Chapter Text

The Magical Times magazine was held delicately between two perfectly manicured fingers as Narcissa Malfoy sat in the morning sun, sipping her tea. Her pale eyes scanned the article slowly.

It was... adequate. Not quite how she’d envisioned it. The title had more bite than she preferred, but the content? It toed the line—complimentary in tone, honest in fact, and—most importantly—curious in conclusion.

Not an endorsement.

But not a condemnation, either.

Just enough to plant a question.

A seed.

A year had passed since the end of the war. Trials were held. People were convicted. The Malfoy family had gotten lucky. They had escaped relatively unscathed—at least compared to others.

Narcissa knew exactly why. Knew exactly whom to thank.

Harry Potter.

Hermione Granger.

They had spoken for her family at the trials, and Narcissa would be eternally grateful.
But even with no prison sentences, the Malfoy name was still tarnished. Still unwanted. Still whispered about.

And that, Narcissa intended to fix.

She sighed softly and set her cup down, her gaze lingering on the glinting ink.
It had begun.

Her plan had always been simple in its ambition: to shift public perception of the Malfoy name. To peel away the stain of disgrace, layer by layer, until society remembered. Remembered the elegance. The contribution. The legacy.

The world had been quick to discard the Malfoys. Too quick.

But people were fickle. They could be reminded.

Repositioned.

Redirected.

And if this article didn’t achieve the desired shift?

Well—there were always more strategies.

More ink to spill.

Narcissa rose from her chair, chin tilted in thought, one pale hand resting lightly beneath her jaw. The hem of her robes swept softly across the parquet floor as she paced.

She would not be loud. That would draw ridicule.

No, no—too obvious.

She needed to be graceful. Understated.

Truthful... but just enough.

The right kind of truth.

The Malfoys still had so much to offer: coin, wisdom, bloodlines, history. Magic as old as stone. Society had forgotten—but Narcissa would make them remember. She would remind the world why the Malfoys mattered.

Why the world had once needed them.

And still did.

She paused by the window, light casting a halo across her golden hair. Her reflection in the glass was cool and composed. But inside, her mind was racing.

Draco.

Her son’s life was hanging in the balance. If the world did not forgive them, he would have no future.

No wife.

No children.

And Narcissa Malfoy would have no peace.

Any good mother would do anything for her child.

Narcissa would do everything.

Even this.

Even if Draco wasn’t ready.

She turned from the window with a decisive swish and strode toward her writing desk. There were letters to pen. Owls to send. Donations to make. Carefully calculated, of course. Always with purpose.

She’d already begun reaching out to Ministry officials. She had a list of charitable causes in need of a Malfoy patron.
And as for Draco?

Well.

She had a list of names for him, too.

It was time.

If the world would not come to the Malfoys...

then the Malfoys would reclaim the world.

One perfectly executed narrative at a time.

Chapter Text

Hermione loved dancing. She loved dressing up, going out with friends, and feeling like something was beginning. What she did not love was that her boyfriend, Ronald Weasley, was drunk. Loudly, sloppily, unmistakably drunk.

He was currently slouched by the drinks table, elbow-deep in flirtation with a woman Hermione didn’t recognize. Chest puffed out, cheeks flushed, he was boasting about how he’d personally won the war.

Hermione sighed. Did he not realize everyone could see him? Or that his girlfriend was right here?

Apparently not. Or worse—he just didn’t care.

And that, Hermione thought sadly, was becoming a pattern.

Still, she wasn’t here for Ron. Not tonight.

Tonight, she had goals. Purpose. A mission, if you will.

She was here to build connections—specifically with the people in charge of trade and shipment regulations. Her business depended on it.

After the war, Hermione had done what any sensible, wildly ambitious war heroine would do: she opened a bookshop.

It wasn’t just any bookshop, of course. Hermione had plans. Big ones. Books were one of the few reliable forms of entertainment in the wizarding world, while Muggles were practically drowning in options. Hermione intended to capitalize on that gap.

She already had a trade permit to sell Muggle books—novels, manuals, even graphic novels—in wizarding Britain. She’d even written her own book, a bestselling account of how she and her friends survived the war. (Ron had insisted it was too modest. She’d insisted he stop adding footnotes in crayon.)

But that was just the beginning.

Her next phase? Games. She wanted to introduce Muggle board games into the magical marketplace. Imagine: wizarding Monopoly, a magically adaptive Snakes and Ladders, enchanted puzzles that reassembled themselves when you got frustrated.

And one day—one day—technology.

That part was tricky. Magic and technology didn’t mix well. Like ammonia and bleach: unpredictable, volatile, mostly disastrous. But Hermione believed it could be done—with enough research, collaboration, and the occasional experimental combustion.

Tonight, though, she had her eye on a much smaller prize: Ulysses Brown, the Ministry’s Senior Liaison for Magical Trade and Transportation. If she could just get him to sign off on her expanded import permit, she could start selling her curated collection of Muggle games by summer.

She spotted him near the orchestra, sipping something that looked suspiciously non-alcoholic. With a deep breath and a hopeful smile, Hermione lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and set off across the ballroom. Her lavender skirt swished at her ankles as she walked, as determined and radiant as a comet on a mission.

This was her night.

As she zeroed in on her prey—Ulysses Brown, target acquired and within spell range—Hermione’s path was suddenly, and quite deliberately, blocked.

By Lucius Malfoy, of all people.

He stepped in front of her like a particularly elegant glacier in a bespoke cloak. Every inch of him screamed old money: the silver-tipped cane, the precisely-tailored robes, the way he somehow managed to look like he was judging the entire room just by breathing in it.

Hermione came to an abrupt halt and looked up, brows lifting in surprise. He wanted something. That much was obvious. He was attempting a pleasant expression, but it landed somewhere between mild constipation and an imminent sneeze.

She didn’t flinch. She met his gaze head-on, chin lifted with polite suspicion.
“Miss Granger,” he said smoothly, bowing his head with almost exaggerated civility, “may I please have a moment of your time?”

He extended a gloved hand, eyes fixed on hers with what might have been humility. Or indigestion. It was hard to tell with Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione took a steadying breath. Behind him, she saw that Ulysses had already moved on—drifting toward the punch bowl and a very animated conversation with Percy Weasley. Damn.

Still. She had nothing to lose by hearing Lucius out. Curiosity beat irritation.

She gave a short, decisive nod and placed her hand in his.

“Very well.”

Lucius said nothing else as he led her toward the dance floor, his posture regal, his movements impeccably smooth. The orchestra was in the middle of a charming waltz, and Lucius swept her into the rhythm with surprising grace. One hand rested lightly at her waist, the other held her gloved fingers in his.

To Hermione’s great shock, he was a good dancer. Not just competent—excellent. Fluid, firm, never overbearing.
Of course he was.

“I admit,” she said dryly, “this is not how I expected my evening to go.”

His lips quirked. “Nor mine.”

They moved through the crowd in perfect time, eyes quietly assessing one another like opposing chess masters across a pristine board.

Lucius made the first move on the board.

“I owe you an apology,” he said softly, his voice like velvet laced with thorns. “I’ve been a cruel man to you.”
Hermione’s breath caught. That was not what she expected.

Her mouth opened instinctively, words ready to leap to her defense—but something in his eyes made her pause. She closed it again, letting silence stretch between them.

Lucius spun her outward. Light fractured across the ballroom, dazzling her vision for a heartbeat. When he drew her back, it was with perfect control, as if reclaiming a thought from the edge of recklessness.

“I was raised in a world where blood determined worth,” he continued. “Where cruelty was currency, and compassion... weakness. I do not offer this as an excuse. Only context. It was almost impossible to go against the gravity of my upbringing.”

His eyes locked onto hers—icy and ancient and utterly sincere.

“But I was wrong,” he said, low and sure. “We were wrong. And I am sorry, Miss Granger. For the way I treated you. For the things I allowed. For what I was complicit in.”

Hermione could hardly breathe.

The song was fading, and he led her toward the edge of the dance floor. As the final note rang out, Lucius took her hand and bowed over it with reverence. His lips brushed her knuckles—an old-fashioned gesture, impossibly intimate.

“If you ever need anything,” he said, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “anything... ask.”

Hermione’s mind spun. This wasn’t part of her night. This wasn’t part of her plan. But it felt like something tectonic had shifted—something she hadn’t realized was stuck until it moved.

She was opening her mouth—ready, finally, to speak—when it happened.

“Oi!”

The stench of firewhisky hit her before Ron did.

Ron Weasley stumbled into her periphery, red-faced and staggering, his voice a messy drawl soaked in drink and jealousy.

“What the fuck are you doing dancing with him?”

Before she could answer, Ron grabbed her arm and yanked—hard.

Pain lanced up her bicep. She gasped, stumbling against his chest.

“He’s a bloody Death Eater, Hermione! I turn my back for one minute—one—and you’re whoring yourself out to the enemy!”

Her world slowed. Her vision narrowed.

“Ron—” she started, wrenching her arm—but then—

“You really are just a stupid mudblood,” he spat, eyes wild. “Bet you liked it, didn’t you?”

Hermione froze. The word cracked through her like a whip.

But before she could react—

Lucius moved.

His hand shot out and seized Ron’s wrist with the cold precision of a duelist. His grip was vice-like, unshakable.

“You are hurting her,” he said.

The room had gone silent. Every head had turned.

Ron yelped and let go, staggering back as Lucius shoved him aside with controlled force. Then he stepped in front of Hermione, positioning himself like a shield—tall, immovable, lethal.

Narcissa was suddenly at Hermione’s side, silent and elegant and furious. Her fingers brushed Hermione’s arm, checking gently for bruises.

Lucius's voice, when it came again, was loud enough to carry, but perfectly calm—like frost creeping across glass.

“Men who claim to love women,” he said, “should never lay hands on them in violence. Nor should they call them slurs for daring to speak to others.”

His gaze flicked down to Ron like a blade.

“Miss Granger deserves reverence. Not drunken jealousy and bile.”

The crowd stood still, held breathlessly at the edge of scandal. Somewhere across the room, a camera flash went off.

Hermione stood frozen between fury and disbelief, her pulse a war drum.

For the first time all night, she realized something strange and disorienting:

She felt... safe.

With Lucius Malfoy.

Everyone had seen it.

The entire ballroom—every diplomat, every reporter, every socialite—had watched it unfold: Ronald Weasley, red-faced and reeking of alcohol, yanking Hermione Granger across the floor like she was property. Shouting slurs. Bruising her skin.

And Lucius Malfoy, of all people, stepping in.

Not just stepping in—shielding her. Defending her with lethal grace, calm fury, and a level of control Ron couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Security moved quickly after that. Two officials in dark robes escorted Ron out with practiced efficiency, before he could do more damage—to her or to what remained of his reputation.

Lucius didn’t move until Ron was fully gone. He stayed rooted between Hermione and the door, back straight, chin high, until the echo of shouting and scuffle faded down the corridor.

Then Narcissa was at her side in a swish of silk and starlight, one hand gently on Hermione’s arm as she guided her toward the nearest table. Her voice was soft and crisp with concern.

“Oh, Miss Granger—are you alright? Shall we call a Healer? Lucius and I would be more than happy to escort you to St. Mungo’s.”

Hermione sat down slowly, like her limbs didn’t belong to her anymore. Her heart beat far too loudly in her ears.

Ron had done that.

He had grabbed her. He had hurt her.

In front of the entire wizarding elite.

They were supposed to be in love.

Weren’t they?

But what he had done—what everyone had witnessed—wasn’t love. It was ownership. Command. Fury wrapped in entitlement. He had looked at her like a possession, not a partner.

Her hand trembled slightly. She shook her head.

Narcissa misread the gesture, assuming it was a polite refusal. She gave Hermione a tight, assessing look and pressed her lips into a thin line. The girl was in shock. And if she wouldn’t go to the hospital, then at the very least—

“I’ll see you home,” Narcissa said gently, already signaling to a house-elf in the corner. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

Across the ballroom, cameras were still flashing.

The story was already writing itself.

And Hermione Granger—brilliant war heroine, ambitious entrepreneur, loyal Gryffindor—sat silent, the sting of Ron’s grip still echoing in her bones.

But deeper, behind the ache and confusion, a new thought was beginning to rise. Quiet. Steady.

She deserved better.

The crack of Apparition echoed softly against the empty street as the three of them landed outside Hermione’s modest flat.
The night air was cool, brushing against her skin like a whisper. Hermione stood frozen for a moment on the cobbled walk, unsure if her knees would carry her the rest of the way.

Lucius released her arm gently. Narcissa, ever graceful, kept one hand at the small of Hermione’s back, guiding her up the steps as if she were something fragile. Not broken. But breakable.

When they reached her door, Hermione fumbled briefly with her key before Narcissa stepped in, taking it from her hand without a word and unlocking the door with a practiced flick of her wand.

Hermione stepped inside and turned back to them, uncertain.

Lucius was standing a respectful distance away, pale and solemn beneath the streetlight. His expression was unreadable—something between concern and calculation, but softer than she had ever seen from him before.

Narcissa took Hermione’s hands in both of hers, her grip firm and warm.

“My dear,” she said quietly, “if you need anything—anything at all—you come to us. Do you understand?”
Hermione nodded, throat tight.

“We mean that,” Lucius added. “Not out of obligation. Not out of politics.” He paused. “Because it was the right thing to do tonight. And it will be the right thing again, if needed.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Narcissa squeezed her hands once more. “Rest. Breathe. And when you wake up tomorrow… remember that this night does not define you.”

Hermione nodded again, eyes stinging. She turned to go inside—and then paused.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, almost surprised by the steadiness in her voice. “And… thank you. Truly.”

The Malfoys inclined their heads in tandem. And as she closed the door behind her, she realized something strange:
She felt… safe.

Chapter Text

Draco folded the Daily Prophet and set it down on the breakfast table. He stared at the front page, brow furrowed.

To be frank, he could hardly believe what it said about his father. Lucius Malfoy—a gallant protector? A man of swift heroism? Please. His father was many things, but chivalrous wasn’t one of them. He was self-serving, cautious, calculating.

Not the sort to jump in front of a wand for anyone.

At least, that’s what Draco had always thought. Especially after Lucius had handed him over to the Dark Lord like a gift-wrapped offering to save his own skin.

Not that Draco resented it, really. He would have done it willingly to save them. He just didn’t like being forced to.

His thoughts spiraled for a moment into memory—bad choices, worse consequences. He shook his head to clear it and glanced back down at the front-page photograph: Hermione Granger, visibly shaken, and Lucius Malfoy shielding her with an outstretched arm. The caption called it “Chivalry Isn’t Dead: Lord Malfoy Defends the Golden Girl.”

This had his mother’s fingerprints all over it.

He looked up. Narcissa sat across the table, poised and composed, sipping tea with the serene grace of a woman who definitely hadn’t just manipulated a national media narrative. Lucius sat beside her, eyes on his own copy of the paper, expression unreadable.

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa murmured behind her cup, “it’s rude to stare.”

Draco blinked. “Sorry, Mother. I just can’t help but notice your scheming splashed all over the front page this morning.”

Narcissa set her teacup down with delicate precision, her lips curving in a slow smile. “Oh, that. I didn’t create that chaos.” Her eyes gleamed. “But I can capitalize on it.”

Draco snorted. “You’re really going to claim this wasn’t your doing? That’s rich.”

Narcissa giggled lightly into her hand. “I’m not omnipotent, darling. Despite what you believe. I simply suggested your father dance with Miss Granger. A little fluff piece, I thought—bridging gaps, mending old wounds.”

She folded her hands in her lap and met Draco’s skeptical gaze. “I didn’t control Mr. Weasley’s behavior. That was all him. And your father…” She glanced at Lucius with surprising fondness. “That was entirely him. He was so dashing—like a knight in shining armor.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m going to be ill.”

Lucius looked up from his paper and offered a small smile. “I’m trying to do better.”

Narcissa reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “And you are. Wonderfully so.” She returned to her tea. “We should check in on Miss Granger later.”

Lucius nodded. “Agreed. She was quite shaken last night when we took her home.”

Draco’s jaw slackened. He stared at them, disbelieving. “What have you done with my parents? Should I call a Healer?”

Lucius looked up from his paper, his expression unusually soft. “I’m trying to do better. For all of us.”

Narcissa nodded serenely. “And if our reputation happens to improve in the process, well, all the better.”

Maybe they had changed. They spoke with sincerity. Or at least enough of it to make Draco pause. Time would tell.

Then Narcissa set her tea down with a purposeful clink and turned her attention back to Draco.
“Draco dear, I’ve prepared a list of potential matches. It’s time you selected a wife.”

Lucius loudly turned the page of his paper in an exaggerated show of noninvolvement.

Draco dropped his face into his hands. “Mother. We’ve talked about this. I’m focused on building my firm. I don’t have time for women.”

Narcissa dabbed delicately at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “Oh, I see. You would deprive your poor mother the joy of grandchildren.” She sniffled. “How tragic.”

She proceeded to pretty-cry in silence.

Damn.

Draco hated it when women cried. Especially his mother. Even when he knew it was all an act.

Draco groaned into his hands. “Mother, if I promise to look at the list and go on one date, will you please stop crying?”

Narcissa let out an even louder sob into her embroidered handkerchief. “Five dates!”

Draco peeked at her through his fingers. “Two.”

“Five!” she wailed, voice cracking with such dramatic flair she could have earned a standing ovation.

He sighed, shoulders sagging. “Fine. Three. And you can pick one of them.”

Instantly, the tears vanished. Narcissa looked up with a radiant smile, not a trace of distress left on her perfectly painted face. “Deal.”

She gave a flick of her wand, and a scroll materialized in midair with a little shimmer of glittering smoke. It landed in front of Draco with a heavy thump, as though weighed down by expectation.

Draco stared at it as if it might bite him. “What have I gotten myself into?”

Narcissa beamed. “The beginning of your future, darling.”

He sighed dramatically and picked up the scroll. “I’m going to have the worst dates of my life.”

“Not if you let me dress you,” Narcissa said sweetly, already mentally redesigning his wardrobe.

Lucius finally lowered his paper with a dry smile. “Merlin help the poor girls.”

Draco shot him a look. “I’m not ready for marriage. Or kids. Or whatever madness Mother has planned.”

Narcissa just sipped her tea with maddening serenity. “You’ll thank me one day, dear.”

Draco looked back down at the list, feeling as though his doom had just been sealed in gilded ink.

And somewhere, far too close by, Narcissa Malfoy smiled like a queen setting her pieces on the board.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 — Between the Shelves

Granger’s was humming with life.

Nestled in a prime corner of Diagon Alley, Hermione’s shop had become something of a local gem. Between the polished oak shelves, curated displays, and cozy reading nooks, it felt more like a refuge than a business. She’d opened it to bring Muggle and magical literature together—stories, games, even gadgets. And judging by the steady stream of foot traffic, she’d succeeded.

Still, even as she bustled about stocking shelves and answering customer questions, her mind wasn’t on business.

It was on the front page of that morning’s Daily Prophet.

She had read the article three times.

It hadn’t lied. That was the worst part.

Ron had grabbed her. Had yelled. Had called her that word. And while it had all happened so fast—like a nightmare wrapped in champagne and candlelight—every detail had been etched in permanent ink. Not just in the article. In her memory.

She deserved better. She knew that.

But she also couldn’t help but feel hollow. Ron had been her friend since childhood. Loyal, brave, infuriating Ron. She had grown used to his temper, his stubbornness, his occasional cruelties hidden in jokes. But never once had she feared him.

Not until now.

And once you feared someone, how could you go back?

She sighed and rang up a stack of enchanted cookbooks, barely noticing the cheerful chime of the register.

Should she end it?

Would he let her?

The questions turned over and over in her mind like worn-out pages. She didn’t notice the familiar swirl of green in the fireplace until she heard a soft thud of boots behind her.

Harry.

He appeared in his usual work robes, slightly rumpled, glasses smudged, and with that eternally windswept look of a man who either just survived an explosion or caused one.

“Busy morning?” he asked, brushing soot from his sleeve.

Hermione smiled, grateful. “It’s always busy.”

Harry looked at her carefully, the kind of look only a best friend can give. “You okay?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head.

“I read it,” he said gently.

“I know.”

They were quiet for a moment, tucked between the fiction section and a spinning rack of wizarding crossword books.

“I don’t understand him anymore,” Hermione said finally. “He’s angry all the time. I think—” she paused, “I think the war broke him in a different way.”

Harry nodded grimly. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you have to break with him.”

She blinked.

“You can leave,” he said softly. “You should. For your safety. For your sanity.”

Hermione swallowed.

Harry added, “I’ll be right here. Always.”

She smiled, watery but real. “I know.”

He grinned. “Good. Now let me buy a book before I start weeping like a tragic romantic heroine.”

“Try Hogwarts: A History, it’s very emotionally moving.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I am hilarious.”

And for a moment, the heaviness lifted.

Just enough for her to breathe.

Harry was right. He usually was, annoyingly enough.

It was time to end things with Ron. Maybe—just maybe—he’d be mature enough for them to remain friends.

Hermione snorted aloud at the thought.

And maybe she’d become the daughter-in-law of Lucius Malfoy while she was at it.

Hermione’s day carried on with the usual, methodical rhythm of bookstore life—pages rustling, customers murmuring, the comforting scent of parchment and ink hanging in the air. Her mind was made up: she was going to break up with Ron.

Oddly enough, she might even owe Lucius Malfoy a thank-you.

Without his unexpected act of gallantry, she might still be excusing Ron’s temper and explaining away his barbed words. But now, she saw it clearly. What he had become. And she could get out before it was too late.

Apparently, thinking about the Malfoys was enough to summon them.

The bell above the door chimed with a cheerful jingle, and when she looked up—of course—it was them.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy swept into the shop like they owned it. They wore coordinated robes of deep midnight blue velvet trimmed in shimmering black, and they looked utterly delighted to see her.

Hermione had one fleeting, desperate thought of diving into the back room and locking the door behind her.

Too late.

The Malfoys had spotted her, and they were making an elegant beeline toward the counter like a pair of beautifully dressed predators.

Hermione straightened her spine, forcibly shoving away any residual embarrassment from the night before, and stretched a customer-service smile across her face.

It felt very tight on her cheeks.

“Hello,” she said with overly bright politeness. “Welcome to my shop.”

Narcissa stepped forward first, graceful as ever, and clasped Hermione’s hand like they were old acquaintances. “My dear girl,” she said warmly, “you look positively radiant. How are you feeling today?”

Hermione blinked. “Um… I’m fine, thank you.”

“You were not fine last night,” Lucius said, cutting in with a frown. “You were trembling. I doubt you've eaten anything of substance, and it would be very Granger of you to convince yourself you're fine while you clearly are not.”

Hermione opened her mouth—then closed it.

He had a point.

“I made sure she got home safely,” Narcissa added. “But we couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was such a dreadful scene.”

Hermione’s eyes softened. “Thank you. Both of you. I’m… still processing it all, I suppose.”

Lucius gave her an approving nod, like she’d passed some sort of test. “If I may say, Miss Granger, this shop of yours is spectacular. Thoughtfully arranged. Excellent lighting. The scent of paper and ink—nostalgic without being dusty. It has taste.”

Hermione blinked again. Had Lucius Malfoy just complimented her on lighting?

“Thank you,” she said, a bit cautiously. “It’s been a labor of love.”

“It shows,” Lucius replied, already wandering off to inspect a curated table of magical history tomes. “Ah, first edition Bathilda Bagshot. Signed. Remarkable.”

Meanwhile, Narcissa leaned across the counter like a co-conspirator. “You know,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’ve been dying to start a book club.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Really?”

“Of course. Something with a bit more substance than tea and gossip. I want discussion. Controversy. Wit.” Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously. “And I thought—who better to lead it than the cleverest witch of our age?”

Hermione gave her a look. “You mean me?”

“Obviously,” Narcissa said, smiling as if it had all been decided days ago. “I’ve already chosen the first book. It’s sitting in your Charms & Society section.”

“You haven’t even asked if I want to host this book club,” Hermione pointed out.

Narcissa waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, you do. You just don’t know it yet.”

Hermione fought back a laugh. “You’re very used to getting your way, aren’t you?”

Narcissa looked pleased. “Dear, I’m a Black by birth and a Malfoy by marriage. I invented getting my way.”

Lucius reappeared beside his wife, holding a small stack of books. “I’ve selected my reading for the week,” he announced. “I shall be coming here regularly from now on. Your recommendation shelf alone puts Flourish and Blotts to shame.”

Hermione flushed, strangely pleased. “Well… thank you. That means a lot.”

“Excellent,” Narcissa said briskly. “So it’s settled then. You’ll host our book club. First meeting in two weeks. I’ll have my assistant owl you the guest list.”

Hermione stared. “Guest list?”

“Oh yes,” Narcissa said airily. “I’m thinking eight people, very exclusive, all intellectually capable of keeping up. I’ve already prepared the Manor.”

“You what?”

Lucius offered her a slightly apologetic shrug. “She’s unstoppable once she’s set her sights on something.”

“I’m noticing that,” Hermione muttered.

Narcissa beamed. “Wonderful. I knew we’d get along.”

Hermione watched them turn, as poised and perfect as ever, and glide toward the door like a pair of society swans.

The bell above the door jingled softly as they left.

Hermione leaned on the counter and stared at the spot where they’d stood.

What had just happened?

She’d been steamrolled into a social club by Narcissa Malfoy and complimented on her shelving by Lucius Malfoy.

She shook her head, a bemused smile tugging at her lips.

What a bizarre day.

Chapter Text

Narcissa was pleased as a pixie eating a sugar cube. She glowed with her inner happiness. Hermione was a perfect co-host for the book club. Over the past four weeks they had built quite the little club.

The women included people from both Hermione’s generation and her own. Some of them held influence; others, like Lovegood, wielded it through ink and imagination. Luna, now the owner of The Quibbler, had announced tonight that she was writing a feature on their club—“a revolutionary intergenerational literary circle,” she’d called it, “bridging post-war healing and modern magical feminism.”

Narcissa beamed behind her teacup. It was, frankly, a publicist’s dream.

Hands folded in her lap, she listened as Luna mused aloud about pirate-themed romances and the sociopolitical implications of bodice-ripping. Narcissa barely heard a word. She was too busy imagining the Prophet’s society pages printing photos of her—smiling, gracious, refined—beside the Ministry’s favorite Muggle-born.

Repairing a reputation was like hosting a salon: one needed just the right atmosphere, precisely chosen guests, and only a hint of scandal to keep the world talking.

And scandal, thanks to young Mr. Weasley, was currently swirling around Hermione like perfume.

Narcissa’s smile sharpened. Thank you, Ronald.

The final guests began gathering their cloaks and hugging their goodbyes. There were promises to reconvene soon, perhaps with a Victorian vampire novel or a thrilling dive into Muggle detective fiction. Narcissa nodded, accepted a kiss on each cheek, and graciously ushered them all out.

Only Hermione remained.

She was straightening the mugs, gathering forgotten bookmarks, her movements automatic and unusually quiet.

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

“My dear,” she said smoothly, “won’t you stay for tea?”

Hermione blinked. “Oh—no, I don’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense.” Narcissa was already gliding toward the tea trolley. “You look like you could use a moment to breathe. And besides, the kitchen elves made those lovely rose almond biscuits just for tonight. It would be a shame to let them go stale.”

There was a beat of hesitation. Then Hermione gave in with a tired, grateful smile. “All right. Tea sounds nice.”

Lucius appeared as if summoned, dressed in soft black robes and looking every inch the aristocrat at leisure. He greeted Hermione with a polite nod before settling into his usual armchair beside the fire.

“Miss Granger,” he said, pouring himself a splash of brandy instead of tea. “Lovely as always.”

Hermione flushed faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy.”

They settled into their familiar triangle—Lucius lounging like a cat, Hermione curled with careful posture, and Narcissa between them like the sun of her own little solar system.

“I must say,” Narcissa began, her tone airily indulgent, “I’m quite proud of you, Hermione.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “For finishing a book club about shirtless pirates?”

“For dumping that freckled firework of a man,” Narcissa said sweetly.

Lucius smirked behind his brandy. “Yes, well. You were always far too clever for a Weasley.”

Hermione gave a dry little laugh, polite but unbothered. “That’s not the problem anymore. My problem has far less red hair and far more bureaucratic smugness.”

Narcissa perked up, curious. “Oh?”

Hermione sighed, sipping her tea. “Ulysses Brown. Ministry’s Senior Liaison for Magical Trade and Transportation. He’s been ignoring my trade permit application for over two months.”

Lucius tilted his head. “Trade permit?”

“I’m trying to import Muggle board games,” Hermione said. “Chess, Monopoly, Risk. I’ve even got plans for a wizarding-friendly adaptation of Clue.”

Narcissa blinked. “And they’re denying you?”

“They’re ignoring me. Completely.” She grimaced. “He’s either incompetent, corrupt, or thinks the wizarding world will implode if someone plays Operation.”

Lucius gave a slow, thoughtful nod. Then: “You should ask Draco.”

Hermione blinked. “Pardon?”

“Our son,” Narcissa clarified helpfully. “He’s a consultant now. Legal work, mostly, but he’s recently expanded into lobbying. Very persuasive, when he chooses to be.”

Lucius chuckled. “And very bored lately. I imagine he’d leap at the chance to legally terrify Ulysses Brown.”

Hermione tilted her head, considering. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well,” Narcissa said, buttering a biscuit with perfect elegance, “you’re family now. Practically.”

Hermione gave her a sharp look. “That seems like a leap.”

Narcissa only smiled. “Oh, darling. I never leap. I arrange the floor so that gravity does the work for me.”

Draco entered the room in a grey tailored suit that looked like it had walked itself off the pages of a Muggle fashion magazine. The jacket was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled just enough to show off strong forearms that were entirely too well-defined for someone who spent most of his time behind a desk.

Hermione stared.

Just for a beat.

Then she shook her head with a tiny exhale and returned to her tea, as if willing her own reaction into submission.

Narcissa, of course, noticed everything. She daintily hid her knowing smirk behind a rose almond biscuit.

Draco faltered for only a second when he caught sight of Hermione sitting primly in one of the green velvet wingbacks like she belonged there. His brow lifted in silent question as he glanced between his parents. Lucius merely shrugged with aristocratic nonchalance and returned to swirling his brandy.

Narcissa, radiant with faux innocence, beamed. “We were just talking about you, darling. To our dear Hermione.”

Draco arched a brow. “‘Dear Hermione’?”

“Indeed,” Narcissa said breezily, arranging her skirts. “She’s become quite a close personal friend to your father and me these past few weeks.”

Hermione flushed scarlet and brought her teacup to her lips in a desperate bid for concealment. All three Malfoys watched her in unison, like cats eyeing a startled mouse.

Delightful.

Draco’s gaze swept over her—up, down, across, lingering—but said absolutely nothing. No smirk. No sneer. No comment. His expression was carefully blank.

Occluding.

Interesting.

He dropped into the armchair opposite Hermione like he owned it, which he technically did. One leg crossed, elbows braced on his knees.

“I hope they were only telling you good things,” he said, with a sideways smile. “One never knows with my mother.”

Hermione, to her credit, rallied quickly. “Actually, yes. They were good things.” She tilted her head. “They said you might be able to help me.”

“Oh?” His tone was light, but Narcissa saw the flicker of curiosity sharpen his eyes.

“I’m having issues with a trade permit,” Hermione said. “Ulysses Brown’s been ignoring my requests.”

Draco’s smirk unfurled slowly, wicked and delighted. “Brown. Of course.”

He rubbed his hands together like an eager dragon. “I can help with that. Let’s set up an appointment at my office. Bring every document you’ve submitted and every reply you didn’t receive. I’ll handle the rest.”

Hermione blinked at him. “That easy?”

He leaned back with theatrical arrogance. “I’m a Malfoy. Intimidation is in the blood.”

Lucius chuckled behind his glass.

Narcissa sat back, sipping her tea like it was the elixir of foresight. Her eyes glinted as she watched them—Hermione, flushed and composed; Draco, sharp and gleaming like the tip of a well-polished blade.

Something was shifting. Quietly. Inevitably.

What, Narcissa wondered, could she do with these two?

The better question, perhaps, was what couldn’t she?

And she already had a few ideas.

Chapter Text

Draco was preparing a meeting room at his firm to speak with Granger.

He chose one of the smaller rooms—something efficient, professional, and not intimidating. It had enough space for four people, though he only expected three: himself, Theo, and Granger. Technically, a simple trade permit didn’t require a crowd. But if Granger was anything like she’d been in school (and he suspected she very much was), she’d arrive armed with enough documentation to fell a troll.

That was one of the infuriatingly impressive things about her—always prepared, always precise, always a walking, talking footnote. She never needed help, which was unnatural. Who doesn’t need help?

Apparently Granger.

Not that he really knew her that well. Not now. Not beyond the Granger of school—brilliant, stubborn, infuriatingly competitive. The only person who’d ever made him work for his grades. He fully expected her to come in with the entire Ministry protocol already annotated.

Still, this meeting mattered. His parents had made that abundantly clear. According to them, Hermione was “practically family.” Which, in Malfoy terms, meant if Draco so much as raised an eyebrow at her the wrong way, he’d suffer an emotional siege from both flanks.

His mother would cry. His father would scowl. For days.

He wasn’t sure which was worse. The tearful guilt trip or the arctic disapproval. Frankly, neither sounded survivable.

Draco sighed and braced himself on the polished edge of the desk.

How had she become friends with his parents, anyway?

He supposed it started at that Ministry gala and solidified somewhere between pirate book clubs and his mother’s masterclass in manipulation. However it happened, she was suddenly everywhere—around the Manor, in casual conversation, in the bloody drawing room like she belonged there.

And now, here.

Still, this could be good for business. A former war heroine as a recurring client? Golden Trio approval? That kind of endorsement could fast-track his firm’s credibility with entire departments.

If he played it right, she might even retain them for all her legal affairs. Maybe name him executor of her estate. Merlin, his mother would explode from pride.

Of course, speaking of Narcissa—Draco still had a date tonight. One of her handpicked “promising pure-bloods.” His reward for surviving this meeting.

From war heroine to marital prospect in under two hours. Excellent.

Mental whiplash, thy name is Malfoy.

At that moment, Theo came bustling in like he owned the place—grinning like a cat who’d just knocked over an heirloom vase and blamed it on the dog.

Behind him trailed Granger, composed as ever, though Draco could practically see the exasperation radiating off her in waves.

Theo threw his arms open dramatically. “Welcome, welcome! Here is where we shall be doing Very Serious Legal Work today. Poor Draco’s been fretting like a Victorian governess getting ready for the vicar.”

He leaned toward Hermione and stage-whispered, “He’s terrified of what Mummy and Daddy will do if he upsets you. Something about being ‘practically family.’”

Draco didn’t even blink. “Ignore him, Granger. He was dropped on his head as a child.” He stepped forward and offered his hand, his smile polite but sincere. “Welcome to the firm.”

She took it with a firm, businesslike shake. “Thank you, Malfoy. I really appreciate the help—I feel like I’ve been smashing my head against a bludger over this trade permit.”

Theo gasped and collapsed into a chair like a Regency maiden. “Not your pretty head!”

Hermione raised an unimpressed brow. Draco just stared at Theo like he was considering setting him on fire.

Moving on, Draco pulled out a chair for Hermione and gestured smoothly. “Let’s get started. Tell me everything—timeline, goals, and all documentation you’ve got.”

He rolled up his sleeves as he moved around the table, settling into the seat beside her.

Theo immediately perked up. “Oh, those arms. Dracy, you know what they do to me.” He clutched his heart and mock-swooned against the backrest.

Neither Hermione nor Draco dignified that with a response.

Hermione wordlessly flicked her wand, and five perfectly labeled folders floated out of her satchel and arranged themselves in a neat line on the table.

Theo sat up straight. “Damn, girl. Did you bring your entire bookstore?”

Still no response.

Draco opened the first folder, scanned the contents, then opened another. A slow smile curved his mouth. “Merlin’s balls, this is organized.”

Hermione smiled, smug. “I like a clean audit trail.”

Theo flipped open a third folder, his theatrics temporarily replaced by something bordering on reverence. “Color-coded tabs. Clear objectives. Profit projections. Footnotes. Is that… a ten-year expansion plan?”

Draco let out a low whistle. “Most of our clients show up with a shoebox of crumpled parchment and vague dreams. You brought a business empire and an annotated index.”

Theo looked over the rim of a spreadsheet. “I’d like to formally apologize for ever doubting your priorities. Also, can I invest?”

Hermione smirked. “Depends. Do you file your taxes on time?”

Theo winced. “Oof. She cuts deep.”

Draco chuckled and leaned back, impressed despite himself. “Well, Granger. Let’s get you that trade permit. The Ministry won’t know what hit them.”

Theo was already flipping through the second folder, muttering appreciative things like “margin notes—be still my heart” and “Hermione Granger, slayer of bureaucratic inefficiency.”

Draco, meanwhile, was trying not to stare.

It wasn’t easy. Granger looked… infuriatingly good. She wore a sharply tailored navy pantsuit that somehow managed to be both intimidating and flattering. Her curls were pulled back just enough to frame her face, and her perfume—subtle, warm, something like lavender and fresh parchment—was dangerously distracting.

She was leaning over the table, pointing at a line in one of her charts, completely focused. Completely in control. And Draco, whose entire life revolved around power and presentation, found himself absurdly impressed.

And maybe a bit undone.

“So the idea,” she was saying, “is to start with three core Muggle games that require minimal magical adaptation. I’ve already sourced local manufacturing through a wizard-friendly printer and developed safety enchantments for pieces like the Monopoly money and Risk tokens.”

Draco blinked. “You enchanted the money?”

“Well, yes,” she said, like it was obvious. “So it doesn’t flutter off the table with every breeze. And I charmed the Clue cards to reshuffle themselves when not in use. Neat, tidy, tamper-proof.”

Theo whistled. “Do the games come with a manual or do they simply run themselves now?”

Hermione gave him a look. “There’s still a printed rulebook. I’m not a monster.”

Draco chuckled and leaned forward, tapping a finger against one of her charts. “You’ve already projected first-year earnings?”

She nodded. “Conservatively, yes. Assuming standard uptake in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. I have pitches scheduled with Zonko’s and Flourish and Blotts.”

Draco whistled low. “Granger… this is good. Not Ministry-good. This is ‘I should be charging you twice my usual rate’ good.”

Hermione grinned. “And yet I’m getting the friends and family discount.”

“Are we friends now?” he asked, tone lightly teasing.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Your mother says I’m practically family. Take it up with her.”

Theo was watching them like it was a tennis match. “If you two flirt any harder I’m going to have to bill by the hour for emotional damage.”

Draco rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Back to Brown,” he said briskly, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. “If he’s been dodging this, we need to apply pressure in three ways: paperwork, precedent, and public scrutiny.”

Hermione perked up. “Public scrutiny?”

“Oh, yes,” Draco said with a shark-like smile. “We’re going to let him know—politely, of course—that you’ve consulted legal counsel, that your paperwork is flawless, and that if he continues to delay, there are quite a few journalists who’d love a story about the Ministry obstructing an upstanding war hero’s small business.”

Theo leaned forward, practically vibrating. “I can write the letter. I’ll make it so devastatingly formal it’ll sound like he’s already been sacked.”

Hermione blinked. “Do you actually enjoy this?”

Theo and Draco spoke in unison: “Deeply.”

Hermione laughed and shook her head. “Well then. Terrify him. Politely.”

Draco gave her a slow, satisfied smile. “With pleasure.”

And Merlin help Ulysses Brown, because between Granger’s meticulous business plans, Theo’s chaos energy, and Draco’s dangerously pretty smirk, his career was about to meet its match.

By the time Granger left—with a promise to send over the finalized projections and a smirk that said she fully knew how smug Draco had looked during their meeting—Draco felt both energized and slightly unhinged.

She’d smelled like ambition and sugar.

He needed a drink.

Unfortunately, he did not have time for a drink.

Because the next line in his calendar, in Theo’s horrible all-caps handwriting, read:

🖤 DATE NIGHT: DON’T BE LATE OR CISSY WILL CRY 🖤

He sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.
“I’m going to die,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

Theo, lounging in the doorway and eating some leftover biscuits, looked far too pleased. “Oh, come on. It’s not like she’s going to propose. Probably.”

“I’m not in the mood to be paraded like a breeding stallion,” Draco grumbled, already loosening his tie and trying to remember where he’d left the blazer with his cufflinks.

“She’s a respectable match,” Theo offered, utterly unhelpfully. “Pretty. Knows which fork is for salad. Might even own a vault.”

“I already know how this ends,” Draco said, gathering his papers with the air of a man preparing for war. “She’ll talk about charity galas and appropriate names for future offspring. I’ll count every pore on the wallpaper and contemplate diving headfirst into my dessert.”

Theo blinked. “There’s dessert?”

Draco ignored him.

Outside, the sun was setting in that suspiciously romantic way the sky sometimes conspired with his mother. The air was crisp, the Manor probably smelled like peonies and manipulation, and somewhere—Draco just knew it—Narcissa was already adjusting a place setting and beaming about the future Mrs. Malfoy.

He paused in front of the mirror to fix his hair. It was only then that he noticed the faint trace of perfume on his collar.

Lavender And parchment.

Granger.

He scowled at himself, then muttered, “I’m doomed.”

And with that, Draco Apparated to dinner—into the gilded jaws of Pureblood matchmaking, an overachieving blonde witch still in his head, and one very unfortunate bottle of elf-made wine.

The restaurant was lovely.

Objectively.

All warm candlelight and gold flatware and just enough enchantments to suggest romance without overwhelming the foie gras.

Draco sat across from his date—Cosima Greengrass, younger cousin of Daphne and yet another pure-blood girl handpicked by Narcissa for her “pedigree and poise.” Cosima had sleek blonde hair, an impeccable grasp on napkin placement, and a voice that could make lullabies sound like tax code.

“…and then I told her that charmed chamomile just doesn’t suit my aura,” she was saying, swizzling her wineglass like it had personally offended her. “Can you imagine? She tried to pair it with my onyx-infused day robe. Tragic.”

Draco blinked.

He nodded. Automatically.

And thought about Hermione.

Specifically, Hermione’s color-coded business plan, her margin notes in three different inks, the way she’d lit up talking about her Muggle-wizarding market strategy like it was a Quidditch final. She had talked fast, thought faster, and challenged both him and Theo with that brisk, bright intensity of hers.

It had been… oddly thrilling.

Fun, even.

Cosima giggled—light and chiming—as she reached for the breadbasket. “And Mummy says the vineyard in France is nearly ready to host my engagement party. Can you believe it?”

Draco took a slow sip of wine and carefully didn’t answer.

Hermione hadn’t talked about a vineyard. She’d talked about vertical integration models and limited liability charms and how to keep board games accessible to underfunded magical schools.

And she’d smelled good. Looked good. That Muggle pantsuit had fit her like a spell. Clean lines. Crisp collar. Sharp as her mind.

Draco frowned at his wineglass.

He did not like swots.

Swots were bossy. Overachieving. Book-obsessed.

Also brilliant. Organized. Funny when they didn’t mean to be. Sharp-tongued and terrifyingly prepared and somehow better company than—

No.

Absolutely not.

Cosima was still talking. Draco had no idea about what. Possibly petals. Or pudding.

He cleared his throat. “Pardon me. I—need to send an urgent owl.”

Cosima blinked. “Oh? Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Just… legal things.”

And without waiting for dessert, Draco fled into the cool evening air, mentally drafting a new clause in his personal constitution:

Do not fall for Granger.

She’s bossy. She’s brilliant. She’s dangerous.

And he might already be in trouble.

Chapter Text

Narcissa sat at the breakfast table in her favorite chocolate-and-mint colored dress, her fingers tapping rhythmically against a porcelain teacup. Earl Grey with lavender and honey—just the way she liked it first thing in the morning.

She had a busy schedule today.

There were several manipulations she needed to check on—little threads she had spun into motion over the past week. If the iron was hot, she would strike. If not, she would make it hot. She already had contingencies drawn up for nearly every outcome. A good strategist never approached the battlefield without an alternate plan—or five.

First on the list: Draco. She needed to assess his thoughts on the date he’d promised to go on last night. Cosima Greengrass.

She already knew Cosima’s thoughts, of course. The pure-blood rumor mill had practically screamed them through the Floo network.

Cosima Greengrass, in Narcissa’s opinion, was a complete airhead. The girl had no original thoughts in her head, no ambition beyond matching the hue of her robes to the phase of the moon. She had only made Narcissa’s list because she was pure-blooded and—most importantly—not related to either the Malfoys or the Blacks. Narcissa had zero interest in letting her son inbreed with a cousin. She had standards.

Anyway, the rumor was that Cosima found Draco handsome and a very good listener, as he’d sat quietly through dinner while she prattled on. She also thought Draco was dedicated to work, having left in the middle of the meal for a “legal emergency.” According to Cosima, they were practically engaged. Wedding bells by Christmas.

Narcissa snorted into her tea.

Poor girl. She had no idea.

Draco was many things, but quiet and attentive during dull conversation was not one of them.

There were still two more dates to go, per their little agreement. And she got to pick one of them.

Narcissa already had the perfect girl in mind. Someone Draco would never see coming. Someone entirely different from the usual pure-blood suspects. It was going to be delicious.

She smirked and let out a soft, satisfied giggle.

Lucius looked up from behind his copy of The Daily Prophet, one brow arching over the rim of the page. “Something funny, dear?”

Narcissa’s smile turned sweet. “World domination, darling.”

Lucius rolled his eyes fondly and turned the page. “Let me know my role in your new world order.”

“Oh, just sit there and look pretty,” she said with a wink.

“Can do, my love,” he murmured, returning to his reading.

They fell back into their companionable silence just as Draco swept into the breakfast room, looking suspiciously well-groomed for someone who’d allegedly fled a dinner early.

Narcissa took a bite of toast, watching him over the rim of her cup. Best to let him settle in. Let him believe he was safe.

She waited, perfectly patient, as Draco poured his tea—bergamot, splash of cream, two sugars. Just as he lifted the cup to his lips—

“Draco, dear,” she said lightly, “how did your date with Cosima Greengrass go?”

Lucius made a suspiciously loud show of turning the page again, pretending not to be listening.

Draco flinched. A subtle twitch, but Narcissa saw it. He squirmed in his seat. He did not want to talk about it.

Which, of course, made her all the more eager to hear.

He sighed into his cup, then lowered it with the air of a man headed to the gallows.

“Cosima Greengrass,” he said, with the grave solemnity of someone announcing a death in the family, “was the picture of a perfect pure-blood. And she was completely boring. I have no plans to see her again.”

Narcissa sipped her tea. “Oh, that’s too bad. From what I’ve heard, the two of you are planning a Christmas wedding.”

Draco groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “No! Absolutely not.” He looked up, gesturing wildly. “I ditched her before dessert! She’s the personification of my own personal hell—boring and a complete idiot.”

Lucius disguised his laugh as a cough, shifting behind his paper.

Narcissa steepled her fingers. “A pity. But I suppose it’s fortunate there are still more names on the list I gave you.”

She let the words hang in the air.

Just long enough.

Then she smiled and moved on.

There were other irons in the fire.

And she intended to strike them all.

Narcissa stood poised in her chocolate-and-mint colored dress, a picture of composed charm beside Lucius, who wore matching robes like the loyal accessory he was. They were ready to visit Granger’s.

Truly, the bookstore had become one of their favorite places. A quiet little gem in Diagon Alley, full of charm and shelves that whispered old secrets. Narcissa always left with a carefully curated stack of books. Lucius, meanwhile, had a habit of settling into one of the plush reading nooks for a scandalous number of hours.

It was adorable.

He thought she didn’t know.

But she did.

Lucius loved being near Hermione. Narcissa was fairly certain her husband had started to see the girl as a daughter—one he needed to protect, to guide, to quietly hover behind with a well-placed hex for any idiot who dared underestimate her.

Narcissa found the whole thing endearing.

And useful.

Because while Lucius saw a daughter, Narcissa saw a sword.

Sharp. Brilliant. Unyielding.

A blade she was slowly forging, tempering with warmth and steel until Hermione could protect their family as fiercely as Narcissa intended to protect her.

Oh, don’t get confused—yes, she would use Hermione. Narcissa had no illusions about that.

But she adored the girl. With the kind of fierce affection that whispered: mine.

As far as Narcissa was concerned, Hermione was her daughter.

Everyone else simply needed to be informed.

And today was a step in that direction.

Because today, Narcissa was going to kidnap Hermione and sweep her off on their first official mother-daughter shopping trip.

Hermione had no idea what was coming.

Narcissa smiled, slid her gloved hand into Lucius’s, and apparated with a soft crack to Diagon Alley.

Hand in hand, they strolled directly toward their favorite destination: Granger’s.

The bell above the shop door gave its usual cheerful jingle as Narcissa stepped into Granger’s with Lucius at her side, the scent of parchment and lavender ink curling in the air like an embrace.

She took a deep, satisfied breath. Homey, she thought fondly. Hermione.

The shop was warm and bustling. A stack of enchanted books hummed softly in the corner. A child squealed with delight as a pop-up dragon book sneezed glitter. And behind the counter, Hermione Granger was very clearly in the middle of denying someone something.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said, eyes narrowed, curls frizzing in righteous protest. “I have inventory to finish, three pending supply orders, and a cursed copy of Hogwarts: A Revisionist History that keeps calling me a Mudblood.”

Rikki, a short witch with wild hair and a glittery vest covered in ‘Support Small Spells’ buttons, rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “You’ve been here since five, Hermione. Five in the morning. It is now one. Go.”

“Yes,” Patricia added, pushing her stylish braid over her shoulder as she rearranged a display of enchanted bookmarks. “We literally staged a schedule intervention. You’re leaving. With the aristocrats.”

Hermione looked like she’d rather battle a Hungarian Horntail. “Aristocrats?!”

“Good morning, darling,” Narcissa trilled, breezing forward with all the subtlety of a well-thrown hex. She pressed a kiss to Hermione’s cheek, adjusted the collar of her cardigan, and then turned to Lucius, who had already found a new release and was flipping it open with practiced indifference.

Hermione blinked. “Why do I feel like I’ve just been cornered by a decorative tea set?”

“Because you have,” Narcissa said sweetly, looping her arm through Hermione’s and steering her out from behind the counter. “Lucius and I are taking you shopping. No arguments.”

“I’m working!”

“Which is adorable. But you are now not.”

Rikki folded her arms. “Go, boss. We got this.”

Patricia pointed at her clipboard. “Inventory’s sorted, deliveries are on track, and I bribed the cursed book with a very old copy of Witch Weekly featuring Gilderoy Lockhart shirtless. It’s purring.”

Hermione looked betrayed. “You turned my staff against me.”

“We were always against you,” Rikki said brightly. “We just love you.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Narcissa said, sweeping Hermione’s coat off a hook and wrapping it around her shoulders like a mother hen with a shopping addiction. “You are a brilliant, overworked witch, and you’re coming with us. I have plans. Magical ones.”

Hermione opened her mouth.

Lucius, still reading, raised a single eyebrow and said, “It would be wise to surrender, Miss Granger. My wife is very persuasive.”

“And she bites,” Rikki added, grinning.

“Only when necessary,” Narcissa said with a dignified sniff, adjusting Hermione’s scarf.

Hermione sighed the sigh of someone who had already lost the battle and was now simply preserving her dignity. “Fine. One store. And only if we’re back after lunch.”

“Oh, darling,” Narcissa purred, linking arms again, “we’ll be lucky if you’re back by tomorrow.”

With a delighted wave to Rikki and Patricia—who immediately high-fived and returned to alphabetizing—Narcissa swept Hermione out the door.

Let the forging begin.

Diagon Alley on a Saturday was chaos dipped in glitter, then set to a soundtrack of wailing toddlers and squawking owls. Hermione had barely taken three steps out of her shop before Narcissa steered her into the nearest boutique like a general leading a reluctant soldier to glory.

The boutique was called Enchanted & Essential, which was frankly misleading. It was neither of those things. It was, in Hermione’s opinion, a shrine to excessive ruffles and utterly impractical hemlines.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione muttered, holding up a periwinkle robe covered in star-shaped sequins.

“Absolutely yes,” Narcissa replied, snatching the robe and handing it to a delighted attendant. “That would look lovely with your coloring. And it would cause Rita Skeeter to spontaneously combust. A two-for-one.”

Lucius leaned against a pillar in the corner, flipping through Wizarding Architecture: An Indulgent History and occasionally nodding when asked for input. Hermione had no idea if he was actually paying attention or just expertly pretending to. Both were plausible.

The next stop was Spindle & Spool, which sold enchanted gloves that massaged your hands, gloves that held your wand for you, and—Hermione’s personal favorite—gloves that snapped at people who reached for your tea without asking.

“These are weaponized,” Hermione hissed, trying to pry them off.

“They’re practical,” Narcissa countered. “And they match your eyes.”

Lucius, who had by now acquired a small pile of new books from three different shops, glanced over. “You’ll want the adjustable wrist cuff. It’s less likely to choke someone.”

“Unless they deserve it,” Narcissa added mildly.

By the time they reached their fifth shop—an upscale robe atelier with an absurd name (Hems & Hexes)—Hermione was dragging her feet and muttering about spreadsheets. Narcissa, naturally, looked invigorated. Triumph suited her complexion.

Inside, bolts of silk drifted through the air like lazy clouds. A very worried attendant offered tea. Narcissa took hers with lemon. Hermione refused hers on principle.

“Explain to me again,” Hermione said, arms crossed as she eyed a midnight blue gown that looked like it cost more than her entire stockroom, “why you’re doing this.”

Narcissa turned to her, expression innocent. “Because I like you.”

Hermione arched a brow. “And?”

“And because you deserve to be admired. Properly. Publicly. Painfully.”

Lucius, behind them, gave a quiet hum of agreement without looking up from his book. “She means painfully for others, of course. Not you.”

Hermione sighed. “This is your revenge for not letting you name the shop Granger’s and Gladrags, isn’t it?”

“No,” Narcissa said sweetly, “this is my campaign to make you unignorable. And once people start seeing you the way we do—smart, lovely, powerful—they’ll fall in line. Or at least trip over their own feet trying.”

The attendant returned with three gowns and an anxious smile. Hermione took one look and turned to Narcissa.

“I’m not wearing anything that glitters and floats.”

“You’ll wear one. I’ll wear one. We’ll pretend it’s for a Ministry gala. And when you walk in looking like a hex wrapped in chiffon, everyone who ever doubted you will want to die.”

“Or date me.”

“Same difference.”

Hermione groaned, letting her head fall into her hands. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Narcissa agreed brightly, “and it’s working.”

As Hermione vanished behind the dressing curtain with a muttered curse and a trailing gown, Narcissa exchanged a smug look with Lucius.

“That’s one sword nearly forged,” she whispered.

Lucius sipped his tea, not looking up. “Just don’t make her too sharp. She might turn on us.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Narcissa said with a smile so pleased it could have been gift-wrapped. “Let them tremble.”

Chapter Text

Lucius sat in his favorite nook at Granger’s. Narcissa had, once again, dressed him to match her outfit that morning. He didn’t mind—she always had excellent taste, and as long as he was comfortable, he had no complaints. Which he most certainly was, nestled into the plush velvet cushions of a window seat surrounded by sun-dappled shelves.

This little corner had become a sort of haven. Here, he could read undisturbed, warmed by the sun and the faint scent of parchment and coffee. He opened his newest literary discovery—a comic book, as Patricia had called it—with the reverence of a man about to indulge in something properly scandalous.

“Superman,” she had said knowingly, pressing the garishly illustrated booklet into his hands. “Muggles are obsessed with him. You’ll love it.”

To his quiet surprise, she’d been right. The pictures didn’t move, and yet they didn’t need to. It was fast-paced, dramatic, strangely endearing. The man wore his undergarments outside his trousers and yet still managed to exude moral certainty. Remarkable.

Lucius turned another page, brow furrowed in concentration. He could feel Rikki watching him from across the room. That woman was dangerous.

The staff at Granger’s were suspiciously well-trained, overly cheerful, and entirely too fond of him. Naturally, he’d done full background checks on them both the day he noticed Ron Weasley lurking outside the shop’s front window for the second time.

They passed.

Patricia was perpetually surrounded by children, delighting in the chaos of youth and fiction. Rikki—gods help him—was the sassiest creature he'd met since Andromeda Tonks, and seemed to take personal delight in making him blush. He’d once overheard her call him “Daddy Lucius” and nearly choked on his tea. She’d winked when she caught him scowling.

But they loved Hermione. Fiercely. That was what mattered.

It had started with casual observation. A few hours spent watching over the girl who now bore the weight of a whole new kind of fame. But then he’d noticed something far more egregious than paparazzi or Weasleys: she didn’t eat lunch.

He’d watched her go full days with nothing more than tea and a biscuit. Not because she was fasting or being dramatic—but because she simply forgot.

Absolutely unacceptable.

Lucius had dealt with Dark Lords. He could certainly handle one stubborn young woman with no instinct for self-preservation.

So he returned the next day. And the next. And the next.

He bought more comics. He offered lunch. He pointed out the time with the haughty air of someone who wasn’t worried, just mildly inconvenienced by her inability to maintain a proper schedule.

Eventually, Patricia caught on.

“You,” she’d told Hermione one afternoon, waving a clipboard like a sword, “are going to lunch with Daddy Lucy over there, or I’m hexing your chair to eject you every day at noon.”

Lucius pretended to be deeply interested in the table of contents of Justice League Volume Three. But when he saw Hermione’s startled expression and heard her weak protest, he stepped in smoothly.

“I see you’re on your break,” he said, rising with the easy grace of someone who had definitely been not eavesdropping. “So am I. Allow me to escort you.”

He took her arm, wrapped it around his, and swept her out the door before she could argue. She didn’t even realize they were walking to his favorite café until he was holding open the door and ushering her to the best table.

He bought her lunch. It was delicious. She protested—mildly.

The next day, they did it again.

And the day after that.

It became a routine. No, a tradition. At precisely twelve-thirty, Lucius would rise, Hermione would sigh, Patricia would threaten, and Rikki would grin like a kneazle who'd caught a particularly scandalous mouse.

Over the course of several weeks, Hermione’s protests softened. Her eyes began to light up when she saw him. She still forgot to eat on her own—but she no longer fought being cared for.

Lucius began bringing her little treats: a lavender scone she’d once mentioned liking, a new bookmark shaped like a dragon, a small hand-warming charm for the chillier mornings.

He also began casting subtle wards around the shop. Nothing invasive. Just… preventative.

Which is when he caught Harry Potter skulking in the alley across the way.

They stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Lucius stalked outside.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

A beat passed.

“You’re watching over her too,” Lucius said flatly.

Harry looked sheepish. “She’s my best friend.”

Lucius folded his arms. “She’s mine now, too.”

Harry blinked.

“…You know what? That’s fine.”

They ended up coordinating schedules. Some days Harry watched from the alley. Other days Lucius stood sentry in the shop. Once, they even took her to lunch together, and Hermione looked so bewildered by the experience that Lucius almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

She smiled more, now. She laughed, too—especially when he said something dry or needlessly formal. She called him “Lucius,” without flinching, and on rare occasions reached out to touch his sleeve when she wanted his attention.

It wasn’t much. But it was more than he’d hoped for.

And every day, as she returned to her shop with a full stomach and a little more warmth in her cheeks, Lucius thought:

Let them say what they will. I’m exactly where I need to be.

The café was quieter than usual that afternoon. Rain pattered gently against the enchanted windows, casting everything in a soft silver glow. Lucius sipped his tea, flicking a page in his latest Superman issue, and eyed Hermione over the rim of his cup.

She was distracted.

Not in the frazzled, overworked way she used to be. But with a sort of nervous energy that made her fiddle with the edge of her napkin and avoid meeting his eyes.

Lucius raised a brow.

“Miss Granger,” he said, “you’re fidgeting like a student about to confess to cheating on an exam. Which I’m sure you’ve never done in your life.”

She laughed softly, then reached into her bag. “I got you something.”

Lucius blinked. “You… got me something?”

She pulled out a small, square box. It was black, simple, elegant.

“It’s not much,” she said, pushing it across the table, “but I wanted to thank you.”

Lucius hesitated, then opened it.

Inside was a silver wristwatch—sleek, minimal, distinctly Muggle in design. The face gleamed under the café lights. A slim black band framed the polished metal, and the second hand ticked with a steady rhythm.

Lucius stared at it.

“I noticed you never wear one,” Hermione said quickly, cheeks pink. “And this one doesn’t have any charms or enchantments. But it’s accurate to the second and… I thought it might help you keep track of time while you’re reading at the shop. Or just…”

She trailed off, then looked up at him, gaze steady.

“You make me feel safe, Lucius. Like I can breathe. You remind me of my father—not because you're like him, but because… he always knew when I needed something before I did. And he never let me go hungry either.”

Lucius didn’t trust himself to speak.

“I just wanted to show my appreciation,” she finished, and offered him a quiet smile.

He cleared his throat, flustered beyond reason. “Well. That’s quite…”

Touching? Unexpected? Overwhelming? He couldn’t choose, so he said the only thing that came to mind.

“I demand you help me put it on.”

Hermione blinked in surprise, then grinned and reached for his wrist. She fastened the strap with practiced ease, brushing his skin with her fingers. Lucius watched her work with the intense solemnity of someone witnessing a sacred ritual.

“There,” she said. “Perfect fit.”

Lucius lifted his arm, turning it in the light. “Indeed.”

He glanced at her then, gaze softening. “I shall wear it every day.”

And he meant it.

Because somewhere between comic books and café lunches, Hermione Granger had stopped being simply the girl who saved the world.

She had become his girl. His daughter, in all the ways that mattered now.

And Lucius Malfoy would move heaven and earth before letting anything happen to her.

Chapter Text

Hermione was tucked into the back room of her shop, surrounded by parchment, pens, and half-finished paperwork. The afternoon sun slanted through the frosted windows, casting golden stripes across her cluttered desk. She’d intended to finish reconciling last week’s sales, but her mind, rebellious and far too reflective for a Wednesday, had wandered off without permission.

A lot had changed these past few months.

Ron had finally shown his true colors—ugly, loud, and red with entitlement—and she'd ended things. He hadn’t taken it well. There had been door-slamming, raised voices, and one truly pitiful bouquet of corner-shop roses left on the steps. But Harry, ever steady, had been there with quiet support and a perfectly timed bottle of wine.

Ron still loitered outside the shop occasionally, glowering with all the menace of a damp Puffskein. She chose to ignore him. Mostly because she had better things to do. And also because Lucius Malfoy had taken up unofficial residence in her front reading nook—and Lucius had zero tolerance for ex-boyfriends with boundary issues.

Hermione leaned back in her chair and shut her eyes for a moment, letting the tension in her shoulders ease.

Lucius Malfoy. Now there was an unexpected friendship.

He had, without much fanfare, become one of the people she relied on most. He showed up at the shop nearly every day, settled into the velvet cushions of his chosen window seat with a book and a sigh, and stayed for hours. He helped without asking. Ate lunch with her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Made sure she actually remembered to eat. Occasionally glared people into behaving better.

And somehow—somehow—Harry didn’t mind him. They even shared a meal once. Hermione had spent most of that lunch blinking in disbelief.

Unbelievable.

And yet, there it was. Her life, now starring Lucius Malfoy as the unexpectedly steady presence who brought her lavender scones and scared off creeps.

She smiled to herself, the expression soft and private. He brought her peace of mind. Not something she'd ever thought she'd say about a man once accused of war crimes, but well—growth came in many forms.

Her business, too, was growing. Articles had been written, word had spread, and foot traffic had doubled. With the added visibility, she’d thought about updating her wardrobe—something more professional to match the clientele.

Enter: Narcissa Malfoy.

Hermione hadn’t agreed to a makeover so much as been kidnapped into one. One moment she was shelving books; the next she was in Diagon Alley surrounded by silk blouses and shoes too pretty to be practical. Her staff had been alarmingly complicit.

At the time, she’d protested. Fiercely. But she had to admit—Narcissa had excellent taste. The clothes flattered her, made her feel sharp and seen. Like someone worthy of attention, rather than just background noise in her own life.

Becoming friends with the Malfoys had not been on her post-war bingo card. But somehow, they had carved out a space in her world—and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so cared for.

They noticed things. Tiny things. Like how she liked two sugars in her tea but only if she was stressed. Or how she never asked for help but always needed it on Thursdays. They met her needs before she recognized them herself.

She noticed things, too.

Like how they always coordinated their outfits—never matching, but perfectly complementary. Or how Lucius kept a meticulous schedule, almost militaristic in its precision. It’s what inspired her to buy him the wristwatch. When she gave it to him, he looked so flustered and unexpectedly touched that she almost cried. It was the kind of reaction that said more than words ever could.

And then there was Draco.

Hermione made a face at her paperwork, then fanned herself lightly.

Draco Malfoy.

That man had grown up and aged like a fine Bordeaux—smooth, complex, and likely to cause fainting spells if consumed too quickly. He’d been essential in helping her secure the trade permit for the shop, walking her through the paperwork with practiced ease and one or two devastating smirks.

She still hadn’t recovered.

He was sharp, competent, and far too handsome for her blood pressure. And worse, he was kind. Helpful in quiet, practical ways. She was grateful. And also maybe a tiny bit infatuated. Just a bit.

Anyway.

There were things to do. Like launching her next venture: games.

Hermione brightened, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment toward her. She’d been collecting Muggle board games with the intention of modifying them for wizardkind—think Exploding Monopoly, or Enchanted Guess Who. She planned to roll them out during the summer holidays, when Hogwarts students flooded back into town with their parents' gold and a thirst for entertainment.

First, though, she needed one more permit. A technicality, really—a formality to modify Muggle goods for magical use.

Draco had assured her it would be “as easy as blinking and twice as boring.”

She’d already sent him the proper documentation to get the ball rolling. Which, if experience was any indicator, meant she’d have the permit in hand by next Tuesday and a sarcastic thank-you note from the Department of Magical Commerce.

Hermione smiled again. Life was complicated. Unexpected. Brimming with possibilities.

She dipped her quill and began to plan.

That evening, Hermione arrived at Malfoy Manor clutching a neatly wrapped parcel and an unmistakable air of mischief. A house-elf led her through the grand hallways to the sitting room, where Lucius was already reading by the fire and Narcissa was sipping tea, legs curled beneath her like an elegant cat.

“Granger,” Lucius greeted, his eyes flicking up over the rim of his glasses, “you’re early. Are we planning a coup?”

“Something better,” Hermione said, beaming. She held out the parcel. “I brought you both a gift.”

Lucius raised a brow. Narcissa’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

“Is it enchanted?” she asked, reaching for the package before Lucius could stand.

“Only with love,” Hermione teased. “And mild color coordination.”

The paper was torn open with uncharacteristic enthusiasm (mostly by Narcissa), revealing two pairs of plush, tartan-patterned pajamas—green and red, with velvet piping and tiny embroidered initials: L.M. and N.M.

Lucius held his up as though it might bite him. “Are these... sleepwear?”

“Matching sleepwear,” Hermione said, smiling. “For game night.”

“Oh, darling,” Narcissa said, already rising to her feet and hugging the pajamas to her chest. “We look like a family portrait waiting to happen. Lucius, go change immediately.”

“I beg your pardon—”

“No excuses. Upstairs. If I must, so must you.”

Lucius looked to Hermione, who simply folded her arms and gave him the look. The one that had bested Ministers and Death Eaters alike.

Lucius huffed. “This is coercion.”

“It’s love,” Hermione said sweetly.

Ten minutes later, all three were gathered in the drawing room: Narcissa glowing in her plaid pajamas like a fashionable Christmas miracle, Lucius dignified and vaguely haunted, and Hermione happily clad in her own navy pair with tiny snitches embroidered across the cuffs.

Lucius lowered himself onto the settee with the air of a man preparing to be publicly humiliated. “There had better be wine.”

“There’s elderflower champagne,” Hermione offered.

He paused. “Acceptable.”

“Now!” she said brightly, clapping her hands. “Tonight, you are my guinea pigs.”

“I knew this was a trap,” Lucius muttered.

Narcissa elbowed him. “Darling, hush. She hasn’t even explained how we’re going to dominate the world yet.”

Hermione set a shimmering board on the table. It looked much like the classic Muggle game Risk, but with added magical touches. The board hovered an inch off the surface, countries glowed when captured, and tiny enchanted figurines marched into position at a flick of the wand.

“This is Risk: Wizarding Edition,” she declared. “I’ve modified it with charms to make gameplay more interactive and—well—possibly more dramatic. Each time you conquer a territory, your army will cheer.”

Lucius peered at the tiny, animated wizard troops. “They are wearing miniature cloaks.”

“I made them couture,” Hermione said proudly.

“Of course you did,” he murmured.

“And the dice are charmed to roll honestly, unless you insult the game,” she added. “Then they bite.”

Lucius looked intrigued. “This is absurd.”

“It’s brilliant,” Narcissa countered. “Shall we conquer the world?”

The game quickly descended into chaos, hilarity, and mild shouting.

Narcissa took to Risk like a general reborn. She decimated Lucius’s armies in Asia, then sweet-talked Hermione into forming a “gentlewoman’s alliance” in Europe, only to betray her fifteen minutes later with a wink and a toast.

“I didn’t trust you even a little,” Hermione said, as her enchanted troops fled screaming from Belgium.

“That’s because you’re clever, dear.”

Lucius, meanwhile, was entirely too pleased with himself for conquering Australia. “It’s a stronghold. No one expects the Australians.”

“No one cares about the Australians,” Narcissa snapped.

“That's what makes them so powerful,” Lucius said solemnly, stroking his fake beard.

Hermione laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

There were magical sound effects, animated skirmishes, and a tiny goblin announcer that popped up to narrate surprise attacks. At one point, Lucius threatened to defect to Muggle Monopoly out of spite, and the dice bit him. Narcissa cheered.

By the time the game neared its end, the three of them were curled around the table in their pajamas, half-drunk on elderflower fizz and unfiltered joy. Narcissa had Europe, Asia, and a good chunk of North America. Hermione’s last troops were holed up in Greenland. Lucius’s Australian empire had mysteriously caught fire, allegedly due to a ‘strategic dragon deployment’ gone wrong.

Narcissa slammed her final card down. “World domination!”

Tiny wizards exploded into confetti. The goblin announcer wept with joy. Lucius muttered something about dictators and wine.

Hermione wiped her eyes, giggling. Her cheeks ached from smiling. For the first time in a long time, she felt utterly, unconditionally happy. This—this ridiculous night in plaid pajamas, with these two beautiful, maddening people—felt like home.

Just then, the door opened.

Draco stepped inside, pausing in the doorway. He took in the scene: Hermione in pajamas, Lucius with confetti in his hair, Narcissa raising a triumphant fist as armies collapsed in flames behind her.

He blinked.

“Did I miss something... or did Mother just conquer the world in a tartan two-piece?”

“I told you I’d be good at world domination,” Narcissa said smugly.

Hermione turned to Lucius and Narcissa, the lingering laughter softening into something quieter, steadier.

 “You terrify me,” she said, cheeks flushing. “But you also treat me like I matter.”

Her smile was small and full of wonder. “I like that.”

Draco stared.

Hermione met his gaze across the room and started laughing again. He smiled—really smiled, warm and unguarded—and Hermione felt her heart give a small, traitorous flutter. Her fingers, still clutching a tiny Risk general, tightened reflexively.

Yes, she thought. She’d take risks like this any day.

Chapter Text

Draco hated this suit.

It was the kind of soft, pastel blue that screamed approachable—which, frankly, he wasn’t. It clung too well to his frame, drawing attention from every simpering passerby in the upscale French restaurant his mother had oh-so-subtly booked for him. A Muggle suit, too. Tailored within an inch of its life, yes—but still trousers and buttons and unnecessary socks.

And for what?

So he could suffer through dinner with a woman named Fabienne de Something-or-Other, who had spent the better part of twenty-five minutes discussing the precise shade of blonde their hypothetical children would have, as though she were ordering from a bloody catalog.

He sipped his wine. Or rather, he examined the wine, judged the wine, and then suffered the wine.

“Your cheekbones,” Fabienne was saying with syrupy enthusiasm, “are absolutely ideal for shaping strong facial structure in boys. And with my coloring, our daughters would be devastating. Naturally gifted, I think.”

Merlin, save him.

He hummed noncommittally, stabbing a piece of roasted artichoke with the kind of existential malice usually reserved for Dark Lords.

Fabienne smiled like she’d just won a prize. “Do you like children, Draco?”

“Not particularly.”

She laughed. “You’re so funny.”

He wasn’t.

But she hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t noticed anything about him, really—other than his Gringotts balance and surname. Fabienne had spent twenty seconds on pleasantries and twenty-five minutes mapping out their wedding colors. The conversation—if one could call it that—had stalled somewhere between his hypothetical vault access and her taste in honeymoon villas.

Draco took another slow sip of wine and let his mind drift somewhere far more pleasant.
Like a cluttered bookshop that smelled faintly of cinnamon and ink. Like the corner of a desk littered with parchment and prototypes for a board game with bitey dice. Like the precise look Hermione gave him when she was two seconds away from telling him he was wrong and ten seconds away from proving it.

Hermione.

He exhaled through his nose. It came out sounding like disappointment and quiet yearning.

She would have been asking him questions by now. Clever ones. Not polite nonsense meant to flatter, but real, thorny things that bit into his brain and made him think harder, try harder. He liked that. He liked her.

Far too much.

“Are you listening?” Fabienne asked, blinking her overly long lashes.

He wasn’t.

“Mm,” he replied, because it was the most noncommittal syllable in the English language. He resisted the urge to check his watch. Again.

“Draco, I think we’d make such a stunning couple,” Fabienne purred, resting her manicured hand over his. “You’re such a catch. So composed. So elegant.”

So deeply, painfully bored.

Hermione, by contrast, had once spilled ink down her front in the middle of an impassioned rant about the ethics of magical intellectual property. He’d been enraptured. She’d barely noticed. He’d spent the rest of the afternoon helping her rearrange the shop just so he had an excuse to stay.

Fabienne giggled. “What are you thinking about right now?”

Hermione’s hands, actually. The way her fingers curled delicately around her quill when she was drawing up permit proposals. The precise little crease between her brows when she concentrated. The way she’d looked in those muggle pantsuits, sitting in the Malfoy drawing room like she’d always belonged there—

He cleared his throat. “Nothing important.”

Another laugh. “You’re mysterious. That’s sexy.”

Draco had never missed Pansy Parkinson so much in his life. At least Pansy would have thrown breadsticks at him by now.

Or better—at Fabienne.

He let her chatter on, saying little, watching the clock out of the corner of his eye like a prisoner nearing parole. Every second dragged like molasses on a rainy day. Every word she spoke reminded him how much more interesting silence could be—especially when it was the comfortable kind that came with Hermione, usually while they worked side-by-side in that tiny, too-warm office.

He liked her brain. Her ambition. Her organization, of all ridiculous things.

He liked her.

He liked her a lot.

By the time dessert was served, Draco had developed a deep, spiritual hatred for crème brûlée.
And halfway through Fabienne’s fifth sentence about her family’s ancestral chateau, he made a decision:
He was never letting his mother set him up again.
And more importantly—he was going to do something about Hermione.

Eventually.

Probably.

…Maybe after a shower.

Draco made his way home after the date feeling tired, drained, and vaguely insulted by crème brûlée.

As he stepped out of the Floo, the sound of laughter rolled through the manor like an unexpected breeze—light and warm and entirely out of place. He paused, one foot still on the stone hearth, head tilted. That couldn't be... music?
No—laughter. Joyful, unrestrained, and unmistakably coming from the sitting room.

Curious and cautious in equal measure, Draco crept quietly up the hallway and peeked around the corner.

He froze.

There, on the floor surrounded by parchment, dice, and two mostly-empty wine bottles, were his parents and Hermione Granger.

Lucius Malfoy, war hero of the Silent Scowl, had confetti in his hair.

Narcissa was flushed and cackling like a Bond-villain mid-monologue, one slipper half-off her foot, wineglass dangerously tilted in her lap.

And Hermione—Hermione was perched between them in a navy pair of pajamas with tiny snitches embroidered across the cuffs, cheeks red, eyes dancing with mischief and glee.

They were playing some kind of board game. A magical one, by the looks of it, with glowing miniatures and flaming cities erupting across the board. Lucius appeared to be threatening Canada.

Draco blinked. Once. Twice.

Had he stepped into a parallel universe?

He stood still in the doorway, uncertain whether to laugh or turn around and try the Floo again in case he’d landed in some alternate timeline. His mother caught his eye first—still holding a tiny flag as her imaginary troops stormed Italy.

“Did I miss something,” he said dryly, “or did Mother just conquer the world in a tartan two-piece?”

“I told you I’d be good at world domination,” Narcissa said smugly, flicking her wand to eliminate Lucius’s last battalion. Her aim wobbled slightly, and she giggled to herself, clearly proud.

Lucius groaned in defeat. “I underestimated her again. Rookie mistake.”

Hermione turned toward Draco then, still giggling, her hair mussed from hours of relaxed chaos. The firelight played over her face, soft and golden. Her smile wavered for just a moment, shifting into something gentler as she looked back to Lucius and Narcissa.

“You terrify me,” she said, cheeks darkening. “But you also treat me like I matter.”

Her smile settled into something small and certain. “I like that.”

Draco’s breath caught. His parents stared at her like she’d just placed a crown on both their heads. For a man who’d grown up with cool formality, with curated manners and silent dinners, the sound of his father’s laughter was enough to feel like an earthquake.

She had done this.

Hermione Granger, in ridiculous pajamas, had infiltrated his family like a benevolent invader, disarming them with board games and honesty. She’d made his mother laugh. Made his father lose. Made him feel something he couldn’t quite name.

His heart gave a traitorous little flutter.

Hermione turned to him fully now, eyes still bright. “You’re late.”

“I go on the worst date of my life,” Draco said, stepping further into the room, “and you lot get drunk and play games without me?”

“Obviously,” she replied, beaming.

Narcissa crossed the room with surprising grace for someone on her third glass of wine and patted Draco’s cheek. “What else would we do, darling?” Her words were slightly slurred, and her lipstick was a little smudged. She smelled like elderflower and victory.

Draco sighed with dramatic flair. “Can I at least join the next game, or must I surrender at the door?”

Hermione bounced on her toes—an actual bounce. His eyes dropped involuntarily before snapping back up. “Yes! I brought a magically modified version of Monopoly.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “His clothes are wrong.”

“Oh right!” Narcissa chirped, clapping her hands together. She flicked her wand before Draco could protest. His light blue Muggle suit shimmered once, then reformed into soft pajamas—the same pattern as Hermione’s.

He looked down at himself. “Are we a team now?”

Hermione grinned. “Obviously.”

They moved to the plush rug where the game had already begun assembling itself with suspicious enthusiasm. The Monopoly tokens glowed with magic—tiny animated versions of magical creatures and iconic landmarks. The dragon token occasionally snapped at nearby houses. The property cards whispered financial advice in snide voices (“Absolutely don’t buy Knockturn Alley,” one warned). The Board itself shifted slightly as spells were cast, changing property values in real time.

Narcissa took the banker role like it was a seat in the Wizengamot.

The hours that followed passed in a blur of laughter, wine, sarcastic commentary, and gleeful cheating (mostly from Narcissa, with Lucius abetting shamelessly). Draco abstained from drinking, content to sip tea and observe. He didn’t want to cloud the moment with alcohol—didn’t want to forget a second of this strange, perfect night.

Hermione’s laughter rang out again, and Lucius actually smiled. Smiled, without calculation. Narcissa winked at Draco across the board. Something fierce and warm bloomed in his chest.

She had done this. Hermione.

Somewhere near midnight, Narcissa swept the board with a flourish and declared herself Queen of Property Law. Lucius immediately began writing her an ode. Hermione was giggling uncontrollably when her head tipped sideways and landed on Draco’s thigh.

He went very still.

Then softer.

He looked down at her—the way her lashes brushed her cheeks, the way her mouth stayed slightly open in sleep—and he felt something turn over in his chest. She trusted him. She belonged here.

She belonged with him.

After a moment, careful not to wake her, he slipped his arms under her and carried her out of the room, past the dying firelight, past his mother’s knowing smile.

He laid her gently in the guest bedroom—tucked her in, brushing a curl from her cheek.

Then he stood in the doorway for a long time.
Watching her.

Falling.

Hard.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up with a headache that felt like it had been legally filed, notarized, and double-stamped by the Department of Magical Afflictions. Her mouth was dry enough to qualify as a conservation site, and when she rolled over with a groan, she promptly fell out of bed in a spectacular tangle of sheets and limbs.

She groaned again—this time with a wheeze of laughter—as her face met the plush carpet. Elegant, of course. Everything in Malfoy Manor was elegant, including the floor she was now dying on.

Last night had been… fun.

Surreally fun.

She wiggled free from the sheets like a molting caterpillar and collapsed on her back, blinking up at the ornate ceiling. Light streamed in from a gap in the curtains, stabbing directly into her skull like a personal attack. She hissed and slapped an arm over her eyes.

Right. Maybe she had drunk too much.

She snorted to herself.

No, she definitely drank too much.

Her memories were fuzzy at the edges, but the core was clear: Lucius Malfoy laughing. Really laughing. Narcissa with her slipper half off, proclaiming herself Queen of Property Law. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen adults have that much fun—let alone those adults.

Maybe, she mused, they held themselves back when sober. Guarded. But under the influence of board games and wine, they were... kind. Oddly competitive. Strangely brilliant.

Good people, actually.

And then there was Draco.

Draco with his smug little smirks and ridiculously soft voice. She didn’t think he’d been drinking, but he’d looked comfortable. Relaxed. And he’d smelled—Merlin, he’d smelled good. Like parchment and chocolate and the faintest trace of something woodsy.

She shouldn't know what he smelled like.

But she’d kept leaning into him last night like her neck had given up on doing its job. Wine-fueled, gravity-prone Hermione had apparently decided Draco Malfoy’s personal space didn’t apply to her anymore.

He probably thought she was a harlot.

She groaned and dragged a pillow over her face. How was she ever going to face him again?

He definitely wasn’t interested in her. He was composed, tailored, and very probably allergic to chaos—and she had literally fallen on the floor this morning. She’d seen the witches he dated in Witch Weekly, all elegance and cheekbones. Meanwhile, she was lying on his guest bedroom floor like a cautionary tale.

No. She would be professional. Dignified. She’d simply pretend none of it had happened—unless he brought it up. And even then, plausible deniability. Strategic memory loss.

Besides, she wasn’t going to use a different law firm just because her traitorous brain decided to latch onto her solicitor’s scent profile like a starved kneazle. Draco was good at his job. Very good. He made her work life easier, and he didn’t flinch at her colour-coded permit plans or three-page policy memos. He even helped streamline her quarterly reporting process.

That kind of collaboration was rare. It was… important.

Her crush, or whatever it was, could be dealt with. Quietly. Internally. Like a rash.

With a final sigh and the resignation of a woman facing down both unrequited affection and a hangover, Hermione peeled herself off the floor and staggered upright.

Time to find breakfast.

And tea.

Possibly an exorcist....

Hermione wobbled down the hallway like a newborn centaur, one hand braced dramatically against the wall for balance. Everything was too bright. Her headache pulsed behind her eyes like war drums. Her socks betrayed her on the marble flooring. But she was determined.

She would have breakfast, or she would die trying.

The breakfast room was, of course, pristine. Sunlight streamed in through enchanted windows. A spread of food worthy of a minor coronation glistened on silver trays. And seated at the elegant table, looking disgustingly unbothered and immaculately dressed, were Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco.

Hermione lurched into a chair and let her forehead collapse onto the cool surface of the table with a thud.

A symphony of well-bred chuckles rose around her like a Greek chorus of the wealthy and hydrated.

“Rough night?” Lucius drawled from behind his pristine morning paper, his voice oozing with good-humored judgment.

“Guhhh,” Hermione replied into the tabletop.

“I believe that’s Granger for ‘yes, thank you, I’m dying,’” Draco said, taking a sip of tea so elegantly it should’ve been illegal.

Narcissa’s laughter was like the tinkling of crystal. “Darling, you look absolutely tragic.”

Hermione groaned again, lifting one eye just enough to glare at Narcissa through a veil of regret and frizz. “I feel tragic.”

Narcissa took a dainty bite of toast. “We drank the same amount, you know.”

“That’s a lie,” Hermione croaked, gesturing vaguely at her own existence. “You’re all… upright. And your hair is doing things.”

“I woke up like this,” Narcissa said serenely.

“I saw you conquer Canada in tartan pajamas!”

“And I did it with style.”

Lucius turned a page of his paper. “Narcissa once negotiated an entire trade agreement while sleepwalking. You’ll need to build a higher tolerance if you’re going to keep fraternizing with war criminals and socialites, Miss Granger.”

Hermione let her forehead drop back to the table with a whimper. “I am never fraternizing again.”

“Ignore them,” Draco said, reaching for a dish and sliding it toward her. “Here. Croissant?”

She peeked out from under her arm. “Is it laced with regret?”

“No, just butter.”

She made a heroic attempt to sit up, but then squinted across the table. “Why do you all look like you had a spa day instead of a wine-fueled board game bender?”

Draco, betraying just the faintest hint of a blush, tugged at his collar. “Malfoys bounce back.”

“We’re born with it,” Narcissa added, buttering her toast. “It’s in the cheekbones.”

Lucius folded his paper with a soft snap and gave Hermione a smile that was all sharp amusement. “And perhaps it’s simply easier to recover when one doesn’t spend the evening draped over a certain someone’s shoulder like a Regency heroine overcome by scandal.”

Hermione made a horrified little noise, which Draco matched with a loud throat-clear and a spectacularly unconvincing sip of tea.

“I leaned,” she said, voice rising an octave. “Leaning is not the same as draping.”

“It was a soft drape,” Narcissa allowed, eyes sparkling. “Very elegant.”

Draco coughed violently.

Hermione, red to the tips of her ears, reached for a napkin and accidentally knocked over the butter dish.

“Guah,” she said again.

Draco, still pink, pushed back from the table with sudden determination. “Right. Okay. Enough torture. I brought you these.”

He fished two small vials out of his robe pocket and set them in front of her—one gold-tinged, one a soft pearly blue.

Hermione blinked. “What’s this?”

“Sober-up potion. And a pain reliever,” he said, clearing his throat. “Brewed them myself.”

Lucius raised a single, knowing eyebrow.

Hermione blinked again, then squinted at the potions like they might be judging her. “You brew?”

“I have hobbies,” Draco muttered, visibly regretting the vulnerability.

Hermione, flustered and not entirely convinced this wasn’t a dream, picked up the vials with the reverence of someone holding precious artifacts. “You… that’s really thoughtful, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said too quickly, eyes darting to a painting.

Narcissa and Lucius shared a glance that could only be described as smug beyond measure.

Hermione, oblivious, downed the potions in quick succession, made a face like she’d just swallowed regret itself, and then sat blinking as the pounding in her head began to retreat.

She sighed, long and grateful. “I might be in love with you,” she mumbled into her cup.

Draco choked on his tea.

Narcissa started laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth with a napkin.

Hermione blinked, horrified. “With the potion! I meant the potion. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Draco echoed, voice slightly strangled.

Lucius took a slow sip of his tea. “Tragic,” he murmured again, looking far too pleased.

—

An awkward silence stretched across the table as Hermione dropped her head back onto the polished surface with the grace of a dying swan.

“I’m never drinking with you posh aristocrats again,” she whispered to the table.

Lucius and Narcissa burst into laughter. Draco rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.

Narcissa’s smile was blinding. “Oh, darling, I wanted to make this a weekly tradition.”

“No!” Hermione shot up, scandalized. “I mean—no. Between work and the book club, I don’t see where I’d have the time.”

“Monthly then,” Narcissa said smoothly, unfazed.

Hermione blinked. That... actually didn’t sound awful. “I—”

“Sounds like you need to hire more people,” Lucius offered, voice full of innocent menace.

Hermione groaned. “Please stop.”

“Not possible,” Draco muttered into his tea.

Narcissa clasped her hands together like a woman with a mission. “Absolutely not! Speaking of our book club—”

“I told you,” Draco sighed dramatically to no one in particular, as if this were a daily struggle.

Narcissa, undeterred, forged ahead. “I received an owl from Miss Parkinson—”

“Run,” Draco muttered.

“—who, as you know, is now editor-in-chief at Witch Weekly. She read Luna’s article in The Quibbler and absolutely adored it. So she wants to do her own article,” Narcissa leaned forward, positively sparkling, “with a photo shoot featuring you and me as co-hosts of the club!”

She practically squealed the last part. Hermione stared.

“You’ve—already planned this?”

“Next Thursday,” Narcissa said brightly. “She’s sending stylists. The theme is ‘Literary Women of Influence.’”

Lucius folded his paper with a smug little flick. “It will be excellent publicity for the bookshop.”

Draco nodded solemnly. “You’ll never escape us now.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth. “You people are terrifying.”

“We’re helpful,” Narcissa corrected.

Lucius sipped his tea. “And very photogenic.”

“And don’t worry,” Narcissa added, waving her fork. “We’ll have final approval of the photos. You’ll look stunning.”

“I’ll look hungover,” Hermione mumbled.

Draco smirked into his toast. “So, just like this morning.”

Hermione made a face at him.

Lucius leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “All joking aside, Miss Granger, this is good business. An article in Witch Weekly with Narcissa’s face on it and your name beside hers? You’ll need a second shop.”

“Or at least a line of branded bookmarks,” Draco added.

“I hate how reasonable you all sound,” Hermione said, staring at her croissant like it had betrayed her.

“Then it’s settled,” Narcissa said airily, already planning Hermione’s outfit in her head.

Hermione sighed, long and theatrical. “Fine.”

“Splendid,” Narcissa said, victorious.

And despite herself—despite the headache, and the teasing, and the fact that she had definitely draped herself on Draco last night—Hermione found she didn’t mind at all.

Not even a little.

In fact, she kind of loved it here.

Chapter Text

After Hermione left to go home and prepare for work—still a little pink in the cheeks and muttering something about croissants and emotional sabotage—Narcissa turned to Lucius with the sort of gleeful expression usually reserved for blood sport or sample sales.

“I want to adopt her,” she said, entirely serious. “Let’s adopt her.”

She bounced in her seat. Actually bounced.

“She should be ours. How can we make it happen?”

Lucius didn’t miss a beat. “Draco, draft the paperwork. We’ll trick her into signing it.”

Narcissa clapped her hands like a debutante with a grudge. “Oh, yes! Maybe hide it in a stack of Ministry permits. She’d sign anything if the formatting looked official.”

It sounded delicious. It was possibly the best idea she’d had all week, and she had recently organized her potions cabinet by shade.

Draco, poor boy, froze halfway through buttering his toast.

His eyes bulged. “No. No! You can’t— I won’t be—No!”

Narcissa tilted her head with faux innocence. “Why not, darling? She’d make an excellent sister. And a perfect daughter.”

Lucius gave her a sly, knowing look over his tea. She beamed.

Draco looked like someone had hexed his brain. He fidgeted in his seat, glancing around the dining room like he might find the answer tucked behind the silverware.

“She—she can’t,” he sputtered.

Then, after a short internal war, he deadpanned, “She’s an adult. You can’t adopt adults. It’s illegal. That’s why.”

Narcissa tsked into her teacup. “That’s such a boring reason.”

Lucius added mildly, “We could always disown Draco and name her as our heir instead.”

“Oh, I love that,” Narcissa said brightly, already making mental monogram adjustments. “She’d look stunning on the family tree.”

Draco stared at them, betrayed. “Why are you like this?”

He stood abruptly. “I’m going to work. Please don’t harass Hermione while I’m gone.”

Lucius snorted into his tea.

Narcissa called sweetly after him, “No promises. She’ll be my daughter by sunset!”

Draco left in a huff that suggested he was only half-certain they were joking.

Which, to be fair, was the perfect ratio for Malfoys.

The front door shut, and the manor was quiet again.

Narcissa exhaled a long, happy breath and turned to Lucius.

He was already looking at her the way he used to in their youth, like she was the most ridiculous and radiant thing in the room.

“We raised such a dramatic little thing,” she murmured fondly.

Lucius reached for her hand, twining their fingers with easy familiarity.

“And we nearly got him married off without blackmail. I’m impressed.”

She smiled softly, her heart full. “I like her, Lucius. Really like her.”

He squeezed her hand.

They finished breakfast in comfortable silence, the sunlight warming the china, their chairs close enough to touch.

Narcissa was diligent in pestering Hermione the week before the Witch Weekly interview.

They had to go over fabric textures, color palettes, whether to wear Muggle or magical styles. Would a moody autumnal theme be better, or should they lean full winter wonderland chic? Was Hermione more of a plum or a midnight blue? Did Narcissa need to re-charm her hair for shine or was her natural radiance enough?

(Obviously the latter, but she still booked a glossing potion just in case.)

Narcissa was a flurry of motion and chiffon. She pinwheeled through the bookshop in bursts of lavender perfume and armfuls of fabric swatches, carrying mood boards charmed to rotate visuals of "Effortless Power Witch" and “Soft But Dangerous.”

This was more than a magazine spread. It was a fantasy realized.

A daughter.

A project.

A partnership.

The day she dreamed of during long nights alone at the manor—when Draco had grown quiet, when society had grown cold, when the world had felt like it would never soften again—that day had arrived wrapped in parchment and pressed robes and cleverness and curls.

Hermione never quite knew what hit her.

Every time she tried to shelve a book or sort out ledgers, Narcissa was right there, swirling in behind her with questions like:

“Do you really want to wear wool? You run warm. What about silk-lined tweed?”

“Do you think it’s too forward if we sit side by side instead of angled? We want symmetry but not intimidation.”

“Should I bring the peonies or do they clash with the spine of The Infernal Wives of Wessex?”

It was glorious. Exhausting, possibly for Hermione—but glorious.

One afternoon, in a rare moment of restraint, Narcissa entered the bookshop quietly. She wasn’t even holding fabric.

(Just a folder of lighting notes and a sample spread layout. But no swatches. Growth.)

The shop smelled of old pages and cinnamon. A fire crackled in the back.

Then she spotted them.

Lucius and Hermione, huddled in a corner near the banned books shelf, speaking in low tones like they were conspiring.

Narcissa’s eyebrows rose.

Naturally, she did what any dignified woman of class and breeding would do—she eavesdropped immediately.

She glided to a bookshelf nearby, plucked a thick tome titled Hexes and How to Hide Them, and pretended to read. She peeked through the gaps in the shelf.

Lucius was facing Hermione, posture slightly stiff—always the formal one—but his voice was softer than she expected.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, tone almost... awkward. “For including Narcissa in all of this. And for giving Draco something to look forward to again.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh. Lucius—of course. But... you don’t have to thank me. I—” She hesitated. “You’ve all been so kind to me. I never expected... this. Any of it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Hermione, spontaneous as always, reached forward and wrapped him in a hug.

Lucius Malfoy stood there, rigid and startled, arms hovering like they weren’t quite sure what to do.

Narcissa bit the inside of her cheek.

Then—bless him—Lucius’s hands settled lightly on Hermione’s back. And then, stronger. A warm, intentional embrace.

Narcissa’s heart gave a quiet little tug.

She closed the book and stepped back, giving them the moment.

She didn’t need to say anything. This was enough.

She left the shop soon after, slipping out quietly, a soft smile lingering on her lips.

The day of the interview arrived with frost glinting along the cobblestones and magic in the air.

Narcissa wore a tailored Muggle pantsuit in stormy navy—structured shoulders, cinched waist, heels with enough height to command a room and enough subtlety to respect the venue.

Hermione wore complementary robes in soft steel blue with silver accents. She looked radiant. And slightly overwhelmed.

Perfect.

They sat side-by-side on a velvet loveseat in the middle of the bookshop while Pansy Parkinson, Editor-in-Chief of Witch Weekly and lifelong gossip gremlin, sat opposite them with a Quick-Quotes Quill and a smirk like she already knew all their secrets.

“So,” Pansy said, crossing one leg over the other with theatrical flair, “Tell me about this book club. Everyone’s talking about it, and frankly, I want in. I heard you had a duel break out over Austen.”

Hermione laughed. “That was Pride and Prejudice. Narcissa said Darcy was a wet blanket until the last chapter, and I—” she smiled fondly, “—disagreed.”

“We read one book a month,” Narcissa added smoothly. “With themed cocktails, historical context, and occasional wardrobe suggestions.”

Pansy raised a brow. “And the point of all this?”

Hermione answered before Narcissa could. “To build community. Conversation. And because books deserve to be felt, not just read.”

She gestured to a tall shelf by the window.

“That’s where we keep the club books,” Hermione said. “Anyone can join, even if they don’t come to the meetings. We stock extra copies for people who just want to read along. Sometimes it’s the first book they’ve picked up in years.”

Pansy’s quill scribbled furiously.

Then, with mischief in her eyes, Hermione added, “And if you misbehave, Narcissa hexes you into wearing lace gloves. It’s very motivational.”

Narcissa, caught mid-pose adjustment, blinked. “I do not—!”

Hermione grinned. “You threatened once. Daphne hasn’t worn denim since.”

Pansy cackled. “Oh, that’s going in the pull quote.”

Narcissa floundered for a response—and then laughed, properly, cheeks flushed with surprise. She was off her rhythm for a full ten seconds.

Draco would’ve wept with joy to see it.

Narcissa watched her with pride blooming behind her ribs.

Her daughter—no matter what anyone said—was building something lasting.

Pansy’s quill scribbled furiously.

And Narcissa sat straighter in her navy suit, prepared to charm every camera lens in sight.

This wasn’t just a photoshoot.

It was a declaration.

The bookshop had never seen this much organized chaos.

Softboxes hovered in midair, charmed to diffuse light at the perfect angle. A trio of magical assistants bustled around with brushes, pins, and fluttering scrolls of shoot direction. A stylist Narcissa personally summoned from Paris was muttering about collar lines while levitating a makeup palette the size of a battlefield.

In the middle of it all stood Narcissa Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson—arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and in absolute control.

“Slide the bookshelf two inches to the left,” Pansy barked at a gaffer, flicking her wand. “I want those spines in frame—Austen, not Arithmancy.”

“More gold in the backlight,” Narcissa added without looking. “We want warmth, not frost. She’s building a future, not haunting a graveyard.”

Pansy nodded approvingly. “You’ve got a natural eye for this.”

“Please,” Narcissa scoffed. “I coordinated the Yule Ball aesthetic with six weeks’ notice, two political assassinations, and a dress code rebellion. This is foreplay.”

Hermione, caught in the center of the whirlwind, blinked at them from her place on the reading sofa. Her robes—tailored to perfection—flowed like liquid silver-blue under the light. Her curls were pinned just enough to look effortless, her makeup was subtle but defined, and her eyes sparkled with nerves and caffeine.

“I don’t know where to look,” she admitted.

Pansy twirled her wand, a floating camera lens adjusting midair. “At me, sweetheart. Or just slightly past me—like you’re thinking about saving the world but letting us watch.”

Hermione’s mouth quirked. “You’re terrifying.”

“And that’s why my circulation numbers are up thirty percent,” Pansy said sweetly.

“Now chin up, arm soft, and lean into your power.”

She waved her wand again and music drifted into the space—something jazzy and spellbound with a steady beat.

Narcissa stepped forward and adjusted the line of Hermione’s sleeve, then brushed a smudge of something invisible from her cheek with a maternal softness.

“You’re doing beautifully,” she murmured.

Hermione exhaled and smiled—genuine, glowing, herself.

That was the shot.

Pansy grinned as the camera snapped furiously.

“Right there. That’s the cover.”

The next twenty minutes were a blur of angles, poses, outfit adjustments, and minor creative disagreements (“The books must stay! This is a literary rebellion, not a fashion spread!”).

At one point, Narcissa and Hermione posed together by the enchanted fireplace, framed by levitating book pages and warm candlelight. Narcissa in her sleek Muggle pantsuit, Hermione in draped robes of soft strength, both exuding legacy and revolution in one frame.

Pansy practically purred. “This is it. Old guard and new wave. Elegance and intellect. Mothers and daughters and monsters and magic.”

Narcissa blinked at her. “That’s... disturbingly poetic.”

“I drank a mimosa at 7 a.m. and I’m high on eyeliner fumes,” Pansy said, deadpan. “Let me have this.”

The camera flashed again, catching a laugh mid-bloom on Hermione’s face and a proud smile on Narcissa’s lips.

This time, Narcissa didn’t correct her posture.

Some things were better when left a little wild.

The tea shop was small, tucked like a secret between Hermione’s bookshop and a wizarding tailoring studio. The furniture was charmingly mismatched, and the windows glowed with condensation and soft candlelight. Everything smelled like cinnamon, clove, and toasted hazelnuts.

Narcissa stirred her tea, still wearing her Muggle pantsuit, though the heels had long been swapped for sensible dragonhide flats. Hermione was halfway through a scone, crumbs gathering in the crease of her robes and not a care in the world.

“I can’t believe you got me to wear contour,” Hermione said through a laugh. “And I looked good. I looked dangerously competent.”

“You looked like a woman people should listen to,” Narcissa replied smugly. “And fear slightly. The best kind of woman.”

Hermione clinked her teacup to Narcissa’s. “To terrifying women.”

They both sipped, shoulders brushing gently, laughter still in their throats.

Narcissa basked in it—the easy warmth, the shared joy, the pride humming in her chest like something newly alive. She had not expected to care for this girl. And yet now, it would destroy her if anything dimmed Hermione’s light.

She could already imagine Draco’s face when the cover came out—equal parts awe and existential panic. She might frame it in every room of the manor just to torment him.

The bell above the tea shop door jingled with a cheerful chime that did not match the man who entered.

A wizard in sharp, steel-grey robes walked toward their table with the precise gait of a man who either served the law or wore it like armor. His wand hand rested idly on the clasp of his satchel. His face was forgettable. Narcissa disliked that—it made him harder to hex in a crowd.

“Miss Granger?” he asked politely, stopping at the edge of their table.

Hermione blinked, surprised. “Yes?”

He withdrew a crisp parchment scroll, sealed in green wax with an embossed W.

“You are hereby served with a formal complaint of defamation, filed on behalf of Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

Hermione’s face went still.

Narcissa rose, slow as mercury. “I beg your pardon?”

The wizard offered the scroll. “You may respond through legal counsel. You have ten days. Good afternoon.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel and left.

Hermione hadn’t taken the scroll yet. It lay on the table like a curse, bleeding tension into the quiet. The air felt heavier than it had a moment ago.

Narcissa sat again, eyes fixed on her teacup, watching the way the steam twisted—unsettled.

“I see,” she said quietly.

Hermione’s hand reached, finally, and broke the seal.

Chapter Text

Draco sat in his office at the firm, surrounded by sleek furnishings and silence. The morning sun filtered through enchanted glass, catching the edges of his silver quill, but he barely noticed.

This week belonged to Witch Weekly.

Between fittings, stylists, and Pansy’s chaos disguised as a vision board, both his mother and Hermione would be tied up in preparations. He would be lucky to see her at all before the article went to press.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Breakfast had been a delight and a torment. Hermione, still rosy-cheeked from last night’s champagne, blinking blearily into her tea, hair wild and cascading down her back. She looked edible. Irresistibly soft. His mother had cooed at her. His father had smirked knowingly at him. He’d been teased mercilessly from all angles—and hadn’t even minded.

Because Lucius had been right about one thing: the Witch Weekly spread would change everything.

Hermione’s business was about to explode. The interview, the cover photo, the write-up—every witch with a Galleon to spare would be heading to her shop. And Hermione, brilliant as she was, was woefully modest in her financial projections. He’d seen them. She was underestimating her reach.

She was going to need more staff. She was going to need a second location.

And Draco? He could do that for her.

The thought thrilled him.

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his mind racing. First, he’d make a list of potential hires. No one dodgy. Ideally women—Hermione liked building safe, empowering spaces. He could vet candidates, interview them himself if needed. Maybe background checks. Magical contracts. Something ironclad.

Then the property search. The second branch would need to be in a high-traffic area, with safety wards, charmable signage, and enough room for expansion. She didn’t need to know that if he had to, he’d buy the place through a third party and then “find a deal” for her. What mattered was giving her options—and time.

Time she could spend with him.

He smiled to himself, warm and sharp and just a little dangerous. Yes. That was the goal. Build the scaffolding so she didn’t have to climb alone. So she could sit back, manage at her leisure. Preferably from his lap.

Draco flushed, shifting in his seat as his trousers grew a little tighter. Gods, the thought of her—curled in his lap, soft and smug and laughing just for him—made his pulse thrum.

He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.

Back to work.

He’d prepare a full presentation. Color-coded, annotated, and thoroughly researched—just the way she liked it. He’d show it to her after the interview. No need to pile more on her plate this week. Narcissa and Pansy were already doing enough damage.

But after?

After, she’d see how serious he was. How much he believed in her. How much he wanted to give her everything—because it would mean keeping a piece of her close.

Draco’s heart beat faster as he conjured a blank parchment and began outlining ideas. The week ahead would be busy, but it would be worth it. Because when the photos were printed and her smile was on every newsstand in Britain, he would be the one standing behind her, making sure she never had to worry about a single damn thing.

And maybe—just maybe—he could steal back all her time.

The next day Draco decided to hit the pavement and look at new store locations.

Draco stepped out of the Floo into Hogsmeade, dusting off his coat as the breeze swept through the cobbled streets. The village smelled like woodsmoke and honey bread—charming, if a bit too quaint. But there was foot traffic, a good line of sight from the High Street, and the weekend crowd was already filtering in from the station.

He adjusted his gloves and began walking.

This part of the village was still recovering from the war—fewer shops, older wards, buildings that needed work. But to Draco, it had potential. There was a narrow two-storey unit wedged between an old apothecary and a homewares shop, ivy curling up the front and a faded “To Let” sign swinging in the window. The glass was streaked, the stone facade cracked, but Draco could already see it transformed: dark green signage, floating book displays, soft lighting glowing through the fog.

He paused in front of the door, glancing up and down the street.

Ten minutes from the school gates. Five from the Three Broomsticks. Students, parents, tourists—built-in traffic. He made a note on his enchanted parchment and tapped his wand against the shopfront. The wards were weak but stable. Easy to reinforce.

“Nice spot,” came a voice behind him.

Draco turned to see a woman leaning against the shop opposite—middle-aged, sturdy, friendly-looking, with a clipboard in one hand and a stack of flyers in the other.

“Thinking of opening up?” she asked.

“Just… looking for a friend,” Draco replied smoothly.

“Ah. Well, if she’s the type to draw a crowd, this little stretch could use the traffic. We've been hoping for a new bookshop or café. Nothing too flashy.” She eyed him. “You don’t strike me as the cupcake-and-coffee type.”

Draco smiled faintly. “She’s more literature and revolution.”

The woman laughed. “Even better.”

He took a flyer from her and tucked it into his coat pocket, already spinning with numbers and layouts in his head. Square footage. Lighting. Seating areas. Space for reading nooks and event nights. It would be perfect. Or he would make it perfect for her.

By the time he made it back to the Floo, he’d already drafted three budget options, made a list of renovation charms, and started a personnel screening rubric.

It was ridiculous, really.

He’d gone half a day without seeing her, and here he was—plotting out her future like it was a battle plan.

But he couldn’t help it.

This was how he loved her.

With ambition. With intention. With buildings and blueprints and floors she wouldn’t have to sweep herself.

She deserved to never lift a finger—unless it was to touch him.

And one day soon, she would.

Draco smiled to himself—sharp, fond, and just a little bit lovesick—then turned back to his list. He had work to do, and all of it was for her.

Draco was taking a break in his office, pacing by the window with a scowl that could peel paint.

He had just finished threatening to hex Theo’s bollocks into orbit. And honestly? He meant it.

Theo, ever the chaos incarnate, had spent the last half hour moaning dramatically about the Witch Weekly cover.

“She’s divine,” he’d said, hand to chest like he was in a bloody opera. “My new spiritual awakening. My muse. My favorite wank material.”

Draco had nearly vomited.

The horror hadn’t been just from the statement—it was that Theo refused to clarify which woman he meant. Hermione or Narcissa.

Both options were unforgivable. Both made Draco want to scour his brain clean with firewhiskey and a steel brush.

“This is why I need a break,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair and glaring at nothing in particular. “I need new friends.”

But even through the disgust, he couldn’t entirely banish the small smile tugging at his lips.

He was excited for the article too. And proud—Merlin, was he proud. The shoot, the interviews, the impact—Hermione was brilliant, and she deserved all the attention the Prophet and the publishing world were about to give her. He imagined his mother recounting every moment of the shoot when he got home, her voice bright with something that had been missing for years.

And Hermione…

His chest ached, in that good way he never wanted to admit out loud.

She’d brought something vital back into his life. Not just love. Not just ambition. Light.

Draco was halfway to sinking into his chair again when he heard voices in the hall—frantic, sharp, and far too loud for a place like this.

He frowned. It was quiet this time of day, with most of the staff gone or dozing over stacks of contracts. That tone didn’t belong here.

Then came the sound of footsteps. Rushed. Staggering.

Just as Draco moved toward the door, it burst open.

Narcissa stormed in, elegant but wild-eyed, dragging a breathless Hermione by the wrist. Both of them were pale, windblown, and visibly shaken.

His stomach plummeted.

“Mother? Hermione—?” he breathed, striding forward without thinking. He reached for his mother’s hand first, grounding her, even as his eyes locked on Hermione. She hadn’t said a word.

Her silence was more terrifying than any scream.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was low, careful.

Narcissa opened her mouth, closed it, then reached into her handbag and pulled out a scroll of parchment, its green wax seal already cracked. She handed it to him like it was poison.

Hermione still hadn’t spoken. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her robes, knuckles white. Her breath came fast and shallow, and when she looked at him, it wasn’t fear in her eyes—it was disbelief. Hurt. A barely leashed panic.

Draco scanned the document.

His entire body went still.

A formal complaint. Defamation. Filed on behalf of Ronald Bilius Weasley.

It was like ice had been poured into his veins.

Slowly, he lowered the parchment. His jaw locked tight enough to ache.

“Where is he?” he said, voice like steel.

“Draco,” Narcissa said warningly, but he didn’t hear her.

Hermione finally spoke, her voice small and disbelieving. “He filed a lawsuit. Against me. For telling the truth.”

Draco turned toward her. “He won’t win.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “What if this hurts the shop? What if the Ministry believes him? What if I lose everything I built?”

He crossed the room in two strides, cupped her face in his hands. “Breathe. You’re not alone. Do you understand me? I won’t let this touch you.”

“I second that,” came a familiar, far-too-cheerful voice.

Theo stood in the doorway, a half-eaten pastry in one hand and his wand in the other.

“Theo will help?” Narcissa asked, half-scandalized.

“He’s still technically a lawyer,” Draco muttered. “Even if he’s a menace.”

Theo saluted with the croissant. “A menace who just cleared three defamation cases and once made a member of the Wizengamot cry. We’re in good hands, darling.”

Hermione made a small, choked noise that might’ve been a laugh.

Draco led her to the couch in his office and sat beside her. His mother hovered close, pulling a wool throw off the back of a chair and wrapping it around Hermione’s shoulders without a word. Narcissa leaned down, smoothing her hair back and kissing her temple softly.

“We’ve got you, darling,” she murmured.

Theo conjured a clipboard, a fresh quill, and began taking notes with infuriating glee.

“All right, so,” he said. “Ron’s gone full red-headed rage goblin and filed a suit. Do we want to bury him legally, publicly, or both?”

“Both,” Draco growled.

Narcissa looked up. “We’ll need a formal response drafted within the next forty-eight hours.”

Theo nodded. “Easy. I’ll schedule a preliminary meeting with his solicitors for two days’ time. Should be enough to spook him and give us time to prepare a counteroffensive.”

“I want him humiliated,” Draco said coldly. “I want him to regret breathing in Hermione’s direction.”

Theo sighed dramatically. “Malfoy, you know I love it when you talk dirty.”

Draco ignored him, his focus entirely on Hermione.

She looked fragile and furious all at once. But she wasn’t breaking. Not yet.

She looked at her hands, then up at him. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Draco caught her gaze, steady and fierce. “You’re not. You’re the whole damn reason we fight.”

Her throat bobbed. Her voice was smaller this time. “Thank you.”

He brushed a thumb along her jaw. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m yours.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

And for the first time since she walked in, hope flickered behind her eyes.

Draco turned back to Theo, already in planning mode. “We meet his lawyers in two days. And when we do, they’ll know exactly who they’re up against.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hermione felt nauseous as she prepared to open the shop.

It wasn’t the half-eaten pastry on her counter or the too-strong tea in her stomach—it was the lawsuit. The tight, persistent knot of dread that refused to leave her since Ron’s lawsuit arrived. She knew it was fear. Fear that it would affect her business. Fear that it would take away the one thing she’d built with her own hands.
Because this shop—her little corner of magic and paper and Muggle nostalgia—was her dream.

It had taken everything she had to open it. Less than two years since the war ended. She was nineteen.
What other nineteen-year-old had done what she had?

Maybe Draco, she thought begrudgingly, lips twitching despite herself.

But he had chosen law over books. And thank Merlin he had—because she had been utterly lost when she was served the lawsuit. Frozen in place, stomach flipping, heart pounding, time slowing in that awful, surreal way.

Narcissa had saved her.

While Hermione’s mind had spiraled, Narcissa had calmly taken her wrist and apparated them to Draco’s office, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if Hermione belonged with them.

She hadn’t spoken much that day. She’d been too shocked. Too furious. Too wounded.

Anger and disbelief had poured in before she could process a single word.
And then came the fear.

Her business wasn’t just a shop. It was her sanctuary. Her chance to build something normal after years of war and chaos. She had always said she wanted to live in a library—and now, she practically did.

If Ronald Weasley ruined this?

She would ruin him.

Hermione scowled as she stacked bookmarks behind the till with more force than strictly necessary. She’d done it before—taken down someone who crossed her with ink and righteous fury—and she could do it again. Ask Rita Skeeter how that went.

Ron had known her since she was eleven. He should’ve known better. He did know better.
He knew every dirty, rule-breaking thing she’d ever done at Hogwarts.
The Time-Turner. The Polyjuice. The illegal brewing. Dumbledore’s Army. The hexes she’d charmed into parchment.
And still, he’d chosen to come after her?

She sighed and dragged a hand through her curls, trying to push the thoughts away. She didn’t want to fight. Not anymore.
Not after everything.

That was the part no one really talked about. How much they’d all changed after the war.

Harry had become someone the Ministry could rely on—focused, compassionate, driven. Still saving people. Still the hero. It suited him, if she was honest. He was good at it. Far better than he gave himself credit for.

She snorted.
Not that she’d ever say that aloud. His head was already large enough.

She hadn’t even told him about the lawsuit yet. She hadn’t had time—and honestly, she wasn’t ready to see his reaction. Harry would take it personally, and she knew how dangerous he could be when he decided someone needed protecting.

Then there was Ron.
Sweet, insecure Ron. The Ron who used to make her laugh. The Ron she’d trusted for so many years.
He was different now. Not in the way that grief changes a person—more like… resentment. Bitterness.

She would’ve never expected this from him.

And thank the stars she had ended things after the Ministry Gala. That had been the last straw. The final push she’d needed to realize love couldn’t survive without respect. That night had shown her just how little he thought of her.

It still made her stomach twist.

Lastly, there were the Malfoys.
What could she say about them?
She loved them.
And wasn’t that a surprise.

Not the cautious kind of love that came with forgiveness or obligation—but something rooted. Earned. Warm.

They had changed the most out of everyone.

Lucius, who had once terrified her, now teased her like a daughter. Narcissa, poised and sharp, always knew when to intervene and when to offer quiet strength. And Draco—

Her thoughts softened.

Draco, who had surprised her more than anyone else ever had. Who believed in her. Who fought for her—not in spite of her strength, but because of it.

Hermione glanced around her little shop, still quiet in the morning hush. The air smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and cinnamon from the candle Luna had insisted she keep by the register.

She took a breath.

She wouldn’t let this ruin her.
Not Ron. Not fear.
She was Hermione Granger, and she had rebuilt before. She would do it again if she had to.

But this time?
She wouldn’t be doing it alone.

The Floo flared to life in a swirl of emerald fire, and Patricia stepped out with practiced grace, brushing a bit of ash from her blouse. She was immediately followed by Rikki—less graceful, more whirlwind—who stumbled out half-spinning, already mid-laugh.

Both of them were beaming.

And both of them were clutching copies of Witch Weekly like they’d won front-row seats to a Weird Sisters reunion tour.

Hermione’s stomach sank.

Shit.

She had completely forgotten the article dropped today. Of course it did. Of course it was today.

She offered a weak smile as Patricia bounced over, waving the magazine like a fan.

“Boss, this article is amazing. We’re going to be swamped.” Patricia’s eyes sparkled as she leaned on the counter. “Like, absolutely mobbed. I hope you slept well, because that was your last calm morning.”

Rikki slapped her copy dramatically onto the counter. “You and Mama Cissa are H.O.T. Hot. Like, scandalous-hot. Like, do-you-two-need-a-room hot.”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“Don’t be modest,” Rikki grinned wickedly, sliding the magazine across the counter. “Look at this photo. Look at it. Are we selling these? Because I will hawk them like cursed mirrors at Knockturn Alley.”

Patricia snorted. “We could set up a signing table. Right over there. A little velvet rope. Maybe a backdrop with your face on it. I’ll bring a Sharpie.”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said flatly, even as she picked up the issue. “No autographs.”

“Right, of course,” Patricia nodded solemnly. “You’re far too elegant for that. We’ll just sell them unsigned for triple the price. Classy profiteering.”

Hermione groaned quietly, flipping through the pages.

The article was beautiful. She and Narcissa did look amazing. The headline was tasteful. The quotes were flattering.

And it all felt… wrong.

Her stomach twisted. The lawsuit loomed in her chest like a stormcloud. The shop might go under, and here they were giggling about glamorous photo spreads and cute outfits. She didn’t have the heart to tell them—not yet.

So she smiled. Or tried to.
And listened while they gushed.

“She’s just so regal,” Patricia sighed, gazing at a photo of Narcissa with genuine awe. “It’s like she invented posture.”

“She probably did,” Rikki said. “Look at this shot—Hermione, your cheekbones are weaponized. You could stab someone with that contour.”

“I wasn’t wearing any contour.”

Rikki pointed accusingly. “That’s worse. Your bone structure is offensive.”

Hermione forced a laugh. “I’ll apologize to the Ministry for violating their beauty ordinances.”

Patricia pinned on her name badge and straightened her skirt. “Okay, okay, focus. Joking time is over. We’ll be overrun any minute.”

Rikki gave a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Up to our asses in book sales.”
She winked. “Good thing we all have great asses.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

They were not ready for this. She wasn’t ready. She had meant to hire temporary help. She’d had the parchment half-filled, job posting drafted, schedule mapped out—and then the lawsuit hit like a rogue Bludger, and everything else fell apart.

Now she was staring down a day of fame-fueled crowds with no extra hands and only her caffeine tolerance for armor.

Brilliant, she thought. Absolutely brilliant.

“Boss?” Patricia called. “You good?”

Hermione straightened with a smile that felt painfully strained.

“Great,” she lied.

The Floo roared to life again, bright green flames licking the hearth—and out stepped Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco like a perfectly coordinated glam squad.

Narcissa, ever regal in her tailored robes and immaculately pinned curls, swept her arms open with theatrical flair. “Hello, my loves,” she beamed, striding forward to pull Hermione into a warm hug. “I’ve come to help—and I brought reinforcements.”

Lucius followed, pressing a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head with quiet affection. “We thought you might need a hand, with everything going on.”

Before Hermione could respond, Patricia piped up brightly from behind the counter, “Thanks, Daddy Lucy. The article’s going to pack this place like Weasley’s on Boxing Day.”

Draco blinked. “Daddy… Lucy?”

He turned to Hermione, kissed her cheek, and added softly, “Hi, love.”

Hermione’s heart did an unhelpful little flip. “Hi,” she managed, cheeks already pink—part Draco, part absolute Malfoy surprise landing in her shop like a photogenic hurricane.

Lucius groaned and muttered under his breath, “Don’t ask.”

But Rikki heard.

“Oh yes,” she purred, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Daddy Lucy.”

She strutted forward like a cat with an audience, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming.

“I was planning on being his next wife, actually,” she said, giving Lucius a wink that could peel paint.

Lucius—Malfoy, patriarch, former terror of the Wizengamot—actually blushed and stepped behind Narcissa like a man seeking sanctuary behind a very glamorous wall. But not before he gave Hermione one final glance: fond, almost approving. Like maybe she was worth blushing for.

Rikki wasn’t done.

She turned to Narcissa, eyes roaming slowly, boldly, thirstily from head to toe.

“But after that article drop?” she sighed dramatically. “I want to be Mama Cissa’s wife instead.”

Draco choked on air.

Patricia wheezed and collapsed into the chair behind the counter, cackling.

Lucius made a strangled noise and hid harder behind Narcissa, who raised a brow with impressive calm.

Hermione stood motionless, re-evaluating her life choices for the second time that morning.

Narcissa narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, studying Rikki like a wine label she hadn’t decided on yet.

Then, with a small, knowing smile, she said, “I’ll owl you if I outlive Lucius.”

Rikki gasped and pointed triumphantly. “That’s my in!”

Narcissa took one look at the shop—half-organized, already humming with pre-opening buzz—and clapped her hands sharply.

“Battle stations!” she barked like a general, sweeping across the floor with the commanding presence of a woman who had once run entire courtrooms and ballrooms with equal finesse. “Patricia, front till. Rikki, charm the signage. Draco, carry something heavy. Lucius, try not to pass out.”

Patricia snapped a salute, already laughing. “Aye aye, General Cissa!”

Rikki wiggled her eyebrows. “Yes ma’am,” she said, practically purring. “Command me harder.”

Narcissa smirked. “If you behave, I might promote you to Lieutenant.”

Lucius made a sound like a dying cat. “Is no one else concerned that my wife has options now?”

“I’m very concerned,” Draco said dryly, levitating a box of spellbooks past his father’s head. “I think Rikki’s proposing hourly.”

“She’s persuasive,” Narcissa mused as she adjusted a window display with surgical precision. “And she complimented my calves.”

“Twice,” Rikki added proudly.

The day descended into glorious chaos.

Customers began trickling in, then pouring. Copies of Witch Weekly sold out in the first hour. Rikki put a sign up that said, “Mama Cissa’s Book Baddies Bookshop – Today Only!” and Hermione didn’t even have the strength to argue.

Rikki flirted like it was her job, tossing compliments at Narcissa like rose petals—“Have you always been this devastatingly powerful?” and “That shade of green brings out the aristocratic murder in your eyes.” Narcissa only encouraged her with sly smiles and strategic hair tosses.

Patricia worked like a professional and laughed like a gremlin.

Lucius shelved books while muttering under his breath about “harpies” and “chaotic bisexual energy” and “why are there so many stickers on the floor?” At one point, he and a toddler got into a passive-aggressive staring contest near the coloring books.

Draco, ever the quiet shadow to Hermione’s chaos, stayed near her side, taking tasks from her hands before she could finish them, refilling her tea, charming her quill when it ran dry, brushing hair out of her eyes when it stuck to her forehead.

At one point, he tugged her gently toward the storage room, just out of the fray, and pressed a cool glass bottle into her palm.

“Water,” he said. “And ten seconds of peace.”

She smiled, exhausted. “Do you think anyone’s noticed I’ve disappeared?”

“Only Rikki,” he replied. “But she thinks you’ve run off to elope with my mother, so she’s keeping score.”

Hermione snorted and leaned her head against the shelf.

Draco lowered his voice and reached into his robes, pulling out a parchment scroll.

“I made a list,” he said. “Of people I’ve vetted. Fully trained, trustworthy, and available immediately. We can hire temp staff by tomorrow. None of them have met Rikki, which may be our only shot at survival.”

She blinked at him, the scroll trembling slightly in her hand. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” He met her eyes, calm and sure. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

Later, as the last customer left, as Rikki blew a kiss at Narcissa and Patricia locked up behind her, Hermione took a long moment to stand in the middle of her shop—scuffed, loud, lived-in, and very much alive.

She looked around: Lucius passed out on an armchair like a Victorian ghost, Narcissa fixing her lipstick in a compact mirror with war-wife grace, Rikki humming as she restocked bookmarks, Patricia helping a small child pick out a final sticker book, and Draco… watching her, his expression soft and full of knowing.

The lawsuit still lingered. The fear still ached in her chest.

But so did gratitude.

Her life was messy, ridiculous, borderline unhinged—and full.

And for the first time in days, Hermione felt like maybe, just maybe, she could win.

Hermione smiled as she looked around a second time.

Narcissa, commanding and poised even in a battlefield of sticker books. Lucius, exhausted but still showing up. Draco, quietly steady. Rikki and Patricia, loud, loyal, and utterly unbothered by the madness.

She wasn’t alone.

“I’m going to get that owl,” Rikki muttered to herself, mock-solemn as she swept behind the counter one last time. “Mark my words.”

Chapter Text

Morning light streamed through the high windows of Draco's office, gilding the hardwood floors and casting long, clean lines across his desk. The meeting was set for ten o’clock—Theo had secured one of the larger conference rooms at the firm. Neutral ground, technically, though Draco thought of it more as home turf.

Theo had handled most of the legal preparation. This kind of lawsuit was his territory—personal suits, reputation defense, complicated messes wrapped in petty emotion. Theo lived to argue. He thrived on it, and more often than not, he won.

Draco was better with contracts, trade negotiations, structured things. Predictable things.

This? This was not predictable.

This was Hermione.

Draco’s job today wasn’t to dismantle legal arguments—that was Theo’s joy. His job was Hermione.
Keep her calm.
Walk her through the process, step by step.
Make sure she felt protected.

She was due to arrive an hour early to prepare. Normally, thirty minutes would’ve sufficed, but Draco had asked for more time under the pretense of reviewing documents. Really, he just wanted to give her space—time for questions, for nerves.

Time with her.

(Sue him for being selfish. He’d win.)

He paced the floor, back and forth in a steady rhythm. Would he and Theo be enough? Should he bring in legal secretaries, paralegals—create an image of overwhelming force to rattle the weasel?

No.

That might backfire. Might make Hermione feel overwhelmed.

The last thing he wanted was for her to feel outnumbered—even by people on her side.

No, she needed calm. She needed confidence.
She needed him.

Because no one—no one—was going to hurt Hermione and walk away unscathed.

She represented everything good that had taken root in his life since the war.
She was his family’s future, even if she didn’t know it yet.
Hermione was hope.
And hope was power.
He’d cling to it until his last breath.

It would just be the two of them, and Theo.
That would be enough.

As for Ron’s solicitor—a bargain-bin no-name Draco and Theo had already investigated—he didn’t even warrant concern. The man had never won a suit. Statistically, Ron was doomed.

Emotionally? He probably hadn’t a clue.

And who had even put this idea in Ron’s head to begin with?
Draco didn’t know. Didn’t care.
He’d destroy him regardless.

No one touched Hermione and walked away untouched.
No one.

His Hermione.

Draco froze mid-step.

His mind caught up with the possessive lurch in his chest.

His Hermione?

He swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a tell.
When had that started?
When had he started thinking of her like that?

Fuck.

That… was a problem.

He still had one more idiotic, mother-arranged date to suffer through.
One more hoop to jump through before he could act on anything that mattered.

He dragged both hands through his hair, sighing hard.
He would have to be careful.

Just one more date.
And then—

Then, he could go after what he actually wanted.
What he had wanted for months.

For now, helping Hermione with the shop would have to be enough.
He’d become indispensable. Necessary.
Not just useful—crucial.

He glanced at the color-coded files stacked neatly on the corner of his desk: his secret project for her, the one he’d started before the lawsuit derailed everything.

He slid them into a drawer.
Not yet.

First, he needed to see her through this fight.

He sat down, adjusted his cuffs, and reached for the case files. With a flick of his wand, the filing cabinet popped open. Another flick, and a tea set floated over, arranging itself perfectly on the low table between the two couches.

She’d be here soon.
They’d get through this.
And then, when the dust settled—when that final date was behind him—

He’d go after her.
Really go after her.
For Hermione.

Draco stood, closed his eyes for a long moment, and exhaled.
Then he stepped out of his office and headed toward the front of the building to meet her.

Theo, Draco, and Hermione were waiting in the conference room. The weasel and his solicitor were late. Disgusting and disrespectful.

Hermione had a business to run, a life to live. Every wasted minute was another reminder of how Ron had always stolen her time, her energy, her peace.

Draco clicked his tongue against his teeth, irritation simmering just beneath the surface.

He glanced sideways to check on Hermione. She was pale, gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her eyes stared straight ahead—glazed, unfocused. He couldn't tell if she was mentally preparing her arguments... or quietly planning the most efficient way to skin a weasel and dispose of the body.

Either way, he supported her fully.
He’d help. Happily.

He smirked at the thought of rodent-slaughter. He had always preferred offense to defense, and today was no different.

Still no sign of the Weasel.

Across the room, Theo was spinning in his chair, humming some unhinged waltz as he balanced a clipboard on his head.

Dear gods. Why were they friends again?

Draco sighed through his nose. Theo had his uses. He was absurd, unpredictable, irritating—and one of the sharpest legal minds Draco had ever known. If anyone could turn a deposition into a theatrical farce and still win, it was Theodore Nott.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Finally.

The door opened to reveal a rake-thin man in lime green robes and a faded red fez. Behind him trudged Ron Weasley, looking exactly as washed-out and bitter as Draco remembered: hunched shoulders, secondhand robes, chip on his shoulder like a splintered tree trunk.

They were twenty minutes late.

Unbelievable.

Draco made no move to stand. Neither did Theo or Hermione. That had been the plan. These fools didn’t deserve respect—and they sure as hell weren’t getting any.

With a flick of his wand, Draco shut the door hard enough to rattle the glass. Another flick, and a Quick-Quotes Quill rose from the table, hovering over parchment like a vulture.

Hermione blinked slowly. Her body tensed, spine straight, lips pressed into a hard line. Across from her, Ron stared as though the sight of her offended him.

Theo kept spinning. In circles. Eyes unfocused.

Draco kicked him.

Theo yelped as the clipboard fell from his head and he toppled off the chair with a muffled curse. “Abuse!” he muttered, flopping back into his seat. “That was uncalled for.”

“You’re welcome,” Draco said.

Ron scowled. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”

Theo gave him a dazzling smile. “Oh, good, you can speak in full sentences. This bodes well.”

The solicitor cleared his throat, looking painfully out of place. “Shall we begin?”

Draco gestured lazily. “We’re all ears.”

The man straightened his robes. “My client is here today to negotiate a settlement regarding a pending legal claim for defamation of character and emotional distress. The claim refers to Ms. Granger’s recent book—The War Within—which my client asserts contains harmful falsehoods about his role in the final year of the war.”

Hermione inhaled sharply through her nose. Draco saw the way her hands clenched again, fingertips whitening.

The solicitor continued. “In particular, the passage suggesting Mr. Weasley abandoned Ms. Granger and Mr. Potter during a critical time. Additionally, a Daily Prophet article describing Mr. Weasley’s recent arrest in her bookshop has caused significant damage to his public image.”

“You mean the arrest that happened?” Theo piped up cheerfully. “The one where he screamed obscenities at her in front of three reporters and a shelf of collectible Fanged Frisbees?”

“You think this is funny?” Ron growled. “You’re all sitting here laughing at me like this is some kind of joke.”

“Actually,” Theo said, flipping a page, “we were laughing before you got here. This is just a bonus.”

Ron leaned forward, voice sharp. “She’s making me out to be the bad guy!”

Hermione’s voice was low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You did that all by yourself.”

“You smug little bitch,” Ron spat. “Always acting like you’re better than everyone else. You were a mess back then. I did what I had to do!”

“You walked out on us in the dead of winter,” she said, voice rising. “No warning. No plan. No way for us to know if you were even alive. You left Harry and me with nothing.”

Theo gave a low whistle. “Ouch.”

Ron jabbed a finger at him. “You stay out of this, you poncey—”

“Language,” Theo interrupted. “Besides, I already told you—you’re a ding-us a-mean-gus.”

Ron blinked. “What?”

Draco, bored, translated: “That’s Theo for ‘you’re a cruel idiot.’”

The solicitor cleared his throat again, clearly regretting every life decision that had led him to this room.

“My client is open to negotiation—”

“No I’m not!” Ron snapped. “I’m suing her. I want a full retraction, public apology, and damages for emotional trauma.”

“Because the public laughed at him,” Theo added, utterly unhelpful. “There’s even a Celestina Warbeck parody ballad. ‘O Ron, My Ron, You Twit.’ Charted at number three on WWN.”

Hermione stood.

Everyone froze.

Her voice was calm—quiet even—but it carried. “You’re lying.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “You don’t even know what—”

“I do know,” she said, louder. “Because you agreed to the book. You and Harry both. You signed a release. You wrote marginalia. I have your owl. I have every revision you sent. You told me—you told me—that the story deserved to be told.”

Ron scoffed. “Prove it.”

“I can.” Her voice trembled, not with fear—but with fury. “Because unlike you, I don’t lie. I don’t forget. And I don’t let people bully me into silence.”

Theo fanned himself with a folder. “I’m aroused.”

Draco didn’t even bother to hide his reaction. He was hard, plain and simple. Watching her—fierce, righteous, incandescent—was more erotic than anything he’d seen in his life.

Ron stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. “Enjoy your smug little win, Hermione. I’ll see you in court.”

Theo leaned forward. “Excellent. I look smashing in courtroom robes.”

The solicitor, red-faced, scrambled to collect their things as Ron stormed out.

When the door slammed shut, silence followed.

Hermione stood in the center of the room, chest rising and falling, her cheeks flushed with heat.

Draco stood slowly, eyes never leaving her. “You were brilliant,” he said, voice low and reverent.

Hermione gave a bitter smile. “I’m so tired of him.”

Theo slouched dramatically. “You know, we could transfigure him into an actual weasel. Just saying.”

Hermione laughed, despite herself.

And Draco? He ached.

Because she wasn’t his.

Not yet.

Theo clapped his hands and beamed. “Well, my friends, I have new paperwork to file and a court date to set.” He spun on his heel and strode over to Hermione, his expression warm and theatrical. “Darling, don’t worry. With your immaculate record-keeping and Ron’s remarkable lack of self-awareness, he doesn’t stand a chance.”

Hermione blinked at him, still visibly shaking from the confrontation, but the corners of her mouth twitched like she might smile.

Theo leaned in conspiratorially. “Just get me everything you’ve got—documents, letters, owls, tear-stained napkins—and I’ll build a case so air-tight the Wizengamot will be begging him to settle.”

He turned, swinging his arms like a showman taking a bow, and sent Draco a mischievous wink… followed by a very pointed look at the tented fabric of Draco’s trousers.

“Oh-ho! And someone is deeply impressed. I’d say congratulations are in order, Hermione. You've weaponized justice and turned our boy into a walking cautionary tale.”

Draco turned a mortified shade of crimson. He shifted in his seat, crossed his legs, and yanked the clipboard into his lap with the subtlety of a collapsing chandelier. Merlin, he prayed Hermione hadn’t noticed.

Theo smirked with devilish delight, blew them both a kiss, and practically skipped out the door—robes fluttering behind him like a victorious villain in a courtroom drama.

The room fell into silence.

Hermione sat back down slowly, her posture less rigid now. She took deep, steadying breaths. Her fingers loosened around the chair arms. Her eyes closed.

Draco watched her quietly, willing his blood to return to his brain. The sharp edges of the meeting still hovered like smoke, but the fire had passed. What remained was her: tired, furious, magnificent.

She opened her eyes again. The rage had faded, replaced with quiet weariness.

“Don’t worry, love,” Draco said softly, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. “I’ve got you.”

Hermione turned toward him, her gaze gentle and open. When she smiled, it wasn’t big or forced or polite. It was soft. Trusting.

Draco’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Fuck his last date.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to look casual, and gave her his most devastating grin. “How about I take you to lunch? I’ll personally bribe you with carbs and caffeine, and then we’ll swing by your place, grab the documents before sending you back to your shop.”

Hermione’s smile dimmed a fraction. “Oh—ah, I actually already have lunch plans.”

His heart dropped into his stomach, but he kept the grin pinned in place. “Hot date?”

Hermione giggled, cheeks flushing. “No! It’s with your dad. We usually have lunch on Thursdays. He says I’m his emotional support Gryffindor.”

Draco blinked, then grinned wider, relief flooding his veins. “Perfect. I’m crashing it. And Father can pay.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she laughed—real and bright.

He’d take that as a yes.

The café Lucius had chosen was so over-the-top elegant it bordered on self-parody—high ceilings, crisp linens, waitstaff in pristine robes, and a harpist in the corner playing something that sounded suspiciously like the Celestina Warbeck Greatest Hits.

Draco spotted his father immediately. Lucius sat at a window table, cloak folded with military precision, sipping his tea like he’d been waiting for hours and had been gravely wounded by the delay.

When he saw them approach, his eyes narrowed. “Oh,” he said flatly, voice full of put-upon betrayal. “You brought… him.”

Hermione burst into laughter. Draco sighed and pulled out her chair for her.

“Good to see you too, Father,” he drawled. “You look especially melodramatic today. Is that a new cravat or just a fresh sense of victimhood?”

Lucius ignored him entirely, turning to Hermione with a dignified expression of long-suffering affection. “Dearest girl, I had so looked forward to our intimate little lunch. Just the two of us. And now I find myself joined by… this poncy whelp.” He gestured vaguely at Draco like he was a garden pest that had wandered indoors.

Hermione pressed a hand over her mouth, trying and failing to stifle her giggles. “You mean your son?”

Lucius waved a hand. “Don’t remind me.”

Draco slouched into his chair. “Are we doing this again?”

“We are doing nothing,” Lucius said primly. “I am simply grieving the loss of my quiet lunch with my favorite witch.”

“Oh, favorite, am I?” Hermione teased.

“Undoubtedly,” Lucius replied without hesitation. “Brilliant, charming, polite, and capable of publishing a war memoir without accidentally slandering herself.”

Draco made a strangled noise.

“Meanwhile,” Lucius continued, looking down his nose at his son, “you’ve brought this—this vaguely sentient pile of arrogance—who once spent an entire year telling the neighbors he was allergic to sincerity.”

“I am allergic to sincerity,” Draco muttered. “Breaks me out in rash decisions and long conversations.”

Hermione laughed so hard she nearly choked on her water.

By the time lunch arrived, all three were in high spirits. Lucius refused to speak directly to Draco, choosing instead to say things like, “Hermione, darling, tell the snide blonde next to you that he’s blocking the sunlight.”

Draco retaliated by loudly referring to his father as Hermione’s doting chaperone, which only encouraged Lucius to double down.

“I am merely being protective,” Lucius insisted. “No young lady should be forced to endure such company unsupervised.”

“Oh? So you’re my father now?” Hermione said, amused.

Lucius gave her a beatific smile. “You’d be the only one worth claiming.”

Draco groaned. “I’m right here. Right here.”

“Unfortunately,” Lucius said.

Hermione wiped a tear from her eye as the waiter refilled their drinks. “I can’t take either of you seriously.”

“You shouldn’t,” Draco said. “It only encourages him.”

Lucius sniffed. “I’m a delight.”

Draco leaned back in his seat and nudged Hermione’s knee under the table. “Anyway. Lunch aside, I thought I’d let you know—Ron’s lawyer is a walking joke, Theo’s filing the court paperwork, and Hermione and I are headed to her flat to get some documents she has tucked away.”

Lucius froze mid-sip. Slowly, deliberately, he set down his teacup.

“I see,” he said. “And who will be accompanying Hermione to this document retrieval?”

Draco blinked. “Well. Me.”

Lucius tilted his head. “Alone?”

“Yes, Father. We’re just getting some paperwork—”

Lucius rose as if affronted by scandal. “Absolutely not.”

Hermione looked between them, eyes dancing. “Are you serious?”

“I am always serious,” Lucius said gravely. “A young lady should not be alone in her flat with an eager young man, particularly not one with my eyebrows and that glint in his eye.”

“What glint?” Draco spluttered, scandalized.

Lucius turned to the nearest waiter, pulling out his coin pouch. “The glint of intentions, Draco. Merlin help me, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Hermione was full-on cackling now.

Lucius paid for lunch, adjusted his sleeves, and nodded at Hermione. “Come along, darling. I shall act as your escort. For safety. And propriety. And so I can glare at my son the entire time.”

Draco stood with a groan. “This is my nightmare.”

Hermione looped her arm through Lucius’s and batted her lashes at Draco. “You’ll just have to earn your way back into his good graces.”

Lucius sniffed. “Unlikely.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Someone hex me.”

They left the café—Malfoys on either side of Hermione, both playfully arguing about who deserved her attention more.

Hermione didn’t choose.

She just laughed.

And Merlin, Draco loved that sound.

He’d spent so much of the morning watching her shoulders coil with tension, her voice tighten with fury, her expression twist with pain—but here she was, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, laughter spilling out of her like sunlight through storm clouds. And if it meant enduring his father’s dramatics and being the butt of every joke just to keep that sound echoing through the day?

He’d do it again. A thousand times.

He stole a glance at her as they stepped out into the street, her hand still looped through Lucius’s arm, her smile lingering even as she teased them both.

She laughed freely, fully, without hesitation.

And gods help him, but he’d make it his life’s mission to keep giving her reasons to do just that.

Even if it was always at his own expense.
Especially if it was.

Chapter Text

Lucius apparated them just outside Hermione’s flat. It was early afternoon, and the winter sun cast pale, golden rays across the cobbled path. He walked at an unhurried pace, Hermione’s arm tucked neatly around his, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

Teasing Draco at lunch had been far more entertaining than he’d anticipated—and entirely worth it to hear Hermione laugh. The poor girl had been under a great deal of stress lately: more foot traffic at the shop thanks to that Witch Weekly article, and now this absurd lawsuit from that Weasley animal.

She had needed the laughter. They all had. And Draco, bless him, had been a remarkably good sport, enduring their dramatics with only mild sulking. Lucius would take that as a win.

He was proud of the man his son had become. Truly. All that pureblood training hadn’t been entirely wasted. Now, if Narcissa’s plans would finally come to fruition, Lucius would have the distinct pleasure of calling the little witch on his arm his daughter—officially. She was already family in every way that mattered, but there was something satisfying about permanence. About names written in ink on the family tree. About legacy, cemented.

Not that anyone dared question their closeness now.

Still, he wanted her happy. With Draco.

And if his eyes still worked as well as he believed they did, those two were well on their way. It was in the way they leaned toward each other without realizing. The way their gazes lingered just a beat too long. The way Draco looked at her—as if she were sunlight incarnate, and he a man crawling out of shadow.

It was the same way he looked at Narcissa.

They would get there soon. He had no doubt.

Lucius glanced down at Hermione just as she smiled up at Draco. Draco returned the look, his expression soft, reverent. Like he was gazing at something rare and precious.

Lucius felt something warm and quiet unfold in his chest. Yes. They would be just fine.

Then he looked up.

And stopped.

Hermione’s front door was ajar.

The smile slid from his face. He halted mid-step, eyes narrowing at the slight tilt of the door, the absence of motion or sound beyond it.

That door should not be open.

Hermione’s stride faltered. She looked up at him, confused, and followed his gaze.

She gasped softly—and moved.

Lucius caught her arm. “No,” he said sharply. “It could be a trap.”

His heart was already racing, stomach hollowing with dread.

Draco stepped in front of Hermione, expression drawn tight, voice low and firm. “He’s right. We need to call the authorities.”

Hermione's voice was barely a whisper. “That’s my home.”

Lucius turned to her, gripped her shoulders with both hands. “Listen to me,” he said, calm but iron-strong. “You are not going in there.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he tightened his grip gently, drawing her gaze back to his.

“I’ll go get Harry. He’s an Auror. He’ll know what to do.”

Then he turned to Draco. “And you—keep her out of that flat.”

Their eyes locked. Lucius held his son’s gaze until Draco gave a terse nod, jaw clenched, shoulders tense.

Lucius took one last look at them—Hermione’s hands trembling at her sides, Draco already sliding an arm in front of her, protective and tense.

They’d obey.

He apparated away without another word.

After all, he knew precisely where Potter was.

They had arranged a schedule weeks ago—quiet, careful protection detail, just in case things escalated. At this hour, Potter would be stationed near the alley by her shop, keeping unsavory types far from their girl.

Because she was theirs now. His. Narcissa’s. Draco’s.

And no one touched what was theirs.

The air in Diagon Alley was crisp, touched with winter chill, but Lucius felt none of it.

He apparated just outside the alley beside the bookstore, his robes snapping with the force of his arrival. His expression was carved from stone—stern, impassive, the look of a man used to commanding immediate attention. His boots clicked with authority as he approached the corner where Harry Potter stood, arms folded, eyes scanning the narrow thoroughfare.

Harry looked up, blinking once in surprise, then relaxed slightly. “Malfoy,” he said, tone neutral but not unkind. “Didn’t expect you to check in yourself today. Everything alright?”

Lucius didn’t respond immediately. He came to a stop in front of Harry, posture rigid, eyes cool and direct.

Harry misread it. He always did.

He smiled faintly, shifting his weight like he was settling in for a standard update. “You’re just in time—I was about to send a report. All’s quiet. No tailing, no letters, no magical signatures worth noting. Couple nosy reporters yesterday, but I cast a perimeter fog charm, and they didn’t linger. Honestly, Hermione’s shop is the—”

“There’s been a complication.”

Lucius’s voice cut through Harry’s words like a blade. It wasn’t loud, but it had weight. Finality.

Harry straightened. “What kind of complication?”

Lucius exhaled once through his nose, impatient but controlled. “Her flat. The front door was open when we arrived. No visible signs of damage yet, but I do not believe she left it that way. I need you to come. Now. In your capacity as an Auror.”

The calm slipped from Harry’s face. He blinked, once, trying to process. “Her flat?” he repeated. “Why would someone target her home? We agreed the shop was more likely to attract attention, especially after that article—”

“I am aware of what we agreed,” Lucius interrupted, voice tight. “Clearly, circumstances have changed.”

Harry frowned. “Is she alright? Was anyone inside? Did you go in?”

“No. I stopped her. Draco and I held the perimeter.”

“You left her there?” Harry’s brow furrowed. “With Draco?”

Lucius’s mouth thinned. “Draco knows how to follow instructions when it matters. I told them both to stay outside. I came to get you. Which, I might remind you, would be progressing faster if we were moving rather than talking.”

Harry held up a hand. “Alright, alright. I’m going. Just—why would someone break into her home?”

Lucius hesitated. His hands clenched behind his back.

“Lucius?”

“There’s something you don’t know.” His tone dropped, clipped and cold. “Ronald Weasley has filed a lawsuit against her.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Harry stared at him. “I’m sorry. What?”

Lucius gave a sharp nod. “Filed it two mornings ago. Publicly. Claims she’s been using unethical magical practices in her book. That she manipulated him. That her success is built on deceit. It’s a character assassination in the form of a legal farce. And he has chosen to make it as visible as possible.”

Harry’s mouth parted, stunned. “Are you—? No. That can’t be right. He—he wouldn’t…”

“He has,” Lucius said coolly. “And as of this morning, Hermione is a public figure under siege. That flat is a vulnerability.”

Harry’s shock was quickly being consumed by anger. “He didn’t tell me. He didn’t tell me. I’ve spoken to him twice this week—he said he was going to take some space, clear his head, not—” He stopped short, teeth grinding. “That absolute—”

“There is no time for outrage,” Lucius snapped. “I need an Auror. I need someone competent. I need you now.”

Harry nodded, jaw tight. “Right. Let’s go.”

Lucius didn’t wait. He grabbed Harry’s arm, and in the blink of an eye, they disappeared into the pull of apparition.

The moment Lucius’s boots struck the pavement in front of Hermione’s building, he knew something was wrong.

Dread pressed in hard and fast. The front door—still open. Wider now, swinging gently on its hinges like an invitation to a grave. But more than that—no one was in sight.

No blonde hair. No wild curls. No children. No Draco. No Hermione.

Lucius surged forward, his cane clicking furiously against the cobblestone. “Draco!” he barked, voice like a whip. “Hermione!”

Nothing.

Harry skidded to a stop beside him. “Where the hell are they?” he muttered, eyes already scanning, wand out. “She never waits for backup. Bloody hell.”

Lucius’s chest constricted. He took three staggering steps forward, vision narrowing, heart pounding against the silk of his waistcoat. “No—no, no. They were right here. I left them right here—”

He didn’t realize how loud his breath had become until—

“Over here!”

Draco’s voice. From inside.

Lucius’s knees almost buckled with the relief and fury that surged through him at once.

He stormed toward the flat, crossing the threshold with a cold fire in his blood. “What part of wait outside did you not understand?” he thundered. His voice echoed off the broken walls. “Are you stupid, Draco? Or simply suicidal?”

Draco appeared from around the corner, pale and shaken, his hand gripped tightly around Hermione’s arm as though trying to anchor her to the earth. His eyes went wide at the sight of his father, guilt and fear flashing across his face.

“I—I tried, Father, I swear,” he stammered. “She didn’t wait. She just went in. I couldn’t let her go in alone—I had to—” A flicker of something close to shame passed over Draco’s face—as though he’d failed her, again, just when it mattered most.

“Had to what? Get yourselves killed?”

“Lucius,” Harry said behind him, voice clipped. “We’re in it now. Let’s keep our heads.”

Lucius didn’t take his eyes off his son. “You don’t go rushing into traps, Draco! That is rule number one—”

“It was a trap!” Draco shouted back, voice cracking. “There was a timed detonation spell—we set it off when we crossed the wards. I only just managed to shield us. Hermione could’ve been—”

Lucius's breath caught. He stopped. Blinked. Looked past Draco.

Hermione was frozen in the middle of the room.

Her eyes—wide, glassy—were fixed to a spot on the wall.

Lucius followed her gaze.

The world tilted.

There, scrawled across the cracked plaster in blood, was a single word:

MUDBLOOD.

The letters were jagged, uneven. Still wet.

He could feel the blood drain from his face.

No one moved. No one breathed.

The silence was only broken by a faint drip… drip… drip—blood hitting the floorboards.

Lucius’s heart dropped straight through his chest. Rage and sickness warred in his stomach. He turned slowly, eyes sweeping across the ruin.

He had spoken that word himself once—carelessly, cruelly. Now, seeing it scrawled in blood, it made him sick with loathing. At them. At himself.

The flat had been ripped apart.

Books were shredded, pages scattered like snow. Her desk had been overturned and split in half. The legs of her coffee table had been sawed off and tossed across the room. Her carefully arranged bookshelf—gone. Torn from the wall, its contents burned or torn to pieces.

Frames lay shattered. Photos cracked and curled, many destroyed entirely—friends and memories erased in a fit of hate. One lone photograph twitched on the floor, the image within flickering with static as if choking on its own pain.

Curtains ripped. Her teapot—smashed. Her clothes, her letters, her writing— gone . Drawers pulled out and dumped. A lamp lay in the center of the room, sparking faintly from the exposed wiring.

The destruction wasn’t random.

It was personal.

It was surgical .

It was vengeance.

Harry let out a long breath and stepped forward carefully. “No signs of forced entry. Wards were probably disrupted internally. I’ll need to test the perimeter. Check for residue—see if it was keyed to her magical signature.”

Hermione finally spoke.

Her voice was eerily calm.

“All my documents. My Gringotts ledger, my contracts. They’re… they’re either destroyed or missing.”

Draco’s head whipped toward her. “Are you sure?”

She didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed on the wall. Her hands were trembling.

Draco reached out, placing both of his hands on her arms. “We’ll fix it. We’ll find it all. I’ll—I'll go to Gringotts, I’ll talk to every single person who’s ever set foot in this flat. Hermione, look at me. ”

She didn’t move.

Harry stepped around them, voice taut and professional now. “I’m going to cast a stasis field. Nothing gets touched until we catalog everything. I’ll call in a forensics team from the Department.”

He paused. His hand hovered in the air. “This isn’t harassment,” he said quietly. “This was targeted . Someone wanted to break her down.”

Lucius stood perfectly still, his jaw locked, his cane forgotten at his side.

He had seen horrors in his life. He had caused them.

But this?

This was a message to a young woman who had already rebuilt herself from nothing. It was hatred made tangible. A war crime in a single word.

And someone had dared deliver it to his daughter’s home.

His eyes cut to the blood-streaked wall again.

No.

No, this would not go unpunished.

He turned to Harry, voice low and deadly calm. “Find them. Whoever did this. I want names.”

Harry gave him a sharp nod. “You’ll have them.”

Lucius turned back to Hermione. She was still trembling, still silent, but Draco had wrapped his arms around her now, holding her like he could stitch her back together with sheer will.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t speak.

She just stared at that wall like it had taken something from her she couldn’t name.

Lucius took one shaky breath.

And let the rage settle in his bones.

Lucius stood still amidst the wreckage, eyes sharp but expression unreadable. He didn’t need to speak. Not yet. The only sound was the soft hiss of Harry’s stasis spell locking the space into silence.

Then Draco’s voice broke through, low and strained. “Do you think this could be… connected to the lawsuit?”

Harry turned slightly, considering. “If it is… that complicates everything.”

Lucius glanced toward his son, noting how pale he looked. His knuckles were white against Hermione’s sleeves.

Harry nodded, beginning to pace slowly. “If it was an act of intimidation… It suggests a coordinated effort. This wasn’t a random hate crime. It was deliberate, targeted. We’ll treat it that way.”

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes scanning the devastation again. “We’ll need a few weeks to investigate. I’ll coordinate with my department and forward all findings and documentation to Draco’s law firm. If we can tie this to the suit—” he paused, jaw tight, “—it’ll strengthen her case. Might even backfire entirely on the bastard who filed it.”

Lucius gave a slight nod. He didn’t need to say it: Good.

Words felt unnecessary in this moment. The air was heavy with them already—unspoken fears, unvoiced promises. He didn’t want to clutter it with his voice. Not while the word mudblood still dripped crimson from her wall.

Harry sighed, gaze flicking from Hermione to Draco. “She can’t stay here,” he said softly. “Not during the investigation. Not with the wards compromised. This flat is officially a crime scene, and even after it’s released, it won’t be secure. She’s not safe here anymore.”

He turned to Hermione then, gentling his tone. “You can come to Grimmauld Place, Mione. You’re my sister. You always have a home with me.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She hadn’t moved in minutes, her gaze still locked on the bloodied wall.

Lucius stepped forward, quiet but firm. “She already has a room prepared at the Manor.”

Harry blinked, glancing back at him.

“She’ll be staying with us,” Lucius continued, tone like carved marble. “There is nowhere safer. My wards are layered through stone and blood. No one will touch her again. Not unless they want to see what I’ve learned from two wars.”

Harry hesitated, clearly wanting to protest—but stopped himself. He looked at Hermione again. At how unmoving she was. How hollow.

Reluctantly, he nodded. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

A long silence followed. It stretched too long—painfully long—until Lucius opened his mouth to fill it, only to pause.

Hermione stirred.

Her lips moved. A whisper. At first, he didn’t catch it.

“I thought… I thought we were done with this.”

Draco turned to her quickly, brows furrowed. “Hermione…”

Her head tilted, ever so slightly. Her voice, still soft. “I thought we were done with war crimes. With sending messages in blood. With destroying homes to make a point.”

Her eyes—when she finally looked away from the wall—were not blank.

They burned.

Lucius felt something cold settle into his chest. Not fear. Something else. Something dangerous.

Hermione turned to face them, rage simmering just beneath her skin. It was not loud, not volatile—but steady . Like a fire that refused to die.

“Let them come,” she said, voice trembling with fury. “Let them try again.”

Lucius exhaled slowly.

His shoulders straightened, and the decision was already made. Final. Absolute.

“She’s coming to the Manor,” he said again, this time not for Harry’s benefit but for Draco’s. For Hermione’s . “Where I can watch her. Where she’ll be protected. Watched over. Not by guards. Not by Aurors. By me. ”

He turned to Harry one last time. “Send your reports. Build your case. But she’s not a case. She’s mine . And I will not tolerate another inch of harm.”

Harry nodded once, grim and silent.

Lucius stepped to Hermione’s side and offered her his arm, regal and commanding as ever.

She hesitated—but placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Draco stepped beside them.

Together, they walked out of the wreckage—leaving the word behind them, smeared in blood, already cooling on the wall.

Chapter Text

Narcissa Malfoy was in her element.

Sunlight filtered through the enchanted windows of her office at the Manor, casting a golden sheen over the polished surfaces and pristine parchment stacked in meticulous rows across her desk. The scent of rosehip tea drifted faintly from a delicate porcelain cup, untouched and cooling slowly. In the hearth, a fire crackled with soft elegance—more for atmosphere than warmth.

It was December, which meant two things: charitable donations and holiday matchmaking. And Narcissa Malfoy intended to do both to perfection.

Her quill moved in smooth, precise strokes as she finalized a list of organizations: orphanages, underfunded St. Mungo’s wards, struggling magical libraries. She didn’t simply give to causes—she curated them, carefully selecting recipients that would benefit from both the gold and the prestige of being aligned with the Malfoy name.

She knew how it looked. To the unkind or unimaginative, it might seem as though she was only chasing redemption, as if every Galleon she spent was another brick in some grand wall she hoped to build between her family and its past.

But Narcissa didn’t care what they thought.

Not really.

She liked helping people. She liked restoring old wings of hospitals and funding apprenticeship programs for war orphans. She liked knowing she’d fixed something broken without ever lifting a wand. And yes, she liked the whispered gratitude, the admiration, the slow but deliberate transformation of the Malfoy name from cautionary tale to symbol of cultivated generosity.

Let the skeptics sneer. She had seen what power did in careless hands. Now she would wield it properly.

She paused to admire her own neat handwriting, the subtle swell of satisfaction warming her chest. There—done. This year’s giving campaign would eclipse even last year’s, and she would ensure the Prophet featured a tasteful profile on the “new era” of Malfoy philanthropy. She was already planning the quote.

“Let us be known not for what we endured, but for what we became.”

Not too sentimental. Just enough bite.

With a satisfied smile, she uncorked a small crystal bottle of sealing wax and pressed her signet ring into the first scroll. Only twelve more to go.

Her attention drifted to the open calendar beside her tea. The Ministry’s annual Christmas Gala loomed, a glittering affair she both adored and loathed. Too loud. Too crowded. Too many poorly dressed social climbers desperate to secure funding or favor. But it was tradition—and this year, she had plans.

She would match every single donation made at the Gala. Quietly, of course. The kind of public gesture that would circulate through the right whisper networks before breakfast the next morning.

More importantly, it was the perfect opportunity to advance her other holiday project.

Draco.

Narcissa reached for a separate bit of parchment and tapped her quill to her lips, eyes gleaming. Her son had been avoiding dates like they were cursed goblets—sullen and half-hearted in his refusals. But Narcissa had not birthed a fool. She saw where his eyes wandered. She knew who made his posture soften, who stirred his stubborn heart.

And if the girl didn’t see it yet?

Well. Narcissa had always had a gift for setting the stage.

She would maneuver them together under fairy lights and mistletoe if she had to. She would drag Hermione Granger into the family with velvet gloves and steel resolve.

If Draco didn’t propose soon, Narcissa was fully prepared to disown him and make Hermione her heir.

Chuckling to herself, she added Hermione’s name to the Christmas guest list in elegant, looping script. Just a soft nudge. Just a friendly invitation. And if the decorations happened to be romantic and the music wistful and the seating arrangement suspiciously strategic—well. Coincidence.

Narcissa took a final sip of her now-lukewarm tea and began drafting her list of holiday gifts. Something elegant for Hermione. Books, of course, but also something wearable. Silk? No—cashmere. Something luxurious but understated. Thoughtful, but not too forward. She did have standards to uphold.

She glanced up, smiling at the winter roses blooming just beyond the enchanted glass.

Everything was falling into place.

The family house-elf, Pippy, popped into her office with a soft crack, startling Narcissa just enough to nearly send her tray of scones tilting from her lap.

“Mistress,” the elf squeaked, eyes wide and anxious, “Lord Malfoy has returned and requests your presence in the family room. There appears to be a problem with young Miss Granger.”

Narcissa’s heart stuttered in her chest.

“What kind of problem?” she asked, already rising, voice taut as piano wire.

The elf only wrung its hands, ears drooping.

That was enough.

“Thank you, Pippy,” she said coolly, already sweeping across the room. She abandoned the tray entirely—a rare, telling breach of composure—and gathered her skirts as she strode from the office, heels clicking smartly against polished marble.

No one touches what is mine.

Not her son. Not Lucius. Not Hermione.

Not ever again.

She entered the family room in a rush of silk and resolve. The air was thick with tension, the kind that stilled a room to reverent silence. Lucius stood near the hearth, tall and imposing, his cane resting beneath one steadying hand. Draco hovered beside the settee like a storm barely leashed, his hair tousled, fists clenched at his sides, eyes darting helplessly between Lucius and the girl on the couch.

And Hermione sat in the center of it all—straight-backed and deathly calm, her magic coiled tight around her like a glass bell jar. Narcissa felt it immediately: the furious cold of it, precise and terrible.

Narcissa’s breath caught.

“What happened?” she asked, voice velvet and steel.

Draco opened his mouth, but Lucius answered instead, his voice low, steady, and sure. “Her flat was attacked. There was a trap. Everything’s gone.”

Narcissa turned sharply to Hermione. The girl did not flinch. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, but her knuckles were bloodless. The only thing that trembled was the air around her.

“She’s lucky she wasn’t home when the attack hit,” Lucius continued, his expression grim. “But the message was clear.”

Narcissa stepped fully into the room. “She’ll stay here,” she said immediately, already shifting into command. “With us. Under our wards.”

Lucius inclined his head. “She’s agreed.”

Draco exhaled shakily, like the last breath had been trapped in his chest since they returned.

“We couldn’t risk taking her back there,” he said, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t just an attack. They wanted her scared. They wanted her alone.”

He looked to Hermione again, eyes soft and wrecked.

“But you’re not alone. You’re not.”

Hermione turned to him slowly, her expression still and unreadable.

“I know,” she said, voice perfectly level. “I’m just angry.”

Narcissa crossed the room and placed one hand on Draco’s arm, smoothing down the sleeve of his jacket as if she could soothe him through touch alone.

“Are you hurt?” she asked gently, searching his face. “Did anyone touch either of you?”

Draco shook his head quickly. “No. Just—Hermione. They were after her.”

She turned then to Lucius, hand reaching briefly to graze his wrist, eyes sharp with love and inquiry.

“And you? You’re sure you’re not—?”

“I’m fine,” Lucius said, gaze softening just for her. “We got there after the culprit left. But she needs to be here. And she needs rest.”

Narcissa nodded once, then turned to Hermione, her expression tender.

“You’ll take the room next to Draco’s,” she said with the gentle assurance of a woman already rearranging furniture in her mind. “It’s across the hall from ours. You’ll be protected. And not alone.”

Draco stiffened. “Mother—that room’s reserved for—”

She cut him off with a look.

“It’s her room,” she said, sharp enough to silence even the implication.

Draco stammered, pink rising in his cheeks.

“Right. Of course. I didn’t mean—I just—yes.”

He didn’t dare look at Hermione.

Hermione didn’t acknowledge it. Her voice was cool, measured.

“I don’t need much. Just quiet. I have things to do.”

Narcissa felt the words like ice in her veins. Not because Hermione was cold—but because she was contained. Hardened. Carved down to the sharpest edge of herself.

Narcissa knew what it looked like to keep moving through the ruin.

“Come, darling,” she said softly. “Let me take you upstairs.”

Hermione hesitated for a breath, then rose, spine straight, shoulders square. Her silence was not born of fear—it was strategy.

Narcissa guided her out with a hand lightly grazing her back. As they walked, she kept a gentle eye on the girl beside her. Hermione’s jaw was set. Her magic crackled just beneath her skin, too calm to be safe.

When they reached the chosen bedroom, Narcissa opened the door and stepped aside.

The room was warm and inviting—soft shades of cream and green, tall windows opening to dimming sunlight and winter roses. A fire had been lit, a tea tray waiting on the small table near the window.

Hermione paused on the threshold, her expression unreadable.

“It’s yours,” Narcissa said gently. “It always has been.”

Hermione nodded once, stepping inside. Her gaze swept the room but didn’t linger.

Then, as she crossed the threshold—just before her fingers brushed the back of the armchair—she faltered.

Only for a second.

Her breath caught. A blink too long. Her fingers curled in, barely, like she’d touched something too hot or too soft.

And then it was gone—shoulders squared again, posture perfect, voice steady.

“I know it’s not enough,” Narcissa said quietly, from the doorway. “But this house is yours. We are yours. And whatever comes next… you won’t face it alone.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away.

But her shoulders—drawn so tight—eased by a fraction.

Narcissa offered her a small, sincere smile.

“Good night, Hermione. I’ll be here. If you wake up and need anything—or nothing at all.”

Hermione didn’t smile. But she nodded.

And that, Narcissa thought, was a start.

She closed the door behind her, gently.

Then leaned against it for a moment, one hand to her chest, breathing through the ache of helplessness.

All she could do was keep them safe.

And she would burn the world to ash to make sure of it.

The next morning dawned with deceptive calm.

Sunlight spilled into the breakfast room in golden slants, the scent of fresh bread and citrus jam lingering in the air. At first glance, it could have been any peaceful morning at the Manor.

Lucius sat with his paper held aloft, spine stiff, eyes unreadable behind the print. Draco mirrored him exactly, right down to the deliberate page-turning, though his grip on the Daily Prophet was a touch too tight to be casual.

Between them, Narcissa sipped her tea.

The tension was unbearable—thick enough to choke on. No one had spoken beyond the barest polite greetings. Even the silverware moved in a kind of funereal hush, as though the whole house was holding its breath.

This would not do.

Narcissa, queen of etiquette and ambiance, set her cup down with a quiet click. She folded her hands primly in her lap and then turned her gaze to her husband.

“Lucius, my love,” she said softly, her voice smooth as cream.

Lucius lowered the paper immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching with concern. “Yes, dearest?”

She smiled, slow and warm, letting just enough affection seep through to begin easing the knots in his shoulders. “I wanted to say how proud I am of you.”

His brow lifted, faintly surprised.

“You acted swiftly yesterday. You didn’t hesitate. You protected our children,” she said, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Because of you, they are both safe. That’s what matters.”

Lucius looked at her, his expression softening around the edges. A breath escaped him—deep, long, and quiet—as he allowed his shoulders to settle for the first time since the night before.

“I’d do anything for this family,” he said simply, lifting her hand to his lips to press a reverent kiss to her knuckles.

Narcissa’s smile grew—genuine now, not just calculated warmth.

One down, two to go.

From her left, Draco made a show of flipping a page with the loudest rustle imaginable.

Narcissa bit back a smile.

Lucius released her hand, his eyes still gentle, and returned to his paper with less rigidity than before. Narcissa turned her attention to their son, buttering a slice of toast with exaggerated calm.

Then, with her brightest tone: “Draco, darling.”

Draco sighed as if summoned by a Howler and let his paper slide to the table. “That’s never a good sign.”

She beamed. “I’ve been thinking.”

His eyes narrowed. “Definitely not a good sign.”

She ignored him, too delighted by her own mischief. “I was reflecting on our little agreement.”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Mother. Is now the time?”

Lucius chuckled from behind the paper. “It’s exactly the time. Malfoy men honor their debts.”

“Indeed, they do,” Narcissa echoed primly, taking a dainty bite of toast. “And if I recall correctly, you owe me one last date, my sweet boy.”

Draco made a noise of protest, dropping his head dramatically against the back of the chair.

“I’ve decided it will take place at the Ministry’s Holiday Charity Gala,” she said cheerfully, as if discussing the weather. “You’ll be quite the sensation.”

“Why do you hate me?” Draco muttered.

Narcissa ignored the question, tapping her fingers gently on the table. “Now, I’ll need to see that little list I gave you. The one with all the potential wives you rejected. I’d like to consult it.”

Draco groaned louder but obediently flicked his wand. The scroll zipped through the air and landed in her waiting hand.

Lucius, without looking up, added dryly, “You’re lucky, son. Your mother has exquisite taste.”

Narcissa beamed and patted his hand. “You flatter me.”

She skimmed the list with a thoughtful hum. “Draco, trust me. I have a very good feeling about the one I’ll choose. I suspect you’ll be… unable to walk away.”

Draco stared at her warily. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, immensely,” she said, eyes gleaming. “But I’ll keep my pick a surprise. Wouldn’t want to ruin the drama.”

Draco buried his face in his hands with a groan. “Just one more. Just one.”

Narcissa smirked. “Two down, one to go,” she whispered behind her teacup.

The tension that had haunted the room since dawn had loosened considerably. The paper rustled once more, this time less like a shield and more like a morning routine. Draco’s sighs now carried the edge of amusement, not dread.

And then they all went still.

Soft footsteps sounded on the staircase.

The three of them straightened automatically, their gazes flicking toward the doorway. A hush settled over the room again—but it wasn’t tense now.

It was expectant.

Hopeful.

Waiting.

For Hermione.

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled through the curtains, gentle and golden, warming the unfamiliar bedroom. Hermione lay still beneath the covers, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her body stiff with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond sleep.

It was the morning after the attack.

Her flat—her sanctuary—was gone. Reduced to cinders and blood and ash.

She felt… nothing.

Not yet.

She stared up at the ornate molding above her, its elegant swirls utterly foreign. Her ears rang in the silence. Even her thoughts moved sluggishly, like they were wading through thick fog.

But the images came anyway.

The wreckage.
The scorch marks.
The word.

‘Mudblood.’

Written in blood.

She had seen it before. Second year. The echo of those cold stone corridors at Hogwarts whispered through her mind. Back then, she’d refused to be afraid—refused to flinch, even when her hands trembled.

She wouldn’t act scared now, either.

But this time...
She was angry.

Everything was gone. Her notes. Her records. Her research. Her clothes. Her books. Her home.

Gone.

She blinked slowly, her jaw tightening. She didn’t want to admit it—not even to herself—but a seed of suspicion had taken root in her chest.

Ron.

Ron knew the layout of her flat. Knew her habits. Knew exactly what mattered most to her.

He also knew her deepest fear. The one she’d confided in only him and Harry during the war.

She had always been terrified that Death Eaters would find her parents. That she would walk into their home and find nothing but carnage. That the Dark would take from her the only family she had left, and leave her to discover the ruin.

That scene—the one she’d imagined in her worst nightmares—had played out last night. Nearly identical.

Except this time,
it wasn’t Death Eaters.
And it wasn’t her parents.
It was her.

There were only two people in the world who had ever known the full extent of that fear.

Harry.
Ron.

Harry had looked as shaken as she had. Genuine. Horrified.

That left only one possibility.

Her breath caught in her throat—and for a moment, the room tilted.

A cold, curling nausea turned in her stomach. Her fingers clenched into nothing. It felt like betrayal—but quieter. Deeper. Like someone had reached into her chest and cracked something open.

He wouldn’t—
He couldn’t—

But he had motive. He had access. He had history.

The documents.

That bastard.

He hadn’t just wanted to scare her—he’d wanted to destroy her evidence. Erase her paper trail. Cripple her ability to fight him in court.

He hadn’t just tried to hurt her.

He had tried to silence her.

Hermione sat up slowly, her limbs heavy but her spine straightening with a cold, deliberate kind of fury. She ran both hands through her hair, the numbness burning away under the rising heat of her resolve.

He wanted her afraid.
Wanted her broken.

He would get neither.

She exhaled, long and slow. Her eyes scanned the guest bedroom around her—quiet, tasteful, soothing. The mattress beneath her was soft, the linens expensive. Her old life may have burned to the ground, but this place had offered her something unexpected: safety.

The Malfoys had taken her in without hesitation.

She hadn’t gone to Harry—he meant well, but his silent hovering would have driven her mad. He would have sat at her side, absorbing her pain and projecting it back at her with those mournful eyes.

The Malfoys, on the other hand, had given her exactly what she needed: space.

Space to sleep.

Space to breathe.

Space to think without someone hovering over her, demanding a reaction she wasn’t ready to give.

It had been a gift more precious than any potion or protective charm.

They were worried, of course. She had seen the signs even through the haze of exhaustion—Lucius standing rigid by the sitting room hearth, his jaw locked and hands clasped behind his back like he could hold his composure together through sheer force of will. Draco had hovered in the doorway, eyes flickering between her and his mother, lips twitching like he was desperate to say something but didn’t know what. His anxious energy had been… sweet, in its own way. Adorable, even.

But it was Narcissa who had seen it immediately. The way Hermione had started to shrink in on herself. The moment when the walls began to close in. Narcissa had simply stepped forward, taken her gently by the arm, and led her here. No fuss. No pressure. Just quiet care.

Hermione exhaled softly, her gaze drifting toward the sunlit curtains.

Gods, she loved them. All three of them.

They would probably give her anything she asked for.

The thought made her smile, small and secret.

She would give them anything, too.

Lucius had become the steady presence she hadn’t realized she was craving—the kind of father figure she’d lost. He didn’t smother her with questions or fret over her like a child. He simply stood beside her, solid and sure, showing his pride and approval through action. Through presence.

And Narcissa—Narcissa made her feel seen. Understood. She filled the spaces Hermione didn’t always know were empty. A guiding hand on her shoulder, a knowing glance, the gentle insistence on brushing Hermione’s curls or making sure her clothes were appropriate. The kind of love that came not in grand gestures, but in the quiet art of noticing.

And then… there was Draco.

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, heat blooming just beneath the surface of her skin. Gods, he was beautiful. Infuriating and clever and sharp, yes—but beautiful too, in a way that made her chest ache if she looked too long.

It was silly, really. A foolish little fantasy.

They could never be together the way she wanted. Not truly.

Because if it went wrong—if she reached for too much and lost—it wouldn’t just be him she’d lose. It would be all of them. Her strange, elegant, perfect little sanctuary would vanish in a breath.

And it wasn’t worth the risk.

No matter how much she wanted it.

She didn’t match him. He was poised and pedigreed, and she was still the Muggleborn girl with soot on her hands and scars she didn’t show. He needed someone who sparkled at galas, who knew how to flirt in ancient French and pour tea without spilling her soul into the saucer.

She knew it wasn’t fair—to herself or to him—but the thought lingered like a shadow in the back of her mind.

Not true, but not easy to shake.

Still... she could stay close. In whatever way they’d let her.

Draco seemed invested in her business—genuinely, even passionately. She would keep him close through that if she had to. Find excuses to meet, to plan, to argue about logistics until her cheeks hurt from smiling.

She sighed and glanced down at her rumpled clothes.

It was time to get up. Time to show them she was all right—or at least close enough to pass for it. Time to make it clear she had a plan moving forward.

Time to let them see that the fire inside her wasn’t gone.

Just tempered. Forged.
A backbone of steel.

She took a moment to smooth her curls with her fingers, push the worst of the tiredness from her eyes, and square her shoulders. Her hands brushed out the wrinkles of her slept-in clothes.

Then she stepped into the hallway and padded barefoot toward the scent of tea and toast.

The Malfoys were already seated when she entered the breakfast room. Lucius, of course, looked immaculately composed with his paper held aloft, though the stiffness in his posture betrayed that he was reading the same paragraph over and over. Narcissa sipped from a delicate porcelain cup, her gaze drifting to the doorway before Hermione even crossed the threshold. Draco sat slouched at the table, his curls still mussed from sleep, buttering toast with unnecessary intensity.

Three sets of eyes lifted the moment she entered.
Three pairs of shoulders relaxed in unison.

She hadn’t realized how much tension her absence had caused until it eased like that.

“Good morning,” she said gently, her voice steady, chin high.

“Miss Granger,” Lucius greeted, folding his paper with precise care. “You’re looking rather determined this morning.”

Hermione smiled. “I am.”

She took a few steps in, pausing near the head of the table, her fingers brushing the back of an empty chair.

“I’ve decided,” she said, meeting each of their gazes in turn, “that I won’t let whoever did this win.”

Narcissa set her cup down with a soft click, eyes narrowing slightly in interest. Draco leaned forward, elbows on the table, as if trying not to miss a word.

“I won’t hide. I won’t fall apart. I won’t let fear—bigotry—decide the shape of my life.” She inhaled and let the breath out slowly. “Harry will do his part. He’ll catch whoever did this. And I’ll do mine—by continuing. By living. By building something so bright and loud and strong that it drowns them out.”

For a long, perfect second, the room was still.

Then Draco stood, quietly, and crossed to her side.

His hand brushed her elbow, hesitant at first, then firmer as he looked down at her with something soft and awe-struck in his expression.

“I’ll help,” he said simply. “In any way I can. I’ll… I’ll do whatever you need. Just say the word.”

Hermione looked up at him and smiled—bright, grateful, and just a little wobbly.

“I know,” she said.

Lucius cleared his throat and rose to his feet as well. “It’s a sound strategy,” he said, walking around the table to stand beside Draco. “One rooted in dignity and strength. I support it wholeheartedly.”

And then, because he was Lucius Malfoy and incapable of being anything less than dramatic, he added, “And I am proud of you.”

Hermione blinked, stunned for a moment. Lucius rarely used the word proud without ceremony.

“I—thank you,” she said, warmth blooming in her chest.

“I’m proud too,” Narcissa added smoothly, her tone light but eyes shining. “And if you ever feel yourself wavering, I shall simply bully you into another bubble bath and brush your hair until you come to your senses.”

Hermione laughed, bright and delighted.

She took her seat beside Draco, who hadn’t quite moved away, and felt the brush of his knee against hers under the table.

“You’re not alone, you know,” he murmured to her, voice so low it barely carried. “We’ve got you. No matter what happens.”

She turned toward him, her heart catching in her throat.

“I know,” she whispered back.

And somehow, that knowledge—their presence, their quiet devotion, the way their house had become a home overnight—was the strongest magic of all.

Draco passed her the toast rack like it was some sacred offering.

“You’ll find the marmalade’s decent this morning,” he said, oddly formal for a man in a half-buttoned shirt. “I made sure the elves used the good oranges.”

Hermione blinked at him. “You… ordered marmalade for me?”

Lucius raised a brow over his teacup. “He interrogated the poor elf about rind texture and sugar ratios.”

“I did not interrogate,” Draco said hotly. “I asked.”

“You summoned him three times,” Narcissa said serenely, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. “At one point I believe you demanded a side-by-side tasting.”

“It was research!” Draco insisted, cheeks pinking. “And clearly worth it, since she’s smiling now.”

Hermione was smiling—worse, she was trying not to grin like an idiot at the way Draco looked so proud of himself. “It’s just marmalade,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“You say that,” Draco replied, leaning slightly toward her, “but wait until you taste it. You’ll never trust a shop-bought jar again.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for a scone. “Well then, thank you for safeguarding my citrus standards.”

He winked, and she looked away quickly, heat rising to her cheeks.

But her smile faltered slightly when she glanced down at her crumpled slept-in outfit. She needed a whole new wardrobe.

She swallowed and turned toward Narcissa, her voice a little hesitant.

“Um… I was wondering if you might help me with… well… clothes.”

Narcissa looked up with immediate interest.

“I don’t have anything,” Hermione explained. “My entire wardrobe was destroyed, and I really don’t have the time to go shopping properly while everything else is happening. But I can’t exactly run around in conjured basics forever…”

She trailed off, already feeling her cheeks warm at the vulnerable admission.

Narcissa’s eyes gleamed.

“Oh, darling,” she breathed, placing both hands delicately on the table as if steadying herself from pure excitement. “You want my help?”

Hermione nodded, more sheepishly now. “Just a few pieces to tide me over, really. Nothing too fancy, just—”

Narcissa stood with a squeal. An actual squeal. Lucius looked vaguely alarmed. Draco choked on his tea.

“You’ve come to the right place,” Narcissa said grandly, sweeping around the table to kiss Hermione’s cheek like she’d just won the lottery. “Today, you shall borrow one of my most fabulous outfits. I’ll have it pressed and ready while you eat.”

“I—I can wear anything, really, just—” Hermione tried, but it was too late.

“Oh, nonsense,” Narcissa said, already sailing toward the door with a gleeful glint in her eye. “And after breakfast, we are going shopping. Not just for a few pieces—no. You need a whole wardrobe. Something divine. Something worthy of you.”

Hermione stared after her, a little stunned.

Draco leaned in with a sympathetic smile. “You’ve unleashed the fashion kraken,” he murmured.

Lucius gave a long-suffering sigh. “May the gods have mercy on your budget.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands with a groan, then peeked through her fingers at Draco—who was grinning at her like she’d just made his entire week.

She laughed despite herself.

Yes, she’d just unleashed a fashion monster.

But she also had a family now—odd and dramatic and over-the-top as they were.

And maybe, just maybe, a very beautiful blond problem she wasn’t quite ready to give up.

She wasn’t ready to admit it aloud, but she wanted to keep him—for just a little longer.

Maybe forever.

Not now.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Draco was relieved Hermione wasn’t breaking.

After everything—after the fire, the wreckage, the way she’d thrown herself into danger without a second thought—he had feared the worst. Typical Gryffindor, charging ahead without a moment's hesitation. She could have died.

The thought struck him hard, swift and cold. His chest tightened as the image replayed: flames licking at her curls, smoke clinging to her skin. He gripped his teacup a little too tightly.

He’d been fast enough. He had protected her in time.

He took a steadying breath.

He would always protect her.

Across the table, she sat upright and focused, her expression fierce in its composure. She wasn’t folding in on herself. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t crumbling.

She was choosing to rise.

And gods, he was proud of her.

Whoever had done this—whoever had tried to frighten her, destroy her sense of safety—they didn’t deserve her grief. She wasn’t giving them the satisfaction of a breakdown. She was choosing anger, determination, action.
She was stronger than anyone gave her credit for. Stronger than most people ever realized.

Draco would never underestimate her again.

Still, the attack gnawed at him. The timing was too convenient. Too exact. Just after their meeting with Ron, when Hermione had confidently outlined her evidence and her case. That bastard had left that meeting angry—rattled, even.

Draco’s jaw tensed. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

This had been a warning. A threat. A calculated act meant to silence her, to erase her work and terrify her into submission.
It hadn’t worked. But that didn’t make it any less dangerous.

Theo needed to know immediately. This wasn’t just another legal complication—it was a potential criminal act. Retaliation. Sabotage. Possibly worse.

The court date would have to wait. He wouldn’t let them set foot in a courtroom until the culprit was found. Theo would agree.

And then there was the press.

Draco grimaced slightly. The Prophet would have the story by tomorrow—maybe even by this afternoon if the leak came from the Auror department. Hermione needed to control the narrative before someone else spun it for her.
She’d have to tell her staff. Today. No matter how tired she was. Better it came from her than from a screaming headline.
Harry was starting the investigation, which meant progress would come—but slowly. The Ministry wasn’t known for its speed. Or its discretion.

He’d speak with Theo as soon as he reached the firm. They’d delay the court proceedings until after the holidays at least. It wouldn’t look like a retreat—it would look like a calculated move. That was the key. Show strength. Never panic.

Draco took another sip of tea, slower this time. His eyes flicked toward Hermione again.

She was talking with Narcissa, her voice soft, her cheeks tinged pink as she asked for help finding clothes. Vulnerable. Open. Trusting.

Narcissa had practically levitated with joy.

Hermione looked dazed by the whirlwind of it, like she wasn’t quite sure what she’d set in motion.

Draco smiled to himself. She had no idea how completely she’d disarmed them all.

He leaned back slightly, taking her in—the sleepy tumble of her curls, the strength in the line of her shoulders, the quiet spark still glowing behind her tired eyes. She was rebuilding. Brick by stubborn brick.

And he was lucky. Lucky to be near her. Lucky that she trusted him enough to let him stay close.

He would help her—through the fire, the fallout, the legal battles, the media storms. Whatever it took. However long it took.
And if it was Ron—if that bastard had truly been behind the fire and the blood—then Draco would make sure he paid.

He’d stand at Hermione’s side in every fight.

Because she deserved more than survival. She deserved safety. Peace. Triumph.
And if Draco could give her even a fraction of that—he’d do it without hesitation.

Draco glanced over at her, waiting until she met his gaze. His voice dropped slightly, meant just for her.
“Hermione… Theo and I will stop by the shop today. Can you close it temporarily for a staff meeting? We need to tell your team what’s happened—before the Prophet does.”

She took a shaky breath but nodded. Her spine straightened, her chin lifting.
“Yes,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “They need to know.”

He gave her a small smile, filled with something quiet and proud.
“We’ll also need to talk about hiring permanent help. You’ve done brilliantly managing everything so far, but once this story hits, even more people will show up. The shop will need more hands.”

He hesitated, then added softly, “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

Hermione’s mouth twitched at the corners. She nodded again, her eyes softer now.
“I know. Thank you.”

Draco reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against the back of her hand. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t bold. Just a brief, grounding touch.
“Eat,” he murmured. “Get ready. Theo and I will be there in two hours.”

As he stood to leave, she looked up at him with a warmth that curled around his chest like a spell.
“Thank you, Draco.”

He smiled—his most charming, most insufferably pleased smile.
“Anything for you, love.”

Her cheeks pinked instantly, and he caught the way her gaze dropped to her plate like it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

From behind his paper, Lucius gave a low chuckle, entirely too amused. Draco didn’t look back, but he could feel the smirk aimed at him like a spell.

He didn’t care.

Draco stepped out of the breakfast room feeling like he’d just won something grand and glittering. And Merlin, if making her blush felt that good, he’d do it again. And again.

He might be walking into fire today—but he was doing it with her at his side.

Draco and Theo arrived at the bookshop precisely on time. Draco would’ve preferred to be fifteen minutes early, of course, but Theo had forcibly held him back with a smirk and an obnoxiously firm grip on his shoulder.

“Patience is a virtue, Malfoy,” Theo had chirped. “You really should try it sometime. Good for the spleen.”

Now, walking through the door of the quiet, closed shop, Draco felt a flicker of satisfaction. The “Closed for Staff Meeting” sign hung perfectly centered in the window. The counters were clean, the shelves tidy, and the enchanted cinnamon candle by the register filled the air with warmth.

She had done exactly what he asked.

Good girl.

Theo sauntered in behind him, windswept and only half-buttoned—because of course he was. Chaos incarnate.

Hermione stood behind the counter, clipboard in hand, curls pinned up, her cheeks still glowing faintly from breakfast. Draco saw her and forgot what he’d been planning to say.

She was radiant.

He crossed to her without hesitation and brushed a kiss to her cheek. “Morning,” he murmured.

Before she could react, Theo swooped in from the other side and pressed an identical kiss to her other cheek.

Hermione turned an impressive shade of crimson, blinking at both of them like they’d just staged a perfectly choreographed ambush.

Theo grinned. “Symmetry is essential in any meaningful ritual.”

Draco rolled his eyes, though he didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m festive,” Theo countered.

From across the room, Rikki let out a catcall. “Oi! If you’re opening a kissing booth, I call first dibs.”

Patricia snorted into her tea. “You’re all menaces.”

Draco turned back to Hermione just as she gave a little huff of laughter. She was flustered but standing tall. Still steady. Still brilliant. He felt a bloom of pride. This mess hadn’t broken her. If anything, it had sharpened her edges.

“All right,” Hermione said firmly, clipboard still in hand. “Before Theo starts quoting Byron, we’ve got business to handle.”

“Rude,” Theo sniffed. “I was going to quote Sappho.”

Rikki slid down from her perch on a step stool. “Only if you do it in Ancient Greek.”

“Oh, now that’s a date,” Theo said, eyes gleaming. “You bring the wine, I’ll bring the papyrus.”

Draco cleared his throat loudly. “Can we focus on the arson and attempted murder?”

“Right, sorry, sorry,” Theo said, waving a hand. “Back to the trauma.”

Hermione stepped forward and told them everything: the fire, the destruction of her flat, the lost research, the mounting suspicion that Ron was behind it all.

Silence followed her words, thick and sharp.

“Everything?” Patricia asked quietly. “All of it’s gone?”

Hermione nodded. “Every page. Every note. Every ledger.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Patricia set down her teacup with surprising force. “What about a Pensieve?”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

Patricia’s eyes lit. “We used them after the war. Testimonies, memories, witness accounts—they were valid in court then, weren’t they? If you remember the contents of the documents, and if others can corroborate—then they’re not really gone.”

Hermione stared at her.

Draco did too.

He turned to Theo slowly, lifting one brow.

Theo looked utterly delighted. “It’s not perfect,” he said, “but yes—it would work. If the memories are intact and supported by others, it could absolutely stand up as evidence.”

“Patricia,” Rikki breathed. “You terrifying, tea-drinking genius.”

Patricia blinked, then tilted her head. “Was that a compliment or a threat?”

“Yes,” Rikki replied, grinning.

Theo clutched his chest. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Rikki tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Save it, loverboy. I’m holding out for a formal proposal from Mama Cissa.”

“Tragic,” Theo whispered. “But understandable.”

Hermione laughed, the sound bright and bubbling up like sunlight. Her tension eased. Her eyes sparkled again.

Draco let himself exhale, just a little.

They weren’t beaten. Not yet.

“You’re brilliant,” Hermione said, turning to Patricia with an expression halfway between awe and gratitude.

Draco glanced at Theo, who was now leaning dramatically across the front counter while Rikki braided a ribbon into his hair.

“Chaos bunnies,” Draco muttered.

“I heard that!” Theo called.

“I meant for you to.”

Hermione stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his. He felt the contact like a grounding spell.

She tilted her head up. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He looked down at her, heart thudding too fast. “We’ll sort this,” he said. “Every bit of it. I promise.”

Her smile, this time, was real. “We already are.”

And in that moment, with flirtation flying and chaos dancing between friends, Draco realized something strange and startling.

He was happy.

Even with the wreckage still smoldering behind them, even with the road ahead uncertain—he was exactly where he wanted to be.

By her side.

He just had to make sure she stayed there.

By mid-afternoon, the staff meeting had turned from grim strategy to something far more productive.

With Theo’s help—and a few pointed suggestions from Rikki—they’d narrowed down a list of potential new hires. Three names stood out clearly, all young witches with excellent credentials and a love of books, logistics, and low-level magical chaos. Exactly what Hermione’s little empire needed.

Hermione sat behind the counter with a quill between her fingers, brow furrowed in concentration as she scanned the short parchment of final choices. Draco stood beside her, arms crossed, clearly pleased with their progress.

“These three will do nicely,” he said, tapping his finger against the page. “I’ll owl them tonight with preliminary offers.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes. I think they’ll fit in well with the team.”

“Good instincts,” Theo said, lounging on a stool with his legs draped dramatically over Rikki’s lap like a housecat. “Can I hire people based solely on how cute they are when they say ‘decimal system’?”

“No,” Hermione said flatly.

“Yes,” Rikki countered.

Draco ignored them. Mostly.

Draco leaned in, arms crossed. “We need a fourth.”

Hermione blinked. “No, we don’t.”

“Yes,” he said, already bracing for her resistance. “One person isn’t enough to handle weekend events, outreach, or the incoming flood of press-related customers. You’ll be overrun.”

“We don’t even have events scheduled yet.”

“You will,” Draco said flatly. “The Prophet’s going to run the attack story. You’re about to become a national symbol for magical equity and resistance. People will flock here.”

Hermione frowned. “Let’s wait a week, see what happens.”

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly. “No. We need someone in place before the Prophet drops the headline. Hire them now or you’ll collapse by Friday.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being practical,” he said, voice cool.

Rikki, who had somehow ended up sitting on top of the front desk, cackled. “They’re fighting again. Quick, someone start a betting pool.”

Theo sprawled out in a chair like an opium dream. “I bet five galleons they end up snogging before the hiring forms are signed.”

“Ten if it happens behind the history section,” Rikki shot back.

Draco ignored them. “I already interviewed a candidate.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. “You what?”

“She’s smart, capable, has retail experience, and—bonus—she quoted The Princess Bride with perfect delivery. You’re welcome.”

Hermione let out a groan and dropped her forehead to the counter with a soft thud. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re lucky I love efficiency,” Draco said lightly, watching the flush rise on her cheeks.

From the corner, Patricia sipped her tea like she was at a Quidditch match. She didn’t even try to hide her grin.

“You are ridiculous,” Hermione muttered, lifting her head.

“And you’re stalling.”

She stared at him. He stared back, utterly unmoved.

“Two-week trial. That’s it,” she said finally.

“Deal,” he said, victorious.

Across the room, Theo was now trying to balance a sugar quill on his nose while Rikki clapped like she’d discovered fire. Draco couldn’t decide if he was surrounded by chaos demons or geniuses.

Probably both.

Hermione smiled again, shaking her head like he was both a problem and her favorite indulgence.

Draco watched her from the corner of his eye. Hair messy, sleeves rolled, lips curled into that maddening smile. She was holding up better than he’d dreamed possible. Strong. Sharp. Fire-forged.

And she’d just let him win an argument. Sort of.

Gods, he was in trouble.

And he didn’t mind one bit.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy sat regally in his favorite book nook—tucked behind a lazily floating display of charmed bookmarks—perched on an overstuffed velvet armchair that he had, of course, enchanted to warm precisely to his back and lower spine. In one gloved hand, he held the latest Superman comic. His reading glasses—purely aesthetic, he insisted—perched on the tip of his nose as he turned a page with the gravitas of a High Wizengamot Inquisitor reviewing a murder case.

It had been a week since the attack.

A week of vigilance. Of subtle wand movements. Of enchantments, protocols, background checks, and an exasperating amount of whispered coordination with Harry Bloody Potter . Lucius had never imagined such a reality—working alongside The Boy Who Had Ruined His Carpet —but desperate times, as they said, made for surreal partnerships.

To Potter’s credit, he was nearly as overprotective as Lucius himself.

The pair had expanded the wards around the bookshop significantly. Anti-tracking spells. Alarm triggers keyed to very specific individuals. A custom-built Weasel Warding Charm —Lucius's personal favorite—that would set off a screaming hex if Ronald Weasley so much as looked at the threshold with ill intent.

Hermione had grumbled about the overkill. Lucius had smiled indulgently and done it anyway.

Today, he would not let her out of his sight. Not even for tea. Not even for pastry. Not even if Superman himself arrived to escort her elsewhere. (Though that would require a different kind of negotiation.)

Draco had been equally incorrigible, of course. He’d helped Hermione hire four new staff members , and Lucius couldn’t help but note they were all young , attractive , and female . Subtlety had never been Draco’s strength.

Mandy Brocklehurst, the Ravenclaw, had a suspiciously sharp tongue and an encyclopedic knowledge of magical publishing trends. Lucius liked her. She reminded him of Narcissa on a particularly caffeinated day.

Laura Madley, the Hufflepuff, was sweet, polite, and terrifyingly efficient. She organized the back storeroom with such ruthless optimism that Lucius had momentarily wondered if she was related to Minerva McGonagall.

Padma Patil, the new media manager, had shown up with a color-coded press strategy and a wand holster that matched her earrings. Lucius approved.

Millicent Bulstrode was perhaps the most surprising addition. Grown into her features and now exuding a quiet confidence, she manned the counter like a bouncer at a noble gala. Lucius nodded to her every time he entered, and she nodded back, silently swearing violence upon anyone who crossed a boundary.

Together, they made a shockingly competent team. And with Hermione as their benevolent queen, they kept the shop running like a charmed clockwork engine.

All in all, Lucius had no complaints.

Except one.

The manager.

The menace.

Rikki.

Lucius refused to speak her full name. Speaking it might summon her.

(He suspected it would also summon a flirtation, a glitter bomb, and possibly another attempt at stealing his wife.)

Rikki had become the acting manager whenever Hermione was away— which meant Lucius lived in constant, trembling fear .

She flirted with everything that breathed, terrorized customers with charm, and once gave a book recommendation that ended in a marriage proposal and three restraining orders.

Lucius had fought in two wars.

He had faced Voldemort in person.

And nothing terrified him like Rikki.

As if summoned by sheer dread—

“ Daddy Lucy! ”

GODS, NO.

Lucius froze, spine straight, lips pressed thin as parchment. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his comic.

Rikki emerged from behind a bookshelf like a predator on holiday. Her lipstick was freshly reapplied. Her smile was weaponized .

“I just thought you’d like to hear,” she sing-songed, “that I mayyyy have a new victim to play with.” Her voice was syrup and sin and chaos incarnate.

Lucius did not move. Any sudden motion would only encourage her.

“Good… for you,” he said tightly.

Rikki beamed. “Don’t worry,” she said, stepping far too close. “I could never forget about my precious DADDY LUCY .”

Lucius winced like he’d been slapped with a satin glove soaked in regret.

With one last wink that might have cursed his bloodline, she sauntered away.

Lucius exhaled slowly and picked up his comic again. He was certain he would require a Calming Draught. Possibly two. And new wards for his dreams.

Still, even with the harpy haunting his corridors, the day had been… peaceful.

Hermione was thriving. Her eyes were brighter again, her laughter more frequent. The shop buzzed with renewed energy. She moved with purpose, delegated like a general, and had even—he dared say—begun to enjoy the chaos swirling around her.

Lucius found himself content.

He turned the page of his comic, lips curling into the faintest of smiles.

He would guard this place. Guard her . Keep watch from his book nook like some ancient, elegant gargoyle.

And Merlin help anyone who dared call him Daddy Lucy again.

That afternoon, Lucius turned the page of his comic with a sigh, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. The day had thus far been free of flirtation, glitter, and unsolicited nicknames. A rare blessing.

Then the bell over the shop door chimed.

He glanced up, half-expecting a rogue delivery owl or another eager journalist. Instead, in drifted Luna Lovegood —looking as if she’d wandered out of a dream and remembered halfway through to put shoes on.

She paused, standing perfectly still in the doorway as though waiting for a message from the floorboards. Her eyes swept the shop with a soft, thoughtful expression until they landed on Hermione. She lit up immediately.

With the grace of a moonbeam and the directness of a harpoon, Luna floated toward her target.

“Hermione,” she said, tone serene but unwavering, “I’m here to check on you. And give you a lecture.”

Hermione, who had been reviewing a shipment inventory sheet with Padma, looked up and offered a smile—only to freeze halfway through.

“A… lecture?”

“Yes,” Luna said dreamily, pausing to pet the tail of a cat-shaped bookend. “A very pointed and possibly impassioned one.”

“Luna, I’m kind of busy right now,” Hermione replied, scanning her clipboard like it might offer escape. “Can we maybe… not?”

Luna blinked slowly. “You’re in need of one. I’m not happy with you.”

Hermione blinked back. “What did I do?”

“It’s not what you did,” Luna said, poking at a stack of bookmarks with idle curiosity. “It’s what you didn’t do.”

Hermione set the clipboard down with caution, like she was about to defuse a Nargle-infested time bomb. “Okay. Care to elaborate?”

“Yes,” Luna nodded. “That’s what the lecture is for.”

Lucius, from behind his comic, snorted.

Hermione stared. “So you won’t explain now?”

“You said you didn’t have time.”

“Luna,” Hermione said, rubbing at her temple, “what’s wrong?”

Luna’s expression didn’t shift. “You didn’t ask for my help after the attack.”

“Oh,” Hermione said softly. “That.”

Padma, wisely edging toward the stockroom, muttered, “Abort mission.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione added quickly. “It wasn’t about not wanting your help. I just… everything was happening at once.”

Luna tilted her head. “And yet, you had time for Draco and Theo and Rikki and Harry and all your other favorite people. But no time for me.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Luna! That’s not fair—”

“I never said it was fair,” Luna interrupted gently. “Just that it happened.”

Lucius bit the inside of his cheek. This was the most delicious bit of chaos he'd seen since Rikki accidentally bewitched the cash register to flirt back.

Hermione inhaled, then exhaled through her nose. “Alright. Fine. I deserve it. Can we schedule the lecture, then? Book club night? I imagine Narcissa and the rest of the girls want their turn to scold me too.”

Luna smiled brightly, apparently appeased. “Perfect. We’ll dedicate the whole meeting to your moral failings. I’ll bring tea.”

Hermione groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “At least make it peppermint.”

“Of course,” Luna said, then turned and floated dreamily toward the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll coordinate with Narcissa. We’ll make it themed .”

“What theme could possibly suit being scolded by your friends?” Hermione called after her.

Luna paused just before leaving. “Probably ‘Consequences & Camomile.’ Or maybe ‘You Should’ve Called.’” Then, with a gentle wave, she vanished.

Padma peeked her head around the corner. “Smart move, Mione. Less public, and we are swamped.”

“I’m doomed,” Hermione groaned, pressing her forehead to the countertop.

Lucius lowered his comic and chuckled. “You’re not doomed. Just… mildly sentenced.”

Hermione lifted one eye to glare at him half-heartedly.

He offered a smug smirk in return, then returned to his comic, warmth blooming behind his ribs.

These scenes—these unexpected visits, these bizarre and heartfelt conversations—had become daily occurrences since the article. A steady parade of witches and wizards dropping in, not for gossip or drama, but to check on his daughter .

They cared. In their peculiar, exasperating, endearing ways.

And Lucius, much to his own surprise, found he didn’t mind the chaos.

Not one bit.

Chapter Text

The winter sun spilled through the tall windows of the Malfoy breakfast room, casting elegant golden stripes across the table and illuminating silverware that gleamed like it had been threatened into perfection.

There were only three absurdly posh people in the room: one former Death Eater who read the newspaper like it was a war dossier, one heir apparent fixing his cufflinks with the concentration of a brain surgeon, and one mother sipping tea like she was planning global conquest.

Which, to be fair, she was.

Narcissa sat at the head of the table, her posture regal, her chin lifted just slightly too high to be casual. She hadn’t touched her tea—no, it was purely for optics. She tapped one manicured nail against her cheekbone, eyes narrowed as she studied Draco.

He glanced up, mid-bite, and frowned. “You’re doing it again.”

“I don’t know what you mean, darling,” she replied sweetly, tilting her head like a cat about to pounce.

Lucius lowered his paper half an inch, just enough to smirk behind the headline. He picked up a scone. The show was about to begin.

With a casual flick of her wand, a scroll popped into existence mid-air with an audible snap. It hovered. Menacingly.

Draco stared at it like it might bite. “Not today,” he muttered, eyes wide with dread.

Lucius set his paper down properly now, folding it with the slow precision of a man preparing to enjoy breakfast theater.

“Relax,” Narcissa said, plucking the scroll out of the air and unfurling it with a crisp rustle. “I’ve simply reviewed the final list of eligible witches. I’ve made a decision.”

Draco’s shoulders stiffened. “Mother, Hermione could come down at any second.”

“She won’t,” Lucius interjected, reaching for the butter with unconcerned grace. “Your mother told her breakfast was at 7:30 instead of 7:00.”

Draco deflated like an expensive balloon. “You’ve been sabotaging the schedule?”

“For months,” Narcissa said, unbothered. “You’re welcome.”

He sank into his seat with the defeated air of a man who knew he’d lost before the match even began.

Narcissa laid the scroll down gently, as if it were a holy relic. “Now. The list, as it stood, was entirely uninspiring. I’ve edited it.”

“Edited,” Draco repeated warily.

“I’ve removed everyone and added a single name,” she said, tapping the parchment. It glowed gold for a moment, then shimmered still.

“This is the last name you’ll see,” Narcissa continued, smiling like a panther. “Make it work with this witch, or consider yourself romantically disinherited.”

Lucius nodded solemnly. “We’ve agreed on this. It’s time to choose a wife. And preferably before your next birthday.”

“I have six months!”

“Five and a half,” Narcissa corrected primly.

Draco exhaled and reached for the scroll with all the enthusiasm of a man accepting a death sentence. It floated obediently to his hand.

He unrolled it.

And blinked.

Then blinked again.

Every single line on the page read the same:

Hermione Granger

Draco’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Are you—this—are you serious ?”

“We’ve never been more serious in our lives,” Lucius said, biting into his scone.

Narcissa just smiled over her teacup. “She’s the only one clever enough to keep up with you, and the only one terrifying enough to keep you in line. It’s perfect.”

Draco stared at the scroll as his expression transformed—cautious confusion gave way to delighted disbelief, and then blossomed into something bright and unguarded.

His entire face lit up.

“This… this is brilliant,” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “I can work with this,” he said, grinning like a lunatic. “I can absolutely make this work.”

Lucius raised his teacup in salute. “Knew you’d see reason.”

Narcissa reclined, perfectly smug. “You’re welcome.”

Draco clutched the scroll to his chest like it might vanish. “Do I have to go to the ball with her too?”

“That would be traditional,” Narcissa replied, pleased. “And it will allow everyone to see your... serious intentions.”

“Mother,” Draco said solemnly, “I love you.”

“You’re welcome again,” she said, taking a victorious sip.

The scroll had just been stashed away (tucked lovingly into Draco’s inner robe pocket) when the soft click of heeled slippers echoed in the hall.

Lucius, never one to miss dramatic timing, murmured into his teacup, “And cue the heroine.”

Hermione entered the breakfast room, curls slightly tamed, jumper too cozy to be intimidating, and a suspicious squint aimed directly at Narcissa.

“You told me breakfast was at seven-thirty,” she said, marching over to her chair.

“It is seven-thirty,” Narcissa replied serenely.

“It’s not,” Hermione said, glancing at the ornate grandfather clock, which read 7:12.

Narcissa waved a delicate hand. “Oh, time is such a subjective thing.”

Draco valiantly choked on nothing and tried to hide a smirk behind his goblet.

Hermione sat down with a sigh and reached for the tea. “You’re up to something.”

Narcissa’s smile was butter-soft and as dangerous as slipping on satin stairs. “Why, Hermione, dear, can’t a woman enjoy breakfast with her favorite people without being accused of nefarious deeds?”

“Your wand was glowing when I walked in.”

“I was enchanting the jam.”

Lucius turned a laugh into a polite cough.

Draco leaned closer to Hermione, voice low. “She’s absolutely up to something. It’s adorable.”

Narcissa continued with a breezy tone that fooled exactly no one, “Now, about the Christmas Ball. I simply assumed you’d be attending with us.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh—I hadn’t really planned—”

“You’ll need a proper dress,” Narcissa mused aloud, completely ignoring the attempted protest. “Nothing garish. Maybe something in deep plum. No capes. Capes are for people trying too hard.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Narcissa, I don’t even know if I’m invited. ”

“You are,” Narcissa said cheerfully.

Hermione looked at Draco in mute horror.

“You’ll sit with us, of course,” Narcissa went on, drizzling honey into her tea with the casual authority of a general planning a siege. “And I imagine Draco would be happy to escort you. Unless, of course, you were planning to arrive alone.”

Hermione sputtered. “I wasn’t planning anything!”

“Precisely,” Narcissa said, beaming as if Hermione had just agreed to marry into the family and also finish the rest of the jam.

Draco couldn’t take it anymore. He reached out and rested his hand gently over Hermione’s, cutting through her glare at his mother.

“Hermione,” he said softly, trying not to grin too hard, “would you be my date to the Christmas Ball?”

She looked at him, eyes still half-flustered, half-glowing with amusement. Then she huffed a little laugh and said, “You’re rescuing me from your mother’s machinations, aren’t you?”

Draco smiled. “Well, I am very gallant.”

She rolled her eyes but squeezed his hand. “Fine. Yes. I’ll go with you.”

Across the table, Narcissa sipped her tea with suspicious serenity.

Lucius reached for the marmalade and muttered, “Checkmate.”

Draco didn’t even care that he’d been outmaneuvered by both parents and possibly the ghost of Christmas cunning. Hermione had said yes.

And nothing—nothing—made toast taste better than winning the girl and annoying your mother by making it look like her idea.

Narcissa changed the subject with calculated ease. “So this weekend, you’ll be Draco’s date to the Christmas Ball.” She sipped her tea, the picture of composed enthusiasm. “And next week is Christmas. Do you have any plans, dear?”

Her smile gleamed. “Perhaps a visit to your parents? They could join us here, if you like. A cozy family Christmas at the manor.”

Hermione’s smile faltered. Just slightly at first—like a candle flickering in a draft—but then it vanished entirely.

“Oh,” she said, setting her spoon down carefully. “I guess I never told you.”

Narcissa tilted her head. “Told us what, darling?”

Hermione took a breath—shaky, thin. Every Malfoy in the room stilled.

“My parents… won’t remember me,” she said quietly, staring into her tea. “I obliviated them during the war. Sent them to Australia to protect them.”

Lucius inhaled sharply in the silence.

Narcissa’s smile slipped from her face, her fingers stilling on the porcelain cup. Beside her, Draco’s expression crumbled into something soft and stunned.

Hermione, eyes cast down, continued. “I used to spend Christmas at the Burrow. But after everything with Ron, I’m not really welcome there anymore. So I figured I’d stay in my room… or work at the shop.”

Silence stretched around them like a spell.

Hermione stared down at her plate like it might judge her, teacup trembling slightly between her fingers.

Narcissa’s heart twisted. She had known Hermione Granger was brave, but this—this was another kind of courage entirely. Brave girl. Brilliant, powerful, and kind beyond measure—and yet she had prepared herself to be alone.

Not on my watch.

She set her teacup down with a deliberate clink . “That,” she said coolly, voice like silk wrapped around steel, “is completely unacceptable.”

Hermione looked up, startled. “Narcissa, really—it’s alright, I—”

“It is not alright,” Lucius interrupted, voice unusually rough. His napkin was crumpled tightly in one hand. “You’re part of this family now.”

“You’re not spending Christmas alone in your room like some Dickensian orphan,” Draco added, leaning forward, eyes burning with that wild Malfoy intensity.

Hermione gave a weak little laugh. “I wasn’t going to wear fingerless gloves and sing in the snow, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I am now.”

She rolled her eyes, but Narcissa didn’t miss the way she curled in on herself, small and quiet, like someone used to shrinking when she should shine.

Not anymore.

Narcissa reached across the table and took her hand. “You will be spending Christmas here. With us. That is not a suggestion, Hermione—it is a fact.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Lucius cut in firmly, dabbing the corners of his mouth with the posture of a man about to commit war crimes in the name of hospitality. “We’ll invite Pansy, the Patils, whoever you like. The entire bloody Wizengamot could show up and I’d still have a place card with your name on it at every table.”

Draco grinned. “I call dibs on playlist duty.”

Hermione looked overwhelmed. Her eyes shimmered, her mouth slightly open.

“I—I didn’t mean to make it such a big thing—”

“It is a big thing,” Narcissa said, rising with imperial purpose. “And now I must redesign the entire Christmas aesthetic. A Hermione Granger Christmas deserves its own color scheme.”

She turned on the spot like a general rallying the troops. “Lucius, I want the most extravagantly oversized tree that can fit through the front doors—”

Draco straightened eagerly. “Can I bedazzle the wreaths?”

“Only tastefully.”

“I make no promises.”

Hermione blinked at them all, clearly short-circuiting. She looked from one to the next—Lucius with his eyes still fixed on her like a man remembering his priorities, Draco already sketching ridiculous ornament concepts on a napkin, tongue between his teeth like it was a tactical blueprint, and Narcissa, mentally rearranging mantelpiece garlands.

And then—softly, so softly—it happened.

She smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the strained kind she wore under pressure or interviews.

But a real smile. One that reached her eyes. One that cracked her open, just a bit, and let the warmth inside.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Narcissa said nothing. Instead, she reached forward and gave Hermione’s hand a firm, deliberate squeeze.

And when she glanced up, she saw Lucius already watching her, pride etched into every line of his face. Draco met her gaze next—his expression brighter than any tree they’d decorate.

They were all thinking the same thing.

This Christmas would be perfect.

Because their girl deserved nothing less.

Chapter Text

Snow blanketed the grounds like a carefully tucked quilt, softening every edge into quiet elegance. The trees shimmered beneath delicate layers of frost, and even the peacocks seemed to strut with seasonal purpose. Winter had arrived, and with it, the Malfoys had declared open war on subtlety.

Hermione had barely finished her first cup of tea before Narcissa swept into action like a general with a decorating wand. By midmorning, Malfoy Manor looked like it had been professionally styled by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Extra.

Green, gold, and silver ribbons coiled along the banisters like festive vines. Wreaths hung from every door, enchanted to freshen their pine scent with a polite puff of magic every half hour. 

Candles floated lazily overhead in every corridor, flickering gently and shifting colors depending on the mood of the room. Gold for happiness. Blue for calm. Purple… remained a mystery. Though Hermione couldn’t help but notice it tended to appear whenever she was sitting too close to Draco.

And that happened often.

Narcissa had only called this the “base layer.” She was planning to enchant flurries of silver snow to fall indoors—perfectly dry and cold-free—and had grand ideas involving live music, enchanted mistletoe, and a tree so large it would have to be flown in via Thestral.

Lucius and Draco helped without complaint. Well—Lucius helped with long-suffering dignity and a slight limp from tripping over a string of enchanted bells. Draco helped with enthusiastic flair and a deeply suspicious amount of glitter.

As it turned out, the Malfoys didn’t just celebrate Christmas.

They conquered it.

With Christmas preparations in full swing, Hermione found herself standing in the heart of it all, wrapped in something that felt suspiciously like magic—and not the wand-waving kind.

She hadn’t known what to expect when she agreed to stay at Malfoy Manor for the holidays. Perhaps a bit of stiff civility, a cold fireplace, and at best, a polite nod across a velvet-draped dinner table. Certainly not warmth. Certainly not joy. And certainly not Narcissa hand-enchanting garlands while Lucius tried (and failed) to hide his competitive spirit over ornament placement.

She definitely hadn’t expected glitter.

And yet, somehow, it all worked. The Manor was radiant, transformed into something between a holiday fairytale and a very posh fever dream. But what left Hermione breathless wasn’t the décor. It was the people.

She had fully braced for a quiet season, alone in her shop, eating takeaway and pretending not to feel the ache of everything she’d lost—her parents, the Weasleys, her sense of belonging. 

But instead, she’d landed here. In this grand, ridiculous, sparkling manor filled with tea and laughter and aggressive holiday planning. Surrounded by people who saw her—not just the war heroine or the clever witch—but her .

It felt like slipping into your favorite pair of socks, warm and familiar, as if they’d been waiting for you all along. The Malfoys—of all people—had wrapped themselves around her like a second family and stubbornly refused to let go.

They wouldn’t let her spend even a minute wallowing. If she so much as looked contemplative for too long, Narcissa would appear with a project, Lucius would start a passionate debate about Victorian tree toppers, or Draco—well, Draco would simply appear. Usually with snacks. And a smirk. And that maddeningly fond look that made her feel like the most important person in the room.

How could she not love them?

Because she did. All three of them.

Lucius, with his biting wit and surprising gentleness. Narcissa, who had a steel spine wrapped in pearls and lace, and who loved so fiercely that it left Hermione breathless. And Draco—her Draco—who had become her best friend, her safe space, her soft landing.

And now—her date.

Hermione blushed just thinking about it.

The Christmas Ball at the Ministry had always been a glittering social spectacle, but this year, it felt different. Because Draco Malfoy had asked her to go with him. Not as a formality. Not for appearances. But because he wanted to. Because he looked at her like she was starlight bottled into a dress.

Sometimes, when she let herself think too long about it, her breath caught in her throat.

Draco Malfoy wanted her . And she wanted him. Terribly. Stupidly. Heart-poundingly so.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Hermione Granger wasn’t counting her losses. She was counting the hours.

Because this year, she wasn’t just surviving Christmas.

She was looking forward to it.

It started with one ribbon.

Hermione had been passing through the drawing room—headed for a book she’d left behind—when she noticed a silver spool of velvet trailing forgotten across the carpet. Without thinking, she bent down, picked it up, and placed it neatly on the side table beside a half-decorated wreath.

She meant to keep walking.

But then Narcissa swept into the room like an elegantly dressed snowstorm, paused mid-step, and arched a graceful eyebrow.

“Excellent placement,” she said, nodding at the ribbon. “Clearly, you have an eye.”

Hermione flushed. “Oh, I just—”

“Which means,” Narcissa continued breezily, handing her a sprig of enchanted holly, “you’re officially recruited.”

Before Hermione could protest, Lucius appeared beside the fireplace, holding what could only be described as a pine garland the size of a small dragon.

“Granger,” he said dryly, “if you don’t assist me in banishing this monstrosity to the mantel, your future in-laws may never forgive you.”

“I—future what now?”

“Come, darling,” Narcissa called over her shoulder. “We have aesthetics to align.”

That was how Hermione found herself—twenty minutes later—on tiptoe with a ribbon between her fingers, carefully charming bows to flutter just so, while Lucius muttered at stubborn pinecones and Narcissa levitated ornaments with surgical precision.

Draco wandered in not long after, saw her elbow-deep in tinsel, and nearly dropped the cocoa he was carrying.

“I leave you alone for five minutes,” he said with mock horror, “and you join the enemy.”

“They’re very persuasive,” Hermione replied, trying to untangle a strand of silver beads. “Also, your mother frightens me.”

“She frightens everyone,” he said fondly, handing her the cocoa. “Welcome to the family.”

And strangely, as the garlands shimmered, the candles glowed warm gold, and a soft instrumental carol played from nowhere in particular—Hermione realized something startling.

She was happy.

Truly, incandescently, heartachingly happy.

There was no pressure to pretend. No need to smile through pain. Just this—light and color, laughter and comfort. She hadn’t expected to find herself here. But somehow, this grand old house with its glittering garlands and over-decorated fireplaces had opened its doors and offered her joy.

And she—tentatively, hopefully—was starting to say yes.

A day or so later, Hermione finally took a well-earned day off from the shop. With the holiday rush in full swing, she trusted her employees to hold the fort while she tackled the increasingly daunting task of Christmas shopping. There were gifts to find for her staff, her friends, and—most intimidating of all—her newly adopted aristocratic family: the Malfoys.

Draco, her silvery, ever-posh shadow, had insisted on accompanying her.

“Absolutely not negotiable,” he’d declared, straightening the collar of his winter coat like a war general preparing for battle. “The man who destroyed your flat is still at large, your lawsuit is unresolved, and I’ll be damned if you’re wandering Diagon Alley unescorted. Consider me your highly trained magical bodyguard.”

Hermione had rolled her eyes with the requisite exasperation, but inside, her heart had done a little backflip. Because it felt suspiciously—deliciously—like a first date.

And Merlin, if Diagon Alley didn’t make the perfect backdrop for one.

The cobbled streets had transformed into a snowy wonderland, every storefront decked in enchanted garlands and glowing lanterns. Ribbons of twinkling lights looped between lampposts, shimmering like stardust in the crisp winter air. Shop windows displayed floating baubles, self-wrapping gift boxes, and enchanted toy trains chugging through tiny snowy villages. Even the air smelled like sugar and pine, warm spices drifting from bakery doors that opened and closed with gentle chimes.

Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, charmed not to melt on skin or clothes, and children giggled as snowball charms hovered just out of reach, waiting to be caught. The whole alley pulsed with joy and magic and the scent of cinnamon.

And in the middle of it all, was Draco Malfoy.

To her great surprise (and mild suspicion), he had not complained once. Not about the cold, not about the crowds, and not about being her human coat rack. Instead, he carried her parcels with an elegant ease, smiling in that smug, self-satisfied way that made her knees a little wobbly. His hand never strayed far from the small of her back or her elbow as they strolled—guiding her across icy cobblestones and through bustling crowds with subtle, gentlemanly touches that sent flutters down her spine.

She should’ve been annoyed.

Instead, she was enchanted.

He made her laugh—really laugh—several times, especially when he insisted on dramatically haggling over the price of a snow globe shaped like the Ministry of Magic, purely on principle.

“I refuse to pay full price for propaganda,” he said with a haughty sniff. “Especially when it lights up in Fudge’s face.”

By midday, her arms were full of bags, her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her heart felt so warm it could’ve lit the Yule log itself.

When they passed a cozy café with frosted windows and the smell of peppermint cocoa wafting through the air, Draco didn’t even ask. He gently steered her inside, guiding her toward a quiet booth by the window.

“Time for tea,” he said with authority, brushing snowflakes from her curls like it was second nature.

She looked up at him, blinking, cheeks still rosy from the cold. “Draco Malfoy, are you secretly wooing me?”

He leaned closer, his smile slow and golden. “If I were, Granger, you’d be halfway in love already.”

She snorted, but her heart tripped in her chest.

Too late.

The little café was warm and bustling, all glowing lanterns and steaming teapots. Hermione had just taken her first blissful sip of cinnamon-spiced tea when the air shifted.

The bell above the door jingled sweetly—far too sweetly, as it turned out—because in swept a woman with wind-blown platinum curls, sharp eyes, and the cold intensity of a hex in heels.

Draco froze mid-bite of his sandwich.

Hermione followed his gaze and saw the newcomer spot them instantly. Cosima Greengrass zeroed in on their booth like a predator clocking prey and stormed over in a flurry of fur-lined robes and perfume that smelled aggressively of elderflower and entitlement.

“Draco,” she said, ignoring Hermione entirely. “You haven’t returned any of my owls.”

Draco set down his sandwich with exaggerated care. “Because I didn’t want to, Cosima.”

Cosima’s painted smile didn’t budge. “That’s a rather strange attitude for a fiancé.”

Hermione blinked. “A what now?”

Cosima rounded on her with all the poise of a society queen preparing for a duel. “And you must be the bookstore girl. How quaint. I suppose he didn’t tell you we’re engaged?”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re not engaged.”

“You took me to tea, ” she snapped.

“That was one date. Set up by my mother. Eight months ago.” He turned to Hermione with a look that was part apology, part plea for rescue. “She talked about her Crup’s dental records for twenty minutes.”

“You called me lovely at the end,” Cosima hissed.

“I said the biscuits were lovely. Which they were.”

Hermione blinked, utterly stunned—but then the absurdity of it all settled over her like fresh snow. She inhaled slowly, placed her teacup back on its saucer, and rose to her feet with regal calm.

“I’m sorry,” she said coolly to Cosima, who blinked in confusion. “But I’m afraid Draco can’t be engaged to you.”

Cosima scoffed. “And why not?”

“Because,” Hermione said, stepping smoothly between them, “he’s currently courting me. ”

Before Cosima could argue—or Draco could do more than gape—Hermione turned, grabbed Draco by the lapels of his winter coat, and kissed him full on the mouth.

It was bold. Certain. Fierce in that classic Hermione Granger way.

Draco froze—his whole body going still with shock for a split second—then melted into her like he’d been waiting a decade for this exact moment.

His hands came up to cup her waist, then slid higher—one curling into her hair, the other cradling the back of her neck as he angled her closer and deepened the kiss. What started as a statement turned into something molten, all soft gasps and tangled breath. The café melted away. The winter outside melted away. It was all just him and her and the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, Hermione’s eyes were wide and dazed, her breath catching.

Cosima made a strangled sound, turned on her heel, and fled the café in a blur of silk and fury.

Draco, still holding Hermione close, watched the door swing shut behind her.

Then he looked down at Hermione, lips curved in a dazed, smug grin. “Well,” he said, slightly breathless. “That’s officially my favorite way to get rid of delusional exes.”

Hermione stared up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes still stormy from the kiss. “That… wasn’t exactly how I imagined our first kiss.”

“No?” he murmured, leaning in again. “Because now I’m imagining the second.”

She laughed—soft and genuine, her fingers still gripping his coat—and didn’t pull away.

Outside, snowflakes fell gently against the windows. Inside, the candles flickered gold.

And somewhere between tea and fire and foolish former dates, two people who used to be enemies found something far sweeter than victory.

They lingered in the café a while longer, cheeks pink from more than just the warmth of their tea. Hermione was still recovering from that kiss—her lips tingled, her heart felt like it had learned to tap dance, and she couldn't seem to stop smiling.

Draco hadn’t moved far from her side since, fingers brushing hers every so often, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Eventually, as they stepped back into the snowy street, their footsteps muffled and the twinkling lights of Diagon Alley casting everything in a gentle glow, Draco slowed.

“Hermione?” he asked, voice quieter than usual. Sincerely, a little nervously.

She turned to him, trying not to look too dizzy from the way his hair glowed in the lamplight. “Hmm?”

He paused a beat, his hand tugging gently on the sleeve of her coat as he pulled her a little closer. “Does that mean… I’m truly courting you now?”

Hermione’s breath caught.

Her breath caught. Her stomach flipped. Her brain chose this exact moment to forget how speech worked. All she could manage was a blush so furious it could probably boil snow—and a squeaky, “...yes?”

Draco’s face lit up with the most devastatingly beautiful smile she’d ever seen. It wasn’t his usual smirk or that smug little twitch of the lips—it was real. Open. Joyful. Boyish in the way she never got to see, like she’d given him a gift he hadn’t dared to wish for.

He leaned down, brushing his nose against hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Well then,” he murmured, grin widening, “I suppose I’d better get you a proper courting bracelet.”

Hermione blinked up at him, stunned all over again.

“Courting bracelet?” she echoed faintly.

“Of course,” he said, tugging her hand gently into his. “I’m a Malfoy. If I’m going to court the woman of my dreams, I intend to do it properly. ”

And just like that, she melted.

Between the snow and the lights and the boy who looked at her like she’d hung the stars, Hermione Granger could officially say: she was done for.

Absolutely, completely, joyfully done for.

Chapter Text

Before the ball, Draco made a quiet detour to Gringotts.

He’d meant to be discreet—just a quick visit to the Malfoy vault to retrieve the ancestral courting bracelet, tucked somewhere among the piles of gold, enchanted heirlooms, and other family relics. A small, symbolic gesture, yes, but an important one. If he was going to court Hermione Granger properly, he was going to do it right.

Only… the bracelet wasn’t there.

Draco frowned, stepping over a literal goblet of rubies as he searched. He pawed through velvet-lined drawers and peered beneath stacks of aging scrolls and signet rings. But the slim silver band, set with diamonds dotted around it and delicate charms of protection and promise, was nowhere to be found.

In fact… there was quite a lot of ancestral jewelry missing.

He sighed, dragging both hands down his face.

This had Mother written all over it.

Draco arrived back at the Manor thirty minutes later, scowling and determined. He found Narcissa exactly where he expected her—seated in her private office, sipping tea with the air of a woman who had already won whatever game was being played.

She looked far too pleased to see him.

“Draco,” she greeted, her voice smooth and lilting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He dropped into the chair across from her desk and leveled a flat look in her direction. “Did you move the ancestral jewelry?”

“I did,” she said breezily, not bothering to pretend otherwise.

“Where is it?”

Her smile turned feline. “Why do you need it, darling?”

Draco groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course she was going to make this difficult.

“I need the courting bracelet,” he muttered. Blushing.

Narcissa gasped—then actually squealed. She flicked her wand with a delighted little trill, and a wooden box floated gently down from one of the tall bookshelves, landing on the desk in front of him.

“You’re moving faster than I thought you would,” she said, practically glowing.

Draco, already red-faced, snatched the box as casually as he could manage and stood up.

“Thank you,” he grumbled, turning to leave.

Behind him, Narcissa giggled into her teacup, utterly delighted.

Draco stood before the mirror in his suite, adjusting the cuffs of his midnight-blue waistcoat. The color was so deep it flirted with black, and scattered across the fabric were hundreds of delicate silver stars—embroidered with such precision that they shimmered like constellations with every breath he took.

It was all his mother’s doing, of course. She’d insisted the family present a united front for the Ministry’s Christmas Ball. Which, in Narcissa Malfoy’s mind, meant coordinated ensembles and a celestial theme— this year, we are stars, darling. Every piece of clothing she commissioned bore that mark: silvery stars stitched somewhere into the design. A statement of elegance, of unity, of silent intent.

Draco hadn’t minded. Not really. Not when he knew Hermione would be part of it.

He moved toward the connecting door with slow, measured steps, pausing just before knocking. The door between their suites had become something of a symbol these last few weeks—a quiet tether. Hermione had blushed scarlet when he first explained that this was meant to be a couple’s suite. That her room had always been intended for his future wife.

She hadn’t asked to move.

And he hadn’t wanted her to.

He knocked softly.

“Come in,” came her voice, slightly breathless.

He opened the door. The soft rustle of her skirts was the only sound in the room. Candlelight danced over her hair, catching hints of gold. The scent of lavender hung in the air, dizzying—and he forgot how to breathe entirely.

Hermione stood before the mirror, adjusting the soft fall of her curls. Her gown was the same deep blue as his waistcoat, flowing and ethereal, like moonlight poured into silk. Silver stars glittered along the hem of her skirts and along the curve of her open back, trailing like the tail of a comet. But what truly undid him was her left sleeve—light and sheer, embroidered with his constellation. Draco’s.

He stared, helplessly struck.

Her beauty wasn’t loud. It didn’t scream or demand. It was quiet, radiant, inevitable. Like gravity.

Hermione turned, catching his wide-eyed stare. She flushed prettily, brushing a curl behind her ear.

“I look that good?” she teased, nerves dancing behind the smile.

Draco managed to shake his head and whisper, “Better than good.”

He stepped closer, each movement reverent, like she might vanish if he moved too fast.

“I—um—I got the thing,” he said, his voice a bit uneven as he reached into his coat. “The one we talked about.”

Her brows lifted, and her eyes softened as he pulled out the small wooden box. He swallowed, held her gaze.

“I was hoping…” He opened the lid, revealing the Malfoy ancestral courting bracelet—slim and silver, engraved with protective runes, and inlaid with diamonds. “I was hoping you’d wear it tonight.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

She smiled—small and honest—and nodded once, brushing her fingers against his. “Yes.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for days.

With careful fingers, he lifted the bracelet from its box and took her wrist in his hand. His touch was warm and steady, his eyes never leaving hers as he fastened it around her wrist. Then, without letting go, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles—soft and slow.

“Beautiful,” he whispered into her skin.

Hermione’s cheeks turned pink again, but she didn’t look away. Her fingers curled into his, anchoring.

For a moment, the world outside the room didn’t matter. There was only this—blue silk and starlight and two people standing on the edge of something vast and glittering.

Draco tucked her arm into his, gently but possessively, and guided her toward the floo.

No doubt, his mother was already downstairs. Waiting. Smug.

But he didn’t mind anymore.

He had everything he needed right here.

Draco, Hermione, and his parents stepped through the floo and into what could only be described as a winter wonderland brought to life.

The ballroom shimmered.

Glittering white snow blanketed the marble floors in illusion only—no footprints, no chill, just the soft sparkle of frost beneath their feet. Above them, the chandeliers had been transfigured into frozen cascades of glass and ice, each delicate icicle catching the light and scattering it in a thousand soft, silvery reflections. The entire room glowed with a pale, magical radiance that made everything look dipped in moonlight.

Silk-draped archways framed the room, layered in sheer panels of silver, dove grey, and white, creating the illusion of a snow-draped forest canopy. Gentle flurries drifted from the enchanted ceiling and vanished before touching skin or silk. The scent of spiced wine and evergreen floated through the air, accompanied by the soft strains of string instruments performing a waltz that made the air feel like it moved with the music.

Draco blinked, momentarily dazed.

And then he realized—of course. Their family’s deep blue and silver attire had nothing to do with subtle elegance.

It was strategy.

His mother had chosen darkness in a sea of snow so the four of them would shine like constellations in a field of frost. And it worked. As they entered, every head turned. They stood out not just in hue, but in presence—four coordinated figures stepping through the snow-glow like a royal procession.

Narcissa’s work, clearly.

As they crossed the threshold, Draco took in the crowd, searching for familiar faces—and froze.

A little ways off, Theo Nott was trailing behind a woman like a bewitched man, looking dazed and mildly terrified. She was tall, curvy, and dressed in a glittering emerald gown that looked practically painted on. It hugged her body like a second skin, sleeveless and bold, the back plunging scandalously low—all the way to the top of her hips.

Draco stared. “What the—”

Beside him, Hermione sucked in a breath. “Is that Theo… with Rikki?”

Draco blinked hard. “Apparently. Merlin help us. We’d better warn Father before he has a heart attack.”

Right on cue, Lucius appeared beside them, his eyes sweeping the room with practiced boredom. “Warn me about what?”

Hermione smiled sheepishly. “We saw Rikki. With Theo.”

Lucius followed her gaze, went rigid, and then visibly paled.

“Oh, dear,” he said in a low, strained voice, as if someone had just insulted his lineage.

Narcissa, by contrast, looked entirely unbothered. She smiled brightly, clapped her gloved hands once. “Oh, they would make such a lovely couple. All that drama. It would be like watching opera in real time.”

Lucius muttered something vaguely sacrilegious under his breath.

Draco tried not to laugh.

Hermione did laugh, a soft chime that lit up the space around her more than the floating candles.

And with that, the four of them moved further into the room, leaving snowflakes and whispers in their wake.

No sooner had they stepped into the main ballroom than Narcissa clapped her hands with elegant precision.

“Photos!” she declared. “We must have photos before the charmwork ruins your hair, Draco.”

Draco groaned quietly. “Mother—”

“Oh, hush,” Narcissa said airily, already steering him by the elbow toward a floral-snowflake backdrop lined with magical fairy lights. “This is your first public appearance as a proper couple. I’ll not have you looking like a scowling goblin in every picture.”

Hermione gave him a sidelong look, trying not to laugh. “Come on, Malfoy. For posterity.”

“You mean for blackmail,” he muttered, but allowed himself to be arranged like a living mannequin between Hermione and Narcissa while a Daily Prophet photographer snapped away.

First, the four of them posed as a family—Narcissa with her hand delicately on Lucius’s arm, Draco and Hermione standing just a touch too close for anything but romance. Then came the couples: Lucius and Narcissa posed like they were on the cover of Witch Weekly's "Power Couple" edition. And then—of course—it was Draco and Hermione’s turn.

Draco could feel the heat in his cheeks before the photographer even lifted the camera. Hermione tucked her arm through his and smiled like she wasn’t about to combust from awkwardness.

“Stand closer,” the photographer called cheerfully. “No, closer. Pretend you like each other.”

“We’re courting,” Hermione deadpanned.

The photographer didn’t even blink. “Then pretend you really like each other.”

Draco sighed and, to his surprise, felt Hermione’s hand slip into his. Her fingers were warm. Steady. His heart, meanwhile, had no such grace.

The flash went off, and for a brief second, he swore he saw forever in the way she smiled at him.

Narcissa was practically glowing . “Marvelous. Frame them all.”

With their formal obligations out of the way, the four of them moved further into the crowd. The music shifted into a soft, romantic waltz, and Draco turned smoothly to Hermione, offering his hand with a bow that was only mildly theatrical.

“Dance with me, Granger?”

She smirked. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The floor welcomed them like a dream—enchanted beneath their feet so it glimmered with stardust. Around them, couples turned in elegant circles, but Draco barely noticed anyone else. Hermione’s hand was light in his, her other resting easily on his shoulder as if they’d danced this way a hundred times before.

“You’re a decent dancer,” she murmured.

Draco arched a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

He twirled her once, just to be smug. “Well then, prepare to be continually dazzled.”

And she was . The way her laughter bubbled up—the way her curls caught the light, the stars in her gown mirroring the ones in his waistcoat—Draco felt utterly spellbound. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was his .

Which is exactly why he scowled when Lucius tapped him on the shoulder.

“May I cut in?” his father asked far too politely.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “She’s mine.”

Hermione bit her lip to hold in a laugh.

Lucius lifted a brow. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s part of the family now. And she hasn’t danced with me yet.”

Draco grumbled something in purebred, aristocratic Posh. Narcissa cackled from the sidelines.

“Go on,” Hermione said with a wink as she released his hand. “He taught you, didn’t he? I want to see how the master does it.”

“I’m telling Mother.”

“I am Mother,” Narcissa sang from her perch at a cocktail table, sipping something sparkling with vague menace.

Draco sulked his way to the sidelines and watched—arms crossed, heart warm—as Lucius spun Hermione with crisp, practiced precision. To her credit, she kept up beautifully, laughing the whole time while Lucius danced like he was reliving his youth.

Draco tried not to look too proud.

Meanwhile, Narcissa had vanished. Draco found her a few minutes later standing near the Ministry’s donation registry table, wand in hand. She cast a subtle little charm on a velvet pouch and dropped it silently into the donation chest—no fanfare, no speech.

But the moment she turned, her posture shifted just so , and her sparkling silver shawl fell back to reveal the crest on her bracelet.

People noticed.

The whispers followed in hushed tones: “Was that a Malfoy donation?” “How generous.” “Discreet, but still so noble—how very Narcissa.”

Draco caught her eye across the room. She gave him a single nod and returned to her table like she hadn’t just bought a dozen headlines and a year’s worth of goodwill in thirty seconds.

“Strategic,” he muttered.

Narcissa raised her glass toward him.

“Always.”

Draco had just reclaimed Hermione from his father—who looked far too pleased with himself for Draco’s liking—when a familiar voice called out from across the dance floor.

“Hermione!”

She turned, and her face lit up as Harry Potter made his way toward them, arm-in-arm with none other than Luna Lovegood.

Draco blinked. “Huh.”

Hermione practically bounced. “Harry! Luna!”

Luna smiled dreamily, her dress a shimmering silver-blue that matched her eyes and caught the starlight enchantments above. She looked like a snowdrop given human form. Beside her, Harry wore sleek dress robes in deep forest green, clearly chosen by someone with taste—someone not named Harry Potter.

“Fancy seeing you two here,” Hermione said, embracing them both.

“We’ve been here a while,” Harry said with a shrug. “Luna made us fashionably late on purpose.”

“I told him we had to arrive when the moon was in the right position,” Luna said serenely. “It’s terribly unlucky to make an entrance during a descending arc.”

“Of course,” Draco muttered under his breath. “Obviously.”

Harry offered Hermione his arm with a teasing grin. “May I steal her for a dance, Malfoy?”

Draco raised a brow. “You may. But I’m counting steps.” Draco let her go—but not without brushing a thumb along her wrist where the bracelet still gleamed.

Hermione rolled her eyes and let Harry lead her onto the dance floor, leaving Draco to awkwardly face Luna, who was watching him with a vague smile and an unreadable expression.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “You should ask me to dance.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“It would be very charming,” she said, serene as ever. “And you’re overdue for character development.”

“I—fine.” He extended a hand. “Miss Lovegood, may I have this dance?”

Luna curtsied with ethereal grace. “Delighted.”

To Draco’s immense surprise, Luna was an excellent dancer—graceful and fluid, though her eyes often wandered toward the enchanted ceiling or over someone’s shoulder like she was spotting invisible sprites. Still, she moved with intention, and her joy was infectious.

He found himself smiling—actually smiling—as she twirled.

When the music slowed, both couples returned to the table Hermione and Draco had claimed earlier, now laden with little crystal plates of desserts and sparkling cider.

Hermione scooted closer to Draco on the bench seat as Luna plopped beside Harry and promptly stole a sugared plum from his plate.

“So,” Hermione said with a grin, “should I be congratulating you two?”

Harry chuckled, slightly pink in the ears. “Yeah. Luna’s been putting up with me for about three months now.”

Draco leaned in, mock-shocked. “Merlin. Voluntarily?”

Luna answered calmly, “He looked lonely one afternoon, so I asked him out. He said yes. And now he’s marginally less broody.”

Hermione snorted into her drink. “That sounds about right.”

“I wasn’t broody,” Harry grumbled.

“You still are,” Draco said, popping a sugared violet into his mouth. “But now you’re broody with flair.”

They all laughed.

After a moment, Harry sobered slightly. “In all seriousness… I’ve been keeping my distance from the Weasleys lately. Things are complicated.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Complicated how?”

Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “The investigation. It’s turning up more than I expected. Ron—he’s not just angry or acting out. There’s some stuff I’m uncovering that’s… bad. I can’t believe I missed it for so long.”

Hermione’s expression dimmed, but Draco took her hand beneath the table, grounding her.

Luna leaned into Harry’s side. “He’s doing the right thing. Even when it’s hard.”

Hermione reached across to squeeze Harry’s hand. “You always do.”

Draco gave a subtle nod. “And if you need resources, you know where to find us.”

Harry blinked. “Are you… being nice to me?”

“I’m being pragmatic,” Draco said smoothly. “Don’t ruin it.”

They all laughed again, the tension breaking like morning frost under sunlight.

The music picked up once more, couples whirling around them in soft flurries of enchanted snow and laughter. Luna leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder. Hermione leaned into Draco’s side.

And for a while, the four of them just sat there—sharing sweets and stories, glowing in the magic of the moment.

The war was behind them.

The future was ahead.

And for tonight, at least, everything was beautifully, blissfully simple.

The string quartet swelled into a romantic waltz, notes soaring under the glittering chandeliers. Hermione stood, brushing her hand against Draco’s arm with a smile.

“Dance with me again?” she asked softly.

He rose instantly, offering her his hand. “Always.”

They glided onto the dance floor, moving as if they had always known how to dance together—effortless, graceful, and so deeply in sync it felt like the whole ballroom had faded away, leaving just the two of them under the illusion of falling snow.

Harry and Luna watched them from the edge of the floor, Luna humming along with the music and stealing another plum from Harry’s plate.

“They really are beautiful together,” she said dreamily.

Harry smiled, soft and honest. “Yeah. They really are.”

Then the music faltered.

No—stopped.

The magical quartet screeched to a discordant halt, and the room went abruptly silent.

Hermione turned, frowning, just in time to hear a voice shout across the ballroom:

“You absolute slag! Look at you! Wrapped around a bloody ferret! Does it turn you on, Hermione, knowing his father tortured people like mine?”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone dropped a drink.

Draco instantly stepped in front of Hermione.

Ron Weasley stood at the base of the ballroom stairs, red-faced and wild-eyed, wand clutched tightly in one hand. His dress robes were wrinkled, askew—like he’d either slept in them or gotten drunk and changed in a rage.

His eyes were bloodshot, but clear enough to be dangerous.

“You too, Harry! Thought you were my mate. But no—you’re out here dancing with Loony and backing them? What the hell happened to you?”

Harry was already moving forward, wand drawn low, face hardening.

“Ron—don’t,” he warned.

But Ron wasn’t done. His gaze darted back to Hermione, full of hate and heartbreak twisted into something rotten.

“I should’ve known,” he spat. “You always thought you were better than us. But this? This is disgusting.”

Hermione’s face had gone pale, her body trembling behind Draco.

Draco didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, eyes cold as iron, voice low and lethal.

“Say one more word,” he said, “and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The crowd held its breath.

Wands began to flick into hands.

And just as Ron raised his wand—

And someone screamed.

Chapter Text

Lucius smiled—a rare, radiant thing—as he led Narcissa in graceful arcs across the dance floor.

They moved together with the kind of fluidity that could only be earned by decades of practice and devotion. Each step is perfectly timed. Each turn is effortless. Every brush of her fingers against his sent a thrill down his spine.

To Lucius, his wife outshone the entire ballroom.
She glittered beneath the soft, enchanted snowfall like she was the chandelier—sharp, delicate, and impossible to ignore.

He twirled her, just so, and her skirts fanned out in a perfect circle of silver and grey, catching the light like starlight scattered across the floor. When she spun back into his arms, he caught her at the waist and pressed a kiss to her cheek—bold and possessive.

Narcissa giggled like she was twenty again and kissed him in return, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear, but it sent a smug warmth blooming in his chest.

The music began to fade, and Lucius gently guided them to the edge of the dance floor, still wrapped in the content glow of nostalgia and affection.

And then he heard it.

Clapping.

Slow. Mocking.

Followed by a sing-song voice that made his stomach drop into his shoes.

“Well done, Daddy Lucy .”

Cold dread snaked down the back of his neck.
Lucius turned—slowly, like a man facing a duel—and found Rikki leaning against a marble column, wickedly dressed in emerald green and smiling like a panther at feeding time.

She looked exactly as chaotic as he remembered.
And, unfortunately, even more stunning .

Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. She sauntered forward, trailing silver glitter in her wake like she was born to scandalize Ministry galas.

“I must say, watching you two dance is like witnessing an ancient courtship ritual. Very dignified. Very… restrained.”

Lucius stiffened. “Rikki.”

Narcissa, meanwhile, looked delighted . “Oh, hello , darling. You look positively unhinged. And glowing.”

“It’s the chaos. And the orgasms,” Rikki replied sweetly, glancing over her shoulder. “Theo is a very devoted worshipper.”

From somewhere behind her, Theo let out a reverent sigh.

“She’s a goddess. A menace. A divine, unsolvable riddle wrapped in an arse that won’t quit.”

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. Narcissa outright cackled .

Rikki turned back to them and pouted, mock-scandalized.

“Oh no, Lucius, is that a frown? I thought you’d be happy to see me. We were so close once. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the time I—”

“ Do not finish that sentence, ” he said through clenched teeth.

Rikki batted her lashes innocently, then looped an arm around Narcissa’s shoulders and leaned in.

“I do miss tormenting your husband, ‘Cissa. He’s so tightly wound. It’s like poking a sleeping dragon with a feather. You never know if he’ll growl or combust.”

“Oh, do keep poking, ” Narcissa said with dangerous glee. “He’s overdue for some color in those cheeks.”

Rikki beamed, then turned to Lucius and tapped a finger to her lips in mock-thought.

“Or perhaps I should switch targets. Narcissa, dear, has anyone told you that you smell like forbidden fruit and battlefield victory? Because if not, allow me.”

Lucius stared. “You are flirting with both of us.”

“Why pick one,” Rikki said with a wink, “when I could have an audience and an aneurysm at the same time?”

Theo nodded sagely from the sidelines. “She’s not wrong.”

Narcissa looked entirely too pleased.

Lucius, on the other hand, could already feel the migraine forming behind his left eye.

Lucius took a single, measured step backward.

Just one.

Enough to signal that he was done with this madness and fully intended to retreat to a quiet corner with a stiff drink and maybe his remaining dignity.

Narcissa’s hand shot out and caught his wrist.

“Don’t be rude, darling,” she purred, plucking two flutes of bubbling Winterwine from a passing tray. She handed one to Rikki without breaking eye contact with her husband. “We have a guest.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “She’s not a guest. She’s a provocation in heels.”

Rikki grinned. “Six-inch stilettos, actually. Italian leather. You're welcome.”

Before Lucius could summon a viable excuse to vanish—like sudden death—Narcissa had already gestured to a nearby velvet chaise.

“Do sit,” she said sweetly, patting the seat beside her. “I insist.”

Rikki sat with the elegance of a cat claiming territory and immediately draped herself across the cushions like a woman born to disrupt dynasties.

Theo trailed after her like a bewitched puppy, hovering nearby with an expression halfway between worship and fear.

Lucius stared at the scene before him.

Narcissa. Rikki. Theo. All positively glowing with mischief and madness.

And he, Lucius Malfoy, trapped between them like the last sane man in a lunatic opera.

He took a long sip of his wine.

“Merlin help me,” he muttered.

Narcissa clinked her glass against his. “Cheers, my love.”

Lucius had just begun to think the worst of it was over.

He was seated—reluctantly—on a brocade settee between Narcissa and Rikki. Theo hovered somewhere behind them, still muttering odes to Rikki like she was some glittering forest deity who'd wandered into polite society to cause permanent damage.

“So,” Rikki said, twirling her glass. “Lucius. On a scale from one to completely feral, how scandalized are you right now?”

“I am composed,” he replied, clipped and regal.

Theo leaned in. “Which means feral. He’s sweating under that cravat, I swear.”

“Do behave,” Narcissa chided, clearly delighted as she rested her chin in her hand and gazed at Lucius like he was a particularly delicious rare artifact.

“Shall we take bets on how long it’ll take before his eye twitches?” Rikki asked sweetly, scooting just a little closer.

“It’s already twitching,” Theo whispered.

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate all of you.”

“Oh, you absolutely don’t,” Narcissa said, sipping her wine like the chaos was a digestif.

Lucius opened his mouth to retort—

—and then the music stopped.

Abruptly.

The quartet’s instruments screeched to a halt, and the buzz of conversation died so fast it felt like the entire room had dropped into silence.

Lucius stood up slowly.

Across the ballroom, red-faced and practically foaming at the mouth, Ronald Weasley stood shouting obscenities. His voice carried like a curse—ugly and loud and full of venom.

“You absolute slag! Look at you! Wrapped around a bloody ferret!”

Gasps spread like fire.

Someone screamed.

Lucius’s gaze snapped to Draco—already in front of Hermione, shielding her. Harry, wand drawn. Luna gripping his arm, tense.

His son.

His daughter.

His children.

Lucius clenched his jaw.

Not them. Not tonight.

He rose to his full, imposing height, flicked his cloak behind him, and stalked forward—each step a declaration, each stride a promise.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t run.

He arrived .

The crowd parted around him like water before a blade.

Ron raised his wand.

Lucius didn’t blink.

He stepped cleanly between the raging boy and his children, eyes hard as steel and voice like frost.

“If you must duel someone,” he said with terrifying calm, “then duel me.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

And then Ron’s wand snapped toward him with a furious snarl.

Lucius did not flinch.

Ron Weasley’s wand rose like a hammer, hand shaking with fury. His eyes were wild. Cornered animal. Dangerous in the way that reckless men with half the truth and too much emotion always were.

“Duel me, then!” Ron spat. “Let’s see what you’ve got, you snake-eyed bastard.”

Lucius didn't blink.

“Very well.”

The ballroom held its collective breath.

The wards shimmered automatically around them—Ministry protocol for magical conflict—sealing a transparent dueling barrier over the dance floor, pushing guests to the perimeter.

Draco reached for Hermione’s hand, tugging her out of range. Harry stepped forward, wand at the ready, but Narcissa raised a calm hand.

“Let him,” she whispered.

The air was charged. Cold. The illusion-snow stilled midair, suspended like ash in a battlefield wind.

Ron struck first.

“ Expulso! ”

The explosion cracked the air like a whip. Lucius sidestepped, robes flaring, his countercurse flashing like silver lightning— “Protego Maxima!” —and the blast deflected, shattering part of a candelabra overhead.

Gasps echoed around the ballroom. Guests scrambled back, but no one left.

Lucius moved with quiet, deadly grace. Controlled. Precise. Ron, by contrast, was all rage and fire—his spells wild, loud, powerful but unrefined.

“Incarcerous!”
“Defodio!”
“Stupefy!”

Lucius ducked, parried, redirected. His wandwork was fluid—refined from years of war and darker things. He cast without shouting. Without breaking eye contact.

It was like watching a serpent dance through fire.

Ron roared, “ Reducto! ” and blew a crater into the marble.

Lucius narrowed his eyes.

“Child,” he said coldly, “you don’t even know what power is.”

With a single flourish, he disarmed Ron in a flash of light. The wand spun high into the air—Ron lunged to catch it—

“Confringo.”

A sharp pop of magic detonated at Ron’s feet, throwing him backward.

He landed hard, gasping, half-buried in fractured snow illusion and cracked marble.

Lucius strode forward, wand still raised.

“This ends now.”

Ron struggled upright, one arm limp, the other scrabbling through shattered bits of wandwood. He looked up—blood on his mouth, face twisted in rage and defeat.

“You’re evil,” he spat. “You—you ruined her. You—”

“ Silencio. ”

The silence was instant and absolute.

Ron’s mouth kept moving, but no sound followed.

And then, like apparating into a spell-frozen painting, a squad of Aurors burst through the ballroom doors—wands raised, grim-faced.

“Stand down!” one barked.

Lucius straightened and calmly lowered his wand.

“This man drew first,” he said, voice still smooth. “He disrupted Ministry wards and attempted to cast lethal magic in a public space.”

The lead Auror looked from Lucius to Ron—then to the hushed, horrified guests—then nodded sharply.

“Take him.”

Two Aurors seized Ron, who fought like a cornered dog. But it was over.

The moment was over.

As they dragged him from the ballroom, his screams still silenced by Lucius’s spell, the crowd finally exhaled.

Whispers rippled like storm waves:

“He attacked her—”
“Malfoy handled him like a professional—”
“Did you see that shield charm?”
“It was like watching the war again…”

Lucius turned away without a word and returned to his family.

Hermione’s eyes were wide, and Draco looked like he wanted to punch something—but they were safe. Whole. Protected.

Narcissa was already smoothing a hand down Draco’s arm.

“You were magnificent,” she said to Lucius, quietly but clearly.

He didn’t answer.

He just touched Hermione’s shoulder once, briefly, with careful reverence—then turned to his wife and said, “Let’s go home.”

As the ballroom slowly returned to motion—guests murmuring, music tentatively resuming, officials dispersing—Lucius guided his family toward the edge of the crowd.

Hermione’s hand was clenched in Draco’s. Harry and Luna hovered close, protective and tense. Theo trailed behind, still vaguely murmuring about Rikki’s divine wrath.

For a long beat, no one said anything.

And then, as they reached the alcove near the floo, Narcissa sighed delicately , as if she were simply commenting on the weather.

“Well,” she said, brushing invisible lint from her shoulder, “it isn’t truly a proper Ministry ball unless someone duels before dessert.”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

Draco made a choked sound that might have been a laugh. Hermione blinked. Harry looked faintly scandalized. Luna clapped once, delighted.

Lucius exhaled. “Not funny, Cissa.”

Narcissa lifted a single, perfectly plucked brow. “Then why are you smirking, darling?”

He wasn’t. But he was.

“Come,” she said with a decisive nod, stepping lightly toward the floo. “The night has lost its charm, and I refuse to stay long enough to be interviewed by the Prophet.”

Draco hesitated, still watching Hermione carefully. “You alright?”

She nodded slowly, still shaken but steadying. “I will be. Let’s go home.”

And as they stepped into the green firelight together—family intact, heads held high—the snow above the dance floor finally began to fall again.

This time, no one dared interrupt.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the duel was on the front page of every paper in Britain.

The Prophet had chosen a particularly striking image—Lucius Malfoy in mid-duel, robes flared like wings, standing protectively between his family and the chaos behind him. The article hailed him as a gallant father defending his children and ward against a deranged former friend. The picture didn’t lie. It felt… accurate.

Breakfast at Malfoy Manor was unusually quiet.

Narcissa sat at her end of the long, gleaming table, tea cup cradled lightly in her hands, staring into the steam as if scrying answers from yesterday. Her hair was loosely pinned for once, a soft silver curl brushing her cheek as she tilted her head, lost in thought. She wasn’t even trying to torment anyone, which was almost unsettling.

Lucius sat beside her, unmoving. His paper lay open on the table, but he hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes. One hand rested on the table’s edge, the other on his tea, long forgotten and growing cold. His expression was unreadable—but not cold. Just distant. Still caught in the echoes of last night’s storm.

Across from her, Draco stared at his plate as if it had personally offended him. He hadn’t touched his toast, and his eggs were slowly congealing. His fingers tapped lightly against his fork, a nervous rhythm she almost didn’t notice until it stopped. He looked like he was thinking about five things at once—or maybe nothing at all.

Hermione sat with her hands curled around her tea, letting the warmth soak into her palms. The room smelled of cinnamon scones, fresh parchment, and bergamot. Winter sunlight poured through the enchanted windows in soft, golden beams, catching the shimmer of frost against the panes. Everything felt hushed. Heavy. Thoughtful.

She supposed they were all still processing.

Or possibly, she mused, planning how to murder a Weasley without leaving behind evidence. But honestly, that wasn’t necessary—Ron was doing a fine job of destroying himself.

Hermione hadn’t realized until this morning just how deeply the night had shaken her. Not because she was afraid. Quite the opposite.

When Ron had raised his wand—when he’d screamed and sneered and called her names—Draco and Lucius had moved in front of her without hesitation. She hadn’t even needed to think. She’d just known she was safe.

The Malfoys had protected her again.

They had stood between her and cruelty, between her and pain, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe, she realized, it was.

They had kept every promise they’d made her. They’d welcomed her when she had nowhere else to go. They made space for her—not just in their home, but in their hearts. And it wasn’t performative. It wasn’t polite.

It was real.

This place, this ridiculous marble-and-mahogany Manor with its secret passageways and ancient portraits and formal breakfasts—it was home. Not because it was grand. But because it was warm. Safe. Wanted.

And she hadn’t felt that way in years.

Hermione blinked down at her tea, throat tightening. The warmth in her hands did nothing to ease the swell behind her ribs.

She didn’t know how to tell them. How to explain what it meant to be protected—not out of obligation, but out of love. How much it mattered that she had been chosen, not tolerated. That she belonged here.

Maybe it didn’t need to be a grand gesture.

Maybe just… words would do.

Hermione Granger had always believed in the power of words. That they could heal or harm. Bind or break. And maybe—just maybe—they could be enough.

She glanced down at the table.

Narcissa looked up and caught her gaze, one elegant brow lifting. There was warmth in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. A soft, quiet affection that needed no explanation.

Hermione smiled.

Hermione sat a little taller and cleared her throat.

All three Malfoys looked up immediately, the shift in attention so fast and unified that it startled her. Three sets of pale eyes—all elegant, all powerful, all focused solely on her.

She smiled, small and nervous. “I just… I need to say thank you.”

Lucius responded first, smoothly and firmly, “There is no need.”

Draco nodded in agreement, still not quite meeting her gaze. “We only did what felt right.”

Hermione’s fingers twisted lightly in her lap. “I know. But what I really mean is—thank you for making me part of your family.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she pressed on. “I… I had forgotten what that felt like.”

There was a pause. A soft breath of silence that wrapped around the room like a hug.

Narcissa blinked quickly, her usual steel melting into warmth. “Oh, darling,” she said, her voice touched with a rare emotion. “It has been our absolute pleasure.” Her hand reached across the table, fingers brushing Hermione’s gently. “You were meant to be with us.”

Hermione gave a bashful nod, cheeks flushed. “I just wanted to say something, that’s all.” She picked up her fork and took a bite of eggs, hoping it might cover the slight tremble in her hands.

For exactly three seconds, the room remained quiet.

And then:

Draco leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Merlin, Granger. That was almost sentimental.”

Lucius raised a brow. “Quite nearly affectionate, even. Are we to expect a group hug next?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “Don’t tempt me.”

Narcissa, now fully recovered and dabbing her eyes with a napkin far too daintily to be sincere, added, “I do believe she’s caught feelings, boys. Shall we panic?”

Draco mock-gasped. “Is this what love looks like? I thought it would be less… verbal.”

“She is a Gryffindor,” Lucius said dryly. “They tend to weaponize sincerity.”

Hermione tried to glare, but her blush deepened. “You’re all insufferable.”

Draco grinned and reached for her hand under the table. “And yet, you love us.”

“I plead the Fifth,” she muttered into her tea.

“Wrong government,” Lucius murmured.

“Still counts,” Draco said.

Narcissa laughed softly. “Well, heartfelt declarations or not, we’ll take it as a win.”

Hermione shook her head but couldn’t stop smiling. The teasing felt like sunlight—warm, familiar, and safe. They weren’t mocking her to wound; they were pulling her into the fold. Like she belonged.

Which, she realized with quiet certainty, she did.

More than that—she was loved here. Chosen. Teased like a Malfoy because she was one of them now, in all the ways that mattered.

And despite their dramatic posturing, none of them had stopped smiling since she’d spoken.

Neither had she.

Later that afternoon, Draco caught her hand with a smirk and said, “Come on, I need to show you the first edition collection. You’ve never seen the newest additions to the East Wing alcove.”

Hermione barely had time to respond before he was tugging her away from the dining room, all polite nods and murmured excuses to his parents as he towed her down a long, familiar corridor.

His hand was warm in hers, his pace just quick enough to betray mischief.

“You’re acting suspicious,” she said, breathless with laughter.

“You wound me,” he replied smoothly, not slowing down.

The Malfoy library—Hermione had been in it before, of course—but the moment the heavy, intricately carved oak doors opened, the sheer majesty of it hit her all over again.

It was cathedral-like in scale: towering walls of books rose up into a domed ceiling painted like a Renaissance sky, complete with drifting enchanted clouds and slow-moving constellations. Rolling ladders whispered along gilded rails, and the smell—leather, parchment, and magic—was enough to make her dizzy with reverence.

Velvet armchairs and chaise lounges nestled between shelves like reading sanctuaries. A fire crackled in a marble hearth. Warm light filtered through stained-glass windows, coloring the floor in soft hues of amethyst and gold.

The whole space felt like a temple built for people like her.

Hermione sighed. “This place makes me want to cry. Every time.”

Draco didn’t stop walking. He tugged her deeper into the stacks, past rows of impossibly rare volumes, until they were thoroughly alone.

“Okay,” he said, stopping at last and turning to her with a wicked smile. “Truth is, the book thing was a lie.”

Hermione gasped, scandalized. “Draco! You lied to me about books ?”

“I needed bait,” he said unrepentantly, pulling her into his chest. “You’re more likely to follow me if I mention rare ink or ancient bindings.”

“You absolute snake,” she huffed, smacking his arm.

He growled playfully, catching her chin between his fingers. “I didn’t think you’d want to make out in front of my parents.”

Hermione’s blush bloomed instantly. “Oh,” she whispered, eyes dropping. “Well… you’re right.”

Draco chuckled low in his throat and leaned in to kiss the side of her neck, voice husky against her skin. “God, you’re so perfect. I’ve been thinking about this all day. That mouth of yours…”

She shivered, hands sliding into his hair. Her breath hitched as his tongue teased a sensitive spot near her collarbone.

“Draco,” she gasped.

He smirked into her skin, kissing his way to her lips. His hands skimmed down her arms, over her waist, gripping her hips possessively.

Hermione kissed him back, fierce and aching. Fire curled low in her belly, an inferno sparked by every touch, every breath. She ran her tongue along his bottom lip, asking—demanding.

Draco moaned into her mouth as he opened to her, their tongues tangling in a heated rhythm that made her knees weak. He lifted her effortlessly, gripping beneath her thighs, and pressed her against the nearest bookshelf. The cold wood contrasted with the heat between them.

Hermione squealed as she felt him grind against her, hard and needy.

“Draco!” she gasped.

He was panting, forehead pressed to hers. “You drive me insane,” he growled, rutting against her with desperate, controlled friction. “Just like this. Just… like…”

She whimpered, arching into him, her fingers already tugging at the buttons of his shirt. She managed three before he captured her mouth again in a bruising kiss.

His hips rolled, and she moaned—loud and breathy.

Draco swore. “You feel so good—”

But Hermione suddenly froze.

She’d heard it.

A faint snicker.

Followed by a very unhelpful: “Shh, Lucius. They’ll hear us.”

Her entire body went rigid as horror set in. “Oh no ,” she whispered, burying her face in Draco’s chest.

He groaned, realizing too late that they had an audience.

He slowly, reluctantly, set her down.

“Maybe they’ll go away if we ignore them,” he whispered.

Hermione let out a choked, embarrassed laugh, her face now crimson.

From between the shelves, Narcissa stepped into view, far too chipper for someone who’d just witnessed a near-orgasm against antique mahogany.

“Hello, darlings,” she sang sweetly. “Don’t mind us. Just admiring the—ah—architecture.”

Hermione squeaked.

Lucius followed with a thunderous expression, his eyes locked on his son with abject horror. “ Draco Lucius Malfoy. ”

Draco winced.

Hermione considered vanishing into the floor.

Lucius took one look at her red face and lifted a hand. “Not you, Miss Granger. You are not to blame for this.”

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Um. Thank you?”

Lucius pointed an accusatory finger at Draco. “But you , boy. This is exactly the sort of behavior that necessitates a chaperone . Did you honestly believe I built a centuries-old library so you could defile the first edition wing with adolescent rutting?”

Draco held up his hands. “We were clothed! ”

“For now,” Lucius bit out. “And that hardly absolves you.”

Narcissa was struggling not to laugh. “Darling, do be reasonable. They’re in love. And nothing terrible happened. Yet.”

“ Yet is the part I object to,” Lucius snapped. “It’s not the kissing. It’s the location . The lack of discretion . The fact that you brought her here —of all places—without a single thought to boundaries or decency.”

Hermione glanced between them, utterly speechless.

“I—I’m sorry,” she offered weakly, even though he’d explicitly said she wasn’t to blame.

Lucius turned to her, voice much softer. “Miss Granger, I assure you: my disappointment lies solely with my son. You’ve been nothing but respectful in our home, which is why I expected him to conduct himself with more… decorum .”

Draco groaned. “I was trying to be romantic!”

Lucius gestured furiously toward a nearby shelf. “You were trying to desecrate the Lexicon of Noble Magics with your hormones.”

Narcissa coughed loudly to cover her snort. “You must admit, darling, their passion is sort of… inspiring.”

“I must admit no such thing.”

Draco mumbled, “This is the worst day of my life.”

Hermione whispered, “I think I died.”

Narcissa smiled beatifically. “I think this is hilarious. ”

Lucius, however, was still in high dudgeon. “You’ve turned the Malfoy library into a snogging alcove! There are first edition spellbooks in here, for Merlin’s sake—”

“RUN!” Draco shouted suddenly, grabbing Hermione’s hand.

She squeaked in surprise but sprinted after him, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in her chest.

They bolted through the aisles of priceless tomes and carved shelves, dodging faint echoes of Narcissa’s delighted laughter and Lucius’s stern voice calling, “Draco Malfoy, you stop right—”

Their laughter trailed behind them like trailing stardust as they disappeared down the corridor.

Narcissa smirked at the empty doorway. “Well. That went well.”

Lucius groaned into his hand. “I should’ve married someone boring.”

“I would’ve died of boredom,” Narcissa said primly. “Besides, where’s the fun in raising a child who doesn’t defile heirloom furniture?”

Lucius just sighed. “They’re going to elope, aren’t they?”

“Oh, I hope so,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I do love a good scandal.”

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy truly loved Christmas.

It was the one day of the year the entire family dedicated to each other—no politics, no social obligations, just silk pajamas, cinnamon cocoa, and a mountain of beautifully wrapped bribes.

Also, presents.
Did he mention the presents?

Not that he only liked receiving them—though he was, undeniably, very good at it. But what really made the day sparkle was giving presents. Watching his mother light up like a chandelier, all radiant delight and dramatic gasps, was a seasonal treat. Narcissa Malfoy was a world-class gift-opener. Her joy was so grand and theatrical that it made even a pair of gloves feel like treasure.

It made Draco want to gift the whole world.
Which was possibly why he was standing in Hermione’s bedroom at the ungodly hour of six in the bloody morning.

She was still asleep, her curls wild across the pillow, face soft with dreams, and definitely unaware that she was behind schedule . There were presents to open. His parents were already waiting. The pile was mountainous. The suspense was unbearable.

And he needed to see her face when she opened his gift.

Clearly, drastic measures were called for.

Draco grinned—a wicked, Grinch-worthy grin—and lifted his wand.

“ WEE-OO, WEE-OO, WEE-OO ,” blared an obnoxious siren charm.

Hermione shot upright like she’d been hit with a stunning spell, heart thundering, hair even more chaotic than usual. In her scramble, she rolled right off the bed with a thump .

Draco howled with laughter, leaning casually against the doorframe in silk navy pajamas, his hair a perfectly tousled mess.

Hermione blinked at him from the floor, wide-eyed. “ Why ?”

He clasped his hands over his chest. “It’s Christmas, my love. It’s Christmas~!” he sang, spinning into a moonwalk that would have made Michael Jackson weep.

She scowled. “So my gift is a heart attack?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said cheerfully. “The gifts are in the family room. We’re all waiting on you.”

“I’m going back to bed.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, delighted.

Before she could protest, he strode over, bent down, and—with the kind of confidence only a man in love and silk could muster—scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder.

“ Draco! ” Hermione squeaked, thumping her fists against his back. “Put me down!”

“Keep wiggling, love,” he said, voice tight as he caught sight of her bum right next to his face. “And we’ll be back in that bed, just for very different reasons.” He punctuated the warning with a firm squeeze.

Hermione squeaked again and froze, face flaming. “I’m awake , okay?”

“Excellent.” He gave her an affectionate pat and carried her all the way to the family room like a prize.

The drawing room was aglow with enchantments—twinkling fairy lights, holly garlands charmed to glisten with soft snowflakes, and a ceiling that sparkled like a winter sky. The Malfoy Christmas tree, easily fifteen feet tall, glittered with crystal ornaments and floating candles. Underneath it sat a ridiculous mountain of gifts, spilling out in color-coordinated perfection.

Draco deposited Hermione onto the plush velvet sofa and immediately tucked a blanket around her like she was made of stardust.

Narcissa, in a robe the exact shade of peppermint bark and a delicate snowflake charm pinned in her hair, sipped her cocoa and smiled. “I see Draco had to wake you, dear.”

Hermione glared at her. “You knew?”

Narcissa giggled like a girl. “Draco takes Christmas very seriously.”

Hermione looked betrayed. “I can see that.”

Draco flopped down beside her with all the smugness of a man who had done a Very Good Thing and wanted to be praised for it. He kissed her cheek and said solemnly, “You’re welcome.”

Then he turned toward the tree with a reverent gleam in his eyes.

The presents were calling.

It was time to open gifts.

Draco practically crawled over to the tree, wiggling his bum like an overly excited Crup puppy, humming a Christmas tune that may or may not have been suspiciously off-key. Hermione blinked at the unfiltered joy on his face. He was glowing. Actually glowing.

He started making piles, organizing each gift with theatrical flair—Lucius got a neat, orderly stack; Narcissa’s was arranged like an aesthetic boutique display; Hermione’s… well.

Hermione’s pile looked like a small avalanche.

She gawked. “Draco, what is this?”

Draco flashed her a devilish grin over his shoulder. “It’s called love, Granger. You should try accepting it without questioning my brilliance.”

The Malfoys all shared a conspiratorial smile as they watched Hermione stare, shell-shocked, at the mountain of beautifully wrapped presents now towering beside her.

Draco finished his sorting with a dramatic bow, then scrambled back to her on all fours and plopped a random box into her lap. “Here. Open this one first.”

Hermione raised a brow. “You’re worse than a toddler.”

“And proud,” he said, kissing her on the nose. “Go on, I’m dying.”

She slowly peeled back the wrapping, aware that all three Malfoys were watching her like hawks. Inside the shimmery green paper was… socks?

Hermione blinked.

“Socks?” she asked, confused but not ungrateful.

Narcissa burst out laughing. “They’re enchanted, darling. Regulates your foot temperature year-round. Marvelous for potion labs, winter walks, or lounging near drafty towers where your boyfriend insists on kissing you senseless.”

Draco threw an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and kissed her temple. “You get cold toes. I notice things.”

Hermione blushed but smiled warmly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

Hermione, cradling the socks as if they’d personally rescued her from frostbite. “That’s… actually brilliant. Thank you!”

Draco clapped once, sharp and excited. “Me next! Love, pick one for me to open.”

Hermione grinned and pointed toward a small navy box trimmed in gold, decorated with enchanted snitches that zipped around the paper in lazy loops.

“Ooh, intriguing choice,” Draco murmured, and then tore into it like a toddler high on sugar.

Inside, nestled in satin, was a set of sterling silver Muggle pens, each one sleek, monogrammed with “DLM,” and gleaming with magical ink reservoirs built into the design.

Draco gasped. “Are these—?”

“They’re enchanted to never run out of ink,” Hermione explained, fidgeting adorably. “And they adjust to the speed of your handwriting. You write so many contracts, I thought… maybe it would make it easier? Or at least more fun.”

Draco clutched the box to his chest. “I love it,” he said, dramatic and sincere. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received. You’ve merged business efficiency with aesthetic luxury. It’s like you see me .”

Hermione laughed as he leaned over to kiss her cheek, whispering, “Seriously, I love it. Thank you.”

Next was Lucius.

He selected one of his gifts with all the gravitas of a man choosing a fine wine—unwrapping it carefully, deliberately, fingers never smudging a single edge. When he opened the box, however, all that elegance gave way to something boyish and entirely undignified.

He gasped—an actual squeak—then immediately cast a stasis charm to freeze the contents in place.

Inside lay a pristine, preserved first edition of Superman #1 , complete with a protective frame and a Certificate of Authenticity.

Everyone stared.

Lucius cleared his throat, ears going pink. “It’s a very… thoughtful gift.”

“You squeaked,” Draco said, grinning.

“I did no such thing,” Lucius said, prim.

“Father,” Draco said with mock solemnity, “that was a gleeful squeak and we all heard it.”

Lucius lifted his chin. “It’s historically significant.”

“And emotionally,” Hermione added with a shy smile.

Lucius glanced at her, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips. “Thank you, Miss Granger.”

“My turn!” Narcissa chirped, practically vibrating as she picked up a tall silver box wrapped with a pale pink bow.

She opened it in one fluid motion and gasped. “Oh my goddess , are these leggings?”

“Um, yes?” Hermione said, startled.

Narcissa stood and held them up, admiring the stretch, the fabric, the very concept of stylish leg freedom. “These are divine. Look at the shape, Lucius— look at the cut!”

“I… see them,” he said warily.

“They’re muggle , and I love them.” Narcissa did a little twirl before hugging them to her chest like a new pet. “Finally, pants that don’t make me look like I’m going hunting with Genghis Khan.”

Hermione flushed. “I didn’t know if you’d like them—”

“I adore them. This is comfort and fashion combined. I shall wear these every day until I die.”

Lucius raised a skeptical brow. “To tea?”

“Yes.”

“To a gala?”

“Especially.”

Draco leaned toward Hermione, eyes sparkling. “You’ve created a monster.”

“I regret nothing ,” Hermione whispered, hiding a giggle.

The room dissolved into soft laughter, torn ribbons, enchanted bows bouncing off their heads, and piles of thoughtful, ridiculous, and utterly perfect gifts. The Malfoys were radiant in their own peculiar ways—Narcissa dramatic and thrilled, Lucius quietly overwhelmed, and Draco so full of joy he looked like he might combust from the inside out.

And Hermione? She felt like she was wrapped in light and silk and cocoa-scented love.

This wasn’t just a good Christmas. It was magic.

As the last of the wrapping paper fluttered to the floor and Narcissa declared herself "spiritually fulfilled by leggings," Draco stood, brushing stray bits of ribbon from his lap.

"All right," he said, clearing his throat with exaggerated importance. "I have one last gift to give. For Hermione."

Hermione blinked, looking up from the cozy nest she’d made from discarded bows and tissue paper. “You’ve already given me twenty things.”

Draco gave her a slow, pleased smirk. “Yes. But this one’s… special.”

Lucius muttered, “It had better not be a public display again.”

Narcissa patted his knee. “Let the boy romance her. This is the grand finale.”

Draco walked over to the fireplace and tapped his wand against one of the ancient stone bricks. It glowed softly, and with a shimmer of magic, a small black box appeared, levitating gently in the air. It was elegantly wrapped in deep emerald paper with a silver silk ribbon, a little tag charmed to write her name in looping script every few seconds.

Hermione sat up straighter. “Draco—what is that?”

He carried it to her, still hovering in his palm. “This,” he said quietly, kneeling before her so they were eye-level, “is the one I’ve been the most excited about.”

She looked at him, then at the box. “Should I be nervous?”

“Always,” Lucius muttered.

Draco ignored him. “Open it.”

Hermione took the box reverently, carefully untied the ribbon, and peeled back the paper. Inside was a small velvet case. Her breath hitched as she opened it.

Inside, nestled against black velvet, was a necklace—an ornate time-turner.

But not just any time-turner.

This one was set in a delicate golden frame shaped like a phoenix wing, studded with tiny diamonds and rubies that caught the light like flame. In the center was a single, perfect opal, shimmering with hidden fire. Her initials, H.J.G. , were etched along the outer ring in ancient runes, woven into protective enchantments so old they hummed against her fingers.

Hermione’s hands trembled slightly. “Is this—?”

Draco’s voice was softer now, intimate and sure. “It’s custom. There’s no other like it. You can’t actually go back in time with it—it’s magically inert in that sense—but it’s… a symbol.”

She looked at him, eyes wide and glossy. “A symbol?”

“Of second chances. Of rewinding. Of starting again.” He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “You lost so much time, Hermione. And I can’t give it all back. But I can promise you this—you’ll never lose another second feeling unwanted or unloved. Not while I’m around.”

Narcissa sniffed loudly. Lucius muttered something suspiciously close to a “harrumph,” but didn’t say a word.

Hermione stared down at the necklace, then back at Draco. “You utter Slytherin,” she whispered.

He raised a brow. “In the best way.”

“I’m going to cry.”

He smiled. “I know.”

She set the box gently aside, then leaned forward and kissed him—slow and sweet and full of all the words she didn’t have. The world fell away for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and Narcissa’s soft, “Well, that ’s going in the memory album.”

When they pulled apart, Hermione touched the necklace again. “It’s beautiful,” she said, voice thick. “I don’t deserve you.”

Draco pressed his forehead to hers. “No, love. You deserve everything. ”

The day drifted on in a haze of soft laughter and cozy joy—the kind of quiet happiness Draco hadn’t even realized he was craving until he found it wrapped up in warm blankets and Hermione’s sleepy smile. The gift had landed perfectly. He knew it would. He’d pictured the way her eyes would shine, the way she’d touch the necklace like it was something sacred. And still… nothing compared to the real thing. She had cried. Beautiful, silent tears. Then kissed him like he was her entire future.

Draco felt like a bloody king.

Even his parents seemed— content . Lucius had spent a solid half hour waxing poetic about the structural integrity of the wrapping paper and the declining standards of ribbon width, while Narcissa had tried on her leggings three times under different tunics, parading about like a model at a very expensive, very odd fashion show.

Just as the afternoon began to fade into golden twilight, the floo flared.

Lucius, still nursing his post-leggings wine, casually said, “Potter and the blonde one should be arriving shortly. I invited them for dinner.”

Draco nearly choked on his mulled cider. “You what ?”

“I invited your friends,” Lucius said, sipping with elegance. “It’s Christmas. We’re rebranding.”

Draco turned to his mother. “Are you okay with this?”

Narcissa shrugged. “Luna is delightful. And I find Harry terribly amusing when he’s trying to be polite.”

True to his father’s word, Potter and Lovegood arrived not five minutes later, stepping through the floo in coordinated Christmas jumpers—Harry’s sporting a knitted Hungarian Horntail, and Luna’s depicting a sparkly turnip in a snow globe.

“Merry Christmas!” Luna sang out, holding up a basket of wrapped parcels. “We brought presents!”

“Don’t worry,” Harry added quickly. “Luna made most of them. I just provided moral support and snacks.”

Draco looked them over. “Potter. Lovegood. Bold fashion choice.”

Harry looked down at his jumper. “It lights up.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Too late,” Luna said, beaming. “He’s already turned it on twice. The tail smokes.”

They handed out their gifts with bright smiles. Luna had knit each of them a pair of gloves—fingerless, multicolored, and surprisingly not hideous. Draco reluctantly slid his on and had to admit… they were absurdly warm.

“These are… tolerable,” he muttered.

“I made yours in snake colors,” Luna told him, whispering like it was a secret.

He blinked. “Did you charm them to warm blood like prey?”

“Yes,” she said cheerfully.

Draco wasn’t sure if he was impressed or alarmed.

Then Harry stepped forward, holding out a small, neatly wrapped box. “Hermione.”

Hermione blinked at it, confused. “Harry, we already exchanged gifts last week. What did you do?”

“Just open it,” he said, soft and sure.

Draco watched as she peeled back the paper carefully, suspicion giving way to confusion—then shock. The moment her fingers brushed the leather-bound album beneath the paper, she froze.

Her voice was breathless. “Harry… you didn’t.”

She opened the album, and a gasp caught in her throat.

Photos.

Her parents smiling at her across a birthday cake.

Hermione and Harry, younger and wild-eyed, waving from their Gryffindor table.

Candid shots from their fifth year, a blurry snap of her sleeping with a book in her lap, another of them covered in soot from some explosion in the Room of Requirement.

Pictures she thought were lost forever when her flat burned.

Her hands began to shake as she flipped through the pages, each image more familiar and dear than the last. Draco could see the way her lip trembled, how she blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“I asked everyone we knew,” Harry said softly. “I wrote letters. Drove around. It took a while. But I wanted to show you that… you didn’t lose everything.”

Hermione let out a watery laugh, eyes glued to the pictures. “Oh, Harry…”

She launched forward, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce, emotional hug. He hugged her back tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head like it was instinct.

Across the room, Draco felt his chest pull strangely tight—but not in jealousy. Just awe.

Maybe Potter wasn’t a total menace.

Lucius murmured, “Sentimental Gryffindors. They always go for the heartstrings.”

But his voice was too gentle to be mocking.

Narcissa wiped at the corner of her eye with a lacy handkerchief. “I think that was the loveliest gift I’ve ever witnessed.”

Hermione finally pulled back, breath hitching on a quiet sob. “Thank you, Harry. Really. This… this is everything.”

Harry just smiled. “You’re family too, Hermione. Always.”

Draco didn’t interrupt. He let her have that moment. But when she turned back to him, her eyes were shining in a way that made every protective bone in his body stand a little taller.

He opened his arms wordlessly, and she sank into his side like she belonged there—which she did.

Chapter Text

The dining room of Malfoy Manor had never looked more festive. Candles floated lazily above the long table, flickering gold and silver flames that cast dancing light across enchanted garlands. Snow shimmered outside the windows in delicate flurries, but the room itself was warm with magic and laughter.

Narcissa sat at the head of the table, chin in hand, smiling into her wine glass like a queen surveying her hard-earned kingdom.

Everything was perfect .

Lucius was telling a story—of all things, a joke —and to her eternal amusement, both Potter and Lovegood were laughing.

Genuinely laughing.

Draco was seated at Hermione’s side, his arm stretched casually across the back of her chair, grinning like a schoolboy every time she said anything. Hermione looked radiant, still a little pink from earlier tears, the photo album tucked safely beside her on the bench.

Narcissa took another sip of wine and allowed herself a small, secret smile.

This , she thought. This is what I wanted.

Not just peace. Not just survival. But this . Warmth. Joy. Lucius’s eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckled at Potter’s dry retort. Draco happy and in love. Hermione glowing under the weight of affection she’d thought she lost. Even Luna, seated across from Narcissa, looked completely at ease as she nibbled roasted carrots and offered a monologue about the migratory patterns of winter-bound Nargles.

It was, Narcissa decided, the most chaotic and delightful Christmas in recent memory.

“I must say,” Lucius drawled, swirling his wine, “I hadn’t expected to find myself agreeing with you on estate ward layering, Potter.”

Harry smirked. “I read your old paper on layered shielding. The one you published anonymously in The Enchanted Strategist .”

Lucius blinked. “How on earth did you—?”

“I recognized your spell structure,” Harry said casually, like it wasn’t a compliment of the highest order. “The binding signatures were identical to the wards on your manor.”

There was a pause. Then—unexpectedly—Lucius let out a pleased huff and tipped his glass toward Harry.

“Your mother would be proud,” he said softly, and something unspoken passed between them.

Narcissa blinked.

Well, that was new.

Beside her, Luna clapped delightedly. “I knew we’d all get along! This roast is positively humming with family vibrations.”

No one was entirely sure what that meant, but Narcissa patted her hand anyway. “I’m so glad you joined us, dear.”

Dinner continued with cheerful abandon. The food was divine—thanks to their head chef and an overexcited house-elf named Pipkin—and the wine flowed freely. Draco was feeding Hermione bites of dessert off his fork while pretending not to be mad she beat him at Wizard’s Chess earlier. Hermione had kissed him on the cheek like it was a war trophy, which Narcissa mentally filed away under adorable things to mention later for maximum embarrassment.

Harry and Lucius were now debating broom design across the table, gesturing animatedly with silverware. Narcissa couldn’t help the light in her chest, the way joy curled around her ribs like warmth from the fire.

It wasn’t just that the dinner had gone well. It was that her home was full of laughter. Of love. Of people who chose each other.

She’d worried, once, that Hermione would always feel like a guest.

But now, watching the way she leaned into Draco, the way her eyes lit up every time Narcissa spoke, the way she laughed with Luna and teased Lucius—it was clear.

She belonged .

And Narcissa, for all her carefully curated elegance and razor-sharp wit, thrived on the belonging of others.

The air shimmered with magic and sugar and stories. And as the candlelight danced against the frost-tipped windows, Narcissa let herself bask in the moment. She didn’t need to orchestrate anything else. Not tonight. Her work was done.

She sat back, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and thought—

I made this.

Not the food. Not the romance. But the space . The safety. The trust. She had carved it out with sharp words and softer glances and fierce, protective love.

And for once, no one needed anything from her.

Except, perhaps, seconds of pudding.

Later that evening, after dinner had dwindled into second helpings of pudding and third glasses of wine, Hermione disappeared briefly, then returned to the family room with a bright smile and a rectangular box cradled in her arms.

“I brought something,” she said, placing it triumphantly on the table in front of the fireplace.

Lucius raised a brow at the object as if it might bite him. “That’s not enchanted, is it?”

“Not until I got to it,” Hermione grinned, flipping the lid off with a flourish. “This is Clue . A Muggle mystery game. But I may have added a few magical enhancements.”

Draco leaned over the table, eyes narrowed at the small silver candlestick token. “What sort of enhancements?”

Hermione smirked. “Well, now the murder weapon glows slightly ominous if you guess correctly, the suspects will occasionally mutter defensive alibis, and the board resets itself. Also, the rooms move.”

“The rooms what?” Harry asked, blinking.

“They move,” Hermione repeated matter-of-factly. “It keeps things interesting.”

Lucius looked vaguely affronted. “That’s not how architecture works.”

Luna clapped her hands. “Oh, I love it already!”

Within minutes, the six of them were seated around the game board—Draco and Hermione squished together on one end of the sofa, Harry and Luna on the floor in front of the hearth, and Lucius and Narcissa sharing an elegant loveseat with a bowl of sugared almonds between them.

It started off surprisingly civil. Lucius asked thoughtful questions about Muggle manufacturing. Narcissa admired the miniature pewter weapons. Draco kept trying to make his pawn duel Harry’s whenever they crossed paths.

But then the board shuffled the kitchen into the conservatory, and chaos broke loose.

“ It’s impossible to plan a strategy if the bloody rooms keep—where is the billiards room now!?” Lucius demanded, lifting the game board as if shaking it would restore order.

“You have to let the game happen to you,” Luna said serenely. “Like fog. Or destiny.”

“I am a grown man,” Lucius muttered, “and I am being outplayed by fog.”

Harry kept notes on a napkin, muttering about Professor Plum like he owed him money. Narcissa made whispered side bets with Hermione, giggling under her breath. Draco took entirely too much joy in making exaggerated ‘evil laughter’ noises whenever someone guessed the wrong weapon.

And then, out of nowhere, Luna blinked twice, looked at the board, and announced, “It was the librarian in the observatory with the chalice of moon juice.”

Everyone stared at her.

“Luna,” Hermione said carefully, “the observatory isn’t a playable room. The librarian isn’t a suspect. And ‘moon juice’ isn’t even one of the—”

But the murder weapon token began to glow softly. The suspects went silent. And the board rearranged itself with a contented chime.

Luna beamed. “I knew it.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open. “She made up every part of that answer!”

Lucius looked vaguely betrayed. “The game listened to her.”

Harry burst out laughing first, then Hermione, then everyone.

Narcissa dabbed her eyes with a napkin, barely catching her breath. “I haven’t laughed like this in years,” she said, sounding amazed.

Draco leaned into Hermione’s shoulder and murmured, “You’ve officially corrupted my entire family.”

Hermione smiled into his hair. “You’re welcome.”

The fire crackled merrily beside them. Snow swirled beyond the windows in lazy flurries. The enchanted game board reset itself once more with a polite cough, ready for another round no one was quite sober enough to take on.

And as laughter filled the room like music, Narcissa looked around at the chaos she now called family—

—and felt, with bone-deep certainty, that Christmas had never been quite so magical.

Chapter Text

The day had been long but filled with warmth.

Draco smiled to himself as he lay in bed, the sheets cool against his skin, the air still humming with laughter and magic. It had all been worth it—every carefully chosen gift, every ridiculous joke, every one of Hermione’s smiles etched like a constellation across his heart. He tucked them away in the softest part of himself, under a label written in golden ink: Love.

Even Potter hadn’t managed to ruin the day.

In fact, Draco mused, lips twitching, he’d actually enjoyed the prat’s company. The way Harry had looked at Hermione—like she was precious, and powerful, and home—was enough to earn him a tentative reprieve. Perhaps, Draco thought, grudgingly , he wouldn’t hex him the next time they crossed paths.

He sighed, content, running a hand through his hair, eyes drifting over the dark ceiling. He wouldn’t change a single bloody thing about today.

It had been... perfect.

A soft sound broke the quiet—gentle footsteps across the carpet, the snick of a closing door. He blinked toward the motion and sat up as a familiar voice whispered through the dark.

“Draco... are you awake?”

He turned to find Hermione standing near the foot of the bed, wrapped in nothing but a white, fluffy bathrobe. Her curls were still damp from a shower, her skin glowing, and her eyes uncertain in the low light.

His heart stuttered.

“I’m awake, my love,” he said softly, propping himself up on one elbow. “What can I do for you?”

Hermione shifted, bare toes curling into the carpet as a blush spread across her cheeks—rosy and warm and beautiful. Draco felt something coil low in his stomach.

“I had a really magical day,” she said, voice shy but steady. “And I completely blame you.”

Draco smirked. “You’re welcome.”

She smiled then, something slower, deeper—confidence blooming in her like a spell taking root.

“So,” she said, fingers tugging gently at the knot of her robe, “I was thinking about the time we were interrupted in the library…” Her voice dropped, velvet and daring. “And I thought maybe we could have a do-over.”

The robe slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

Draco forgot how to breathe.

She stood before him, wearing nothing but the time-turner he’d given her that morning. The moonlight spilled through the tall windows, silvering every line of her body—glinting off the gold chain at her throat, shimmering across the curves of her skin, making her look less like a girl and more like some sacred, ancient magic come to life.

His cock twitched under the sheets, full and hard in seconds.

“I—” he croaked, eyes wide, “I think I would like that very much.”

Hermione giggled, a wicked little sound, and began to walk toward him. Slowly. Purposefully. Her hips swayed in a way that made his throat go dry.

Draco couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

She stepped between his knees, leaned down, and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. Her fingers were warm, trembling slightly—but her expression was steady, full of hunger and aching affection.

When their eyes met, Draco saw it all. Want. Love. A claiming kind of tenderness that broke something open inside him.

A sound left his throat—half groan, half prayer.

He reached up with reverent hands, touching hers as if she were made of starlight. He traced down the curve of her arm, across the soft slope of her shoulder, and when his fingers reached her throat, he paused—watching her shudder under the weight of his touch.

Then, gently, he pulled her down into a kiss.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, and hot, and laced with everything he didn’t have words for. She tasted like hot chocolate and peppermint and every perfect moment of the day distilled into fire and skin.

His hands slid to her back, pulling her fully into his lap, and she went willingly, gasping into his mouth as their bodies met with dizzying heat.

He kissed her like he was starving.

Because he was.

Hermione ground her hips down against the hard line of his arousal, still tented beneath silk pajama bottoms. Draco shuddered at the wet heat of her, already slick for him, and the ache in his core twisted sharp and needy.

She bit his lower lip—demanding, urgent—and he gasped, opening for her without hesitation. Their tongues met in a slow, hungry dance, twining and tasting, mouths sliding together in a kiss that felt like devotion made flesh.

Draco was burning. Too hot. Too tight. Too clothed.

He pulled one hand from her neck, lifted his hips, and shoved his pajama bottoms down in one quick, graceless motion. The silk pooled at his ankles and then onto the floor. Hermione whimpered as she slid against him with no barriers left between them, the glide of her slick folds over his length nearly undoing him on the spot.

He groaned—low and guttural—and in a swift, instinctive motion, he rolled her beneath him.

Hermione gasped as her back hit the mattress, lips parting in surprise. “Draco?” she whispered.

He smiled down at her, boyish and full of wonder. “I’ve got you, love,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “And I’m never letting you go.”

Her breath hitched as he kissed down her throat, slow and reverent, until he reached the swell of her breasts. He grinned against her skin before taking one rosy nipple into his mouth, suckling gently as his tongue swirled around it.

Hermione moaned, head tilting back into the pillows as her fingers tangled in his hair. Her body arched into him, need rising like a wave. Draco lavished her other breast with the same attention, licking and sucking until she was gasping beneath him.

His hand slid lower, tracing a path over her stomach, down to her thighs, and finally between her legs. He groaned at the feel of her—hot, slick, open.

“So wet for me,” he whispered, voice thick with awe.

He dipped one finger into her, slow and teasing, and Hermione jolted with a breathy moan. Her hips lifted instinctively, hands fisting in his hair. He added a second finger, stretching her, pumping gently as he curled them inside, searching—

There.

Hermione cried out, spine arching beautifully off the bed.

Draco smirked and ducked his head to watch, utterly mesmerized by the sight of her—wet, wanting, with his fingers buried inside her. He licked his lips.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and then he couldn’t wait a second longer.

He shifted down the bed and lowered his mouth to her center, kissing her clit with aching reverence before sucking gently. His fingers never stopped moving, thrusting deep and steady as his tongue circled and flicked.

Hermione sobbed out his name, thighs trembling around his head.

“I’m close,” she gasped. “Draco—harder.”

With a growl of pleasure, he obeyed—sucking harder, curling his fingers just right. Her body tensed, muscles taut like a bowstring, and then she shattered with a cry of release, pulsing around his fingers as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave.

He didn’t stop. He worked her through it, gentle but insistent, coaxing her down from the peak with long, slow strokes and the soft brush of his tongue.

When her muscles finally relaxed, boneless and spent, he lapped up every trace of her, kissing her inner thighs as she trembled beneath him.

Then, reverently, he crawled back up her body, trailing kisses over her stomach, between her breasts, up her throat—until he reached her lips.

He kissed her full and deep, and she tasted herself on his tongue.

“Mmm, Draco,” she whispered, breathless, threading her fingers through his hair.

Draco rubbed his nose against hers, then kissed the corner of her mouth—soft and adoring. He reached down, stroking himself slowly, hissing through his teeth as he ran his length along her soaked folds, coating himself in her arousal.

He positioned himself at her entrance and looked into her eyes as he began to press in—slowly, reverently—until he was fully seated inside her.

They both groaned, eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sense of connection. Hermione felt stretched and full, her breath caught in her throat. Around him, she twitched and clenched, and Draco saw stars behind his eyes.

“So tight… so good,” he slurred, voice wrecked.

He pulled out—agonizingly slow—then slammed back in with force, a growl tearing from his throat.

“Good girl,” he praised, hips snapping forward in deep, deliberate thrusts.

Hermione’s body shook beneath him, her eyes wide, mouth parted in a silent moan. Each hard, controlled movement sent waves of pleasure rolling through her, stoking the fire building in her veins.

“Faster,” she begged, nails digging into his back.

Draco obeyed.

His rhythm shifted—harder, faster—sweat gathering at his brow as their bodies moved in perfect, breathless synchrony. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, each thrust driving them higher.

He could feel himself teetering at the edge but refused to let go until she did. She was so close—he could feel it in the way she trembled, the way her breath hitched, the desperate chant spilling from her lips: “Harder… faster… please—”

And then she broke.

Her muscles clamped down around him, fluttering as her orgasm tore through her. Her body arched, a cry escaping her throat, and the pulse of her release dragged him under.

Draco slammed deep once, twice, then spilled inside her with a shuddering groan, burying his face in her neck as he rode the waves of pleasure. His body convulsed with hers, their release shared, sacred.

He collapsed on top of her, panting into her hair, whispering words of praise and love against her flushed skin.

When the tremors faded, he groaned softly and withdrew, already missing the heat of her around him.

If only he could stay buried inside her forever.

He rolled onto his back, breath ragged, and Hermione collapsed beside him—equally wrecked.

“That was…” she tried, breathless, “That… was so good.”

Draco chuckled, warm and smug, and threw an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Good girl,” he murmured again, pressing a kiss into her hair.

He tugged the blankets over them both and held her tightly against his chest.

“I’m holding you all night.”

Hermione sighed contentedly and nuzzled into his side.

And as Draco lay there, skin against skin, the woman he loved curled into his arms, he thought with absolute certainty:

Now the day was perfect.

Chapter Text

A few weeks had passed, but life hadn’t slowed in the slightest.

Hermione rubbed her temples as she glanced over the latest sales records. Her shop was thriving — booming, actually. The holiday rush hadn’t ebbed; if anything, it had intensified. And while she ought to be thrilled, a knot of stress wound itself tighter in her chest.

Draco and Lucius had been right. Painfully right. It was time to open another location. She simply couldn’t keep up — not without running herself ragged

She’d meant for this place to be a refuge, a bridge between worlds — a place where books and games and ideas could bloom. Now, it was evolving faster than she’d prepared for. She needed to hire more staff, delegate, and most importantly, carve out time to focus on her next project: converting Muggle games into magical formats.

But none of that could take precedence right now.

Because in just a few days, she would be back in court.

The looming trial clung to her like fog, dampening everything else. No matter how productive she was or how brightly her shop buzzed with energy, the thought of Ron’s betrayal pressed on her like a bruise she couldn’t stop bumping.

Harry’s investigation had confirmed what they’d all feared.

It was Ron.

Hermione stiffened at the thought, her hands curling slightly on the edge of her desk. His magical signature had been all over the flat. The blood on the walls had come from a potion ingredient so common it could be bought at any apothecary. And yet, knowing that didn’t dull the ache. It made it worse.

The boy she’d grown up beside — the one she’d trusted with her life — was gone. And maybe he’d been gone longer than she wanted to admit.

Harry had tried to comfort her, promising to stand beside her in court. He’d even offered up his memories for the case. Theo had quipped something about how “the Chosen One’s thoughts ought to seal the deal,” and though she’d smiled, the warmth hadn’t reached her heart.

Draco, on the other hand, had been furious. Quietly, dangerously furious. He’d vowed — without a hint of drama — to see Ron locked away where he couldn’t hurt her again. And oddly enough, Theo, Lucius, and even Harry had agreed. The once-impossible convergence of men in her life had formed a wall around her. Protective. Unyielding.

Still, Hermione wasn’t sure what she felt. Sadness, certainly. But also anger. Grief. Shame. And underneath it all, betrayal that refused to unclench.

The trial would come. And then, she hoped, she could finally begin to breathe again.

Business could wait. Expansion could wait. But healing? That needed to start now.

The soft jingle of the backroom door pulled her from her thoughts.

She looked up.

Draco stepped inside, tall and radiant in the golden afternoon light, holding a single red rose like it was something sacred. His smile was soft, eyes warm.

Hermione couldn’t help but grin.

He was always doing this now — bringing her little things. A new quill. A chocolate frog. A flower. She’d never asked for them, and yet they came. Steady and unrelenting. Like the way he looked at her. Like love, made simple.

She rose from her chair and crossed the room. “Hi,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He tucked the rose into her hand. “Are you here to tell me it’s time to stop working?”

Draco grinned, unabashed. “If I didn’t, you’d miss dinner. And Mother would be livid.”

Hermione giggled, sliding her arm around his waist. She let him guide her out of the shop, locking the door behind her with a flick of her wand.

This had become part of their rhythm. A new routine. A soft, shining tether that pulled her from the chaos and reminded her of everything she still had.

And as she leaned into him, the scent of rose petals and winter air in her nose, Hermione felt the weight on her chest lift—just a little.

She could fly, she thought.

With him beside her, she just might.

The court battle had finally arrived.

That morning, Hermione had been jolted awake by the sharp crack of her bedroom door flying open. Narcissa Malfoy swept in like a delighted storm, wrapped in a dressing gown of velvet and purpose, trailed by levitating garment bags and an entourage of house-elves.

Hermione bolted upright, dragging the blankets with her, only to realize with a mortified flush that Draco was very much still in bed beside her — shirtless, tousled, and groaning into the pillow.

“Oh, hush,” Narcissa said airily, giving the scene a perfunctory glance as if finding her son half-naked with his not-yet-fiancée was the least interesting thing in the room. “You two are practically inseparable anyway. I need her more than you do.”

“Need me for what?” Hermione asked, still half-asleep and trying to make sense of the invasion.

“For court, dearest. You can’t just walk in there looking like a bookshop ghost. You need to radiate injured dignity. Up, up!”

Before Hermione could object, Narcissa had transfigured her dressing gown into couture silk and swept her into the hall with the smooth efficiency of someone who had dressed duchesses under duress. She was humming under her breath, positively gleeful.

“Today is about image,” she said as they entered the sitting room now transformed into a war room of fashion. “You’re fighting a battle of public perception, and I will not let Ronald bloody Weasley outmaneuver you with a sympathetic grimace and a crooked tie.”

What followed was a blur. Hermione was poked, spun, styled, and powdered within an inch of her life. Narcissa kept cooing over her like a prized debutante, brushing curls off her face and tilting her chin gently this way and that.

“We’ll go with soft,” Narcissa declared, conjuring bolts of fabric that floated around them like silk ghosts. “Gentle tones. We want them to see the heart he tried to break. You’re grace under fire, heartbreak wrapped in dignity. And you, my darling girl, are going to shine.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh softly at Narcissa’s energy — part general, part fairy godmother, and fully in her element. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I adore you,” Narcissa said simply, smiling as she fastened a delicate brooch at Hermione’s shoulder. “And I don’t lose. Especially not to a petulant little boy with a bruised ego.”

By the time it was over, Hermione was wrapped in robes of dusky lilac and pearled silver, the fabric whisper-soft and impossibly elegant. She barely recognized herself in the mirror — not because she looked different, but because she looked loved. Like someone worth defending.

Now, seated between Theo and Draco inside the courtroom, Hermione smoothed her sleeve with quiet fingers. Her nerves buzzed under her skin, but Draco’s hand found hers beneath the table, grounding her with the same steady calm she’d come to rely on.

Theo leaned in like he was about to share state secrets, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m ruined,” he breathed, eyes wide with theatrical misery.

Draco didn’t even look up from the folder he was reviewing. “Is this about the case or your wardrobe?”

“My wife, ” Theo said dramatically, fanning out his legal briefs across the table like tarot cards foretelling doom. He exhaled like a man confessing to a scandal.

Hermione froze mid-sip of water. “Wait— what wife?”

Theo pressed a hand to his heart, dreamy and dazed. “Rikki.”

Draco finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “You married Rikki? ”

“She tricked me,” Theo sighed, with something disturbingly close to affection in his voice. “Last week. Told me to sign something while I was still sweaty and blissfully stupid. I didn’t even read it. Just scribbled my name like a lovestruck idiot.”

Hermione blinked. “And it was a marriage contract?”

“Oh no, technically a binding cohabitation agreement with inheritance clauses,” Theo said. “But the goblins call that a marriage, so.” He gestured vaguely, as if helpless in the face of bureaucracy and chaos incarnate.

Draco muttered, “I give it a month.”

“Joke’s on you, Malfoy.” Theo dropped into his chair with a dramatic flair, robes billowing like stage curtains. “She’s already moved her shampoo into my shower. I am doomed. ”

Hermione shook her head, laughing under her breath. “I did not see this coming.”

Before Draco could deliver a sarcastic retort, the heavy doors creaked open and the buzz of conversation dipped into murmurs.

Ron Weasley entered the courtroom with the swagger of a man who thought the world owed him something — followed closely by what could only be described as a fever dream in robes. His lawyer, a rake-thin man dressed in lime green from neck to toe, wore a faded maroon fez perched on his balding head like a forgotten Christmas ornament. His shoes squeaked with every step.

Draco blinked. “Is that a hat or an attack on wizarding fashion?”

“Both,” Theo said. “He once tried to subpoena a Hippogriff for a character testimony.”

Ron’s eyes swept the room and immediately landed on Hermione. His glare could have peeled paint. Hermione didn’t flinch. She simply raised her chin and tightened her grip on Draco’s hand under the table.

One by one, the benches around them began to fill — not with strangers, but with people who mattered.

Harry entered quietly, giving her a supportive nod before sitting behind her. Luna trailed in behind him in robes patterned with flying phoenixes, beaming like this was all a lovely little picnic. Narcissa swept in like a queen, Lucius just behind her, both dressed in flawless formal black. Narcissa met Hermione’s eyes and gave a proud, deliberate nod.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

She’d come here prepared to fight. But now… she wasn’t fighting alone.

Theo stood, adjusted his robes with unnecessary flair, and clapped his hands once.
“Right,” he said cheerfully. “Shall we ruin a Weasley today?”

Draco leaned in, murmuring into Hermione’s ear, “Just follow Theo’s lead. Chaos may look messy, but it’s terrifyingly effective.”

Hermione smiled, her nerves simmering down under all the love in the room.

“Let’s begin.”

The doors shut with a deep, echoing thud.

The entirety of the Wizengamot filed into the courtroom, their deep plum robes rustling as they took their elevated seats in a wide semicircle. Conversations dropped into murmurs, then silence, as the last figure entered — tall, composed, and cloaked in the dark gold of authority.

Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt walked with purpose to the center of the courtroom, ascending the judge’s platform with quiet gravity. His presence alone commanded respect. As he turned to face the room, the hush was absolute.

“I have decided to preside over this case personally,” Kingsley said, his voice calm but resolute, ringing across the chamber like a spell. “Both parties before us are war heroes. Public figures. Symbols. I want no doubt about the fairness of today’s proceedings.”

His eyes swept across the courtroom — settling first on Ron Weasley.

Ron shifted in his seat under the Minister’s gaze, his jaw tightening.

Then Kingsley’s gaze moved to Hermione.

His expression softened. “We will begin with the complainant — Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

He sat, the courtroom holding its collective breath.

Ron’s lawyer rose with an awkward flourish. He bowed first to Kingsley, then to the Wizengamot, the oversized fez on his head tilting comically forward before he straightened it with twitchy fingers.

“Your Honor, esteemed members of the Wizengamot,” he began, his reedy voice wobbling slightly. “My client, Mr. Weasley, is here today to address the grave injury done to his reputation by Miss Hermione Granger.”

He flailed one spindly arm toward Hermione, then toward Ron. “In her published memoir The War Within , Miss Granger claims that Mr. Weasley abandoned her and Mr. Potter in the dead of winter during their campaign to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This is categorically false.”

A ripple of reaction stirred the benches. Harry’s mouth flattened into a thin line, but he said nothing. Luna tilted her head curiously, like she was trying to determine if the lawyer was under a Confundus Charm.

The man pressed on, warming to his performance. “Furthermore, in recent public interviews and media appearances, Miss Granger has manipulated the narrative, painting Mr. Weasley as callous, unstable, even dangerous. My client has endured emotional distress, public scrutiny, and considerable professional setbacks due to these misrepresentations.”

He turned slightly, his voice lifting with forced gravitas. “Mr. Weasley respectfully requests a formal retraction, a public apology, and financial reparations to compensate for the damage to his reputation and emotional well-being.”

He finished with a flourish and sat down, the ridiculous fez wobbling as he exhaled like he’d just dueled a dragon.

Hermione sat rigid, her back straight but her muscles coiled. The weight of the accusation pressed heavy on her chest. She could feel dozens of eyes on her — assessing, questioning.

Under the table, Draco’s hand was wrapped tightly around hers. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in slow, grounding circles, but she could feel the tension vibrating off of him like a held-back spell. Rage crackled just beneath his composed facade.

To her right, Theo scribbled a single word on his parchment in perfectly neat lettering:

Amateurs.

Behind them, Narcissa shifted in her seat, her lips pressed thin in silent judgment. Lucius’s eyes glittered, the set of his jaw suggesting he was already planning the post-trial obliteration of Ron's credibility.

Harry leaned forward, clearly ready to jump to his feet if needed, but Luna gently tugged him back, murmuring something that made him blink — then snort.

Hermione took a breath. Not to speak, not yet — but to remind herself she had already survived worse than this.

And today, she wasn’t alone.

Kingsley raised one hand, commanding the room to silence without a word. Once the muttering died down, he spoke, calm but firm.
“Mr. Nott, I believe it’s your turn to respond.”

Theo stood with the delighted smile of a viper who’d just been invited to dinner.
He rose with a flourish, adjusted the cuffs of his deep emerald robes, and bowed with theatrical precision to the room — equal parts nobleman and menace.

“Thank you, Minister.” His voice was smooth as silk and twice as sharp. “In defense of my client, Miss Granger, we submit that everything she wrote was — and remains — the truth.”

He turned toward the courtroom, letting the silence stretch.

Ron exploded to his feet. “That bitch is a liar, and we all know it!”

Gasps rang out from the gallery. Narcissa inhaled sharply. Harry surged halfway out of his seat before Luna grabbed his sleeve.

Kingsley’s face darkened with disapproval. “Mr. Weasley,” he said coldly, “sit down and shut up, or I will hold you in contempt of court.”

Ron slammed back into his seat, red-faced and scowling, muttering curses under his breath.

Kingsley looked to Theo. “Please continue.”

Theo beamed like he'd just been given a birthday present. “Gladly, Minister.” He turned on his heel with a flourish, robes swishing behind him like the final act of a play.

“Miss Granger maintains that Mr. Weasley not only agreed to the contents of her book, but that there is documented, Pensieve-based evidence to support her claims.”

Theo turned his eyes on Ron, voice syrupy with faux concern.
“Even if Mr. Weasley finds it convenient to forget.”

Ron jumped up again, veins bulging. “She’s a fucking liar—!”

CRACK!

Kingsley slammed his gavel down so hard the sound echoed off the marble walls. “I will be the judge of that, Mr. Weasley,” he growled. “Mr. Nott. Evidence. Now.”

Theo didn’t flinch. He gave a cheeky curtsey — actually curtsied — and flicked his wand with a practiced flourish.
A swirl of silver-blue mist coalesced above the courtroom, forming a large, clear projection globe.

“Let’s begin with the moment in question,” Theo said brightly. “We’ll start with a memory from Miss Granger’s Pensieve. Then, the same event from Mr. Potter’s point of view. For accuracy.”

The mist shimmered. The courtroom fell silent.

The first memory flickered into motion — an icy forest, moonlight slicing through bare trees. Hermione’s breath puffed visibly in the cold as Ron shouted, voice cracking with frustration.

“You don’t know what it’s like! Always following him around like a bloody lapdog!”

Harry shouted back, but Ron was already turning away, shoulders heaving, his rucksack in hand.

“I’m done.”

The courtroom was still — rapt, horrified. The image dissolved, then re-formed — the exact same moment, this time from Harry’s perspective. The bitterness in Ron’s voice. The betrayal in Hermione’s silence.

When the second memory faded, whispers rippled through the room.

Lucius looked positively gleeful. Narcissa dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief that may or may not have been monogrammed with Not Your Weasel .

Theo spun theatrically and waved his wand again. “Now, something warmer, for balance.”

The new memory began: the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, dimly lit and cozy. A younger Hermione sat between Harry and Ron, parchment laid out before them. Her voice was calm, hopeful.

“I want the world to know what we did. I wrote everything down, and I want to publish it. But this is not just my story. It's our story.”

She looked up at them, eyes shining.

“I won’t do it unless you both agree. And we split the royalties three ways. Like always.”

Harry signed without hesitation. Ron stared at her like she’d hung the stars.

“That’s a great idea, ‘Mione. This story needs to be told. People deserve to know the truth.”

He signed, smiling.

The courtroom was still. Even the feathers on the lawyer’s faded fez didn’t dare twitch.

Theo tilted his head. “Let’s run it again, just in case Mr. Weasley tries to claim poor memory.”

The memory replayed from Harry’s point of view. Every word, every look — identical.

As the last image faded, Theo slowly turned back to Kingsley and the Wizengamot.
He clasped his hands behind his back and gave a serene nod.

“No further commentary needed. The truth speaks rather eloquently for itself.”

He sat, and the room erupted in a low swell of whispers, gasps, and furious quill-scribbling from the press gallery.

Ron looked like he might combust. His lawyer looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.

Hermione sat motionless, her hand still in Draco’s — and only when she glanced at him did she realize she was shaking.

Draco leaned in, whispering so only she could hear.

“You’ve already won.”

As the courtroom buzzed with murmurs and scribbling quills, Theo adjusted his robes, stood once more, and turned casually to face the gallery.

He flashed a grin — slow, sharp, and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well,” he said brightly, “that concludes our presentation of facts. ”

He glanced at Ron’s lawyer, then at Ron — who was seething, red-faced and visibly sweating under the glare of the entire room.

“And now that we've established my client is telling the truth and Mr. Weasley is simply having… a tantrum,” he said with delicate mock sympathy, “I do hope someone brought a lollipop and a calming draught for him.”

He gave a flourishing bow to the Wizengamot, and with absolutely no shame, added under his breath — just loud enough for the room to hear:

“Your Honor, we rest. For now. But oh, I do hope the tantrum continues. I love an encore.”

Hermione could only stare.

Draco bit back a laugh.

And somewhere behind them, Luna clapped.

Chapter Text

Kingsley’s gavel came down hard — once, twice, three times — echoing like thunder across the marble walls.

“Order!” he barked, but the courtroom had already dissolved into chaos.

Hermione could barely make out the jumble of voices overlapping each other, whisper-shouting their outrage.

“Did you hear what he called her?”

“She saved the bloody world!”

“He's mad—completely unhinged—”

“She’s done nothing wrong!”

From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Luna lean delicately forward and offer Ron’s lawyer a sugar quill from her sleeve. The man recoiled as if she’d handed him a hex.

Ron, meanwhile, had gone an alarming shade of crimson. He looked ready to explode, nostrils flaring, fists clenched on the table like he could will himself into control — and failing spectacularly.

Across the aisle, Narcissa sat back with a feline smile of satisfaction, like a lioness watching a rival get publicly devoured.

Kingsley rose to his feet and cast a Sonorus on himself. His voice boomed through the chamber, impossibly loud.

“ Silence! ”

The noise drained from the room as if siphoned off by spellwork. Even the enchanted torches flickered low, shadows clinging to the edges of the high stone walls.

Hermione’s breath came short. She couldn’t stop trembling — not from fear, but from the sheer pressure of it all. Beside her, Draco had gone motionless, but she felt the hum of magic under his skin like a bowstring drawn taut.

Kingsley’s gaze was hard as granite as he leveled it directly at Ron and his lawyer.

“This court has heard enough,” he said, his voice no longer loud, but lethal in its restraint. “It is clear to me that Ronald Bilius Weasley is not only in the wrong — but that this case is a deliberate abuse of legal process. I hereby declare this case a farce.”

A gasp rippled across the gallery.

Kingsley didn’t flinch. “I am dismissing it in full.”

He turned to Hermione, his tone gentling just slightly. “Furthermore, I rule that Mr. Weasley shall forfeit all future royalties from The War Within . These funds will now be granted in full to Miss Granger for the emotional damages she has endured as a result of this campaign against her.”

He raised his gavel.

“Case dismissed.”

CRACK.

The sound rang like a victory bell. For one long heartbeat, the room was silent. And then—

“ HA! ” Theo clapped with entirely too much joy , turning in place like he’d just won the World Cup and a private suite at Malfoy Manor all at once.

But then he paused — head tilted, one finger in the air. “Minister,” he said with faux innocence, “if I may?”

Kingsley arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Theo stepped forward with the grace of a man born to chaos. “I’d like to propose a counter suit on behalf of Miss Granger,” he said sweetly. “Against the Red Rage Ranger over there.” He jabbed a finger unerringly at Ron, whose jaw dropped open like a cursed marionette.

A collective gasp swept through the courtroom like a well-timed breeze. Somewhere in the crowd, someone audibly whispered, “Oh, it’s about to get good.”

Kingsley leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Proceed.”

Theo beamed like a child at Christmas. “Thank you, Minister. You do give the best gifts.”

He turned, waved his wand, and the projection globe above the room flickered once—then shifted.

Hermione’s heart clenched.

Her flat.

Or what was left of it.

The image hovered in brutal clarity: broken beams, shattered glass, blackened scorch marks, books reduced to ash. The bedframe had collapsed under a burned-out ceiling. The photo of her parents — cracked and warped.

Gasps rang out again, but this time they weren’t polite. They were visceral.

Even Luna’s dreamy expression faltered.

Narcissa’s hands went still in her lap. Lucius had stopped pretending to be bored and was now staring at the projection with ice in his eyes.

Kingsley’s expression tightened. He didn’t call for silence this time. He couldn’t . He was still staring at the devastation.

Theo’s voice cut through it like a blade. Calm. Unforgiving.

“This destruction occurred only weeks ago. Miss Granger barely escaped injury. Her entire life—her home, her work, her memories—obliterated.”

He turned back to Kingsley, voice cold as winter.

“We now know that Ronald Weasley was the one responsible.”

Ron made a garbled noise, but no one looked at him. No one cared. His lawyer shrank in his seat.

Theo flicked his wand again, and another image bloomed — a magical scan of the flat, with Ron’s magical signature highlighted in red, overlaying every surface like blood spatter.

Theo didn’t look triumphant anymore.

He looked furious.

“We are officially filing criminal charges. Destruction of private property. Magical assault. Attempted manslaughter. ”

A pin could’ve dropped in the chamber. Hermione’s ears rang.

She didn’t know when she started crying. She just knew Draco’s hand was still in hers, and now his other one was on her back, holding her steady.

Theo turned one last time — not to the gallery, not to Kingsley — but to Ron himself.

And with a vicious little smile, he said, “You wanted your day in court, Ronald. Congratulations. It just got worse.”

The silence after Theo’s last line was heavy — electric — like the moment before a storm breaks.

Then he took a step forward, spun neatly on his heel, and clasped his hands behind his back like he was giving a lecture at the world’s most dramatic university.

“The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been quietly investigating the incident for weeks,” he said, his voice now lower, more precise — but no less cutting. “The findings are irrefutable. Magical trace evidence. Spell resonance. A potion residue laced with Flarevine and powdered wyvern scale — common ingredients in timed magical detonations.”

Gasps rang through the room.

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but still said nothing. Even he must have realized by now there was no room left to spin.

Theo gestured lazily to the floating image of Hermione’s ruined flat. “The explosion was designed to detonate upon entry. In fact—” He turned slightly, glancing at the crowd with a grim smile. “It was set to explode the moment Miss Granger crossed her ward line. A signature-activated spell. She survived… only because of the quick reaction of one devastatingly handsome Draco Malfoy—” He threw Draco a wink, “—who cast a Protego strong enough to absorb most of the blast.”

A loud murmur broke through the crowd. Someone shouted, “He tried to kill her!” Another voice followed: “Send him to Azkaban!”

Theo didn’t flinch. “That would be the traditional route,” he said mildly, stepping aside as the projection shifted again — this time showing a diagram of the timed detonation spell and its anchor point: the ward around Hermione’s front door. “But Miss Granger has made her wishes known. And they do not include vengeance.”

He paused, gaze sweeping the court with deliberate weight.

“They include safety .”

Hermione stood slowly, her fingers still linked with Draco’s. She could feel her voice trembling, but she forced herself to speak anyway. She had to.

“I don’t want him locked away forever,” she said quietly, but clearly. “I want him to get help. I want him to see a licensed mind healer. I want him to understand what he’s done — and why.”

There was a ripple of surprise in the gallery. Even Kingsley blinked.

She turned toward the judges’ dais, spine straight despite the ache in her chest. “But I also want protections. I want a magical restraining order. I want him banned from coming within spell distance of me, my home, or my business. Ever again.”

Theo gave a tiny, theatrical sniff. “Compassion. Imagine that.”

The projection faded, but the room didn’t quiet.

Ron was trembling — whether in rage, shame, or fear, Hermione couldn’t tell. His lawyer had gone utterly pale, clearly rethinking every career choice that had led him here. Narcissa looked as if she wanted to strangle Ron with her pearls. Luna clapped softly again, nodding as though Hermione had passed some kind of inner trial.

Draco squeezed her hand. She leaned into him slightly — not for support, but for steadiness.

A hush fell over the courtroom as Kingsley slowly rose from his seat.

His gaze swept the room—sharp, measured, unflinching. When he finally looked at Hermione, there was something like pride in his eyes.

“Miss Granger,” he said, his voice calm but resolute, “your compassion today has been remarkable. In the face of betrayal, violence, and emotional torment, you’ve asked not for revenge—but for safety, for healing, and for understanding.”

A ripple of murmured agreement moved through the gallery.

Kingsley turned, and the warmth vanished like a snuffed candle.

His gaze landed on Ron—cold as iron. “But mercy from the victim does not absolve the perpetrator. Ronald Bilius Weasley—your actions are beneath everything this court stands for. You abused your status as a public figure, violated magical law, endangered a life, and tried to weaponize your victim’s trauma against her.”

Ron squirmed in his seat, jaw clenched and shaking with barely-contained fury, but Kingsley didn’t pause.

“You sabotaged a woman who trusted you. You attempted to destroy her physically, emotionally, and professionally—because you couldn’t stand the truth. Because she walked away from you.”

Kingsley’s voice boomed like thunder now. “This is not a case of reputation. It is a case of domination . Control. Violence. And your behavior both before and during these proceedings has only confirmed the danger you pose to others—especially to Miss Granger.”

No one in the courtroom breathed.

“I hereby sentence you to five years in Azkaban , to be followed by ten years of mandatory magical rehabilitation under the supervision of a certified Mind Healer approved by the Ministry.”

Ron reeled in shock, visibly stunned. Even his ridiculous lawyer gaped at Kingsley like he’d grown a second head.

“And furthermore—” Kingsley continued, now addressing the scribes, “—a magical restraining order will be issued, effective immediately. Mr. Weasley will be banned from coming within one hundred meters of Miss Granger, her place of residence, or her business . He will be magically warded from Apparating, Flooing, or casting spells within range of her wards. This restriction will remain permanent .”

The court gasped in approval—there was no dissent.

Narcissa nodded once, eyes glittering with satisfaction. Lucius looked like he was mentally drafting a congratulatory letter to Kingsley himself. Luna clapped softly, as if it were the end of a very good play. And Harry—Harry just closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging with relief.

Ron sputtered, his face mottled and blotchy. “You can’t— I didn’t—!”

“You did,” Kingsley cut in, voice like steel. “You did, and you will pay the price.”

Theo, still standing beside Hermione, grinned wide enough to show teeth.

He leaned slightly toward the bench and said, with exquisite timing and mock gravity, “Minister, on behalf of my client… we accept .”

A ripple of incredulous laughter broke the tension, and someone in the gallery actually cheered. Theo turned to Hermione and gave a flourishing bow like he’d just closed a sold-out performance on the West End.

The courtroom clerk rang a final bell, and Kingsley banged the gavel once more.

“This court is adjourned.”

Hermione stood on legs that felt oddly light. As the buzz of the room swelled around her, she turned to Theo and whispered, “You’re insufferable.”

He beamed. “And yet—so effective.”

Draco wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, grounding her.

The fire in the courtroom was still burning through Hermione’s bones as they stepped into the sleek front foyer of Malfoy & Nott Solicitors . The polished floors gleamed, and the scent of bergamot and parchment filled the air—comforting, oddly grounding.

Theo led them through the main hallway with a bounce in his step, clearly still riding the high of his courtroom conquest.

“That was satisfying,” he announced, tossing his briefcase onto the receptionist’s desk like a victor laying down his spoils. “I need champagne. Or a medal. Possibly both.”

Draco arched a brow. “We’ll start with paperwork.”

“Buzzkill.” Theo sighed but gestured toward Draco’s office. “Right then. Into the Batcave, my darlings. Hermione, I’ll need your signature on a few documents. Restraining order, damages, official court copies, the usual ‘Ron is an idiot’ paperwork. I’ll give you two a moment to bask.”

He winked exaggeratedly and swept off toward the records room with a dramatic swirl of robes. The office door clicked shut behind him, leaving Hermione and Draco alone in the warm, quiet space.

Draco pulled off his formal robes, tossing them over a chair before rolling up his sleeves. “Are you all right?” he asked gently, walking to her side.

Hermione didn’t speak right away.

She moved slowly to his desk, running her fingers over the smooth wood, the neatly arranged files, the quill he always forgot to cap. When she turned to face him, her chest rose with a steady breath.

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “I really am. I thought I’d feel torn apart by seeing him dragged away. But…”

“But you don’t,” Draco finished, voice low.

She shook her head. “No. I feel relieved. Safe. Like I can breathe again.”

Draco stepped closer and cupped her cheek. “You are safe. Always.”

Hermione smiled up at him, heart fluttering. He’d stood by her through all of it—steadfast, silent when she needed space, furious on her behalf when she couldn’t afford to be. And never once did he make her feel small.

“You’ve done so much for me,” she whispered, fingers sliding up to rest against his chest. “I want to thank you.”

Draco’s brow creased slightly. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, down the front of his shirt. Her eyes never left his.

Draco inhaled sharply. “Granger…”

Hermione dropped to her knees with a grin that promised sin.

Hermione’s fingers made quick work of Draco’s belt, and the sound of the buckle undoing echoed in the quiet room like a starting gun. She looked up at him through her lashes, lips parted, eyes dark with intention.

Draco was already panting softly, his chest rising beneath his shirt as he stared down at her with a dazed sort of awe.

“You really don’t have to—” he tried again, but the words broke into a groan as she slid his trousers down, her fingers brushing along the edge of his briefs.

“I want to,” she murmured. “You’ve held me up through all of this. Let me take care of you.”

Draco’s head tipped back against the bookshelf behind him, his jaw clenching as she mouthed him through the fabric. His hand found the edge of the desk behind him, bracing himself like the weight of her devotion might knock him over.

When she pulled his briefs down and his cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking at the tip, Hermione wrapped her fingers gently around the base.

“Fuck, Granger,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut as she stroked him once—slow and reverent.

She pressed a kiss to the head, then dragged her tongue down the underside with aching tenderness. Draco let out a sound that could only be described as a whimper.

Then she took him into her mouth.

Not a tease. Not a flicker. She swallowed him deep with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and exactly the effect she had on him.

Draco’s knees nearly buckled.

His hand instinctively went to her hair, not to guide or control—but to anchor. His fingers threaded through her curls, trembling.

“You’re perfect,” he gasped. “My perfect girl. Just like that. Fuck.”

Hermione hummed, the vibration making him curse again. She pulled back, hollowed her cheeks, then sank down deeper, eyes locked on his.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Draco whispered, voice ragged, “you know that?”

She moaned around him in response, her hands steady on his hips, holding him in place as she set a slow, merciless rhythm. The slide of her mouth was wet and obscene, every stroke a prayer, every swirl of her tongue a promise.

He was panting now, almost incoherent.

“Good girl—fuck—you’re my good girl,” he groaned. “I’d do anything for you. I’d burn the world for you, you know that? You just have to ask—fuck—Hermione—”

She tightened her grip and moaned again, pulling him deeper, and that was all it took.

His hips jerked, his body tensed, and he came with a broken cry, spilling down her throat as she swallowed around him.

He was still gasping, trembling, utterly undone—

Hermione was still on her knees, swallowing the last of Draco’s release, when the door slammed open with a bang that rattled the office windows.

“—I knew it!” Theo shouted, positively gleeful. “I fucking knew it! You two absolute degenerates!”

Draco practically jumped, eyes wide, still recovering. “Merlin’s—Theo!”

Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, flushed from her cheeks to her collarbone, but she didn’t hide. She rose to her feet slowly, smoothing her skirt, chin high, though her ears were burning crimson.

Theo stood frozen in the doorway, pointing at them like he’d just caught a pair of particularly naughty Nifflers in the Gringotts vault. His face twisted with mock betrayal and unholy delight.

“In my office suite?” he gasped, hand to chest like a wounded matron. “While I was finalizing your settlement terms?! Granger, were you filing Draco’s briefs with your mouth—?”

Hermione groaned. “Theo.”

“I leave you alone for ten minutes and you decide to have a full-on wizarding porn shoot next to my spell-safe filing cabinet!” He paused, eyes gleaming. “Which reminds me, Draco—does your wand also have a polishing clause in his employment contract, or is this just a favor-to-friend benefit package?”

Draco was still too blissed out to muster more than a dazed, “Get. Out.”

But Theo was spinning now, pacing the room like a scandalized gossip columnist. “This is going in the group chat. Immediately . Harry is going to scream. Rikki is going to demand details. Luna will applaud the boldness of the carpet burn potential—”

“Out, Theo,” Draco growled, tugging his trousers up one-handed as Hermione arched a brow, utterly unrepentant now.

Theo winked at her. “You have my respect, Granger. That was a fucking performance .”

She rolled her eyes, even as a blush still colored her cheeks. “Are you done?”

“Never. This is the highlight of my legal career.”

Draco pointed at the door. “OUT.”

Theo grinned— smug, feral, triumphant . “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But just know that this is now officially canon in the Malfoy/Nott workplace lore. There will be reenactments.”

And with a flourishing bow , he turned and swept from the room, cackling like an unhinged playwright who’d just witnessed Act III turn into live-action smut.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Draco exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Hermione smirked, then leaned up and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Still worth it?”

He turned to her, eyes half-lidded and full of heat. “I’d let him walk in a hundred times if it meant you did that again.”

Hermione’s laugh was muffled against his shoulder.

And for the first time in days—despite Theo, despite court, despite everything—they both felt lighter.

Chapter Text

Lucius Malfoy could not have been more pleased with the outcome of the trial.

He’d sent Minister Shacklebolt a personal letter expressing his gratitude, laced with the refined diplomacy of a man who'd once dictated Wizengamot policy in his spare time. He also included a sizable donation to the Minister’s future campaign fund — a gesture both political and personal. Justice had prevailed, and Kingsley had handled it with the sort of dignity Lucius respected.

Now, at last, Lucius could return to the sacred art of peace.

He turned the page of his comic — Superman: Red Son — and allowed himself a small, satisfied sigh. His favored book nook in Hermione’s shop was angled perfectly near the front counter, letting him observe both the store’s quiet bustle and its clever proprietor as she managed her growing empire with all the sharp grace of a young empress.

Hermione looked radiant as she rang up a customer, her curls bouncing as she laughed at something the little girl said. Lucius felt a swell of something warm and unfamiliar tighten in his chest — not quite pride, not quite affection. Something in between. He had known brilliance in many forms, but rarely had he seen someone wield it so gently.

His future daughter.

Lucius let the term settle in his mind, warm and right. She had survived every horror thrown at her, reshaped it into something formidable, and then offered it to the world as a gift. His son adored her. His wife was enchanted by her. And Lucius—well. He found her formidable. And that, from him, was the highest compliment.

A glance around the shop confirmed the sense of calm he’d been craving. Narcissa was seated in the far reading corner with a Muggle gardening magazine and a bottle of enchanted water that claimed to reduce crow’s feet with every sip. Draco had just popped in to pick up lunch for them both, having kissed Hermione on the cheek before vanishing out the back. Even Patricia — the capable, long-suffering assistant — was manning the register while Hermione took inventory.

Lucius exhaled deeply and leaned back into his chair, the leather cracking softly beneath him. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could ruin this perfect moment.

Then—

“DADDY LUUUUCYYYYY!”

The universe, apparently, had decided he was getting too comfortable.

Lucius flinched. He lowered his comic slowly, like a man lowering a shield before the final blow. His spine went rigid as he looked toward the sound, dread curling in his stomach like a particularly venomous vine.

She was here.

That dreadful, chaotic menace in heels.

The walking whirlwind of innuendo and scandal who had somehow — Merlin help them — married Theodore Nott in a contract whirlwind and declared it the happiest accident of her life.

Rikki.

He scanned the area with the swift calculation of a wartime general.

Left: Patricia was assisting a small child in selecting her first mystery novel. No good. He would not allow a child to enter the line of fire.

Right: A large, bald man in a dragonhide jacket blocked the aisle, flipping through a biography on Quidditch legends. No escape there either.

His heart dropped.

He was trapped.

The clip-clop of her heels approached like the advance of a miniature cavalry. Her perfume—something floral and sinful—hit his senses before she even rounded the corner.

Lucius closed his eyes and let out a long, weary sigh of resignation.

The huntress had found her prey.

Rikki stopped directly in front of him — far too close for comfort. Not nearly far enough for safety. He would have preferred her stationed at a more appropriate distance. Antarctica, perhaps. Maybe Mars.

She smiled, all teeth and wicked delight, and Lucius felt the unmistakable chill of doom coil around his spine.

“I’m so happy you’re still here,” she purred, dragging one finger—one manicured, enchanted-pink fingernail—down the length of his arm like she was testing the tension of a harp string.

Lucius shuddered. It was all he could do not to swat at her like an errant pixie. Or vomit.

She leaned in. He leaned back.

“I half expected to see less of you now that the trial’s over,” she continued, voice syrupy and full of mischief, “but I suppose you just couldn’t stand to be away from me.”

She winked.

Lucius experienced what he could only describe as a minor cardiac event.

“I am not now, nor have I ever been here for you,” he said, voice tight, clipped, aristocratic, and very nearly trembling with alarm.

Rikki giggled—a sound far too pleased—and clasped her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl on the cusp of detention. “You’re such a tease, Daddy Lucy.”

Lucius made a noise halfway between a groan and a threat. “Do not call me that.”

“But it’s so cute! ” she protested, pouting as she tilted her head. “It makes you sound like a stern Regency romance hero with a sordid past and a tragically redeemable heart.”

“I am neither stern nor tragically redeemable,” Lucius snapped.

“I know,” she said sweetly. “That’s why it’s fun.”

Lucius glanced about, eyes sharp and searching, like a man trying to find the emergency Floo in a collapsing ballroom. To the left, a child clutching a picture book. No. To the right, still blocked by the bald Quidditch enthusiast. No good.

And then—

Salvation.

His eyes locked onto the familiar halo of curls at the front desk.

“Hermione,” he said—loudly, perhaps too loudly. She turned, blinking at the force of his voice. He softened it with effort. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

He did not wait for an answer.

Turning to Rikki, he added, “Alone.”

Rikki pouted again, lips pursed in faux sadness. “Oh, Lucius, your escape is merely an illusion. You’re never truly free of me.”

“Watch me,” he muttered, rising like a man emerging from the rubble of a siege.

He skirted her carefully, like she might detonate. Each footfall was precise, determined, as though crossing a minefield. He reached Hermione’s side with the urgency of a man rescuing himself from a social kidnapping.

“Not out here,” he said under his breath. “In the back. Where it’s safe.”

Hermione, bless her, blinked once, caught sight of Rikki grinning devilishly in the background, and nodded with perfect understanding.

Lucius placed a guiding (desperate) hand on her shoulder and escorted her toward the staff-only door with the solemn purpose of a war general evacuating royalty. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, he exhaled a long, shaking breath and released her.

Hermione turned to him slowly. “She cornered you again, didn’t she?”

Lucius pressed a hand to his chest. “It’s like being hunted by a Niffler with a fetish for aristocratic discomfort.”

Hermione bit back a laugh. “You know she does it on purpose, right?”

Lucius gave her a flat look. “Granger, she tricked a Nott into matrimony for the chaos of it. I am fully aware this is intentional warfare.”

Lucius paced a slow, tight circle in the staff room like a man cornered by fate and far too much glitter. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression schooled into calm civility — but Hermione could see the cracks forming.

“She has got to go,” he said finally, turning to face her with the solemn gravity of a man proposing war. “Fire her. Exorcise her. Whatever the modern equivalent is. I will pay her severance in Galleons. Gold bars. Rare goblin-forged jewelry. Just get her out. ”

Hermione gave him a look that fell somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Lucius.”

“She calls me Daddy Lucy.”

“You do have a rather fatherly air,” Hermione offered diplomatically.

“She touched my elbow, Hermione. Uninvited.”

Hermione snorted. “You survived Bellatrix, a Death Eater trial, and Narcissa’s yearly charity gala. I think you’ll survive Rikki’s elbow flirtation.”

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Granger. She makes direct eye contact while licking ice cream cones.”

Hermione choked on her own laughter.

“She’s a menace,” he pressed. “A chaos demon in Muggle lipstick. There must be some way to be rid of her.”

Hermione sighed and leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “I can’t.”

Lucius stared. “You can’t? ”

“She’s... invaluable.”

“You mean insufferable. ”

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “Both can be true. She frightens me at least twice a week, but she also boosted our foot traffic by forty percent just by hosting a midnight romance reading event with a live vampire. We had to restock twice.”

Lucius blinked. “...I don’t even know where to begin with that.”

“She’s the only one who understands the inventory system, the register enchantments and the cursed comic book section without spontaneously combusting.”

“Hire two people. Three. An entire team of unsullied.”

“She has... dirt,” Hermione added, lowering her voice dramatically. “On everyone. ”

Lucius narrowed his eyes. “Even—?”

“You. And Narcissa. Especially Draco.”

Lucius groaned like a man realizing the battlefield had been lost before he ever raised a wand.

But then—an idea.

He straightened.

“Well,” he said slowly, eyes gleaming with cunning, “if she can’t be fired... perhaps she can be promoted. ”

Hermione tilted her head. “Promoted?”

“Manager of a second location,” he said, voice full of hope. “A new shop. Far, far away. Hogsmeade. Or perhaps Antarctica. You said yourself your customer base is growing rapidly. It’s only logical that expansion is the next step.”

Hermione gave him a slow, dry blink. “You want to put her in charge of an entire building ?”

“She already runs this one.”

“She runs me, Lucius.”

He gave a sage nod. “Yes. Exactly.”

Hermione laughed, pushing off the desk. “Nice try. But she’s the lynchpin of this place. She knows where everything is. She rewrote the shelf wards to curse anyone who misfiles in the ‘Romance with Tentacles’ section. Only she understands the code.”

Lucius looked vaguely ill.

“I am meeting with Draco soon,” she added, steering them both toward the staff door, “to talk about business expansion. Officially. We’ve booked the tea room. He’s bringing spreadsheets.”

Lucius perked up slightly at that. “Excellent. Spreadsheets are the language of civilization.”

“Just don’t bring up the Rikki Evacuation Plan again,” she warned, reaching for the door handle.

Lucius sighed as they stepped back into the main shop. “I only ever wanted peace.”

But peace, tragically, had other plans.

Because just beyond the threshold of the staff room, in full view of the checkout line, stood Narcissa — elegant, graceful, resplendent in velvet — with Rikki pressed a breath too close to her side, one hand gently twirling a lock of Narcissa’s hair around her finger.

“You know,” Rikki was saying in a low, sultry voice, “if you ever get bored of Mr. Tall, Pale, and Dramatic over there—” she jerked her head toward Lucius without looking, “—I do offer a rather elite concierge service for breathtaking widows.”

Narcissa’s lips twitched. “Widow? Premature. But I’m intrigued.”

Lucius froze.

Hermione didn’t even try to stop the smirk.

“Cissy,” Lucius said cautiously, like one approaching a sleeping dragon, “you do realize she’s—”

“Marvelous?” Narcissa supplied.

“Unhinged.”

“She reminds me of your mother, dearest. Except Rikki has better hair.”

Lucius made a strangled noise of offense.

“I like her,” Narcissa added, now idly sipping her tea while Rikki leaned in as if to whisper state secrets.

“Granger,” Lucius said out of the side of his mouth, “your business is cursed.”

Hermione grinned. “It’s thriving.”

Lucius stared at the scene unfolding before him — his wife smiling like the sun at a woman who had once tried to sell him bedazzled boxers labeled Malfoy Daddy Energy, and that very same woman now twirling Narcissa’s hair like she was winding a trap.

He exhaled through his nose.

Long. Slow. Regal.

Then he turned on his heel with the grace of a man choosing death by paper cut over continued flirtation-based trauma.

“I’m going back to my comics,” he muttered with the weary dignity of a war veteran. “At least Superman respects me.”

Hermione was still laughing as he returned to his favorite chair in the reading nook, sat down with a thud of resignation, and picked up his latest issue of Superman vs the Magical Multiverse.

Behind him, he could still hear Rikki and Narcissa.

“I could charm a whip, you know,” Rikki was purring.

“Oh, darling,” Narcissa replied with a smile in her voice, “Lucius has three. But do show me your technique.”

Lucius closed his eyes, raised the comic like a shield, and whispered to himself:

“Elegant despair. I live in elegant despair.”

And thus ended his morning of peace.

Chapter Text

Draco was in his office, meticulously arranging an elegant tea station in the corner sitting area. The teapot steamed gently on its enchanted warmer, perfuming the room with the delicate, bergamot-rich scent of Hermione’s favorite blend. Beside it, he’d laid out two matching cups on a silver tray with tiny engraved Thestrals — a set he’d commissioned months ago and never used until now.

Next came the snacks: a curated array of her favorites — the honey biscuits she always pretended weren’t her weakness, the chocolate almonds she claimed were "for energy," and those raspberry pastries from the obscure Muggle bakery she insisted made better magic than half the wizarding world.

He adjusted the tray once more, angling everything just so. The symmetry mattered. The atmosphere mattered.

Everything mattered.

The lighting had been adjusted to a warm, golden hue, casting soft glows over the room’s dark walnut paneling and antique shelves. A faint instrumental tune — a classical piece she’d once hummed under her breath — drifted from the enchanted gramophone in the corner. A small bouquet of winter roses — her favorite — sat in a low crystal vase between the armchairs.

He hadn’t done this much prep work since his Hogwarts N.E.W.T.s. He hadn't cared this much about anything outside of her in years.

Draco took a breath and stepped back, smoothing down the front of his shirt. His palms were sweaty. Ridiculous.

But this wasn’t just any meeting.

It was the culmination of months of careful thought, quiet observation, and planning.

And hope.

Now that the trial was over — now that she was safe — they could finally move forward. They could begin building something real. Something lasting. Something... theirs.

His gaze flicked to the small wooden box he’d placed beside the tea tray.

Polished. Unlabeled. Purposeful.

Just the sight of it made his heart knock hard against his ribs.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, and walked back to his desk. From the top drawer, he retrieved a slim, well-worn leather folder and carried it over, setting it carefully next to the box.

Now it was ready.

Now he was ready.

The weight of anticipation built in his chest — heavy and giddy, like the moment before a Quidditch match when the entire stadium goes silent. He could already picture her reaction: the tilt of her head, the flush in her cheeks, that startled, beautiful smile she gave when he surprised her. He wanted her to feel how much thought he'd poured into this. How long he’d been waiting to show her this part of himself.

This was a proposal.

In every way that mattered.

He bounced once on his heels, then shoved his hands in his pockets and turned in a slow, restless circle. His eyes swept over the setup, seeking flaws. There were none. The space was quiet, warm, expectant — a room holding its breath.

He hated waiting.

With a low groan, Draco made for the Floo. He wanted to be the first thing she saw when she stepped through. He needed to see her reaction from the very first second — the shift in her eyes, the slow realization, the parting of her lips.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

It was going to be magnificent.

Draco paced twice by the Floo, then forced himself to stand still, one hand on the mantel as if anchoring himself to reality. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the brass fireguard — too pale, too anxious, eyes too bright.

He looked like a man about to propose.

And wasn’t he?

The Floo flared green.

Draco straightened so fast he nearly knocked over the tray of tea. He adjusted his collar, then second-guessed the entire ensemble — maybe the navy waistcoat was too formal? No, no. He looked good. Polished. Presentable. Prepared.

Hermione stepped through the flames like some ethereal goddess cloaked in practicality — cheeks flushed from the cold, curls slightly windblown, coat half-unbuttoned and tugged open as she dusted soot from her sleeves. She looked around, blinking against the warm lamplight.

Then she smiled at him.

Draco felt something in his chest rattle loose.

“Wow,” she said slowly, stepping further into the room and glancing around. “This is… lovely.”

The room did look especially charming.

Draco had charmed the lighting to a soft, warm amber glow. His usually utilitarian office now resembled a posh sitting room: cozy, thoughtful, maybe even intimate. A fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the Persian rug. The tea service gleamed on the low table between the tufted armchairs. Roses — her favorite, pale pink and soft orange — peeked from a slender vase on the windowsill.

“Is this for the meeting?” she asked, lifting a brow.

Draco cleared his throat. “It’s… for you.”

She looked at him sharply.

“I mean, yes, the meeting, of course,” he corrected, voice rising just slightly. “But I wanted it to be nice. After everything. I thought… we deserved something more than parchment and parchment dust.”

Hermione stared at him like she was trying to read the fine print of a romantic declaration.

Draco gestured her toward the seating area, trying not to bounce on his toes. He could feel the misinterpretation brewing in the air like a heady perfume — her wide eyes, the delicate way she was moving, the way her gaze kept flickering between him and the… box.

The box .

Merlin, the box .

He hadn’t meant to make it so obvious. But it was there, on the table between the teacups — small, rectangular, made of polished wood. Closed.

Hermione sat gracefully and stared at it like it might bite.

Draco offered her tea — her favorite blend, prepared exactly the way she liked it, with a tiny splash of oat milk and two sugar cubes — and then poured his own, fingers twitching slightly.

Silence settled between them. Not awkward, exactly. More like anticipatory.

She set her cup down slowly.

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

She tilted her head. “You’re acting… strange.”

He smiled nervously. “I’m always strange.”

She smiled back, but it didn’t reach her eyes. They were too busy flicking back to the box. Her hand drifted to her chest — right over her heart.

Draco’s pulse skyrocketed.

Was this too much? Should he say something first? Was she expecting—?

He cleared his throat. “Hermione, I—”

She held up a hand. “Wait. Before you say anything.” She took a breath, eyes wide. “Can I just ask one question?”

Draco nodded, heart hammering.

“Is this about…” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “ Us? ”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly.

She sucked in a sharp breath and sat up straighter.

Draco, oblivious to the exact scope of what she now expected, forged ahead. He picked up the box slowly, reverently — his hands steady now that he was in it . The moment. The reveal. He felt giddy.

“This,” he said softly, “is something I’ve been thinking about for months. Since before the lawsuit. Since before you moved into the Manor.”

She looked like she might pass out.

He flicked the latch.

She inhaled sharply.

He opened the lid.

Inside sat a gleaming row of Muggle pens .

Sterling silver. Sleek. Elegant. Each one monogrammed discreetly at the base with DLM.

Hermione blinked.

Draco beamed, oblivious to the narrative she’d been constructing.

“They’re the ones you gave me,” he said. “The ones from Christmas. I loved them so much, I had a full set made. And now—” he reached underneath the velvet inlay and pulled out a leather-bound folder, “—I’m ready to give you something back.”

He handed her the folder and watched, utterly delighted, as she opened it and stared at the title page:

Proposal for Expansion: Granger’s Bookshop – Second Location.

Hermione made a sound that was half-choke, half-laugh. Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened and closed once, twice. Then she blinked down at the papers, then back at the pens, and finally up at him.

“You—” she started, voice hoarse. “You aren’t proposing.”

Draco froze. “What?”

“I thought you were proposing.”

“…I am proposing.”

She stared.

“A business proposal,” he clarified. “A bookstore. A second bookstore. For you.”

Silence.

Then—

Hermione laughed so hard she had to set the folder down before she crumpled the pages.

“Oh my God, Draco Malfoy, I thought you were about to marry me.”

He gaped at her. “What—why would I—?”

She pointed. “ Box . Tea. Roses. You’re nervous ! You opened with ‘I’ve been thinking about this for months’ like a lunatic in love .”

“I am a lunatic in love!” he said, completely affronted. “But this is about your empire !”

Hermione wheezed. “You should see your face right now.”

“You should see yours .”

And then — both of them breathless, hearts thundering — they locked eyes across the table.

She smiled first. A soft, slow, curling smile.

Then she reached for the file again.

“Okay,” she murmured, all mischief gone now, replaced with something far more dangerous. “Show me the empire.”

Draco had apparated them straight to Hogsmeade, to the quiet cobblestone street just outside the building he'd been working on in secret. Nestled beside the newly restored Owl Post and facing the winding road to Hogwarts, the storefront had a crooked charm that reminded Hermione instantly of the original Granger’s.

It was a little dilapidated, sure — paint peeling, windows dusty, and the door hanging slightly off its hinges — but the bones were beautiful. High ceilings. Built-in bookshelves. Even a spiral staircase that led to a cozy loft that could be converted into a reading nook, or perhaps a tiny café.

Hermione ran her hands along a worn banister as she walked through the open space, her eyes wide with vision.

Draco stood at her side, hands in his pockets, trying to look casual and not like a man who had emotionally invested months into this moment. “Well?” he asked, voice carefully light.

She turned in a slow circle. “It’s… perfect. In a fixer-upper kind of way.”

“Exactly what I thought,” he said, grinning. “Like you with me — just needed some polish.”

Hermione snorted. “More like a full renovation.”

He stepped closer, rubbing her arms up and down, eyes searching hers. “But seriously. What do you think?”

She hesitated.

“Draco,” she said softly, “Is now really the right time? I wanted to focus on the Muggle games initiative. Turning them magical. You know how much work that’s going to take — and if I take this on too…”

Her uncertainty hung in the air.

Draco cupped her elbows gently. “You won’t be doing it alone. I told you, I’ve got this mapped out.”

He stepped back and launched into his plan — his voice full of warm, brilliant confidence. “We’ll move Laura Madley and Mandy Brocklehurst here to manage. Padma will go between locations as media director. I’ve already pre-drafted hiring contracts for four new employees to split between the shops. And Mother?” he chuckled. “She’s bored. She’s going to devour this project. She’s already picking color palettes.”

Hermione blinked, clearly overwhelmed — but in the best way.

Draco leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “Trust me. You’ll be seeing a massive increase in your dividends.”

She shivered, pulse quickening. “Only you,” she whispered, “could make dividends sound sexy.”

Draco smirked.

She turned in his arms, kissed him once — and that was all it took.

He deepened it, groaning into her mouth, his body already lighting up. “Let’s go back to the firm,” he rasped, trailing kisses along her jaw. “We can — finish the paperwork.”

Hermione ground her hips into his, and Draco nearly lost his footing.

“No,” she gasped against his lips, tugging his collar. “We got caught there. Bookshop. Backroom. Now.”

Draco, very aware of the growing strain in his trousers, nodded mutely.

They apparated into the backroom of Granger’s in a burst of heat and disheveled limbs.

Draco barely had time to steady himself before Hermione shoved him up against the nearest shelving unit, fisting his shirt to pull him into a kiss that tasted like hunger and inevitability. His hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her back, hard and open-mouthed, licking into her like a man starved. She moaned against his tongue, pulling at his clothes like she could tear them away by sheer force of will.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Hermione tugged at his belt, yanking it open with deft, frantic fingers, her breath coming in sharp little gasps against his neck. Draco groaned as she pushed down his trousers and briefs in one movement, his cock springing free, already aching and flushed with need.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he gasped as her hand wrapped around him, stroking him once—twice—slow and tight, just to tease. He bucked into her grip, jaw clenched, hands skating down her back to grab her arse.

She bit his collarbone, then kissed the spot with equal parts apology and promise. “You’re so fucking hot like this,” she whispered. “All dressed up and desperate for me.”

Draco growled and slid a hand up her thigh, bunching her skirt at her waist. Her knickers were already soaked. He pushed the fabric aside and slipped his fingers between her folds, groaning at how wet and ready she was.

“You’re dripping,” he muttered, nearly undone. “You’re always fucking ready for me, aren’t you?”

Hermione moaned as his thumb found her clit, rubbing tight, purposeful circles that made her hips jerk. She rocked against his hand, gasping, arms wrapped around his neck to steady herself.

Their eyes met. He saw it there—that hazy, desperate look she got when she was right on the edge.

“Draco,” she whimpered, “Please—I need to feel you. Inside. Now.”

He didn’t make her ask twice.

With a low, ragged sound, he grabbed her thighs and lifted her easily, pressing her back against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and she guided him with one hand, lining him up.

Then—with one hard, perfect thrust—he was inside her.

They both stilled, gasping, forehead to forehead.

“Shit,” Draco breathed. “You feel so—fuck—tight.”

Hermione whimpered, rolling her hips just enough to make him swear again. Her walls fluttered around him, gripping him like a vice, and the urge to move became unbearable.

Draco pulled back slowly, watching her face twist in pleasure, then slammed back in with a groan.

Hermione cried out, clutching at his shoulders. “Yes—fuck—harder—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He drove into her again and again, faster, deeper, the wall creaking with every thrust. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open for him, rutting into her with brutal precision. Each stroke hit deep, sending shocks of pleasure through both of them.

Hermione was loud—uninhibited—moaning his name, urging him on, her head falling back as her body took everything he gave.

“You’re mine,” he growled, nipping at her throat. “No one gets you like this. No one gets to fuck you like I do.”

“All yours,” she gasped, her nails clawing at his back. “Always—fuck—Draco— yes —”

He leaned forward and bit her shoulder, not quite gentle, and she cried out, clenching around him so tight he nearly lost it.

Her heels dug into his lower back, her cunt milking him with every stroke. They were both panting, sweating, kissing through their moans, the room filled with the rhythmic sound of skin slapping skin and half-formed curses.

Draco changed the angle, hooking one of her legs higher over his arm, and she screamed as he hit the perfect spot.

“There,” she sobbed. “Right fucking—there—don’t stop—please—”

Draco's hips were a blur, his teeth clenched, jaw tight with the effort of holding back. “You’re so perfect,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect around me—can’t last—Hermione—fuck—”

Hermione was unraveling, her body twitching, her back arching, every muscle drawn tight. She buried her face in his neck and bit down hard— hard —as her orgasm hit like a curse, shaking and gasping and clenching around him as she shattered.

Draco let go.

With a final, strangled moan, he slammed into her and spilled himself deep inside her, hips stuttering, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

They stayed like that for a moment—breathless, sweaty, shaking—until the high began to fade and the world returned in pieces.

Which was, of course, when the door flew open.

“OH MY GOD—”

Padma screamed and spun around, hands clamped over her eyes.

Milicent just stared. At Draco’s ass.

Hermione squeaked and buried her face in his neck again.

Draco groaned. “Oh, come on —not again.”

Rikki leaned against the doorframe, perfectly composed, licking a red lollipop. “Don’t mind us. Carry on.”

Hermione, voice dangerously low and queenly, snapped, “ Get out. ”

Padma bolted. Milicent followed—but not before giving Draco a slow nod of appreciation.

Rikki lingered, smiling. “What a lovely show. Can’t wait to tell Theo.”

Draco’s head hit the wall. “Rikki. Out. ”

Rikki hummed and backed away. “Honestly, I give that a solid nine out of ten.”

She closed the door behind her.

Hermione groaned, covering her face. “At least it wasn’t your dad.”

Draco pulled out of her gently, arms still holding her steady, and looked at her in horror. “ Don’t joke about that. ”

Draco gently set Hermione back on her feet, though her legs wobbled and she clung to his arms for balance.

“Merlin,” she muttered, blinking like she'd just survived a natural disaster. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk properly until Tuesday.”

He smirked, brushing sweaty curls from her forehead. “I’ll draft a medical leave form if needed. ‘Injury sustained during aggressive investment discussions.’”

Hermione groaned and buried her face in his chest. “We really have to stop doing this at work.”

“Agreed,” he said, bending to press a soft kiss to the top of her head. “Next time, we will use my room. Or yours. Or a magically warded closet. Or, better yet—an alternate dimension.”

She laughed, breath warm against his neck. “You mean to tell me you’re not turned on by the idea of Rikki rating our performance out of ten?”

Draco looked deeply offended. “Only a nine. I’ll never recover.”

Hermione smiled as she reached for her wand and cast a quick Scourgify on them both. “Be grateful she didn’t start live-commentating. I think Padma still hasn’t recovered from seeing your arse.”

“Neither has Millicent,” he grumbled, tucking himself back into his trousers with a wince. “She looked like she was calculating angles.”

“Can you blame her?” Hermione teased. “It’s a very nice arse.”

Draco rolled his eyes, then cupped her face in his hands, all smugness falling away. His voice softened to a murmur. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

Her cheeks flushed. “You’re just saying that because I let you fuck me against a wall.”

“That’s only part of it,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You’re brilliant. Fierce. Bloody terrifying when you want to be. And somehow you still make me feel like—like I’m home.”

Hermione’s breath caught, the laughter fading from her lips as something warmer settled in her chest. “You’re pretty extraordinary yourself.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, reverent.

When they finally pulled apart, Hermione flicked her wand toward the door. “Right. Let’s get out of here before someone else walks in.”

“And tells Theo,” Draco muttered, straightening his shirt. “Again.”

Hermione grinned as she reached for the tea-stained file folder on the nearby table. “Let’s go back to the front. I want to look at the floor plan again. And possibly breathe without the scent of sex and betrayal in the air.”

Draco smirked. “That’s not betrayal you’re smelling. That’s Rikki’s perfume.”

They walked out hand-in-hand, the chaos of the day slowly settling into something soft and intimate. The air in Granger’s was calm again — full of books and dust motes and the quiet hum of possibility.

And somewhere in the stacks, Rikki was probably already telling someone everything .

But for now, Hermione just squeezed Draco’s hand.

And he whispered, almost reverently, “Still only a nine? I’m insulted.”

Hermione smiled without looking at him. “You’ll just have to try harder next time, Daddy Dividends .”

Draco nearly tripped over a box of journals.

She didn't stop smiling the whole way to the front desk.

Chapter Text

Snow still blanketed the grounds of Malfoy Manor, a silvery crust that glittered beneath the pale February sun. The breakfast room, bathed in golden beams, shimmered with lazy elegance — sunlight caught on polished silver cutlery, on the rim of Narcissa’s teacup, and danced across the soft linen tablecloth embroidered with the family crest.

Lucius sat in his usual seat, back straight, slippers perfectly aligned beneath the table, the Daily Prophet folded neatly in his hands. A steaming cup of coffee sat beside his plate, untouched — as always, he sipped only after reading the financial section.

Draco was alone on the other side of the table — a rare sight these days. Ever since Hermione had taken up residence at the Manor, her presence clung to his routines like perfume. The boy followed her around with such devotion, Narcissa was half tempted to toss him a leash.

She snorted delicately into her tea at the mental image. Her son, love-struck and eager, a golden retriever in designer robes. It was darling. Absolutely darling. And also… slightly dull.

Everything was going so well lately — the lawsuit was settled, the scandal had swayed public opinion in Hermione’s favor, and the press had finally stopped lurking in their shrubbery. Narcissa’s carefully orchestrated symphony of redemption was, frankly, humming along too smoothly.

And that simply would not do.

She lowered her teacup with deliberate grace, eyes scanning the room. Everything gleamed — silver, crystal, marble — but the most glaring absence was Hermione herself. Perfect. No audience.

Time to stir the cauldron.

She turned to her son, expression serene, voice sweet as spun sugar. “Draco, darling.”

Draco, mid-spoonful of scrambled eggs, froze. The spoon hovered halfway to his mouth.

“Yes… Mother?”

Narcissa’s smile widened by half a millimeter — just enough to worry him. “When are you going to propose to our dear Hermione?”

Draco choked on air. He dropped the spoon with a soft clatter and gaped at her.

Lucius slowly lowered his paper, folding it with precision before setting it aside. His brow arched with interest.

“I—” Draco rubbed the back of his neck, already flushing. “I don’t think we’re quite… there yet.”

Lucius clicked his tongue in mild disapproval. “Pity. A spring wedding would have been ideal. The gardens are nearly in bloom.”

Draco went sheet-white. His mouth opened, then closed again like a goldfish confronting death itself.

Narcissa delicately covered her mouth as she giggled. Adorable.

She adopted a wistful tone. “A pity indeed. There’s a rather persistent rumor circulating that the two of you have been… shall we say… rehearsing parenthood.”

Draco blinked. Once. Twice.

She sighed dreamily. “I would so love to be a grandmother. I just assumed marriage would come first.”

The poor boy made a soft, strangled noise — something between a wheeze and the whimper of a dying rabbit.

Lucius's face pinched with sudden seriousness. He set his napkin down. “Please tell me you've at least had the good sense to use contraceptive charms.”

Draco glanced at the fireplace, the door, the nearest window. Escape was a fantasy.

He opened his mouth — hesitated — then blinked rapidly as if redoing the math in his head. “I… don’t think so?”

Narcissa gasped — full hand-to-heart, pearls-and-all gasped — though privately she was elated .

Lucius turned a dangerous shade of red. “ What do you mean you don’t think so? ”

“I—I didn’t cast any spells—” Draco started.

“The audacity!” Lucius barked, standing so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor. “You bed that woman — that war heroine — and you don’t even have the decency to use a charm? You will marry her immediately!”

Draco was now sweating through his collar. “I didn’t plan it—”

“Neither do garden gnomes!” Lucius shouted. “And yet they’re everywhere!”

Narcissa sipped her tea, perfectly calm, as if a soap opera weren’t unfolding over toast and marmalade. “Darling,” she said to her husband, tone cool and indulgent, “the world has changed. It’s no longer a scandal to have a child out of wedlock. In fact, it’s rather chic in Paris.”

Lucius spluttered. “ This isn’t Paris! This is Wiltshire!”

Draco made a small, high-pitched squeak as if his soul had begun leaving his body.

Narcissa reached out and gently patted her son’s hand. “Don’t worry, dearest. I’m sure Hermione would be thrilled to find herself with child. You’ve always had such strong genes.”

Draco groaned and dropped his head to the table with a thunk .

Lucius sat back down and huffed. “At least name the first one after me. It’s the least you can do.”

Draco groaned louder. “ Can we not do this before I’ve had coffee? ”

Narcissa smiled sweetly, entirely unbothered. “We’re just being supportive.”

Lucius snorted. “You’re being manipulative.”

Narcissa fluttered her lashes. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Draco slumped lower in his seat, face buried in his arms, making a pitiful noise that sounded suspiciously like “ kill me now. ”

Narcissa gently buttered a scone.
Lucius returned to his paper.
Snow sparkled outside the windows like sugar on a cake.

It was a lovely morning.

Narcissa hummed contentedly as she spread lemon curd on her toast, her posture regal, her expression angelic — which meant, of course, that she was up to something.

“Draco,” she said sweetly, like a dagger sliding into silk, “what sort of wedding do you think Hermione would want?”

Across the table, Draco dropped his fork and banged his forehead against the table with a theatrical thunk .

Lucius rustled his newspaper with aggressive irritation. “Subtle,” he muttered without looking up. “Very subtle.”

From the hall, the soft pad of slippered feet echoed closer. Narcissa’s lips curled into a Cheshire grin. Excellent timing. Her trap was already halfway sprung.

Draco thumped his head again. “Run, Hermione. Save yourself.”

But it was too late.

Hermione entered the breakfast room mid-yawn, curls slightly mussed, jumper slouching off one shoulder, still looking soft from sleep. She paused at the threshold, eyes narrowing as they took in the tableau — Lucius’s unreadable expression, Narcissa’s saintly smile, and Draco… facedown on the table like a man awaiting execution.

She crossed to his side, resting a hand gently on his back. “Are you okay?”

Draco turned his head just enough to look up at her, eyes full of existential dread. “No.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. She scanned the table suspiciously. “Narcissa?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Narcissa replied, her voice pure honey. “Just being melodramatic.”

“Okay…” Hermione said slowly, sliding into the seat beside Draco and resuming the soothing circles on his back like she was trying to comfort a frightened hippogriff.

“We were simply talking about weddings,” Narcissa added airily, reaching for the sugar tongs with all the innocence of a vulture selecting its prey.

Hermione’s hand froze mid-rub.

The color drained from her face with startling efficiency. “Oh?”

Narcissa’s eyes sparkled with wicked delight as Draco physically flinched beside Hermione.

“We thought it might be time,” she continued, lifting her teacup with a serene smile, “for Lucius and I to renew our vows.”

Lucius lowered the newspaper with a smirk, clearly impressed. “A silver anniversary spectacle. With peacocks. And a quartet. And wine flown in from the Loire Valley.”

Hermione exhaled — loudly. Her shoulders sagged in visible relief. “Oh,” she said with a bright, if slightly trembling, smile. “That’s… that’s very sweet!”

Draco groaned like a man dying by degrees. “She did that on purpose, ” he muttered into the table.

Narcissa ignored him, still smiling like a woman who’d just caught the proverbial canary and made it sing. “But of course, it made me wonder —what sort of wedding would you want, Hermione?”

Hermione blinked. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, her brain visibly buffering. “Me?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said, as Lucius sipped his coffee with all the drama of a silent opera. “Draco seems rather… unprepared.”

Hermione looked at Draco, who raised his head only to drop it back down onto his folded arms with a thump .

“I mean,” Hermione said, laughing nervously, “I haven’t thought about that. At all.”

Narcissa’s smile was a gentle blade. “Not even once ? No vision? No theme? Not even a Pinterest board?”

Hermione flushed. “No! I mean… maybe something small… I guess?”

Lucius looked intrigued. “Small? Hm. You are underestimating how many members of the Wizengamot will demand to attend once the engagement is announced.”

“There is no engagement!” Draco shouted into the table.

“Yet,” Narcissa corrected, sipping her tea. “But these things tend to… sneak up on you. Like pregnancy.”

Draco made a noise so strangled it might have been in Parseltongue.

Hermione, now suspiciously pink in the cheeks, looked between the two parents and their chaotic breakfast power play. “Am I… am I in the middle of something?”

“Yes,” Draco said into the tablecloth.

“No,” Narcissa said sweetly. “We’re simply having a family chat. And you are family now, dear.”

Lucius gave Hermione a small nod of approval. “Though I do recommend locking down your idiot before he forgets which end of the wand casts protection spells.”

Draco let out a low whimper. Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Well then,” Narcissa said, setting down her tea with delicate finality. “Now that that’s settled, how do you feel about blush as a primary wedding color? Or are you more of a deep emerald and cream sort of bride?”

Hermione opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Draco raised his head just enough to whisper, “ Run. She’s nesting. ”

Hermione stared at Narcissa like a Kneazle caught in the path of an oncoming broom.

“Wedding… colors?” she echoed faintly.

Draco raised his head just enough to give her a wide-eyed save me look, his hair fluffed and sticking to one temple from repeated table impact. “ I warned you. ”

Lucius looked far too amused. “I quite like blush and emerald. Very spring.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth. She was visibly malfunctioning. A blush spread across her face like fire beneath her skin — equal parts embarrassment and sheer panic.

“I—uh—wow, those are… lovely ideas,” she said, voice climbing in pitch as she reached for her teacup with shaking hands. “So thoughtful. So pink.”

Narcissa leaned forward, eyes glinting with the thrill of the chase. “And of course, once the baby arrives, we could hold the naming ceremony in the rose garden. Unless you’d rather wait until after the wedding. Some people are still so traditional.”

Hermione visibly paled. “Baby?”

Draco made a soft keening sound beside her.

“Hypothetical baby,” Lucius said quickly, though he sounded more like he was picturing himself selecting tiny dress robes.

Hermione set down her teacup so hard the saucer clinked .

“Well!” she said, standing so abruptly her chair scraped across the floor. “This has been… a deeply enlightening morning. So many thoughts. Feelings. Future grandchildren.”

She turned to Draco, grabbing his arm like it was a life preserver.

“And speaking of children, ” she said brightly — too brightly — “Draco and I promised to help Rikki sort the new educational games for the shop! Today! Right now! Before the owl shipment arrives!”

Draco blinked. “We did?”

Hermione dug her nails into his wrist. “ We did. ”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Of course. The games.” Draco stumbled to his feet. “Can’t leave Rikki unsupervised. She’s probably enchanted the Monopoly board to electrocute people again.”

“Very unsafe,” Hermione agreed, already dragging him toward the door. “Won’t take more than a few hours. Just educational consulting. Games. Definitely not a secret wedding planning rendezvous.”

They reached the doorway.

Narcissa, entirely unbothered, sipped her tea with a smile. “Do take your time, darlings. And do let me know if you need recommendations for wand-safe baby carriers.”

Hermione made a strangled noise and all but shoved Draco into the hall.

Lucius looked at his wife over the rim of his coffee cup. “You’re having far too much fun.”

Narcissa sighed, radiant. “It’s my maternal right.”

In the Hallway…

The moment the breakfast room door clicked shut behind them, Hermione released Draco’s wrist and spun to face him, eyes wide and furious.

“Educational games?” she hissed. “ That was the best I could come up with!” Hermione took a breath, “I should’ve said mandatory wand-safety training. ‘Educational games’? What am I, the Ministry of Early Childhood Development?”

“You were brilliant,” Draco whispered, looking equally stunned. “I nearly proposed just to end it.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her forehead onto his chest. “Your mother is terrifying.”

“She’s not terrifying,” Draco said. “She’s ten steps ahead. ”

“I was not prepared for a fake wedding ambush at breakfast.”

Draco smoothed a hand down her back. “Welcome to the Manor.”

Hermione straightened, exhaling slowly. “We need a plan. She’s escalating.”

“Agreed. We’ll come up with something.” He paused. “You… you’re not mad, are you? I swear I didn’t tell them anything about—”

Hermione cut him off with a kiss, quick and flustered. “I’m not mad. Just mortified. There’s a difference.”

“Oh good,” Draco muttered. “I thought I was going to have to fake my own death again.”

Hermione sighed and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go make Rikki organize the cursed chess sets. I need to touch something less chaotic than your mother.”

Back in the Breakfast Room…

Lucius refolded his paper with a sigh. “Well, that was dramatic.”

Narcissa stirred honey into her tea, entirely unruffled. “It’s called strategic escalation.”

He glanced at her sideways. “And the part where you implied, she was pregnant?”

“She might be,” Narcissa said airily. “Hope is a powerful tool.”

Lucius groaned. “You’re going to drive them into therapy.”

“Please. I’m handing them the greatest love story of the century on a silver platter. And all I ask for is one tiny, cherubic grandchild in return.”

Lucius looked at her dryly. “Just one?”

“For now,” she said sweetly, taking a dainty bite of toast.

He raised a brow. “You’re insatiable.”

Narcissa smiled like a woman who had never lost a war. “That’s how we got Draco in the first place.”

Lucius stared into his tea like it had betrayed him.

Narcissa hummed. “Now, do you think they’d prefer gender-neutral names, or are we leaning classic? I’ve always liked Theodosia. ”

Lucius muttered, “You’re going to be insufferable when they actually get engaged.”

Narcissa beamed. “Obviously.”

And with that, she picked up her planner.

There was much work to be done.

Chapter Text

The backroom of the bookshop smelled like parchment and peppermint tea — a cozy clutter of warmth, spellfire, and barely-contained chaos. Crates of new inventory leaned haphazardly against one wall, their labels half-charred from Rikki’s overenthusiastic organization spell. The central worktable was buried in a mountain of half-enchanted board games, parchment blueprints, glittering prototype packaging, and a single, lonely chess piece that kept muttering “checkmate” in a smug tone.

Hermione sat in the middle of it all, hunched over a scrawled to-do list, chewing the end of her quill like it had personally wronged her.

Draco had left for the firm hours ago, after pressing a sleepy kiss to her forehead and whispering, “Good luck surviving the aftermath.” Traitor.

She was still recovering from breakfast.

Lucius and Narcissa had conducted a full-scale matrimonial ambush over eggs and toast. The mere memory made Hermione’s face burn. The questions. The knowing looks. The soft, damning coos of “What color do you want for your wedding?” followed by thinly-veiled baby name parties and something Lucius had muttered about peacock handlers .

Hermione dropped her head to the table with a muffled groan.

It was like being hunted by couture-clad jackals. Elegant, aristocratic jackals with matching teacups and terrifying coordination.

Worse—it felt like Narcissa knew .

Hermione’s period had been late last month—just a few days—but she and Draco had spent an entire weekend panicking, whispering what-ifs beneath the duvet. It had been nothing in the end. Just stress. The lawsuit, the flat, the Prophet, the paparazzi…
Still. The scare had left a mark. And judging by the gleam in Narcissa’s eye, she had sensed it, like some sort of glamoured fertility hound.

Draco had been right about one thing: his mother was nesting.
And Narcissa Malfoy nesting was a Level Five Magical Emergency.

She needed a project. A big one. Something that would consume her entirely. A diversion. A decoy. A noble cause wrapped in marble and peacock feathers.

Hermione glanced around at the chaos in the backroom. A crooked stack of prototype wizarding Scrabble sets groaned under the weight of magical tiles that kept rearranging themselves into swear words. One of the shelves rattled ominously as a sentient edition of Game Night Gone Wrong: Curse Edition tried to escape its packaging. Padma had tied it down with enchanted ribbon and a firm talking-to.

Yes. Hermione was overwhelmed. And not just a little.

She picked up a scrap of parchment Draco had left her last week. His handwriting—elegant, slanted, neat—outlined a plan for the new shop location they’d secured:

“Ask Mother if she wants to help with ambiance/decor. Keep her away from marriage things. Possibly give her fake blueprints if she gets too involved.”

Hermione smiled faintly. Good instincts, Malfoy.

But ambiance? Decor? That was child’s play. She needed to go bigger. Much bigger.

What if she gave Narcissa everything ?
The construction. The layout. The aesthetics. The signage. The launch party. The design of the reading nooks. Hell, she could let her pick the wallpaper, the chandeliers, the scented floo powder . If it bought Hermione four months of peace, she’d let the woman name the store after herself.

Besides, it was the kind of thing Narcissa would adore. Public-facing, high-status, visually grand, and—crucially—complex . It would require months of detailed planning. Project-sized planning.

Hermione chewed her lip thoughtfully, eyes narrowing.

But she couldn’t just ask. That would never work. Narcissa needed to be lured. Challenged. Entranced. Manipulated.

Which meant theatrics. A scene. Something convincing and tragic—like Hermione drowning in paperwork, or Rikki setting the lobby carpet on fire again.
She’d rope in Padma, maybe Patricia. They could stage an overworked-crisis meltdown. Maybe add some cursed ledgers for effect. Rikki would love the drama.

The idea bloomed in her head like a brilliant, wicked flower. She’d make herself look so harried, so swamped, so utterly in over her head, Narcissa would beg to take it all off her hands.

Hermione smiled, slow and sly.

This wasn’t deception. This was self-defense .
She had to survive until summer—when she planned to unveil the first wave of Muggle-to-Magic hybrid games and the long-awaited public launch of her bookstore chain. The shop was important. The games were important. Her sanity was very important.

She tapped her quill against her list and added a new item:

“Stage mild breakdown. Make Narcissa beg to help. Give her the entire shop design . Avoid eye contact when she mentions baby names.”

Hermione sat back and sighed.

It wasn’t a bad plan.

She was just hoping Narcissa didn’t somehow read her mind and start picking curtain fabrics before the act even began.

Hermione’s plan was simple. Elegant. Devious.

And, most importantly, it was working.

Over the past few days, she and her staff had orchestrated a slow, delightful descent into chaos — timed precisely for whenever Narcissa Malfoy was at the shop. It was subtle at first. Just a touch of overwhelm. A sprinkle of disarray. A carefully curated meltdown.

Stage One: Death by Questions.

Padma Patil and Laura Madley had taken up residence near Hermione’s side like hyperactive barnacles with clipboards. They were in charge of “consulting” on the new shop’s design — which, in practice, meant asking Hermione no fewer than forty-seven questions per hour.

Padma poked her head into the breakroom, again. “Hermione, do you think the new shop should have three window displays or five?”

“Five,” Hermione said without looking up from the order forms.

Laura followed behind, clutching swatches. “And do you want the theme to be spring-forward magical realism or contemporary whimsical horror?”

Hermione blinked. “What does that even mean?”

Laura shrugged. “One has pastels. The other has teeth.”

“Oh my Godric , just—pastels. I think. Maybe.”

Padma frowned. “Should I write that down? Or should we circle back later for final confirmation? And are you sure the ceilings are high enough to support floating signage?”

“I don’t—what? I’m not an architect—just—yes? No? Oh, I don’t know, Padma!”

From across the shop, Narcissa was browsing a shelf of magical puzzles with a smile that was just tight enough to show concern. Hermione caught the glance and suppressed a smirk. Excellent. Right on cue.

Stage Two: The Gamepocalypse.

Patricia Norell and Mandy Brocklehurst were waiting in the wings — literally crouched behind the enchanted chess display — ready to unleash what they had dramatically named “Operation Crisis Mode.”

At the sound of the signal (which was Padma shouting “whimsical horror!”), the girls burst from the backroom like the shop was on fire.

“Hermione!” Patricia screeched, arms flailing. “The educational game shelf is having a magical identity crisis again!”

Mandy stumbled after her, covered in glitter and holding a melting stack of prototypes. “The spelling hexes are fighting the storytelling runes! I think the word dice summoned a sentient limerick!”

“A rude one,” Patricia added gravely. “About goblins.”

Hermione jumped to her feet, sending her chair skittering backward. “What?! How? We already warded those last week!”

“We THINK they’re evolving!” Mandy cried. “I think one of them tried to unionize!”

“I—I can’t—Padma, Laura—can this wait?” Hermione stammered as all four employees stared at her with wide, chaotic eyes. “We’ll… circle back on the ceiling teeth later?”

Padma solemnly marked something down on her clipboard. “Noted. Teeth: TBD.”

Hermione hurried toward the back with Patricia and Mandy in tow, stepping on something that yelped and scampered away. She didn’t even look down.

Narcissa watched the flurry of movement from the enchanted crossword table, one elegant brow arching.

By the time Hermione returned — hair frazzled, ink smudged across one cheek, and what appeared to be a dice burn on her wrist — Narcissa was standing by the tea cart, holding out a cup of calming chamomile like it was a peace offering.

“Are you quite alright, dear?” she asked, reaching forward to smooth Hermione’s hair with all the practiced tenderness of a queen calming a frayed lady-in-waiting.

Hermione froze, then blinked up at her. “Oh, yes. Just a typical Tuesday.”

Narcissa gave her a long, appraising look. Her hand drifted from Hermione’s curls to lightly straighten the collar of her jumper. “You know, my darling, it might be time you learned to delegate.”

Hermione barely restrained the grin tugging at her lips. “You… think so?”

Narcissa sniffed delicately. “You're trying to launch a product line, prepare two storefronts, and personally manage every crisis with a clipboard and a biscuit. Even the Prophet couldn’t multitask this hard.”

Hermione sighed dramatically. “It’s just so much , sometimes.”

“I imagine,” Narcissa said, eyes narrowing in a way that could only be described as opportunistic concern . “If only someone with exquisite taste, organizational brilliance, and an abundance of free time were available to assist.”

Hermione made her eyes go wide with manufactured awe. “Do you know someone?”

Narcissa smiled like a lioness circling a wounded deer.

Hermione accepted her tea with shaking hands, absolutely basking in the moment.

Stage Two: complete.

Stage Three? That was tomorrow’s problem.

Today, Hermione had bought herself time — and Narcissa had just taken the bait.

It was time.

Stage Three: THE BIG EVENT.

The final act of Hermione’s brilliant (if slightly desperate) plot to weaponize chaos in the name of project delegation.

A day later, the plan was in place. The storefront was the stage. The staff were the players. The audience ? One Narcissa Malfoy, scheduled to “casually drop by” at exactly ten a.m.

The stars of today’s show? Rikki Nott in all her gleeful, unhinged glory — and Millicent Bulstrode, the only person capable of wrestling chaos with her bare hands and winning. Probably.

The curtain rose the moment Narcissa entered the shop with her fur-trimmed cloak, coiffed curls, and the mild expectation of tea and light gossip. What she got instead was an absolute disaster.

It began with music.

Loud, unidentifiable music.

“Rikki!” Hermione yelled from behind the counter. “Why is the stereo singing in Mermish ?!”

Rikki popped up from behind a display of cursed board games like a gremlin with a Pixie Stix addiction. “It’s not the stereo! It’s the chessboard! Millicent enchanted it to promote multi-lingual literacy! Now it thinks it’s hosting a concert!”

“I didn’t enchant it to sing , I enchanted it to count! ” Millicent shouted from the backroom, where magical smoke was curling under the door.

Rikki sniffed. “Well now it’s doing both! And also maybe trying to unionize again.”

The chessboard hit a crescendo in what sounded like angry underwater yodeling. Customers flinched.

Hermione rushed to the board, wand out, muttering a series of countercharms that only made the music louder . Someone’s coffee exploded. Laura screamed.

“Don’t worry!” Mandy called, appearing from under a table. “I’ve reinforced the rune walls! Mostly! Probably!”

“Mostly?!” Hermione shrieked. “I can feel the harmonics trying to vibrate the shelving loose!”

“Also,” said Patricia, rushing out of the stockroom, “the inventory labels are now sentient and have unionized against us. ” She pointed toward a shelf where enchanted parchment was staging a very dramatic protest.

One sign read:
“I refuse to price novelty cauldrons without health insurance.”

Another one shouted, “Free the tags!”

Hermione was sweating.

Rikki, meanwhile, was now attempting to “calm” the chessboard with a guitar and a summoning circle drawn in glitter glue.

“This is fine,” she said cheerfully. “I once exorcised a screaming thesaurus with less prep than this.”

From the middle of the store, Padma looked up from where she and Laura were now sorting color-coded floor tiles by scent. “Hermione, do you want lemon zest or bergamot in the bathroom tiles?”

Laura added, “And do you want the ceiling clouds to smell like cotton or fresh laundry?”

“I—what?! Neither! Both? I don’t—”

Something exploded in the backroom. Smoke poured out. Millicent emerged, covered in soot and dragging what appeared to be a broken Whack-A-Troll machine behind her.

“Emergency!” she barked. “Rikki, I need backup! The troll heads are growing real teeth!”

“Why do they have teeth?” Hermione wailed.

“They didn’t before!” Millicent snapped.

“Someone said it needed ‘bite,’” Rikki muttered. “I was being metaphorical!”

Narcissa stood frozen in place, watching it all with the slow, horrified delight of someone witnessing a Shakespearean tragedy performed by rabid Cornish Pixies.

Hermione spun in every direction, wand out, then dropped it by accident. She tried to pick it up, tripped over a rogue runaway dice monster, and faceplanted into the spilled puzzle display.

It was at that moment — face full of glitter, hair full of rogue game tiles, groaning from what was definitely a bruised ego — that she heard the unmistakable click of Narcissa’s heels approach.

“Darling,” Narcissa said, voice calm as still water, “stand up.”

Hermione groaned. “I can’t. I think I’m stuck to the floor.”

“You’re covered in glue,” Mandy observed helpfully.

“Thank you, Mandy.”

Lucius poked his head in through the front door, took one look, and immediately backed out again.

Narcissa sighed — the elegant, regal sigh of a woman about to wrestle a Hippogriff into a pearl necklace.

“Enough,” she said firmly. She waved her wand, instantly silencing the Mermish music and freezing the chaos with precision that made even Rikki gape in awe.

Hermione, dazed, allowed Narcissa to help her up. She wobbled on her feet.

“You are many things, Hermione,” Narcissa said, brushing glitter off her shoulder with delicate fingers, “but a delegator, you are not.”

Hermione blinked. “I’m trying—”

“You are failing. With flair, but still.” Narcissa turned to face the staff. “Everyone, take five. Go touch grass. Or chocolate.”

The staff scattered, giggling and tripping over themselves to escape.

Narcissa turned back to Hermione and placed both hands on her shoulders. “I am hereby taking over the new shop preparation. All of it. Décor, ambiance, design, construction — mine now. You may visit for input. Input , Hermione. Not labor.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, dazed. “You’re… taking over?”

“Yes. It’s my burden now. Go make your games or whatever it is you brilliant people do.” She wrinkled her nose affectionately. “I’ll even coordinate with the Ministry permits. Consider it an early wedding gift.”

Hermione nodded, then paused. “Wait. Wedding?”

“Don’t ruin the moment,” Narcissa said briskly.

Hermione nodded again, brain still buffering. “Thank you.”

“Of course, dear.” Narcissa looked around with military precision. “Now where did that sentient label go? I need a schedule. And possibly an exorcist.”

As Narcissa swept off to begin Project: Takeover , Hermione staggered to the counter and collapsed onto a stool.

Padma wandered back in with a cup of tea and a muffin.

“Did it work?” she whispered.

Hermione sipped the tea, still dazed. “I think I sold my soul. But yes."

Draco stared at Hermione, unblinking.

“You fell on your face.”

“Yes.”

“Covered in glitter.”

“Yes.”

“Because Rikki summoned a demonic chessboard?”

Hermione sighed into his shoulder. “It was singing in Mermish, Draco.”

He blinked again. “And now my mother’s in charge of the entire new shop?”

Hermione smiled, smug and exhausted. “She thinks it was her idea.”

Draco let out a low whistle. “I knew you were brilliant, but that’s next level terrifying.”

Hermione rolled over, propped her chin on his chest. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m in awe,” he murmured. “You conned a Malfoy matriarch using chaos, glitter, and deeply unstable retail staff. I’ve never been more attracted to you.”

She snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. My back still hurts.”

Chapter Text

It had been two and a half months since Hermione handed Narcissa the reins to the second bookshop — a decision Draco had supported, in theory.
In execution?
He was living in a personal hellscape of florals, floorplans, and passive-aggressive parchment.

Narcissa ran the construction project like a general preparing for war. Against whom, Draco wasn’t entirely sure. Possibly gravity. Or structural mediocrity.
Either way, she approached it with ruthless enthusiasm and a battlefield’s worth of spreadsheets.

Draco would know. Because even though Hermione had oh-so-cleverly maneuvered herself out of daily shop duties, he had not .
He was still the official solicitor on file.
Which meant he was the one Narcissa summoned— daily —for contract reviews, zoning issues, floo network integration, and discussions on whether imported French chandeliers were “too gauche for Diagon Alley.”

This was supposed to bring him closer to Hermione.
The love of his life. His future. His brilliant, chaotic, gorgeous war goddess of a woman.

Instead? He was closer to his mother — who wielded fabric swatches and timelines like tactical weapons.

Narcissa Malfoy was warm on the outside. Polished. Graceful. The sort of woman who smelled faintly of rosewater and judgment.
But beneath the silk? She was steel.

Cunning. Conniving. Commanding.
Wrapped in couture and capable of bulldozing city ordinances with a single look.

Draco sighed and rubbed his temples.

She’d ask for his opinion, smile sweetly when he gave it, say something like “Oh, darling, how quaint,” and then do whatever she was going to do in the first place.
Why even ask?
Draco was beginning to suspect it was for sport. Some kind of aristocratic enrichment activity. Like watching a ferret try to solve a logic puzzle.

But the worst part — the truly unforgivable part — was that the distraction wasn’t even working .

This entire operation had been engineered to stop his mother from nesting . From scheming . From turning every conversation into a soft-focus montage of wedding gowns and grandbabies.

It failed. Spectacularly.

She still cornered him at every opportunity.

• “When are you going to propose, darling?”
  
  
• “Do you think Hermione prefers elopements or cathedral ceremonies?”
  
  
• “Your father and I would be delighted to help raise your children. Not full-time, of course. Just… during their formative years.”
  
  

It was endless. At work. At home. Even in the bloody floo .

There was no escape.
Only scented envelopes and monogrammed guilt.

The only bright spot in this entire ordeal — the single, glowing, sanity-saving piece — was that Hermione?
She looked radiant .

Relaxed. Productive. Happy.

She'd said it herself just last night, curled up beside him in bed with a sleepy smile and parchment ink smudged on her chin. “I think I’m ahead of schedule.”

And she was. Her magical game prototypes were nearly ready for launch. The shop was thriving. Her hair had that extra bounce it got when she was sleeping enough. And she smiled — really smiled — more often now.

Which, fine.
Fine.
That made it almost worth it.

...Especially because complaining about his mother’s matrimonial nagging earned him sympathy sex .

And that?
That made it definitely worth it.

All he had to do was sigh dramatically, look a little wounded, maybe mumble something about bridal color schemes — and Hermione would purr something wicked in his ear, pull him into bed, and spend the rest of the night showing him how much she appreciated his suffering.

Merlin, he loved her.

He did want to marry her. Start a family. Grow old together and bicker about crossword clues and shoe charms.

Just… not while his mother was actively planning a four-tier cake and embroidering family crests on baby booties.

He needed time.
A window.
At least enough breathing room to propose without Narcissa popping out of a potted plant mid-knee-drop.

Still. Credit where credit was due — Narcissa had delivered . The second shop was nearly done. The floors were installed. The enchanted lighting had passed Ministry inspection. The fire-breathing wall sconces had been talked down to a low simmer.

All that remained was stock delivery, staff onboarding, and possibly a warding system to keep Rikki from accidentally hexing the plumbing again.

Draco closed the last contract packet and leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly.

The shop was nearly ready.
The games were almost finished.
Hermione was glowing.

And his mother hadn’t mentioned doves or ring bearers in three whole days.

That… was probably a trap.
But he’d take the win.

For now.

The second bookshop gleamed like a newly polished wand — floors buffed to a shine, stained-glass sconces flickering with soft light, and shelves perfectly spaced to allow easy browsing with an air of elegance. Draco stood in the middle of the new shop, arms crossed, and chest puffed like he’d just won a bloody war.

“Behold,” he declared, sweeping his arm dramatically across the space. “Months of paperwork, emotional damage, and mother-induced trauma — all for you.”

Hermione laughed, eyes sparkling as she stepped inside and took it all in. The place truly looked fantastic: warm wood paneling, floating display cases, softly glowing lamps overhead. The place radiated cozy intelligence — like a library that flirted. His mother’s touch was all over it, and despite the sheer hell it had taken to get here, Draco was proud.

Hermione walked a slow circle, trailing her fingers across a polished table. “It’s beautiful.”

Draco moved in behind her, close enough for their bodies to brush. “Say that again. Slower. Maybe while licking your lips.”

She turned her head, smirking. “Fishing for compliments?”

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Fishing for a reward.”

She laughed, breathless. “You dragged me here for sex.”

“Correction,” he said, lips now grazing her neck. “I dragged you here for grateful sex . There’s a difference.”

Hermione tilted her head, giving him more skin. “So what? You want to christen the new shop?”

“I want to ruin you over the sales counter.”

She gasped, cheeks flushing, and he grinned against her skin. “And I’ve earned it. I’ve earned you . After everything I’ve put up with—my mother’s design mood boards, her floral-themed spreadsheet color coding, the parade of fucking chandelier options—I deserve a thank you I can feel in my knees.”

He kissed her neck and squeezed her curves. He kissed her slowly at first, like he had all the time in the world — and then, without warning, dropped to his knees.

Hermione turned in his arms, fingers curling into his collar as she pulled him into a kiss. It started slow—soft, indulgent, like a secret shared in moonlight. A flicker of heat sparked low in Draco’s stomach.

Then she deepened it, her tongue sliding against his, her hand tangling in his hair. He groaned into her mouth, pulling her tight until there was no space left between them. The spark turned into a flame, licking through him, hungry and sharp.

His hands slid up beneath her skirt, tracing the smooth skin of her thighs until he found her already soaked through her knickers. His breath caught.

“Fuck, Granger,” he rasped, voice rough with need. “You’re dripping.”

She gasped as his fingers pressed into the fabric, teasing her. “I got turned on the moment you said ‘chandelier options.’”

He let out a dark, wicked laugh, then dropped to his knees like a man in worship. “Then let me thank you properly.”

Hermione grabbed the edge of the counter, bracing herself as Draco lifted one leg over his shoulder and dragged her panties aside. He leaned in, licking a slow, deliberate stripe through her folds. She tasted like sin and sweetness, and it undid him.

“Merlin,” she moaned, hips bucking forward, her knuckles white where they clutched the wood.

Draco groaned into her, tongue working her with methodical, reverent precision. Long, languid licks, then sudden, maddening flicks over her clit. He held her steady as she trembled, his hands gripping her thighs, his mouth relentless.

She was gasping, writhing, tugging at his hair with a desperate whimper.

“Draco—oh gods—I’m—”

Her release hit like lightning, her body shuddering as he licked her through it, devouring every last wave of her orgasm like she was his final meal.

When she finally pulled him up for a breathless kiss, her lips tasted like magic and fire. He fumbled with his belt, trousers shoved down in haste.

“Turn around,” he growled.

She did, bending over the counter with that same breathless trust that always broke him a little. He gripped her hips, lined himself up, and slid inside in one smooth thrust that punched a groan straight from his lungs.

She was molten heat, wet and tight and perfect.

“Fuck,” Hermione gasped, back arching. “Draco—oh—”

“You feel so damn good,” he panted. “So perfect—like you were made for me.”

He set a brutal rhythm, pounding into her with deep, hungry strokes, chasing that blinding edge. One hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise while the other slipped around to rub her clit in tight, merciless circles. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the shop, a chorus of ragged breath and moans.

“Draco—so close—”

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Now.”

She shattered around him, clenching tight as he drove into her once, twice more—then came with a harsh cry, hips jerking as pleasure crashed over him like a tidal wave.

And that’s when it happened.

Click.

“Darling, we just need to—”

Narcissa’s voice sliced through the air like a spell gone horribly wrong.

“Oh.”

Draco froze mid-thrust.

Hermione made a noise so high-pitched it might’ve killed a lesser man.

Lucius stood beside his wife, blinking behind his spectacles, scroll case in hand like it was a goddamn grenade.

“I—this is the—what—” Lucius stammered, gesturing at nothing and everything. “We should’ve knocked.”

Narcissa, to her credit, looked more intrigued than horrified. “Well,” she said brightly, “I suppose that counts as… parenting practice.”

Hermione made a strangled noise and slumped fully over the counter.

Draco, still inside her, pressed his forehead between her shoulder blades. “This is a recurring nightmare. It’s real. It’s happening again.”

Lucius took one last look, turned on his heel, and muttered, “I need a drink. Possibly a curse-breaking ritual.”

Narcissa floated the scroll onto a nearby chair. “We’ll just leave this here. And perhaps… knock louder next time.”

They swept out with the grace of people pretending they didn’t just witness their son rail his girlfriend over commercial furniture.

Draco didn’t move.

Hermione didn’t move.

Then—

“You’re still inside me,” she whispered. “And I think I heard my soul leave my body.”

“Is now a bad time to say I was close to asking you to marry me?”

Hermione groaned. “We are never living this down.”

Draco buried his face in her neck. “We are so cursed.”

She reached back and patted his arse, still breathless. “Still worth it.”

He chuckled and finally pulled out, helping her straighten her skirt. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

“Third time’s the charm?” he offered weakly.

She blinked at him. “Draco. That was the third time.”

“…We need a new family.”

The next morning breakfast was quiet.

Suspiciously, unnaturally quiet.

Draco stared at his eggs like they might provide an escape hatch. Across the table, Hermione was doing the same with her tea, cheeks still a delicate shade of mortification rose .

Lucius sat stiffly, buttering his toast with the expression of a man reliving unspeakable horrors. He hadn’t made eye contact once. Not with Draco. Not with Hermione. Not even with the jam.

Narcissa, of course, was radiant. Perfectly coiffed, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t walked in on her only child committing war crimes against decency on a commercial countertop.

“So,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve made a list of possible wedding venues. I think a spring greenhouse ceremony would pair beautifully with Hermione’s curls. Something with wisteria. Or peacocks.”

Hermione choked on her tea.

Lucius let out a broken wheeze and dropped his knife.

Draco closed his eyes. “Mother, for the love of Salazar, please .”

“What?” Narcissa blinked innocently. “You were clearly rehearsing.”

Lucius made a strangled sound.

Hermione had gone bright red. “I—I don’t think I can ever set foot in that shop again.”

“You’ll get over it,” Narcissa said airily. “So will the counter. Eventually.”

Draco muttered, “We need to start locking doors.”

“We did,” Lucius said hoarsely. “You forgot. Again.”

There was a long, loaded silence.

Then Narcissa smiled serenely. “Well. At least we know the plumbing works.”

Draco stood up. “I’m done. I’m leaving. I’m moving to Albania.”

Hermione followed him, half-crawling out of her chair. “Take me with you.”

Lucius whispered, “I need firewhisky. And a priest.” He didn’t even blink.

Narcissa refilled her teacup. “You’re welcome, darlings.”

Chapter Text

The last four months had been, all things considered, shockingly good.

The second shop was officially complete (thank you, Narcissa Malfoy and her terrifyingly efficient clipboard army). The floors gleamed, the lighting sparkled, and the enchanted front window display changed every few hours to feature a different magical game in motion. Hermione didn’t even want to know how much gold had been spent on aesthetics alone. She suspected Narcissa had commissioned a French interior designer and a Romanian cursebreaker at some point — just for ambiance.

But it worked. It all worked.

Even her magical game collection — the brainchild she’d once thought would stay scribbled in a notebook forever — was now a full product line. Draco had convinced her to go big, to partner with a wizarding manufacturer who specialized in spell-replication. Once she finalized the charms and enchantments on her prototypes, she’d send them off, and a week later boxes of perfectly reproduced games would arrive on her doorstep, neatly packaged and ready for sale.

Hermione had cried the first time she saw her name in shiny gold lettering on the product boxes.
Then she’d made Draco shag her against the wall out of sheer entrepreneurial joy.

Business was booming. Sales hadn’t dipped once, not even during the usual post-holiday slump. She’d trained an entire new staff for the second location and officially promoted Laura to manager — a well-deserved title, considering the woman had quietly taken over half of Hermione’s tasks months ago and done them better . Honestly, Laura was so competent it was borderline suspicious. Hermione sometimes wondered if she was secretly part elf.

Even better: Narcissa had stopped pestering her about weddings and babies.

Thank Merlin.

The nesting pressure had been redirected toward Draco — with laser focus. Every day, he’d arrive at her shop or her office with that face — bottom lip jutted out, eyes wide and wounded, sighing like a Victorian heroine mid-fainting spell. A half-puppy, half-goldfish hybrid of pure melodrama.

Hermione would try to act unimpressed. She really would.

But every time he did it, she’d snort internally and end up dragging him into bed. Or into the bathroom. Or that one time… the stockroom.

He acted like it was a reward for tolerating his mother’s matchmaking campaign. But Hermione? She just really liked shagging her boyfriend.

He was enthusiastic, generous, eager . He treated her orgasms like some kind of personal challenge — one he tackled with military precision and Gryffindor-worthy bravery.

The man was a national treasure in bed .
Also, his arse. Gods, his arse. That thing should be in a museum.

So yes. Hermione had enjoyed the last few months. Very much. Professionally. Emotionally. Sexually. She was happy , and not just the calm, organized kind of happy. She was head-over-heels, butterflies-in-her-stomach, Draco-Malfoy-smirks-at-me-and-I-forget-my-own-name kind of happy.

Which was why she had a surprise planned for him.
Something small but meaningful. Something that said: I see you. I love you. And also: Thank you for enduring your mother’s wedding Pinterest board without committing a crime.

She would give it to him after the launch party.

Which—speaking of—was happening today .

Hermione spun slowly in front of her mirror, doing one last turn to make sure everything was where it should be. The navy blue dress Narcissa had picked out — with her usual imperial authority — was surprisingly lovely. Elegant, sleek, and fitted just enough to make Draco look at her like he wanted to ruin it. She pinned her curls half-up, smoothed the front of her dress, and dabbed a bit of gloss onto her lips.

The second shop’s launch party was set to be a full-blown social event.
Narcissa had pulled every string she had.
There would be floating trays of hors d'oeuvres, self-chilling champagne flutes, live music enchanted to play covers of popular Muggle songs, and goodie bags enchanted to giggle politely when opened. The guest list included everyone who was anyone — reporters from the Prophet, Witch Weekly, The Quibbler, and Modern Enchantments Quarterly .

There was even a Q&A panel scheduled — because of course there was — for curious minds to ask about the shop, the games, or possibly her skincare routine. Narcissa had insisted on it. (“If you're the face of the brand, darling, people will want to know everything . We must be gracious. And glowing.”)

Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately at her reflection.

She was glowing.
Because she was in love.
Because she was proud.
And because she was about to absolutely blow the socks off the entire wizarding business community.

Hermione Granger, owner of two successful shops, inventor of a magical game collection, and the proud girlfriend of the most dramatic man in Britain — was about to walk into that launch party like she owned the bloody world.

And afterward?

She’d give Draco his surprise.
And maybe, just maybe… ruin him in his suit for once.

She smirked at her reflection.
“Let’s do this.”

Hermione had no idea how Narcissa managed to make the second bookshop look like the Met Gala for Magical Literacy , but she had absolutely pulled it off.

The lighting was perfect — gold-tinged and enchanted to follow foot traffic like polite fireflies. Every game prototype gleamed from its display pedestal with tasteful signage and tiny bow-trimmed instruction scrolls. The floating hors d'oeuvres changed flavor every ten minutes. The champagne flutes refilled themselves. And someone — probably Narcissa or a House Elf with an art degree — had transfigured a wall into a moving mural of famous witches reading in dramatic lighting.

There were even peacocks out front. Real ones.

Because of course there were.

“Oh my gods,” Hermione muttered, straightening the hem of her robes as she took it all in. “This is not a product launch. This is a coronation.”

Draco, who had refused to be more than six feet away from her since they arrived, leaned down to murmur in her ear, “You’re the queen. Own it.”

He was wearing a tailored navy suit, no tie, top button undone — and somehow still managed to look like the cover model for Witch Weekly’s Most Corruptible Fantasy . His hair was charmingly tousled, like he'd been running his fingers through it all day. Hermione had. Multiple times.

He reached out and gently tucked a curl behind her ear, giving her a look that made her feel both treasured and devoured. “You okay?”

She smiled softly. “Just taking it all in. It’s a lot.”

Draco nodded, already scanning the room for danger. Or maybe champagne-fueled small talk. “You need anything?”

Hermione shook her head, hand brushing his. “Just… stay close?”

“Always.”

Before she could say something suspiciously emotional in return, Rikki flounced up, dragging Patricia and Laura behind her like a one-woman glitter tornado. Theo followed behind watching his wife, Rikki, with a lost boy in love look on his face. 

“THIS IS THE BEST PARTY EVER,” Rikki announced, waving her arms and narrowly missing a champagne tray. “I taught one of the floating shrimp canapés to do the Macarena.”

“I told her not to,” Patricia said flatly.

“She did,” Laura added, sipping her drink with the calm detachment of someone who had accepted her fate long ago. “Twice.”

Theo sighed dreamily, and took a sip of something ominously green. “She writes her own rules.”

Rikki threw an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Babe. Boss. Goddess of Games. Look at you! Glowing and radiant and terrifyingly competent. I would die for you.”

Hermione laughed, steadying her balance as Rikki swayed. “Let’s not die at the party.”

“Let’s get you a drink instead,” Rikki declared, snapping her fingers. “Champagne? Firewhisky? Some terrifying elixir Draco probably drinks to survive his mother?”

“Oh, I’m good.” Hermione gestured vaguely toward the Q&A table across the room. “Need a clear head for the press later.”

Patricia nodded approvingly. “Very responsible.”

Theo, eyes shining with love, never looking away from Rikki, “as your lawyer, that is a very good idea.”

Draco, who had been sipping champagne next to her, paused mid-sip and eyed her for a moment. Then he just smiled and kissed the top of her head. “That’s my girl.”

She ducked her head and smiled, feeling a tiny flutter that had nothing to do with nerves.

Across the room, Narcissa looked absolutely in her element . She floated between press, guests, and servers with the grace of a socialite on a mission. Her robes were cream silk with gold accents, her hair was perfect, and she was almost certainly working on a five-year expansion plan in her head as she smiled for the photographers.

Lucius looked like he’d resigned himself to the fact that his wife now ran a literary empire and that his new favorite role in life was lurking in bookshops and talking about fantasy maps with Patricia.

Speaking of which—

“Did you know,” Lucius said, suddenly appearing at Hermione’s side like a refined bat, “that your magical Monopoly variant has been compared to early goblin negotiations? I’ve prepared talking points if the Prophet asks.”

Hermione blinked. “You’ve what?”

“I added footnotes,” he said proudly.

Hermione took the notes politely. She didn’t need them, but… it was sweet. In a terrifying, Lucius Malfoy way.

Across the shop, Millicent, Mandy, and Padma were engaged in what looked like a highly competitive magical trivia round with a journalist from the Quibbler . Luna sat in Harry’s lap nearby, her silver robes sparkling like starlight as she whispered answers to him.

“He thinks he’s clever,” she whispered, “but he gets flustered when I sit on him and talk about runes.”

Hermione smiled. “You’re very distracting.”

“I know.” Luna winked. “It’s my gift.”

Harry waved at Hermione with a shy smile. “This is amazing. Really. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she said, warmth blooming in her chest.

Everything — everyone — was here. Her team. Her people. Her vision. All of it alive and full of magic.