyond sensitive. A keen left her as she arched into him, rocking her hips for more.

“Please, Draco,” she whimpered.

He groaned and one finger slipped into her heat meeting no resistance at all. “You have been so good for me. So patient.” His thumb met her clit and she moaned deeply. “My perfect wife.” He bent lower, his breath ghosting along her ear. “Mine.” A second finger entered her and his thumb pressed down, while he pinched her right nipple.

Hermione blew apart. She cried out his name, her body convulsing with wave after wave of release, blasting her along peaks and valleys of oblivion. She felt her cunt clutching at his slowly pumping fingers, her nails digging into the fabric beneath her as her body shuddered helplessly, all while she got lost in the storm of his eyes.

“Gods… I… Fuck, Draco… So good, so… Oh!” Her entire body shook, her pulse beating in every part of her, reverberating through her cunt as if it was an echo. Tremor after tremor raked her, getting more shallow as she came down, came back to him.

She slumped, exhausted and buzzing with aftershocks. His fingers curled inside of her and his thumb drew circles on her clit.

Her breath hitched. “Draco? I…”

His face was a mask of covetousness, his eyes burning with something unholy and unyielding. “Give me another.”

“I… Ahh!”

Merciless, his hands worked her, coiled her tighter, moving exactly how she needed them to. How she did it to herself. He had paid close attention to her after all. Only, it was better, firmer, fuller, him. Her moans were only met by his harsh breaths and the obscene sound of his fingers fucking her. It was madness. It was inescapable. She clenched around him and yelled, a second orgasm crashing into her like a curse.

Her body arched hard, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring, trembling. Heat bloomed and broke. White behind her eyelids, breath caught on a gasp as she shattered, pulsing against his touch, unraveled and undone.

She was whimpering by the time she left the clutches of elation, her heart beating so hard and fast that she felt it in her toes. When she registered the look on his face, felt his hands languidly continuing to work her, she whined.

“I can’t… Draco I…”

He hovered closer. “You can, my darling. One more. Give me one more. Let me feel your tight little cunt clench around me one more time.”

“It’s too much,” she moaned, even as her hips canted against his hand, the drag of his fingers so fucking good she never wanted them to leave. But there was no way she could come again.

“It’s alright, my love,” he said softly. “You can come for me. I have you.”

His fingers rubbed and pinched her nipples alternatingly and he wriggled a third finger into her heat, dragging his thumb over her clit in firm and ungiving strokes.

“Fuck, that feels… You make me so… Want… Can’t…” Her words were close to a whimper, tangling in her throat and her eyes rolled back when he reached deep, filling her so deliciously that her legs spasmed.

Draco watched her, his pupils blown wide, looking dangerously feral. “Merlin, I want you badly right now. Imagine it’s my cock inside of you. Please give me one more. Let me feel you, Hermione.”

The way he said her name, all throaty rasp and longing, was what did it. As if she had no control over her own body, it seized and she wailed out a near animalistic sound, breaking against his fingers.

“There you go. That’s it, my love,” he whispered, close to her ear. He groaned, then gasped, the air of it scorching the skin of her neck. “I can feel you. Gods, I can…”

His voice coiled around her, lifting her up, caressing her as she momentarily left her body, convulsing in pulsing heat for what felt like minutes.

“You did so good. So, so good.”

She felt his fingers brush back her hair, untangling strands sticking to her sweaty temple, cradling her head gently as if she was made of the finest glass. Hermione let out a low sound, her body feeling light as a feather, but immovable. Curious. Her eyes found him and the look he gave her was pure adoration. Something wonderous and vast, heavy with unguarded tenderness and affection. It made something similar echo to life inside her chest. It bloomed unhindered, settling into her foundation to grow roots there.

A blanket fell over her, then Draco picked her up and she folded into his chest. She mewled out in agreement and felt him move, carrying her to the bed and lying her down. Smart, she would be unable to walk, she just knew it. Magic brushed over her skin, known and welcome. His magic. It felt like one of his hugs and she sighed, burrowing into the bed.

“Draco?” she sounded hoarse, but patted around behind her since she couldn’t feel or see him anymore.

“I’m right here, my heart,” his voice rumbled next to her. “Get some sleep.” Brushes of his magic feathered over her and she smiled, nestling into her pillow with closed eyes.

“Ridiculous man,” she chided sleepily. “Broke me.”

He chuckled lowly. “On the contrary. I think you just broke me.”

The snort she wanted to send in answer got lost in a deep breath and she drifted off into the most relaxing sleep she ever had.

Hermione sucked on her fifth sugar quill, the box open on her desk in disarray, rummaged through to find her favorite flavors. Cherry. Cherry was superior to all else.

She was busy reviewing missives and answering mail, planning the rest of her week. Well, she was trying to, her mind pulling her back to last night, inducing small sighs and shivers as she remembered how Draco had touched her. His voice, his scent, his eyes on her… His gloved hands and lips, giving her the most amazing experience of her life. She had slept like a stone afterwards and when she woke, he had been tucked in on his side, snoring softly.

Not wanting to wake him and with no idea how to talk to him, or even what to say, she had silently gotten ready, casting a spell on her feet to stay quiet. She’d stroked Crookshanks, who was lounging in the vast space of the middle of the bed, then watched her husband, worrying her lower lip for a few moments. He’d looked peaceful, younger, relaxed. His hair disheveled, hiding parts of his face with their silken strands. The straight slope of his nose, the enticing curve of his slightly open lips, the arch of his brows, beckoning her to touch. Her heart had clenched painfully at both his excruciating beauty and the onslaught of feelings coasting through her. Gods, the things he’d said, done, made her feel…

Shaking her head, Hermione focused on her planner, sucking on her sugar quill with vigor. No time to get distracted. This night was Malfoy family dinner. Hermione grimaced at the thought, at least she wouldn’t have a lot of time being confronted with Draco when she came home.

‘Mine.’

The word sang through her memory and Hermione shifted in her seat.

Harry had sent an owl, telling her the clubbing was scheduled for the following week on Saturday. It had been a bit challenging finding a date, with Harry travelling and training starting up for Ginny. Hermione still didn’t know whether Draco would actually come along.

‘It’s alright, my love. You can come for me.’

A squeak left her and she shifted a bit more. Gods, he had made her come three times and gotten nothing in return. Not even a conversation. But what could she have said after that? How to explain that besides making her see bloody stars, he had smashed any lingering walls of self-preservation to bits with his words, his eyes, his care? She couldn’t well tell him that her stupid, unguarded heart was beating frantically at the mere thought of him. That it was beating for him. Could she?

‘I’m right here, my heart.’

Hermione groaned and thudded her forehead against her planner. That endearment… Fucking hell, those two little words. They had curled warmth and happiness around her like nothing else. Had he meant them, though? Could she ask? There was no question on whether or not he wanted her, she knew he did. Passionately. And he was fond of her, she knew that as well. But did he feel the same burning longing she did? Did he yearn for her the same way she did for him? Did he…love her?

She swallowed, the quill sticking from her lips at an odd angle. Because while she’d known she was falling for him, seeing him like that this morning, swamped with the vastness of her feelings for him, she had discovered that she was there. Right there. It was pain to look at him. It was wonder, elation, fear, warmth, and want. So unending that it was agony to contain in one chest alone. Hermione was in love with her husband. How on earth was she going to confront him ever again?

“Deep breaths,” Hermione rasped to herself. She sat up, breathed and then glared at her planner. Courage. That was a thing she had, right? Supposedly. “Ugh,” she uttered. “You faced werewolves, a deranged over-lord with a nose complex, Bellatrix and Divination, you can do this.” Do what exactly? The thought of just telling Draco how she felt was terrifying. As was what would come after. She would be wrecked if he didn’t feel the same. Absolutely devastated. But she would fucking die if he still wanted the forever bond despite not loving her—knowing she did love him. No, that was not an option.

“Right,” Hermione nibbled on her quill. Maybe if she just waited a bit, talked to Draco and see how the vibe was. See how he reacted to her and whether it was different from before. Yes, that could work. Not knowing what exactly she had decided, but feeling slightly better about everything, Hermione forced herself to dive back into her planner, finishing out the remainder of the week.

She opened the page to the week after and anxiety tinged her throat. It wasn’t as if she had forgotten, but it had seemed so far away when she’d added the red cross on Wednesday, circling it manically and now it grew closer each day. This was the day Healer Nilsson had planned to start and try bringing her mother back. She was in a better state than her father and the work they had done in preparation so far had been very promising. Hermione planned to stay over night, to be present as much as she could. Her fingers gripped the edges of her planner as trepidation leaked into her. What if it didn’t work? She had been at this point before.

Not quite like this, though, her mind provided. No, not like this. It was simultaneously the last chance and the best chance her mother would have. The prospect sent bouts of panic along her spine.

A knock on the door tore her from the spiral she was about to descend into.

Hermione pulled the sugar quill from her lips. “Come in.”

Astoria poked her head inside, a tight smile on her lips. “Hermione, you have a visitor,” she said and opened the door wider to reveal Narcissa.

Hermione blinked at her mother-in-law, who thanked Astoria, her face warm and kind while walking into the room. In the few seconds it took for Astoria to say her goodbye, throwing Hermione a worried look and then closing the door, Hermione had sat frozen, her mind tugging at possible reasons for the Malfoy matriarch being there. They had the dinner later; did she want to reschedule? No, an owl would have been sufficient. Was she here to talk about her last visit to Douillet? Without Draco present? Oh, what if something had happened to Draco? Her gaze flew to her marital lines. They shimmered broadly and golden, no trouble in sight. It smoothed over the panic that spiked to life.

Narcissa stood in the center of the office now, her spine straight as a rod, her clothes as impeccable as ever, looking as though she had just stepped from a catalogue. Hermione remembered manners existed and waved at the two chairs in front of her desk.

“Hello, Narcissa. Please, take a seat.”

Her mother-in-law nodded gracefully and glided over, sitting down in one of the offered seats. She glanced at the chaos on the desk and Hermione nearly groaned when her blue eyes caught on the sugar quills. Instead of the usual, dreaded nostril-flaring, Narcissa smirked.

“I had no idea you had a sweet tooth, Hermione. Something you and my son have in common.”

The statement was as fascinating as it was surprising. Narcissa had never engaged in any more conversation than the weather or brain-numbingly mundane small-talk with her. And she avoided addressing her directly whenever possible.

Hermione braced herself and folded her hands in her lap. “One of several things,” she said. “What can I do for you, Narcissa?”

Her mother-in-law looked down, then sighed and lifted her head. “I apologize for imposing on your time. At work, no less.”

“Okay,” Hermione said carefully, not sure what to make of the situation. “I have a bit of time.” It wasn’t as if she had actually gotten much done anyway.

“I never thought I’d be in this situation,” Narcissa mused. “Neither when I was confronted with you marrying Draco, nor at any point in time since.” She shook her head minutely. “I thought… Well, I feared, Draco would take this marriage as seriously as I have taught him to, thinking you would keep your distance and end it as soon as possible. As you said, you have not gotten along before. Too much history between the two of you. And our family. I was sure being married to you would drive him closer to us, to home, but you…” She sighed. “It is astounding how well the both of you function together. At first, I thought it was one-sided, but when I came over the last time, I was confronted with the truth. You care for him.”

Hermione frowned, growing annoyed at the veiled insinuation that Draco took their marriage more seriously than she did. Maybe at one point he had, but Hermione had known exactly what was expected of her going in and she had taken her obligations very seriously. The fact that she’d fallen in love with her husband was neither here nor there.

“I do,” she said.

“It is not just that, is it? I have attributed Draco’s growth and healing to his therapist, but when I saw him actively seeking out your touch, when he told me you had been able to comfort him during an episode—actually stop one—I knew it was more.” Something pained flashed behind her eyes. “You are good for him.”

“I take it you don’t approve?” Hermione asked.

“On the contrary. It is just unexpected, that is all.”

For a few moments silence grew between them and Hermione let out a breath. “What is it you want, Narcissa? I know you’re not here to tell me how elated you are that my marriage to your son seems agreeable, or how that fact makes you happy. So what is it?”

Her lips thinned. “I should not be surprised at your forwardness, knowing how you converse with Lucius sometimes.”

“Probably not.” Hermione shrugged. “This is the first time since meeting at the café, that we have actually spoken, though.”

“My fault, I know,” Narcissa said. “For the longest time, I didn’t see the need to engage, since you would divorce after a while anyway. Draco made me see my error, but it was too late and I felt…shame for my behavior. I didn’t know how to rectify it with my dignity intact.” Narcissa cleared her throat, her gaze bouncing along the scattered things covering the desk, before she squared her shoulders and looked at Hermione again. “The things you said to me when I came by last time; they made me terribly angry at first. It took me a few days to see past the anger and understand what you actually meant. Especially when Draco didn’t treat me differently since, as I was sure you would have told him to do. I can only assume you did not.”

She flicked her gaze downward. “You were right. I still see him as my boy, my child and that will never change, but I have to get used to the fact that he is a grown man now. Someone who knows what he wants and can make his own decisions. I have tried to steer and shape him his entire life. Kept him as safe as I could, against impossible odds. He was always the most important person in my life, but we changed. Both of us. And I have forgotten how to connect with him. Maybe I thought it wasn’t necessary, as he would always love me and know I love him. Our understanding of each other and our shared horrors are many and have bonded us. But I have come to understand my actions and behavior are driving him away despite that.”

The Malfoy matriarch looked up. Cornflower-blue eyes found Hermione and for the first time, she actually saw Narcissa’s face. It seemed as if a mask had been washed off, the careful composure she normally carried like a shield, was gone. Her eyes shone with tears. “I am losing my son, Hermione. And I have no idea what to do or say to stop it.”

Hermione swallowed in face of Narcissa’s anguish. “I don’t know how I would be able to help. He is your son; you just need to talk to him. Really talk to him, not force him into seeing you and thinking that will help.”

A shaky breath ghosted from Narcissa’s lips. “I am not here to ask for help, Hermione. I am here to apologize for my behavior toward you, my lack of appreciation for what you have done for Draco, and to thank you for helping him. And—if you would allow it—I would like to ask whether we could start over.”

Hermione stared, completely taken aback. “Why would you want that?”

“Because I now know you care for my son, as he does for you. I know you’ll protect him if need be. And because Draco told me he will not marry again, whether you divorce or not doesn’t seem to matter in his decision. Once he has set his mind on something, it is nearly impossible to sway him. This means you will be my one and only daughter-in-law.”

“Not because you want to show Draco we can get along and use that?” Hermione raised a brow.

“Of course, I hope us getting along will lead to a better relationship between me and my son, I will not lie to you. Neither will I try and use you to influence him in that direction. You would notice and he would not take kindly to my meddling. No.” Narcissa shook her head. “You were right; Draco and I will have to work on our relationship by ourselves. We’ll need to learn how to talk again.”

Hermione leaned forward. “Alright, I can appreciate your honesty and I am willing to start over. But make no mistake, while your relationship with Draco is your business, I will not tolerate you hurting him.”

Narcissa smiled. “Likewise, Hermione.”

Chapter Text

My Heart

Draco

Draco was in heaven. The fact he had found it in his wife’s lap seemed fitting. They had gotten back from dinner with his parents and any inkling of desire between them had been dampened severely.

When Hermione had gotten home from work, she’d told him about his mother’s visit and what they had discussed. Draco had been suspicious and a bit put out by the entire situation and yet… A small part of him was hopeful. Maybe Narcissa had been honest in her words and wishes. It certainly seemed that way during dinner, as she spoke to Hermione directly, even going so far as to ask about her parents and their recovery, which she never had before. Lucius had taken Draco to the side after dinner, asking him to walk the aviary with him. The ensuing conversation had been draining and aggravating.

His father had started off with some cryptic shite about family and safety, urging Draco to not venture out into the world if not necessary. He had not answered any questions as to why, of course not. No, all Lucius Malfoy had to say on that front was: “Our family still has enemies, you’d do well to remember this, son.” Then, he’d had the nerve to unsubtly ask about whether Draco and his wife were actively trying for an heir. His speech about duty and continuing the line had made Draco stew until he’d told his father in no uncertain terms to mind his own bloody business.

“It is my business, Draco,” Lucius had said. “By now you must know exactly what your wife agreed to when she married you. I’d rather see the contract honored sooner than later.”

Before Draco could hex him, or shove him into the snidget cage, he had simply turned around, walked off and grabbed Hermione on his way. He couldn’t believe the entitlement of his father. Well, that was untrue, as he did know him, but Draco was still beyond angry when they got home.

Hermione, seated on the sofa, had watched him pace and grumble profanities while he told her what his father had said, then she’d sighed and motioned him to sit down next to her. Draco had dropped down with a groan, pissed off and affronted on both their behalf.

“You have to stop letting him get to you like that,” she’d eventually said once Draco had paused his rant. Draco’s answering scoff had resulted in one of those inquisitive head-tilts.

“Yeah, I’ll let you know when that day comes,” he’d said.

“I have an idea.” Hermione had smiled at him and patted her lap. “Lie down.”

“I don’t think—”

“Be quiet and lie down, Draco.”

He had cocked a brow at her, then relented, placing his head in her lap. At first, it had felt strange. Her thighs warm under the back of head while he stared at the ceiling, not knowing what to make of his current situation, his father, and the turmoil inside of him.

“Incoming,” Hermione had said, a term she sometimes used before touching him. A warning. A question of ascent. A chance for him to move away or tell her no. He had stayed very still and then… The moment her fingers carded through his hair, her nails softly scraping along his scalp, had him starting to relax. It was a surreal feeling. A full-body shiver of something had taken hold of him. Warm. Languid. Calming.

His racing mind halted, his ire cooled and a small sound passed his lips. Deep breaths curled through his chest and his lids fluttered shut.

Hermione would only stroke his hair for a few moments, before she stopped, then picked up again. Each time, he was waiting for her touch, craving it the moment it left. He felt…coveted. Protected. It was a feeling he hadn’t known since childhood. But it was more than that, because she gave it to him.

Eventually, Crookshanks had slunk by, hopped onto his chest, where he was currently curled into a ball of fluff and rumbling purrs while Draco scratched his head and back.

Draco had no idea how long the three of them remained like that. It felt like forever. Hermione seemed to know when to stop and when to pick back up with the direct touch and Draco was able to completely lose himself in the feeling of her hands in his hair. Sometimes, her thumbs would stroke his brows, his lids, the bridge of his nose. Featherlight touches, nearly ticklish in nature.

He knew he’d had a breakthrough the night before, when he’d tricked his body and mind into touching his wife, learning her in detail and making her come several times. The memory of it sent a tingle of heat through his abdomen, but he forced it away, not wanting to ruin this fragile moment they were sharing by a visible hard-on.

His gloves had worked a treat and somehow Draco had been able to connect something in his mind. He had touched Hermione and it was safe. There was no memory brimming his brain, no warnings disturbing his perusal of her. Draco had consciously let his hands wander, adjusting the sensitivity of his gloves as he went. She is safe, he had told himself inwardly. Repeated it like a mantra, over and over. And while he’d been aroused out of his mind, he had held fast, focusing on her pleasure, only taking care of himself when she’d drifted off to sleep.

And now Draco was able to relish her ministrations. There was no apprehension, no doubt or fear. He was unsure how far he could take it, or how long it would last, but he was as content as when he’d wrapped himself around her on the night they’d consummated their marriage.

He groaned happily when her fingers sank through his hair once again and a small hum answered him from above.

“Your hair is so impossibly soft,” Hermione said, tugging on a strand to run it through her fingers. “It’s unfair, really.”

Draco tilted back his head a little and looked up. “Why? Yours is amazing.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s impossible to tame without magical means and even then, it does what it wants after a while.”

He reached up to gather a curl tumbling down her arm and the movement disturbed Crookshanks, who hopped from his chest with a disgruntled meow, only to slink away. Slowly, Draco twirled the curl around a finger, his eyes finding hers and holding on. “I like it,” Draco said. “It’s softer than it looks, stubborn and in a certain light, it’s got a golden shine to it.”

Her chest rose and fell slowly, her gaze firm and warm on him. She let her left hand slide to his chest, her fingers slightly pressing down, as if she was looking to feel his heartbeat. Draco’s heart drummed up a storm, as if reaching for her touch.

The moment stretched between them, feeling like eternity concentrated in a few seconds. Something unending captured in a touch, a heartbeat, and a look. His chest felt full to bursting as he regarded her. She was so incandescently beautiful, it almost hurt to look at her.

“What do you think he meant, about enemies and not going out unless it’s important?” Hermione asked, her voice low, filling the silence and gently pushing the moment to the side. “Do you think it’s a warranted warning?”

Draco scoffed. “I doubt it. I’m sure Lucius is just being cryptic on purpose. Maybe it’s another way of trying to impose control. Or maybe he’s jealous because he can’t leave the manor and wants me to be as miserable as he is.” He frowned, lightly pulling on her strand of hair. “I’m surprised you’re unbothered by him, or his inquiry to our…progress.”

Hermione’s hand on his chest brushed him gingerly. “I actually expected him to say something sooner. Your father seems like the type.” She pulled her hand back, leaving the imprint of her touch to linger with thrumming warmth. “He is a menace, but he doesn’t bother me because I don’t let him. He thinks he has the upper hand, but we both know that’s not true.” She swallowed and looked at where her other hand was playing with his hair. “If that is something we decide. It helps knowing we aren’t left with no moves to make.”

It was the closest she had come to discuss their pending decision on how to go about their future and Draco held his breath. Would she tell him what she wanted? Had she made up her mind?

Her jaw clenched a few times, but she remained silent, feathering her fingers through his hair without touching his scalp.

He was close to saying something on the matter, to reaffirm his stance on it—which hadn’t changed—but she sighed and a cautious smile curled on her plush lips.

“I wanted to ask a favor, if I may.”

“What do you need, darling?” Draco relished the slight blush his endearment conjured.

“I think I had a breakthrough with the pensieve, thanks to your potion.”

Draco caught her free wrist and pressed it back to his chest. “That is amazing. Why didn’t you tell me?” His hand dwarfed hers, pressing her palm flatly over his heart. He let his fingers lace through hers, holding her hand in place.

“I haven’t… I need to go into the memory to infuse it with sensation and see whether it works.” She shook her head. “I didn’t have the courage to do so yet and I don’t think I’ll be able to work up to it. But my mum will receive that memory this following week and I need to do get it done.” Her eyes met his. “That’s why I need the favor. Will you come with me? Into the memory?”

Little did she know he’d follow her anywhere. “Of course.”

A few minutes later, they stood in front of Hermione’s pensieve. She gathered a phial of nearly-black liquid from a drawer and Draco knew it was a form of his potion. It wasn’t quite as dark, but had the same oily quality to it as it pearled from the glass when she poured it into the basin. Small bubbles of darkness floated for a second, then dissipated like inkblots in water, vanishing in twirls of black until the surface gleamed in its natural translucence once more.

She held a little flask with a swirling memory to her chest, her face solemn. “I changed the formula a bit to fit my uses,” Hermione explained. “The pensieve itself will add the sensations and once I place the memory inside, it will…absorb them. But in order for that to happen I need to adjust it while inside. In theory at least.” She spread her palm, scrutinizing the memory with something close to fear. “I have never…” She swallowed with a click. “I know this is my mum’s favorite memory of me, but I…” Hermione’s voice grew wavery and scratchy. “I never had the heart to look at it before.” She sent a watery smile Draco’s way. “I can’t put it off any longer, though.”

Instead of saying something generic, meant to comfort, he stepped closer and leaned in so his chest brushed her arm. She sank against him, one hand coming up to fist the fabric of his shirt until her knuckles grew white. Draco brought the length of his body to hers, the touch separated by fabric warm and soothing. He hoped.

“Then how will you know what sensations to add?” he rumbled. Maybe the question would help her think of something else than the immediate fear of sorrow.

“I was there, no matter what memory it is. My subconscious will have the answers. I’ll just have to alter it until it feels…right.” His wife leaned her head to his sternum and took a shuddering breath. “Thank you for doing this, Draco. I really couldn’t have done this alone.”

Something tight swelled in his throat and he cleared it, bringing his arms up to rest them around her. It wasn’t a hug, but something softer. “Thank you for trusting me with something so personal.” He meant it. Draco couldn’t imagine how desperate and fearful she had to be to let him into her past, her life, her heart so deeply.

She raised her face to look at him, a strange expression on her features. As if she wanted to say something, her lips opened, but she closed them again in what looked to be a conscious decision. Draco wished she had just told him what was on her mind. It seemed to be something important, but Hermione inhaled sharply and stepped back, making his hands slide away. She unfurled her fist from his shirt and smoothed it with a few brushes from her fingers.

“Ready?” she asked and turned toward the pensieve.

“Are you?”

Hermione poured the memory into the basin with a frown. “No, I am not. But let’s go.”

She plucked her wand from her pocket and Draco walked to her side, taking her free hand in his. Her skin on his was still different from before. No warning. Draco decided that he’d hold her hand for as long as she needed him to. “I have you, darling.” He bent lower so their faces were level. “I’ll be with you the entire time. No matter what.”

Hermione squeezed his hand once, then a fragile smile trembled along her lips. “Thank you, Draco. You have no idea how much this means to me.” With that, she brought her face to the pensieve, the luminescent shine painting her face with silvery light. Strands of her curls dipped into the basin, floating along the shimmering surface without touching it.

Breath hitching, Hermione stuck her face into the pensieve and Draco followed suit.

The world burst into murkiness for a few seconds and reworked itself into a new scene. They found themselves in a well-lit atrium Draco didn’t know. He looked around, seeing rows upon rows of books. Desks and chairs with the odd person sitting down reading were strewn around and shelves lined the huge room while a woman sat behind a round cubicle in the center.

Draco frowned, noticing that all the people at the desks had blurry faces, their hands like smoke, looking as if they could either be turning pages or taking notes.

“The library,” Hermione breathed at his side. He could feel her hand in his, but the sensation was muted, as if he was wearing his gloves on the highest setting. Her hand grabbed tighter and she gasped when she saw a woman with straight brown hair peruse a shelf. The woman’s fingers skimmed the backs of books and then halted as she frowned, her hand suspended in mid-air.

“Hermione?” she said, then twisted. The movement was jerky as she searched behind her, but there was no one. “Hermione?” she asked again, turning in a full, frantic circle, her voice louder and infused with a tone of panic. Draco recognized Jean Granger, younger than the woman with the absent and empty smile he had gotten to know on Christmas, her brown eyes flitting over the space as she hurried past them.

Her steps were fast, clipped and her fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides. “Bug, where are you?” she called and some of the faceless people hushed her. Jean ignored them and jogged up to the cubicle. “Have you seen my daughter?” she asked, her words coming fast, the terror in her gaze evident. Her brown eyes were wide and her mouth slightly open, yet looking strained and her face was paling by the second. Draco felt her fear in that moment. He knew it, had gotten lost once in Diagon alley when his mother had taken him for ice-cream. The haughty look on her face had been the same, right before she’d seen him. As for himself, Draco had never known fear like that. Being lost, disconnected from the mother he so loved. It had been profound and singular. A simple feeling, not disturbed by other more complicated ones, only terror and panic, pure and all-consuming.

“She has curly hair, is about this tall and…five years old.” Jean motioned to her hip and the librarian looked at her warmly over the rim of her square glasses. She was decidedly un-Pince-like, in that she actually seemed friendly and not as if she was perpetually chomping on lemons dipped in Bubotuber puss.

“I don’t know, but she might have found the children’s section?” the woman suggested. “Let’s take a look.”

They both walked off together and Draco tugged at Hermione’s hand gently. When she didn’t move, he stopped to look at her. “Are you alright, love?”

Hermione was pale, her breath coming in bursts. “I… I haven’t seen her look like that in ages.” Her eyes met his, gleaming with tears. “Present. There.” She sniffled once and blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry, we should…” She strode after her mother, her movements sharp and quick, but he felt her hand gripping his firmly, even as it shook slightly. Waving her wand as she went, Hermione murmured something and a few moments later, Draco could smell the place.

Wood, polish, paper and leather. Similar to the Hogwarts library, or the one in the manor, yet different. It lacked the smell of fire and candles from Hogwarts and the cold scent of marble from the manor. There was the smell of carpet added, and something citrusy. The atmosphere changed almost imperceptibly. There was the hushed sound of pages turning, of pencils scratching and small and quieted coughs.

Hermione’s lips thinned. “I wasn’t in the children’s section,” she said, when they reached a very colorful row of shelves.

Jean and the librarian searched around, one woman frantic and her voice close to sobs, the other calm and collected.

“Bug, where are you? C-come out now, please!” Jean bent over to scan the lower shelves, then snapped back and dug her hands into her hair. She was chewing her lower lip now, tears running down her face. “No, no, no! She can’t be… I only turned for a second. A second! It was not… I need to look outside.”

The librarian came up to her, gently taking her by the shoulders. “Calm yourself, lovie, we’ll find her.”

“Oh, how did I let this happen?” Jean whined, pulling on the hold of the smaller woman. “What if she was taken by someone?”

“Calm, lovie. I saw no one near the two of you,” the other woman said. “Kids that age are very fast. And she can’t have gone far. Just breathe for me, alright?” She drew her bony hands up and down Jean’s arms gently. “Breathe. And think.”

Jean’s breathing was rattling and raked with frantic sobs.

Hermione made a small sound at his side and Draco saw her cheeks were wet with tears. He cursed lightly and pulled her closer so she was in front of him and he could look over her head. Banding both arms around her, he drew her back to him, hugging her. Her hands came up to his arms, nails digging through the fabric of his jumper with how hard she gripped. It was the strangest thing, he knew he was still only holding her hand in reality but their touch here felt real, yet it was muted even more than her hand in his had been. He couldn’t smell her and there was no warmth between them. It was an action without consequences.

“Think,” the librarian repeated. “What interests her?”

A wet laugh shot from Jean. “Oh, everything! That’s the problem.”

“Ah, a fellow academic, how sympatico. Alright, what are her favorite kinds of stories?”

Jean stilled completely, her mouth falling open. “Stories of dragons and princesses.”

The librarian smirked. “Well, follow me then.”

They hurried off and Draco squeezed his wife a bit before letting her go so they could follow. “Dragons and princesses, love? Really?” he asked in a teasing tone and was rewarded by a sniffly snort and a swat to his chest.

“Prat. I liked fantastical things. Sometimes those stories felt more real than my life.” Hermione shrugged and led the way, brushing her cheeks as she went. “Turned out I was right.”

Draco bit his lips hard to keep from making an ill-timed joke about her having bagged her very own dragon. He shook it off and they traversed rows after rows of shelves. Jean and the librarian took a turn and when Hermione and Draco followed, they entered a brightly lit nook with books surrounding a charming little window. Right underneath it, was five-year-old Hermione.

Her hair was even more untamed than during their Hogwarts days and she was lying on her belly, her elbows propped up so her curious eyes could scan the pages before, her ankles crossed, bouncing up and down. She was happily engrossed in a large tome, letting her stubby little fingers trace over a picture of roses and a castle.

“Junebug!” Jean admonished lightly, the tension coiling from her visibly as her shoulders sank and she unclenched her fingers. “You can’t run away like that. Ever.”

Little Hermione looked up, her eyes wide like a Niffler caught in a lumos. “Sorry, mum. I was just…” She scrambled up, bringing the book along, her cheeks flushing as she fiddled with one of her curls. The movement was uncanny. It was the same one the woman at his side used when she was truly nervous.

“Thank you so much, I am very sorry for imposing,” Jean said to the librarian, her expression close to mortified.

The woman smiled at Jean, then at Hermione. “No trouble at all. Finding things and lost dreamers is what I do.” She winked at the girl and stroked Jean’s shoulder once more. “You two enjoy your time and if you need a library card, lovie, let me know before you go.” With that she was off.

Jean sighed deeply, visibly grappling with her emotions. Hermione shuffled closer and looked up at her mum.

“I’m sorry, mum,” she said. “I was…bored.”

Jean sank into a crouch, taking hold of little Hermione’s cheeks on either side so she could gaze at her sternly. “Being bored isn’t the worst you can be, Junebug. Being lost is. You simply can’t run off like that. Promise me.”

Little Hermion, sufficiently chastised, pouted with a shaky lower lip. “I promise, mum.”

Draco pulled his Hermione to his front again, holding her lightly so they could watch the scene unfold.

A large sigh tumbled from Jean and she hugged her daughter firmly. “Now, what did you find?” She pulled back and poked at the tome, still in Hermione’s arms.

The shaky pout vanished, replaced by a radiant smile, showing off some very large front teeth growing in. “It’s a story about a princess rescuing a dragon. They become best friends and save the kingdom from an evil saucer.”

Jean smirked. “An evil saucer? Are you sure?”

“Yah, it’s all here.” She flipped it open and held it out to her mother. “His name is Runkle Rubenhorn and he is a very evil saucer.” Her little finger pointed repeatedly at the page and Jean chuckled.

“Well, then let’s read it together, yes?” Jean picked her up and arranged them both on the window-seat. She placed Hermione in her lap and palmed the side of her head to kiss her unruly curls, then sank her face into the mess and took a deep breath with closed eyes.

“The story, mum,” Hermione said impatiently and Jean smiled, settling the book in both their laps.

“Of course, Bug. Also, I think Runkle Rubenhorn is a sorcerer, not a saucer.”

Hermione twisted to look at her mother very seriously. “Saucerser.”

“Almost,” Jean said, her smile filled with so much tender love it seemed to be perceptible in the very air around them.

The Hermione in his arms huffed out a small laugh and they stayed there, watching the pair in the window-seat. Sunlight threw rays past them, making dust particles dance in the golden light. That citrusy scent from before grew more prominent and was infused with something flowery and Draco noticed it was a perfume. He swallowed at the tightness in his throat, knowing the magnitude of the memory was greater than he could imagine, even if he could feel it.

He squeezed his wife gently and she sank into him, tears plopping onto his jumper where his arms hugged her, until the memory faded at the edges and expelled them both.

Hermione was already pacing the other side of the pensieve, the small flask in her hand as she gathered the memory from the swirling depths. “It should have absorbed my added sensory magic. It’s funny really, I combined your potion with some of the dust for your colors—you know, the one I got you for Christmas—and then changed the pensieve by adding and vanishing a few runes.” She tapped her wand to the runes lining the basin. “Now it’s able to absorb changes made. But only this one is. This particular pensieve, I mean.” She shook the memory and it looked a bit different from before, darker with a certain glittering quality. “I was obviously apprehensive about altering a pensieve in the first place, since they’re so rare and expensive and…” Hermione rambled on and Draco watched her, not knowing what to do for a few seconds. Clearly, the memory had deeply affected her and she was trying to distract herself, or hide what she felt from him. Either way, it hurt seeing her so distressed.

“Love, you can do whatever you want to this pensieve,” he said, interrupting her. “It’s yours.”

Hermione stilled and swallowed, her eyes finding him as she placed the memory in a drawer with great care. Her brows pulled together and she wound both arms around herself in the imitation of a hug, then a tight smile flashed across her lips.

“You know, I had completely forgotten that day,” she said, her gaze turning inward. “My mum used to make this stupid joke every time I came back home for the holidays. Whenever I brought her tea with a saucer, she would gasp, clasp her chest and yell: ‘Not the evil saucer!’.” Hermione shook her head. “I forgot this was the source. A mispronounced word. Something so small and she…” Her arms tightened and her eyes cleared. “It’s eerie how fitting this memory is, isn’t it? ‘Being bored isn’t the worst that can happen to you,’ she said. ‘Being lost is.’ And now…” Her lip trembled and a tear ran down her cheek.

Draco rounded the pensieve in a few steps, unable to watch from afar any longer. Her pain tore at him as if he was being lashed on the inside. He stopped in front of her.

“N-now they are lost, because of me. I lost them!”

He reached out and cradled her cheeks in both his hands, letting his gaze sink into hers. “They aren’t lost, my heart. They are just waiting for you to show them the way home. And with what you did today, the odds are infinitely higher.”

She blinked and more tears ran down her face. “D-do you really b-believe that?”

 Draco drew closer. “With everything I am.”

Hermione gasped and sank to his chest and he pulled her into his arms firmly. He ran his hands up and down her back as she started to sob. His wife was hard and stiff, her sobs harsh, interspersed with cracked wails and hitching breaths. She grabbed at the lapels of his shirt and her tears soon stained the breadth of his chest.

Her held her and kissed the top of her head, able to smell her again. To feel her warmth. To feel her breaking apart. It made something inside him crack and tear. It felt as if his heart was beating outside his chest, raw and naked. As if it was inside of her and he was holding it. Cradling it gently to ease the agony thrumming from it with every pulse of beating life. She was his heart.

As Draco waited, trying to soothe his wife, to bear the ache that was to witness her suffer, he knew one thing with absolute clarity. He was in love with her. Irrevocably.

Chapter Text

Monica or Jean?

Hermione

“Should I come along?” Harry asked, looking worried. “I know how much this means to you and it kills me to think you’ll be alone.”

Hermione shook her head, rolling up a missive and spelling it to flutter from the room and to Astoria. “It’s fine, Harry. Thank you. I took the rest of the week off, starting tomorrow and the Healers there are invested in getting my mother back and they are all very friendly. Besides, you have your Hogwarts scouting mission this week and I know you were looking forward to it for ages.” She gave her best friend a slight smile.

Harry leaned back in his seat across from her desk. “Are you sure? I can always go to Hogwarts another time.”

“And miss the Slytherin – Gryffindor game? Not on my watch.” She scrunched up her nose. “I am fine, truly.” Hermione tilted her head, forcing down the anxiety she felt at thinking about it. “I just… It could be that I’ll cancel clubbing this weekend, if things go…” She grimaced. “Badly.”

“Of course, which is why I’m offering to come along. I don’t want you to be alone in dealing with this.”

“I won’t be alone. I can go home at any time and then I’ll have Draco.”

Harry raised a brow. “And you think he’ll be…consolatory?”

Giving him a long look, Hermione folded her arms. “He’ll be whatever I need him to be, Harry. Like always. Draco is…” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “He makes me feel safe and cared for. Cherished.”

“Huh,” Harry made, his brows now so high they got lost under his unruly fringe. “I know you said that before, it’s just; Malfoy making anyone feel cherished—least of all you—still sounds like it goes against the nature of everything. But if you’re sure…”

“I am. You’ll see once you get to know him better. I didn’t fall in love with my husband because he’s emotionally unavailable. Quite the opposite, actually.”

Harry blinked and looked a tad stunned for a few seconds, then he blew out a long breath. “So the falling has already happened.” He cleared his throat, his green eyes piercing as he watched her nod. “I’m glad he makes you happy, ‘Mione. I really am. It’s just… It might take me a while to get used to it. It was weird enough for you to want to ‘climb him like a tree’. But you’re right, I’ll probably see it when we spend more time together.” Harry winked. “Because all will go well this week and we’ll go clubbing together and celebrate.”

He looked so sure, so filled with optimism and hope, that Hermione believed it a tiny bit. That was Harry for you; he could make almost anyone believe in anything. And there was no one who kept a more positive outlook on dreary truths than him, no matter how the odds were stacked.

For a moment, her heart warmed as she let herself be enthralled by Harry’s steadfast optimism. It helped. It was also very sweet of him to offer her his company when going to Sweden, but Harry really had been looking forward to scouting at the Slytherin - Gryffindor game in Hogwarts and if she was being honest… Having someone with her would have been nice, but ultimately, Hermione knew if she pictured anyone, it was Draco. She brushed the notion to the side. There was no way she would ask him. He’d say yes in a heartbeat, even if he wasn’t ready for it. It was the same reason why she hadn’t brought up the clubbing idea again.

“I don’t know whether Draco will come clubbing with us. I asked, but I won’t pressure him. It would be a lot.”

Harry frowned. “We could do something else then?” he suggested.

“Oh, that’s fine. I am really looking forward to it,” Hermione said, waving her hand. “I haven’t been dancing in ages and Draco coming along was always never more than a maybe.”

With a slow nod, Harry hunched over and shuffled around on his chair. He looked up, then down again, fidgeting.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“I uh… I was going to ask you something,” Harry said. He rolled back his shoulders and then gave her a familiar look. It was the look he adopted whenever he was about to spring something on her he knew she wouldn’t like.

Hermione sighed and leaned back, resigned to whatever Harry had cooked up now. “Go ahead.”

“So, I know you don’t want to talk about it and I’m not asking you to, but Ron has been having a hard time.”

Hermione snorted.

“And I thought about inviting him along. He needs to get out more. With friends. People who aren’t just me, I mean.”

“You’re right,” Hermione said, feeling anger swiftly fill her belly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry’s gaze turned sad and a little desperate. “I get that something happened, but you guys have been friends for so long, surely we can get back to some sort of—”

“Harry, this isn’t like the last time,” she said. “This isn’t him leaving me and you coaxing us into each other’s orbit again so we can work stuff out. It might have worked once, but it won’t work this time.”

“Maybe you could…?” Harry itched his chin at her glare, then spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m just trying to understand.”

“Listen to me very closely, because I will only say this once,” Hermione said. “I am sorry he’s having a bad time and I feel for him, but I can’t. I am done. I neither want, nor can I ever be his friend again. If Ron shows up at that club, I will leave.”

For a few moments, Harry just stared at her, looking confused. “I want to respect your wish not to talk about it, but it’s hard when you say things like that. You and Ron had your fights and some of them were huge, but you guys always forgave and got along again.”

“I forgave, Harry. Me,” Hermione hissed. “I always had to be the responsible one, the grown up. I picked up the pieces of our relationship over and over after he shattered it. I believed him when he said he—” Her breath caught and she shook her head. “I was the one who faced his moods and his short temper and I always, always, had to forgive.” Hermione swiped her hair back and rubbed across her itching nose. Her chest ached with both fury and hurt when thinking about Ron. “I’m done explaining away why he does and says certain things. I’m done bending myself into a pretzel to keep a friendship alive he doesn’t care for. And I am so done being chastised, belittled and attacked for my decision to marry Draco.”

“What happened, Hermione?” Harry asked. “What did he do?”

It was the first time he was asking directly and Hermione sniffed, swallowing back tears of frustration, sadness and anger. For one weak moment, Hermione wanted to tell him, she really did, but she knew what it would lead to and while she didn’t want Ron in her life anymore, she still cared. If Harry knew, Ron would lose him. “Leave it, Harry. Please. I am asking you to respect my decision.”

“Hermione, I’m trying, but I hate being in the middle like this, feeling as if I have to choose a side when I don’t even know why.”

She reached out across her desk and covered his folded hands with hers. “You are not in the middle of anything and you don’t have to choose. I would never make you choose.”

“Don’t you think it should be my decision?” Harry asked, catching her fingers in his hands to squeeze them softly, then his eyes narrowed. “Or aren’t you telling me because you know it wouldn’t be a choice?”

Hermione smiled at him, the motion feeling strained. She pulled her hand back. “Leave it.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll leave it.” Harry didn’t have to add the ‘for now’ hanging in the air between them. Hermione knew her friend too well to think he’d actually let it go. She was proven right the next second. “You know, he’s suffering, ‘Mione. Ron is one unexcused absence away from being fired. He needs our support. Something is seriously off with him. It’s almost like that time—” Harry cut himself off, a pained expression on his face.

A sting laced through her chest, a feeling she hadn’t felt in close to two years. It was sharp panic, guilt and impotent rage. Familiar and cruel. “Godsfuckingdammit, Ronald,” she whispered to herself and for a very brief moment, the old and familiar urge to help rushed through her. She stopped it, violently tugging at the notion. “Check under the sink in the bathroom,” Hermione murmured. “Use a Finite.”

Harry’s brows knit together. “What are you talking about?”

“Just look,” Hermione said, reaching for her pen. “And if you find more than five empty Calming Draught bottles, send an owl here.” She jotted down a name on a piece of parchment with jittery hands. “They’ll help.”

Harry took the slip of paper, his glasses glinting with how he looked from his hands to her and back again. “What are you…?”

“If he needs help, make him get it,” Hermione said. “And don’t believe him if he downplays it. If you find evidence, show it to him and make him talk to you.”

“Hermione…” Harry choked out her name, his features twisted in horrified realization. “Has this… When?”

She looked at him for a long time. “The year after the war. Fred was a big reason. You knew something was going on. I helped hide it. I’m sorry.”

A grim expression took hold of Harry’s face. “I remember that time. Why didn’t you tell me? Ask for help?”

Hermione sank back in her chair, suddenly exhausted. “It was his decision.”

His brows rose. “And it’s not anymore?”

She sighed. “If he is back to that, he’ll need help and I can’t be the one to catch his fall. Not again. I can’t get involved. I’m sorry.”

The entire conversation stayed with her long after Harry had left, as did the lingering sting in her chest.

Guilt weaved through her mind, rising and falling like currents of the ocean. She hated leaving Harry to deal with Ron alone, but there was no way she would let herself be sucked in again. Ron was not her responsibility anymore. He was not her anything anymore. Did it make her a bad person for not getting involved? Maybe, but Hermione also knew she had come too far to cross her own boundary. Ron had known exactly what she’d meant when she told him she would be done with him for good if he did something rash at her wedding. He hadn’t cared. Perhaps he thought her incapable of letting go of him. It had saved their relationship in the past, countless times.

She had no idea how she had dealt with it all back then. The secrets, the lies, the shouting, the guilt-tripping, and the constant wire of anxiety she had balanced on. And she had been alone in this. Even after it was done with and Ron had gotten better, his manipulation had stayed. ‘Conditioned’, Draco had called it and he was right. A thousand tiny things had kept her in line, had kept her from leaving, had gotten her used to act and talk a certain way. Until he had challenged the one thing she would never bend on; her promise to help her parents.

Hermione should have cut him off right then, but her heart had not allowed it. It was unbelievable how much damage that relationship had done to her—was still doing—while she hadn’t even noticed. She was determined to not let the baggage she carried ruin what solace she had found now. Which also meant staying away from the entire Ron-situation. No matter how guilty that made her feel.

By the time she went over what needed to be done in her absence with Astoria at the end of the day, she had settled on this decision. The guilt stayed though, firm and bitter. She was able to nudge it to the side when the anticipation of the next few days rose in her mind.

Astoria wished her luck and wrangled the promise of an owl from Hermione, no matter the outcome of her visit.

“If you want me to come over with wine, I will,” Astoria said.

“Maybe,” Hermione said with a grimace, not sure she’d be up to any kind of company if things went badly.

Astoria hugged her tightly for a long moment. “It will work out, you’ll see. I’ll be thinking of you.”

Hermione sighed and pulled back with a smile. “And curse my absence when Bills screws up a mission again.”

“Probably,” Astoria said with a smirk. Her stunningly blue eyes turned earnest. “I mean it, though, owl me.”

“I will. Make sure the place doesn’t burn to the ground while I’m away.”

Shaking her head, Astoria clicked her tongue. “Oh, ye of little faith. I did well enough during your honeymoon.”

“You did.” Hermione looked over her secretary-turned-friend. “And thank you, for caring and… Thank you. You do know that I have the utmost trust in you, right?”

Astoria winked and pushed Hermione toward the lifts. “I do. Now go. Get home and enjoy your husband before you have to leave.”

Reeling, Hermione gaped at her. “Astoria!”

The woman grinned wolfishly and waved her off. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you have been smiling and blushing far too often in the last few weeks for me not to notice.”

That evening, Hermione was restless. Too many things coursed through her mind. Too many feelings swarmed her chest, reverberating through her body to tingle in her hands. She had gone for a run, she had cuddled Crookshanks to within an inch of his generous patience and now she was trying to get lost in the book she was reading.

When she re-read the same paragraph for the fifth time, she let out a frustrated little noise and bit her lip when Draco looked up from his own book. His perceptive gaze roamed over her, the muscles around his eyes tightening. He had kissed her hello, but seemed to understand she was in her head, so he had just talked about mundane things over dinner and had not initiated any touches.

His presence had been a silent comfort, leaving her room to think, but now her inner turmoil became increasingly unbearable.

Draco closed his book with a thud and cleared his throat. “Accio gloves,” he rumbled and drew them on after they zipped into his open palm. His eyes did not leave hers when he bent down and scooped up her legs, to place her feet in his lap. Gently, he plucked off her socks and began rubbing and massaging her soles.

Hermione almost melted into the sofa, a moan surging from her lips that came from deep within.

“Talk, love,” Draco said, his gaze telling her he knew she was dealing with something. His long fingers rounded the arch of her foot and dug in.

Hermione regarded her husband for a few heartbeats, her lids fluttering whenever he pressed down. “You are so good at that,” she said with a sigh, letting the book she had been reading rest on her lap.

He smiled, then raised both brows, a silent repeat of his former words.

She had no idea whether she should tell him anything. It would have been easy to use the excuse of her impending visit to Sweden to assuage him, but… Hermione had been alone with her problems for a long time and Draco had said he wanted to hear her thoughts. Could she burden him with her shite, though? Should she? He had his own things to worry about.

And he is getting help with those, a small voice said inside her head. You are helping him with it too. In a fair partnership, she should be able to count on him to help her from time to time. Not to deal with her problems, but to listen and understand maybe. She had no idea. This was very new to her, but she supposed she could try.

With her lower lip between her teeth, she let herself sink into his gaze. Sharp and concerned. Beautiful. Comforting.

“I’m nervous about tomorrow, obviously,” she said slowly. “No, nervous doesn’t come close. I’m fucking terrified. What if it doesn’t work? I could lose her forever.” Saying it out loud made her throat tight and she could taste oncoming tears. Hermione swallowed at them.

Draco nodded thoughtfully. He palmed both her feet and squeezed. It was abnormal how his hands dwarfed her feet and quite unsettling to focus on such a thing at this moment. Placing her feet down, Draco sank back and opened his arms wide. “Come here, darling,” he rasped.

Hermione’s breath hitched and she wanted nothing more than to throw herself at him and cry through her fear, but she sat still. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, his arms still wide and that was all the temptation she could take. Scuttling across the space, she draped herself to his chest, finding the perfect spot. Her head on his heart, her arms around his middle. He pulled her closer, his hands brushing over her back. “I have you,” he murmured into her hair, then kissed the crown of her temple.

She shook as she cried, pressed to his warmth with her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt. His chest rose and fell in a comforting rhythm and while sobs raked her and she gave herself over to the very real possibility of ‘what if’, Hermione nestled closer still. She ended up almost on his lap, but he didn’t seem to mind as he stroked her back, tangled his hands through her curls and spoke low comforting words. Gods, the rumble of his voice was like balm to her soul, as was being able to have him hold her like this.

Her heart bloomed with love for him and as tears ran down her nose and her cheeks to sink into his shirt, she mouthed those three little words silently against his chest.

Finally, she sat up and brushed her face. Draco kept his one arm around her shoulder while his other hand lay warm and broad on her thigh, squeezing subtly from time to time.

“Thank you,” Hermione said with a tear-stained voice. She huffed out a small laugh. “I’m sorry, I always seem to be falling apart lately.”

His hand tangled with her curls, twisting them around his fingers. “It’s understandable. And don’t apologize.”

As she got caught in the silvery depths of his gaze, she breathed in deeply, enjoying his scent all around her. Before she could think better of it, her mouth opened. “I… Harry came by my office today. We spoke about my mother and he offered to come along.”

Draco frowned slightly, his hands stilling for a beat.

“I declined,” Hermione went on. “I know how much he was looking forward to scouting in Hogwarts. Then he…” She clenched her teeth, the guilt and sting returning full force. “He asked me about Ronald, indicating how he’s behaving weird and that he needs our support as friends.”

At this, Draco’s face darkened and his jaw tensed. He looked as if he was consciously holding back his thoughts on this, but he remained silent.

Hermione tilted her head back, resting it against his arm on the backrest of the sofa. She decided to just go for it and then see what happened. “When Ron and I started dating—right after the war—we both dealt with the horrors of losing friends and family in different ways. We found a lot of comfort in each other, but I knew I needed a mind-healer to deal with the trauma. I tried to get him to take one himself, but Ron… Ron found a different method.” She sniffed and brushed aside a stray tear. “He lost his brother and for a while his grief was inescapable. Sometimes he’d only be able to sleep when using potions. At first it was once a week, then every other day, then every night. Then he’d need a Calming Draught to start the day and one to end it. I tried to stop it, to help in any way I could, but it was too late.” She looked at the flickering flames dancing in the hearth, not seeing a thing. “He changed. Becoming disinterested in things that used to excite him. He became…disinterested in me. I don’t think it was his fault, but he turned into someone I didn’t recognize.”He

Hermione turned to Draco and saw that his face had become carefully level and she knew he was reining in his expression.

“We overcame it eventually and for a while, things got better. But Harry said something today that made me suspect he’s back to using. And I feel…so fucking guilty about telling him and deciding not to do anything about it further.”

“Potter didn’t know?” Draco asked.

She shook her head. “No one knew. Aside from the therapist I found for him. I made him go eventually and it helped. I dragged him to family dinners, to outings with friends and slowly, he came back.” Hermione scrunched up the fabric of Draco’s shirt where she was still gripping it. “It hurts knowing he could be dealing with that again, but I can’t… I can’t go there again. It’s not as if I don’t care. I do. That’s the problem, really. I know if I go near this, I’ll cross my boundary and…”

She fiddled with his shirt for a moment, the silence around them heavy.

“Hermione, look at me,” Draco said.

She did and his hand came up to cup her face. Gingerly, his thumb brushed over the apple of her cheek, his warmth permeating the leather. “You are dealing with enough. Weasley sabotaged his friendship with you all on his own. He made a choice. Those have consequences.” He drew closer, so his words fanned over her face. “I am proud of you for standing your ground with Potter. Means I don’t have to hex him. Or Weasley.”

Hermione chuckled, but his expression didn’t lighten up. Not even a smidge. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

His eyes darkened. “I know you, darling. You are fierce beyond compare and loyal to a fault. And you have been dealing with too much on your own for too long. Laying clear boundaries to protect yourself is your right. And if that fails, you have me. I will protect you and be there for you any and every way I can.” His nose brushed hers. “You are my woman, remember?”

Where before, Hermione had scoffed at this phrase indignantly (while becoming flustered in equal measure at the same time) now she whimpered and breached the distance, kissing him. Bloody hell, she loved him.

Draco kissed her back, his arms wrapping around her tightly as her hands sank into his hair to muss it. She put all her feelings into that kiss, trying to convey what couldn’t be said out loud—and what she didn’t dare say yet—and he reciprocated enthusiastically. His taste was like a drug, the feel of his lips heavenly and it was over way too fast.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, his eyes made of molten heat as they found hers. Hermione swayed forward, not ready to leave his lips, but she steadied herself when her brain caught up with her actions.

“I just kissed you,” she uttered breathlessly.

Draco chuckled. “I noticed.”

“I’m so sorry, I should have—”

He took her hands in his. “Stop apologizing, my heart. It’s fine. I could have pulled back at any time. I rather enjoyed you initiating a kiss for a change.” His gaze ran along her face, dipping to her lips appreciatively.

Hermione stifled the shiver running through her at that particular endearment. Out of all the ones he used, that one made her light-headed and had the unfortunate side-effect of eliciting a blush. She twisted her lips and shuffled back a bit, still leaving her hands in his. “I’m glad. Still should have asked.”

That damned dimple made an appearance as he grinned. “One day I’ll match your consent, just you wait and see.”

“Honestly, that would be rather dangerous,” she said. “I suppose we wouldn’t be leaving the bed for a while.” Her cheeks flamed further at his hungry gaze.

“I’ll hold you to that. One day.”

His eyes seared into her, calling to her own need in a devasting way. “One day,” she agreed, her pulse jumping.

Draco pulled back one of his hands to run it through his disheveled hair. He blew out air with hollowed cheeks, clearly trying to settle himself after their kiss. Something utterly satisfied wormed to life in her chest and she felt like purring.

“I’m glad you told Potter he couldn’t come. Would have been awkward.”

Hermione tilted her head in question. “Awkward how?”

“Well, the bed would have gotten very crowded and you would have to sleep in the ridge. I would not have been comfortable playing footsie with the Chosen Git.”

Her eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

His thumb swiped across her knuckle in measured movements. “I took the liberty of booking us a room for the next two days at a hotel I found. It’s muggle and looks quite enchanting. Also, it’s pretty close to the clinic.” The way he said it sounded casual, as if there was nothing to it, but the way he looked at her… There was caution in his gaze, like he was trying to discern whether or not she’d be fine with this.

She blinked, tasting tears again. Merlin, damn it all. Hermione was sure she had cried more since marrying him than in the last two years. “Y-you’re coming with me?”

He nodded. “Of course, I am.”

“Are you sure?”

Raising her hands, he kissed each back chastely. “Hermione, darling. I have nothing but time and this is an unfathomably important step in your journey. Whatever made you think I would miss it? No matter which way it goes?”

A stricken sound garbled past her lips and her heart detached from her chest to launch itself at him. How was it possible to love someone this much? “I’m going to kiss you again now.”

His eyes glinted with delight. “Have at it, darling. I’m yours.”

“I thought you were joking when saying that Harry would have to sleep in the ridge,” Hermione said as she walked into the hotel room. It had one (one!) large, double bed stood in the otherwise cozily small room. The wallpaper was an agreeable cream-color and the overall atmosphere was welcoming and quaint.

Draco set down their luggage and flopped to the bed, spreading one hand down the middle, his silver bonding lines flashing. “I did. There is no ridge. One mattress.” He shrugged lazily. “Besides, had Potter really come along, he would have had his own room.”

Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. “I suppose the bed is…big enough.”

“I am a wizard, darling. I can make it bigger.” His grin was cheeky. “Or I can just cast a Protego to shield myself from your advances.”

A snort left her. “Oh, really? My advances?”

He nodded with a solemn look on his face. “Oh yes, I know how insatiable you are.”

Hermione snatched one of the towels from where they lay folded on the footrest of the bed and threw it at him. His reflexes quick as ever, he caught the towel. “Prat,” she hissed without any heat.

“You love it,” he said with a wink.

She shook her head with a smirk and turned from him, lest he saw the blush growing on her cheeks. He had no idea how close he was to the truth on that one.

To hide the direction her thoughts went in, Hermione opened the door to the en-suite and discovered it was small, but very pretty. Half of it was taken up the shower, the fixtures golden and the counter made of marble. She checked her reflection and tugged a few stray curls away. Once her blush was gone, Hermione walked back into the bedroom, seeing Draco still sitting on the bed, while floating their clothes from the suitcases and into a small dresser. His wand swished as if he was conducting an orchestra.

She leaned against the wall with a shoulder and crossed her arms. “Are you alright?” she asked, her tone low and filled with concern.

The place was beautiful and she had gasped as they’d trudged through the snow toward it. Two stories of light walls and large windows, glinting in warm lighting had greeted them. And while Draco’s demeanor toward the concierge bordered on suave, she had felt how stiff his body was at her side.

The hotel Draco booked does actually exist (much as Skövde itself). Isn't it pretty?? It's called Karstorp Hotell for anyone interested.

“I’ll be fine, love. Don’t worry about me. I mean it. All you have to do, is be there for your mum tomorrow.” He made the last of his socks tuck themselves into a drawer with a flick of his wand. “And maybe do me the honor of dining with me tonight. And tomorrow, if you feel up for it.”

She bit down on her lower lip, halting the words tumbling to her tongue. Then she let them go. “You have… Thank you. The way you are looking after me, it means a lot. I wanted you here.” A humorless huff of laughter puffed from her. “Maybe I even need you, but I would never have asked you to come. The fact that you are here and organized all of this…” She gestured around the room. “It really means more than I can say.”

His face was soft and the smile that curled his beautiful lips made it even softer. Draco stood and walked the two steps over. Reaching out, he stroked up and down her shoulders, gently pulling her in until her forehead rested on his chest. He kissed the top of her head. “You never need to thank me for things like this,” he murmured into her hair and she inhaled his smell of sandalwood and apples.

He pushed her back a bit so he could look at her. “It gives me great pleasure to hear you need me, though.”

“I do. Having Harry here would have been nice, but it’s you I need.”

The way his throat worked as he swallowed was mesmerizing. Shifting skin and cords of muscle. Smooth. Hermione could barely remember the taste of his skin and in that moment she craved it with urgency. They kissed often enough, but she wished she could savor him, learn every part of him with her lips and tongue.

“Incoming,” she whispered and leaned closer, while surging to her tip-toes. Her lips met the hollow between his clavicles and she placed an open-mouthed kiss there, then let her tongue dip out for a small taste. Godric, he was divine. Smooth and giving, his taste a delightful mix of his scent and something earthy. Something that was all him.

His hands squeezed her harder and a groan vibrated against her tongue. “Careful, love. Or we will miss our dinner reservation.”

Hermione smiled and tapped her nose to his throat. “Can’t have that.”

He swallowed again and stepped back, his eyes dark and filled with want. “One day, Hermione. One day we’ll have the luxury of not caring about reservations or excuses I make in order to save my stupid mind.”

“Nothing about you is stupid, Draco,” she said. “We have time.” Her breath was a tad shaky when she licked her lips to chase the taste she’d stolen. “But for now, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a show after dinner. To take my mind off tomorrow for a while. Seeing you come has a way of shutting off my brain and an orgasm of my own wouldn’t go amiss.”

He cursed, letting his hands drop to clench them at his sides. The way his jaw ticked as he positively undressed her with his eyes was glorious. “Salazar, woman. You’re killing me.” Draco neared her again, this time without touching. He breathed her in and bent down to bring his lips to her ear. “I’ll give you a show and I’ll make you make yourself come until that brilliant brain of yours can’t form a single coherent thought.”

A coy smile spread on her face. “Is that a promise?”

“Fuck yes.”

The dinner was delicious and their conversation easy. Hermione laughed when Draco’s expression at trying Swedish Princess cake for dessert flashed from cautious curiosity to open delight.

The restaurant attached to the hotel was charming and their little table for two afforded them intimacy and served as a stage for lingering glances and building anticipation. As time went on, tension ratcheted up between them and they drew it out further by taking a stroll through the snowy garden. The longer they walked, her arm threaded through his, the quieter they got and the more the air around them seemed to hum.

At one point, Draco seemed unable to take any more and he pressed her against a tree to snog her silly. Their shared breath was white and the snow falling from the branches glittered in his hair and on his coat. His lips felt hot in the chill and she had to temp down her need quite violently in order not to escalate things.

Eventually, he pulled back with a curse and they hurried back inside. Once in their room, Hermione discovered that her husband was indeed a man of his word.

By the time she lay sprawled in their bed, naked, gasping and utterly ruined, she had come several times. Twice in the shower and countless more between the sheets. Always with his storm-colored eyes on her and his voice wrapping her up in delectably filthy words. He knew exactly what to say, what to show her and how to direct her touches to drive her insane.

Her head was blessedly empty when she felt his magic coast along her skin, vanishing evidence of his desire and her lids grew heavy as he drew the blanket around her, sinking down at her side.

Hermione wished desperately to be able to bridge the distance and wrap herself around him, feel him in her arms and find his heartbeat with her lips, but this would do for now. “One day,” she whispered to herself as she fell asleep, her worry about the next day gone, along with any warring feelings regarding Harry and Ronald.

One hand clutching the altered vial of Jean Granger’s memories and one squeezing Draco’s leather-clad fingers, Hermione waited for the Healers to set things up.

Healer Nilsson and Carlson led ‘Monica’ into a sterile room, separated by a wall of glass from Hermione and Draco.

Rasmus Hansen, the Danish Healer Hermione had gotten friendly with over the course of time, was standing at her other side, describing what exactly was going on. There was no need, not really, as Hermione knew each step by heart. She supposed his explanations were a nice background noise and served well to inform Draco. Hermione was too anxious to talk.

“She’s in a trance right now,” Rasmus said. “So they can do a few last-minute checks while keeping her stress-levels to a minimum.”

“What are they checking for?” Draco asked.

Scarring and connections, Hermione thought instantly.

“They are looking for scarring around parts of the brain that might have been missed, as well as making sure the pathways and connections are still viable,” Rasmus answered. “You know, synapses and the like.” His tone was strange and he was talking slowly, but it wasn’t like Hermione cared as she watched the scans pop up around her mother’s head.

She knew them by heart as well and a small grunt feathered from her as she saw that all was fine. Healthy. Repaired and healthy. Her grip on Draco’s hand grew harder and she was so glad his gloves were on the highest setting so he could endure it, because by the gods, she needed to feel him at her side.

Healer Nilsson walked to the door and waved at them. “She’s ready, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Hermione nodded and couldn’t help herself when she leaned against her husband for a second. Draco freed his hand she was busy squashing and wrapped both arms around her. She trembled in his hold, soaking in his warmth and presence.

“It’ll be fine, love,” he rumbled. “Go and bring her home.”

She tilted her head up to see him and took strength in the complete certainty of his expression. He bent forward to kiss her forehead and then gently led her toward the door.

Hermione took a shaky breath and finally let go of where she had clung to him, her fingers feeling cold and immovable, like claws that had turned to stone. It took effort and she wished he could come with her.

When she entered the room, Healer Carlson smiled at her brightly from where he stood next to the bed ‘Monica Wilkins’ was lying in. Next to it, the air above the pensieve shimmered hauntingly.

They had discussed this the last time she was there. Hermione would be the only one in the room and the Healers would monitor from outside. Even the spell to reverse the Obliviation would be cast while they remained unseen.

“It’s better when the patient comes to only seeing someone they know and trust,” Rasmus had told her. “She will not remember everything right away and the memories you can lead her through, will help accelerate the healing phase.”

Hermione swallowed at the dread in her throat. “What if I can’t convince her to follow me into the pensieve?” she asked. “What if she doesn’t remember me at all?” Her voice was small and frail and she hated the obvious tremor in it.

Healer Nilsson righted her thin glasses. “She should remember you, Mrs. Malfoy. All the work we did beforehand was very promising. There is nothing hindering this from being a success.”

The words of the no-nonsense Healer did brace Hermione somewhat and her shoulders sagged in relief. That did sound good. She felt for the additional memory vial she had brought along. A collection of her own memories. Scenes designed to explain.

“We administered a Calming Draught, so she won’t panic easily,” Healer Carlson said. “Just stay calm and try to reassure her if she does get a bit agitated, that should be enough. We will be right outside if you need help and once you signal us, we’ll come to check on you both.”

Hermione squared her shoulders and looked at the mirror wall, knowing Draco was just outside, even if she couldn’t see him. “I’m ready.”

A few positive words, some more repeated instructions she had already internalized and a soft hand on her shoulder from Healer Carlson later, Hermione was alone with her mother. The room was sterile, made to emulate a Muggle hospital room, including the bed and the smell.

Haltingly, Hermione made her way to her mother’s bedside. She looked so small in that white bed, her brown eyes staring into nothingness and her face so very empty. A look Hermione had come to know all too well over last few years.

She made one of the plastic chairs hover over and sat down, then reached out to take her mother’s hand. It was almost cruel how the touch still felt the same. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

Closing her eyes for a second, Hermione banned the nerves and intrusive panic nipping at the edges of her mind. She breathed and calmed herself, then nodded in the direction of the window.

It took only a moment, then her mother stirred, blinked. Her hand closed around Hermione’s as she frowned and looked around, blinking some more. She licked her lips and smacked them, as if to get rid of a strange taste, then her head rolled to the side and her gaze landed on Hermione. A tentative smile grew on her lips.

“Hello,” she said warmly.

“Hi,” Hermione replied. “How are you feeling? Do you remember your name?”

“Yes. I am Jean Granger.” Her mother sighed and frowned. “And I feel tired. As if I’ve slept for years.”

Hermione had to stifle the almost hysterical laugh at that comment. She had no idea how accurate this feeling was.

“Do I know you?” her mother asked, tilting her head to the side inquisitively. “You seem…very familiar, but I can’t place you.”

“You do,” Hermione whispered, fighting back tears.

“Oh, I’m sorry, then. I think I… Huh, it’s hard to grasp…” She squinted and shimmied up to sit straight. “You feel important.” Her hand grew firmer around Hermione’s and as she bit her lip tears mounted in her eyes. “Very important.”

Hermione had to bite her tongue to keep from falling apart. “We are very important to each other. If you want, I can show you.”

“That would be…” Jean’s brows furrowed. “Where are we? What happened?” Her lips trembled and her eyes grew wide.

Clasping her mother’s hand with both of hers, Hermione smiled warmly. “Look at me.” When she did, Hermione nodded once. “It’s fine. I promise. You are in a clinic in Sweden and I am here so you can remember what happened. Will you let me help you?”

Jean looked her over for a few seconds. “Yes. I want to know.” Her free hand came up to rub at her chest and she swallowed. “Why does it hurt to look at you? Who are you?”

Her smile wavered and Hermione breathed deeply to stop her tears from spilling. “I’ll show you. Can you stand?”

A bit shaky and staring her way the entire time, Jean got up from the bed and Hermione then led her toward the pensieve.

“This is like a TV, but a bit different,” she explained, pulling her mother’s memory from her pocket and pouring it into the basin.

Jean’s brows rose at the swirling silver and black. “What does it do?”

Hermione let her love for her mother shine from her face, hoping it would be enough to coax her into it. “It will help you understand. You’ll see us, as we were in the past.”

“Is it like a home-movie?”

“Close. You just bend over and look inside. I’ll be with you the entire time and won’t let go.” She squeezed her mother’s hand once and felt a trembling but strong squeeze in answer.

“Just do what I do,” Hermione said and bent over the pensieve. Her mother looked skeptical, but followed suit. They were pulled forward and Jean yelped, but they had already materialized in the library.

Jean blinked and looked around, taking in the scene. “This is nothing like TV,” she said and Hermione almost laughed.

“It was the closest I could think of to explain. Look over there,” she prompted. “See anyone familiar?”

They both saw past-Jean peruse the shelves. “Oh,” present-Jean said. “Is that…me?”

Hermione nodded and the moment past-Jean whipped around, looking for her daughter, present-Jean was spellbound. She rushed after herself, letting go of Hermione’s hand, her expression filled with concentration and echoing the panic her past self was experiencing.

“I had a daughter,” she whispered. “I lost her.”

Hermione stayed back a step, letting her mother suffuse herself in the scene. It was strange seeing her go through the same stages of fear, panic and guilt as the younger version. When past-Jean started crying, she hugged herself and swayed from side to side, her lower lip trembling. Then, when they discovered Hermione on the floor, she laughed, tears running down her face.

“I found her,” she whispered. “My Junebug. My Hermione.” Jean stared at her past self and her five-year-old daughter, silently crying as they settled in the window seat and read together. Her smile was radiant, even as her tears didn’t cease.

The memory faded, expelling both of them and Jean was still crying as her gaze landed on her daughter. “You…” She clapped her hand to her mouth and let out a small and broken sound. “Hermione? Is that you?”

Hermione had to hold on with all she had to not fall to her knees and start sobbing. The way her mother had always looked at her, a soft warmth, tinged in unbridled love, that had been lost, bleeding from her the moment Hermione had said that one word… It was back. It shone from her face, radiated from her body and Hermione felt it like a hug.

“Hello, mum,” she whispered, unable to keep herself together anymore. The years of missing her, of being strong, of looking into her empty face, of fighting for this moment, it all came to a head as relief flooded her with such force it physically hurt. Her heart felt like it had been stabbed and finally, her own tears ran down her cheeks.

Jean pulled her into a hug immediately. “Oh, my darling girl. My sweetest bug.” Her warmth was the same, her smell was the same and Hermione clutched at her mother’s shirt, feeling the exact way she had when she’d come home after her first year at Hogwarts. Small and found. Safe. Complete.

Hands cupped her cheek and Jean pulled her back to litter her face in kisses, the way she had done when Hermione had been a child. She cried harder, feeling twelve years old. Her mother hugged her again, firm and warm. Long. Then she pulled back and wiped her tears away. Her dark, brown eyes found hers and flew across her face.

“Let me look at you, bug,” Jean said. “Oh, you are so pretty. And your hair.” She fussed with the curls. “It looks amazing.” Her teary eyes roamed over Hermione. “You look so grown up.” For a moment her face scrunched up slightly. “I don’t… Why can’t I remember you being this grown up?”

Hermione sniffed and took both of her mother’s hands, she was still overwhelmed. A twisted mix of happiness beyond compare, relief, guilt, and sorrow at the time missed knotted in her chest. “Some time has passed. If you want, I can show you the reason.”

“With that not TV thing?” Jean asked, gesturing at the pensieve.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “It is called a pensieve and as you saw, we can visit memories with it. I can show you what happened. Why you can’t remember yet.”

Jean swiped her eyes again, but took Hermione’s hands immediately. She nodded. “I want to know. I need to understand.”

The collection of memories Hermione led her mother through were snapshots of their life together. Earlier memories, family times, board-game and Uno matches, the first accidental bouts of magic, Minerva visiting with Hermione’s Hogwarts letter to explain she was a witch and would be invited to learn magic.

Jean—holding her hand the entire time—was visibly astounded. “You are a witch. I remember.” She looked around. “So this…” Her free hand pointed around them, at their younger selves on the platform 9 ¾. “This is all magic too?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “This is a magical memory recollection tool that can be used in a myriad of ways.”

Her mother nodded and her smile grew wider and her eyes brighter as she marveled at the memories Hermione showed her. They finally came to the one explaining it all. It was hard to get through.

The explanation of why Hermione would be leaving, how she planned to keep them safe. The fights, the tears, the lack of understanding… Then the realization that they were powerless to stop her, unable to keep her and themselves safe. It was heartbreaking to see herself and her mother cry, while her father refused to give in, refused to believe a couple of teenagers could make a difference.

It did sound rather unbelievable, Hermione supposed as she watched it back. Not to mention, they should never have been put in that position. None of them. Harry had been subjected to mortal danger again and again, until it was normal, only to be asked to endure the ultimate sacrifice in the end. And her and Ron had been expected to be there for him, to catch him and to fight at his side. Of course they had, because they loved him. He was their best friend and neither of them would have let him go it alone.

Grown up Hermione could have throttled Dumbledore. On all of their behalf, but especially Harry’s. And Draco’s. It seemed to her he had known, after what Harry had told her from what’d happened on the Astronomy tower that night. He had known what Draco’s mission was, had seen him suffer and his offer of help had come far, far too late.

It seemed like a lifetime ago and here she was…still picking up the pieces of that time. Dealing with the fallout. Watching her mother cry and her father pace as they both realized she was right and there was not a thing they could do. They couldn’t fight for their only child; they couldn’t keep her safe. They had no magic. All they could do to help her was disappear and let her rip herself from their minds and lives so they would not remember.

Would not miss her.

Would not endanger her if they were caught.

Would not grieve if she never came home.

Jean squeezed Hermione’s hand so tightly, she felt the pressure even in the pensieve and she cried silent tears as she watched her mother remember. The dawning horror on her face, the tears that streamed down her cheeks unhindered, it tore at her.

The memory faded as past-Hermione raised her wand at her parents and their faces grew empty. She sucked in a huge breath when they surfaced from the pensieve and Jean looked at her, a mix of sadness, shock and hurt on her features. Surely, her mother blamed her for the lost time, the lost years of trying to get them back. They had agreed, but she still had used magic on them to take something. Not only something; their daughter. Hermione couldn’t even imagine what her mother must be feeling and she steeled herself inwardly for blame and disappointment. Something she’d always known was what she deserved. She had not given them a choice. Not really.

Hermione readied her heart for words she had said to herself so often, words she completely deserved and knew would come. But knowing and receiving were two different things. It would be agonizing.

Jean’s expression softened and she pulled her close to hug her. “You kept your promise. You stayed alive and found us.”

Relief flooded Hermione’s entire being, as if she was suffusing herself in warm water. It was a weightless and bouncy feeling, with small pockets of stinging guilt.

“I’m so, so sorry, mum. I- There was no other way. And I’m so sorry it took me so long.” Her tears plopped onto Jean’s shirt and she was held tighter and kissed on the cheek repeatedly.

Her mother pulled back and swiped at her tears. “You found us, bug. That is all that matters. You said you would and you did.” She frowned. “That means it’s over, right? You won? And Harry?”

Hermione slid her hands over her mother’s where she cupped her face. “Yes. We won. Harry killed Voldemort and we are safe now. He’s doing great and I know he can’t wait to see you guys again. He actually wanted to come but I said…” Hermione shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How long?” Jean asked, her face hardening a tad.

Hermione’s throat clicked as she swallowed. “F-five years. And a bit.”

Jean blinked a few times, but seemed to catch herself. “No wonder you look so grown up.” Then her brows shot up. “I didn’t get more gray hair, did I?”

A laugh tore from Hermione and after a second, her mother fell in and they positively cackled together. It helped dissipate the heaviness of the last few hours, loosening something in the atmosphere, in Hermione’s chest. They clung to each other as they laughed, still teary, but lighter. So much lighter.

They settled on the bed side by side, still giggling and Hermione reassured her that there hadn’t been too many new ones. She signaled at the window and the Healers entered. Introductions were made and Healer Nilsson quickly got down to business and scanned Jean from head to toe magically after asking permission. All seemed well, even as Jean started yawning and slumping a little.

It was no wonder, going through what she had in the past hours had to have been exhausting. Hermione felt the same emotional drainage, but she was also brimming with excitement. There was something absolutely surreal to all of it. She’d done it. She had actually done it.

Rasmus was giving her a thumbs up and a wink. Then Draco slowly walked inside and milled around the door, as if unsure whether he should be there. Hermione hopped from the bed and crossed the space between them. He instantly opened his arms to catch her.

“You did it, darling,” he rasped next to her ear. “I knew you would.”

She inhaled him, closing her eyes and soaking up his warmth and comforting presence for a moment longer, before leaning back to look at him. She wanted to thank him; to tell him how much it meant to her that he was there, but an overwhelming bout of unguarded affection swamped her and tightened her throat. The words got lost. All she managed was a smile and a squeeze to his biceps, where her hands rested.

Hermione turned, wanting to introduce Draco to her mother, but Jean Granger was already fast asleep, while Healer Nilsson hovered, scans lighting up the area around them.

Healer Carlson beamed at Hermione. “She’ll probably be sleeping through the entire night,” he mused. “It worked wonderfully, Mrs. Malfoy. I am so happy. We don’t often have such a smooth transition, it’s a treat to have witnessed it.” He folded his hands. “Of course, your mother will still regain more memories over the next few days until she is completely back to her old self, but I think she will do very well.” His lips tightened for just a moment, but then he was smiling again.

“This was outstanding, Hermione,” Rasmus said, sidling up and laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I am so impressed by how you handled everything.”

“Thank you, Rasmus,” Hermione said, blushing a little under the praise. She had worked very hard on this and was astounded with how it had worked out and the fact that, yes, she had dealt with the situation quite well.

He let go of her shoulder and gave a happy sigh. “We should totally all celebrate together. Healer Carlson, Healer Nilsson, will you join us?”

Healer Nilsson didn’t even look up, but her lips twitched into a grimace. “As if I have time for such nonsense.”

Healer Calson chuckled at his colleague’s very typical attitude and shook his head. “My wife is expecting me home for dinner. If I miss it, I’ll be sleeping outside.”

Rasmus didn’t seem to mind as he grinned. “That leaves the three of us.” He winked at Hermione again. “I know just the place.”

When Hermione threaded her arm through Draco’s, he seemed stiff, but when she looked at him to ask as they exited the room, he just gave her a very soft nod, his face showing nothing. Maybe the prospect of more people was stressing him.

As Rasmus strolled ahead, whistling happily, she asked whether he wanted to go back to the hotel and he shook his head. “We should celebrate, darling. You have earned it.”

Hermione grinned at him. She had. She definitely had.

Chapter Text

Baser Urges and Mild Threats

Draco

The restaurant Rasputin—or whatever the fuck the blokes name was—took them to was charming. Because of course it fucking was. The wooden floor was a light brown, the diffuse light adding to the atmosphere. Ramses greeted the waiter like an old friend and quickly got them a nice table next the window overlooking the snowy street.

Hermione sank into her seat looking tired but radiating so much happiness that it tightened Draco’s throat. He was busy hanging their coats onto a coat tree which stood next to the window, when Ras-dingus slid into the seat next to Hermione, leaving the only available space for Draco on the other side of table. He glowered at the back of the man’s head, a dark and dangerous feeling coiling along his stomach-walls. The feeling hissed and clawed when Rabastan leaned closer to Hermione and said something that made her laugh.

Draco knew he was a possessive arsehole, he knew he did not share well, and he also knew Hermione had no untoward intentions regarding the lumberjack impersonator. In addition, she had just gotten her mother back so he was not going to ruin her evening. But by Salazar, he could have done without the prick tagging along. He had wanted to celebrate with his wife. Just the two of them. Shoving his mounting rage to the side, Draco adjusted his cuffs and slid into the chair on the opposite side of the table. Fortunately, the table wasn’t big, so he was close enough to reach across the space and take her hand if he wanted to.

His wife gave him a radiant smile and nudged his foot softly with her own. His lips twitched in answer and the rage calmed somewhat, before Rigatoni asked her something and then loudly ordered champagne for the table.

Draco watched and seethed. He said little during the conversation, even if Hermione—bless her heart—tried to make sure he was a part of it. Yet, Healer Dingus continuously went further into medical-talk, discussing theories and new ideas with Hermione while throwing Draco stupidly smug grins. The rage began to mount once more as the food came and while Draco kept his expression carefully blank and pleasant, his fists clenched making the leather of his gloves creak softly. The sound was barely audible to him, the cacophony of the restaurant drowning it. The one upside to his anger was that the constant buzz of conversation, the crowdedness and the busy atmosphere didn’t reach him.

Small blessings.

“I’m so sorry to go this in-depth about such topics,” the tosspot said, his mien supposedly showing remorse when he glanced at Draco. “You have to forgive me. I just don’t get the chance to discuss it with such a brilliant witch all that often.”

Hermione smiled and Draco barely held in a scoff. It wasn’t as if the idiot worked with specialists in mind-healing every day. Not at all.

“It’s fine,” Draco replied, skewering his shrimp with more force than necessary. “I can keep up.” And he could. Mind-healing—specifically the type concerning magical brain-damage and memory loss—was something Hermione spoke to him about quite regularly. This was not surprising, given her work and her parents’ predicament. Draco just didn’t have much to contribute, he was too busy keeping his face level and not reaching out to dunk the tosser face-first into his pasta dish.

Rasputin looked Draco over with a skeptical glance and Hermione’s landed on him, shining with pride and warmth. It made the vicious tumult inside him screech to a halt.

“Draco is right. It’s almost all I talk about sometimes and he is quite brilliant himself, especially when it comes to Potions.” She gave his foot another slight nudge. “I couldn’t have altered the memory without his input.”

They shared a long look, her clearly being proud of him making him want to preen. “It was nothing, darling,” Draco said and she reached across the table. He took her hand in his and gently rubbed circles over her wrist with his thumb. With his gloves set to low, he could almost feel her skin. He knew it was unbelievably soft.

“It wasn’t nothing,” she said firmly, then blinked as her eyes moistened. “Oh, I can’t believe it went so smoothly and I actually have my mum back.”

Their gazes held on and something unsaid and warm passed between them. Draco wanted to say something, his hand squeezing hers gently, but in that moment he was cut off.

“Yes, what an achievement,” Rubens said a little too loud and raised his glass. “To you and your mother.”

Hermione slightly winced as if ripped from a deep thought, but then smiled at the dolt and pulled her hand back to raise her own glass. Draco couldn’t stifle the glower at the entire exchange, but followed suit. “To you getting her home, darling,” he drawled. “I knew you would.”

He sank back into his seat, his foot searching out hers to nudge it while he watched as Rubeus faced her fully and waxed poetic about the astonishing way in which she’d handled it. The man was right, but he was too close to Hermione and the way she smiled didn’t reach her eyes anymore. Her gaze shifted to Draco often and while she answered and engaged, her own foot pulled back for a second. Draco frowned, very unhappy with her ending the contact, but then he froze when he felt her foot—shoeless this time—hook around his calf and stroke up and down. He nearly dropped his fork.

A coy look from under her long lashes sealed her intentions and Draco nearly laughed. Here Rambunkle was trying very hard to get her attention, when she was playing an invisible game under the table. The feeling was electric and not unwelcome as the arch of her foot reached behind his knee, only to stroke down again. Everything shifted in that moment and the longing he felt for her barreled into him with the force of a Nundu stampede. Her tiny glances felt like caresses, winding him up almost as much as the continued strokes of her toes and the arch of her foot.

Merlin help him, if they’d been alone… But they decidedly were not. He was reminded of this aggravating fact when the Dingus laughed too loudly at something Hermione said and Draco was suddenly caught in a very strange limbo of being pissed off at the prick across from him, who very unsubtly rested his arm on the backrest of Hermione’s chair and the waves of arousal from what she was doing. She wanted to play and Draco wished he could reciprocate. Then it dawned on him that he actually could. He would just have to be sneaky about it. He could be sneaky.

“Oh, I always look forward to your visits, Hermione,” Ramone crooned. “We get to have so much fun each time. Remember the ham in the cantina?”

Hermione twirled her glass and laughed, sending Draco a small look while biting her plush lower lip. “The ham! Healer Carlson’s face was priceless. I didn’t know the man knew how to look angry.”

Not caring about any ham-stories, Draco placed down his fork and caught Hermione’s ankle on the upsweep, placing her foot on his knee to run his fingers along her stockinged skin. She jerked a bit, her eyes flashing at him with heat as his pads painted circles around her arch, then ankle. He bent forward slightly, skimming his palm along her calf. Her lids fluttered and he smirked. The Danish idiot had to repeat his next question twice before she answered. Something hot and exciting grew under Draco’s skin. He’d known Hermione was receptive, but to see her lose the thread of a conversation because of his touch was fucking delicious.

Draco grinned at his wife. ‘Let’s play, darling,’ he mouthed, when Ringo signaled a waiter for something. Hermione blushed beautifully and he saw her throat bob, then a challenging gleam entered her burnt-whisky eyes. Fucking hell, she looked gorgeous like that. Flushed, her shoulders rising and falling fast, her lips slightly glossy from where she’d licked them, and trying to keep her composure while also not backing down. It was only fair. She’d started this.

He stilled his hand, then sent her a very telling look, one he knew would have her knees weak. Her mouth opened on a hissed inhale. Lids growing hooded and tilting her head slightly, Hermione let her index finger run around the rim of her glass. It was a slow drag and when she pulled her fingers back to wet it with a small lick to smooth the glide, Draco had to swallow. Hard. Her actions were positively obscene, even if they seemed incidental. A low groan curled in his throat, barely suppressed, as his cock gave a sharp, eager twitch. Draco raised his hand from below the table, sank his teeth into the tip of his glove and pulled slowly until the leather slipped from his fingers with a soft hiss. He dropped it back down to continue his ministrations. All while his other hand, steady and composed, lifted his fork as if he wasn’t inching along the edges of ruin.

His fingers glided up the satiny smoothness of her stockings and he relished the feel of her warmth with only the whisper of fabric between them. Hermione’s eyes heated further and she started to wriggle in her seat, small pants puffing past her pretty lips.

Draco couldn’t stifle a devilish grin. Touching her like this was tantalizing. Unseen and with no direct skin contact. Still, he felt her small jolts, her warmth sending tingles along his arms and the way she completely lost what she was saying to the point of Ramses asking if she was alright, was glorious.

Apparently noticing something was going on he wasn’t in on, the idiot frowned, looking from Hermione to Draco and back again, just when Draco reached the soft skin behind her knee, eliciting a breathy sound form his wife.

“Are you feeling well, Hermione?” Robert asked.

“Yes, darling. Is everything alright?” Draco asked with a twitch to his lips, leaning in to stroke along the underside of her thigh. He knew how divinely soft her skin was there. How sensitive.

Hermione let out a whimper and jolted upright, tugging on her leg. “Fine.” It came out like a squeak. “Need to go to the bathroom.” Draco gave one last caress, drawing his hand up to the inside of her thigh and back to her knee, relishing the stricken sound and the shivers following his touch. Then he let her have her limb back and she quickly slid into her shoe and shuffled from the table.

Draco watched her rush through the crowded space and vanish into the restrooms, then he leaned back and folded his arms, his dinner completely forgotten. He regarded Runigold with a dark look, all the anger from before slowly sliding back into his chest until it felt like a vat of acid was lodged there, boiling.

The Healer—to his infinitesimal credit—didn’t cower under the glower, which Draco knew was impressive. On the contrary, the bloke squared his shoulders and grinned knowingly, lacing his fingers and laying them on the table.

“She is quite something, isn’t she?” he asked. “Hermione, I mean.”

“She is,” Draco conceded, his tone low.

Healer Dingus’ eyes narrowed, making his grin seem a tad misplaced. “She never speaks of you. Don’t you consider that strange?”

“Not at all.”

His brows rose slightly. “Oh? I mean, you have only recently married, one would think she’d gush about her husband to a new friend. But this is the first time you came along at all. The first time you showed any kind of support for her and her parents.”

Draco just let his ire slowly bleed deeper into his features, saying nothing. Obviously, the idiot had not been there during Christmas.

The man in front of him shrugged, his stupid grin shrinking into a smirk. “But then again, yours isn’t a real marriage, is it? I read the Prophet, I know who—and what—you are, so I should not be surprised by your lack of...consideration. You only married her to stay out of prison, didn’t you?”

“Does your rambling have a point?” Draco asked.

Rubicon’s smirk slid from his lips like butter from a hot pan. “You don’t deserve someone as amazing as her.” He hunched over slightly as he said it, posturing.

“Clearly,” Draco said, his lips twitching cruelly when the man looked a tad confused for a second. “What? You think I don’t know? You think she doesn’t know? You said so yourself, my wife is brilliant, don’t insult her intelligence by stating something obvious and then trying to make her see what she already knows by openly flirting with her in front of me. It’s unbecoming.”

The bloke had the decency to look dejected for a second, before something very sly crossed his features. “So, what you’re saying is that you have an agreement? Makes sense, knowing how she reacts to my advances.”

Those words were the first to actually make a dent in Draco’s armor. For a moment at least. Then he chuckled darkly. “Oh, that’s precious, that is. You think you actually stand a chance at seducing my wife? Right under my nose?”

The chap bristled. “I always show her a good time when she’s here and she has been very receptive to my attentions. I imagine you could never.” He sneered, looking Draco up and down. “I’ve seen the slight trembling of your hands. Your gloves. You can’t even touch her, can you? She is a great woman; she deserves someone who isn’t disgusted by—”

“Let me tell you something, Rigatoni—” “Rasmus.” “—whatever. Our marriage is none of your concern. How I view and entertain my darling wife is none of your concern.” Draco’s voice deepened to something close to a growl. “And whether or not she enjoys my company or touch is none. Of. Your. Fucking. Concern.” He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles. “Now, what should be very much concerning you, is the fact that my family is one of the sponsors of your little clinic. I will make sure to remedy this and make us the top sponsor by a landslide, just because I fucking can. Do you think your bosses will look kindly on the bloke who got too forward with the wife of the top sponsor?”

Rasputin gasped. “Th-that is—”

“I wasn’t done,” Draco hissed. “It would have been entertaining, hearing about you trying to seduce my wife when she’d finally caught on. She hasn’t noticed what you are doing yet. Always sees the best of people.” He glared. “And make no mistake, she would have both told me and refused you.” Draco took a deep breath to keep from blowing the man into chunks, watching with utmost glee as he paled visibly. “I would have gotten you fired for trying regardless, since manners are important and we mustn’t try and take what does not belong to us. But you had the audacity to not only try and flirt with my wife, in front of me, insinuate I’d be fine with you making your advances on her because you believe she disgusts me and I don’t care about her. I care. More than is probably healthy.” Draco scoffed. “You must think very little of her to believe she would be so easily swayed to cheat. And that… That is something I will not abide. Consider yourself blacklisted from ever working in your field again.”

Draco downed his whisky in one gulp and waved at the now very pale man. “Off you fuck, Ramses, before I forget myself and send what’s left of you back to Copenhagen in a thimble.”

Watching with no small amount of satisfaction, as Rubens shot from his chair and stumbled through the restaurant, crashing into waiters and guests, making hasty excuses as he scrambled to the door, Draco glowered after him. With one last fearful look at Draco, he was outside, the door closing soundly behind him.

Slowly, Draco clenched and flexed his hands, temping down the urge to follow and curse him, no matter what he’d said before. He was busy drawing on his discarded glove when his wife reappeared.

“Draco?” Hermione asked, snapping him from his murderous thoughts as she slid onto her chair, looking back at the door. “Did Rasmus just leave?”

“He did. Urgent business.”

“He didn’t even say goodbye, that is unlike him.” Hermione seemed worried, then she glanced at him and her eyes narrowed a bit. “He looked positively panicked.”

“Don’t worry about it, darling.”

“Draco.” Her tone was suspicious and her eyes turned to slits. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

Her lips pursed. “What did you say, then?”

Draco grimaced. “Nothing that bears repeating.”

She watched him, her gaze scrutinizing and sharp. “Draco…”

“Leave it, Hermione.” He sighed, trying to dispel the anger still simmering close to the surface. “Let’s just… Do you want another round of drinks? This is a happy night, we should celebrate.”

Hermione worried her lower lip, looking far too rigid in her seat and Draco cursed himself inwardly, then proceeded to call Ringo every vile name in his extensive arsenal for being a meddling prick. This was exactly what hadn’t wanted to happen. He had not wanted to ruin Hermione’s triumphant night.

“I think I’m done,” she said, her voice soft but with a very discerning edge. It was obvious she knew something had happened and she was none too happy with Draco. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“As you wish,” Draco said. He paid the waiter and when he held Hermione’s coat for her to slip in, she instead tugged it from him and pulled it on herself, casting him a wary look. The action put him on edge and when they walked from the restaurant, he could feel the glances she threw him. He braced himself, knowing his wife well enough by now. She was not about to let this go, this was far from over.

The good thing about staying at a muggle hotel was that they could apparate directly into their room, thanks to the lack of wards. They shuffled into a quiet alley and Hermione grabbed his elbow to apparate them. She was able to do it almost quietly, so it made sense for him to side-along with her. Still, as they reappeared in their room a small clap echoed through the space.

She let go of him immediately, her lips tight and jaw clenched as if she was holding in her words.

Draco sighed again and shrugged off his coat. “Look, I didn’t mean to ruin your evening, love. I was…” He trailed off, not really wanting to go into specifics, his ire still too close.

“So talk, Draco,” Hermione demanded, folding her coat and laying it down on the foot of the bed, before sitting down next to it, her arms crossed. “What happened?”

Gritting his teeth, Draco slid his fists into his pockets. “I told him to leave.”

She nodded, her gaze still wary. “I assumed as much. Was it because he sat down next to me? Because we talked about medical specifics? I tried to include you, I—”

“I know, darling. And no, I am able to not be the center of attention at a dinner conversation, thank you. My ego isn’t that big.”

She snorted, a sly grin on her face. “As if. Well? Tell me why you scared a perfectly nice man out of a restaurant.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “First of all, he is not nice. Secondly, he was actively trying to take what isn’t his and I didn’t like it.”

Hermione tilted her head, the motion by now familiar. “He is married, did you know?”

He shook his head, pleasantly surprised. “I admit, that is a twist I did not see coming.” It was a welcome one, though. Did his wife know? If not, that was an oversight to be remedied.

“Even if he wasn’t, you do know I would never act on any advances, right?”

Draco nodded. He did know. And not just because it would go against her contract, but Hermione was not the type to be unfaithful. Not in any scenario. Still, he had the overwhelming urge to show her exactly whose woman she was. He wanted to get lost in her, drown in her scent and breathe her sighs. He wanted to feel her around him, against him, with nothing separating them, so he could brand himself into her bones, light up her body and soul with ecstasy, until all she knew was him. He wanted—needed—to have her.

“So you understand that your reaction was silly and out of line?”

He swallowed as he yanked at the need coiling through him. Forcing his mind back to the conversation, his features darkened at her words.

She sighed. “I’m not a possession, Draco. You can’t go biting off heads just because you think people make a pass at me. Rasmus is my friend. You—”

Draco’s brows shot up. “Do all your friends want to fuck you, Hermione? Or just the conveniently attractive lumberjack-impersonators?”

Hermione rose from the bed and slowly approached him, her arms still crossed. When she reached him, she looked up, her eyes roaming his face. “Even if that were true, it’s beside the point.”

“Oh, it’s true, darling. Trust me. But do enlighten me, what is the point?”

Her gaze dropped and she unfurled her arms. “The point is that I’m not a possession and you can’t act all territorial just because a friend gets a little too friendly.”

“He wasn’t a little too friendly. He insinuated that I didn’t deserve you and had to be disgusted by you. Then he theorized that we must be having an extra-marital agreement, since it’s so unthinkable for me to want my wife. I disagreed.”

Her eyes flew to him and her lips opened slightly in surprise. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“Well, then he is no longer a friend.” She lifted a hand and hovered it over his chest, giving him time to move away. Draco stepped closer instead, feeling the heat of her palm on his left pec through his jacket.

Hermione’s amber-fire eyes danced across his face and she swallowed starkly. “You know there is only one man I want, don’t you?”

Heat fanned up his spine at her words and when she licked her lips he stifled a groan. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

Draco leaned down to bring his lips close to her ear. “Does that mean you enjoyed our little game, darling?”

She shuddered slightly. “Yes. Very much.”

“Why did you leave, then?” he rasped, pulling a hand from his pocket and twining a curl around his finger.

Hermione arched her back, leaning away to look at him, her palm pressing to his chest more firmly. “Because a second longer and everyone in that restaurant would have known exactly what you were doing to me under the table.”

He screwed his eyes shut, his mouth suddenly dry with want. While the atmosphere between them had shifted to playful and heady, as it had been at the restaurant, he was fighting back his baser urges. Draco felt her move closer again, her breath ghosting over his jaw.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” his wife announced, the words tumbling over his lips, tasting like wine and her.

He didn’t move, waiting on her to fulfil her promise, clinging to the last vestiges of his control. Her lips brushed his gently and a soft sound escaped him, then she did it again. The barest of touches. It wasn’t nearly enough. Another brush and he swayed forward to chase her lips, but she smiled and leaned back. His control snapped like a sun-bleached twig. Draco slid his hand to the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers with her hair and pulled her in, slanting his lips over hers in a searing kiss. All punishing heat and scalding licks.

Hermione’s hand closed around the fabric of his jacket and she drew closer, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth and running her tongue over it in caressing sweeps. He opened for her and dipped in to taste her fully. The groan surging from him was met by a mewl from her, twining on both their searching tongues. She was heaven, her taste familiar and yet exciting. The feel of her lips, the way she kissed him… It was sinful and had his blood boiling within seconds. Draco had always relished how receptive she was, ever since their ill-fated wedding night, but when it came to her, so was he.

Within seconds, he was painfully hard, tingles of need rushing across his skin from head to toe. He freed his other hand, slipping it to the small of her back to draw her in until she was flush against him. A moan tumbled into him when he ground his hips to hers, letting her feel the effect she had on him. Her other hand found his bicep and squeezed.

Draco tilted his head and deepened the kiss further, feeling Hermione tremble in response. Small gasps tickled him and he drank them down, desperate to inhale as much of her as possible. His arms banded around her, almost crushing her to him and he nipped her lips when he felt her hips undulating, grinding against his cock to chase friction.

He left her mouth to kiss and suck a path down her jaw, only to follow the slope of her neck, loving the softness and taste of her skin beneath his lips, his tongue, his teeth. Hermione moaned deeply, her nails biting into his muscles. They would have left marks if he’d been naked.

Naked. What a brilliant idea. He needed her naked. Now. He needed…more. More of her skin, more of her moans, more, more, more. The possessive urge to stake his claim on her had been somewhat settled by her words, but it wasn’t gone. She was his. And he had watched another trying to weasel his way in. To try and take what was his. Take the woman he loved.

A low growl thrummed up his throat and he nestled past the fabric of her shirt to bite down on her soft skin, eliciting a moan. Her face fell to the crook of his neck and she pressed her lips to the sliver of skin emerging from his clothes, foraging a scorching path up his neck. The feel was electric. And for the first time since the end of the war, his mind was nearly void of any anxiety or panic when so close to another. This was Hermione, his Hermione. She was his safe space, his wife, his love. His need overrode what uncertainty there was.

Ever since that night he had used his gloves on her, his mind had quieted more around touching and kissing her. He had still been careful, not wanting to expose Hermione to another episode; not to mention going through it. Yet, he had wondered how far he’d be able to go.

Deciding he wanted to find out—right now—Draco pulled her blouse from her skirt and fumbled with the buttons, elated by every stretch of skin he uncovered. She pulled her arms free once unbuttoned and shrugged off her blouse, keening when his mouth moved over the swell of her breast, spilling from her bra. He tugged the affronting garment down and left little bites and licks on his way around her areola until sucking on her nipple. Her fingers sank into his hair in answer and she groaned deeply.

Draco switched sides and her chest heaved, her pulse rapid under his lips, goosebumps greeting him along the way. She was arching her back again to give him room and keep the lower halves of their bodies joined. His hands roamed down her back and grabbed onto her phenomenal arse, squeezing her the way he had dreamed of doing ever since he’d seen her that first time in her pencil skirt. At work. Back when they had not been married.

“Draco…” Hermione gasped, her voice husky and breathless. “We… Oh, gods. We can’t… Shouldn’t…”

He lightly bit her nipple and she whimpered, then he worked over the sting with his tongue before blowing on it.

Her hands burrowed into his hair and she grabbed fistfuls to tug at him. He emerged, breath hot and wild, his heartbeat drumming up a storm as he met her lust-filled eyes. Hermione was flushed, her lips red and swollen from their kisses.

“Datura,” she whispered and Draco swallowed, slowly letting go of her.

Hermione stepped back, almost out of reach and he immediately wanted to touch her again. “We… We can’t get carried away. I don’t… I don’t want you to lose control.”

The air around them was heavy with their pants and the tension between them. “I…” Draco heaved in a breath and ran his fingers through his hair to regain a semblance of sanity. “Fuck, Hermione. I need you. I don’t care about anything else right now.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, her chest rising and falling rapidly, giving him a tantalizing view of her bared tits, littered with marks of his ministrations. “But Draco—”

“I’ll be fine. I promise.” He tried to convey his earnestness with a long look and she positively shivered beneath it.

“I…” She licked her lips. “Draco, if we continue, I will lose it. Working up to it has been bloody fantastic, but I ache for you. This…building of tension is too much. I need to feel you inside of me so badly, but not if that means you will suffer. So we have to stop. Right now. I can’t…” She bit her lip. “I can’t take any more. I feel like I might expire if you don’t fuck me.”

Her words nearly had him on his knees. Draco walked up to her, not touching. “So let me fuck you, my darling wife.”

A strangled noise erupted from her and her lids fluttered. “Don’t even joke about that right now.”

“I’m not joking,” he said, pulling off his gloves and letting them drop, before he shrugged from his jacket and let it fall as well.

Hermione stared at him with hooded eyes, then shook her head. Not in a ‘no’, but rather as if she was trying to shake herself from some kind of haze. “How would that work? You—”

“Hush, darling,” Draco drawled. “Do you trust me?”

“With everything I am,” she said, her large eyes reflecting the truth of her words.

His heart stuttered at that, but he began to unbutton his shirt. “Then lose the bra and skirt, love. Now.”

There was something to be said for efficiency, as Hermione unzipped her skirt, then snapped the clasp of her bra while toeing off her shoes. The bra and the skirt hit the floor at the same time. Draco grunted when he saw that her stockings weren’t the normal pantyhose kind, but rather ended on her upper thighs in two lace bands. Whether it was magic or some muggle invention holding them in place didn’t matter in that moment.

“Fuck. You’re so bloody gorgeous, Hermione,” he rasped, his cock twitching at the sight. He pulled his shirt free and slid it off his shoulders. “You’re killing me.”

Her eyes roamed over his bare chest and she smirked as she hooked her thumbs into her knickers, drawing them over and past her stockings, before kicking them off. Draco nearly choked on his own breath at that.

Hermione flicked back her hair and sauntered to the bed. “Are you sure, Draco?” she asked, her hands skimming over the blankets. “I need you to be sure.”

He sank into a crouch, unlaced his shoes, kicked them off and peeled off his socks. Uncaring on where any of it landed, he rose again. His hands went to his belt, drawing her hungry gaze. “Bend over the bed, love.”

Chapter Text

Real

Hermione

Draco’s words curled around her like sin, the meaning they held sending tingles across her entire body. Hermione stood rooted in place, unable to look away from where long fingers nestled with a belt-buckle.

“Bend over the bed, love.”

She swallowed and let her gaze travel up. Up the twin-lines of muscle leading into his trousers, up along his abs, the scars littering his torso, up to coast along his sharp jaw and over his beautiful lips, until she met the dark storm of his eyes. Her knees almost knocked together at the look he was giving her. Hermione felt bare, in more ways than being naked. His hungry stare buried into her, finding and claiming the needy parts of her and tugging at them, coaxing them higher. It made her skin sing and her abdomen clench. He looked like a fallen angel, made of darkness and beauty. Ready to devour all of her.

Draco raised one brow and motioned to the bed with his chin, silently reiterating his command from before. His fingers found his zip and the sound itself sent a jolt through her system.

Hermione turned sideways so she faced the bed. Blood rushed to her neck and cheeks and her throat tightened when she heard the rustle and clink of his trousers falling to the ground.

Was this it? Finally? The thought had her clenching around emptiness.

Had she been I any clear frame of mind, Hermione might have delighted at the timing. She’d get what she’d been obsessing about for weeks—Draco—on the day she had gotten what she’d been working for—living for—the last five years. As it was, the joy and relief at having her mother back was still a bouncy feeling in her belly, but there was no conscious thought attached to it. Instead, it served to increase the devasting need clawing at the fabric of who she was. Maybe that was all she was at the moment; a puddle of need, of want, of desperation. Being so close to Draco over the last few weeks, edging along the cliffs of control, without being able to jump, to fully dive into him… It had mounted to something exquisitely agonizing.

She had meant what she’d said before. If he didn’t fuck her, she might just expire.

Her breath hitched when she heard him walk closer, until she could feel his warmth radiate along her spine, his breath streaming across the slope of her left shoulder. Goosebumps covered her instantly, as if her very skin was trying to expand and reach for him. Her curls shifted when they were gently gathered and placed over her right shoulder.

Hermione’s fists clenched and she jerked when his palm slid up the nape of her neck, his direct touch sparking sensations down her nerves until a distinct tingle pulsed between her legs. Draco slowly guided her to bend over and it was all Hermione needed to snap out of the haze she’d been drowning in.

Her hands shook as she folded in half, letting her palms glide over the duvet until her body followed. Her aching nipples skimmed the fabric and she felt the cold linen intensely. Finally, her hips pressed into the bed, her thighs hanging off the mattress.

“There you go, darling,” Draco rumbled, his hand still firmly curled around her nape, his long fingers brushing her pulse on either side. The feeling of his skin on hers was like a brand and languorous shivers raced cross her back and along her shoulders until she felt them in the tips of her fingers and toes.

A purr danced from her lips and she arched her back as Draco’s hand traveled down her spine in a torturous sweep. Every part of skin he met sparked with sensation, as if she’d never been touched before. For all the contact they built between them—casual and not so casual—there had always been some sort of barrier between them. His gloves, clothes, a blanket. And when they kissed, it was measured and timed, designed to not overwhelm. This… This was something else. It was the fire of passion built past the point of return, coupled with the ache-inducing relief of finally being touched by him. With intention.

Hermione’s back met his stroke and when his palm glided over the curve of her arse, she almost trembled from her skin. He grabbed her flesh, before a small swat had her jerking, then he kneaded the tiny sting away, leaving her breathless.

“You have a phenomenal arse, love,” Draco said, sliding his other hand to her second cheek, squeezing. “Could get fucking lost in your softness.”

His hands left her and she gasped in protest, wriggling and arching for more, unconcerned with how desperate she must be looking. A chuckle fanned across the small of her back, then a whispered spell made the bed rise. Her knees left the ground as the legs of the bed grew. He was positioning her.

The though tore a moan from her throat and Hermione burrowed her face into the bed to stifle the sound. His fingers reached for her wrists to pin them together; another spell fastened her hands and stuck them to the covers.

“This alright?”

She swallowed and nodded, unable to use words, her brain scrambled by the way she was completely at his mercy now. Bared, face-down, and fastened to the bed. Hermione was aware that she could tear herself free at any moment, but the feeling was the same.

“Good.” His fingers skimmed along her thighs and down her legs on both sides, playing with the edges of her stockings. “Look at you, darling. All offered up for me to take. Shaking and trembling for my touch.” He hissed when she raised her hips as his hands slid back up. She spread her legs as much as possible, then keened when his right hand brushed over her lower lips. “Fuck, Hermione.” Draco parted her folds with two fingers and ran them along her opening, then let them travel to her clit while his thumb teased and entered her. “I love how wet you always get for me.”

A mewl colored her throat as she ground on his fingers, needing more friction, needing… “Draco. Please. I… More.”

His fingers gently circled her clit three times, then his hand was gone and she growled, wriggling and grinding against nothing. “No. Draco. Please, stop teasing. I can’t… I’m…”

A warm hand landed on the small of her back. “Relax, my needy little wife, let me just…” Something slender and cold grazed her spine and a second later Hermione felt the warmth of magic in her lower belly, telling her she was feeling his wand. The contraceptive charm warmed her abdomen for a beat and the meaning behind it had her gasping for air. It wasn’t like they needed it, her having the implant, but it was a distinct confirmation of what was about to happen.

“Lift your hips a bit, darling,” Draco instructed and she did, then jolted when he slid his wand underneath her. The cold wood pushed into her belly, the tip touching her clit. Draco bent over her and kissed her shoulder. “I won’t be able to reach around when I’m fucking you, love. So my wand will have to do this time.” He kissed her shoulder blade again, then nipped it, before pulling back and uttering a charm.

Hermione almost tore off the spell around her wrists as the wand began to vibrate. The pulse was low and absolutely delicious and still sent tremors through her as it caressed her swollen clit. She was unable to help how her legs trembled in answer.

“Oh gods. Draco, you… Holyfuckingshit!” A whimper escaped her and she was unsure whether she wanted to wriggle away from the sensation, or press into it. It was… too much and not enough at the same time.

“I fastened the wand to you,” Draco said and she stilled completely when the blunt head of his cock brushed up and down her slit to coat himself in her. “It—fuck you feel so good, darling—it means you can’t escape.”

He brushed along her slickness again and again, until his head was positioned where she needed it and Hermione balled her fists to keep from rolling her hips backward. Her need was on the point of exploding and she was close to sobbing with it. She knew she didn’t need much more to blow apart.

“Please, Draco. I need you. Please, please fuck me.” Her voice betrayed the desperation she felt and if she had been a tad more lucid, she might have cringed at the sound, but all the sensations her body and mind were experiencing had pushed any sort of reason so far away it may as well not even have existed. Her hands were fastened, Draco’s cock was right there, nudging her, and she felt the low and rhythmic thrum of his wand vibrate through her clit. She was offered up and exposed, about to be taken by the man she loved. Finally. It was enough to drive anyone mad.

“You always beg so prettily, my love.” Another stroke along her folds and she bit into the blanket to keep from moving. His hands grabbed hold of her waist, so big his thumbs overlapped at her spine. He tugged her back a bit, his cock still notched and slowly—aggravatingly gentle—his head spread her to slip inside. "Fuck you look so good taking my cock."

Hermione whimpered.

Draco

Her heat greeting him was everything and a deep groan left him as the head of his cock slipped into her tightness. His fingers gripped her waist firmly and he gave a shallow thrust, slipping out and then deeper.

“Fuck.”

Draco had known this first ‘real’ try would come with complications. He’d have to make sure Hermione couldn’t surprise him with a touch; he’d had to keep the direct touching to a minimum and still build up the tension for her. All in all, her quivering around him and the noises floating from her told him he had done well and there was no warning brimming his consciousness.

All thoughts and all his meticulous planning left his mind when he felt her reflexively squeezing around him on another thrust. He had to still and close his eyes for a moment, not having anticipated how much the feeling would send him scrambling for control. And not in a bad way, but he’d be damned if he came now, not even half-way inside his gorgeous wife.

His fingers flexed and he blew out a breath, pulling back to surge in deeper, his brain addled by the vision in front of him. The delicate arch of her back, how her gorgeous cunt gripped his cock, the curve of her arse, the way her hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white from the strain, her curls tumbling past her neck and shoulders, the way she shivered under each thrust, it had him close to feral. This was his wife, his Hermione and he was inside of her. Without the help of a joint or mad with anger. Granted, there were limitations, but still… Had anyone told him this would be possible and he would feel nothing but the scalding need, coupled with radiant pleasure currently scampering up and down his spine, he would have not believed it.

“Gods, you take me so well,” he rasped, watching his cock glide into her halfway. “Just a bit more, love.”

Hermione moaned, throwing her head back and making her chocolate locks bounce down her shoulders. Draco slid his hand up to between her shoulder blades, pressing down to keep her steady. “That’s it,” he said, rocking deeper. “You’re doing so good for me.”

A sharp yell pierced the space and waves of hot, slick clenches grabbed his cock as Hermione came with a series of shudders and small undulations. Draco bit his lip until he tasted blood, keeping as still as possible, while holding her steady. If she moved any more, he’d be gone. He watched her arse jiggle, her hands open and close, and bathed in her moans and throaty keens as she rode along peaks of pleasure.

“So receptive. So fucking beautiful.” Draco stroked her spine as her shudders slowly subsided and her hands relaxed. Little quivers still echoed through her cunt but he was able to pick his careful thrusts back up. She groaned, a husky sound that drove him insane and he worked himself deeper steadily. Finally, he slid all the way in and when he pushed his hips to the flesh of her thighs he growled, tingles rushing through his cock and spreading out along his skin.

Hermione sighed, it was heavy with both relief and bliss. Draco stilled completely, feeling his cock twitch at the silken feel of her scorching, gripping heat. Every-fucking-where. He breathed, sweat beading between his shoulders and on his temples from the effort to stay still. But he needed to, or he would come the second he moved.

A grunt left him when Hermione wriggled and then ground back, taking advantage of his grip slackening. “Careful, darling,” he bit out. “I’m almost—Fuck! You feel fantastic.”

Draco placed both hands on her hips and slid out all the way. The action had her thrashing in protest but before the jumbled mess of sounds she emitted turned into actual words, he thrust back into her. Hard.

A stricken moan echoed through the room and she arched, her toes curling. “Oh gods, yes. Yes, yes, yes! More!”

He repeated the slow withdrawal and punishing thrust and she screamed. Her cunt began to flutter again after only a few times and Draco’s control completely vanished. Setting a pace to his movements, he held her in place as he fucked into her repeatedly.

Hermione’s hands opened and closed, her curls bounced from his thrusts and she yelped with each one. “Draco! Oh, my…fuck. Yes. You… so deep… so good. So fucking good. I’m so close. Don’t stop… Please….”

Her words lit him up and when she asked him to fuck her faster, he did. Her yells turned to broken moans and he bent forward a bit, keeping his insane rhythm. “Let go, love. Come for me. I need to feel you again. Plea—ahh! Fucking hell! Yes, darling. There you go.”

He growled, feeling her clench and pull at him randomly as she groaned and thrashed, coming apart just as he’d asked. Draco didn’t relent, he fucked her through her orgasm, feeling as if he’d left reality. There was no possible way anything could feel so good and when he felt her shudders lessen, he let go. Heat overtook him, ravishing him from head to toe as he sank into her twice more, then his vision went white as his own release nailed him solidly in the back of his spine. Buried deeply in his wife, he came with her name on his lips, shattering to pieces against her. His body trembled from the onslaught as his mind was catapulted into infinity, the only thing tethering him was her.

Hermione’s skin under his fingers. Hermione’s cunt still slightly clenching and releasing around him. Hermione’s scent drowning him when he slumped forward, spent and exhausted. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. His wife. His love. His everything.

Hermione

Her entire body was tingling and she was comfortably drowsy as she lay sprawled next to her husband, still halfway on her stomach. Sweat slowly cooled her skin as it dried and she felt the delicious echoes of Draco fucking her in the soft pulses of her cunt. Godric, that had been… She’d never been fucked like that.

She watched Draco’s chest rise and fall rapidly, the lines of his scars and the dips and rises of his muscles a mesmerizing display. He was so utterly beautiful and she wanted to crawl closer and wrap herself around him like a barnacle, and never let go. But they had both decided against any more skin contact after Draco had freed her and charmed the bed back to its normal height, before slumping down next to her.

“That was…” She had no words really. It had been beyond anything and Hermione was pretty sure she would have blacked out if it had continued even a moment longer. Simply lost in pleasure. She was sure she’d die if they actually got to look at one another while he was inside of her.

“Yeah,” Draco said, throwing one arm over his head and tilting his face toward her.

“I needed that. Badly.”

He smiled, warm and lazy. “Me too, love.”

“Are you alright?” She fiddled with a curl. “Was it too much?” Now that her rational mind was back, so was her worry from before.

Draco sighed and there was a slight twitch in the hand laying on his chest, but his smile didn’t waver. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I wouldn’t change a second. Not for anything.” His silver eyes flashed along her face, then raced to her shoulder and down her body, before finding her gaze once more. “Gods, you are stunning.”

Hermione felt herself blush a little under his praise and the way he looked at her. She pulled up an arm to hide her face in the crook of her elbow, peeking over at him with one eye.

A small huff slid from Draco and he clicked his tongue. “No hiding, remember?”

She shrugged the shoulder facing him, but lifted her head to rest her chin on her arm instead, blush and all. For a few seconds, she basked under his gaze, all warmth, wonder and affection. It made her heartrate pick back up and lulled her into a heretofore unknown sense of security at the same time. As if he could see into her, understand all of her, even the parts that weren’t pretty, and still didn’t want to look away. It was a strange feeling, one that was echoed in her own chest when it came to him.

Hermione saw him. All of him. And she loved every part. The beautifully broken pieces he was working so hard at to meld back together, his past that had stood between them and which he owned up to without deflection. The painstaking care he took of her, with thoughtfulness and something tender beyond words. How he had been so very serious about their marriage from the beginning. His intellect and the way he challenged her. His humor and the small glimpses of cheek shining through now and then. His touch and how it made her feel more alive than ever before. His voice, curling around her like gravelly silk and his scent that she would happily drown in.

She loved him. So much that her chest panged with it and her lips buzzed with the need to carve the words into the space between them.

And she did. She whispered it when his lids drooped and his breathing deepened as he drifted off into sleep.

Hermione lay awake for a while, enjoying the way her body still hummed and watched Draco sleep. She caressed the lines of his body and face with her gaze, wishing to be able to reach out and run her hands along the same paths. She wanted to coast her fingers over the sinful curve of his soft lips, graze his cheekbones and swipe back the loose strands of his hair. She wanted to run her thumbs along his brows and over his lids, follow the sweep of his flawlessly straight nose and press kisses to his throat. The longing to learn his body, his scars, every part of him with her hands and mouth was nearly unbearable.

She wanted to keep him. Forever. Just the thought of separating, of letting someone else touch her—of knowing someone else got to touch him—had her belly twisting with bile. It was inconceivable. But because she loved him—achingly so—she needed to make sure it was what he truly wanted as well. Not what he thought would be best, or easiest.

Hermione fell asleep to the sight of him, gloriously naked and breathtakingly handsome and she felt her heart expand with the love it held. She stretched, delighting in the small aches Draco had given her. The slight sting on her hips, thighs and arse and the delicious ache inside of her. She felt relaxed, boneless and beautifully used.

A wide smile tugged at her lips, staying there in her sleep.

Hermione woke to movement and pained grunts. She reared up, her eyes wide and panicked, searching the unfamiliar room for what had roused her. Fabric rustled and she twisted, finding Draco groaning and thrashing at her side.

“Draco?” Hermione hissed, shuffling across the bed, careful not to touch him and instantly fully awake.

The slivers of light slicing into the room from the windows caught his sweat-slicked and terrified face. Lids firmly shut, his brows were drawn and his lips thin, creating a mask of horror. Strands of his fringe clung to his forehead and he grunted again, his limbs flopping around as if he was fighting off all the evils in the world.

“No, no, no! I don’t… They did nothing to me. I don’t want to. Please Aunt Bella. Don’t make me.”

“Draco!” Hermione tried again, panic gripping her voice as she drew even closer, evading his flying hands.

His face snapped toward her but another pained groan slipped from him and he didn’t wake.

“Draco, wake up,” she called. “You’re dreaming. Wake up!”

He stilled somewhat, his chest heaving and Hermione saw his pulse flutter like the wings of a bird. She looked at it, sure she could actually hear his heart race and pain at his turmoil laced through her, sharp and brutal.

“Draco! Wake up!”

His lids fluttered and his mouth opened and closed, then his grey eyes found her, hazy and blown.

“Hermione?” he rasped, voice broken and low.

She inched closer until she hovered over him, feeling safer now as he had stopped flailing. “I’m here, Draco. You had a bad dream.”

He closed his eyes and groaned. It was a pained sound, speaking of fear and sorrow and it cut into her like a blade. His hands flew to his eyes and he rubbed at them, then pulled them away with a hiss as he blinked up at her. “Hermione.”

She wanted to answer, but before she could even open her lips, he grabbed her. A squeak left her as she was pulled in and he wrapped his arms around her middle to nestle his face into her chest. “Hermione,” he whispered against her skin and after a second of being shocked stiff, Hermione laced her arms around him in return. One banded across his shoulders and the other around his head, cradling him to her. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe this was her elaborate subconscious playing a trick on her, bowing to her most ardent wish of having him this close.

“I have you, my love,” she crooned at him, the endearment slipping out without permission. She flinched, but was positive he hadn’t registered it as a sigh left him and he burrowed closer.

“Need you,” Draco said, his voice frail.

She tightened her hold on him, winding one leg over his hips and placing her second one between his, tangling them. Hermione rocked them both like this, her heart clambering up her throat at how he began to shiver and whimper.

“I have you. You’re safe now. You’re safe.” She kissed his sweaty temple and hushed him, talking nonsensical stuff in a low voice all while swaying from side to side.

Draco fingers tightened and sank into the skin under her ribs nearly painfully, but she only blinked away the tears coming on in face of his suffering, astounded and glad to give him any form of comfort she could.

He breathed in deeply, rubbing his nose along her sternum, mumbling soft words. She stopped talking and tilted her head closer in order to listen. Maybe he needed something.

“Safe,” he mumbled. “My Hermione.” Her breath hitched and he relaxed against her, his shudders subsiding. A long sigh left him. “Love you.” The words brushed along her skin, sinking through and finding her heart to nestle themselves in there in much the same way as he was nestled to her chest. They bloomed inside of her like roses opening toward the sun and Hermione bit back a sob of pure and unadulterated elation. If this was a dream, then it was safe and here she could hold him and tell him the truth.

“I love you too.”

The morning brought clarity as Hermione found herself very much still tangled in her husband’s arms. Apparently she had finally fallen asleep holding him to her and when she blinked her eyes open, his body warm and smooth against her, his arm heavy around her middle, she had to swallow. Every slice of skin he touched was abuzz with delighted sensation and the novelty was giving her pause. They had lived as a couple, near untouching yet wanting, for months now and here she was, curled around him like a vine.

It was unbelievable, waking like this. Having slept like this. The entire last night was pretty much unbelievable if she was being honest. They’d actually had sex (monumentally, mind-blowing sex) and then she’d held him in their sleep.

Hermione brushed her fingers through the silken strands of his nearly-white hair and stuck her nose into the softness. Like tendrils of softest velvet, her tenderness for him brushed through her, lacing around her heart to wrap it up and squeeze. It was a vast, painful, and joyous feeling. Something that made her want to laugh deliriously and cry at the same time.

She swallowed again and closed her lids for a moment to enjoy the present, then her eyes shot open and she stared at him. He’d told her he loved her. Hadn’t he? He had been half asleep and trembling from his nightmare, but he’d said it. Right after saying her name, so he knew it had been her he was clinging to.

Was it true? Now tears did make an appearance as she was hit with something so monumental, it stole her breath. If he loved her, he’d want to keep her. Surely. Wouldn’t he? Her velvet-squozen heart began bouncing and rattling in her chest. She knew she’d have to be very careful with asking about it, but they did need to talk. And the way her lips burned with the need to tell him how she felt was demanding it being sooner rather than later.

For now, she’d try and untangle herself so he wouldn’t have the shock of his life when he came to. But maybe she could delay it for a small while. Just to enjoy this bliss.

The way his breath fanned along the swell of her breasts and up her collarbone to tangle with a stray curl lying there. How his chest rose and fell, the movement beautifully even as she spread her fingers to graze his back. He had scars there and she learned them with her fingertips, avoiding the gruesome one on his shoulder. Gently curling her back, she felt his hands resting there more firmly and a wide smile grew on her face. Maybe they’d wake like this more often from now on. His body seemed to instinctively know her as safe, but would his mind be a hinderance?

Hermione sighed and began slowly and delicately unwinding herself from him. It took her a while and she hated how cold she felt without him. It was for the better though, Draco might not remember what had happened and she did not want to spur any kind of panic.

Once she was able to scoot across the bed, she rose and padded to the bathroom to take a shower and do her morning routine.

When she came back, he was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, hair gloriously disheveled, naked and with a lazy grin on his sinful lips.

“Morning, darling,” he said, his voice rumbly from sleep. Gods, that voice. It had her stomach flip and erupt with what felt like pixie-wings.

“Good morning. How do you feel?”

Draco drew a hand through his hair, looking her up and down with open appreciation. “Better than in a long time.”

Her skin grew heated under his eyes and she crossed the room to put on some clothes, feeling him stare. “Do you remember last night?” she asked lightly, trying to gauge what—if anything—he had retained from the nightmare and the ensuing…touching. Not to mention what he’d told her.

“If you mean do I remember that we had unbelievable sex, then yes. I remember.”

She threw him a coy smile and clasped her bra, then pulled up the straps. “If you forgot that, I’d leave you here to be observed in the clinic for brain damage. But no, I mean during the night.” She turned to face him, watching his features carefully as she fiddled with a blouse.

Draco frowned, his pale brows drawing together. “During the night? I don’t… I feel unusually rested, but that’s it. I don’t even recall any dreams. Why?”

Hermione’s heart sank just a smidge, but she reminded herself that even if he couldn’t remember, his words could still be true. For a second, she debated what exactly to tell him and then decided a direct confrontation could wait. “You had a nightmare, but I was able to wake you.”

“Huh,” he made. “Strange, normally I remember those.” He shrugged, then stretched, the muscles in his back moving enticingly and Hermione dropped her blouse when he stood, giving her a tantalizing view of his firm bum. Hastily, she gathered it back up and drew it on.

Draco grinned knowingly and walked his fantastic arse into the bathroom.

Hermione blew out a breath and noticed her hands were a tad shaky from the view he’d presented her with as she buttoned her blouse.

He was going to be even more insufferable with his teasing now; she just knew it. Hopefully that meant they’d get to have sex more regularly, or she would scale the walls of Douillet. Now that she knew—really knew—she’d go mad if she was unable to have him regularly.

They’d had a quick breakfast at the hotel after Draco’s shower and his smiles were easy, even as she grew more anxious by the second. Logically, she knew her mother was back, but her mind overanalyzed and started making up bullshite scenarios of things that could have gone wrong.

“You need to stop worrying so much,” Draco told her as they walked up the few steps to the clinic entrance. He was holding her hand in his gloved one and brought it up to brush his lips across her wrist. “She’s fine and in a minute, you’ll get to hug her again.”

The motion of kissing her hand casually was new and Hermione was momentarily distracted from her spiraling thoughts. It didn’t last long though and soon she was chewing her lip again and feeling her heart race.

Thankfully the trip to her mother’s room was short and they met Healer Nilsson on the way, who was heading in the same direction. “according to the nurses, she has been asking about your father, obviously. First thing she did,” the Healer said. “As we discussed, we kept her alone until we run a final checkup and she has regained all her memories.”

“Why not let her see him?” Draco asked.

Healer Nilsson righted her glasses as she glanced his way. “Because if Mrs. Granger’s mind hasn’t completely caught up with her situation and reality, seeing a loved one not remember, or in the state he is currently in can damage the healing process.”

He nodded in understanding and they turned a corner lined with doors. Healer Nilsson took the lead and opened one on the right and breezed through. “Good morning, Mrs. Granger. Do you remember me from yesterday?”

Hermione peeked inside the room to find her mother dressed and wide-awake as she sat on her bed, her feet dangling. “Of course I do. Healer Nils, was it?”

“Nilsson. And look who I found on my way here.” The Healer gestured to the door and Jean’s entire face lit up.

“Hermione! Hello, my bug!”

Hermione rushed inside, the knot that had taken hold of her organs unraveling with relief. She surged into the room and dropped Draco’s hand. Her mother rose and they hugged for a long time, swaying and warm.

“Hi mum, how did you sleep?” Hermione whispered into her mother’s hair.

“Like the dead,” Jean said and pulled back, with her arms still around her daughter.

Hermione smiled and then motioned Draco to come closer. He stepped up to her side, hovering slightly behind her. Jean looked up to meet his eyes, her smile bright, even as she blinked a few times.

“And who is this?”

Hermione’s mouth opened, then closed. She’d been so looking forward to introduce Draco to her mum, but the giddiness she felt came to a dizzying halt. Oh gods, how to explain she had gotten married in the meantime? Without them? How to explain it was Draco she’d married? What a colossal oversight to not have pondered. “This is…my Draco,” she said, finally.

He raised a brow at her wording and extended a hand. “Draco Malfoy, at your service. It is a pleasure to finally, truly meet you, Mrs. Granger.”

Jean took his hand and blinked again, then frowned. “Malfoy… I remember that name.” She glanced at Hermione, then back at Draco and her brows shot up. “Oh, yes. Wasn’t that awful man with the ponytail who fought Arthur in Flourish and Blots a Malfoy? He was the father of that vile boy who always teased you, wasn’t he?”

Draco’s face visibly shuttered. “Quite right. The awful ponytail is my father and I am the vile boy who teased your daughter. However, saying I teased her would be an understatement. She did break my nose for it that one time, though.”

Hermione gaped at Draco, not having expected that. Her mother did the same, then looked at her daughter. “I…What…” She glanced back at Draco then to Hermione once more. “But you said… Does this mean he is your boyfriend now?”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione laced her fingers with Draco’s. “Not exactly. Draco is my husband, mum.”

Jean’s eyes turned to saucers as she stared at the both of them. “Husband?”

Hermione nodded and felt a comforting squeeze to her palm from Draco.

“You married.” Her mother’s gaze sank and she looked far away for a moment, then she raised her head again. “Junebug, you married?” Her voice was a bit shaky and she pulled Hermione in for a hug, who felt relief flood her as she banded one arm around Jean and kept her other hand in Draco’s.

“I did. I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, I thought about you and dad a lot that day.”

Jean sniffed and when she pulled back her eyes were glossy with emotion. “Oh, you have to tell me everything,” she said, wiping at a few tears.

It turned into a strange day. While Jean was being scanned every now and again, Hermione took the time in between to tell her mother of the years they had missed. Jean was so proud of her job at the Ministry and when Draco excused himself for a few minutes, she leaned in.

“The way he looks at you, Junebug, it’s…intense. The both of you are eerily in synch. When you move, he moves in answer, when he does, so do you. Your bodies are very aware of one another. It is a rare thing to witness.” She took Hermione’s hands in hers. “You told us so much about him when you went to school, but I can’t really bring the two versions together. He must have changed a lot.”

“We all did, mum,” Hermione said with no small amount of sadness. “He went through terrible things during the war and so…” She sighed. “So did I.”

Her mother looked at her then, seemingly feeling the agony Hermione felt at her memories in the way only a mother could. “Maybe you’ll tell me about that one day. If you want to.”

“Maybe,” Hermione mused.

Jean brushed a hand over Hermione’s cheek. “I’m sorry we missed so much.”

“I’m sorry I had to make you miss it. But it was the right decision.”

With a sigh, Jean wriggled closer. “So tell me, does he make you happy?” She said it softly and then jerked her head in the direction of Draco, who was back, carrying three cups.

Hermione smiled. Real, wide and smitten. “Yes. More than anything.”

The day was over too soon and while through half of it, Jean was proclaimed to have regained all memories, they stayed in that room to talk. Strangely, Rasmus made no appearance whatsoever and seemed to be absent from work, if the hushed discussion between Healers Carlson and Nilsson was anything to go by. Hermione did not miss the way Draco smirked into his coffee at that and she was determined to find out why. Later.

It was decided that Jean would stay with her husband until he was healed and released from the clinic. She both wanted to see him eagerly and was scared to. It was understandable as he would be different from who she knew, but Hermione reminded her mother that he remembered her exactly the way she was. He was just a little…dotty, at the moment. It was so much more than that, but Hermione had the utmost trust in the Healers and she made Healer Carlson swear to floo-call her the moment any problems arose. She decided against seeing her father that day, as she didn’t want Jean to witness him not knowing his own daughter.

They said goodbye eventually and Hermione left the clinic in a much different state of mind than she had entered. Her mother would be fine and now all that was left was waiting until the Healers cleared her father for the reversal.

When they packed their suitcases back at the hotel, Draco threw her looks and Hermione felt the tension return. She had been distracted from him and ensuing thoughts during the day, mostly, at least. His presence had been calming, even if she was consumed by flashes of last night at the most random instances. When she had watched him talk to her mother when asked about his parents and family, he had indulged very superficially. But the small smile he wore when talking about his mother when he was a kid, sharing a story involving way too many acid pops and a tummy ache for the ages, made her heart flutter and expand.

My Hermione. Love you.

Those words had echoed in her mind steadily. And when he had asked her mother about why she was dubbed ‘Junebug’, the ensuing grin he’d sent her made her skin heat and pulled her back to the way he had touched her. The way he had made her feel, made her come, while railing her on the edge of the bed.

Now the entire night was as close as could be. They had fucked in this very bed and she’d held him in it after his nightmare. He’d told her he loved her and she’d said the same. And he couldn’t remember.

“I can’t believe you called everything and everyone ‘bug’ for almost a month,” he finally said into the silence, his voice teasing.

Hermione snorted and walked to the bathroom to gather their things. “Hey, I was eight months old. You probably said things like; ‘more’ and ‘mine’ at that age.” She zipped up their toiletries and turned, coming nose to chest with her husband, who was leaning against the doorframe.

“I don’t see the trouble with either of those words,” he rumbled, sending a shiver along her back. His irises darkened to storm clouds as his hungry gaze roamed over her.

Hermione swallowed at the sudden urge to have him push her against the nearest wall. She cleared her throat. “We have to check out in five minutes,” she said weakly.

Draco’s lips twitched at one corner and he pushed off from the doorframe. “How forward of you, darling wife.” He cocked his head to the side. “Did those words inspire ideas?”

Biting her lip, she blushed and shook her head.

He leaned in, brushing his lips along the slope of her neck in a barely-there touch. “Liar,” he whispered, then straightened. “Good thing we’re going straight home, then.” He tugged the toiletry bag from her fingers and turned to stow it away in his suitcase. The way he moved, an almost lazy prowl, the way his trousers hugged the tight little curves of his arse, and the way his shoulders filled out his crisp, black shirt… It made her want to lick him.

Hermione’s breath left her in a rush. Gods, he was going to be the death of her.

When they stood at the counter, waiting for the concierge, Draco’s hand gently pressed to the small of her back and Hermione positively melted. The touch felt…proprietary. Claiming. Electrifying.

He looked down at her, seeming a bit concerned. “We’ll be back before you know it, darling. And then you can bring them both home.”

The unmasked earnestness of his voice and expression made a lump rise in her throat and while she still very much tingled where he touched her, something more pressing grew inside her. She clenched her teeth to not yell it at him as those words stumbled to her tongue, demanding to be let out.

She would explode if she didn’t tell him, if they didn’t have a talk and she could rest assured that he wanted to keep her as much as she wanted to stay. If that was what he wanted. She cursed her own silliness, then second-guessed herself again. It was a vicious cycle and it needed to end.

As Draco signed them out and paid, Hermione decided she would sit her husband down for a long talk the moment they got home. And maybe, just maybe, she’d get to devour him after, if things went well. Or let him devour her. Both would work. Whatever he felt most comfortable with. But devouring was hopefully on the menu.

When the portkey deposited them in their sitting room back home, Hermione squeaked when she was immediately pulled in for a searing kiss. Their suitcases hovered beside him and then plopped from view, a welcoming warmth shooting through the room.

She got lost in his lips for a beat, almost succumbing to the need spreading in her abdomen, then she remembered she had a mission and she placed both hands to his chest and pushed slightly.

Draco backed away, his breath harsh against her chin. “What is it, love?”

“We—” She licked her lips, catching his taste and groaning, cursing her own insistence. “We need to talk.”

He stepped back, his features turning to something unsure and worried as he searched her face. “That sounds ominous. Is everything…alright? Did I do something wrong?”

Hermione clasped at the lapels of his shirt. “No. Absolutely not, but we need to—”

A loud ‘woosh’ cut her off as the hearth exploded into green fire. “’Mione?! Are you there?” Harry’s voice shouted, his face hovering in the flames.

Draco hissed out a curse and Hermione closed her eyes for a second. She loved Harry, but his timing was rubbish.

“I’m here, Harry,” she called.

A second later—uninvited—Harry folded from the hearth, looking completely out of it. His hair stuck up at especially odd angles, his glasses sat crooked and his shirt was buttoned up wrong. He didn’t bother with Scourgifying himself and dragged soot and ash with him as he walked into the room. Douillet vanished the mess with each step he took and the chandelier vibrated with something that felt like annoyance.

“Thank Merlin,” Harry said, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet. “I have been calling every ten minutes for three hours.” He poured himself a whisky and Draco sneered at him.

“Yes, please do come in, Potter and feel free to help yourself to my whisky, why don’t you?”

Harry grimaced. “Much obliged, Malfoy.” He downed his drink and poured his tumbler obnoxiously full again. He took a huge gulp and leaned his hips against the cabinet, making the glasses and bottles clink. “How was your trip? Did it work?” he asked.

“Yes, better than expected,” Hermione said, still on edge at her friend’s behavior and looks.

“That is fantastic news, ‘Mione. Really. I’m so glad you—”

She waved him off; there was time for that later. “Harry, what is going on?” Hermione asked, walking a few steps his way. “You look dreadful. Are you alright?”

Harry clicked his tongue while looking at her. He seemed tired, out of it and there was a glint of madness to his eyes that made her think back to the time when they had gone Horcrux hunting. The sight made anxiety burst to life in her stomach, the kind that was so close to fear it coasted the very edges of it. She hated it.

“No, Hermione. I’m not alright.” He took another sip, then placed the glass down on its tray with care, before he turned to Draco. “I need you to be straight with me on this, Malfoy; have you hurt Hermione since you married?”

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione gasped, her anxiety being booted to the side by fury. “How dare you ask something like that? You know exactly what—”

Harry held up his hand, still glowering at Draco. “Answer the question, Malfoy.” The way he said it, low and dangerous, was weighty. Harry was usually affable and laid-back, but he knew how to command a space, he knew how to get people to stop and listen. He had done it to Voldemort, then he’d killed him.

Draco stepped to Hermione’s side and a bit inward, effectively shielding her from her best friend. Hermione wanted to sputter and demand answers, then yank on Harry’s ear until he behaved, but Draco squared his shoulder, his expression livid.

“No. I have not hurt her. And I never will.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, before he looked at Hermione, one brow rising.

“Of course he hasn’t!” Hermione yelled, done with whatever this was. “Why the fuck would you even ask that? Were you hit by a sodding bludger?” She felt her hair rise with anger and Harry breathed out, his shoulders sinking.

“I needed to know the truth,” he said. “Have been sifting through lies, bullshite and half-truths in the last few hours.” He picked the tumbler back up and downed its contents, then pushed his glasses back so they sat straight. “Ron is at St. Mungo’s.”

Hermione gasped.

“I found him in his flat, nearly dead. I have no idea what kinds of Potions he took, but there… Hermione, there were empty bottles and flasks everywhere.”

“I-is he okay?” she asked, a tumultuous mix of guilt, fear and anger swarming through her.

“He will be. His family is with him and they’ll see to it that he gets help,” Harry said.

Hermione nodded, relieved.

“As sad and unfortunate as Weasley’s situation is, Potter,” Draco said and took Hermione’s hand in his, grounding her instantly. “My wife has made very clear; she will not be guilted back into his life. No matter the circumstances.”

It was tragic how grateful she was for his words; Hermione had no idea whether she’d have been able to say them.

Harry scowled at him. “And I would never ask that of her. Not after what he told me.”

It all clicked into place then. “He told you,” Hermione whispered. “What he did at our wedding. That’s why you asked about Draco hurting me.”

“The way your new husband hauled you off and the way he looked at you suddenly made a very different kind of sense,” Harry said. “Besides, Ron alluded to something happening. But since most of what he told me made no sense, or was contradictory, I had to come to my own conclusions.”

“And you honestly believe I wouldn’t have told you if Draco had…” She shook her head. “I can’t even say it.”

“You also didn’t tell me what Ron did and said, ‘Mione.” Harry shifted uncomfortably.

She rounded Draco, dropping his hand to ball her fists. “That was different and you bloody-well know it.”

“How was it different?”

“Draco isn’t you best friend, you absolute dingus!”

Harry’s lips tightened into a line. He turned and poured himself another drink. “Neither is Ron. Not anymore.”

Chapter Text

Talk the Talk

Draco

Draco was torn about what to do. He wanted to stay by Hermione’s side as moral support, he also wanted to hear what exactly she’d tell Potter and whether there were things he didn’t know. On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t know certain things. Strangling someone in a hospital bed would not be a good look for him and Draco was on thin ice where his rage concerned Weasley as it was. Furthermore, he had no idea if Hermione wanted to speak to her best friend in private or not.

He gently placed a hand on her shoulder and asked.

Hermione folded her lower lip into her mouth, her eyes big and uncertain as if she was wrestling with the answer. “I… If you don’t mind. I think this is long overdue and…”

Draco rested his wrist on her shoulder to tuck back a few wayward curls before brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. “It’s fine, darling. I’ll go and make some tea and maybe a few sandwiches?”

Her fingers curled around his hand and she smiled. “Thank you, Draco. That would be lovely.”

He bent forward and pecked her temple. “Call if you need me.” With that he stood and walked toward the arch leading to the dining hall.

When he passed Potter, the git blinked up at him with a strange expression. “I like ham and cheese on my sandwiches.”

Draco scowled down at the nearsighted wonder, who was busy nursing his third glass of whisky. “Riveting stuff. I’ll pretend to care.”

Hermione snorted. “Draco, be nice.” Her tone wavered with a sense of mirth she tried to hide.

He smirked at her and continued on his way. “Maybe later, love,” he threw over his shoulder and exited the room.

The hissed ‘Draco!’ from Hermione and the chuckle from Potter made his grin widen. He rounded the table and was just able to catch Potter mumbling something that sounded like: “You’re right, he has changed. At least when it comes to you.”

After he’d busied himself with making some sandwiches—ignoring the ham and cheese in their containers entirely—Crookshanks hopped onto the counter and stared at him.

“Did you miss us, buddy?” Draco asked, reaching out to pet the cat. Crooks leaned into his palm and then slunk closer, bumping his squished face to Draco’s chest with a purr. “Yeah, I know. Hungry?”

The cat meowed once, a clear demand, and hopped from the counter to traipse to his bowls. Draco grinned and Accioed a can of tuna from one of the cupboards. His wand made quick work with opening it and he went over to plop the fish into the cat’s bowl.

Then he boiled some water and began to steep tea while his mind raced back into the living room where his wife was busy chatting with Potter.

Despite the news of Weasley being at St. Mungo’s and his curiosity about the ‘long overdue talk’, Draco carried a twisting weight in his gut. Hermione had been about to tell him something when they’d come back. This entire ordeal of Potter getting drunk on his sofa and looking like he’d crawled through a nest of freshly hatched Ashwinders was bad timing. Especially since Draco had been in rather good spirits.

Hermione had gotten her mother back and seeing her so happy was doing something light and agreeable to his chest. Plus, they had actually shagged. The memory of which was still sharp and vivid in his brain. Gods, he wanted to do it again. He wanted to work on touching her more, on being able to hold her to… Well, it all depended on what she’d wanted to tell him, didn’t it?

‘We need to talk,’ seldomly led to agreeable conversations in his experience. He cursed lowly, rubbing a hand along his chin. He should stop overthinking. His wife was busy grappling with the knowledge of Weasley nearly dying and probably had a very hard conversation with Potter, she had other things to worry about now.

Draco lingered for a few more minutes and then gathered the mugs of tea. Douillet helpfully floated along three plates, napkins, and the tray of sandwiches.

When he walked back into the sitting room, Hermione was still talking. Her voice sounded broken and close to tears. Draco glared at Potter, who was slumped in his seat, eyes glassy and staring at nothing. He was pale and his lips a thin line. Draco reminded himself that Potter had not made Hermione cry, but rather, the conversation itself had to be arduous.

Douillet settled the tray etc. on the coffee-table and Draco handed Hermione her cup of tea. She sniffed and took it with a soft smile and an even softer “thank you.”

Before Draco could ask whether they needed more time, Hermione continued on with her story so he settled in next to her. Close enough to feel the warmth of her along his side but not touching.

“I ended up telling him he couldn’t come to our wedding if he didn’t behave. He promised he would and…” She cleared her throat. “Well, he found me on the wedding day, apologizing profusely and saying he didn’t remember the night before. But I think he lied.”

Draco held in a scoff, hiding his anger and disdain in a sip of his tea.

“Later, Ron told Draco some hogwash about us being in love and still together. He said we… Ron told Draco we shagged the night before and that we would continue doing so even while I was married. He told him we were in love.” Hermione’s eyes flew to him and Draco hoped his expression conveyed how sorry he was with how that night had turned out as a result.

“Draco didn’t take it well, but we figured it out in the end.”

Potter looked from Hermione to Draco, his eyes narrow. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said. “We had a row but it was short. It could have been much worse. Draco could have annulled the marriage, taking away any chance of my parents getting the help they needed.” The implication that the Weasel had taken this into account and had been fine with it, didn’t need to be said. She also said nothing about how that absolute twat had obviously expected Draco to react violently toward her.

Draco held out his palm to his wife and she took it. He squeezed her fingers and let his thumb run smooth circles along her wrist, hoping to calm her.

Potter cursed lowly and rubbed over his nose. He sighed, leaned forward and plucked up a sandwich and a plate. After taking a bite, he chewed and eyed Draco. “This is not cheese and ham.”

Draco shrugged. “Told you I didn’t care.”

The Boy Wonder huffed out a strained laugh and took another bite. “What happened next?”

Hermione launched into what had happened on her first trip to Sweden and the consequent disaster. She explained how they had formed a plan and Draco had talked to Weasley, telling him exactly what would happen if he ever came near her again. The way she told it, with little grateful smiles and small squeezes to his hand had Draco shifting uncomfortably. She made it sound like he’d been the hero in all of it. While she didn’t embellish anything he’d done, it was still strange to hear it from her perspective. He had only done what was right. Protected his wife.

Potter, for his part, looked a bit shocked and his eyes flitted to their joined hands once or twice between bites. When Hermione was done, he had polished off most of the sandwiches.

“I… I’m sorry, ‘Mione,” he finally said. “I knew Ron wasn’t in his right mind but I had no idea he went so far. Blimey, to think he wittingly endangered you on your wedding night…” He shook his head.

“You couldn’t have known,” she said, sipping the rest of her tea. “I didn’t tell you.”

He nodded. “I understand why you didn’t, but I still wish you had. I would have been there for you.” He grimaced. “And I wouldn’t have had to listen to Ron go on about how he was sure Malfoy did something to you and how he belonged behind bars and all that rot.”

“I know, Harry. I know. But now you understand why I can’t… Why I refused to ‘be the bigger person’.”

“Yeah,” Potter said and fell back in his seat. “What a bloody mess.” He rubbed his lids under his glasses and huffed. “I’m gonna have to tell Gin a bit of this, as well as his family. Not all of it, just so they understand why neither you nor I will be there for him in the future.”

Hermione gave him a nod.

“Be discreet about it if you can, Potter,” Draco said.

The Chosen Git lifted one bushy brow. “I can be discreet.”

Hermione’s laugh was immediate and breathless. “No offence, Harry, but discretion has never been your strength. It’s fine, though. Tell them what you think they need to know, just make it clear I won’t be part of any interventions or anything. I’m done.”

“Of course.”

“He drank half the bloody bottle,” Draco griped, assessing the damage to his liquor shelf once Potter had finally left.

Hermione chuckled from where she was busy gathering the plates, mugs and tray. “Oh, get over it. Theo consequently empties bottles.”

“Yes, but I’m used to Theo and his lack of restraint.”

“You’ll get used to Harry as well.”

Draco grimaced and turned to face her. “Do I have to?”

She sighed and her smile wavered a bit. “It would make things easier for me if you did.”

“Fine. I’ll do my best.” He walked toward her and took the mugs from her.

“That’s all I ask,” she said, looking up at him.

Draco hated the way her fiery eyes had dimmed, or how strained her shoulders looked and he wanted to curse the Weasel for bringing her so much heartache and trouble. In the form of Potter, no less.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I will be. It’s just…” She bit her lower lip. “I wish I didn’t care, but I do. I have this urge to go and help, to be there, to do something. But I’m also so angry at him. We spent so long to get him off the stuff, he was doing good and I feel… I know it’s because of me that he slid back and I—”

“No. You’re not doing that, Granger.” Draco silently lauded Douillet as the dishes simply vanished in their hands so he was free to pull her into him. “You are not responsible for his actions. For none of them.”

Her body molded to his as if she belonged there. “Why does it feel like I am?”

“Because it has been you pulling him from the messes he’s created, ever since you were children. Something like that doesn’t go away over night.” He pecked the top of her head. “But you are allowed to say no. I’ll do it for you if you can’t. I don’t mind coming off as an arsehole.”

She chuckled and then sniffled as she burrowed closer into his chest. “You’re not an arsehole, but thank you. And thank you for making it so clear when Harry first came by to tell me. I’m not sure I could have said what needed to be said.”

Draco looked down and tilted her face up by hitching his knuckles under her chin. “Anytime, my heart, anywhere. I mean that.”

Her teary eyes flicked between his. “I know you do.”

The moment elongated as if stuck in honey. It was warm and golden as it spread between them, their eyes holding on and their breaths synching. Draco eventually broke it. “What do you need, love?”

“This is good,” she said, letting her hands skate over his back. “Perfect even. But I’m tired.”

He bent down to kiss her temple. “I’ll run you a bath and then you can sleep. Sound good?”

“Yes. That sounds like heaven, but Draco, I… I wanted to talk to you about…” She hesitated and an unsure expression flashed across her features.

“Is it urgent?” he asked, hoping to gauge what she was hinting at even if he didn’t want to press her.

“Kind of.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“It will have to.” Hermione frowned. “I don’t want to have this talk while I feel like this. Heavy and empty at the same time.”

“Then it’s decided.”

Draco wrapped an arm around her shoulder and they went upstairs. He ran her a bath, added foam and salts, before calling out for her. Hermione was in a thick bathrobe when she entered the ensuite.

“Thank you,” she said, rose to her toes and kissed him gently, before shrugging off the robe.

He watched her, his eyes unable to not take her in. All soft curves and silky skin. His hands clenched as he kept from reaching for her. Making a quick exit, Draco grabbed pajama bottoms and found one of the bathrooms on the ground floor to take a shower and ready himself for bed.

He was still awake when Hermione slipped under the covers on her side, but he closed his eyes, wanting her to get some rest. Her soft breathing was calming, the scent wafting from her familiar and grounding. Gods, he hoped whatever she wanted to talk about wouldn’t end him. His heartrate picked up as his mind went wild with theories he tried hard to dismiss.

As he lay awake, pondering and scowling into the darkness, Draco didn’t even realize he had touched her casually throughout the night, without reacting negatively. Neither his mind nor his body had trembled or shied away from her.

Draco was awake early in the morning. He found Hermione sprawled across her side of the bed, hair tumbling everywhere and breathing deeply. He felt something tight and uncomfortable in his throat watching her sleep, even as his heart bounced.

Maybe it was cowardly, but Draco didn’t wake her, wanting to put off whatever she needed to talk about for as long as he could. After a run and some exercising, he showered, prepared breakfast, placed it under a stasis charm, and ventured to his shed, where he wrote two letters before apparating to the manor aviary and sending them on their way. One was for his solicitor, regarding Healer Dingus and the other to a real estate agent specializing in both muggle and wizarding houses.

When he got home, Crooks was waiting in the kitchen, staring at him and then his bowl. Draco made quick work and fed him, only to be rewarded by some purrs and snuggles. With the half-Kneazle on his lap, he was busy drinking coffee and leafing through the Prophet, when Hermione came padding into the room. Contrary to most days, she did not look disheveled or grumpy, but had her hair up and was wearing comfortable joggers and a sweatshirt.

Her eyes found him immediately, wide-awake and bright. “Morning,” she said and began floating the prepared breakfast his way and onto the dining table.

“Morning, did you sleep alright?” On any other day he would have greeted her with a kiss, but he had no idea whether she’d want that this particular morning, so he stayed where he was.

She dropped into the seat opposite of him. “I did. Had a few strange dreams, but I guess that tracks.” After buttering a piece of toast, she bit into it. “Yesterday was a strange day.”

Draco only nodded in agreement, waiting in case she wanted to elaborate on either her dreams or the day. She did not and they ate in relative silence. For the first time since the very beginning of their marriage, their shared silence was uncomfortable. Normally, Draco enjoyed just being in her company and neither felt the need to fill it with words if there was nothing to say. Today was different.

Her gaze would linger on him in thought as she ate, then flee the moment he looked her way. There was no way to make sense of her expression, but it was drawn, even if she blushed every now and again. She fiddled with her napkin absently, pushed around her spoon and stirred her coffee for an absurdly long time.

As for himself, Draco’s mind was a mess of spiraling thoughts and theories. He hadn’t eaten much and the coffee was being very disagreeable with his near-empty stomach. It pinched and growled, but he ignored it. He needed to know what was going on. When Hermione folded and refolded her napkin for the fifth time, while staring at her plate with a deep frown, he’d had enough.

“Hermione, what did you want to talk about yesterday?” Gods, maybe he shouldn’t have asked it like that. All direct and unmistakable. Did he really want to know? In the next second he decided that yes, he did. Anything was better than expecting the worst. Even if it was the worst and she wanted to leave, he still needed to know and confront it.

Her shoulders rose and sank with a bracing breath. She turned her head to look out of the large windows. “It’s a beautiful day. Will you come sit outside with me for a moment?”

Draco blinked, unsure of what was happening, but he rose from his seat as she did and followed her. Crookshanks, who had vacated his lap a while ago, trotted past them and vanished in the bushes.

Hermione settled in one of the chairs on the veranda, the same ones they had watched the snow fall from. The sun shone and she stuck her blue-painted toes past the shade and made them twitch.

Sitting down next to her, he bit into his cheek, nervousness coupled with impatience warring in his chest. Gods he wished she’d just get to it.

“Douillet, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, please make sure the floo is barred and no one can enter the house for now.” Hermione swallowed and glanced his way. “I’d like to not be interrupted by Harry or anyone else for a while.”

The tiles under her feet shivered and what sounded like a grate sliding shut rebounded from the house.

“Thank you.”

All of it only served to make Draco more anxious. “Hermione, I—” He cleared his throat, but snapped his mouth shut when she turned her chair to face him directly.

This time her gaze did not waver. Her shoulders straightened and she took a deep breath. “I have a few things I need to tell you and something to ask. It’s… It’s not easy and I…” She blew out air through puffed-up cheeks.

Oh, gods, this was it. She’d finally had enough of dealing with him. And who could blame her? She had her mother back; the treatment was clearly working. While Draco himself was riddled with problems and baggage. Hermione didn’t need him anymore. “If you want to leave, I understand,” Draco said, his voice low. “I will help you take care of your parents regardless. That is what your question is about, isn’t it?” He was barely able to look at her so his gaze sank to his folded hands.

“What? No, that’s not… Draco, I’m not trying to leave.”

His head shot up and he stared at her.

“Not unless you want me to.” She bit into her lip and groaned in frustration. “I think…we need to talk about our future. My question isn’t about my parents, it’s about what you want from this.” Her finger wagged between them. “I know we still have time to decide, but this looming decision is driving me insane and I need to know if…” A sigh left her. “I need to know if you changed your mind.”

“If I changed my mind?” he asked, his heart beating fast.

“Yes. You can, you know. You don’t have to stick to what you said before… Before we got to know each other more and before…things happened between us.” She frowned at her hands, then seemed to steel herself before looking at him again. Another blush bled down her cheeks and throat, but her burnt-whisky eyes were steady.

“We said we’d take time to get to know one another, to see whether a relationship between us would have a chance” she said. “We agreed we could either decide on separating and I would help you find someone else.” At this she grimaced. “Or we could go along with the contract and have a child, leaving each other free to pursue different lives in the future.”

“Or we could bind ourselves to each other and circumvent the contract,” Draco finished, his voice thin.

Hermione nodded and blushed even more. “I don’t want to be a mother—not yet anyway—and I know how you feel about becoming a father. And the thought of you with another woman makes me… Well, I don’t want that either. I want this, us, without the contract and without any outside control or obligations.”

His heart stuttered and he had to swallow as it seemed to have risen to his throat. “You’d consider…staying?”

“Yes.” Her eyes burned into him. “So I ask you, have you changed your mind? Because I only want this if you do. I will not—under any circumstances—do anything against your will. Which means you have to be sure. I can wait if you need time to think about it, but I—”

He’d heard enough and shot from his chair so fast, Hermione sank back in surprise. With one step, he was in front of her and sank to his knees. With trembling hands, he took both of hers and rested them on her thighs.

“Hermione, I’ve only grown more certain the longer we spent time together.” He searched her face. “But is what you’re feeling—not wanting a child and not wanting me with someone else—enough? Enough to give up the rest of your life? I know you see this a bit differently than I do. And let’s face it, I’m not easy to be with.” She frowned at him as if he’d lost the plot and Draco sighed. “Please don’t misunderstand; I’m thrilled you’re brining this up and I want what you are suggesting, but is it enough for you? Will I be enough?”

She shook her head slowly, her beautiful eyes misting. Raising one hand from his, she brushed her knuckles along his cheek, then cupped it. “You are enough. More than enough, Draco. More than I could ever have dared to hope for.” She hushed him when he opened his mouth to protest. “What you’re going through, your trauma and baggage? Our shared past? It doesn’t make it harder for me. It doesn’t scare me.” Her other hand rose as well and she held his face, looking him over with something…delicate and endless that had him swallowing once more. His fingers tightened on her knees.

“I see you, Draco. And I know you see me. I feel safe with you, cherished and on equal footing. We have faced so many obstacles and so much could have gone horribly wrong, yet we managed to talk about everything, work through our problems and come out stronger. You always know exactly what to do and say to make me feel better and I want to do the same for you.” A gentle smile grew on her beautiful lips and she brushed her thumbs along his brows. “Being with you isn’t easy, it’s effortless. Wanting you is my constant companion. And…” She swallowed, but her gaze was sure and steady. “And falling in love with you has been inevitable.”

Draco blinked stupidly. “I… You… What?”

A small chuckle brushed his lips. “I’m in love with you, Draco.”

An undignified sound puffed from him. Half-croak, half-whimper. As he blinked again, past something blurry—definitely not tears—he saw the truth in the way she looked at him. Delicate and endless. Unyielding and tender.

His throat was suddenly raw and narrow. Even as the words tumbled around his chest, rising up the pathway to his tongue, nothing came out.

“You asked whether what I wanted was enough, whether you are. I hope this is answer enough for you.”

Draco grunted, his hands clasping at her before his face sank to her legs. He looped his arms under her knees and hugged her to him. “I…” His voice was coarse and barely audible. “I…”

Her hands gingerly brushed along his back in soothing circles and undid him. Draco had no idea why he was reacting like a fucking idiot, but his entire body began to shake with what he felt. It was as if something tore from him, something dark and volatile, while her touch, her voice and her presence slithered into the torn space and filled it. He’d spent so long thinking—knowing—he was broken. Unworthy. Not able to be the son his parents wanted. Not cut out for the path chosen for him. Useless after what the war and Azkaban had turned him into. Unlovable. And now his Hermione proved him wrong. She was…in love with him. The concept seemed as wrong and foreign as anything, but he’d seen the truth of it in her eyes.

His stomach was filled with something bouncy and light, even as his chest felt heavy and pained. It was a beautiful pain, though. The kind that was there because he was too filled with his feelings for her. There seemed to not be enough room in his heart for the overwhelming infinity of his love. Draco felt tears run down his cheeks and sink into her trousers as he feared he might burst from it. He did not. Instead, his heart expanded and the radiating, beautiful agony found a home and settled.

He'd known, of course he had. Falling in love with her had come to him as easy as breathing, but now… Now he felt like he was allowed to love her. Because it was reciprocated.

“I love you,” he croaked out. “I love you, I love you, Iloveyou!”

A small gasp sounded from above him and he raised his face, not ashamed of his own tears as he saw hers.

 “Every day…” Draco cleared his throat. “Every day I had the privilege of getting to know you, of being your husband… It has only solidified what I already knew. I want to be with you. I love you, Hermione. I will take forever with you in a heartbeat, if you’ll have me.”

The smile growing through her tears was radiant and beaming and it warmed him from head to toe.

“Are you sure?”

Draco basked in the way she carded her fingers through his hair, leaning into her touch. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, darling.”

She bent forward slowly and kissed him. “Good. Because that is what I’m offering, my heart. Forever.”

Draco sat in his shed the next day, wearing a silly smile that seemed unwilling to leave any time soon. Who could blame him? His wife was in love with him and he with her. Sure, there were things to discuss and plan in the near future, but this was monumental.

As he drew his brush across the canvas, his right hand came to rest on his chest, rubbing at the pulsing feeling there. It was still a tad overwhelming, but he also marveled at it. Was this what true happiness felt like?

Hermione and him had huddled on that veranda for a while, kissing and talking in hushed voices, then they had asked Douillet to open the floo again and called Theo. Now that their decision was made, neither of them wanted to wait longer than necessary.

Theo, who had stumbled from the floo a bit hungover, had sobered up at their request and grinned at them for the remainder of his visit in a decidedly unhinged way.

He would have to go over the ritual and planning once more, but he’d said it was doable in a timely manner and so the planning had begun. They wanted no interference from Lucius or anyone else, so Hermione and Draco had decided on a very intimate ceremony in Douillet’s garden. One witness each and one officiator.

A part of Draco had been miffed at keeping this a secret, wanting to shout their decision from the rooftops, but it was wise, given the circumstances. His father would not give up control without a fight. Like this, they were able to confront him with facts.

Draco’s smile turned into a smirk. He couldn’t wait for his father to find out. That conversation promised to be immensely satisfying.

Theo had promised to arrange everything and he’d gone to find Mr. McHoot and go over the ritual with him. Also, the man would have to be asked whether or not he wanted to officiate a second time.

“Not to worry, my lovebirds,” Theo had crowed around the neck of a butterbeer. “I’ll be my charming self and get the man on board. I promise I’ll have news tomorrow night.” He’d winked. “At the club.”

To Draco’s surprise, the clubbing date was still on according to his wife. She had spoken to Potter and the Weaselette through the floo at one point and despite the Weasel being at St. Mungo’s, his sister seemed to still want a night out. Maybe it was all a terrible idea and he had told Hermione so, the thought of her friends using their get-together to ambush her being the factor to tip his decision into joining.

Once Theo had left, they had both spent the rest of the day and evening talking while smirking at each other. Finally, Draco’d not been able to control himself any more. After a bit of a snogging session, he’d bent his loving wife over the sofa and shagged her silly. Only at one point did his mind mess with him and Draco had bent lower, inhaling Hermione’s scent to find back to himself. It was a victory and one of the reasons he was still smiling like a loon as he was busy painting. It gave him hope that them shagging would become regular, without his mind interfering.

“Draco, we have to get ready soon,” Hermione’s voice reached him, just as he was half-way done with his new sketch. He glanced at her and his breath caught as she sidled up to his desk.

It had been a warm day so far and Hermione was wearing a flowy yellow dress, which looked magnificent on her skin-tone, accentuating the small freckles on her shoulders and arms. Draco let his hungry gaze run over every centimeter of skin he could see. Gods, she was magnificent. Her beauty effortless, her proximity making his too tight chest expand even more.

“Draco?” she asked. She leaned to his left, her arms crossed and her lower lip caught between her teeth. She slowly raised one leg and nudged his knee with a naked foot. It was amazing how she was able to always give him enough time to react, enough time to prepare. By now he was used to a lot more from her, but he still welcomed her specific brand of nudges, pokes, and squeezes. These were always playful and warm. Meant to soothe and beckon him from his mind. “Have you changed your mind? You don’t have to come with me.”

His eyes roamed. Catching on her golden bonding lines. What would happen to those when they did the new ritual? Would they change? Stay the same and deepen in color?

“No. I’ll come with you.”

She smiled and nudged his knee once more, lingering this time. Draco swallowed as his eyes found hers. She was so gorgeous in that dress. Her wild hair partly pinned back, to let the bottom waves curl around her shoulders, hiding some of the freckles on her skin.

Her smile turned cheeky as it played on her plush lips. “A knut for your thoughts.”

Draco caught her foot before she was able to pull back and he grinned at her when she squealed in surprise. “You. It’s all you, love.” He drew his fingers around her slender ankle and placed her foot between his legs on the chair. Breathing in her scent of Honeysuckle and the wild, Draco drew his fingers up her calf in firm circles. He leaned his forehead to her knee, then rubbed his cheek along the inside of it.

“This fine?” he asked as he brushed his lips along her thigh. He didn’t kiss her, but let his lips stroke over her fantastically soft skin in gentle sweeps.

“Yes,” Hermione whispered, her wide, brown eyes riveted to him. “Of course it is.”

Draco leaned his head to her knee again and sighed, debating whether he was ready for what he wanted. What he’d wanted for a while now and not dared to try.

“Incoming,” he heard her say, before her hands sank into his hair. Gods, he loved her playing with his hair. His eyes closed on a groan and in that moment Draco knew. He was cradled between her leg and hands, feeling nothing but centered and calm. It was reminiscent of the day before, but then he’d been too floored with their conversation to have a clear thought. Now he had no such qualms. He knew her. He wanted her. Hermione’s scent and touch was so very familiar and safe by now. It had never been anything other than safe.

Would she let him try? He knew the answer, knew her consent was a given and yet he felt…nervous. Not because of how much touching it entailed, but because of how long it had been for him. And it had never been with her.

Draco tilted his head up to look at her, finding his wife biting her lip again, her chest rising and falling a bit faster than before. Her hands carded through his hair repeatedly and Draco lifted her leg and pulled her between himself and the desk, placing her foot on his armrest. A surprised huff escaped her, but she didn’t protest, or let go of him.

He placed a soft kiss to the inside of her knee without breaking eye-contact. “Can I try something?” he asked, suddenly hoarse.

One of her palms cupped his cheek. “Anything,” she said, looking straight at him, showing her agreement openly.

Draco squeezed her calf gently, massaging up and down in a few strokes before he straightened, reached past her, and brushed the parchment and utensils to the side behind her. They rustled and clattered as if in protest, but Draco didn’t care. Her skin was like pulsing magic underneath his fingers.

“Sit on the desk, darling,” he said and saw her eyes darken for a second, before she wriggled her butt onto the table.

Shifting his chair closer, Draco nudged her legs apart. Her dress rode up her silky thighs to pool on the desk at her sides. His breath shortened when he saw her equally yellow knickers. Sliding his palms up her legs and under her dress, he hooked his fingers into the band and pulled. Hermione shifted slightly and helped him work them off her legs.

When he slowly opened her to him once more, she gasped. “Are you… Are you sure, Draco?”

He let his lips travel up the inside of her right thigh, marveling at her softness. “Been wanting to do this to you for a long time, love,” he rasped, looking at her.

Her throat clicked on a swallow and she blushed a bit, but nodded. “Me too,” she surprised him by saying.

Draco hummed out a chuckle, his brow cocked. “Oh?”

She nodded, a curl tumbling past her cheek to flirt with her cleavage. Draco ran his hands along her thighs in circles, not looking away from her face. “You are so lovely, Hermione.”

Her smile was interrupted by a soft moan when his thumbs closed in on the sides of her core. “You…are not too bad…yourself.”

“Yeah?” He kissed and licked a path from her knee to where his thumb caressed the outer side of her lips.

Leaning on one hand, she sifted the other through his hair, her legs trembling. “Yes. With your…rolled-up sleeves and your…paint-speckled hands and… It makes me want to climb onto your lap and ride you.”

He groaned, so close to her heat he could almost taste it. “Fuck, that sounds…” Pulling back, he regulated his breath and palmed his cock to shift it around to a better angle. He’d grown uncomfortably hard by now. “Maybe one day.”

“Definitely.”

Starting up at the knee of her other leg, Draco reduced his wife to a well of breathless whispers and moans, her legs shivering slightly the closer he got. When his nose hit the hem of her dress, she helpfully gathered the fabric to the side, exposing herself to him fully.

“Gods. You are…” Draco let his thumbs swipe up and in, teasing along her wetness. “So ready for me, darling. Look at you. Beautiful.” He gathered some of her desire and drew it up to circle her clit. “So perfect. So fucking drenched.”

Hermione groaned and trembled. “Yes, Draco. Please… I…”

A keening sound sang from her when he held her open and took his first taste. He moaned into her cunt and the desk rattled by how hard she shook. “Your taste is maddening,” he rasped between more licks. “Could feast on you forever.”

“Dra-co.” The way his name broke on her lips had his cock twitching insistently.

“Lie back, darling.”

He heard her sigh, then her fingers bunched up in his hair and she did as he asked, spreading her legs even more. Draco clasped his hands around her hips and moved her closer to the edge of the desk. His mind was blissfully blank and focused on one thing alone. Her. Her scent, her taste, her slick warmth. Holding her firmly, he buried his face between her thighs.

His tongue and lips discovered her ruthlessly as he worked his way up and down her cunt, drawing circles over her clit which made her moan and dipping into her which had her begging.

She shook from the effort of keeping still, he could feel it with every lick, every kiss and he smiled, elated that he’d had nothing to be worried about. She seemed to love this as much as he did.

Resting his left palm on her lower belly, the bonding lines winking silver in the light, Draco pulled down his right to part her and tease her opening. He sucked on her clit and slid a finger inside her, making her body bow off the desk, a raspy keen tumbling his way.

“You feel exquisite, love,” he said and flicked her clit with the tip of his tongue, curling his finger up inside her molten heat.

“Fuck, Draco… I…” Her nails dug into his scalp and he closed his mouth and sucked, gliding his tongue over her in little flutters. Slowly, he worked a second finger into her, feeling the pulses of her impending orgasm close in as he spread them. He massaged up, finding the soft, spongy spot that had her arching and gasping, before slowly starting a rhythm with his fingers. Mirroring that rhythm with his sucks and his tongue was a surefire way to hurl her over the edge of bliss.

Had this not been the first time, he would have stopped right there, then started up again, edging her until she screamed and begged for him to let her come, but as it was, he remained careful of the time spent this engulfed in her.

Within a few more thrusts and delicious licks, he felt her legs tightening around his face, before her shudders broke free. She yelled his name and undulated against his face as much as was possible by the way he held her.

Draco groaned into her as her cunt clenched and pulled on his fingers and he lapped at her desperately, not willing to lose a single drop of her ecstasy. The sounds she made, the taste of her, feeling her come undone on his fingers, against his mouth, was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. His wife. His Hermione. His love.

He helped her ride out her orgasm and once her tremors had ceased and she’d relaxed with a breathy moan, he kissed her one last time and stood. Making quick work of his trousers, he planned to come across her heaving belly, but she watched him with dark eyes.

“Inside, Draco,” she demanded. “I want you inside of me.”

Her words almost felled him and he had to brace himself on the desk, suddenly light-headed. She was glorious as she lay there, open and sated, but still wanting.

“If I do, this will be over within seconds,” he admitted, his gaze catching on her burnt-whisky eyes and then gliding lower, to her soaked cunt.

“Don’t care. Now, Draco. Let me feel you and look at you when you come.” She raised her arms above her head, showing him she’d not touch, then she spread her legs for him. “Please, my love.”

Even if his mind had warned him—which it blissfully didn’t—Draco would not have been able to deny her. He gripped his cock and moaned at the relief the touch brought, already at the edge after what he had done to her. After witnessing her pleasure so closely. After tasting it.

He shuffled closer and stepped between her legs, running the tip of his cock up and down her cunt, coating himself. “You are… Merlin, Hermione… I…” His head parted her and he sank into her slowly. “I… Fuck, I love the way you take me.” Hermione whimpered in answer, her hands clenched into fists above her head. It took him a few shallow thrusts until they were joined fully and she moaned his name.

Grabbing hold of her waist, Draco positioned her right on the edge of the desk and then retreated, only to sink into her to the hilt. “You feel so fucking fantastic,” he groaned, her heat greeting him, the smooth slide beyond divine.

“Let go, Draco. Let me feel you,” Hermione said, then her eyes rolled back as he thrust into her hard. “Gods, you are…everything. You feel so good inside me.”

His control snapped and he bent over her, one hand on her waist, the other next to her to brace himself. He began fucking her in earnest, making the desk move, before he grabbed the opposite edge, hovering even closer above her.

She was fire around him, her gaze burning into him. And all the while, he breathed her scent, tasted her on his lips and got lost in the pools of her eyes. Small pants and then yells passed her open lips and she clenched her fists so hard, her knuckles whitened. Her hair was spread out around her like the softest cloud of velvet and Draco could scarcely believe that this vision of a woman, drawing him in deeper and beckoning him to fall, was his. That she loved him.

“I love you,” he rasped, then his orgasm barreled into him with unbelievable force. He yelled her name, holding her gaze and letting her see him fall apart as he spilled into her. It was madness and if it had been anyone but her, he would have closed his eyes, or hidden his face. But it was her and he basked in the way she looked at him. There was nothing but adoration and something almost blinding shining from her features.

Draco collapsed atop her, but he was careful to keep his weight on his arms, instead of her. His skin burned where they were joined, where they touched and he felt her lips on his throat, floating up to his ear.

“I love you too.”

Impossibly, his heart expanded even more, filled to bursting with love for her. Gods, she was everything.

Chapter Text

Gone Clubbing

Hermione

The music was loud. The bass thrummed into her like a heartbeat, filling Hermione with good memories and excitement. It had been a while since she’d gone dancing with Ginny or Luna and they’d had such fun nights. Escaping their realities and just feeling. Expressing themselves through dancing and laughter. Becoming one with the music and communicating without talking. Inventing an entire language based on gestures and expressions. Hermione had loved it.

As they entered the main space of the Scarlet Rose—a large dancefloor opening up under a high ceiling, surrounded by small groups of booths—Hermione felt Draco’s hand jump on the small of her back.

She looked up at him and tapped his chest lightly to get his attention. He bent toward her, his face drawn and the muscle in his jaw twitching.

“We don’t have to be here, Draco,” she said when his ear reached her face. “We can go home right now.”

His other arm circled her as well and something heady shot through her at the move. Somehow, him surrounding her this openly, while hidden in the darkness of the club and with the added thrum of music made the entire action seem far beyond innocuous. It felt exciting, dangerous, forbidden.

Hermione had seen countless couples snogging and doing things in dark corners of clubs and she had always wondered. And now, having Draco so close in this space that had inspired a lot of fantasy and curiosity within her, was mind-melting. Because it was him. And his mere presence was enough to turn her to putty on a regular day.

She pulled herself from her improper thoughts and tried to focus. Draco was obviously not comfortable and she cursed her flaring desire for him. But gods, after what he had done to her earlier? Who could blame her wanting to pull him into some hidden corner and return the favor?

His breath ghosted along her shoulder and she groaned lowly, hoping he hadn’t heard. “I’m fine,” he said, his words brushing along the shell of her ear. “I just need a bit of time getting used to the sound and the…lights.”

Glancing at the laser-beams jittering along the dancefloor and the flashes of strobes, Hermione nodded. “I understand. Take all the time you need.”

He didn’t back away. Instead, his face lingered on the height of the slope of her shoulder and she felt him breathe in deeply. Hermione fought the shivers wanting to take over at the closeness, at his smell surrounding her and the way his arms tensed under her fingers.

“What is this music?” Draco asked after a few moments. “It’s…unusual.”

“Hip hop,” Hermione answered. “American, to be specific.”

“Huh. And people dance to this?”

Hermione chuckled and gestured at the dancefloor, where bodies were writhing and moving along to Missy Elliot’s ‘Work It’. “Quite enthusiastically, as you can see.”

Draco twisted his head to follow her line of sight, placing his throat at her eye level as he swallowed. The clench of muscle and strain of chords under his skin was enticing. She wanted to lick him. Inwardly, Hermione groaned and berated herself. She should stop this at once, but Godric, Draco was fine. He was dressed in black, setting off his pale skin and paler hair spectacularly. The button-down shirt was soft and tailored to his new frame exquisitely, enhancing his broad shoulders and he had the sleeves rolled up, showing a stretch of skin between the hem and his gloves. Hermione herself had unbuttoned the first three buttons on his shirt, telling him it would be ‘more casual’. She cursed herself for that decision right now, as her gaze lingered on the exposed skin.

“Wait,” Draco said and turned to face her once more, his silver eyes widening. “Do you dance like that?”

Smirking, Hermione tapped his biceps with her fingers where they still rested. “Sometimes.”

He blinked and then glanced back at the dancers, his nostrils flared for a second and she was sure he had uttered a sound, even if she couldn’t hear it.

Rising to her tip-toes she asked: “Ready?”

Draco simply nodded and his gloved hand found hers as she stepped back. She laced their fingers and pulled him along, foraging a path she deemed safest, with as few people along it as possible. She found them a booth on the outskirts of the dancefloor and sat down.

Her husband folded his tall body into the booth next to her, the leather dipping under his weight. Hermione covertly cast a silencing spell around the booth and the sound shrank back significantly.

“There, now we can even talk once the others arrive.”

A pale brow rose. “Doing magic in a Muggle space? My, my, Granger, how naughty of you.” His lips twitched and her heart sang at the sight. He seemed to be getting more comfortable.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” she said with a wink.

His lips twitched into a smirk. “Color me intrigued, darling. I thought I knew you quite well.”

Hermione fluffed her curls and sent him—what she hoped was—a seductive smile. “You have never seen me in this setting, love. I adore clubbing and dancing.”

“Is that so?” Draco moved closer so they almost touched. He bent down, placing his lips near her neck and Hermione stilled completely. “I can’t wait to discover something more about you, darling. I—”

“There you are!” Astoria yelled and slid into the booth. She pulled Hermione in for a hug and rocked her from side to side. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.” She pulled back, her blue eyes alight with joy. “I’m so glad your mother is back, thanks for owling me.” A wide grin spread on her berry-red lips. “Hi, Drakey.”

“Tori,” Draco said. “Nice to see you again.”

“Likewise, thanks so much for asking me to come along, Hermione. I haven’t been dancing in ages.” Astoria looked around their empty table. “Drinks? Haven’t you guys gotten any yet?”

Hermione’s stomach sank as Draco shifted away from her and across the curved bench to get up. “I’ll go. What do you want?”

She was unsure about what to do in that moment. A part of her wanted to rise and go with him, another wanted to ask whether he was fine and the next— Draco gave her a slight nod and squared his shoulders, his gaze carrying a sense of conviction, telling her to stay where she was.

“A Gin and Tonic for me,” Astoria said.

“I’ll take a coke,” Hermione mumbled. “Thank you.”

Draco turned to walk away and Hermione swallowed at her worry. In that moment, Blaise and Theo appeared at his side to greet him and after they shared what looked like a small conversation, Draco turned and gestured at Hermione and Astoria. Blaise waved with a grin, while Theo seemed to pale. The three men turned and walked toward the bar. The relief flooding her veins was palpable. Draco would be fine.

“Ugh, what is he doing here?” Astoria grumbled, her pretty faced pinched as she glared at the men.

“You mean Theo?”

Astoria grimaced and then nodded.

“Well, he is Draco’s friend and he hopefully has some news for us.” Hermione wriggled in her seat a bit at the prospect of finding out whether he’d roped in McHoot. She had thought long and hard about who to ask when it came to her witness—Theo would obviously be Draco’s—and she’d come to the conclusion that Astoria would be perfect. The witch knew about the contract and was good at keeping secrets. She also wouldn’t give Hermione grief over her decision.

Gods, to think she was going to bind herself to Draco in that way. Strangely, there was no hesitation, no doubt. All she could muster was a sense of wonder and excitement. It might be scary to commit to another person in such a way, but it was Draco. He had proven to be reliable, honest, caring, and they both communicated very well. Those were all reasons her rational mind had deemed acceptable, but the truth was…Hermione loved him with a fierceness that filled her completely. She couldn’t wait.

“News?” Astoria asked, looking very intrigued.

“Yes, about that…” Hermione couldn’t hold back a smile as she quickly explained their plan in hushed tones, before asking whether Astoria would be willing to be her witness.

“Oh, Merlin,” her friend said, clutching her chest. “Yes, of course. What an honor.”

They both chatted and giggled a bit, then Hermione sighed. “So, are you ever going to tell me about you and Theo?”

Astoria scrunched up her tiny nose. “There isn’t really much to tell. We all spent a week at one of Blaise’s vineyards last year—my sister, Blaise, Nott, Pansy and me—and we kind of… He was different. We spent the days together getting to know each other and talking to him was fun and interesting. Then one night I went to get a glass of water and he was in the kitchen too. One thing led to another and we shagged. He’d come into my room at night from then on, or I would sneak to his. It was…” Astoria brushed back her hair with a sad expression. “It was heaven. We fit perfectly in every way and I… I fell for him. Fast and hard. There was a gentleness and a vulnerability to him that just enchanted me.” She snorted. “Probably all an act. I should have known the moment he asked me not to tell anyone about our…nightly activities. Said my sister would hex him senseless. I should have let her.” Astoria shook her head. “I asked him when we would see each other again on the last night there and he got this strange look on his face. Something close to panic. He told me it had all been just ‘fun’ and to not put any stock in it. I suspected he was hiding something, or not telling me the truth, but he insisted to leave our tryst in the past and focus on different things in the future.”

A small chuckle, mirthless and dry, shook her shoulders. “The moment we got back to the UK, Nott was off galivanting around with a whole slew of women and men. We never spoke of it again.”

“Oh, Astoria,” Hermione said and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Astoria shrugged and swallowed, the hurt lingering on her expression for a few seconds. “It’s over and done with, now I just…hate being around him.”

“I understand.” Hermione thought on it for a bit. “Would it be better if we—”

Astoria waved her off. “No need. I’ll deal. It’s about time I really got over him.”

Hermione—who had very much grown fond of Theo—glared at him as the men appeared to come back their way. Oh, she’d find a moment to have words with him.

Before the trio reached the booth, Harry and Ginny arrived and Hermione found herself in a long and firm hug with her red-headed friend. No words were said, but she felt another wave of relief. Ginny didn’t hate her.

Harry greeted the men and then hugged Hermione with a small smile, after which the booth filled with all of them and drinks were passed out. Hermione was wedged between Astoria and Ginny, while Draco lingered off to the side, sitting at the very edge of the booth. He gave Hermione a small wink when she looked his way.

If the situation was awkward at first, Hermione didn’t notice, as Ginny was heatedly whispering at her.

“Can’t fucking believe my stupid brother. What was he thinking? After what Harry told me I was livid.” She blew out a breath and took a sip of Hermione’s coke. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s my brother and I’m not about to lose another one, but Merlin, I feel like taking a beater bat to his nuts right about now. Mum is a mess, believes everything Ron says and I just about had it with her antics. She wanted to send you a howler, for ‘making Ron do it’. As if that was anyone’s choice but his.”

The news of Molly being angry and blaming Hermione was a slight shock, but she guessed it shouldn’t have been. Molly had nearly lost another son, Hermione couldn’t even fathom what that had to feel like. It was only logical to try and shift the blame on someone tangible. Still, it hurt. Especially after the Weasley’s had come to her wedding and supported her.

“She’s terrified,” Hermione whispered back. “I understand.”

Ginny let out an inelegant snort. “You’re a Godric-damned saint, Hermione, you know that?”

“Hey, are you pair of gaggling geese gonna join the conversation sometime soon?” Harry called from his spot between Theo and Blaise.

“There’s a conversation?” Ginny asked with a raised brow.

“There could be,” Harry griped.

“Very brave, Wonder Boy,” Theo said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. His gaze shifted and he passed over looking at Astoria so obviously Hermione almost rolled her eyes. “While you converse, I’ll go and get more drinks.”

Theo took Ginny and Harry’s orders, then shuffled from the booth.

At first, the table was silent in his wake, but Blaise quickly launched into a discussion about Quidditch with Harry. Ginny joined in and even Draco had a word or two to add. Hermione smirked at Astoria, who gave her a knowing look, conveying both their disinterest in the topic. Of course, their friends would get into it over Quidditch.

Blaise seemed very interested in Harry’s job and asked many questions, resulting in Harry’s eyes lighting up as he answered. He became very animated and the two of them soon had their own little talk, while Ginny and Draco seemed to be on the verge of betting.

“Obviously the Falcons will win this year’s championship,” Draco said. “They’ve won six out of eight games so far.”

Ginny sniffed haughtily. “Don’t count us out just yet. We’re playing the Falcons next week and they’re in for a surprise.”

“The Harpies have improved since you joined,” Draco allowed. “I’ll give you that. But your beaters aren’t aggressive enough.”

“Huh, care to make a wager on that, Malfoy? I’ll even get you tickets to the game, so you’ll have a front-row seat and I can make you eat your words.”

Draco actually grinned at her. “You’re on, Ginevra.”

Hermione held her breath, waiting for Ginny to explode at hearing her given name in full, but she only grinned back deviously. “Looking forward to it, ferret.” She held out Hermione’s coke and Draco clinked his whisky with her.

In that moment, Hermione felt Astoria grip her knee under the table. She glanced at her friend, who grimaced and nodded at Theo coming back from the bar. Her look of pure anguish hit Hermione in the chest like a Stunner and she grabbed her friend’s hand.

“Want to go dancing?” she asked. “I guess the rest of the table has plenty to talk about without us.”

Astoria squeezed her hand with a grateful smile. “Absolutely.”

“We’re off to the dancefloor,” Hermione announced. Ginny and Draco were busy negotiating what their wager entailed and Harry and Blaise seemed very close in their little corner, not looking up.

Hermione shook her head and was plucked from her seat as Astoria stood. They walked around the booth, the sounds of the club growing louder again. They wound their way onto a piece of open dancefloor and smiled at each other.

“Thank you,” Astoria mouthed and laced their fingers before lifting her arm and turning under their joined hands.

“Anytime,” Hermione mouthed back. She let the music overtake her then, rolling her hips from side to side as Astoria shimmied closer and they laughed and danced together. Dancing with Astoria was great fun. Whenever a bloke looked like he was about to come their way, they’d close in, swaying their bodies together with nary a breath between them, firmly excluding the approaching men. Once safe, they dipped into the music and simply danced, or made some ridiculous moves to make the other laugh. Hermione’s coined move of ‘making a sandwich’ and ‘the garden hose’ made her friend cackle.

Soon, Ginny joined in on the fun and they formed a small circle, linking hands, or sandwiching each other at times. Hermione laughed freely and closed her eyes as she swayed and moved, gods, she’d missed this. Feeling her body follow the rhythm and melody, spending time with friends comprised of gestures and expressions, no words needed. And it was fun. So much fun. She danced and felt her body relax with every minute, all the stress from the last few days simply floated into the air around her.

When she opened her eyes, they found Draco’s. He sat in their booth, turned toward the dancefloor as he watched her. Theo was at his side, looking miserable. Harry and Blaise were nowhere to be seen.

Not that she was looking, after meeting Draco’s gaze, Hermione was stuck for a second, her breath leaving her at the heat she saw. Even from this distance she knew his eyes had turned to thunder-storm grey. His grip on the whisky glass was firm, his knuckles almost white.

Hermione grinned and let her hips swivel lasciviously. Her hands traveled along her body, grazing her thighs, until her fingers reached the hem of her black sheath dress and she played with it. Letting her hands travel up her waist and brushing the sides of her tits she then carded them into her hair. She bit her lip and turned, letting her arse sway and circle. When she faced him again, his cheeks were tinged in pink and his knuckles were definitely white.

She raised a questioning brow at him and he let his head fall back against the upholstery of the booth. His mouth carved out the word ‘fuck’ and she felt heat pulse through her abdomen. Hermione could practically hear the sound he made. His eyes closed and his brows furrowed, before he raised his head again and squared his shoulders.

Still biting her lip, Hermion crooked a finger at him and he shook his head with a devilish grin. Then he spread his free hand on his thigh, his long fingers flexing before he patted it in invitation. Her breath hitched. Oh, Merlin, she would have followed up on that offer in a heartbeat. But Theo was next to him, looking statuesque and was throwing back what looked like a neat little row of shots he had gathered before him.

Hermione shook her head and then jerked her chin in Theo’s direction. Draco frowned at his friend, seemingly not having noticed his morose mood. Theo might be a monumental arse when it came to Astoria, but by the looks of him, there was more to the story.

She winked at Draco and turned to her circle of friends. Ginny grinned knowingly and Astoria pursed her lips and tilted her head in a clear expression of being impressed. They laughed, closing in and dancing.

Soon enough, another bloke tried to enter their little circle, clearly interested in Astoria. When the three of them formed a wall to shoulder him off, he grabbed hold of Astoria’s hips, the sweat on his upper lip glistening as his mouth curved into a smirk. Before he had time to think on it, Ginny forcibly removed his hands and shoved him off, she then flipped him the bird aggressively, her green eyes glinting with anger.

The man, who was towering over Ginny, glowered down at her, seemingly ready to escalate the situation. Little did he know who he was about to mess with. Astoria and Hermione immediately bolstered her side, but the man suddenly halted his approach and looked past them. He swiftly turned on his heel and vanished in the crowd.

“You better get lost, bloody fuckhead!” Ginny yelled loud enough for Hermione to hear. She turned and found Harry and Blaise behind them.

Harry was of average height, but he was still a broad man and could look menacing if he wanted to, but it was Blaise that had Hermione blink. The man was tall. Taller than Draco even and he had an exceptional set of shoulders, but his face… He looked close to murder. The expression was dark and spelled danger. Yes, she would have turned on her heel as well if exposed to that glare.

Within a second, his face changed and the handsome, agreeable Blaise was back.

Ginny crossed her arms. “I had it handled. Didn’t need the rescue.” Her voice was loud and carried over the music.

Blaise mildly smiled at her. “I know, Red. But had you decked the arsehole, we’d probably have been thrown out.”

Ginny shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. Astoria pulled her in for a hug and Hermione found herself yanked into the embrace as well.

“Thank you, Ginny,” Astoria said as they huddled together. “Now let’s forget the idiot and have fun.”

Their small circle was expanded as Harry and Blaise joined in and Hermione couldn’t stop grinning at her best friend who normally didn’t like dancing. It seemed he did like it when Blaise was at his side, or behind him, or in front of him. There was an awful lot of hip-grabbing and chest against back action. The tension between the two was palpable and Hermione was positively giddy to see her friend interested in someone to such a degree. Finally, Harry twisted around, palmed Blaise’s face and kissed him.

Ginny, Astoria and Hermione whooped, then acted out a demented victory dance as their friends proceeded to snog in their midst.

Turning to look at their booth, Hermione found Draco and pointed at Blaise and Harry, then clapped her hands and mouthed ‘finally’.

Draco, who was turned toward Theo, nodded at her once, but his face was drawn. He did smile fleetingly when his eyes found Harry and Blaise.

The way his shoulders were stiff and the look on his face made Hermione falter and she told the others she was thirsty with a gesture.

Draco

Theo was being a monumental pain in the arse. Draco had never known his friend to be quiet and cynical. Usually Theo was the one to pull Draco from miserable moods.

Theo had apparently decided tonight was the night to drink his own bloody weight in vodka. Not that Draco would ever begrudge his friend moping—he had done enough of that around Theo to last a lifetime—but he was being a tight-lipped-twit about it. No matter what Draco asked, or what kind of diversion he tried, Theo was quiet. Except for some snorts and cryptic bullshite.

Weirdly enough, he had been in very good spirits when arriving with Blaise, smiling from ear to ear and telling him McHoot was ‘a go’. Then the color had drained from his face and he’d become quiet. Draco assumed it had something to do with Astoria, but even when he’d asked about her directly, Theo had only glanced his way with a grimace and downed two shots. It was an admission, sure, but Theo said nothing further.

He stared at the dancefloor with a vacant expression, only when a man made a physical pass at Astoria, did Theo jump to his feet, swaying like a reed in the wind. Ginevra handled the bloke and when Potter and Blaise joined the women, Theo calmed enough to sit back down.

“Are you going to tell me what your problem is?” Draco asked.

“No,” Theo simply said and glowered Astoria’s way.

“Why not? You stick your nose into every part of my life, mostly uninvited, I might add.”

Theo sighed as if the weight of the world was heaved upon him. “Let it go, Drakey. I’m too drunk and not in the mood.”

“And I should care about that? Seriously, Nott, you are always riddling me with questions, no matter how ‘not in the mood’ I am.” Draco folded his arms.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Just is. Oh, look, Zabini finally made his move.” Theo pointed at the dancefloor, squinting.

He was right, Potter was snogging the daylights from their friend while the women danced around them in a celebratory way. Hermione found his gaze and gestured at Potter and Blaise. Draco forced a smile for her, not entirely distracted enough from Theo. The way he acted was very worrying.

Before he was able to extract any more information from his friend, Hermione turned up at their table. She slid into the both at his side, her eyes big and worried. “Are you alright?” she asked.

She was stunning, her hair wild, the skin on her neck glistening in the flashing lights from a slight sheen on sweat. Her chest was heaving and her breath rapid from dancing.

“I’m fine, love. Theo is being,” he looked at his friend, who was still staring at the dancing group, “morose.”

Hermione leaned past him to see Theo and furrowed her brows. “Huh, I would say it’s deserved, but I don’t know the entire story,” she whispered.

Draco bent closer. “What do you know?”

Clicking her tongue, she gave him a very strict look. “Confidential. And not my secret to tell.”

“Seriously?” Draco was about to throw over the table. Neither his best friend, nor his wife would tell him why said best friend was having what looked like an existential crisis over a woman they’d known since she was a little girl.

A grave nod came from Hermione and she gently lay a hand on his arm. “Maybe ask him when he isn’t actively moping and drinking himself into oblivion.”

Draco scoffed but decided she was right when Theo’s head slumped against the backrest and his eyes fluttered closed.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” he asked.

“Nope. What I was told was said to me in confidence, but you really should ask Theo about Astoria. And why he is being a right arse.”

“Will do. Say, have you been to this establishment before?” He slid his hand onto hers where it rested on his arm.

Hermione laughed. “This establishment, oh, you can be such a buttoned-up prat. But yes, I have been to this club before.”

“You love me buttoned up and prattish, darling.” Draco smirked at her and saw her breath hitch.

“I do. I also like you…unbuttoned.” Her hand squeezed his arm and she leaned against him. Gods, she had looked good on that dancefloor. The way she moved, the way she’d teased him… He had wanted to devour her in a dark corner of the…club.

Thanks to his tattoo, Draco had been able to stay surprisingly calm, even when Hermione had been dancing. He’d said the activating spell and sniffed his right wrist covertly when the atmosphere got too busy for him and the silencing cone around the booth helped a lot. Besides, he’d been able to see her the entire time. It was nothing short of miraculous what being around her did for his calm and safety. Which made his next step all the more challenging.

“You knowing this place means you also know where the restrooms are, care to point me in the direction?”

Hermione motioned to a black door behind the bar on the right. “Do you want me to go with you?” Something heated crossed her face at the question and Draco swallowed.

“No, it would be good if Theo wasn’t left alone.” He brushed his hand along her jaw and tilted her chin up to look at her. “But I wouldn’t mind vanishing into a dark corner with you after.” He placed gentle kisses along her neck and even sucked on the soft skin under ear, feeling her shiver. She tasted like sin and salt. “I’d like to see those dance moves up close.”

“Liked them, did you?” she purred, her hand tightening on his arm.

Draco kissed and nipped the stretch of skin exposed to him, making her whimper. “I did. I also want to snog you desperately and feel you move. Preferably without too many eyes on us.”

Her lids looked heavy and she drew her teeth along her lower lip. “Then hurry up and get back to me.”

Draco was very proud of himself when the door of the restroom swung shut behind him, drowning out some of the noise. His heartrate was elevated and he’d had to swerve and weave his way through drunk patrons, but he’d managed. Leaning against the counter housing five washing basins in a row, he looked at himself and brought his breathing under control.

Yes, there was anxiety, but he’d dealt with it quite well so far. Being in a club would not have been possible a few months ago. It really all came down to hard work on himself, Healer Herp’s advice, and his wife. As long as Draco was able to see her and concentrate on her, he was fine. Besides, his worry for Theo had also helped. Oh, and as long as no one touched him.

The flush of a toilet brought him back and he turned to the urinals on the opposite side of the wall. A man emerged from one of the stalls to the right, rubbing at his nose and sniffing, before exiting without washing his hands.

Draco grimaced after him, took off his gloves to tuck them into his pocket and went to work on his trousers. He relieved himself and turned toward the counter once more, washing his hands.

The door opened and a man walked in, heading for the recently vacated urinals. Draco took his time drying his hands with a paper towel, then he folded up his right sleeve to his elbow. He took a deep breath of the night-blooming flowers, bracing himself for going outside and braving the space to the booth once more. Once he did, he’d get to sneak off with his wife. A smirk curled on his lips at the thought. He wouldn’t be able to go very far with her, probably—not after how much he’d touched her already—but he felt like a thorough snog should still be in the cards for him.

Ordering a few wayward strands of his hair, Draco thought back to the afternoon, when he’d gotten to taste her. Salazar, she was…heaven. Nothing short of divine in the way she had sounded, felt, tasted, and moved against him as she’d shattered on his tongue.

A whisper sounded from behind and his wand flew from his pocket. Draco pivoted, facing off at the man who was now aiming a wand at him, while catching his own.

Adrenalin and panic fought through his veins in a twisted attempt to drown him, but he breathed past the panic, smelling the flowery smell still in the air.

“Bloodtraitor scum,” the man said, his voice distorted and his face hidden by a blurring glamor. “Ought to kill you on the fucking spot.” His wrist turned as he jabbed his wand, a Diffindo slicing from the tip. Draco whirled out of the way, but felt the curse dig into his left bicep. Pain bloomed along his arm, then he was hit with a Petrificus Totalus and froze in place.

Panic burst along his every nerve as memories surged to the surface. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight.

His body strained to absolutely no avail as sure and slow steps closed in. Draco forced his mind to stay in the here and now, fighting against the steadily enclosing bars of utter ruin. It was black panic and the feeling of helplessness. Just as it had been so many times before. Claws of terror laced up his spine and scraped along his skull. There was no escape, nothing he could do.

Draco breathed in and blinked, catching another hint of night-blooming flowers. It helped clear his head for a moment.

Fuck, he needed to move. He needed to… Something dizzying and warm buzzed along his skin. Something raw and powerful. His left hand burned as his bonding lines surged with silver light. For a moment, Draco thought he smelled home, the wooden boards of Douillet’s corridor leading to their bedroom, or the leather of the sofa in the sitting room, then a mixture of paint, water and canvas.

The calming effect held until the tip of a wand dug into his neck. He smelled the breath of his attacker, garlic and onion, felt the burst of magic hovering against his skin.

“I’ll be enjoying this,” the voice hissed and Draco fought against his rigid form with all he had, but it was as if his bones had turned to concrete, his very skin a prison around him.

The door exploded off it’s hinges and Potter and Blaise flew into the room. The man in front of Draco turned, but sure as clockwork, Potter’s Expelliarmus made both wands fly toward the Boy Wonder while knocking the man back.

Blaise sent something dark and twisted from his own wand, but the man vanished in a swirl of color and space before it reached him. Both Potter and Blaise then came his way, but they were shoved to the side by a small form.

“Draco!” Hermione called, running up to him. She looked him over with panicked eyes, then freed him of his body-binding curse. Draco’s body stuttered back to life and was able to lift his arms to pull her to him, before he slumped to the ground, making her yelp as she was dragged along.

Quick as a thought, Hermione folded into his lap and hugged him. Draco face sank into the slope of her neck and he inhaled desperately. Her hair was all around him and so was she.

Her hands ran over his back gently, her breath wheezing past his ear. “I have you. You’re alright. I’m here, Draco.”

That was all he needed to let go. Draco surrendered to the panic singing in his bones, giving his mind over to do whatever it wanted. No matter what happened next, he knew he was safe in her arms.

His body rattled as a monumental episode crashed into him but it was different from before. He lived through the images, the agony and earth-shattering fear, but he was still there, still clinging to her.

Draco could hear the words she whispered to him, could feel her rock him gently, could burrow closer and hug her tighter. He shook and broke under waves of terror, but her heartbeat against him gave his own something to follow.

He was safe. She had him.

Chapter Text

Fury and Panic

Hermione

Her heart stuttered and raced as she held Draco and while she soon calmed down, focusing on him, her emotions vaulted from panic to straight-up fury. She had known something was wrong the moment her bonding lines had flared up. Quick as a whip, she’d shot from the booth, calling out to Harry and Blaise. They had overtaken her, courtesy of their longer legs and dealt with whoever had attacked Draco. While she was grateful, she also wished she could have faced the fiend and hex him three ways into the veil.

As her husband shuddered and hugged her closer, pulling her deeper into his lap to try and wrap his entire being around her, Hermione felt worry and rage pelt along her veins. Gods, she was ready for murder. How fucking dare someone try and hurt him? He had come so far, had done so well. And now…

“Uh, Hermione,” Harry said, poking her shoulder softly.

She ignored her friend and rocked Draco gently, cooing soft words at him as she felt her anger mount steadily.