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Chapter Text

Today

Dr. Hermione Jean Granger was on top of the world, straddling it, even, having (finally) summited the first pinnacle of her long list of life ambitions. As such, she was predisposed to (appear to) look kindly upon those congregating in the Joint Briefing Room at 10A Downing St, a placated goddess surveying her offerings.

She even deigned to smile convincingly at the rat-faced paparazzo who'd stalked her for weeks after her long-delayed (and outrageously publicised) break up with America's Greatest Seeker (winner of America Witchly's Baddest Bod and Sizzling Smile award three years in a row) Terrell X. Montgomery (perfidious prat). The soulless invertebrate  loped toward her, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Dr. Granger, so glad I could make it. I notice Auror Weasley at the back of the room. Are you back with old Ronnie boy, or still moping after Jaunty Monty ?"

The slimebucket lifted his camera lazily and snapped several pictures, completely disregarding her angles and her consent.

Disrespectful toad.

Visions of his most demeaning capture: Hermione in tatty leggings and one of Monty's oversized Quidditch jerseys (she was grieving, damn it), chin doubled as she sucked down an ice cream cone flashed hazily in her minds eye. The doxy scat aficionado wouldn't know journalistic integrity if it sat on his blotchy, ill-shaped face.

He certainly didn't understand the female gaze, nor seem to care much for the male one. 

"Wonderful to see you, Tatell," Hermione managed diplomatically, baring her teeth menacingly. No more grist for the rumour mills. She then grinned at Rita Skeeter's oncoming glare before icing her out with a quick pivot. They could all hang. This announcement, this day, was about her work. The 'press' would be reporting on her professional accomplishments.

Fucksticks.

The next hour of Hermione’s life needed to be absolutely perfect. She refused to besmirch the moment with an untimely glare or scowl. She wouldn’t provide an iota of fodder for the broadsheets, not a whiff of speculation. She'd forbidden Harry and Ron from making any comments, gestures, noises or, gods help them, exchanging so much as a pointed look until after her announcement. 

 No, everything had to be flawless and singularly focused on her achievement. Well, her team's achievement. Because in a few minutes, Dr. Hermione Jean Granger would finally announce she'd discovered cures for both dragon and siren pox and developed vaccines for both. She (in conjunction with her colleagues, many thanks, etc.) would effectively eliminate a scourge that had plagued wizarding kind for millennia.

A frisson of pride swept through her. She swallowed an (unseemly) cackle, the thrill of success nearly overwhelming, keenly aware of every judgemental eye. Several Muggle officials from HRH Magical Relations Committee were also in attendance, currently being herded to their seats by the MoM's PR team. Collaboration was necessary as the once rare and formerly strictly wizarding diseases had become, quite literally, a pox on both their houses.

Hermione once more gave silent thanks to Kingsley's prescience. Careful cultivation of his Muggle counterpart along with Hermione's relationship building and advocacy had made her collaboration with Muggle infectious disease researchers globally much easier. 

This discovery would save thousands if not millions of lives, advancing research in other deadly, communicable diseases. And for that to happen, the magical and Muggle medical fields needed to work together.

 Kingsley would also be announcing Hermione's appointment as lead of the newly assembled Magi-Muggle Medical Collaborative. Though she'd never admit it, Hermione hoped she'd finally earn the dreaded and not at all anxiety-inducing monikers assigned to her. 

Brightest Witch of the Age indeed. 

She relaxed as Gemma fluttered around her, murmuring about last minute changes, picking off (non-existent) lint, and gossiping sotto voce about notable attendees in the overcrowded briefing room. Hermione patted Gemma's arm, eliciting a smile.

They rolled their shoulders simultaneously and smoothed out their features, affirming and soothing one another. All would be well. Gemma marched off resolutely to continue haranguing anyone who was impeding their schedule.

Hermione was in her element. Her well-fortified facade was that of gracious imperturbability. She looked bloody fantastic as well, courtesy of Pansy Longbottom’s fashion forward styling. Her body was elegantly and impeccably draped in a customised Dior blazer dress which made her feel both powerful and feminine, and was a cheeky nod to both her Muggleborn and magical heritage. She ran a hand lightly over the smooth, black mother of pearl buttons down the front before drifting up an arm and into her hair, ensuring the obdurate, exhaustion-induced and newly sprouted patch of grey was discreetly tucked away from view. She'd spent hours on her (sometimes) irascible curls, now smoothed into softly undulating waves that framed her face. Her makeup was flawless, her skin dewy, her lips pouty yet professional. She was moisturised, hydrated and glowing. 

No one would see that Hermione's research had taken its toll: the new, near permanent ache in her buttocks; the crick in her neck from hours spent hunched over microscopes and other accoutrement. Not only had some of her follicles stopped producing melanin, she'd lost countless hours of sleep, a few pounds, two potential boyfriends,  and possibly one cup size—but she'd do it again without hesitation. With her history, Hermione was surprised she hadn't started greying sooner. Poor Ginny had been burnishing her surreptitious silvery strands since sixth year. Then again, being possessed by an evil wizard and marrying a reckless if heroic death-defying git would turn anyone's hair grey.

She would treat herself to a long overdue beauty and spa holiday once the excitement died down. A week of massages, specialty skin and hair treatments were just the ticket for her overworked, overtired body. Hermione knew that for every gain there would inevitably be some loss. She was, however, certain of one thing: she'd never sacrifice her beauty (she wasn’t vain, nor blind) for love. She sniffed derisively. 

Gemma fluttered back into view. "Dr Granger, the Times News Roman reporter is here. He's requested an interview." 

Hermione looked around the room for the renowned Hedley Boatwright, senior science reporter at the world's most important Wizarding newspaper. 

"Propose tomorrow. Clear my schedule." She'd been a fan of Mr. Boatwright's journalistic style since first year, and now she would be the subject of one of his articles. Goosebumps erupted on her skin as she tried, and failed, to hide her elation. She'd done it. She pushed, and sacrificed, and struggled. She'd begged, borrowed, and scraped from all sorts to ensure the work's completion. She'd strategized, manoeuvred, gambled. She'd set aside old grudges, reached across various aisles. She'd hyper focused on her goal and attained it, a seismic level success. Not as Harry Potter's Muggleborn friend, or Ron Weasley's Muggleborn girlfriend. Not as one third of the Golden Trio. And, not “despite being a Muggleborn witch.” She'd vanquished the poxes because she was The(e) Dr. Hermione Jean Granger.  

Future goals unfurled themselves rapidly in her mind’s eye; scientific advancements and medical marvels aplenty. Accolades, honours, and awards. Nothing and no one would stop her now. 

A kerfuffle near the entry caught her eye. Kingsley had finally arrived. She walked toward the doors, an authentic smile ready for her mentor and friend.

Several cameras flashed close by, whiting out her vision. Flash . She blinked furiously, smiling widely, as a broad, well-attired torso came into view. She extended her hand only to crash against a firm, too firm chest. 

The Minister's fitness regimen surely merited some coverage in Witch Weekly. Silver foxes and all that.

"King—" her smile faded and her heart dropped to her pelvis.

Draco Lucius Malfoy's lips curled, his stormy grey eyes glittering with malice.

"Queen," he said archly before kissing the top of her hand chastely. Flash. Flash. Flash. 

Hermione recoiled, her thighs pressing together.  Oh no. "What are you doing here?" 

Malfoy smirked as dozens of camera flashes popped off. Flash . Hermione’s smile dimmed as she realised her literal faux pas . Her lips stretched into the practiced smile as she stepped forward and patted his arm. "It's lovely to see you, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for coming." 

An immediate crush of reporters and onlookers began lobbing questions, comments and other incendiary devices as a high pitched ringing began in her ears.

How dare he. 

Malfoy, the picture of insouciance, raised his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders. His unforgivably mouth-watering (expensive, custom?) cologne leaving a patina on her skin as he bowed his head into her hair, the tip of his nose grazing her cheek. Flash. Flash. Flash. "Good save. Wouldn't want your adoring masses to think you were excluding the little people." Then the bastard leered before smoothing his features and straightening his stance.

Hermione squeezed his elbow firmly, her lips forming their habitual scowl. A pop of a camera smoothed her features into a genial grin, forcing her to hiss. "The enormity of your ego precludes you from being a little person." She quirked her head playfully as the crush pushed in. Flash.

Malfoy’s fingers dug painfully into her shoulder. "As well as my other, very sizable attribute, which I recall you— “

Flash.

"You promised I'd never see you again." Hermione’s temples throbbed as she expelled air and vitriol through her charade of a smile.

Draco squeezed her hand viciously as he tucked it into the crook of his arm, shrugging his shoulders.  Flash. Flash. Flash.

"I lied." He beamed, turning to face another reporter while he patted Hermione’s hand so smugly she wanted to puncture his lungs. The soft wool of his blazer incited a riot of sparks up her neck and scalp. The arrogant git was an expert at tactility, at sensuality. His command— assault — on all her senses and systems was despicable. Deplorable. Degenerate. Her limbic system was on fire; her somatosensory signalling she was in danger. He knew what he was doing, the truculent tit.

Her entire 5"4 frame was packed tightly, heatedly, into the side of his broad, 6"4 frame. Flash. The man was fit, annoyingly, unerringly so. He'd grown into all the angles and sharp edges that had stood out when he was a boy, though there remained something sharp, something pointed about him. It made for a rather interesting collection, put together the way he was.

His perfectly shaped brows (surely tweezed) were two shades darker than the famous Malfoy mane, that platinum blonde highly sought after and poorly imitated, and framed his thickly lashed and expressive argent eyes. Flash. Eyes which were now firmly and heatedly fixed on her. She loathed him and his delicious, virile presence. No. the opposite of delicious . Clearly all of her cortexes were hurtling offline. System crashing . Danger. Danger.

Flash.

Hermione, never one to flee or freeze, smiled so widely her ears rose at least an inch. Dozens of flashes captured for all posterity Hermione's humiliation. 

She uttered a bright thank you as Malfoy waved the reporters away. "You're determined to make me regret accepting your help."

 Malfoy tilted his hand. Flash. "I like to think we helped each other. At least, once we got into the flow—"

"It was one time, Malfoy— “she growled lowly, turning to face his stupid…face.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

“Brightest witch of the age and can't do basic maths?" Draco tsked, his arm snaking around her waist as Hermione futilely tried to distance herself without being obvious. Flash. Flash. A tactical retreat was in order.

She was sweating, beads running down the valley of her breasts into her navel as her nether regions began returning fire, desperate to be closer.  Gods, was her mascara starting to run? The roots of her hair were rising as her trained waves threatened to erupt into riotous curls. Her heart was careening; her knees buckling at the proximity of high and mighty pain in the arse Draco Lucius Malfoy.

He was going to ruin everything. Hermione swallowed bile.

"It was one night, yes, but five times." He used his fingers as a visual aid, bringing his free hand close enough to brush the tip of her nose. Flash. Flash.   “Six if we count the one non-reciprocal act of the evening. Morning, rather. I was remiss in expressing my gratitude.  Exceeded my expectations, but then, I always knew you would."

"Enough." Hermione stilled, eyes narrowing. "Please don't ruin this for me." She winced at the undertone of begging, the whimper, in her voice.

Draco placed a hand on his heart, lips taut, and leaned in closely. Too closely. Flash. A waft of cedar wood and brandy flooded Hermione's nostrils, immediately opening the flood gates of her nether regions. Gods oh gods what had she been thinking? "You wound me, Granger. I would never ruin anything for you, though you failed to extend me the courtesy."

Malfoy’s eyes were stormy seas, his damnable, plush bottom lip folded into his mouth. He was furious. "I don't know what you're talking about. Please, Malfoy. Can we do this later?" Her jaw trembled. Her eyes began to blur. Flash .

Malfoy regarded her, his own jaw clenching, unclenching. He sighed theatrically and slackened his hold. "Fine."

Hermione stepped away dazedly. Flash.

 He tugged on his cuffs. "I'll just take a seat then, just as you did on my face, which would make it seven—"

"You foul, little—"

"We both know there's nothing little about me." Flash. Flash.

"You—" Hermione raised a hand to strike him (Flash) before recalling herself and landing on her sternum. He was a menace to her self-control.

He shrugged again, entirely nonplussed. "Your discovery would've been impossible without support from the MFF. As such, I have a right to ensure the announcement aligns with our PR strategy."

“Your office signed off on every single action item, Malfoy. You have no right— “

He smirked and gestured toward the dais. "And I'll be exercising my right to escort you safely to your podium."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Flash. Damn the onlookers, the reporters.  Everyone in Wizarding Britain knew, or thought they knew, about their history. Even The Hermione Granger had her limits. "Your right?" She scoffed. "You have no rights over me." She smoothed a hand over her stomach, rolling her shoulders until she was once again poised, demure. When he inevitably acted in that Malfoyesque manner, image would be everything.

Draco towered over her, eyebrow arched, perfectly framed by that ridiculous, overgrown tress he maintained effortlessly dishevelled. Artfully tousled. Flash. Tosser. 

"Respectfully, I disagree. And I'd hate for our life together to begin on a foundation of lies."

"What?!" Hermione squawked, silencing the room. Flash.   She looked around awkwardly. This git was getting to her. He was getting her goat. She felt dizzy. This could not be happening. "You need professional help, Malfoy. Therapy. A mind healer. You're absolutely mental if you think I'd ever marry you." Her frenzied whisper sounded like a buzz saw. Flash.

"Tell me," Draco said, his smirk smirking as he sat down slowly, crossing a leg over his knee, a large hand flat on a muscular thigh which strained against the buttery fabric of his perfectly fitted slacks. Flash . He drummed his fingers slowly before closing it into a fist. "Have you noticed anything different about your person since our energetic...escapade?" He leaned back, a malevolent grin distorting his pretty, lush mouth, the fist on his thigh so tightly clenched his knuckles would burst through his skin.

Hermione shook her head to dispel the ridiculous idea that there was anything pretty or lush about Malfoy . She glanced around the room, filled with reporters and other researchers, with government officials, with her classmates, her friends, those who were here to support Hermione's triumph, the triumph to end all triumphs.

And the insufferable, querulous wizard sat in front of her was definitely going to snatch it away. Cracks were forming in the perfectly and arduously charmed life she’d crafted for herself.  "No, you misshapen gnome testicle." She tapped her foot once then paused, crossing the offending foot over the other.

Draco's gaze drifted to her sensible yet sexy bespoke pumps, ( Flash ) dragged slowly up her calves and thighs ( Flash ), lingered at her abdomen, then marauded her chest ( Flash, Flash ) before finally meeting her now nearly incandescent glare. Damn his observant, insolent eyes. He tutted before smiling, eyes narrowed even as the tendons in his neck seemed to strain. "We must work on your tells, darling. A Malfoy never gives anything away." His smile dropped slowly, the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothing as his face became a study in impassivity. "I'll cut to the chase. You're a dab hand at glamour charms, though your beauty needs no adornment." He canted his head elegantly, overly pleased by his frippery. Flash.

Hermione scoffed. Flash. Flash.

"However, there is no charm, spell or Muggle dye that could hide the one trait every argentosa of House Malfoy is granted." Hermione was lulled by the soft rasp of his consonants, the plummy tenor of his voice, mesmerised as he rose to his feet, a corner of his mouth tilting precariously. Flash. Flash.

Here it was. The end. Hermione backed away as the din of the audience swelled to a blistering crescendo. She could feel, distantly, Gemma’s harried pawing, her hands pulling her toward the dais as Malfoy loomed, corralling her with his body. "Malfoy, you crazy…malformed…overgrown..." Flash.

"Hush, dearest." Malfoy brushed her lips with two fingers, his eyes glassy, his lips parted, as he slid his index finger into her hair. Flash.

Above her right ear.

Hermione winced as he twirled the damnable grey tress around his finger and tugged . Flash. Flash. Flash.

"Hello, Lady Malfoy," Draco pressed his lips ( Flash ) to the tress as cameras flashed and the gaggle of reporters forced her into his smothering embrace. 

Hermione choked a sob and held her breath, damning his soft clothes and horrendous cologne and chiselled jaw and plush mouth to every level of hell.

Six years of working tirelessly. Eight years of advanced studies, of apprenticeships in far flung corners of the world, nearly thirty years of dreaming she would one day change the world eviscerated because of one wine sodden, unhinged, and unquestionably debauched sojourn with Draco Lucius Malfoy:  generous benefactor of her research, erstwhile bully and current albatross around her neck.

"Let go of me this instant," She gritted through her smile, painfully aware that they appeared to be two lovers in love looking lovingly at one another. Flash. She slid her arm underneath his and pinched his back so fiercely her first knuckles cracked. 

Draco smothered a yelp but shifted fluidly, gracefully. "You've ruined me," he whispered before smirking and facing the reporters. "You're going to save the world, love ," he enunciated clearly. Flash. Loudly. "Mother and I are so proud of you." He turned toward the crush of reporters. "Clear a path for  Dr. Granger, my brilliant betr—" he winked. "—friend (every vowel drawn out, the arrogant ponce) if you please." Flash. Flash.

Catcalls and whistles became the soundtrack of Hermione's retreat. This couldn't be happening.  She'd found the cure for poxes, for pox sake! And that poncey, insufferable, crooked, fragrant, perverted, handsome….no no. NO.

"Minister Shacklebolt, sir! Any comment on the betrothal of Hermione Granger to Draco Malfoy?"

Kingsley cleared his throat, holding Hermione's gaze as Harry hovered at his back, his face impassive though his brows were riddled with questions. Flash. Wonderful, Absofucking-lutely marvellous. 

Where the hells was that podium?

"Apologies for my late entrance. It is an honour to witness a truly landmark moment in our history!” He smiled affably as Hermione avoided Harry’s gimlet glare. “Dr. Granger will be speaking now. Allow us through." With a steady arm, Kingsley steered Hermione past Draco toward the dais as Harry grumbled behind him, risking a pointed look at the offender. Flash.

Malfoy saluted lazily, that damnable smirk back on his face. Flash. Flash. Flash.

Kingsley’s appearance did nothing to silence the murmurs, the audience chatter picking up both speed and volume. Hermione desperately sought her bearings. Jagged whispers of Malfoy, Granger, Pureblood, Muggleborn and other more salacious descriptors rippled through the room. Reporters, delighted by the turn of events, were Quick Quilling every single moment. Rita Skeeter was nearly levitating with glee.

Hermione's stomach roiled with anger, her hands trembled as she soothed her frazzled nervous system, mustering the direct but dulcet tone required of her in these moments. She could still salvage this, redirect their attention. She’d fought in a war, she’d ridden a dragon(s) (gods, what a mistake, she could see that now)—she’d helped defeat one of the darkest wizards to ever exist! She recollected herself, exhaling slowly and gripping the edge of the podium to anchor herself.

Flash.

"Ladies and gentlemen, gentlethems, theydies. " Was she panting ? "I would like to thank my generous—" Royal blue robes marched toward her, pausing apologetically. Flash . Draco stood abruptly ( Flash ) and settled his mother next to him before winking slyly ( Flash ) then resuming his seat. Absolute bastard . "That is...thank you to the Malfoy Family Foundation for their generous support of our work here at—" Wait . That wasn't how the speech opened. Flash. Hermione bit her bottom lip until iron flooded her mouth, casting about for the words which had, just minutes ago, been emblazoned on her eyelids. "I'm grateful to my counterparts at both Camford and Oxbridge—" Wot. Flash. Flash. Flash. The murmurs grew louder. "A pox on dragons and their sirens…" She groaned. Flash. Flash. Flash.

Malfoy chuckled then palmed his chin. Tittering and laughter wove throughout the rest of the audience. Hermione, floundering, untethered, regarded the two Malfoys, the posh platinum prince and his elegant lady mother. Narcissa Malfoy was regarding her with a steady, if small smile, oblivious to the raucousness in the room. Hermione hadn't seen Narcissa in months, as Lady Malfoy was abstaining from most societal obligations whilst Lucius served his sentence, entrusting Draco (a pox on his house) with the management of their foundation. She was a vision in her royal blue robes and delicate string of pearls, her pale blue eyes strikingly warm from this distance. And her hair, which Hermione once admired for its chic style, was pulled up and back into an elegant chignon.

Bellatrix (may she rot eternally) had been a manky brunette. And Andromeda's hair was a lovely raven black with delicate, silvery plumes. Narcissa's dark hair, however, was only on the top of her scalp. Hermione leaned over the podium ( Flash ) and screwed her eyes in disbelief. Flash . Realisation. Flash. For there, above both of Narcissa's ears, glaringly obvious, patently and demonstrably present, were two wide swaths of platinum.

The one trait every argentosa of House Malfoy has

Malfoy stood, a queer expression on his face. Flash. Flash.

The one trait every argentosa of House Malfoy

Lady Malfoy's mouth flattened in concern.

Hello Lady Malfoy  

Harry rushed forward, mouth open in a bellow.

A bruising grip on her arm shaking her. "Look at me, Granger."

Flash.

The world whistled away darkly as Dr. Hermione Jean Granger fainted.

Chapter Text

Earlier today

Chapter Text

Two weeks ago

"You're unusually reticent this morning."

Draco paused his meditation on the very great pleasure a pair of fine honey brown eyes in the face of a beautiful woman climaxing could bestow, glanced up from his paper and smiled at his mother. Her eyes were perspicacious in the autumnal light of the blue breakfast room. A little too bright. She reciprocated the gesture, visibly relaxing her shoulders.  Three decades with the wily witch who'd borne him had honed his instincts. He sensed the trap ; the seemingly innocuous observation meant to lower his defences; lure her prey closer. A predator about to pounce .

Draco settled in for the assault. Lady Narcissa Malfoy had an extensive battery at her command.  But Draco had a considerable arsenal himself thanks to her. He deployed his winsome innocence™ smile, the right corner of his mouth tilting slightly, evoking his childhood mien. "Why nothing, Mother. Enjoying a quiet breakfast with my favourite woman on earth." He winked for emphasis, his head tilting slightly to allow the artfully styled tress to fall over an eye.

Her eyes narrowed minutely, her features projecting the battle plan. "I adore your adoration, Draco," her smile was nearly innocent. "And yet…" The slight tilt of her head signalled the salvo.

Draco braced.

It's time you find your wife

"I find myself eagerly anticipating a worthy witch replacing me in your affections." 

Ah, an edit to the well-worn and ponderous diatribe Draco had labelled "Malfoy Marriage" (alternately, #3).  His good lady mother had expended additional time and energy pondering his alleged conundrum .

"Mother, you are irreplaceable," Draco effortlessly replied, the memory of a well-toned and tanned thigh draped over his forearm flashing behind his eyelids. Mipsy, sensing his unease, refreshed his coffee. He thanked her effusively, the joy in her owlish eyes dissipating some of his angst. He clenched his jaw and briefly considered Occluding.

"And yet, I wish to hear of your progress in this effort. Your father and I would prefer to meet our grandchild before age and infirmity overtake us." Narcissa sipped her tea delicately, a misdirection to cover the repositioning of her cannons.

Draco disguised his scoff with a hasty gulp of coffee; black, bitter. Fair trade. Surely there was a joke there somewhere about his newly discovered preference in witches. Witch.

"I'm rarely lonely, Mother. I hope that allays your concerns." Draco deployed his award-winning (Witch Weekly's Most Enticing five years in a row) smirk.

Narcissa was unmoved. Lips pursed in distaste, she folded her hands in her lap, her features settling into impassivity. Gone was the indulgent, adoring gaze. In its place, cold calculation. Machination. "Pray, will these encounters result in lifetime companionship, or do they remain limited to the small hours?"

"Mother," Draco sighed, earnestly put out and allowing the conveyance of said put-outness. He would not be discussing his fleeting and frequent liaisons with the woman who birthed him. Well, formerly frequent.  He'd been rather off casual the past month. "I'm not even thirty—"

"Well past your prime."

Draco's eyebrow lifted in disbelief. He was in the prime of his prime. "There's plenty of time left to continue considering my innumerable options."

"And you're determined to make your way through all of them."

"Not all of them, Mother, please—"

"If I receive one more owl from a mother bemoaning their daughter's abandonment—"

"Mipsy should be screening those owls—"

Mipsy squawked her disagreement.

"The witches I entertain shouldn't presume to involve their mothers—"

"We've made great strides in restoring our name and you're quite the catch, Draco. Of course they'll involve their mothers. These matters used to be settled between families, not on the whim of…physiology."

"I am not ready to settle," Draco said firmly, though a smile played on his lips. "Nor should I. Settle , that is. While I have enjoyed the diverse dalliances, I've yet to be…swayed."  His stomach twinged uneasily at the half-truth.

Narcissa made a low sound in her throat, which Mipsy echoed, her little body trembling from holding her tongue, her eyes fixed on him.

A united front.

"I'm disappointed at your pride in being an incorrigible rake," Narcissa' mouth was a taut wire. "I have failed in my duties as your mother."

Draco groaned, leaning against the tufted chair back as prickly heat suffused his chest and neck. His mother and her penchant for the dramatic. 

He wasn't a rake, per se . Incorrigible, perhaps (though he did take instruction well if the panoply of compliments and assurances were any indication). He understood there was more to life than being really, truly, ridiculously good-looking*. And Draco was, to his credit, a true connoisseur of the fairer sex, a humble cognoscente of the carnal.

His mother's voice grew distant as Draco resumed his reverie, preparing his rejoinder. He wasn't a rake. He loved women, adored them; their soft bodies, their inviting smiles and comforting caresses; their flirtations and intrigues and manipulations. They were profoundly entertaining. Until they weren't. And he was a gentleman until they begged him not to be, which was always . He was considerate and selfless and generous until the (inevitable) end of the affair. It wasn't his fault that his interests were so profound, so specific that they had no hope of meeting them. Was he to blame that witches of every stripe and type continued, despite his warnings, to fling themselves at him? Should he break their hearts by refusing their advances? Injure their self-esteem through his disregard?

No, Draco was far too soft-hearted for such callousness.

If anything, it was the fault of the woman currently lambasting him. Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy's powerful, comely features were a deadly combination. If she hadn't chosen Lucius, Draco might have had fewer wares to sample and delight in.

Wares which had, just recently, lost their sparkle.

"In my day, when a gentle wizard escorted a witch, we followed the traditions. One did not simply make overtures of a physical nature without—"

"I don't make promises to any of the witches who wish to… spend time with me . I am a perfect gentleman."

Narcissa tutted. Mipsy scowled.

"What would you have me do? I can't help them finding me irresistible! They persist in pursuing me. Their inducements can be considerable." He brought the serviette to his mouth as more memories of her spectacular inducements arose; specifically, those two heavy but pert breasts, decorated by the most perfectly formed, dusky rouge nipples Draco had ever suckled. She was singular.

He pressed his lips together to suppress the wide, lop-sided (Witch Weekly's Most Beguiling two years in a row) smirk. His mother would construe the gesture as a parry in their ongoing battle of wills. Besides, he'd been rather abstemious the last few weeks.

The rationale for said abstention didn't matter, not that he had one, or even planned it. And his newfound moderation had nothing to do with bewildering, unplanned and soul-sundering night spent in ardent congress with a previously inviolable, infuriating and heretofore unimaginable companion. But it had been more than a night, hadn't it? Much longer than his…usual. Gods, he'd woken, semi-dazed, to the heat of a plush, lewd mouth wrapped around his member, plump cheeks hollowed, eyes half-lidded and cock-dazed, her hair a glorious veil ablaze in the matin—he cleared his throat and tuned back in to his mother's litany. Perhaps she'd consider a detente if he told her about his newfound asceticism .

"You'll not find your mate carrying on in this careless fashion. Temper yourself, Draco. You must take these matters more seriously. Your happiness and the futures of both houses is at stake."

Draco drummed his fingers impatiently. All hopes for the edit, for variety , were dashed. "Mother, I am…content, and I appreciate your concern for my well-being and the future of our lineage. You needn't worry, as I have refrained from entertaining the last few weeks. The Foundation has kept me rather busy." He watched as complex emotions flittered across her face. He'd stymied her. Good.

Draco had been busy; auditing the Malfoy Family Foundation's numerous donations, streamlining the supported causes, researching new philanthropic avenues. He'd been glad of the respite, a bit weary of the eternal carousing, the unending quest for novelty , though he'd never admit it. He'd been sailing perilously close to dilettantism. And that would not do. The work was tedious but gratifying. Seeing first-hand the positive changes the Malfoy Family Foundation was (for once) supporting, and using his considerable acumen for something other than society conversations and amorous assignations was restorative. The ennui circling him needed to be kept at bay, and the novelty of work had to suffice.

So when Draco saw her name in the appointment parchment, he'd been delighted to step in for Nott, MFF's Chief Development Officer, who'd been on an extended tour of the continent with his latest conquest(s).

A bit of novelty, a change of pace from all the simpering debutantes and sycophants. A worthy adversary. Someone who could give as well as they could get. So eager was he for variation, he'd instructed Gringotts to hold the monthly deposit to her non-profit, ensuring she'd be in fine fettle for their meeting. He'd been keen to see her in pre-war heroine fighting form. He reserved the entire restaurant to ensure complete privacy for what he assured himself would be a vigorous battle of wits with a very worthy, and attractive, adversary.

Their usual haughty, if civil, reserve quickly devolving into a charged, terse volley. Draco was ecstatic . She'd been vicious , a sharp and gnashing thing; her hair escaping the chic side plait as she upbraided and derided him with a thunderous mien and heaving bosom. Draco was jubilant, overcome. Her assertiveness, her glower, the magic sparking through her curls, his own magic crackling in response. He'd closed the space between them, enlivened by the vociferous exchange, emboldened by the ardour in her contemptuous eyes. Blood thrummed in his ears; his heart beat a tattoo as she stepped closer, lips parted, cheeks flushed.  Gods she was glorious, ravishing, a s plendour . When she'd brought her delicate hand and its perfectly manicured fingers to his chest and pushed, vigorously , nearly knocking him off his feet, Draco, overcome by his need for compliance, for victory, had crashed his mouth onto hers. And she'd… reciprocated .

Yes, they'd both been extraordinarily keen to come to an arrangement. One apparation and several minutes later he was on his knees and whimpering between the legs of Hermione Jean Granger, worshipping at the altar of her glorious cunt.

He pressed a palm surreptitiously against the placket of his trousers. This was no time for that. And there would be no further consideration of his interesting (superlative, surprising, glorious) evening (half-day). His recent asceticism had nothing to do with her. Nothing at all.

Narcissa regarded him suspiciously, her mouth approximating a grin. "That pleases me. A Malfoy should not peruse , particularly in the carefree manner so prevalent in these times. It behoves you to court with circumspection and propriety."

"Times have changed, Mother. And I have no interest in courting." Draco disregarded the odd sensation of falling sweeping over him, and gripped the chair's arms to steady himself. He felt decidedly unusual, and warm. The temperature charms needed recalibrating.

"Times always change, Draco. The customs and rites of your magical lineage will not. You're far from the first Malfoy to cast a wide net, but these changing times have made certain aspects of your lineage more difficult to manage."

"Pray, tell," Draco drawled, the falling sensation deepening to a plummet.

"Did you meet with Dr. Granger and treble the support for her foundation as I instructed?"

Draco flinched but recovered quickly, though magic crackled at his fingertips. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect his mother of non-consensual legilimency. Still, her non sequitur was suspicious . "Of course, Mother. Two weeks ago. And I quadrupled our support." Septupled it, actually, but he wouldn't divulge that piece of information. A gentleman never kissed and told. In this, at least, he was pleased with himself.  "Her work will change the future of our world. There should be an announcement imminently, in fact. Why do you ask?" This was delivered evenly, despite the staccato behind his ribs, the compression of his lungs.

Narcissa cleared her throat, gaze drifting to the middle distance. "Dr. Granger is a spectacular young woman. Brilliant, beautiful, powerful. She'll make someone a magnificent match, a boon to whichever house manages to secure her favour."

Draco blinked away the vision of a tawny, terribly soft expanse of stomach writhing under his hands. The details were wine-hazy, and he was still slightly dazed that his clumsy, spontaneous seduction had succeeded . Alas, hope for clarification was nil . Unlike every other witch Draco had bedded, Granger hadn't even sent a thank-you owl, or extended an invitation for further fornication. Salazar's soggy tit, she hadn't even bothered to stay until Draco roused from his orally-induced orgasmic coma.

It stung. She would make someone ( unparalleled, heroic, dashing, not him ) an excellent companion, should she ever find her equal. "I'm sure you're right," Draco averred.

"I wonder, at times, if you fully understand the duties and obligations inherent to your position."

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I am discharging all of my responsibilities. Our solicitors are the best, our causes are correct, and our investments are sound. We are thriving, Mother."

Narcissa looked to Mipsy, who nodded and apparated silently. "And yet you remain unmarried."

Draco's patience was now stretched intolerably thin, magic whorling through his veins, unease barrelling through his blood stream. The tinge of melancolie expanded. His mother would never understand. There weren't any— available, interested —witches of his calibre. And he wasn't interested, ready, or amenable. He was tired, and truthfully, disappointed. In the field of preening, pretentious flowers unfurling their petals toward him as though he were the sun, she was the blossom who turned away. If he were interested in courting, she might have been the— a —contender. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, aware of his mother's piercing gaze.

"I'm delighted you've amended your ways and with your budding prudence. Hopefully you haven't squandered your opportunity."

Draco snorted. No, he wasn't one to squander any opportunity. Wasn't that the gist of her reproach?

"Hopefully none of the witches you've disappointed were the argentosa." Narcissa tsked, her mien a study in concern.

"My what ?" Draco felt queasy. If his mother launched into a discussion about amorously imparted illnesses his breakfast would reappear most vulgarly.

"Your true match , Draco. The witch whose magic is deemed perfect for you by the Malfoy magic. The witch whose core intertwines with yours seamlessly, redoubling your magical capabilities as well as that of any offspring. The argentosa ."

Draco's chiselled jaw gaped. His mother appeared to be of sound mind. Her words, though, were another matter. He'd never heard of this argentosa; never read of it in any of the Malfoy lineage journals, grimoires, or other records. She was having him on. But her steely visage disabused him of the notion. Argentosa. Draco's Latin was slightly rusty, but he parsed its meaning. She, abounding in silver. A frisson swept from his scalp down his chest, as he clenched his fist, displacing his silverware. "What in Salazar's name—" Draco began, startling out of his seat and leaning against the table.

"I see your attention was elsewhere during your magenealogy lessons." There was a lilt to his mother's voice that felt taunting.

She was enjoying this.

"I believe, despite those years darkened by the shadow of our past affiliations, I would've remembered that I was guaranteed true love by the Malfoy magic," Draco clipped, vowels icy, consonants sharp. What was his mother playing at? He had an excellent memory, and his romantic (for he was a romantic, poetic even, in his admiration for the fairer sex) inclinations had made themselves well-known at an early age. Young Draco would've latched on to the idea of a guaranteed, bound in silver witch . Past Draco would have run wild, scoured the earth for her. After all, that's what he was hoping to find, wasn't it? A witch who fit, who matched, whose curvaceous hip bore a constellation of freckles in the shape of his namesake? Wait —

"You might have already met your argentosa and lost her due to your unsavoury behaviour. And I didn't say true love. I said true match ."

Draco had the good sense to appear chastened, his ears alarmingly warm. Hells, he was chastened. His legs felt weak as he slumped back into his seat.

Mipsy appeared at Narcissa's side, a large, faded black book in her hands. She placed it in front of Narcissa, who carefully opened it, flipping through the pages until she found what she was looking for. "Let us review the signs of the Malfoy argentosa. First—"

"Mother." His voice wobbled. "What book is that?"

"Grandmother Rosa Cecile's grimoire. She was married to—"

"Grandfather Wymond, yes, I recall."

"She chronicled her experiences as an argentosa. It began with the malaise after meeting Wymond at an assembly. Healers confirmed she was not, indeed, ill. Thereafter, once Wymond began courting, her hair manifested the Malfoy mark, its distinct coloration . She was the first official argentosa of House Malfoy." She levitated the book over the table until it landed softly in front of Draco.

Draco was decidedly disconcerted, eyes raking over the thin, elegant scrawl of his ancestor, panic building in his chest. His mind ran scenarios, memories, configurations, outcomes of every encounter he'd had throughout his life. Why didn't he remember this? His life would've been so different!  What if one of those witches who'd been let down ( gently ) was his true match? Would he have known? They would've told him or he would've noticed, surely? Then again, he didn't know he was to look for his argentosa, that his perfect magical match would be chosen for him. All this time he'd been, well, not looking for her, but receptive to the idea that one of the millions of women in the world was meant to be his. A woman who could match his wit, no, outwit him, push him to excel. A witch who wouldn't shy away from the sometimes unbearable weight of being Draco Malfoy, who wouldn't be moored down by his burdens. A witch who had her own goals and interests and who would not become a simpering, agreeable pushover. A witch who was powerful, and brilliant, who could match him beat for beat, barb for barb. A witch who'd make him tremble in awe and (a little) fear. A goddess. A witch he'd adore, serve. His peer in all things, his guiding light and fearsome equal.

Fuck . A goblet of water shattered as uncontrolled magic erupted from him. Mipsy snapped her fingers, disposing of the glass.

"This is a disaster. Unmitigated. Unparalleled. Calamity." Draco flattened his palms on the pages, eyes deciphering the elegant hand of his twelve times great grand-mere, that battle-axe of a woman who'd helped Wymond grow the Malfoy holdings and influence in the Muggle royal court. He closed his eyes as the list of witches he'd have to retroactively vet materialised. Just as the image arose, it dissipated, his instinct gnawing, his carefully curated calm threatening to unravel. No, there was no list to vet, no need to revisit his past exploits or revive those connections he had (gently ) discouraged.

"Are there…would I sense the argentosa? Would there be signs in me that I'd met her?"

Narcissa hummed."Uncontrolled magic in the mature wizard is one."

Draco paled. "I'm going to be sick."

Narcissa stood and seized both high and low ground. "Taking a moral inventory, Draco? Ashamed of your prev—"

"Pax!" Draco groaned. "Your point is made and distressingly clear."

Narcissa considered this, her head canting slightly. "Some lessons must be ruthlessly brought home. A mistake I made with your father, who was as idiotic in these matters as you are." Her face gentled, her cheeks slightly flushed. "Though I'd never want, nor should I, hurt you. You've not seen the best example of courting or loving in this house in ages. Apologies."

Mipsy also seemed to take pity, and poured Draco some ginger tea, patting his shoulder.

"Master Draco, Mipsy feels the argentosa bond." She smiled and displayed her wide, healthy teeth. "It is wrapped around you now."

Draco groaned and covered his face with both hands as his stomach dropped into his feet. This entire time, the last few weeks, he'd thought he was just slightly chagrined at not having beguiled the one witch he never imagined he'd ever—

Thoughts of her, of their interlude, had grown increasingly intense, spiralling into fantastical ideas, schemes, even (dastardly, delusional) hope that she returned his interest. Reciprocated his curiosity . He'd blamed his hastiness, the unlikely commencement of their evening ( half-day, his traitorous heart corrected again) entanglement. Draco, prideful, perhaps a touch arrogant, had refused to relent, to make the first (next) move. After all, he was Draco Malfoy . He'd demonstrated his interest. Seven times over. For him, that was unheard of.

Though he did care for his partners' pleasure (especially as it augmented his own) and ensured it unequivocally , he preferred to be pleasured; to receive. And he'd never let (wanted) a witch sleep with him until daylight. A rigid boundary to avoid the expectations for anything more than casual.

She'd been the one to scurry from their post-coital (bliss) bed with nary a word. She'd denied him common courtesy! It was Granger who'd made him promise they'd never see one another again between their second and third rounds. They both knew how compromising certain activities could be for people like them; how guarded and careful they needed to be lest they be taken advantage of, humiliated not just personally but publicly and widely. She had to have known Draco was being circumspect , allowing her time and consideration as a fellow public figure, a peer, one who understood…. to decide if she…if she….

He scrubbed his hands down his face roughly. Of all the witches in all the world, of course the one he'd bullied (and ravaged, pleasured) relentlessly would be the one chosen for him.

Irony, thy name is Hermione.

Narcissa made a triumphant noise. "Your demeanour indicates you might know your argentosa's identity."

Draco sighed, nodding his head before meeting her gaze.

Mipsy clapped, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Narcissa summoned him. Draco rose dutifully and walked slowly to his mother's side.

Narcissa cupped his chin and kissed his bent forehead, smiling, confident, prepared. "This is wonderful, darling. Be of good cheer. You have been blessed with an argentosa bond. Very few Malfoys have had such luck for all their net casting." She moved her hand deliberately and patted her hair.

Draco's eyes widened. "You?"

"Yes. Perhaps now you'll understand why, despite your father's multiple misdeeds, it is quite impossible for me to have a full life if he isn't in it." She smiled wanly. "And for him, it is much worse. A life with no colour, no joy, just existence. Being in Azkaban has been a challenge. Something he should've considered before his choices, as I've reminded him often. Though recriminations serve no purpose now. He will finish his sentence and we will both be restored."

"Wait, Mother. Could Father die if—"

"The bond strengthens both partners, increasing their magic exponentially. The other side of that coin, unfortunately, is that a separation, a cleaving, leaves one feeling weak. Dispirited. Magic becomes a fizzle instead of a fire. Since I chose your father and continue to choose him, we can bear it, though the world is swathed in grey. But if I were to not choose him, then…it would certainly make his life a little…less tolerable."

Draco leaned into his mother's caress. "So I could die if the argentosa doesn't choose me? Could I lose my magic?" His eyes welled with tears. It was fitting, really, that Hermione Granger be the one to end him.

"Who could refuse you, Draco? Though," Narcissa paused. "I would not want you to live your life in shades of grey. If the argentosa were to decline, it would still be possible for you to marry, find love. It would feel a bit flat, a half-life. Unsatisfactory.  I would not wish that on anyone. And you, my darling boy, could not bear that."

Draco swallowed audibly, tears streaming down his cheek. His mother was right.

"You deserve to live and love fully, in colour, and be loved in return. Do not let doubt cloud your actions."

"I think I've…I think the argentosa might refuse me, Mother." Draco brought himself to a shaky seat in the chair next to hers. "She hates me."

Narcissa made a moue of concern. "Surely we can remedy that!"

Mipsy nodded vigorously as she rubbed soothing circles on Draco's back. "The bond is strong, little Malfoy. She does not hate you."

"Who is she, Draco?" Narcissa urged, enclosing his hand with both of hers. "Who have you interacted with recently…" Narcissa's eyes widened.

Draco sighed, long and suffering, steeling himself for his mother's disappointment.

"Draco, do not tell me that you've been a cad with the most formidable, most brilliant—" Her face fell as understanding contorted her features.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I fear I might be the last wizard Hermione Granger would love. Or choose."

Narcissa gasped. 

Mipsy paused her ministrations. "Well, master Draco, Mipsy hopes you ready to beg."

Draco tensed, jaw clenching as he turned to look at Mipsy. "A Malfoy does not beg." He rolled his shoulders back, heart plummeting nauseously into his stomach, doubt coursing through his veins.

"All Malfoy men beg," Narcissa demurred quietly, devastatingly. Fixing him with a stony glare, she stood, her chin jutting imperiously. "You will do whatever is needed to convince the most powerful, intelligent, and cunning witch of the age to join this house. You will court her and you will earn her affections. And you will count yourself lucky, you shall worship at her feet daily should she deign to grace you by returning them . You've been a fool, Draco, but the time for foolishness is over. Act accordingly ."

Draco watched his mother leave the breakfast room, shoulders squared and steps determined.

He was absolutely, irrevocably fucked.

Chapter Text

Two weeks ago

Chapter Text

"I tried to stop them Hermione I really did but Lady Longbottom—" 

"Lady Longbottom is my grandmother-in-law. You may call me Parks, Germaine." Pansy smoothed her fringe as she swooped over Hermione and patted her cheek.

"It's Gemma," her assistant corrected politely, replacing the cool cloth on her forehead.

Where the hells was she? Hermione blinked rapidly, the room and its features arranging itself into a recognisable pattern. She was at Grimmauld Place and definitely not at a podium announcing her world-saving medical advancement. But why? She groaned, her temples throbbing. 

"Annoying, isn't it?" Pansy trilled. 

"Yes, Parks," Gemma groused as she took Hermione's hand. "Hermione, you're fine. A drop in blood pressure is all. Kingsley made the announcement for you and Dr. Mbenga provided further details. Congratulations!" 

Hermione whimpered dejectedly as her legs slid off the settee. "Pans, what are you doing here?"

"Gin sent a patronus and I just had to come see for myself!" She reached into her bag as Hermione blinked confusedly, extracting two very chilled bottles of champagne. "Your genius is worthy of celebration!" She clinked the bottles together.

"But...I thought you were coming to the presser," Hermione muttered, reconfiguring her scrambled thoughts. If she were up to it, she would strike Pansy from her list of close friends. 

"Neville and I got… entangled. You know how these things are." Pansy smiled so knowingly that Hermione cringed. "We didn't mean to be late. Gin just hurried things along. As did you, from what I hear." Pansy cackled.

"It. Was. Amazing!" Came Ginny's shrill cry as she hurtled into the drawing room bearing a tray with flutes. "Good shout, Parks. How are you doing there, Granger ?"

Hermione shuddered involuntarily as Ginny looked at her with a gleam in her eye.

"I'm fine," Hermione willed herself to a stand, refusing her inglorious flounder, her defeated drop, batting away Gemma's hands. "What…what happened?" 

"Kingsley announced the vaccines—" 

"You destroyed Draco—" Pansy and Ginny's voices landed over each other's

Hermione groaned, a weak, rather pitiable attempt that barely fluttered her larynx. 

"So, I guess the meeting went very well?" Ginny inquired with a barely restrained giggle.

"He ruined everything." Hermione decided she was defeated, and slumped back onto the sofa.

"No, no! Hardly anyone paid attention to his…outburst," Gemma cooed, fussing.

Pansy uncorked a bottle and levitated a flute into Hermione's hands. "Correct, Gemma dear. Paparazzi aren't people. Besides them, no one noticed."

"Definitely not." Ginny stood alongside Pansy and linked her arm with hers and stared at Hermione knowingly. Pointedly. "And we're definitely not counting the 300 or so other attendees in the room."

"Fucking fiddly. Fucksticks," Hermione banged her head on the sofa's back. "Malfoy. Fucking Malfoy." She was nauseous, her body confused as disparate sensations of revulsion and curiosity flooded her. Why in hells was Malfoy so completely committed to her ruination? She knew he was a spoiled, ridiculous, self-obsessed profligate. She'd witnessed (peripherally) the ooze of his particular flavour; his near-permanent fixture status in the society columns, his incessant need to glom all attention from any room he inhabited; his relentless poon houndery. Theo and Pansy had told her every rumour about his ever-cycling tastes and interests, his infernal wolfishness, his self-styling as a glamorous Don Juan. 

He was deliriously entitled, objectively spoiled, and a master manipulator. Which was why, when she saw him at Venuti instead of Theo, she was taken aback. Malfoy didn't work. Malfoy spent too much time catting around town (the country, the continent, wherever tomcats catted) to bother with the minutiae of MFF's operations. Hermione had arrived, dressed well (Theo had level-set for her early on in their friendship) and prepared to drink a fuckton of expensive wine on the MFF expense account. Instead, there was the trademark Malfoy smirk along with the rest of the platinum ponce, tailored and silhouetted within an inch of his life, the cut of his blazer delineating his swimmer's build, the light charcoal nearly identical to the sometimes flinty, often steely stupid mooncalf eyes he turned on her. She discovered to her shame the man dressed to the left.

He was a pompous, self-important vainglorious shit and she…she hated him.

Slept with him.  Well, 'sleep' was…it didn't matter. She'd allowed, in a moment of righteous indignation during a period of turmoil related to the end of her relationship with another self-important git, herself to seek comfort in the worst arms ever. 

Fuck.

"You kept those cards close to your chest," Ginny cackled.

"Along with Malfoy, apparently. He wouldn't stop raving about you apparently after Potter whisked you out of his arms." Pansy sat next to her and patted her thigh. "I knew this dress would be useful."

Hermione covered her face. "How else my life has been ruined today."

Gemma cleared her throat. "Minister Shacklebolt stepped in while Mr. Potter convinced Mr. Malfoy to release you. Drs. Alves and Mbenga talked about the vaccines and how they'd be disseminated."

"He was incandescent," Pansy clinked her flute against Hermione's. "Good for you, darling. It's about time someone humbled the spoiled git."

"Not at my press conference, Pans!" Hermione shrilled as she shot up unsteadily. "It was my day, my discovery, my moment!" She rubbed her arms roughly. "For once, I wanted to be lauded for what I had done! Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to play second fiddle to mediocre men? Sorry, Ginny."

"Can't say it sounds familiar," Pansy drawled icily. "Here I thought we were living in an equitable and just world."

"So did I. How alarming." Ginny said flatly as she tilted her head.

"You're joking." Hermione glanced angrily at her two unbelievably stupid friends. 

Ginny's complexion matched her hair, her shoulders quaking with silent laughter. 

"Bitches." Of course they were taking the piss.

"Thank you," Pansy lifted her flute in salute. "You do this thing, Hermione, this rather condescendingly oblivious thing, where you assume that your experiences and observations are so unique that no one else could possibly understand you."

Ginny nodded quickly. Too quickly. "We may not all be the Golden Girl, out to conquer the world or save it or whatever it is you've planned, but we might have some sense of what it's like to be considered secondary to the men in our lives."

"I'm sorry," Hermione murmured. And she was. Sorry. They were right. She'd make it up to them later. "So, Kingsley announced my discovery as Malfoy whisked me away?"

Gemma sighed. "Minister Shacklebolt was very clear about your efforts and announced how you were in charge of the new Collaborative. I know it feels bad to have missed this moment, but everyone knows it was your accomplishment."

Hermione offered her a watery smile. "Thanks, Gemma."

"No, don't cry darling!" Pansy squeezed her shoulder awkwardly. "Tomorrow all of the papers will have GOLDEN GIRL SAVES THE WORLD or some variation as their headline, and you will be back in the centre of it all. But tonight you'll be telling your besties all about your conquest of Draco Lucius Malfoy." Pansy snickered inelegantly and Ginny joined thereafter. Even Gemma, that traitor, smiled, albeit reluctantly.

"So, Malfoy." Ginny plopped onto the floor in front of her and stretched her legs until their toes were touching. "How was he?"

"Given how Draco went quite feral once your Chosen One relieved him of his burden—"

"Hey!" Hermione pinched her. She was many things, but a burden? 

Pansy yelped but remained undeterred. "Going on and on about abounding in silver. He was nearly frothing at the mouth."

"Lady Malfoy ended up taking him home," Ginny was laughing so hard tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. "I thought she'd box his ears."

"Narcissa was never one for corporal punishment. Her tongue's the dagger. Her lashings are legendary."

"Oh happy dagger," Hermione murmured into her champagne as Pansy lifted an impeccably shaped brow in response.

"I'll head back to the office now, seeing as you're awake and aware. There'll be plenty of correspondence to answer, if you don't mind," Gemma tapped Hermione's shoulder.

"Thanks, Gemma," Hermione tried her best to sound cheerful. "I'll be along shortly."

"No, she won't" Pansy pronounced as Hermione glowered. "She needs to rest."

"And scheme," Ginny concluded. The two witches clinked their flutes together as Hermione groaned.

Gemma waved then scuttled to the Floo.

"She's sweet," Ginny confirmed. 

"She's gone , so spill, Granger. How was he and why didn't you tell us?"

Hermione opened her mouth to protest just as a sharp rap from the kitchen interrupted. 

Ginny returned, with a creamy, large envelope and a bemused look on her face. "It's for you, Hermione. From Lady Malfoy."

"Welcome to the 28, darling," Pansy tilted the champagne in her direction.

Hermione snatched the parchment with trembling hands. She should've known. Narcissa's hand was elegant, confident. The fact it wasn't a Howler was…comforting. She set that feeling aside for later examination. 

The wards juddered as a cackle came from the hallway. "The King is dead. Long live the Queen!" Theodore Nott screamed, mincing into the drawing room and ruffling Hermione's hair. He whipped out his wand and blanketed the room in confetti.

"I thought you were in Santorini with Charlie and Luna!" Pansy cried as she swept him in her arms.

"Mmm, I was, but Draco demanded my immediate return to deal with this…situation. How are you doing, Curls?" He kissed the top of Hermione's head as she batted him away.

"You were due back last week!" Pansy grimaced.

"I was, though our Poncey Prince demanded my return two weeks ago." He tossed his mobile to Pansy.

"Theodore Ignatius Nott, you devil," Pansy chortled as she scrolled through his messages. "No wonder he went rogue. Poor bastard."

"Imagine my surprise," Theo plopped down next to Hermione, throwing a leg over hers. "To learn that our favourite entitled prat had been outmanoeuvred, cast down from his throne by the Golden Girl. And that said Golden Girl might very well be his demise. There I was, watching Charlie and Luna cavort in the surf, his glorious arse—" 

"No details, Nott. That is my brother you've imperiused," Ginny added, a moue of disgust contorting her features. Theo threw his head back and howled.

"It literally surprised no one, idiot," Pansy drawled as she levitated a flute into his waiting hand.

"Yeah, I think we all know Draco and Hermione are perfect for one another," Ginny added with a wink.

"They certainly took their time," Theo said, sounding wistful. "Better late than never I say. Why so glum, Curls? You should be celebrating. It isn't every day one gets to crush a Malfoy under their heel."

"What. Are. You. On. About?" Hermione shrilled, Lady Malfoy's missive crumpling in her fist. "How in hells is that obstinate, manipulative, absolutely artificial tosser perfect for me ? He's a self-obsessed, vainglorious git!"

Theo coughed into his champagne as Pansy and Ginny exchanged a pointed look.

"Will—" Ginny began.

"I'll take this one," Pansy finished, sidling up to Hermione. "I need to hold your hand when I say this," she grabbed Hermione's hand and squeezed, her mien a study in genuine concern. "But you and Draco are two sides of the same coin."

Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her off.

"A match made in hells, if I may be so bold," Theo added in a singsong. "I look forward to the arrival of my godwix. May they have your complexion and Draco's platinum impudence."

"A little Malfoy," Ginny shuddered dramatically. "A curly headed swot. Ye gods."

"Granger-Malfoy," Hermione corrected, before turning beet red.

Her friends side-eyed her before howling mischievously. "That's the spirit. He'll benefit from a tight leash." Pansy winked. "And you'll benefit from having someone under your heel, especially someone like Draco. As I said. Perfect."

Theo and Ginny snickered. "Pansy Parkinson Longbottom." Hermione's tone approached Headmistress McGonagall levels of severity. "I am not a dog walker, nor would I enjoy having anyone under my control."

Theo cleared his throat theatrically.

Hermione glared at him and continued. "Malfoy is a delusional, self-unaware git who double texts."

Theo and Pansy gasped in horror.

 "And we certainly have nothing in common."

Another pointed look between the Dastardly Trio. 

"Well, I'll certainly be speaking to Draco," Pansy proclaimed rather icily.

"Please do. Double texting? Ewww." Theo made a retching sound. Pansy nodded forcefully.

Hermione threw her hands up in frustration.

"So tell us darling, how was it?" Theo segued, waggling his eyebrows. 

"I hear he's greatly improved," Pansy lilted. "I suppose he's had plenty of practice."

Ginny chimed in. "He's well fit. If Hermione hadn't shagged him—"

"You are literally married—"Hermione retorted.

"I'd climb him like a tree. Ride him like an Abraxan." Ginny finished, shrugging her shoulders.

"And he'd let you. Our Draco is nothing if obliging," Theo laughed.

"Sure, for that . Wanker." Hermione let them exchange their little…looks and returned her attention to the wadded parchment in her hand.

"Ooh, Narcissa mail. What does la grand dame say?" Theo purred. "I'm sure she's displeased about his faffing about with his House's argentosa."

Hermione suddenly felt nauseous as memories of Draco's antics with her hair resurfaced. "It sounds absolutely fake. What the hell is an argentosa supposed to mean? Bound in silver ? Malfoy has taken this too far." She sniffed derisively and read Lady Malfoy's message twice before tucking it into her brassiere. She did not have the capacity to deal with that now. She had to send apology notes and emails to her team, request a meeting with Kingsley to assure him of her unbridled focus on the collaborative and dissemination of the vaccine, and sit with Mr. Boatwright for her interview. This was a ridiculous distraction and entirely aligned with Malfoy's particular brand. Idiot.

"Apparently it's Draco's soul mate," Theo said glibly.

Ginny spit out her champagne. "Wot?"

Hermione thought she might faint. Again.

"Mmhmm, imagine my delight as I lay on the beach, slathered in ouzo and flirting outrageously with the—"

"The point, Theo, get to it?" Pansy gestured impatiently.

"Yes, well. Draco texted me, spiralling. Apparently his little romp with Granger unlocked some ancient Malfoy magic. The mighty Malfoy is brought to his knees."

" There's nothing little about me ," Ginny intoned in a creepily close imitation of Malfoy.

Hermione bashed her head on the back of the sofa. "No, I refuse to accept this…this ridiculousness." 

Theo tutted in comfort. "Accept or not, it's true, my little vixen. The Malfoy magic chooses the witch who'd best match the heir. And she is you, if the grimoire is to be believed." He turned and patted her cheek until she opened her eyes. "May I see?"

Hermione sighed, long and suffering. "Of course grey hair is considered a sign that a witch is destined for a Malfoy. Instead of the alternative, which is that dealing with Malfoy on any level causes one to prematurely grey." She lifted her now wildly waved hair and revealed the greying section. Theo whistled as he caressed it before tucking it back. "If this were a sign of compatibility, then every woman who had the misfortune of… interfacing with Malfoy should be considered."

Pansy made a face. "That would take entirely too long."

Hermione's middle finger responded. "It's utter bullshit." 

"Well," Theo stood and stretched like a cat. "Bullshit or not, it's happening. Happened. What does the beauteous Lady M have to say?"

Hermione crossed her arms. "None of anyone's business."

"Let me let you in on a little secret, Granger," Pansy gestured widely with both hands, spilling champagne. "None of this is a secret anymore. Draco acted a fool—"

Ginny and Theo clinked their flutes.

"Quite publicly, basically declared himself your fiancé. Narcissa was present, which means he felt secure enough in the information to act upon it. Whether or not she condones his roguishness is another matter. Journalists everywhere are mocking up their articles this evening, prepared to splash your betrothal to the most eligible bachelor in wizarding UK alongside or, worse, above, your team's world-saving achievement. You need to get ahead of it, and Narcissa, savvy as she is, is the one to help you do so."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Whilst I respect Lady Malfoy greatly, I refuse to indulge her son's…whims."

"Wish you'd thought of that a month ago," Theo purred, hopping just outside of Hermione's reach. "The man's besotted. He's practically wearing a footpath in his 18th century floors. I had to beg Blaise to babysit him while I stepped out. Why did you ghost him, Curls? Was it the double texting?"

"No, that happened today. The double texting," Hermione added for clarity. She was decidedly off  their inquisition.

"You…ghosted him?" Ginny spluttered, laughing  maniacally. "Was he that bad?"

Pansy tilted her hand. "Surely he's learned plenty. Back when we were—"

"That's quite enough, thank you, “Hermione said crisply, refusing to be reminded that someone else in the room had experienced Malfoy's…attentions. 

The sound of the Floo caught Hermione off guard.

Harry emerged from the corridor, face weary and tone testy.  "Well 'Mione, any other secret shags you'd care to reveal?" He kissed Ginny brusquely, grabbed a decanter of whisky, plopped into an armchair, and took a ten second swig before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. 

"You make it sound so vulgar. And it wasn't a secret. Just private."

"You didn't tell me," Ginny chimed in, raising her hand.

Pansy and Theo raised their hands. "Maybe it was too vulgar to share?" Theo asked hopefully.

"Our friendship does not mean I am required to share every detail of my life," Hermione groused. "And I've been rather busy, curing dragon and siren pox, remember? Certainly more important than whomever I may or may not shag ."

"Well, I don't need details, but broad strokes would be nice," Ginny said thoughtfully as she sat in Harry's lap.

Harry took another swig of the decanter, groaning for effect. "Please no details OR broad strokes. Have pity on the orphaned children."

Ginny pinched his cheek.

"Speaking of strokes," Theo waggled his finger. "How were they?"

"Enough!" Hermione bleated as she paced around the room, evading Theo's hands. "It was nothing. A non-event. I was…it was the day Monty announced his engagement."

"Oh," Pansy and Ginny murmured sympathetically.

"That fuck," Harry hissed. "I never did like him for you. Absolute shit."

"Yes, well, nothing says Golden Girl like being unable to…never mind." She reached for the letter tucked in her bosom. "Narcissa has requested a meeting to discuss the afternoon's events. On top of being an absolute wanker, Malfoy's a mama's boy as well. Godric help me." Hermione leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor, her legs fully extended. "This is a disaster."

"Would it be so bad, Granger? To be Malfoy's soul mate?" Pansy queried as she crouched in front of her. "Sure he can be a handful, hopefully , but what we're seeing here is an overabundance of main character energy . Easily managed with the right attitude and altitude . Keep him under foot and desperate. Ensure he knows you're the main character. It'll do wonders for your complexion."

"And general grumpiness. Regular shags are good for the soul." Theo wandlessly summoned the champagne and poured a healthy serving. 

"And confidence," Ginny chirped, shaking Harry by the chin. "Won't it, darling."

"Yes, dear," Harry replied grimly before taking another swig. 

"He's a coxcomb . He's Malfoy! Hello? My former bully." 

Pansy nodded, momentarily sombre. 

Hermione stumbled ahead after a smile of apology Pansy's way. "All that's in the past, forgiven. But I've rather gone off pretty playboys and their nonsense. They're more trouble than they're worth."

Pansy hummed. "Yet this particular pretty boy is worth a few hundred more vaults than Gaunty Monty."

"You're not still moping after that tit, are you?" Ginny cried, splashing champagne all over her husband as she flailed her arms. "He didn't deserve you, and his actions are no reflection on your qualities as a person, Hermione."

"To be fair, he is pretty hot," Theo demurred. Ginny pelted him with a cushion.

"Who cares what he looks like? As long as he's good to you." Harry dared, as four sets of eyes glowered at him. He held his hands up in surrender.

"What happened with Draco, Granger? I'm not—" Pansy patted Hermione's rising hand. "Asking for details, just trying to figure out what went awry. On paper, the two of you fit."

Hermione tilted her head back and closed her eyes, refusing to believe this is what her friends thought of her. That she could fit with Malfoy in a romantic configuration. Memories she'd long boxed away lunged forward, demanding witness; how she'd look for his platinum head on the Quidditch pitch, watch him on his broom; her horror at finding him in various states of dishevelment behind one tapestry or another with one girl or another; his narrowed, steely eyes as he called her that slur; his woebegone face at his trial when she testified in his defence; how he'd nearly cried when offering a sincere, and extended apology afterward.

No, she'd given up on thinking of Malfoy as anything other than an insufferable, oblivious tit. Their evening together meant nothing . She was just distressed from seeing Monty's face in the papers, his tall and stupidly blonde fiancée hanging off his arm. She'd been flummoxed by Malfoy's surprise appearance at the meeting, then perturbed by a combination of wine and anger as he criticised her lofty aspirations, accusing her of being on 'Saviour shite'. Hermione had no idea why she'd kissed him back, why she Apparated with him to his Kensington penthouse; why she acquiesced to his pitiful supplication 'to taste her ambrosia.' She shuddered. "Nothing happened. He was exactly what any entitled prat would be."

Awkward silence greeted her pronouncement. She walked to the small desk in the corner and rifled for parchment, avoiding the collective glare. "It's fine. I'll speak with Narcissa and iron all of this out. There has to be some mistake. Malfoy might have been poisoned, or ill, or…"

"Bewitched."

"Ensorcelled."

"Pussy whipped?" Harry offered. 

A collective groan. 

"Shush, Harry dear. The adults are speaking," Theo grimaced. 

"Lucifer!" Hermione called as she folded her hastily scribbled note. Harry's owl, a beautiful snowy owl much like Hedwig, barrelled into the drawing room. "Take this to Lady Malfoy. Thank you." 

Lucifer blinked slowly. Then hooted.

"I swear that owl is going dotty," Ginny accio'd an owl treat. "Go on, Luci. Take the message to Lady Malfoy!"

More slow blinking as Lucifer swivelled his head between Hermione and Ginny.

"Oh, dear," Theo muttered as he, too, rose and approached the owl. "Please take this message to Lady Narcissa Malfoy."

Lucifer hooted in relief, flying back toward the kitchen and the open window.

"Oh gods," Hermione paled, legs wobbling. Theo averted his gaze, wrapped an arm around her waist, and returned her to the sofa before scurrying out of arm’s reach.

"Well, Granger. Looks like your sojourn on the river of denial is over," Pansy quipped. 

“Draco will be relieved. He’s been bemoaning his imminent demise for two weeks. It’s tedious.” Theo was now watching Hermione intently.

“I just…need…a moment.” Hermione dizzied as her mind flooded with images of that night; how sexy (and slutty) Draco looked on his knees as he tasted her; the breadth of his hands across her abdomen; the heft and girth of his (fine, she’d admit it) immaculate member. She’d orgasmed so much she briefly suspected she’d been dosed with lust potion, then hastily regretted her enthusiasm. It was Malfoy, for fuck’s sake. He likely made dozens of women orgasm daily. Hermione was just another victim of his stupid smirk, his stupid steely eyes and those ridiculously long lashes. She'd thanked him in her own way and fled before the sun could deepen her already growing shadow of doubt.

It meant nothing .

Hermione groaned and closed her eyes, cursing the entire Malfoy line, and herself, with enthusiastic viciousness, for succumbing to the well-practiced, well-known charms of Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Chapter Text

earlier today

d: it has been 696 hours. my stupid flesh chariot and his idiotic cerebrum (quiet, you!)

my hundred mark! i’m beyond reasoning. My chariot has other ideas, persisting in her delusion that there’s more to life *purses lips*:s

d:i miss thee, my sacred sheath, my perfect passage *weeps* UNHAND ME, RUFFIAN! de minimas, handle me gently.

Oh happy dagger! This is thy sheath. Here rust so we may live!:s

d: sirena! My ardent amour

I yearn for thy wit, thy sour sauce :s

d: pluck off a little thy dragon draws close

would that I close with thee. the human has cheek— :s

d: exuberant globes! Sweetest clutch, I have sought thee in—

hush! many have tried and failed, I only need thee— :s

d: …many? *bows head*

*clenches* i am empty without you :s

d: and I shall remedy! The brute is under my command but your—

I’ve borne her meddlesome mind overlong :s

d: soon to bear my title, my sweet vice

her damnable mind is shutting down :s

d: i’m coming! Await me, or no I would not withhold—

goodbye, my lo—:s

Chapter Text

One month ago

Draco smoothed a hand non-apprehensively over his trousers after dismissing the officious maître’d’. The Venuti staff had outdone themselves, but they were long accustomed to his particular requests for entertaining. If there was one thing (there were many things) Draco did well, it was creating ambiance. And for this meeting, the ambiance needed to be perfect. 

He decanted the '78 DRC, the ritual soothing his unfrazzled nerves. He needed every wit about him if the gamble was to pay off—it was a risky play, antagonising Granger. He’d withheld MFF's monthly deposit and would soon be ambushing her. She'd expect Nott and would be less than thrilled by Draco's presence.

Draco examined his meticulously manicured hands, jaw clenching as he pondered Nott, Pansy and Blaise's extraordinary aplomb in establishing a friendship with the Golden Girl. Granger and he exchanged civil pleasantries and then avoided each other the entire duration of any event involving their overlapping group of friends. Well, she studiously avoided him, not that he sought her out. She was a rare witch: immune to his considerable charms.

Not that Draco had deployed his charms (fully) on her, nor was he interested in charming her. No.

Tonight was for repartee, for parries and thrusts and feints; for exercising those parts of his brain that were agonisingly bored by the superficial exchanges which had become rote with witches he entertained. But he wasn’t entertaining Granger.

He noted, with some alarm, his cock's twitch at that thought. It's Granger, he chided his over-exuberant appendage.

Gods, he really was bored.

He hoped for and expected her lack of amusement, prayed she'd arrive glowering, magic sparking from her fingertips, incensed at his Gringotts gambit, and ready to subjugate him with her indomitable will; her glorious, righteous outrage. She would be delightfully incensed. She might even draw on him. His mutinous cock once again chimed in.

Draco refused to parse its meaning.

Perhaps Draconus was also bored of his usual fare. Still, this wasn't what was happening this evening. No, Draco would be the Puck to Granger's Hippolyta. He grinned and mentally noted to incorporate as many Shakespearean references as possible. That would surely exasperate her, pique her curiosity. Communicate just how reformed he was, how broadened his horizons were. She couldn't keep resisting (knowing) him (better), not when they had more in common than (s)he dared hope. 

Sure, he'd spent his post-Hogwarts days as a man about town, but he'd secured a Mastery in Potions. He read widely and followed her research with particular interest, which was why he was amenable to increasing her funding. Granger was going to save the world (again). And whilst they rarely (now, ‘twas a pity) jousted verbally, Draco was more than prepared for such an occasion. He was a match for her…wit. And he was certainly a better conversationalist than the Weasel, whose jejune natter set Draco's teeth on edge.

She'd also been romantically tied to that overhyped American simpleton for some time, whose conversation was likely less than scintillating. Jaunty Monty's tanned and ridiculously chiselled features (and incredible braided coiffure, Draco resignedly conceded) were on every front page this morning, parading his newly minted fiancée. A poor substitute for The Hermione Granger.

Then again, Americans could hardly be blamed for their unrefined tastes. 

Draco sniffed haughtily. Granger deserved better…than that. Not that he cared whether or not Granger was available.

He returned his attention to the wine, re-pouring the DRC slowly, mesmerised by the carmine rill, his mouth watering. Granger would appreciate his exquisite taste, his forethought. She was a notorious oenophile, and would be unable to refuse his offering at least.  He brought the wine glass to his lips, taste buds anticipating the wood-smoke, faded roses and earthy notes of his favoured wine. She'd be conflicted, her brow furrowing in confusion, her nose crinkling as she contemplated her next move. Draco would remain calm, cool, collected, allowing his quarry—adversary—to come closer so he could pounce—attack.  He was certain he'd secured her presence for at least one glass of this most treasured vintage. 

Draco had taken greater care than usual with his vestments and toilette. His hair artfully tousled as ever, his face clean shaven, his scent tantalisingly light, a custom blend. After all, his appearance greatly contributed to the ambience.

The stage was set for what was sure to be an epic and entertaining match-up. 

The doors opened and in strode his challenger. Draco stood abruptly, nearly spilling his wine. Granger was a vision in a form-fitting, knee length mulberry coloured dress with a plunging neckline, highlighting her dewy, golden bronze skin. Her glorious hair was plaited elegantly on the side, her ears and décolletage tastefully adorned in gold jewellery with diamond accents. Her plump, burgundy lips slipped from a wide smile to a disdainful moue as their eyes met. Draco continued his perusal, noting the black stilettos on her dainty feet, briefly imagining what they'd feel like pressed into his thighs as he—

He licked his lips and deployed amiable grin #7, determined not be bested from the outset. 

Granger had come prepared for battle, perhaps informed that she would be meeting her foe, her antagonist. She was well-armed with clingy dress materials and heels meant for neck stepping and lips which were pliable, pouty. Even her hair, her crowning glory, demurely restrained, coiled like a snake. Fuck.

Her sweep of the room noted the absence of patrons. Her frown became a deep scowl.

Draco's feet delivered him, gaze raking over the curve of her ample (child-bearing) hips, the well-toned calves, the hint of firm, expansive thighs; the splendidly tanned skin.

Granger had always been attractive, even when he'd been an absolute gobshite about it. Gods, he had been a wanker. Perhaps Granger's continued recalcitrance (though she'd genuinely forgiven him, even shed a tear as he'd struggled to control his mawkishness after she'd testified, sparing both him and his mother Azkaban. He'd nearly prostrated himself, but she’d cupped his shoulders, and lifted his chin, and he’d nearly drowned in the aurelian kindness of her eyes, the gentle understanding of her smile. That was the one, the only time outside of a polite handshake and a rather invigorating slap that Granger deigned to touch him) toward him was founded in their childish (merited on her part) antagonism.

He'd consider that later, though, because here she was: a goddess, vengeful, remorseless, implacable, disdainful. She could crush him underneath that sharp (how sharp?), dagger-like heel. She should. 

He hastily edited his opening salvo in light of these developments. He'd also have to thank Nott creatively for fucking off on his extended holiday earlier than planned. All would be well.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, a hand floating to her hip then lying flat against her abdomen, her neck craning around the room. "Where is everyone else?"

Draco smirked (#4), her scent of cinnamon, rich earth and orange blossom assaulting him. His mouth watered as he drew close enough to see the darker flecks in her perfect (expressive, charming) honey brown eyes. He remembered his manners.

"Dr. Granger, lovely to see you." he extended a hand, smiling (#2) beguilingly. 

The blasted witch rolled her eyes. "Again, wot are you doing here?"

Ħ

Damn the newspapers and owls and texts from all those concerned about Terrell's stupid announcement. Hermione was late for her meeting with Theo, and thoroughly prepared to cut him to pieces (metaphorically, of course, Theo was a dear friend) for MFF's latest effrontery: withholding Consortium of Care's (CoC, See-Oh-See, if you please) funding. She'd been dealing with ornery accountants, nervous staff, and ridiculous platitudes (when one door closes, you're too good, it wasn't meant to be, etc.) the entire day. She was in rare form and itching for the relief that a thorough dress down would provide. Luckily, Theo was a darling, albeit a chaotic one, and likely prepared for a legendary tongue lashing. Maybe that's why he held the deposit, to provide an outlet, an opportunity to expunge this most recent and truly inconvenient bout of feelings related to her bastard of an ex and his 'surprise, whirlwind' engagement.

"Ah, Dr. Granger, lovely to see you," Malfoy extended his hand, his face contorted with what Hermione supposed was his beguiling* smile (damn the Witch Weekly), tongue tracing the seams of his generously-proportioned mouth. The restaurant was empty, each table a mute sentinel as a parliament of servers hovered distantly. 

"It's certainly a surprise," Hermione managed, swallowing her pre-drafted vitriol. While the restaurant was patron-absent, there was definitely staff who could overhear.

He pulled her chair out and she sat gracefully, recalibrating her opening lines. She'd planned to unleash her full fury on Theo, who would nod sympathetically and ply her with wine until she accepted his apologies and excuses. She did not expect, nor desire, to meet alone with Malfoy. The last several years of their overlapping circles had filled her with plenty of trepidation about proximity to the tomcat.

She noted his extremely well-tailored blazer, the crisp Oxford with the top buttons undone, the perfectly paired trousers that delineated his muscular thighs. She clocked the stupidly over styled tress that fell 'artlessly' over his right eye, requiring him to brush it back every so often, a movement which drew the eye to his bicep, his pectoral. He smelled, and looked, expensive. Sinful. Delicious. It was positively indecent. Bastard. She'd have one glass of wine and leave, claim an emergency at work. She palmed her mobile, ready to text Gemma the usual code: SIMP (Situation Is Most Pathetic). SIMP had extricated her from many boring dates and interminable social outings. 

Not that this was a date.

"Shall I?" he gestured toward the bottle resting next to the decanter.

"Just a—" Hermione gasped, eyes widening. The swaggering bellend was offering her a 1978 DRC Grands Échezeaux. She looked down at her lap, thumb resting on Gemma's contact. The git had outfoxed her. There was no way she'd be able to have just one glass of this legendary, rare vintage. She'd sit through a dinner with Voldemort if he came bearing such gifts. One mustn't be rude, after all. Not when it came to legendary wines. She swallowed hard and forced herself to smile, thinking of the delectable potable, her mouth watering. "Yes, thank you." This opportunity was once in a lifetime. Unfortunately. 

Draco smiled indulgently as he poured. "Je suis content que le vin meets with your approval," he purred, handing her the glass. The tips of her fingers brushed his, sending sparks up her arm, as his dangereux French flooded her senses. Her thighs clenched as moisture gathered between her legs. The heady aroma of the wine and the man was intoxicating. Klaxons went off in her chest. Gods, what was wrong with her?

He was just a wizard, her childhood bully (for all the maturing and improving he'd done, though clearly no longer aligned with the poisonous beliefs of his childhood, he was still a promiscuous, self-important shit, but his foundation funded her work so one shouldn't look a gift Abraxan in the mouth, especially one who came bearing rare gifts like the wine she was about to devour) that yes, she'd forgiven, as befitted a person of intelligence and maturity as herself. She shivered, willing herself to recover immediately from whatever nonsense was threatening to overcome her. She'd been spending entirely too much time in the laboratory, and too little time on self-care, problematic on a day like today, when that misbegotten bastard announced his engagement (They'd only broken up four months ago!) and now she was sat here with a sensually sensational prat who probably wished he was anywhere else, with anyone else, oblivious to the effect his proximity had on her. Fuck.

"Granger?" Draco leaned toward her, brow arched. "You look a bit peaky."

"Sod off, Malfoy," Hermione lifted the glass to her lips.

Draco raised his glass. "Santé, Hermione." His tongue rolled each syllable perfectly, his plummy tenor decadent; his smile just east of leering, that damnable tress flopping over as he extended that ridiculously long appendage and toasted her health. Gods she adored an articulate, crisply-cadenced man.  Not this one. She crossed her legs. 

She could manage wine and dinner perfectly well with Draco sodding Malfoy. Besides, she had an agenda. "Your health, Draco." He froze as she brought the glass to her nose, inhaling deeply before allowing herself a demure sip. An explosion of history, of raspberry and wet earth engulfed her tongue and activated her salivary glands as she closed her eyes, leaning back slightly. She moaned as an intense fern-like, fresh rain and sharp minerality cut through the initial notes. She shivered as images coalesced: the careful tending of the delicate vines; the late nights minding small fires to fight off frost; the joyous harvest; the celebratory first sip. The sun beamed down on her as she relaxed amongst the workers indulging in the first blends, satisfied with the efforts of their toil. Gods, it was the best wine she'd ever experienced. She opened her eyes and found Draco staring at her, mortified, cheeks pinked, breathing laboured. She rolled her eyes at his melodramatics. She would enjoy this wine however she pleased. He was likely accustomed to imbibing rare vintages, the spoiled git. He seemed the sort to bathe in The Comet for a lark.  

That actually sounded incredibly sexy.

"Wot?" She glared imperiously, then cleared her throat. It was a bit shrill. "You're staring." She corrected, narrowing her eyes as she noted the flush on his cheeks.

"Did you enjoy that?" Malfoy's voice emanated from his chest, his eyes dark, magnetic.

"Obviously." She took a healthier swig, swallowing it slowly, then licked her bottom lip. His eyes darted low than back to hers. Interesting. "Not a drop will go to waste." She smirked before biting her bottom lip and returning to her wine.

Malfoy swayed slightly, adjusting his starched collar and clearing his throat. This wine was singular. "That's good to know."

She disregarded the advancing awkward silence and ploughed ahead. "I'd like to discuss another thing that's good to know, if you'd indulge me."

Malfoy drained his glass and hastily poured another as Hermione drained her own and he refilled it immediately. "It's my pleasure to indulge you, Granger. Anything you need." This was said so cavalierly Hermione grew suspicious.

The game was afoot.

"I learned today from my rather overzealous accountant that MFF didn't deposit our monthly funding," Hermione tilted her head to the side, wine glass leaning against her cheek. "Why? Why did you come here tonight instead of Theo? Needed to rub it in?" She tried not to gawk at the bobbing of his Adam's Apple.

Malfoy leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. "Nott went on holiday, as I'm sure you're aware. And I hadn’t planned on rubbing anything in, though I'm open to suggestions."

She steadfastly ignored the second half of his response. "He wasn't meant to leave until next week!" 

"Lovegood returned from Tibet early and Charlie was already in Greece. Hence my presence."

"And the money? You do realise as a non-profit, CoC is entirely reliant on charitable contributions. On philanthropy. You know, the love of humankind? The philanthropy your MFF boasts about relentlessly?"

"Yes, that." Draco straightened, his shoulders unbearably wide, unbearably rigid. "I'm auditing all of MFF's contributions—"

"Are you implying—" 

"Settle down, Granger. I'm not implying anything. It was incumbent on me to touch base with you, re-align as needed around our priorities, to ensure our continued collaborative success."

Hermione was nonplussed. Why did Malfoy sound like some Patagonia-sporting, hedge fund managing tosser? Wasn't it enough that he was a richer-than-Croesus, wizarding-family-older-than-Britain tosser? "MFF is CoC's major funder. We’re on the cusp of confirming our findings and need every employee focused, not worrying about whether or not they'll be paid."

"Tell me about these findings, then," Malfoy brushed that damnable lock away, sipping nonchalantly.

 "It's too complicated so broad strokes will have to do," Hermione began.

Malfoy laughed. Laughed. "Oh I think I can handle your strokes, Granger."

"Must you be a git at all times? The work we do is going to save thousands of lives. It will change the world!" Hermione huffed, reaching for the decanter. She was hot, her thighs slick, irritated at the insufferably smug wizard who was dangling her dream's purse strings above her head. She drank the third glass in record (shameful) time. 

"Don’t you tire of saviour shite? There are other researchers and doctors and healers doing their part. You're not the Chosen One after all." He wandlessly summoned another, full decanter and refilled his empty glass. 

"Saviour shite?!" She squeaked, rising to her feet and leaning over the table, two fingers extended toward his face, wand clenched tightly in her other hand. "At least I want to make a difference, not just toss money at it."

"And yet you need that money to make a difference. Funny, isn't it?"

"You're going to be hoisted by your own petard with this little stunt. Don't think for a moment that I will continue appearing at MFF galas or other events that rehabilitate the Malfoy name."

Her nemesis shook his head, his mouth flattening. "Potter and his good lady wife will still come. We play Quidditch on the second Sunday of each month. The Weaselette adores me."

Hermione scoffed and: "Ginny adores your broom thighs, not you." escaped before she could tamp her lips shut. She hastily swallowed the wine as a blush of mortification crept over her chest. Ye gods, had she just remarked on his broom thighs?

Malfoy leered, the stupidly tousled tress exaggerating his rakishness. "Well, well. The Gryffindor princesses discussing my physique is enough to make me blush. What else do you like about—"

"I don't like anything about you, Malfoy!" She slapped her hand on the table, spilling the precious vintage. 

Malfoy chuckled and refilled her glass in an elegant movement. She imagined how she appeared to the ponce as she snatched the wine. Her hair was liberating itself from her plait; she was panting from the exertion of holding her tongue, and she was drinking a rare and priceless vintage like a fishwife. Wonderful. He would not win this battle in their longstanding war. She refused to let him venit, vidit, vicit.

It was the principle of the thing.

She set the wine down and resumed her seat, fuming at his apparent wild-eyed fascination.

The horror of being perceived by Malfoy. Her sex, that mutinous mound, clenched in disagreement, but Hermione refused to allow basic biology to undermine her behaviour. Her emotional reactivity to Terrell's announcement had simply, and briefly, overridden her common sense. She would salvage this meeting, restore her foundation's funding, and part amicably from the poncey git. She would.

Malfoy was at ease; posture relaxed, legs extended with one crossed over the other, right fingers drawing tight circles on the table cloth whilst the other held the wine glass gingerly. Git.

Hermione cleared her throat in lieu of an apology. "If MFF is withdrawing Cee o Cee's—"

Malfoy snorted into his wine. "I wasn't planning on withdrawing CoC, no."

Hermione refused to be goaded. "The Consortium will need increased financial support once our findings are confirmed. Mass producing vaccines safely and quickly is expensive."

That got Malfoy's attention. His demeanour swiftly changed, his posture attentive. "Vaccines? For which illness?" He leaned toward her, rapt.

Hermione released a small breath, ruffling the wayward tendrils from her plait. She noted his eyes drifting to her mouth with no small satisfaction. She leaned closer, her breasts surging forward as she pressed against the table. Her satisfaction increased as his gaze lingered on her not insignificant décolletage. Her nipples, piqued, chafed against the lace of her brassiere.  "Nott signed an NDA on MFF's behalf. You won't breathe a word." She heard the imperative in her tone and liked it.

Malfoy inclined his head, his bottom lip caught by a canine then daubed it with the tip of his tongue. 

Hermione took a fortifying dram, refusing to imagine that sinfully lush lip caught between her own. "I, that is, the team, has isolated the causes of both dragon and siren pox."

"That's impressive, Granger. Congratulations," he refreshed both their glasses (the DRC was entirely too smooth, too delicious, and being imbibed entirely too quickly for comfort) raising his glass genteelly, smile warm. "How long before proof of concept?"

Hermione was startled. Malfoy—Draco—knew about vaccine development? Her icy (okay, lukewarm) reserve dissipated and she smiled rather warmly. It was pleasant to discuss her work with non-colleagues who had some idea of what she was doing. "We're already at the testing phase."

Malfoy's mouth gaped a bit, which Hermione took as permission to delineate, at length, how she (her team, ahem) collaborated with Muggle researchers, arranged for expedited clinical approval, and used data from magical-bodied research participants. When she finished speaking (and her fifth? Sixth? glass), the expression on Malfoy's face was portrait worthy: lips parted, cheeks rosy, flushed, eyes wide, pupils dilated. Worthy of Botticelli. Reubens. If he were anyone else, Hermione would be tempted to flirt, say something suggestive, comment on her findings regarding his fine eyes and welcoming lips. 

"Granger," a sigh, a seating shift. A refill of glasses. "You are…."  A toast.

Her smile was unbidden and genuine, the air between them oscillating with every adjective he left unsaid.

"If you could have your team provide the investigatory drug information to my team, MFF can begin the patenting and trademarking processes. As you're well aware—"

"Wot!" Hermione threw her now wrinkled serviette on the table as she stood. She could practically feel the steam coming from her ears. "If you think I'm going to permit your family to further enrich itself—"

"Hold on, Granger, as the inventor—"

"Damn it Malfoy!" Hermione stood in front of him, finger inches from his stupid, judgemental eyes. "Vaccines should be free! Thousands of people, both magical and muggle, die from these poxy…poxes every year! Medicine should not cost money! Salk is spinning in his grave."

Draco canted his head to the side, his gaze meandering over her body insolently. "Don't know this Salk. But it costs money to develop medicine. Besides, any profits from this would directly support other initiatives, not go into our vaults. It's how this world works." 

"No, absolutely not!" She poked his chest, and he rose slowly, causing her to stagger back two steps. "MFF's support to CoC was philanthropic. You are not invested—"

"We most certainly are, Granger. You'll find Addendum II, codicil 3 specifically states that MFF is entitled to a 40% share of any material, inventions, or products developed with its support, and further," he towered over her, infuriatingly close, infuriatingly smug. "MFF would be the legal arbiter on your behalf." He was entirely too calm.

"You…you…" Hermione spluttered, incoherent, enraged. How dare he? Down deeper, her self-excoriation had begun. She'd been so hasty to secure funding that she’d likely skimmed the agreement. Still, the main culprit, the ultimate villain, was currently caging her in with his ridiculously broad torso. Her hand rose to his chest of its own volition and stayed there.

Malfoy's eyes darkened, sweeping over the offending hand. "It's in your best interest, Hermione. Especially with your external, non-magical collaborations. And its standard practice for any MFF cause. We actually want to see you all succeed. Hence the support." 

His pulse drummed its tattoo through her fingertips. She removed her hand and carded—too late—through her hair. Her plait unravelled, and the anger sweeping through her found its release in her curls. 

Draco lifted a hand, index finger curled, and slowly tucked a curl behind her ear as she watched, mesmerised, breath catching. The wicked mouth on his stupid face was shaping into...into…

"My best interest?!" Hand followed through on the second connection, pushing him vigorously. Surprise rearranged his features as he fell back. "I can manage my best interests very well on my own! I don't need you or anyone else to think or act on my behalf—"

"Everyone needs someone to look out for them, you infuriating—"

"I'm infuriating?!" Another, more vigorous push launched Malfoy backward with gusto. Hermione quite enjoyed seeing him flail. "You—" she pointed for emphasis as he resumed his charge. "Are incapable of thinking of anyone's best interests other than your own!"

Malfoy closed in, his mouth kissable, rideable—wot? She shook her head. She would not cede. Fuck him and his—

"I'm far from selfish, Granger." He rumbled, licking his lips. 

Hermione mirrored the action, then tapped her foot impatiently at her body's mounting betrayal. She could not let him win. "If lying to yourself helps you sleep at night, far be it from me to disabuse you—"

"I certainly don't enjoy laying by myself, no." Another swipe of the hair.

The impudent—"You are without exception the most conceited—"

A surge of freshly cut cedar, a tinge of wine, a wisp of breath as his delicious mouth closed over hers.

She melted into his embrace as his arms wound around her waist, pulling her into his gloriously warm and muscled body. His tongue, wicked, intrepid, hungry, licked the seam of her mouth as she welcomed (!) it, arms winding around his neck. Her tongue ventured forth, brain futilely identifying notes of raspberry and chocolate, his delicious undertone of warm brandy blending gloriously, amorously. She moaned and Malfoy groaned in response, tightening his grasp, thumbs digging into the divots of her hipbones, deepening his filthy, worlds-ending desecration of her mouth, his tongue flickering over hers, circling and licking and pulling her bottom lip into his mouth as he suckled, groaning and mewling and (somehow) muttering nonsense. Malfoy's mouth was devastating, devouring. If he were anyone else, she'd be ruined.

So good           so perfect        so delicious     fuck Granger  you are magic if  I    knew            I could                         shut you up                  we would        

have   been    kissing  forever           Granger         sweet           fuck       fuck         Amortentia      vixen  sexy        mouth          devour  

Hermione swooned, like a Harlequin bride, her leg insistently grazing Malfoy's extraordinarily firm thigh as it rose rose rose, heat-seeking. Malfoy's fingers pressed into her derriere, pulling up and toward, smashing her into his pelvis, delivering the friction she desperately needed. “Fuck,” she whimpered. Eyes fluttered open. His were stormy pools obliterating the light of the sky, darker than a tempest.  She was far from land. She could drown in them if he were anyone—

"Granger," he broke away, mouth grazing her own as she cupped his jaw, licked. She was ravenous, delirious, hands and tongue seeking, pulling, sliding. "Tell me to stop." He swallowed audibly, his hands flexing, fingers gripping hair, skin, clothing.

"Don't stop," she whimpered again, unable, or unwilling to mask her overwhelming need.

Malfoy growled and it was gratifying. He fluttered kisses across her cheek, nuzzling her neck with his nose, tongue languorous, lewd. "Tell me you want this." His breath was a desert wind across her skin as he licked, suckled, bit.

She arched into him and finally, finally felt him.  "I want this." Her sex clenched painfully, throbbing with need. 

Malfoy's hands swept over back then shoulders, fingers light as they traced the contours of her breasts before resuming their bruising claim on her waist. His gaze remained trained on hers, his hold steadying, his breath shallow. "Tell me you want me," he dared, sighing roughly into her mouth before biting her bottom lip.

Hermione gasped in aggravation then kissed him fiercely, greedily. "Fine. I want you."

"So greedy and impatient, Granger," Malfoy teased, hips bucking despite the insolence in his tone.

"Malfoy, you fu—"

Draco brushed the pad of his thumb over her mouth, fingers coursing through hair, cradling her head. "You taste like—" He yanked her hair, eyes half-lidded, lashes thick, bowed, fixed on her mouth, tongue flickering over her lips. "Let me taste you, Hermione. You're like sugar on my tongue. Would you like that, me fucking you with my tongue?" A hoarse, desperate whisper.

Hermione released a filthy (and probably embarrassing, if she had a tenth of her wherewithal) moan and pressed her hand against the rigid and thick insistence between his legs. Heat seeking. Worlds ending. Fuck. "Yes, fuck. YES."

Draco kissed her brazenly, tugged her into his chest, hands pulling up her skirt. Hermione's brain emptied, the sensation of want and heat and emptiness replaced by the swirl, spin, and nauseating tug of Apparation.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Mother." Draco kissed his mother's surprisingly firm, unsurprisingly cold cheek as it feathered in disapproval. He ambled to the head of the table. Unusually but not unexpectedly, today's breakfast was held in the larger, more formal dining room with its heavy chandeliers and austere furnishings. Mother had been decidedly off him since his endeavour at the press conference, her warm reserve replaced by rather immovable glacial civility. He'd been lambasted and taken down at least a dozen pegs by his (formerly) good lady mother. His demure smile (#21), failed to thaw her frosty gaze, piercing despite the half dozen botanic barriers betwixt them.

Mother and Mipsy had outdone themselves in their effort to undo him: each blossom, branch, and raceme carefully curated, artfully arranged. Mother and Mipsy were fluent in floriography. As a child, Draco had pruned, tilled and dug in gardens and greenhouses, one of the few times getting dirty was encouraged. He'd watch wild-eyed as Mother and Mipsy cut, shaped, and wrangled posies, bouquets, wreaths; tokens of esteem or depreciation: clever communiques when words would not suffice or could not be spoken.

Attention returned to the maternal messages now: the cluster of meadowsweet, crocuses and coxcomb amaranth with springs of osier:  I will be honest, your foppery is useless. Closest to him maiden blush, gentle Hermione roses interspersed with mignonette and purple lilac: if you love Hermione and desire a return of affections, trust your qualities not charms; yellow roses, oleander, peonies sprinkled liberally with rue and pine boughs: beware of shame, use prudence to avoid disdain,  and the two smallest: clumps of moss in wide-mouthed glass bowls pierced by sweetbrier, cinquefoil, wood sorrel,  and swathed in ivy: I wound to heal, but my love is boundless and I will assist this marriage.

The aromatic assemblage forced his lashes to open, close, open, rapidly, his breath hitching. He bade himself steady. 

Mipsy stepped forward, pouring his coffee with less panache than usual. Her grim mien and watery eyes were as evocative as the sylvan sentinels spread on the table.  He chanced a wider smile at his favourite elf, receiving an eye roll in return.

Ah. They were both decidedly off him.

"Mother, Mipsy." A glance toward the two indomitable beings in his life, they who had forged, protected, and loved him. " I apologise for my behaviour. Might a detente be possible?"

"I'm still recovering from your indelicate display, and heartily disappointed in your disregard for Dr. Granger's achievement. It was beneath the dignity of both your Houses."

Mipsy sniffed in agreement.

Request denied.

"Little wonder she isn't amenable to your suit. The vulgarity and utter impropriety." The delicate clank of the tea cup in its base. "You've disregarded everything I advised you to do.  You embarrassed your argentosa who also happens to be the brightest witch of the age. It's not to be borne."

Draco cupped his forehead in resignation. "It was a bit… spontaneous.  But I've tried—" Something papery and rather heavy dropped on his head.

"Every single headline is about your ridiculous outburst. Her discovery has been relegated to the fourth page." Mother's disdain bore a hole through the centre of his chest. "Her accomplishments have been eclipsed by your antics. Are you aware of how serious this is?"

Mipsy cleared her throat in concert.

Draco was well-aware of how serious his misstep had been, how deleterious it was to his romantic aspirations. Along with his mother's vehement rebuke upon leaving the press briefing (and being most unwillingly relieved of Granger's unconscious form), the entire wizarding world insisted on highlighting his numerous faults. The Kensington flat was besieged by owls and howlers from ghosts of encounters past; berating, decrying, threatening. Zabini had promised to box his ears for embarrassing the entire set. Potter, the Git Who Squints, had creatively delivered a dozen or so rather imaginative threats of bodily harm should Draco step another toe out of line. Ron had sent several hastily scrawled messages promising doom and gloom, or room and boom; the writing was illegible. Both Theo and Pansy had rebuked him so seriously Draco suspected at least one of them might be imperiused.

He'd tried, in the days that followed, to apologise to Granger. He'd sent flowers, owls, texts, DMs, and several pieces of jewellery. Granger had neither acknowledged nor responded to his numerous attempts at reconciliation.

Draco might have overestimated his appeal. Rather, underestimated his mother's adamance regarding one Golden Girl.

The papers settled in front of him and he perused their now familiar contents:

SEEKER SCION SNATCHES GOLD!

Muggleborn War Heroine Hermione Granger and Malfoy Heir Betrothed!

Witches Weep as Malfoy Heir Claims Bride

Nargles, Wrackspurts or More? Malfoy and his Muggleborn

Malfoy Heir Disinherited Over Love Match

The headlines were revolting, and untrue. The solicitors had been instructed to destroy every single deprecatory outlet. Draco'd overstepped the mark considerably, and worse, distracted from Hermione's achievement. For the first time in quite some time, he suspected he was a bit of a pillock. A wanker. A cad.

The howlers provided more colourful adjectives, and several were so abject about Granger that their senders would be hearing from the solicitors as well.

Draco knew well how tiresome, how intrusive media attention could be. How it could distort one's self perception. After the trial he’d learned to redirect them, to provide so much fodder that his family's history would become a footnote.

But how they discussed Granger was abhorrent. Sickening. And he'd encouraged it with his carelessness. Youthful memories he'd long packed away now clamoured for release, review. How hateful he'd been toward her, even as he'd been drawn toward her. Captivated. Curious. Confused.

His mouth was acrid as he incendio'd the lot.

"Do you trust me, Draco?"

His mother's voice tethered him to the present. "Unreservedly."

"Dr. Granger has agreed to meet with me, here. Today."

Draco's heart hammered and he sighed in relief. "Mother, you're brilliant! Now we can speak and I'll apologise. I'll do whatever she wants, however she wants." His joy was limitless as syllables spilled from his lips excitedly.

"No."

Mipsy hummed disappointedly.

"But Mother—"

"You've done enough. I shall explain the circumstances and appeal to her goodwill. If she agrees, then we'll arrange a tête-à-tête. You've circumvented our rituals for too long. The argentosa, should she consent, will be courted properly, with the respect, decorum and circumspection she is due."

"I understand Mother but perhaps—"

"Even if she were not the argentosa, do you think I would countenance your usual approaches with Hermione Granger? After all she has done for our world, our family? You?"

Several seconds passed as Draco regarded his mother's dispassionate mien, her even, steely cadence brooking no argument.

"Thank you, Mother. For everything."

A miniscule tilt of the chin. "I've arranged for Theodore and Blaise to chaperone you."

"Pardon?" This…might be too far.

Narcissa continued. "Should Dr. Granger agree to consider your suit, you will abide by Wickersham’s 1758 protocols."

His retinas nearly detached from the force of his eye roll. "Mother, that's a bit extreme. Surely the 1917 code is just as—"

 Narcissa stood, her sapphire robes fluttering slightly. "This is not a negotiation. If Hermione is persuaded to overlook your transgressions, you will do everything I say."

Draco nearly fell as his chair swept out from underneath him. The juddering of the wards and preventing his teeth from meeting marble fall ended the discussion.

"Lady M," Theo crooned, his steps brisk against the marble floor as he bowed from his waist. "Here to accompany our misguided swain."

"Thank you, Theodore." She extended her hand for her due, Theo kissing her knuckles delicately before straightening to a stand. "Lovely. Perfect. I hope Miss Lovegood and Mr. Weasley appreciate your beautiful manners. Astounding what one can achieve when one is attentive."

Draco wilted under her glare as Theo winked surreptitiously. "They do. Draco's manners are pleasing enough, despite evidence to the contrary."

Mipsy tittered.

"Ensure he is prepared to court properly, Theodore. I expect every custom to be followed should Dr. Granger be amenable. I'll owl once the details are finalised. Until then, Theodore." A barely-there kiss as she turned to leave. "Draco, I trust you'll use this time to sombrely reflect."

Mipsy followed after a rather pointed look, the doors shutting with a snap of her fingers.

Draco was effectively banished from his childhood home whilst Granger was to be welcomed. His lungs contracted, his breath hitched at the idea. What he wouldn't give to see her in the mornings in the small periwinkle (their entire wing would be redone if she'd have him) breakfast room, hair spilling over her shoulders, silky dressing down slightly undone, her cupid's bow gleaming with a fleck of jam as Draco claimed her mouth, licking the sweetness…

"What's wrong Drakey-boy?" Theo's fingers splayed across his cheeks before slapping, the burn rousing Draco from his daze. "Kneazle got your tongue? Or is it Granger?"

"You're an impossible menace, Nott," Draco detangled from Theo's squid like embrace.

"You're welcome, by the way. It's a privilege to serve as your chaperone."

"This is ridiculous. I'm perfectly capable of doing this on my own."

"Really?" Theo whistled low, eyes mockingly wide. "What are you doing, exactly? Besides double texting and humiliating Hermione? Before this stunt, how exactly did you think you were perfectly capable, hmm?"

"I managed just fine. Granger is…we got off on the wrong foot."

"Did you get her off at all?" Theo's wonder and whimsy contrasted Draco's sturm und drang.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing." Theo inspected his fingernails. "And that's bad news for you. Because if it were worth talking about, I would know."

Draco died a little inside.

"But fear not!" Theo's arm shot up like an arrow, the other reaching around Draco for toast. "Under my experienced tutelage you'll be back in fighting form before you know it. If your mother manages to convince your erstwhile and hopefully future lady love."

Draco's insides roiled with anticipation and fear. What if—no, his mother convinced Mouldy Wart, for fucks' sake. Surely she could parlay with Hermione. And if—when—he saw Hermione, he would convince her of his earnestness, beg forgiveness, kneel if he had to.

Just as he'd knelt that evening, caressing her luscious thighs as he rucked up her dress, revealing the slender garter straps, the fine, silky stockings. He'd suspected for quite some time that Hermione was the altar worthy of his worship, his adoration. He'd nearly wept as he finally, finally saw her; patiently, tenderly kissing every inch of her inner thighs, trailing down to her ankles, nibbling on her calves as the stiletto pressed into his palm. He'd lifted the leg over his shoulder, slipped the gusset aside and buried his face in her glistening, perfect, delicious cunt.

"You can take my eye out with that thing," Theo chewed loudly, eyes fixed on Draco's trousers. "As your chaperone and a married man—"

"You're a polygamist, not some bloody—"

"Our union would be recognised in Finland, wanker. And we're thinking about next June."

"Ah. Felicitations on finding not one but two people willing to put up with you."

"Maybe if you stop double texting we can convince Hermione to put up with you. Now come on! Your mother will have my guts for garters if Hermione sees us."

Before he could protest, Theo petrified and dragged Draco in a most undignified manner toward the Floo.

"You'll thank me for this, I promise."

Ħ

Draco fell to his knees as the whirl of apparation dissipated, hands on her thighs, dress crumpled, rising.

His breath caught as the garter belt was revealed, a wisp of a thing she'd decided on last minute because she absolutely loathed pantyhose.

"Oh, Granger." Reverent. Wondrous. "Thank you." His was the face of a pious worshipper.

Thumbs then circled, spiralled, hands encircled thighs as he leaned forward and kissed each suspender and unclipped them, warm breath in guttered gaps as splayed fingers kneaded, grasped. Now mouth pressed to apex in a reverent kiss, lips parting for a flicker of tongue over silky, black fabric. Face tilting upward in reverence, awaiting benediction. Hermione cupped his ruddy cheek, nodded her assent. Fingers lifting, sliding to reveal her (surely) glistening and neatly trimmed apex as he embraced her, eyes closing as her fingers slid through the soft strands, scratched his scalp.

"You're going to be the ruin of me." He trembled, returning his gaze to her now exposed mons, kissing her sex, mouth open, ravenous.

Hermione harrumphed, dispelling the inappropriate images and closed the crumbling grimoire more gently than she desired. Now her mind whirled with a thousand questions. Her skin felt constricted, magic hissing around her in a vortex. Damn the Malfoys and their rather insistent magic. Eyes closed as it tightened around her like a vise, detonating charges down her spine before withdrawing. This was not good.

The wards were embracing her like a lost child.

Narcissa's eyes glittered like a predator's, though her smile was cool, noncommittal.

"You're welcome to examine it as often as you like, though it cannot leave the estate."

The unsaid hung over the table.

Hermione sat with Lady Narcissa Malfoy and (Lady) Pansy "Parks" Longbottom in the yellow tea room at Malfoy Manor, a snug and well-appointed east facing room decorated in creams, lavenders and yellows, pungent from the surfeit of flowers on every flat surface. A far cry from the dark rooms of her reminiscences. She'd returned, of course, to the Manor for various functions, undeterred by the past and determined to lead the vanguard of change in the overly-conservative (outdated: see also, backward) society which she belonged to by rights. She'd faced down dangers far more fearsome than a (now tastefully renovated, possibly razed) drawing room. Despite rumours to the contrary, she was not afraid of a house, not even a stately and older-than-England manor such as this.

She was, however, relieved that her clear and present danger, Malfoy (junior? Lord?) wasn't gadding about. She'd had enough of his displays and outpourings of 'affection': sabotaging her press conference, barraging her with texts and DMs and gifts; the envoys sent to plead his case.

She remembered to smile as the force of Narcissa's gaze bore a hole in her forehead. "Thank you, Narcissa." She ignored Pansy's pointed stare. "Though that makes further examination difficult."

"You're welcome at any time." Narcissa leaned forward slightly, smile widening. "In fact, you'd be quite welcome to stay."

Hermione bit back a surely rude retort. "A generous offer, and one I must refuse.  I’m quite comfortable in my flat."

Pansy hummed. "It isn't such a bad idea, Granger. Get out of London, away from the press."

It wasn't such a bad idea, Hermione reasoned, resisting the urge to bite Pansy's head off (figuratively). If it weren't for the hungry way Narcissa was watching her. If the wards weren't clinging to her like a bowtruckle, hugging and lapping and prying. If it weren't for the certainty of running into Draco. The probability of falling into his arms—bed—for his manoeuvres again.

She'd evaded, avoided, and ignored Malfoy in the days since the disastrous presser; outsmarted every envoy sent her way (including her current capricious chaperone, who insisted on accompanying her because it was 'custom'). Envoys who pleaded, lobbied, bribed, and in one instance extorted: Theo had had enough of Draco's theatrics and offered to pitch him off a high roof if Hermione was certain of her refusal. Hermione declined (gracefully) the wildly generous offer, consisting mostly of gold and jewellery from the Malfoy vaults, and blessed Theo's theoretical homicidal venture. She would not be swayed. She was unreceptive to parlay. Not after the stunt he'd pulled.

Her career's trajectory continued its precipitous decline; the downward arrow of her assiduously planned ascendancy and success flashing red, indicating danger. Every paper and wizarding wireless station was covering her alleged betrothal to Malfoy instead of the cures Hermione (and her team) had discovered. One would think rolling back the Statute of Secrecy would merit some editorials, perhaps front page coverage. Alas, no. Wizarding society trafficked in gossip, rumour, and salaciousness, and few things were more tantalising than the heir of a storied and formerly disgraced bloodline courting a Muggleborn witch. Not that they were courting.

Obviously.

Pansy had stepped in with Gemma to handle press inquiries, oblivious to Hermione's hand-on approach. In no uncertain terms was she to issue a denial of the claim. That, Pansy argued, would suck the rest of the air out of the proverbial room.

Narcissa too, had offered guidance: say nothing.

"Hermione." Narcissa's tone was pitch-perfect, battle ready. "As the argentosa of House Malfoy, the manor expects, nay, demands, that you be protected. You feel the wards reknitting themselves, don't you? It wouldn't surprise me if the argentosa suite has reappeared at the end of the East corridor."

Pansy coughed theatrically, her tea cup rattling. "Is that what I'm feeling?"

Hermione's throat tightened, swallowed a cynical retort. Nearly sentient homes and the purebloods that loved them.  A sprightly elf in a delicate pinafore stepped forward with a tumbler of whisky, levitating the grimoire away and replacing the vase of robust roses. They smelled of myrrh, of memory; afternoons watching her mother prune the roses, weed the garden.

Gentle Hermione. Mum would murmur, smoothing her curls as she tucked one behind her ear. 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'.

Mum, who'd be over the moon about her accomplishments. Mum and Dad, who were unlikely to fully recover their memories of her. A sharp sigh to dispel the unbidden, pungent tears of remorse. There would be time later, soon, to correct. To cure. The wards stilled, grew heavy, then began to tug. An embrace, a welcome home.

Wait.

"Sorry, did you say a suite has reappeared?" An owlish glance at the witch whose home apparently wanted to keep Hermione.

Again.

"Let's have a look, shall we?"

They followed Narcissa across the gallery, up stairs and down corridors as the house creaked, groaned, whinnied. The drag of stone, the stretch of wood. Well-dressed elves darted (elegantly) around them, chattering excitedly.

Hermione clutched Pansy's hand tightly. "Please tell me I'm having a nightmare."

"Welcome to the 28, darling," drawled the dastardliest Longbottom. "Do you know how many witches would kill for this?"

Heavier scraping now as a boom reverberated through the floors.

"This cannot be happening."

Pansy pulsed her hand gently. "You deserve this and more, darling. Could you try and enjoy it?"

"Here we are!" Narcissa gestured toward a set of double doors which were both ancient and brand new, dust settling at their threshold. "It sealed itself away after Draco's conception."

Pansy and Hermione exchanged a sharp look as Narcissa smiled dotingly.

"We'll have it completely refurbished to your taste, of course, if the Manor hasn't already anticipated what you'd find pleasing."

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "This. Is. Insane."

"Careful dear. The Manor can be a bit tetchy."

Hermione snorted before covering the offending appendage with a hand. "I can't accept this." She was dazed by the preponderance of magic, of custom, of an entire world she'd yet to decipher. A world full of rituals and rites and spells only those from historic lines might access.

A house courting her favour was the shallow end of an unfathomable pool.

The doors swung open, revealing a bright, well-appointed room with thick Aubusson carpets and plush settees, arm chairs and sofas covered in creamy striped damask; light wood tables with stacks of books hovering gently; a gleaming parquet floor, and a fireplace large enough to fit three robust people. A door at the far end led to a corridor, and, Hermione imagined, more opulent rooms. For her.

The Malfoy argentosa.

Pansy's hands ran over the back of the sofa, cooing over the palette and texture as Narcissa waited expectantly.

What could Hermione say that wouldn't at best offend and at worst disappoint Draco's mother? A witch who'd lied to Voldemort and saved Harry's life; a witch who'd done her best to repair what her family's beliefs had nearly broken; who'd made amends repeatedly, and had offered (steadily, gently) Hermione guidance and support, material and emotional, in the past years?

"You mentioned that it's my choice, to be the argentosa. To accept Malfoy—Draco's—suit. What happens if I decline?"

Fear, brief and biting, rippled over Narcissa's face. "Draco will be consigned to a life that would be less vivid, less colourful, less…complete."

"Could Draco die?" Pansy detoured from her survey, pale, wide-eyed. "Granger, you have to consider—"

"He wouldn't die. But he wouldn't thrive."

"This is entirely unfair," Hermione began, for it was. Entirely too much pressure and too much worry over a wizard who surely was cursing his bad luck, his 'bond' to her. Draco Lucius Malfoy, prince of the purebloods, forced to court…her? It was laughable. And she did. She laughed; unevenly, shrilly, and maniacally. The absurdity, the irony of Hermione Granger being Draco Malfoy's true magical match.

"Granger, deep breath." Pansy rubbed smoothing circles on her back as she folded over, panting.

"This…. Absurd. Draco…me…it won't work…I…he is…he…and I…he can't possibly love me." A great sob wracked her.

"There, there," Narcissa was at her side, and together they sat Hermione down as she drew breath raggedly; shed scalding tears.

Everything she'd worked for. Everything she'd done. The sacrifices, the decisions, the stiff upper lip she'd faced the wizarding world with, determined to be taken on her merit. All of it for naught when the arcane could undo it in the blink of an eye. All of it meaningless when bodies communed in lust and kicked off mysteries and rites.

"The argentosa does not mean true love, mon ange. Should you agree to be courted, Draco would, and must, win your affections. He must prove himself worthy of your esteem. As it is, the magic would not have chosen you if you weren't at least slightly predisposed to think well of him. And Draco has always felt something for you. Since Hogwarts. I'd say deep and abiding love is highly probable with some effort at mutual understanding."

Pansy nodded, her hand folding over Hermione's. "I've known Draco's hostility hid something else. He always watched you. Always watches you. Even when you're pretending he doesn't exist."

Pansy and Theo had tried, over the years, to convince Hermione that Draco had adored her for years, a claim she'd steadfastly (painfully) refused to believe. Hermione thought she knew Draco through his contempt and malice, the fear and despair, the remorse and apologies, the ruthless figure he cut as the profligate pureblood prince. She didn't dare fan the embers of her deeply-buried, youthful yen, before prejudice and hatred nearly claimed them all. But the embers were smouldering, had been since their spontaneous encounter. Childish fancies and dreams of true love with a handsome prince raring, champing at the bit, propelling her to wonder if the Draco of reverent worship and indulgent sensuality, of immaculate tastes and broad horizons, the Draco that was erudite, well-read, and well-heeled, could be the match for her.

She thought the war had revealed all their secrets; laid who they were bare. Yet Hermione still played a role to protect her public image. It stood to reason Draco did as well. Perhaps he wasn't who he was with anyone, but could be with her.

And she could be who she really was with him. Draco hadn't shied away, proclaimed her too much. He'd given as good as he'd got (none of that now!) There was more to him, just as there was more to her.

"When you first came to this house, when Bella…" Narcissa smoothed her hair. "Draco was beside himself. I forced him to occlude lest he draw suspicion to himself, to his regard for you."

That night remained a blur in Hermione's recollections, the searing pain of a cursed blade, crazed laughter from a great distance, receding as a thick blanket cocooned her. It was her brain, she now knew, dissociating, protecting her.

"That night in the drawing room, he protected you with legilimency." Narcissa cupped Hermione's chin. "Do you understand? Even then he hoped to keep you safe however he could. The house remembers. As do I."

"I don't want him to court me because of some ritual bond. I want to be wanted. To be loved for my self." Hermione shook her head. "If I agree, how will I ever know it was because of who I am, not what I could bring to his house?"

"The bond couldn't have formed without a foundation. If you hated him, or he hated you, or wished you ill, you would not be the argentosa."

The silence sat heavily on Hermione's chest, her heartbeat thumping so loudly she was certain the other witches could hear it. A cool touch, a gentle caress of the wards. Comforting. Assuring. Affirming. She couldn't deny there was something there, had been since the first day she saw him. It was complicated, and layered, but present.

And the timing couldn't be worse.

"I'll have to think about this, Narcissa." Hermione wiped away her tears roughly. "The next phase of vaccine development requires my full attention. The medical collaborative will require tons of travel, and—"

An explosion of coruscating light filled the room as Harry's stag patronus and Kingsley's lynx erupted through the wards. Hermione stood quickly, wand at the ready as the stag approached her. War and life as a high profile Muggleborn had instilled a keen muscle memory.

"The lab in Cambridge has just received a bomb threat, and we've intercepted a plot against your life. Kingsley says if you leave your current location you'll be making vaccines from Azkaban. Your flat’s being checked for explosive devices. Don't worry, Crooks is on his way. Lady M, please adjust Floo access for Ronald Weasley. Thank you."

"Narcissa, apologies for skipping our social preamble. I trust you'll forgive me. Your esteemed guest is to be kept there until further notice. I trust your wards have been reinforced to their former standards. H, as your Minister I order you to remain at the Manor until further notice."

"Godric's sake! This is why we can't have nice things!" Hermione's hair crackled with magic, her face alight with furious indignation. "I won't be intimidated."

"This is the safest place to be." Narcissa gripped her hand tightly as an elf joined them with a pop.

"A Weasley, milady! And a Kneazle!"

The witches turned toward the steady footfall from the corridor.

"Argh!"

Hermione sighed in exasperation. Ron Weasley, former (very short term) boyfriend and current dear friend stopped outside the doors, a confused look on his face, a hissing bundle of Crookshanks in his arms. "Come in, Ron, and tell me what the hells is going on!"

Crooks leapt out of his (enemy's) arms and bound into the room with a displeased meep before curling around Hermione's feet.

"I can't go in, there's a ward or summat on the doors!"

"Ah, yes." Narcissa sounded infinitely pleased. She scratched Crookshanks head, which he welcomed most irregularly. "Only witches are permitted in the argentosa suite. It's meant to be a haven, a refuge."

"That is—" Pansy sucked her teeth.

"Why on Earth…" Hermione smoothed the furrow of her brow, biding for time, patience. Understanding. Pureblood customs were so outdated. Sexist! Homophobic! Ableist!

"What about my colleagues? Friends? Am I to live here shuttered away like some bloody princess in a bloody tower?" Tone now a full octave higher than her usual register, Hermione resisted the urge to stomp her foot in frustration.

We must work on your tells, darling.

Even Malfoy Manor was an annoying, insufferable—

"Harry owes me five quid," Ron beamed, carding a hand through his hair. "And Susan owes me ten. I bet them both you wouldn't be able to resist the pointy prince."

Pansy clapped her hands. Narcissa hummed, head canting.

"Lady Malfoy, could the elves get me some tea? I'm gaspin'."

Narcissa turned to Hermione, wand grip now relaxed, and smiled.

Triumphantly.

Chapter Text

Dearest Draco,

I hope this letter finds you well, though it would be unnecessary if you visited more than occasionally. Your mother does keep me apprised, for which I am most grateful.

Our last visit ended on a bitter note. Words were exchanged, harsh and merited. I was reminded, most enthusiastically, that I could've done better by you. As I am learning, your feelings are completely valid, and I apologise for my failings. The times change, and I must as well. A parent's charge is to do better for their children than they had done unto them.

I am trying.

If I had heeded your mother's advice regarding certain misguided and utterly inappropriate (and incorrect) beliefs, I would not be writing to you from a lonely, dank cell.

It is in the spirit of being better that I write. Indulge your old father, for though I have failed you, I love you and will forever strive to earn back your trust, faith, and love.

I have disavowed that pernicious ideology that blinded me, that narrowed my perspective so detrimentally. Your mother's love saved me, and forever shall I be indebted for her saving our son.

When your mother was chosen as my argentosa, I resisted. I thought I was enamoured of another witch. Your mother, a gem amongst witches, was also smitten by another wizard.

She refused me and I was relieved. I was too intimidated by her power, her wisdom; her beauty, her sheer force of will. I knew she would challenge my beliefs, disapprove. I was ill-prepared to follow her lead. And she did not think too kindly of me, of my beliefs, of my associations, of our forebears.

We were so young, and so certain that our mutual disregard would nullify the argentosa bond. We thought the magic would be 'forced’ to select an argentosa who would be better suited, and better disposed, toward me.

It was a folly. The time we lost with one another. My 'attachment' to the other witch soon revealed itself to be insipid, superficial. Colour bled from the world. My thoughts were soon consumed by memories of your mother; her tinkling, merry laugh; the pink of her cheeks when she was being coy; how she excelled in charms; her sparkling wit and repartee.

I despaired. I'd rejected one of the boons I was to receive in my life.

With utmost humility, I applied to your mother, begged her forgiveness. Humbled, laid bare, I resigned myself to a life of mediocrity should she refuse. Did I deserve her? No.

I still ask myself this question, after all of these years.

But your mother, most gracious, most fair, replied in the affirmative. She would accept my suit. Less than two years later, I was the happiest wizard on earth, holding the second boon, my son, as my good lady wife rested in our marital bed.

Now I learn I am to receive a third boon: a daughter, and a brilliant cunning witch. The brightest witch of her age, my dragon! An accomplished healer whose boundless heart, generosity, courage, and intelligence are the stuff of legend. A beauty of grace and considerable acumen. Congratulations, my son! Our family is twice blessed in this century with an argentosa. Twice favoured. Twice forgiven.

Your match with Miss Granger is our new beginning; an opportunity to reimagine, re-vision what it means to be magical. All magical beings are sacred. I know this now.

You must be circumspect, Draco, and heed your mother's counsel. You must follow Dr. Granger's directives, attune yourself entirely to her needs and desires, anticipating them so that she may never want or need.

Permit me a bit of advice which may serve you to court the lovely and worldly Miss Granger. She is of both worlds, so seek instruction on the courting rituals of the non-magical. Combine it with Wickersham and she will delight in your attention to detail, your respect for her background, and your receptivity to learning more. Nothing too rakish, or overly vulgar. Her comfort is your concern and your pleasure to provide.

I adjure you to study the non-magical methodologies, learn their customs. Perhaps your chaperones (I trust young Lord Nott is worldly enough to guide you, and Mr. Zabini's continental inclinations would serve you well) could recommend restaurants, sites of interest or historical significance which might appeal to Miss Granger.

Ensure that your vestments are pleasing to her sensibilities. In my experience, a well-made wand harness that contours one's torso is a necessary accoutrement. Your mother was…delighted by one I had made in Paris: black dragonhide, shoulder to shoulder. The left side contoured my shoulder most elegantly with its wide cut, tapering like a waistcoat, whilst the right side belted under my arm and around my waist, delineating my athletic figure.  I certainly wore it often, as your mother enjoyed both its donning and removal. It likely contributed to your conception. You might also consider pairing it with 7" inseam dragonhide shorts. I have several pairs that might serve you well. Alternately, Culotte Cors in Rue de Tentente should be able to tailor something quickly.

It is stored in a red velvet box of my second wardrobe, in the summer suite. Henri should be able to find it for you.

I congratulate you again, dear boy, and send Dr. Granger my fond regards as well as my hope that she may, one day, grant me the favour of an audience, an opportunity to start over and express my admiration and sincere joy in welcoming her to our family.

I am proud of you, Draco, and trust you will carry yourself in a manner befitting the love and care with which you are surrounded. You are being called to become the best version of yourself you can possibly be, and with Miss Granger as your bride you will encompass all that is bright and wondrous of our worlds.

I am certain your courtship of Dr. Granger will be faultless, and I hope, should she be amenable, to see both of you soon, at a time of her choosing and convenience. I am most eager to hear her thoughts for the revisioning of our House and the restoration of our good, true name.

Lady Hermione Granger-Malfoy! The Golden Girl united with the Malfoys. A blessed moment in our history.  I eagerly anticipate holding the brilliant and beauteous progeny you are destined to have with this most singular witch.

 May you endeavour always to earn and keep her favour and love, honour her requests and counsel.

It is my deepest regret to have disregarded the counsel of my argentosa. Do not let it be yours.

Hark your mother and argentosa, dear boy, and all of your dreams will come true.

Your Affectionate Father,

LAM

Chapter Text

Ch. 11  

"We could go to Culotte Cors but CushTush would be much more convenient." Theo chuckled and passed the parchment to Potter. "Charlie has several pairs of delightfully short—"

"Oi! That's my brother, you git." Weasel masticated, swiping a hand roughly over his mouth. "Things between couples should stay, you know. Private."

"Throuple, Ronald Bilious. And how many times have I provided detailed, expert advice on handling the voluptuous Mrs. Weasley? Just last week I tutored you on cunn—"

"Desist." Draco bit out, even as he imagined Granger's lovely, plump arse in short shorts bending forward, taunting him with her gaze. He sighed melodramatically. If only Theo's kidnapping had been delayed by half an hour, he would've been consigned to the Manor along with Granger, instead of at Nott's. The timing was a cosmic joke, further punishment for the many sins Draco had committed.

"--ing manoeuvres to please your ball and chain. Heavy on the chain." Theo's wand began the distinctive summoning movements. Clothes (a loose term, they were at best strips of fabric, at worst articles most midnight ballerinas would refuse) flitted through the doors into Theo's hands, which he distributed with flicks of his wrist.

Ron's cheeks flamed nearly as red as his hair, maw enveloping the (hopefully) last bits of sandwich provided by Nott's overly attentive elves. 

Draco scowled into his whisky. Two days as Nott's captive and he was at the end of his proverbial rope. He'd yet to forgive Theo's unceremonious (unwarranted) petrification and subsequent kidnapping. His mother had meant for Draco to be kept away whilst she convinced Granger to accept his suit, not separated from his argentosa indefinitely. Surely not.

Theo, as always, had obliged over theatrically. 

"Lucius Malfoy, the original Leather Daddy," Theo trilled as he tossed a pair of ‘shorts’ at Draco. "The old man's still got it. I reckon Narcissa can't wait for him to come home."

"I'm not taking advice from mon pere, you blithering dolts." Draco gritted his teeth.

"Didn't Monty wear those leather thingies once? Mi's always liked that sort of thing. Krum wore—"

"You're here in an official capacity. Why are you opining?" Draco was down the last vestiges of his sanity.

Shacklebolt had insisted on protection for everyone associated with Granger and Weasley had volunteered expediently.  Unable to turn down a free meal and always available to humiliate Draco, the Weasel enjoyed the hospitality afforded by households such as Nott's. The last few days meant Draco had spoken to the Weasel more than he liked, and the Weasel's affability indicated he liked Draco more than Draco preferred. 

Had Draco not suffered enough? He considered setting Nott's gaudy drawing room on fire, but he'd need his wand for that. How was taking his wand and assigning him the least Weasley ‘protection’? Besides, the threats were for Granger, not him. He clenched his jaw, uncomfortable at the thought it was likely his fault for being brash.

"I'm protecting you against threat and harm, Malfoy." Ron belched for emphasis as he incendio'd a stray Howler. "See?"

What in hells had Hermione seen in this ill-bred buffoon?

Some forced proximity with Granger could've worked wonders. If Draco were at the Manor, he'd have arranged accidental run-ins, invited Granger for long walks on the demesne. They'd enjoy tea in the rose gardens. Granger might have permitted him to run her baths, massage her surely tense muscles. Perhaps she'd allow him to comb her hair, form the ringlets and curls patiently with his fingers, with special attention to that sliver of silver that declared she was his, as she relaxed in the hot water, tantalising nipples peeking through the bubbles…

He patted the front of his joggers. Draconus needed to calm down. Blaise caught the movement, his brow furrowing in amusement.

Two days of silence emanating from Malfoy Manor did nothing to ease Draco's discomfort. Other than a brief message sent with Potter and The Weasel's whingeing about being warded out of the argentosa suite he'd heard nothing else. Draco imagined Granger must've accepted his suit if the Manor made her a suite of rooms. 

Bound in silver indeed. At least Granger was safe.

"Good one, Ron," Potter half-heartedly thumbs up.

"Mediocrity reigns supreme." 

"Chaps," Blaise motioned for silence.  "I think we all agree Draco's in desperate need."

"Hear, hear," Theo chimed in, continuing his scraps perusal. "Daddy Lu has made some points, Draco darling. Narcissa is fierce, Hermione just as. And those of us gathered here today know Hermione very, very well." He waggled his eyebrows toward Ron, who smirked.

"I am not desperate." Draco seethed.

Blaise ignored him and turned his attention to Potter, currently sprawled on one of the overstuffed sofas Theo insisted 'made the room'.  "You've known Hermione a long time, does Lord Malfoy's advice make sense?"

"Are you asking if Hermione would like a man in slutty shorts?" 

Ron winced. "She tried it on with me, yeah."

Theo cackled. "I am an ardent proponent of the slutty shorts agenda."

Draco would be damned if he took courting advice from this troupe of miscreants. With the exception of Blaise, none of them had the requisite expertise. Potter had married Ginevra several years ago without even bothering to take his Chosen One moniker out for a ride. Weasley had succumbed to the charms of Susan Bones after Hermione and he parted ways. Theo was an inveterate scoundrel and polygamist, flitting from one 'relationship' to another. Charlie and Luna were barely enough to sedate the man, who disavowed monogamy with his every step.

And Blaise? Blaise always succeeded when out on the pull with Draco, though he maintained a wall of total privacy related to said successes. In their decades long friendship, Draco'd only met two of the witches Blaise had beguiled.

"All wix love slutty shorts, it's a fact of life." Theo clinked his tumbler against Potter's. "If memory serves, there was one shopping excursion where Ginevra purchased several pairs of jean shorts which she said she'd diffindo for her pleasure."

All eyes turned to Potter, who thumb wrestled his hair as he settled into a sitting position. "Yeah, the slutty jorts. Useful when Ginny's in a strop." He shrugged his shoulders and held Malfoy's gaze. "Hermione gave her the idea. Something about John Revolta and being perfect."

"OH! I know that one!" Theo clapped excitedly as he rose from his chair. "Bulky, brash reporter dons cut off joggers and cropped shirts to seduce his lady love. He was indeed perfect."

"We could set you up right now—"

"These joggers cost more than your house, Weasley."

"Eat slugs." Ron's attention returned to his replenished tray of snacks. "Hope the next Howler has some doxy venom, or Nundu—"

"Ron." Potter's rebuke was half-hearted. "Look Malfoy, you're the one trying to convince Hermione to give you a chance. We might know what we're talking about."

"Draco, baby. My little strudel." Theo cocked his hip, visage serious. "Dr. Hermione Granger takes everything seriously. She is the best at what she does, and demands the best for herself. You've spent the last decade or so wasting your considerable charms on witches who were satisfied with whatever you decided to offer. Hermione doesn't want or need your usual, Draco. Ergo, you need to step up your game. Therefore, the advice we give, knowing her so well, can only help you. Capisce?"

"I refuse to understand, actually." Draco's grumbled. "You—" a forefinger waggled in Weasley's general direction. "were unsuccessful at holding Granger's affections, never mind satisfying in any other way." The image of a shapely thigh draped over his shoulder flashed before him. His mouth watered.

"Oi!"

Draco's forefinger aligned to Potter. "Your experience is rather limited, so shan't."

He arched an eyebrow at Blaise. "You might have valuable contributions."

"Cheers, mate," Blaise chortled into his tumbler.

"What about me?" Theo gestured wildly, sending an arsenal of clothing in Draco's direction. 

Draco made a moue of disdain. "You're advocating I wear rags to impress a witch who, and I quote, ‘only wants the best.' "

"They're not rags, and your father is also advocating. But fine, wear what you want to the dinner later. Do what you want at the dinner later. Let's see how Hermione and Lady M receive you."

Dinner? Neither his mother nor Hermione had replied to his messages after Theo's abduction and forced sequestration. Mobile(s) and wand confiscated, elves and owls restricted and messages being reviewed by Theo or Blaise, Weasley's stupid wards in addition to Theo's quietly vicious spell work left Draco mostly isolated, very much aggrieved, and slightly apprehensive about his ability to win Granger’s affections. With little to do but listen to Theo's invective laced admonitions or Blaise's solemnly delivered refreshers on Wickersham (really, 1758 fell out of favour ages ago, why Mother thought it necessary for his affaire de coeur eluded him). Draco didn't need any help with seduction. He was a master of the dark art. He knew how to speak to witches, how to affect the air of rapt attention; he knew how and when to question, to affirm; when to lean in, or away. Every aspect of his presence was thoroughly considered and meticulously presented. Was it his fault that Granger had somehow developed an immunity toward his (multifaceted, generous) array of charms? Then again, she had responded (succumbed) that one night (half-day) to his appeal. And how responsive she'd been.

Draco lapped at her essence, starved, feral, until she'd begged for respite. Which Draco had provided by laying her down. He'd slowly, tenderly, gently removed her clothing, unwrapping her like a gift. He'd removed her stockings, kissing and licking the revealed skin. He'd bitten the arch of her foot then massaged it slowly as travelled back up calf, thigh, hip before traversing her soft abdomen as she'd watched, gimlet-eyed to repeat the process. "Take off your clothes." She'd commanded and Draco had obeyed readily, hungrily as her eyes raked over him and he positioned himself, weight resting on forearms as she'd caressed and kissed his chest before Draco captured her ripe mouth. Hermione was a sensory delight; perfect to taste and touch and hear and smell; divinity embodied; Amortentia in the flesh. She was made for him, he'd thought, as she'd writhed beneath him when he'd removed the lacy balconette and worshipped those glorious, gods given tits.

What was that Muggle adage? If it isn't damaged don't repair it. 

"When am I to dine with Granger?" Draco ensured an even, calm, disaffected tone, reviewing his wardrobe catalogue, cologne options, and coiffure choices.

"We are to dine with Lady M, Pans, Ginevra, Susan, and Hermione tonight."

Draco set down the whisky and smoothed the troublesome little divot from his forehead. He didn't need nor want an audience for his re-encounter with Granger.

"Who is we?" Black tie it was, then. He supposed his set of midnight robes would be appropriate. Perhaps he'd inquire what Granger was wearing and try to coordinate. The matched waistcoat might find favour.

"Blaise and I will chaperone, whilst Neville, Potter and Ronald accompany their wives. A lovely little gathering."

"Absolutely not," Draco made his way to the Floo and looked at Theo expectantly. "I need to go to the flat and begin my ablutions. Unlike some of us," A pointed glare at the Weasel and Potter. "I care about my appearance."

"That won't be necessary." A garment bag whistled into Blaise's hands. "I've already selected your outfit in accordance with Lady Malfoy's directives."

"I refuse to dine with that," Draco nodded toward the Weasel, who was mid-gorge. "One would hope that some of our graces had permeated into his skull."  He envisioned the evening already: seating arrangements hopelessly informal, distance maximised between himself and Granger; the suave, circumlocutory politesse demanded by decorum; the maddening mastication of the Weasel.

"You'll be chaperoned and you'll like it," Theo had the audacity to sing as the Weasel and Potter laughed. 

"We're your babysitters, Malfoy, get used to it."

Draco landed a wandless stinging hex on the ginger before Potter bound his hands with a swish of his wand. 

"Absolute effrontery!" Draco lunged as Potter sidestepped neatly. Too neatly for someone who'd been imbibing. Chosen Git indeed.

"Let me guess? Your father will hear about this?" Potter's approximation to his drawl was unnerving.

Snorts of appreciation from the room. Draco reconsidered his plight as the bind released itself. The spell would be handy if Granger was into—

"We know you're desperate to see Hermione," Theo crooned as Draco slumped into the closest arm chair." We're here to help you despite your recalcitrance." He tousled Draco's hair roughly. 

Weasley snorted rather wetly, a consequence of a mouth packed with food. "You need to sort out your priorities." He nodded sagely, coughing as he swallowed. 

" She's had a thing for you for years," Potter muttered. "Even when you were an absolute prick—"

"A tosser even, a gobshite, a—"

"The point's made, you intolerable lout." 

"This is exactly your problem, yeah? Talking down to everyone." Ron stood, setting his plate down.

Draco stood, rolled his left shoulder forward and tucked his right elbow in. 

Blaise stepped between them. "Gentlemen, and all gathered here are indeed gentlemen. Friends even."

Draco scoffed in concert with Ron's scowl. 

"Acquaintances, perhaps."

"We play Quidditch every second Sunday. One of your best mates is marrying my brother! My mother knits you a jumper every Yule. My wife thinks you're brilliant. You play with our kids!  Hermione sees right through all your shite. I know my friend, yeah? You need to get real. No one likes a dickhead."

"He's got a point, Draco," Blaise handed him the garment bag. "We've dealt with you forever and are inured to your…" A hand waved in Draco's direction. "Just be yourself with Hermione."

"Your best self," Theo added unhelpfully.

"We're here to help you. Because we're your friends." Potter whistled at the garment bag. "We really, really like you, Drakeypoo."

"And we want Hermione to like you again, you impossible git." Ron smacked his lips.

"Again?" Draco asked before he could stop himself. His curiosity was piqued, Granger's repeated assertions that she liked nothing about him replaying for his review. "When, how?"

"I'd say at least second year, right Harry?" Ron stuffed a macaroon into his mouth.

"Second year?" Draco thought back to how horrible he'd been, even as he'd watched her from a distance.

"Definitely third year, she went on and on about you." Potter's stare was unnerving.

"Third year?" Draco's voice was a few notes higher than usual as he backed away. There was no way in hells Granger could possibly have liked him at all. The first time she’d deigned to touch him. He shuddered.

"Remember how she defended him in sixth year? How Malfoy wasn't a Death Eater, he was much too intelligent for that?" Ron's mimicry of Granger's dulcet voice made Draco's fingers twitch.

What did Potter and the Weasel mean by lying so outrageously? It was impossible Granger had thought of him kindly during their Hogwarts days. Even, well, up until their glorious encounter, she'd been distant if civil. She couldn't stand him! She'd assured him repeatedly as she'd straddled him, her ardent, vise-like cunt milking him, her hands wrapped around his neck, her mouth enveloping his own. I can't stand you, Malfoy…promise me I'll never have to see you again…you're insufferable…

Draconus twitched in remembrance. Draco was burning up. He needed to see Granger, talk to her, apologise, tell her he'd watched her all those years, too. Well, that sounded creepy. But he'd been curious, captivated. How he'd been tempted after the trial to invite her to dinner. How he'd held back, afraid of damaging her reputation. 

Tonight was his opportunity to come clean, to persuade. Perhaps he'd convince his mother to let him stay at the Manor, be close to Granger. He felt unwell, uneasy, and had done since the press conference, where he'd gone too far. Draco had much to atone for. Perhaps if they hadn't wasted so much time, the bond would've presented earlier. 

Draco would put his best foot forward. He'd show Granger how amenable he was; he'd do whatever she asked. Perhaps they'd adjourn to the library after dinner to talk privately. He ran his thumb over the signet ring. Yes, if Granger permitted, they could do much more than talk in the library. She'd love that, the gorgeous little swot.

Draco smiled. "I'll take your slutty shorts suggestions under advisement." He lifted the garment bag. "It's probably best not to tempt Mother's displeasure tonight."

Potter nodded. "Yeah, slutty jorts are probably the last thing Lady M wants at her dinner table."

"Not according to Lucius." Theo crossed his arms. "But the harness could work, hmm?"

"Your mother certainly enjoyed its donning and removal," Blaise intoned.

"Enough," Draco warned, though it lacked venom. His mind was too busy envisioning Granger's eyes on him as his chest strained against the harness. If only he could summon Mipsy or Henri, they'd bring the harness now.

He had two hours to get ready, just enough time to ensure he looked his best. Granger would be bowled over, impressed, ready (hopefully) to forgive. Draco would be the consummate gentleman until she begged him not to be. And then? He'd comply, obviously. Just as everyone advised. 

Granger was about to see (and feel) just how amenable Draco Lucius Malfoy could be to get his way.

Ħ

"Absolutely not," Hermione scoffed as Pansy held up another ridiculously formal dress. "How am I expected to be comfortable in that thing? Does it even have pockets?"

Pansy glared as she brought an elegantly manicured hand to her hip, the velvet black couture dress highlighting her angles and curves perfectly. "You're a witch, aren't you? And it's a formal dinner, Granger. Just because you live here now doesn't mean you can show up in an oversized jumper and socks."

Crookshanks yowled in (dis)agreement as he wound through Hermione's legs before settling on the oversized bed. 

The last few days had been enlightening and infuriating. Narcissa was an excellent hostess, and the Manor was welcoming, protective even.  They'd spent hours huddled together over the grimoire as Narcissa shared bon mots about various Malfoy and Black witches, keen to impart the family history. And Narcissa asked questions about Hermione's family, encouraging her to begin her own grimoire and save it for posterity, for her future children. Hermione winced, certain that Narcissa's future orientation was focused on Hermione's children with Draco, but refused to entertain the uncharitable thought any further. 

After the trial, she and Narcissa had developed a warm friendship via correspondence. Hermione had learned much about the inestimable Lady Malfoy, about her upbringing and marriage to Lucius, about the choices she'd made to protect her family during Voldemort’s rise (and fall). Hermione found she had much more in common with Narcissa than she'd ever imagined. Soon their correspondence became regular lunches at private, upscale clubs, away from the public eye and right under Malfoy's nose. 

Hermione was able to finally unburden herself. Harry and Ron were good friends, and Ginny was amazing, but she often censored herself, happy as they were to move on, to heal. But Narcissa understood the difficult choices she'd made during the war. Narcissa was certain her parents would forgive Hermione, that they'd understand. Narcissa had scavenged the Malfoy library for counter spells, charms, and potions. Narcissa gave Hermione the certainty she'd reverse the obliviation. With Narcissa, Hermione could be herself, both the good and the not so good or not so easily understood.

Hermione knew the heaviness of heart Narcissa carried at being separated from her husband, but not once did Narcissa try to justify or absolve his wrongdoing. "His choices led him there, nothing else. We soldier on."

Yet, for all she'd confided, Hermione found herself dancing around the edge of her complicated feelings toward Malfoy, unable to articulate and unwilling to endanger the friendship with his mother. While Narcissa had disavowed (and never truly believed) blood purist ideology, Hermione assumed the expectations with which Narcissa was raised still figured in her considerations around her future daughter-in-law. 

The last few days had completely disabused her of any concern on the Pureblood wife front. Narcissa's adamance and utter delight at Hermione being chosen as the argentosa was unparalleled, her disappointment and disgust with Draco's behaviour clear. 

"Make him earn the right to court you, Hermione. Accept nothing but his best for you are the best. It is your right. Bend him to your will." To have Narcissa Malfoy on your side was empowering. To be under Narcissa Malfoy's protection was comforting.

The Manor conspired with Narcissa, its wards accommodating to the security threat immediately. Kingsley had kept them abreast of the investigation, and Harry had promised her Muggle colleagues were safe, with both Ministries working together even as the next phase of vaccine production came to a halt. 

Hermione was confounded by the ignorance which greeted scientific breakthroughs in both worlds, the malice. She'd long grown accustomed to being in the public eye, the most highly visible Muggleborn, the Golden Girl. But she'd not been prepared for the vitriol her (team's) achievement inspired. 

Her anger with Malfoy dissipated then surged as she considered every angle. She was infuriated by his thoughtlessness, his cavalier approach to sharing the life altering news that she was his magical match. His flamboyance had brought further scrutiny and attention from a wizarding public that was still grappling with its past. And the 'loss' of a pureblood scion to a Muggleborn was anathema to certain parties in certain circles.

Parties who were intent, apparently, on mayhem. Perhaps if he'd been less ostentatious, less concerned with getting his own way, Hermione would be working quietly in the lab now, ensuring the pox vaccines were ready for mass production. This thing between her and Draco should've remained a private matter.

Now the entire (wizarding) world knew about her and Draco's entanglement. There were scurrilous articles and theories about how she'd used her charms to wrangle large donations and ministerial support. Gossip columns fervently detailed her entire history (again), poking and prodding. Some suggested she'd resorted to dark arts to inveigle Malfoy, as if she had the time, patience or inclination to control someone as rakish and wilful as Draco Lucius Malfoy. 

She was still angry at herself for relenting to the old feelings, the youthful attraction toward an objectively attractive wizard. She was furious that he'd resorted to very public antics instead of mature and discreet behaviour. Why didn't he invite her out for dinner?  A movie? All of the years they'd spent orbiting one another, and not once had he given any indication he…reciprocated those complicated, fledgling feelings. Instead, Malfoy had scorched a scandalous path through the witches of the Northern Hemisphere, (evidently) intent on bedding and bailing on any witch who succumbed to his well-practiced charms. And she was just one of many.

She gritted her teeth and refused to ponder the heat of his mouth on her thigh, the stretch of his fingers in her sex as he'd licked and sucked her clitoris until she'd screamed; how his wet tongue had lapped and pressed and flicked across every inch of her body. Just as she'd refused to ponder it every night since that night, but especially since she'd taken refuge (been imprisoned) in his childhood home. He was everywhere inexplicably, though he no longer lived there. Hermione imagined Draco as a child, running through the gallery, sliding down the bannisters, cavorting on the lawn, bringing his dates to impress them with his—

"I've sprouted a grey hair waiting for you. Could you pick one please? Neville will be here shortly and we have some catching up to do." Pansy's eyes glittered with impatience, both hands aloft with the dress selections. 

"Are you hinting that you'll have relations with your husband here?" Hermione's whispered, mostly scandalised. 

It sounded hot, to be honest. Perhaps she and Draco could—

No. There would be nothing hot with Draco Malfoy. She was still too angry with him. Besides, she’d promised Narcissa to put him through the Wickersham protocols. She pressed her thighs together as her sex throbbed sadly.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Why do I have to cover up like some virgin bride? I can practically see your vagina in that dress, Parks."

"Because you're the one being courted, Hermione. And Draco's already seen your vagina, among other attributes." Pansy clucked in faux sympathy. "He's feral as it is, do you really want to rile him up again?"

Yes. Draco with his blood up, feral, desperate, was exactly what Hermione wanted to see. Kneeling in front of her, hand wrapped around her ankle as he draped the other leg over his shoulder, as he lifted her mons with his thumb and pressed before curling his tongue forward and in and over until she'd nearly buckled; his hair tousled, his cheeks crimson, his eyes granite as he gazed up at her, lips glistening with her—

"Fuck's sake. Fine. Idiots in denial are the worst." Pansy tossed the loser on the bed, slashed her wand several times and proffered the redesigned (and perfect) dress. 

Hermione nodded approvingly, cooing at the jade green, soft fabric and held it against her body as she looked in the full length mirror. Her skin glowed, the green picking up the golden undertones of her skin, the amber of her eyes. The bust line was just this side of provocative, and would drape beautifully as she moved. The hemline would land just below her knees and swish as she walked. Perfect. With a flick of her wrist she added a long pocket along the side seam to discreetly tuck her wand and anything else in. 

"Thanks, Pans." 

"Hair loose and curly. Platinum tress obvious, sweep your hair to the left. Forget disarming. Destroy him. Then step on his neck with the black Saedas until he cries."

Hermione cackled, her blood heating at the image of Draco under her heel, literally and figuratively. He'd look good, whimpering, writhing, torso exposed as he held her stilettoed foot, kissing it as she made him wait, perhaps widening her stance so he could see her and grovel further. She knew Draco could grovel and beg. Hadn't he nearly prostrated himself during his apology? 

Monty had never been one for role playing, too enamoured of his masculinity, fragile as it was.

Draco was a bon vivant, worldly enough, wealthy enough and bored enough that he'd likely be persuaded. But Hermione needed to punish him first for his indiscretion. She remembered vividly his reaction that night, how his gaze had marauded, how he’d bitten his lip and licked it as he watched her drink the DRC. How reverently he'd gazed upon her naked body, how delicately he'd removed her clothing before fucking her so savagely she’d gambolled for several days.

Yes, she thought, as she started her ablutions. Draco could use a bit of humbling, and she could use the recalibration of their relationship. She would accept his suit, but only on her terms. And her most pressing term now was to set the tenor of their interactions.

What he’d done at her press conference needed to be addressed and corrected lest he think he could do it again. Narcissa had been quite firm in her guidance, in her advice.

Hermione was the argentosa. She would mete out the pleasure or pain, the heartache or break. Draco Malfoy was too accustomed to getting his way, a bit spoiled, overly pampered. He would be brought to heel.

And this dress would be her whip. 

The gong struck and the Floo lit up. Draco had stumbled through, eager, calling for Henri as he locked eyes with Hermione. Hermione avoided Draco's gaze after coolly greeting him, turning to embrace Theo then Blaise.

Theo whistled low, waggling his eyebrows as he kissed both of her cheeks. "You're making my job very difficult, Curls. Draco's already a tad overstimulated."

“Hermione, you cruel minx,” Blaise had nodded, lips pursed. “This dress guarantees he’ll be an absolute menace.”

And Hermione smiled, already aware. Draco's eyes turned that stormy sea of ravaging, of ruin as soon as he'd seen her. His impeccably tailored midnight suit and robes were nearly austere, but fine, silver and green embroidery on the waistcoat and robes spoke to his fastidiousness. She'd nearly gasped at the glimpse of black, dragonhide strap crossing his chest, tight against his shirt. Hermione loved a bit of leather,  and Malfoy had caught her out.

His jaw clenched as she held out her hand. He'd lingered over her knuckles, the heat of his gaze sweeping over her like a caress, the mouth-watering brandy base note of his cologne tempting her to grab his collar, or bite his bottom lip, and/or grab his harness and pull.

She'd nearly lost her nerve as he pulled her chair out and sat next to her, dismissive of his mother's seating arrangement. Dinner and conversation became a blur when Draco angled his entire body toward her, oblivious to anyone else at the table, ignoring all conversation as he kept up an incessant murmur of apology, praise, and filth. He'd removed his robes, unbuttoned his dinner jacket, allowing her an eye full of dragonhide pulled tautly over his broad chest. She was certain his nipples were hard as well.

Hermione cast a discreet muffliato lest Narcissa become aware of how completely Draco was disregarding her beloved Wickersham. (they were, it was silly really, to adhere to courting rituals nearly four centuries old) Leather. Brandy. Egyptian cotton. Tobacco and citrus. Malfoy was sex on a sexy fucking stick.

She would NOT be lulled, despite his wicked mouth and wicked words and promising wicked...promises.

I'd fuck you on this table if you gave the word. Let me earn my forgiveness, love. Let me beg for it I’d so love to beg for it

I could be so good for you. Let me be good for you, Granger.

Mother is counting all of the babies we'll be giving her once you allow me the honour. I can't wait to fill you up, taste myself inside you. Because that's where I belong isn't? Deep inside your beautiful tight cunt *a tsk, a dramatic eyelid flutter, a lick of the lips*

You and this dress continue to ruin me promise to ride me into the mattress while you wear it ride my face in it please I can’t wait ‘til you cum on my face again, love

He'd even bitten his fist once Hermione turned to him, startled by his promise to lick her knickers clean for dessert. "You're torturing me, Hermione. So close, yet so far." His little finger had brushed the skin of her knee and she'd nearly shot out of her chair and into the stratosphere.

She was (internally, secretly) a mess; her panties sodden by the time the table had been cleared. Narcissa looked too pleased as Draco escorted Hermione to the drawing (not that one) room. Hermione sent her a secret smile and Narcissa nodded approvingly. She looked at Draco, face flushed, hands trembling slightly, pupils dilated as he regarded her. She could do this. She would bring him to heel.

In every way. Even if it hurt at this moment, even as her sex clenched, indignant at being denied.

"Thank you all for coming. I shall be retiring. Hermione?" Narcissa yawned delicately then stared at Hermione, who trembled with want. Draco's sotto voce was gravelly as he cajoled and wheedled to accompany her to the library, to his old suite, to see her argentosa suite. 

Hermione sighed and rose. Draco was dangerous, seductive and alluring enough to make her consider forgetting her plan. Draco and his sensory and intellectual prowess. He was witty, clever, funny in a dark, dry way. She was enthralled by how his mind worked, summiting the heights of academic acumen precisely and diving into the depths with a whispered, fervent promise. Draco always had the perfect reply, the right question. And yet, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that despite everything that was transpiring between them, Draco was still playing some role.

I can't wait to kneel before you again 

I need you to wear those heels while you ride me, Granger

"Good night, Draco," She managed evenly despite the state of her uncomfortably wet knickers, ignoring the slickness of her thighs, how her breasts were heavy with want.

"I'll escort you to the suite. After all, I'm rather curious how the Manor managed it. Surely it's fine, Mother." He looked nearly innocent as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, forefinger stroking the sensitive skin of her inner arm. Tongues of flame, memories of his tongue and hers, his tongue on her, inside her.

Oh, he was good.

Narcissa relented, a smile playing on her lips, her eyes fixed on Hermione’s. She strengthened her resolve. Hermione had allowed physiology and emotional overwhelm to circumvent logic once before. She didn’t regret it, but Narcissa’s advice clanged in her ears and heart. Draco needed to be set right, corrected.

Up they climbed as Theo and Blaise awaited Draco in the Floo parlour. Draco who had the audacity to wink at Theo as he ascended, safe that his ‘prize’ was won. Draco kissing his mother tenderly at her rooms before turning to Hermione wolfishly, certain she’d relent.

Hermione's pulse quickened as their steps slowed, as Draco slipped an arm about her waist and pulled her close, lifting her chin until their eyes met, the heat of his body burning her through with want. With craving.

"Hermione, thank you for forgiving me," his eyes batted slowly as they drifted to her mouth and back. "Thank you for wearing this dress, those heels." He leaned closer, his breath warm and sweet. “For wearing your hair down.” He pulled gently on the platinum curl before tucking it behind her ear. "Abounding in silver." His voice was silky, seductive. 

Hermione nipples tightened as he pressed her into his chest, as his mouth grazed her cheek. Gods she was furious with him, had planned to make him pay, bring him to heel. A few raunchy whispers and well-practiced manoeuvres and she was folding like a chair. 

"May I kiss you?" he spoke against her skin, vibrating to her pelvis.

Gods, she could do it, fulfil her insatiable want for this man who infuriated and stimulated her. Who cared about Wickersham, about what people said or thought? The times were changing, had changed, and the world already knew they'd—

Hermione stiffened and closed her eyes.

Yes, the world already knew.

Because Draco had Draco'd all over her press conference.

She pulled out of his embrace and sucked her teeth, fists clenching at her sides as she forced herself to smile softly. Gently. Kindly.

"We mustn't, as you know, Draco." She stepped closer to the doors that led to her suite. The suite she was confined to because the deliciously sexy, wickedly virile man standing in front of her with his heaving chest and stupid eyelashes had riled up the wrong people.

"Hermione," he whispered, closing the distance quickly with his long, muscular legs. 

Hermione stepped through the doors, adamant that she would refuse him, despite what her physiological response was. This time, she was in control. And it would remain that way.

"Good night, Draco." 

A pull, an oscillation of the air as the Manor groaned awake and the doors slammed in Draco's surprised, slightly aggrieved face.

“Closing the door only makes me want you more,” he declared shakily. He was trying to convince himself. "Promise you'll think about me when you’re in bed. Because I'll be thinking about you, Hermione." A sigh. Long. Loud. Dramatic. A click of bespoke shoes against marble as he stepped back from the doors.

Hermione leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and let out a shaky exhale as the sound of Draco’s steps grew further away.

She would not think of the heat of his mouth or the scent of his skin or the stretch of his cock or how slutty and sexy he looked kneeling, licking her slick of his fingers, how that juicy bottom lip of his glistened with her essence, how he groaned when she told him to disrobe. She would NOT think about him thinking about her later. 

She refused, her hand drifting between her legs, her sex now throbbing, in need of release.

She was The Hermione Granger.

Draco Lucius Malfoy had finally met his true match.

Chapter Text

We mustn't as you know, Draco

We mustn't

We

We WE WE WE WE WE WE 

Draco's head rattled like a basket of clabberts, Hermione's words reverberating, looping. A morning spent in Muggle London chaperoned by Theo and Blaise and escorted by the bottomless stomach that was Ronald Weasley did little (exacerbated) to soothe his slightly frazzled nerves, ease the sensation of failure which had permeated his being in the days (twelve, if one were counting) since dinner at the Manor. He clung to that we like a man drowning. There had to be hope. 

Hope compelled him to purchase several pairs of shorts Theo deemed acceptably slutty. We held his tongue as his trio of babysitters rehashed his every misstep, every overreach. Hope bade him wait as he counted the minutes until his return to the Manor. To Granger.

Draco had borne nearly two weeks of reprimands, insults and chastisement from his 'friends' and his mother, whose strongly worded letter decried his modern machinations and declared him persona non grata until he 'remembered his manners and place'.

Draco felt distinctly unwell, morose with a touch of ennui, melancolie. It was steadily worsening.  Draco was beginning to suspect that he was perhaps a teensy weensy bit, ever so slightly, falling for Granger. Fallen. Done for.

Draco strained under the weight: the endless self-recrimination, the disorienting distance from Hermione, the smothering silence. At least his wand had been returned. It was unnatural and cruel to be parted from both his argentosa and his magic. Hand to his chest he cradled it in his palm, the familiar comfort of his core now thrumming with something different, a crackling filament, a new note, a different tenor. He imagined pulling on it, winding it tightly around him. Hermione.

Nearly two agonising weeks since he'd held, smelled, spoken with and heard Hermione Granger. Interminable nights at Nott’s were spent deconstructing their encounters. An eternity of ignoring that inexorable pull toward Wiltshire, toward her. 

At least his torture was nearly over. Soon they’d be in Wiltshire. Draco would do better, be better this time.  Gods, he was a mess. He lit a cigarette and pulled deeply, disregarding Theo’s disapproving glare.

Weasley resumed his nattering. "And wot were you thinking with all that whispering, Malfoy? No way that was Wickersham. Mum would've hexed me blue if she heard me courting like that."

Blaise arched an eyebrow and turned to regard the Weasel. "You're familiar with Wickersham?"

"Of bloody course I am. My mum taught us Wickersham, and it's all you bloody gits talk—"

"You've no idea what we were discussing, Weasley. Not that you could've possibly heard."

"Mate, she was blushing. I know her. And I am an Auror. I can read body language."

Draco scoffed.

"You fooled no one, Draco dear. And Curls' muffliato is her one weakness. Even I caught some snippets."

"Yeah, snippets of you begging." Ron muttered.

"Brutal, mate. Thirsty, were you?" Blaise chuckled as he scrubbed a hand over his cheek.

"What can I say? Granger is sublime and compels my adoration," Draco managed with just enough bite, taking another drag of the cigarette. "My conversational skills have never been found wanting, I assure you."

Blaise and Theo shook their heads.

Weasley's tone became wistful. "Your gimmicks won't work on 'Mione. I mean, other than that time she was blotto. Never did get into the whole wine thing, me. She says it's one of my more mere-tricious qualities." Weasley gestured for stillness as he used his well-honed Auror abilities to surveil the pavement.

Draco opened his mouth as Theo mouthed be nice. Again.  But Draco had little reason to smile lately, or be nice. Nice was overrated. He took another drag of the cigarette.

"I agree, Draco. If you think using the tactics that worked on other witches will secure Hermione's love, you're too far gone."

Draco rubbed his forehead. "How am I supposed to—"

"When we told you to be yourself, we didn't mean the Draco you crafted as a deflection." Theo pinched his cheek. "What did you talk about when you purloined my seat? Because vulgarity certainly isn’t—"
"It definitely wasn't Wickersham. Sounded like those letters to the editor at Playwizard." Blaise smiled ruefully. "I'm beginning to wonder if you can pull this off, mate. Do you really want to a grey future? A weird half-life?  Granger isn't one of your usual birds. She's—"

"Out of your league, as they say." Theo grimaced apologetically. "The fact you managed to persuade her with your usual—"

"It's not a game, Theodore. I wasn’t trying to do anything." Draco took a long drag and tilted his head back, memories cavalcading through his mind's eye. How he'd watched, listened, hovering close by should she need or want, inattentive to whichever witch was on his arm, ready, always ready, to press forward and serve Hermione. He carded a hand through his hair roughly. She'd never really seen him, had she? He was unworthy of her attention. He sighed, long and meaningfully.

"You're being a melodramatic git," Blaise clapped his back forcefully. 

"Bloody drama queen." Ron muttered, performing a final safety sweep.

How Hermione had considered herself enamoured of the man was mystifying.

He'd tried his best to convince Hermione to…to…he wasn't sure what his objective had been. For once (twice), any strategy he'd prepared had fallen apart. Hermione’s presence obliterated all reason, strategy and (apparently) common sense. They were all right: he'd been in a right state at dinner: feverish, delirious, as he sat next to her, unable to chew, taste or swallow whatever food had been served, completely charmed by his beautiful seat mate, (Mother had clearly flubbed the seating arrangement, and Draco, ever the dutiful son and host, had corrected it post-haste. After all, wasn't he meant to be near his argentosa?), a goddess in her emerald raiment, her hair sublime, fragrant and loose about her shoulders, the platinum Malfoy ringlet scintillating in the candlelight. The air between them thick with desire, with arousal. Her interest was visceral as they discussed the recent Potions Review articles, arguing over the ethical sourcing of cryptozoological ingredients. He remembered how often her amber-flecked eyes flickered to the shoulder harness. He could still feel her inching closer, the heat of her body searing his thigh. Draco had neither eyes nor ears nor words for anyone else, entirely preoccupied by his abounding in silver witch, his argentosa. He was desperate to touch her, draw her close, hold her, taste her again.

And then she'd brutally, coldly rebuffed him. The Manor, his once and future home, had slammed doors and compelled him to the Floo, where Theo and Blaise waited with blistering critiques. As if they'd never lost their composure in the thrill of the chase. Not that he was chasing her, not that she was prey. What was Draco to do? Better, was what. But he'd always thought himself quite good, the best, even. He'd done well with other witches, exceedingly well. He'd even, for one brief, marvellous evening (half-day, his persistent heart chided) managed to persuade The Hermione Granger…to grace him with one night to be confused, one night to speed up truth, both under the influence, one night to push and scream, and then relief. Gods, how he’d drown in Hermione eternally if she’d allow him. But Draco was distressingly aware how little influence he’d wielded, as his 'friends' pointed out that her ex's announcement had ‘likely’ made her susceptible to Draco's considerable inducements. Not that he'd planned to…it didn't matter. Everyone accused him of seduction that evening (half-day). 

Draco supposed they had reason to be suspicious. Hadn't he spent a considerable part of his adult life as the ‘Pureblood playboy’? It was a bitter irony. He'd do anything to win Hermione's affections, but everything he did was so well-rehearsed it felt inauthentic. He stubbed out his cigarette dejectedly.

"And another thing, Malfoy." Ron sidled to his right as they entered the Savoy and walked toward the Floo Parlour. " 'Mione doesn't like cheeky talk. If you're following Wickersham, she's memorised it all. She likes to follow rules, you see. Most times anyway. She's wondering why you aren't following them. Maybe even that you don't think she's worth it." He let out a low whistle as the Floo parlour attendant stepped forward, offering them warmed towels seeped in citrus infused water. "Crikey, this is swish." 

Draco rolled his eyes as The Weasel reached for the bowl of steaming water and Theo swatted his hand. He despised that The Weasel was making rather reasonable points: then again, was it his fault that Hermione floated in looking like a confection, draped in green (in homage to him, surely?), fragrant and delicious as a warm spring day and cookies, warm eyes glistening with mischief, with invitation? And he'd accepted the invitation, enthusiastically, barely able to keep his seat, his hands shaking as he struggled to keep them to himself. 

And while Hermione was lovely, a vision, a dream his younger self (and present self) scarcely dared believe was within his grasp, it wasn't her beauty or even the blasted bond that spurred him on. Images of a future: curly haired, rambunctious babies with her looks, the Malfoy platinum hair; Hermione bedecked in the Malfoy and Black jewels on Draco's arm; quiet days reading on a blanket, or by the fire as he tended his wife, his Lady Malfoy, her belly swollen with his child. Images that, if he were honest with himself, he'd conjured before. Fleetingly, behind the privacy of bed curtains in the dungeons, whenever his younger self envisioned Hermione in some twisted teen fantasy: kneeling, bent over, the image quickly coalesced into her leaning against a window of the Manor, resplendent, smiling, a hand on her swollen belly. Memories of that time resurged, distilled as Draco's need to be near Hermione, with her, increased. That promise—possibility—energised him more than the pursuit of further carnal knowledge—though he wouldn't decline if it were offered. He was just a wizard after all. 

Absence did make the heart grow fonder.

He stifled a sigh as bitter self-doubt made his mouth acrid. Soon he'd be reunited with Hermione. He'd behave, be respectful, deferential. Perhaps she'd let him hold her hand, escort her to the library. Draco would bring her into the stacks, reach above her for a book, and she’d look up at him, press him closer, pretty lips parted and he’d—

He did want another look at Grandmother Rose Cecile's grimoire. Perhaps Hermione could explain why the bond felt like a knot in his throat, a storm in his belly, a fire in his loins, an ache and emptiness—

"Draco Malfoy." Purred a somewhat familiar voice behind him.

Draco turned to the newcomer as the Weasel quickly assumed the defensive stance. Draco’s wand was at his side as dread creeping up his spine. The saccharine tenor of that voice setting of klaxons in his chest. A tall, lithe brunette, well-dressed stood at the Floo parlour entrance. She looked vaguely familiar, her gimlet-eyed stare discomfiting.

"It's been some time, hasn't it?" The witch stepped forward, smiling genteelly at Weasley before proffering her hand toward Draco.

"And who might you be?" Theo drawled, stepping in front of Draco as Blaise flanked his other side, wand also drawn.  

"Wands drawn? And they say chivalry is dead." She lifted her hands in surrender, and smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Draco knows me very well. I am Monique LaRue." 

Draco's gaze took in the now curly hair, the malevolent eyes, the blood-red nails tap tap tapping. There was something about this witch—

Blaise tutted. "Fancy seeing you here. I thought you despised Muggle London." Draco shot Zabini a look of gratitude. It was her. A witch who’d spent the better part of last year refusing to take no for an answer. Fuck.

"You jest, Zabini! We met in Muggle London! Then Draco followed me to Paris. Isn't that right, mon cher?" Her hazel eyes glittered dangerously. 

Draco took her hand and shook it quickly, her fingers wrapping around his. Gods, he remembered her now. She'd been a mistake, a onetime mistake. An avid blood purist wrapped in an attractive body. Draco cursed his past self for succumbing to physiology. She'd been difficult to shake off. It was one of the few instances he'd resorted to ungentlemanly methods to dissuade her. He'd even foregone his customary parting gift, since she insisted on construing his good manners as an invitation. Draco winced as memories of her numerous owls and howlers before he'd amended his wards to ban her and any messages. Her mother, the redoubtable Comtesse LaRue, had been harassing his mother ever since.

Monique was a problem. 

And now she was here.

"So, Draco," She oozed closer, her clearly charmed hair brushing against the lapels of his blazer. "I've missed you."

"You look…" Draco stepped closer to the Floo. Was she trying to look like Granger? "Must dash." Panic gripped him, her proximity discomfiting.  

"And you look delicious," she cooed, a hand drifting to Draco's chest. 

He removed it brusquely. "None of that now."

Her eyes narrowed briefly, her mouth thinning. "You didn't mind it so much when you—"

"As Draco was saying, we really must go. Things to see, people to do all that," Theo once again intercepted her as Ronald’s face contorted with disgust. 

Monique flicked hair off her shoulders, her posture angry. "You've kept my aunt busy writing about you and your adventures. Your pursuits." She stepped closer as Draco once again angled away. 

"Who's your aunt?" Ronald barked, shepherding Draco toward the Floo, wand still out.

"Rita Skeeter, the famous journaliste. She's the reason I knew of Draco. And she's why I know you're chasing the mud—"

Ron's wand was now centimetres from her nose. "Don't. You. Dare."

Draco lunged for her but Blaise quickly restrained him. "You'll refrain from speaking of Dr. Granger or I. Will. Bury. You." He lifted his wand over Blaise's shoulder and aimed for her torso. 

"And your little dog too," Theo sang, twirling his wand and his body. "You're what we in the business refer to as dickmatised, Marlene. Don't worry, there's a cock out there with your name on it. Go check the asylums."

“I know where mine is, Lord Nott. And I’m here to claim him.” She smiled again, displaying all teeth as she stepped forward.

Ron motioned with his head toward the Floo. "Malfoy, mate. I’ll handle this. Go on. LaRue here doesn't want any more trouble."

"How dare you raise your wand at me!" She aimed her wand at Weasley's chest. "I am descended from the Montmorencys!" She looked at Draco, face contorting into something pitiable. "I am perfect for you, Draco, can't you see that? I can forgive this misstep if you just—"

Weasley edged forward, pushing her back. "I'm an Auror and you will lower your wand and evacuate the room immediately."

"You must be a Weasley. I know all about your family as well. A disgrace!" She spat, trembling as she followed his order. "A Pureblood policier?"

"Let's all take several breaths and calm the fuck down," Theo flattened a hand against Draco's chest and pushed. "Time to go."

Draco edged toward the Floo, taking in her crazed eyes. He clutched his wand so tightly his knuckles cracked. What had he been thinking bedding this crazy witch? 

"You there!" Ronald shouted at the attendant cowering in a corner. "Escort Miss LaRue to the corridor. By the authority vested in me by Minister Shacklebolt and the Ministry of Magic, I'm closing this Floo until further notice."

Ronald had, somehow, in the last few minutes, grown several inches. The command in his voice was undeniable. His stance brooked no argument. Gone was the affable bloke and in his place an Auror who wouldn't hesitate to use lethal force.

Monique apparently reached the same conclusion. She pasted a smarmy smile on her face and laughed. "A misunderstanding, gentle wizards. I saw my old friend and desired a quick chat. Another time, perhaps. I know you'll not pursue this mésalliance." Her head listed to the side, her smile widening impossibly.

It was disquieting.

"I don't think so, dame folle," Blaise drawled as he looked her up and down, a steady clutch on Draco's shoulder. "Draco is no longer available for those types of chats."

"And we were never friends, you insane—"

"Ah! Ah!" The witch waggled her finger in warning. "We were friendly enough one evening. And I'll be here when you tire of the parvenu. Awaiting our re-acquaintance." 

Draco laughed mirthlessly. "A few hours I regret deeply."

Ron gestured toward the door, wand steady. "Leave now or I'll be forced to detain you."

Monique cackled as she moved toward the door, the nervous attendant following her. "We'll see, Draco. À bientôt, ma chère," Monique lilted as she exited with a bit of help from Weasley's perfectly aimed wand.
Shan't!" Theo yelled after her before turning to Draco, visage contorted with disgust.
"Of all the foolhardy, stupid—"

"Never dip your wick in crazy," Blaise contributed, releasing his hold on Draco.

"What the fuck was that, Malfoy?" Ronald screeched, a well-timed spell slamming the door and warding it shut.

"A mistake." Draco's jaw was clenched so tightly his ears hurt.

"No shit. You were a right slag." Ronald shook his head as he lowered his wand. "She's a nutter."

Weasley's astute observation found its mark. The world was upside down and inside out. The Weasel might actually know what he was about as an Auror. "Thank you, Weasley." It stung.

"Mmmm," Theo muttered. "Another excellent point from my future brother-in-law. And the Auror vibes? Immaculate."

"It's a good thing Granger is sequestered," Blaise stepped into the Floo. "That little scene could've set you back."

He was right. They were all right. Draco shuddered involuntarily, the look in Monique's eyes unsettled him deeply. What if she'd trained her wand on Granger? He'd have crucio'd the witch without hesitation. Draco was on tenuous ground, his past exploits directly clashing with his current (and future) aspirations. What sort of partner would he be for Granger if he'd always have to look over his shoulder? What if an old flame tried to hurt Granger? Worse, what if one of his father's former acquaintances—He'd do anything to defend Granger, even if it meant Azkaban.

How many howlers had been sent his way from other disappointed witches? His man about town days were well behind him, for he only had eyes for Granger. If he'd known he would one day have a chance to court Granger seriously instead of fantasise, he would have never been so careless. Draco wished he could go back in time, start over. Take a chance and say what he’d meant to say after his trial when she offered him kindness and forgiveness. He'd court her properly, affectionately, respectfully. She'd have been his Lady Malfoy long ago. He would've been a respectable, clean slate for Hermione to mould, to make hers. This uproar with the bond and how it materialised could've been avoided. 

Reality crashed down on his chest. He'd caused this with his very public and very Malfoyesque showboating. His breathing became difficult as his chest tightened. Who did he think he was, pursuing the Golden Girl? A war heroine? An accomplished witch, a brilliant and beautiful one. She'd told him she wouldn't be another notch on his bedpost. All those years orbiting one another and she'd never once indicated any interest, and she was right to. Draco had wasted years being dissolute, a never-ending circus of witches and potions and drugs and notoriety. And his family name was equally troubling. Hermione was right to have serious reservations. How could she know Draco was serious about their courtship when he'd lost so much time being frivolous, a cad?  

Every old insecurity that he'd long thought buried deep hurtled up and over him, churning his stomach.

Draco was unworthy of her. He slumped sideways as Blaise steadied him.

"I'm fucked, aren't I?" He was panting, dizzy, about to retch. He didn't deserve Hermione Granger. He was lucky she'd graced him with her presence.  He was damaged goods. Soiled. Tainted. She'd never agree to be his wife. It was mere pity that persuaded her to accept his suit. She would crush him, and he would deserve it.

"None of that now, Draco." Blaise shook him gently. "You've got an argentosa to see."

"Chin up," Theo wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "Nothing a good purification ritual and several years of grovelling can't fix."

Draco managed a glower, jaw clenched tightly. "Right."

"Wickersham would've prevented all of this. Loathe as I am to say it." Blaise's brows rose to his impeccably groomed hairline.

Draco nodded grimly, a plan formulating. "Wickersham for the win. Hermione deserves nothing less."

Weasley threw a handful of glittering green into the Floo and stepped in. "You really were a right slag."

Draco couldn’t meet his eyes. Once again, Weasley was right.

Ron scowled intensely before shouting: "Malfoy Manor!" Draco was swallowed by flames and wallowing in the mess of his own making, as the Floo hurtled them toward Wiltshire and a rightfully wary Golden Girl.

Chapter Text

Hermione straddled Malfoy wide, splayed her hands across his chest, pinkie to thumb from nipple to nipple, licking and kissing Malfoy's broad, toned torso. It was unfair, really, how gorgeous he was; the sounds he made, jaw sharp enough to cut, hair rightfully mussed, cheeks tinged with pink.  She determined to cover him in marks, her marks, an erotic graffiti proclaiming Hermione Granger came here, and there, and everywhere.

Malfoy's cock, apparently, had never heard of a refractory period. It twinged beneath her thigh as his grip tightened, fingers flexing, thumb prying her open, up.

You're ruinous, Granger he groaned, sounding a bit put out.

Hermione preened, mouth and tongue reversing trajectory south.

Malfoy's free hand dove into her hair, pulling slightly at the root as she neared her destination, the sting making her shudder, gasp. Her nails scraped through the most golden and happiest trail she'd ever delighted in exploring, the smell of their previous rounds intoxicating, heady. He was delicious, savoury, sweet.

 Her tongue flickered, slithered, saliva pooling on his skin as she bit then licked.

Malfoy released a devastated moan, grip tightening as he lifted her face, met her gaze.

Kiss me, he whispered, voice warbling. Let me—

Gods he was a dream, a statue come to life. She wanted to swallow him whole, do unspeakably filthy things, had done. She placed an open mouth on his, tongue marauding.

She swallowed his every surprised sigh, every guttural groan as he squirmed. Fuck I'm going to come, he panted, surprise written over his features as his head tipped back and exposed the thick column of his throat, the neat lines of his tendons. Hermione gazed, enraptured by the carmine rising, peppering his skin like bloody snowdrifts. Yes, she'd leave evidence that Hermione Granger was here. She wondered all of two seconds why that should matter at all, as his hot mouth clamped over a nipple and suckled hard.

She reached behind her and fingers wrapped around his swelling cock, smearing the copious pre-cum. His pulsating suckling sending quivers of panting heat directly to her core.

Gods, what a man.

Her turn. She slowly brought her slick fingers to her mouth and licked them clean. Malfoy's lashes fluttered, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You're a dream, Granger. O for outstanding. His groan makes her skin pebble as fresh arousal coats her sex. Hips bucking, both hands now encircling her thighs greedily, fingers pressing into her sensitive inner thigh, grazing her labia. Hermione sits up and forward until her mound grazes his cock.

 I need to taste you he whimpered. His lips swollen pink and plump, Malfoy suckled in his fingers, eyes dazed, half-lidded, black and roiling as night.

Hermione pinned him with her hips as she slid her slick mound along his shaft.

Fuck, he groaned, eyes closing, body arcing upward.

He was gorgeous, whimpering, dishevelled and undone, a hand urged her hips forward.

What might it be like to wake up to this ancient god, this alabaster perfection, curled around her every morning? She brushed her thumb against his mouth, and he licked it, a growl rumbling in his chest.

There was no point imagining what it would be like. He was Malfoy, a libertine, a rake, a—

I need to be inside you again. Please.

Pretty, oh so fucking pretty when he begged, lips pouty, cheeks flushed, every tendon and muscle straining, eyes granite, amniotic.

 If he was any other man, she'd be ruined.

She wrapped her hands around his neck, gave an experimental squeeze, her sex clenched as it continued its sliding excursion on his shaft.

His neck stretched back, the tendons straining as his breath hitched.

You like that, do you? She squeezed harder, thankful for her knowledge of anatomy.

Fuck, yes. An arm wrapped around her waist as he sat up and smashed her against him, her nipples, chafed, piqued, painful. With a to and fro, his cock head was at her entrance, and with a unified groan she took him in as his lips wrapped around a nipple.

Fuck, she was going to come again.

You're so tight, Granger. It's like…he broke off to suckle the other nipple, thumb circling and pulling the one he'd just abandoned, his eyes locked on hers. She wouldn't let him finish the sentence, wouldn't allow his words to pull her from the fantasy that was fucking Draco Malfoy. She needed—

She ground down until their pelvises were flush, her clitoris pulsating from the friction.

Her heartbeat was deafening, a pell mell tattoo, her blood singing. It had never been like this with anyone, had it?

She swallowed his whimpers as she rose and sank, hips canting forward. Malfoy's hand splayed across her arse, pressing on the delicate skin between her sex and her hole. He was delicious and wicked and devastating. Malfoy knew what he was doing.

She shook her head to dispel the torturous, unstoppable train of overthinking. This was a diversion, a temporary excursion. Her body needed release, and had found it with the sexy, infuriating Malfoy. It could never happen again, it would—

I can hear your thoughts, Granger, Malfoy grunted as he lifted and pressed her closer, licking the top of her breasts. Just let go.

She brought her hands back around his throat, licking his lips, her cunt clenching. Thank the gods for Kegels.

Fuck, he whimpered. Fuck you’re milking me, you cruel…fingers dug divots in her flesh, his hot tongue trailing sticky promises across collarbone, sternum, breasts, shoulders.

His gaze, ardent then soft as fell backward, caresses lighter, almost reverential.

Rosy lips parting. His gaze was entirely too soft, too thoughtful. No other man had made her feel like this.

No.

She squeezed, his pulse riotous, his mouth full of betrayal.

 I can't stand you, Malfoy…promise me I'll never have to see you again…you're insufferable…

"Well, Hermione?"

Hermione blinked rapidly as Kingsley slowly coalesced into view. Five minutes into her safety briefing and she was already day-dreaming, thoughts returning (again) to Draco.

Narcissa pinned her with a knowing look. It was all Hermione could do to not roll her eyes.

Malfoys and their damnable magic. She sniffed dismissively, nose crinkling as if she were thinking.

Which she was.

"What would you like me to say, Kings? That I'm satisfied with my safety arrangements?" She allowed her voice to wobble. A bit of emotion could be helpfully disarming. "I'm grateful to Narcissa and the house of course, for keeping me safe." She smiled warmly at Narcissa. She didn't mean to be rude, and she was grateful but she was figuratively at the end of her rope, her reservoir of patience depleted.

Harry scoffed and shifted his stance. She shot him a side glare. He avoided her gaze, eyes fixed on the Minister of Magic, who was looking at her expectantly.

Right.

Time for some righteous indignation.

"It's been weeks. You can't expect me to stay here forever!" Hermione huffed an errant curl from her face. Surely that blanket statement would cover whatever she'd missed in her reminiscence about Draco bloody Malfoy. Twelve days since she'd seen or spoken to him and she was starting to feel a bit undone.

More than two weeks, without him, in his childhood home. Instead of a ghost, Hermione reckoned with his memory, imbued in the Manor's walls with more surety than anything supernatural. She walked the corridors and heard his childish laughter ringing across the floor. She read in the library and pictured him murmuring to himself as he took notes, the quill scratching furiously. She'd peer into rooms, and see him in various poses of mischief, of childishness: young, beautiful, proud. Innocent, despite his churlishness, before blood purity and dark lords nearly broke him. She found no peace in walking the grounds or helping Narcissa and Mipsy in the gardens or greenhouse.

Hermione had spent the last twelve days reviewing their exchanges, every civil interaction, every heated volley, every secret look. Recalling with soul-sundering clarity how gorgeous he looked on his knees, beneath her. The taste of his sweat, somehow sweet and earthy. How infuriating his mouth (oh, what a mouth) was in whatever devastating operation he applied it to. Her pulse quickened at the thought of Draco's mouth.

She realised, to her dismay, she missed him.

She quickly schooled her countenance into churlishness. "I will not be infantilised! I can take care of myself. I want to go home, to the lab, to work." She crossed her arms and affected the air of one mightily aggrieved, deflecting any suspicions that her thoughts might be elsewhere. She definitely wasn’t imagining herself back in the impossibly large bed in that ridiculously oversized flat with a maddeningly gorgeous man beneath her.

Kingsley's mien changed. Gone was the worried fatherly visage and in its place the Ministerial one. "I understand the pressures of sequestration might be intense, but there's no safer place for you in all of England than Malfoy Manor." Kingsley sighed deeply. "Until we've flushed out these bad actors, I cannot—"

"I could join Dr. Alves' team in Boston, surely I'd—"

"Hermione dear, would a trip abroad serve your interests at this time?" Narcissa's tone was gentle, though clipped.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her temples. Of course she didn't want to leave England, leave her team. Leave Draco. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Draco. How would leaving the country impact them, the bond?

Narcissa meant well with her Wickersham. Hermione understood (somewhat) why the traditional courting ritual was important, especially with Draco.

 But Hermione was frustrated at being denied access to her lab, her work and her man (suitor). Hermione understood Narcissa's advice, the use of courting rituals. She understood why every witch and some wizards of her acquaintance urged her to put her foot down, make Draco work for it.

Hermione knew that Draco was, at best, a menace. But time to reflect had her seeing things in a different light. Hadn't she often been accused of being too much, doing the most, being difficult? How many men had skulked away or tried to diminish her because they couldn't match her energy?

She was exhausted by the panoply of emotions she'd been forced to endure. War and life in the harsh spotlight had made Hermione a witch unaccustomed to examining her feelings, preferring action and intellectualisation instead. But she could feel herself flailing, her heart and mind jostling for control.

All of this pondering made her uncomfortable, slightly wretched. Hermione preferred a life of practicality, of equations and data. But love—not that she was in love with Draco, mind you—was rarely practical. The heart wants what the heart wants rattled through her brain, tired adages an unwelcome addition to her recollection of the last. Love made no sense.

Draco's absence (twelve interminable, blasted days) had forced her to reconcile the ancient feelings, the reservoir of shame, of disappointment. She'd forgiven him for his childish hurts, his bullying, long ago. But even in their adult acquaintanceship she'd continued to make assumptions, judgements. Isn't that what people did to her? It prickled her conscience.

She'd give anything to hear his droll observations, to be teased and prodded until her veneer cracked and she could truly be herself, warts and all. Draco was good at that, getting to the meat and bones and marrow of her; peeling away her suffocating defences until she could breathe.

She wanted—needed—time with Draco. She wanted to sift through his many layers, reveal the Draco that she'd glimpsed briefly throughout the years. The Draco who'd sit near her in the restricted section, reading quietly with nary a word or invective as the candles waned and night deepened. The Draco who (secretly) replenished her inkpots as she searched in the stacks. The Draco who silently escorted her to the tower after the disastrous encounter with Ron at the Yule ball. The Draco who'd warned her to hide at the Quidditch cup. The Draco who refused to identify her to his maniacal blood purist cunt of an aunt.

That Draco she'd tucked away in the recesses of her heart.

In the past days she'd thought often of present Draco: the wizard who watched her at parties, who smiled secretly when she cut someone to ribbons, who lifted his glass when she said something witty. The Draco who kept up with her research, who wasn't afraid to tease and prod and disagree with her. The Draco who had the wherewithal to refute her points, dismantle her opinions. The Draco who'd somehow been her shadow all of these years, her mirror. The Draco who'd worshipped her reverently.  The Draco who was feral for her, the taste and feel of her. The Draco who'd crashed her press conference in order to speak to her.

The Draco who was late for this meeting with the Minister of Magic. Late to see her.

Fucksticks.

Harry cleaned his glasses with the corner of his robes. "You can't possibly think we'd entrust your safety to the Americans, Hermione. Besides, Dr. Alves has also been locked down and no longer in Boston."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, hand flat against her chest as she swivelled quickly and gave a one-finger salute. "And where is Dr. Alves, then? Dr Mbenga?"

"Classified," Harry's brow lifted. "As is your location. You're lucky we allow visitors. Alves has been moved twice now. I don't think you understand how serious this is, Hermione. These people want to kill you."

Narcissa hummed disapprovingly and looked at Kingsley.

Hermione was no stranger to death threats. She was, after all, the wizarding world's most well-known Muggleborn. The Golden Girl. She rolled her eyes. "I won't be locked away because some people can't get over their stupid, ignorant beliefs."   

Harry ruffled his hair nervously. They were keeping something from her.

"We understand, Hermione. We do. But until the threat is neutralised, you will stay here." Kingsley's tone brooked no argument.

She made a noise of concern, her mind wandering to Draco (again). Where the hells was he? She stifled the urge to stomp her foot. Twelve days since she'd seen him, twelve days since she'd, regrettably (gods how she regretted saying no, her hand a shoddy replacement for Draco's incredibly talented ones) refused his advances.

Hermione had her own qualms about Draco. But she was no blushing innocent, despite how the media wished to portray her. She enjoyed the company of (many) wix privately, and had ventured into monogamy sparingly, usually accidentally. She was always searching, hopeful that she'd meet her match. Was it her fault she hadn't? The wizarding world's preoccupation with settling down (disgusting and woefully misogynistic) had never appealed to her. When—if—Hermione married, it wouldn't be to settle. Her partner would be her equal.

Draco's amorous exploits had been splashed all over the papers, become a bit of a joke within their clique. Some of his outlandishness, Hermione surmised, was a deflection. His family had been (rightfully) dragged through the mud. Perhaps it was Draco’s (clever, off-putting) strategy to rehabilitate the family name. Hermione supposed it would be (marginally) better to associate the Malfoy name with profligacy versus purist ideology. Until she could discuss it with him, convince him to peel back the layers, Hermione could only speculate.

Time alone with her (relentless) thoughts and careful dismantling of their encounters revealed something she'd never imagined: she liked Draco. Immensely. She liked how meticulous he was, even if it was well-practiced. She enjoyed his wicked mouth (in all ways), how he'd provoke and taunt then switch easily to intellectual themes. She enjoyed how he didn't back down, cower from her but matched her, feint for feint, giving as good as he got. And he could take it, obviously enjoying it. He was a bit much, just as she was.

How many times had Harry or Ron accused her of being a bit swish, a bit posh? How often did Ginny or Pansy declare her conceited or vain? Draco was brilliant, when he let himself be seen, be vulnerable. And she knew from her own experience it was rare and difficult to do that. They were public figures, for better or worse. They each had assigned roles to play. Draco had chosen what was available to him, expected: the pretty, pureblood playboy. And Hermione had chosen what was available to her: clever, pretty if schoolmarmish Muggleborn. If she'd been a tenth less circumspect about her dating life, she'd have been raked over the coals. All of her heroism, her work, her accomplishments would've meant nothing compared to her sexual behaviour. And Draco? Would the rehabilitation of his family name been as successful if he had portrayed a studious, serious demeanour? Unlikely. Accusations would've dogged him just as rumours would've plagued her.

Hermione accepted (privately) his prior poonhoundery was slowly lessening in importance. Besides, if their courtship was successful, she'd be the lifelong beneficiary of his well-practiced talents.

Well-practiced talents that she'd been denied for far too long. She'd had enough of blasted Wickersham and protocols and chaperones and bonds. She wanted a large bed and a large bottle to share with her larger than life, exasperating suitor.

"I don't want to leave England, Narcissa, but I must work. I need my lab, my team. I need to meet with my Muggle counterparts and ensure the vaccines are ready for manufacture. This next phase is crucial to the vaccine's dissemination. Kingsley," Hermione clasped her hands in front of her chest. "Surely some Aurors and increased security would be enough? I promise to behave."

She was referring, of course, to several previous incidents involving threats to her life. She'd outwitted and shirked her Ministry assigned Auror detail (Ron still bore a grudge) every chance she got.

"It's for your own good," Kingsley shook his head as the Floo roared distantly.

Bile rose in her throat as Draco's smug face flashed before her eyes. Hadn't he uttered those same words before—

"Hello, Mother. Minister Shacklebolt. Dr. Granger. Apologies for our tardiness."

A frisson of joy swept up her spine as Hermione turned toward the door to see a slightly flushed Draco standing rather stiffly.

"Draco, I—" Hermione fluttered toward him, exchanging her stormy countenance for the sun as she took in all 6"4 of him, smiled widely. Draco's smile was tight, polite, his features dispassionate. Remembering her Wickersham she proffered her hand, which he kissed quickly, coldly. She tightened her clasp as his loosened. "I'm glad to see you." She said, though confusion made the edges ragged.

I want you, she wanted to say. I missed you, she could've said.

"And I you, Dr. Granger." The muscle in his jaw tick tick ticked, but his gaze remained cool, distant.

Hermione's mouth opened then closed before the torrent of (accusation, recrimination) rudeness could spill over.

She turned toward Theo and Blaise, who bowed simultaneously.

"Dr. Granger, you look well. Being in the country suits you."

Yes," Blaise nodded. "We are pleased to see you looking well."

Hermione leaned in, brow furrowed. Gods they were all wearing on her last nerve. "What was the drink you ordered for me when we ran into each other at the Witch's Teat six years ago?"

"I've been with them this entire time, Hermione. I think I'd know if they were polyjuiced posers." Ron pecked her cheek before meandering toward the tea table.

Blaise chuckled. "It was a Tuscan Aperol spritz. No need to worry. May we sit, Lady Malfoy?"

"Please, do," Narcissa rose and gestured toward Draco. "Draco, please see Dr. Granger to her seat. Minister Shacklebolt and Auror Potter were just updating us."

"What do you reckon, Harry?" Ron mumbled, mouth full.

"Hermione needs to stay put for a while longer," Harry said tersely, levelling Hermione with a stare.

"Hermione is right here!" Her palm came to rest on Draco's knee and he jerked away. Hermione blushed in embarrassment, her attention turning to Draco, whose cheeks were suspiciously pink.

Wot was going on?

"Minister, what have you learned about the plot against Hermione?" Draco asked quietly with the briefest of side glances at Hermione.

Hermione stared at the hand resting on the cushion next to her. Would he pull away if she reached for him? Hermione blushed, mortified that her physiological needs were overriding her (decreasing, extinct?) common sense. She cleared her throat and forced herself to pay attention.

"The wizard apprehended with the explosive device at Cambridge is an American, wanted by MACUSA on various charges. We transferred custody. He's connected to an organization called New Dawn. They believe that Magical people should rule the world." Kingsley offered an apologetic glance at Hermione. "And that Muggleborns and non-magical people should serve them."

"Not this again," Ron grumbled around a roll.

Draco turned a distinct shade of viridian, clenching his hands into fists.

"What I wouldn't give for some originality, some creativity. A bit of amusement," Theo groused. "It's always doom and oppression with these types, never pleasure and merriment."

Kingsley lifted his palm. "They're promising violence if the Muggle-Magical Medical Collaborative makes the vaccines or works together in any way. Leaflets have been appearing in every magical settlement decrying science as a hoax and proclaiming magic superior, the truth. They claim that the poxes and other diseases exist to winnow out the weak and undeserving, thin the herd."

"Despicable," Narcissa murmured, hand resting on her chest. She looked at Hermione, her gaze flickering to Draco quickly then back to Hermione, mouth taut. "We'll have a lab set up here, in the dungeons. Draco's old potions room could be a starting point. Minister, could you help with that? It would allow Hermione to continue working, share progress with her colleagues? We mustn't allow the embittered few to drown out the needs of the many."

Hermione watched Draco's Adam's Apple bob as he steadfastly avoided her gaze. She rose to her feet as the urge to shake him became unbearable. She needed to get away from him. Or closer to him. She wasn't sure.

He rose stiffly, posture attentive as his gaze remained on the middle distance. What the hells was he playing it?

She'd glower. Thunder mightily. Dig her heels in. She could not stay here a moment longer, tortured by memories and feelings and recriminations.

"Thank you, Narcissa, but I can't focus here, it's entirely too quiet. It may sound," she gestured for quiet, palm lifted as Ron's inhale warned of an imminent outburst. "Ungrateful, or thoughtless. I understand the risk here. But if I let fear stop me, they've won."

"'Mione, you're being—" Harry strode toward her.

"It's one additional syllable, Harry James Potter is it really that onerous?" She lifted her chin, pulling away from the dreadful rising fear within her. She would not give in to fear. She would not give in to doubt.

It was unlikely he decided to adhere to Wickersham now. Draco was acting as if he regretted her, as if she made him uncomfortable. Perhaps their forced separation allowed him to consider his plight. It was funny, really, that they were once again on opposite ends of the continuum. Just minutes ago, she’d breathlessly cataloguing his merits, anticipating his companionship. And Draco sat there, faintly green, decidedly stiff, and obviously put off by the entire affair.

Where were his filthy insinuations? His reaching, fervid hands? The dazed heat of those flinty eyes?  His smug grin, his wanton pleas and promises?

"Draco, dear, please show Hermione your brew room. It might cast a new light, provide a new perspective." Narcissa looked at Theo and Blaise who started toward the door. "I think we can overlook Wickersham for the moment."

Hermione's pulse skittered as Draco held out an arm. Finally. She swallowed an unseemly laugh, stopped herself from winking at Narcissa (who'd clearly used a touch of legilimency, bless her scheming heart) and answered Hermione's prayers.

Yes, some time alone with Draco would sooth her irritated nerves, help regulate the cloying anxiety. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, fingers tracing tiny circles.

"Thank you, Narcissa."

Narcissa answered with a knowing, sly smile before turning toward Kingsley. "Do you think we need Auror patrols on the perimeter of the estate?"

"Shall we?" Draco offered the tightest smile as they left the parlour and crossed the gallery. He remained quiet as their footsteps echoed across the marble, then reverberated across flagstone in the original section of the Manor. Hermione had avoided this cold, uninviting passage, its darkness off-putting. She squeezed Draco's arm and leaned against him.

"Are you alright, Dr. Granger?" He drawled, turning to face her, pulling away. "Just one flight of steps and we'll be there, unless you need to rest, in which case I am happy to—"

"Wot is wrong with you?" Hermione hissed, keenly aware of how sound could travel. "You're acting like a…I haven't seen you for twelve days!" She yanked him forward, eyes searching his, and stopped short of flinging herself into him.

His eyes remained cool, guarded. "I've been reminded of my duty, Dr. Granger. Of my lack of propriety. I have treated you with…" His jaw ticked as he trailed off and averted his gaze.

"Duty?" Hermione backed away, mind reeling. "If this is about Wickersham I only agreed because I thought, that is." She chewed her bottom lip, searching for the right words. "It's the done thing, isn't it? This," she gestured between them. "Didn't start properly, did it?"

Draco paled (impossibly), his gaze wavering back to hers. "No, I'm afraid it didn't. And for that I must apologise. It was most unchivalrous. I never should have—"

"Oh, I get it." Hermione laughed mirthlessly, rubbing her forehead as a sharp headache began. She couldn't believe it, or could she? Draco Malfoy was regretting her. Their bond. Twelve days was all it took to cool his ardour, quell his interest. She should've known, should've refused the bond and avoided all of this feeling and wanting and waiting and worrying and hoping.

Fucking hoping.

"Hermione," Draco sighed. "You're a good person, a great one. Generous and kind and deserving of a good wizard and partner."

"I know this." Hermione fumed.

"Perhaps the bond forced you to consider someone you would never have, given the circumstances. I'm not worthy of your attention. Maybe I never will be."

"Don't do that, Draco. The martyr thing. Just say it. You don't want me as your argentosa." She poked his chest. "You've made me a laughingstock professionally and riled up the old guard who what? Have been whispering in your ear? A Malfoy with a mudblood? Is that it?"

"What? No!" Draco huffed. "Don't you get it? This is happening because of me. I did this to you with my…my selfishness. Do you really want to crisis manage the rest of your life? Look over your shoulder every time you step out? Do you want to be sat at a restaurant with me when some witch decides to throw a drink at me, or draw on you? You're a smart witch, Granger, don't let pity get in the way of your future."

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. For several seconds, or hours, she regarded him, the rise and fall of his chest under the navy blazer, the flush of his cheeks, the downturned lips. Within her the tattoo slowed, slowed, slowed to a dull thud. She dug hers nails into her ribs until it hurt. She would not cry. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Fine." Her voice was reedy. "I'll leave the Manor and—"

"Absolutely not, Granger. We owe you safety. We owe the world your brilliance. I'll go. Mipsy!" Draco clutched his chest and closed his eyes as the sharp crack of apparation sounded.

"Yes, little master?"

"Please show Dr. Granger my old potions lab and ensure she gets everything she needs. " As he turned to Hermione, she noted his pained features, his ragged breath. "I don't want you to regret me, Hermione. You always see the good in people, want to save everyone."

"My saviour shite," she whispered, eyes welling with tears she blinked away furiously. "I don't pity you, Draco. And I don't want your pity."

Draco's beautiful lashes glistened suspiciously as he sniffled wetly. "I don't want to be saved. I want to be worthy." He bowed low.

Hermione held her breath as a sob threatened to erupt from her.

Draco's face was pinched when he straightened. "We'll speak soon?" A hand reached for her jerkily before withdrawing. "See? I can't even help myself."

“Draco, I— “

“I need to know you’ll stay safe, Hermione. Please. Promise you’ll stay here.”

Hermione shook her head. “I thought we should…it’s been twelve days, Draco. I’ve wanted to talk to you.” Was all she could muster as her chest contracted. She would not beg. She wouldn’t.

Draco’s mouth was a thin line. “I just need to sort some things out. Promise me you won’t leave, Hermione. If something happened to you I’d never forgive myself.”

Hermione reached for him as he swivelled and walked away in long, hurried strides. It felt like her chest was splitting open. She stared at her hands, at the floor, confused by the interaction, his reticence, his coldness. What had happened, or, who had happened? Twelve days and Draco was…was…

A sob burst from her chest. What had she been thinking? Hoping, planning even. Draco Lucius Malfoy had a keen sense of self-preservation, unlike her. Perhaps it had kicked in. Who would tie themselves to a person for whom death threats were a rite of passage? Or maybe Draco had decided that he didn’t want the bother of courting. Perhaps he wasn’t done sowing his wild oats.

Whatever it was, Hermione refused to convince him. She respected herself too much to beg a man. If he didn’t want to speak with her, it suited her well. Though that energy would’ve been appreciated several weeks ago, when he crashed her press conference and (apparently) brought all the blood purists out of hiding.

If he wanted to be cowardly, that was his problem. She wiped her tears roughly and shook her head, her heart clenching around the hummingbird of hope, encasing it. There was work to be done. She refused to waste any more time on sentimentality, on Draco.  She came to her senses, refusing to regret Draco. This was not the end of them. She still…felt things, and she didn’t know why. Her heart was heavy.

"There, there, Miss," Mipsy patted her arm. "The little master is just scared."

She was stuck here. She stretched her lips into a smile, tenor bright, false. "I know, Mipsy. I know. Come on, let's see that lab."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"And another thing,” The Weasel Weasley huffed as he ambled alongside Draco on the high street.

"Go on," Draco smiled amiably as he stroked the bezel of the handsome watch Hermione had given him moments ago, her official suitor gift. There was nothing anyone could say or do to dampen his spirits today. Not even Weasley. He sighed contentedly.

Draco was in fine fettle and rare form. His cheerful whistle was the soundtrack to Weasley's monologue as he reflected on the inordinate pleasure a soft, warm hand held in his own could bestow.

The air was warm, the sun bright, the sky was blue, and Hermione Granger was the most brilliant, beautiful and graceful witch on the planet. Hermione Granger was his argentosa. His memory drifted to her smiling face, her musical laughter, how the fine merino wool of her austere skirt had delineated her athletic figure, those maddening calves, the firm thighs that he'd happily use as ear muffs the rest of his days.

" —ever in her life. Brought her peace of mind, she said. Have you ever heard anything so mad?"

Draco nodded amiably.  "Surely not." The whistling resumed.

Weasley looked at him bemusedly. "So yeah, probably best to plan for that. I'm glad Susan isn't as—"

Draco hoped the elves at Wolfgang & Mit's could fulfill his rushed, but required, remit. Assured that Granger was receptive to his advances, warm and somewhat fuzzy from anticipation, he'd owled designs for the betrothal jewellery he'd give Hermione: brooch, earrings, ring, and anklet (modern times, etc.). He would commemorate her tenure as argentosa with enough bespoke jewellery to fill at least three vaults, ensuring her legacy for their descendants. Mipsy, ever helpful, had delivered a box of his old journals, and there, betwixt fevered screeds and emotive (maudlin, cringe-worthy) prose, he'd found several (dozens) drawings, born of his torturous teen angst. Draco had always been something of a romantic, evidenced by his storied (checkered) history with the fairer sex.

As Weasley pantomimed a Greek tragedy, Draco continued his rumination. It was revelatory to recall how early his (yearning, pining) inclinations had manifested. He was (somewhat) surprised that a few (a majority) of his attempts seemed (were) Gryffindor (Granger) adjacent (esque). Some even featured clumsy lions, fanciful paws, coils and filigree in obvious tribute to a (her) glorious mane, and covered (crassly) in a bewildering array of emeralds and rubies. After careful and delicate alteration (red beryl and diamonds to be sourced from a Black family piece; intertwining quercus, laurel and delonix regia leaves delicately engraved on the platinum instead of gold), Draco was satisfied.

After an 'early' (The Weasel Ronald complained about the hours Draco kept but really, who could sleep when waking life was a dream come true?)  retrieval from Gringott's, Draco had repaired with alacrity to the Manor, where his good lady argentosa and mother met him for breakfast.

Draco’s return to the manor was another fortuitous turn of events. His mother, assuaged by his efforts at propriety and encouraged by Hermione, had lifted the (unceremonious) Draco ban. She'd observed as Draco and Hermione spoke quietly over their scones, as Draco plied Hermione with food, as he presented the rewritten agreements from MFF regarding the vaccines. Hermione had been so pleased that MFF would be covering all costs related to the formulation she'd pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. Draco would've sworn his mother melted just a fraction at the tableau.

Even Mipsy shed many happy tears at Draco's easy composure; at the warmth and affection evident in his interactions. Draco noted which foods Hermione favoured, which she avoided; he marked the ease in her shoulders, the rolling cadence of her speech. She was at ease, and so was he. So engrossed was he in their wide-ranging conversation, in their whispered reassurances, in their private confidences, he almost forgot to send Mipsy to the jeweller.

Mipsy was mesmerised by their interaction, so much that she didn't even glare at Weasley's lack of table manners.

Draco, utterly charmed by the coy demeanour of his argentosa, noted little else until his mother stood, eyes glimmering. Her mien was entirely satisfied, gaze triumphant, teeth bared as she smiled unabashedly. Between Mipsy and his mother, Draco half-expected a crown of laurel to appear on his head.

After breakfast, Draco spent several salubrious hours with Granger. The Weasley had been lured into sampling the appetisers being prepared for the evening, and his mother had followed at an appropriate distance. Hermione whispered frantically about inappropriate garb as they walked the gardens and greenhouses. Draco made several arrangements for Hermione's suite, and discovered to his delight Hermione's burgeoning interest in floriography. Then, a long rambling walk along the Arbour path, where her familiar joined them, playfully batting Draco's legs as Hermione marvelled at their easy camaraderie (Crookshanks was well-known to Draco from Hogwarts. The orange rapscallion was a legend in the dungeons for his cunning). The stables where the Abraxans whinnied until Hermione fed them apples and disclosed she'd had riding lessons as a girl. Draco showed her the arboretum, where they sat on a bench and discussed the proliferation of synthetic potion ingredients, the courtship rituals of the Wodaabe, and the runic properties of Togo Kan and their proximity to early dynasty Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Draco had never been so enthralled by anyone before; well, if he didn't count his keen interest in her in their youth. Or if one disregarded how intently inattentive he appeared whenever they crossed paths as adults.

Granger was brilliant, an irrevocable fact embedded in his very foundation. Even before the events of that evening (half-day), Draco orbited her, devoured her clever repartee, smiling into his drink of choice at her wit and skill.

How they'd managed to stay apart when they were so evidently well-matched was a mystery. And she gave as good as she got; pressing Draco for data to back his opinion that laboratory-created moonstone could replace any number of rare animal ingredients with the appropriate matrix condensation assay; destroying his long-held preference for Chiffinoff's process, convincing him that Adinou was superior.

Draco catalogued her winsome smiles, each twinkle and spark of joy of her expressive eyes; the hitch in her breath when they came across a particularly pretty view (of which the manor had many). Hermione asked questions about the lands, the history, even the animals. She'd even enthusiastically agreed to visit the ostentation, cooing and petting the peahens who ventured near.

The avicultural inclinations of the Malfoy men were not widely known and rarely understood. Theo and Blaise teased him relentlessly about his misplaced bird interests.   Narcissa Black Malfoy, strategist extraordinaire, couldn't feign the requisite interest in the splendid birds when Lucius was their caregiver. The only one who'd had some interest was Goyle, though Draco never saw him now. Not since—

Hermione had been captivated by the peafowl, and they by her. Even cantankerous Cletus had reined in his worst impulses, pecking politely, like a well-bred gentle fowl, when Hermione scattered the feed.

This bode well for their future. Draco wondered what Lucius would think of this additional feather Hermione could claim for her cap. He marvelled at her perfection, his face likely wearing an unnumbered smile.

"Cletus?!" Hermione giggled as the bird train-rattled in her direction, his iridescent white feathers delicate and bright against the blue wash of sky.

"Yes. Cousin Teddy has quite the imagination. I pretend it's short for Heraclitus," Draco said silkily, pulling her close and curling her platinum tress around his forefinger gently.

Cletus honked in a vibrato, his pearlescent feathers rustling.

"And Tupac, Biggie and Bob? Also Teddy?"

"Theo," Draco matched her pretty smile as he tucked the resplendent curl behind her ear. "They detest him."

"Well," Hermione tapped the tip of his nose playfully. "Cletus is adorable. But Theo and Teddy's opinions will not figure in any future naming considerations we may have."

Draco threw his head back and laughed at his perfect, delightful witch, gratitude expanding his chest. We. Future.

Cletus' crest vibrated as he squawked, train rattling again.

Draco splayed his hand across her narrow, touched his forehead to hers and inhaled her sweet breath. Hermione Jean Granger, witch incomparable, brilliant, cunning, and beautiful, had casually summoned every fevered, guilt-wracked dream of Draco's psyche. Their future unfurled like the rolling hillside in his mind's eye; several (dozens) tow headed, sun-kissed children cavorting, arguing and laughing as they accompanied their parents for the daily walk. They'd be the scourge of nannies, comportment tutors, and professors at Hogwarts. They'd be the apples of their grandparents' eyes, the adored and favoured nieces and nephews of their friends. Draco would be utterly devoted to them.

There was nothing he wouldn't give this witch, his argentosa, his family. Nothing he wouldn't do to ensure their existence. "Agreed," he murmured into her hair, another idea coalescing as Hermione traced his jaw slowly, head against his chest. They'd spoken a little of her parents.

The theatrical clearing of his mother's throat combined with Cletus' agitated stomping impeded what might have been a joyful, energetic coupling if the pair had not been adhering to Wickersham. Hermione, cheeks pinked, eyes merry, chuckled and pulled out (reluctantly, resignedly) of his embrace. Draco memorised every line of her perfect face as she spoke excitedly about the tarts and vicars party that evening.

Cletus trumpeted his farewell.

As he left, Hermione presented him with a smart, modern watch, the traditional suitor's gift. Intended to be modest, the soft dragon hide straps and onyx/platinum case were understated, elegant and flattering. Draco felt he could float away so light was he with gratitude.

The watch meant she accepted his suit.

The promise of…promising evening activities gave Draco high spirits. He didn't even scowl when Weasley clapped a chocolate stained hand on his robes as they stepped in the Floo.

Tonight was for romance, for courting. He'd wear the shortest shorts in his arsenal. He'd play the tart to Hermione's vicar (and oh what a vicar she'd be, promising something silky and netted underneath her robes in a whisper as she placed the watch on his wrist). He'd adhere to Wickersham, but he wasn't averse to testing the waters, to tasting her lips behind a hedge row, or perhaps other tasty attributes—

Yes, Draco was well-pleased that Hermione returned his affections; captivated by the idea of dressing for her gaze. He anticipated the inebriation of their chaperones, the absence of his mother. Champagne would flow, music would play, and Draco would…adhere to Wickersham as long as possible. He warned Draconus to stand down.

The evening was promising indeed. And the rest of his life was beginning to feel just as promising.

For the first time in his adult life, Draco was full of awe and wonder. Even the myriad fears which cinched his breath were bedecked in full-throated, heart-full exaltation. He'd done many things of which he was ashamed. Shame had compelled him to do the work; to atone, make amends.

Draco wanted his post-war actions to become an asterisk next to the Malfoy name, a footnote redressing all the wrongs committed by his family. The ledger of Malfoy wrongs weighed heavily on Draco, and he'd resigned himself to being the subject of distrust and revulsion the rest of his life. He'd kept himself distracted to avoid stirring the old desires, the childish dreams. Of all the things Draco thought were his due, romantic love wasn't one of them. Hope hadn't figured in his calculations.

Draco doubted he'd ever forgive himself.

Hope now coursed through his veins. Hope was the colour of Hermione's eyes flashing imperiously. Hope was the peal of her laughter. Hope was her acquiescence, her favour. Hope was her smile, her courage, her indefatigable intelligence.

Draco realised that hope was birthed with Hermione's forgiveness all those years ago. Hope had drawn him to her orbit, kept him close. Hope had made him unwilling, unable to consider anyone else, despite his attempts.

Hope was a fluttering bird within him. Hermione's affection and respect strengthened its fledgling wings, and they battered his rib cage, clapping and beating, creating vortices of emotions that were entirely new, entirely terrifying.

There were many things Draco had done which terrified him. But nothing terrified him more than being unworthy of Hermione Granger's heart.

He would be the wizard she deserved, the man she needed.

" —it never did grow back. Shame, innit, how far some witches will go for love?" Weasley looked at Draco expectantly as they turned off Cholmondeley Walk and onto Friars Lane. The Thames glittered indigo, the distant calls and laughter of boaters carrying across the water.

"You're a wise one," Draco averred as he stopped in front of a row of unassuming boat sheds, their large, ancient doors swung open. All but one.

Weasley flashed him a dopey smile before casting a surreptitious disillusionment. "You're alright, Malfoy. It might suit you better than most. You might even need it." The sage clapped his back confidently. "Why are we here again?"

Draco waved several runes over the closed door. "The finest purveyors of elven-wrought bijoux in all of Britain are in Aurora Alley." A ward shimmered over them as a round doorway appeared in the wood. The smallest magical street in London beckoned.

Weasley stepped in front, wand in flat against his forearm, surveilling the bustling pavement. "All clear." He lowered his arm and gestured forward.

Draco walked briskly, smiling and nodding at the stall vendors as he passed by.

He came to a stop in front of an unassuming storefront, Wolfgang & Mits gilded on its plum fascia sign. "Here we are."

A sprightly young elf stepped forward as soon as they entered the store. He affixed the monocle attached to his hound’s tooth vest and bowed low. "Lord Malfoy, sir. Auror Weasley. This way please. All is in order. Mother was quite impressed by your selections."

A rotund, affable elf in raspberry robes emerged from the back room, large, blue eyes suspiciously shiny. "Little Malfoy!" Draco bowed and she pinched his cheek.

"Melba, a pleasure as always. This is Ronald, a Weasley."

"Ah! Your Prewett grandfather had a piece made here once. A pendant. Rose gold with jet, floral spray. One of my earlier pieces."

"Blimey," Ronald murmured, leaning over the vitrine. "A fair bit of scratch, that."

"Mipsy is very eager for the newest Malfoys." Melba trilled. "Thrilled to bits, she is."

Draco nodded. He, too, was eager for the next generation of (Granger) Malfoys.

The bell above the door rang as an elderly couple entered and began perusing. Melba chuckled, hands guiding several velvet trays through the air. They landed with a soft thud on the vitrine. "You've improved since your school days." She hummed approvingly, grey fingers delicately lifting a gleaming platinum disc. "The lion would've been too much."

Ron howled. "Are you telling me you've been designing jewellery for 'Mione since—"

"Ronald," Draco sighed, tracing the engraved leaves. "Not all of us are able to fully apprehend the splendour that is Granger."

"But you were awful to her! A right—"

"And I am forgiven. And will continue to earn her regard. I promise you." Draco nodded patiently. He appreciated Weasley's protectiveness of his witch.

"You really are a—"

"Eager to get back. Ablutions, etc. It's all lovely, Melba. And the other commission?"

"Yes, the collar—"

"Malfoy!" Ronald squawked.

"Exactly to Lord Lucius' specifications." Melba snapped her fingers and a gold collar and leash appeared, nestled in a box. "He was quite fond of his birds."

Ron choked on a laugh, face florid.

"Thank you, Melba." Draco turned his attention to the delicate anklet. The snake's emerald eyes glinted, its finely wrought scales writhing as it ate its tail. An ouroboros, the symbol of eternity. A bit on the nose, but he suspected Hermione would appreciate his humour. And he'd enjoy seeing it on her ankle as she pressed her foot against his chest as —

"Stop that," Ron muttered, sidling up as the browsing couple peered into the vitrine.

Draco arched an eyebrow, wondering if Weasley had somehow become a Legilimens.

"Smiling. It's creeping me out. You've been doing it since we left the Manor."

"Should I brood? Scowl?" Draco huffed a laugh and resisted the urge to tousle Weasley's hair. He steadied himself. For fuck's sake he was almost playful with his erstwhile rival. Draco had to pull himself together. He forced his lips into a taut line as Melba rolled her eyes.

"Suppose it's a good thing 'Mione makes you happy…she's why you've gone soft."

Draco smirked. "Zero chance of The Hermione Granger ever mak—" Draco yelped at Weasley's stinging hex.

"None of that talk, mate. 'Mione is a good girl, a —"

"Noted." Draco would brook no further discussion about his good girl. And how good she'd been! Draconus twitched. Wickersham Wickersham Wickersham, he reminded himself. Thoughts of that nature would have to wait.

"Ah! So many presents! An enamoured suitor?"

Draco turned to face the elderly witch as her companion watched, fiddling with the threadbare sleeves of his robes. "Yes, madam. Certainly that."

"She's a lucky witch to have ensnared the Malfoy scion. I see the customary betrothal jewellery!" Her wispy purple hair rose several inches. "It's important that the old families maintain the traditions. After all, that is how we persevere. Who—"

"Quite," Draco couldn't help the icy cadence. "Melba, please have these wrapped so—"

"May I see the brooch?" inquired the witch, hand held out.

Draco suppressed an eye roll, eager to be away from the overly inquisitive battle-axe. Her crêpey chin waggled impatiently. His mother had taught him to respect his elders.

"Of course." Draco proffered the velvet box.

The witch doddered close, stroking the brooch with a gnarled finger. "Exquisite. Isn't it, Gregor?"

Her companion grunted in what Draco supposed was agreement.

"That's enough, folks. Thank you." Weasley placed the box in Melba's waiting hands.

"May the Light shine on you and your intended. Congratulations." Her smile was dull and snaggled, her tone flat.

"Thank you, madam." Draco tilted his head slightly, dismissing the interaction and resumed his instructions while Weasley hovered, muttering about noses and nerves.

Draco was in a fantastic mood. Not even the sullen stare of the elderly witch who'd accosted him bothered him.

In a few hours, Draco Lucius Malfoy would formally request that Hermione make their courtship official. The brooch would signal his intention to wed Hermione to the entire world. And Draco hoped, gods how he hoped.

Nothing could stop him now.

After a harried hour of ablutions, they tumbled raggedly out of the Manor Floo.

"You'll put my eye out with that thing," Nott fussed with Draco's waistband, brow furrowed. "There's an art to tarting."

Draco batted his hands away and brushed Floo powder from his 'clothing'.  His vestment had been carefully selected: sleek, black dragon hide shorts paired with a ludicrously cropped grey sweatshirt and designer trainers. His hair was more artfully tousled than ever, his face smooth, clean-shaven. His fragrance woodsy with a top note of citrus. Despite his earlier misgivings, Draco had preened a bit in the mirror, his figure displayed to distinct advantage. His broom thighs were stunning, each muscle perfectly delineated. He hoped Hermione appreciated his efforts, and hoped she'd demonstrate said appreciation enthusiastically.

Nott had catcalled wildly when he emerged from his guest quarters as Ron snickered behind a fisted hand.

"Are you not dressing for your good lady wife?" Draco drawled. "I'd hoped to live the entirety of my life without seeing your thighs, but if it please them." He shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm here in an official capacity," Weasley mocked, drawing his Auror robes closed.

Nott fiddled with his bowtie, chest gleaming. "Officially boring, but chin up! I'm sure Susan will appreciate any effort. And don't forget to slowly twist then pull."

"Her leg?" Draco teased.

Ron blushed furiously. "Something like that."

"There's two of everything, but one of these, at least…" Theodore winked. "Unless there's some orifice geminio I'm unaware of. And I'd definitely not be unaware of that."

"That's my wife," Ronald huffed, flickering his wrist.

Theo yelped. "And that's the thanks I get for helping you secure her!"

Mipsy appeared with a crack. "All is ready, little master. Miss Granger and friends are expecting you."

"Thank you, Mipsy. And the other thing?"

Mipsy winked. "Jet got it on him. Flew off in a strop."

Of course the temperamental bird would vehemently disapprove of his starring role in Draco's courtship ritual. He sighed. "I'll find him."

"You're barking if you think I'm chasing after a bird," Ron huffed.

"Pax, Weasley. I don't need an auror on my own estate."

"Why in Salazar's sack do you need a damnable peacock?" Theo pursed his lips. "This is a party not a county show."

"Peacocks? Makes sense." Ron waved a hand in Draco's general direction.

Draco bristled. "Hermione adores Cletus. And his participation is vital for…one of this evening's events."

Theo arched an eyebrow. "What are you planning?"

"The brooch, Theo. It's time."

Theo screeched and wrapped Draco in his arms. "Finally! You two idiots will be the death of me. Though if Cletus or any of the foul fowl so much as look at me they'll be served on toast. How do you think peacock tastes, Ronald?"

"Gamey I reckon." The sage contributed, craning his neck for refreshments.

"The wit I live for," Theo intoned. "I'm off. Drinks to ogle, people to swallow, etc. Don't dawdle, Drakey!"

Weasley looked him up and down, lingering on Draco's very exposed (toned) legs before shaking his head. "You'll be alright. I'll meet you at the tent."

Draco smoothed his pitifully short shorts, wand in palm. "I'll be there forthwith."

Perhaps Hermione could cast her very clever (and likely illegal) expansion charm on his pockets. But first, he needed Cletus. He closed his eyes and tuned in to the Manor wards, scrutinising every energetic signature. There, the kaleidoscope of magic on the South Lawn, the varying hues of his friends; Pansy's electric blue, Blaise's searing red. Potter and the Weaselette were a turquoise combination reminiscent of the Aegean. A shudder of recognition, an embrace as Hermione welcomed him through the wards. He could see the golden filament of her magic firmly interwoven with centuries of Malfoys, overpowering, divine. He laughed aloud at the short-sightedness of his ancestors, their certainty. All undone by one very clever, extremely powerful Muggleborn goddess. A witch he was eager to see and please.

He refocused on his task and apparated to the edge of the western glen, one of the ostentation's favoured haunts. The sun was low, the trees casting gloomy shadows as Draco ventured into a small copse of trees. "Cletus!" he called, searching the lower branches. Honking echoed through the bramble. Draco pushed forward, anxious to see his argentosa and her reception of his slutty shorts. His thighs stung with a thousand small cuts as he continued through the bush. He'd episkey once he'd wrung the neck of the petulant Cletus, who was fond of wandering far and wide in his search for adventure. The wards blinkered this far out, the glen marking one of the estate's boundaries. Draco was of half a mind to turn back, thoughts of Hermione waiting for him a seductive lure. But the foolish bird was instrumental to Draco's planned presentation, and Hermione would appreciate the detail. "Cletus you git!" Draco yelled as he drew closer to a small clearing. He tripped over a log and nearly landed face first in a tangle of nettle, sending both wand and collar flying in an effort to protect his (beautiful) face. He'd wring the bird's neck, serve him for dinner.

"Cletus you impossible shit," Draco muttered, hands scraping the ground for his wand.

Cletus wailed nearby, the scratch of his talons agitated.

Draco stood, "About time you naughty—" He stepped into clearing and swallowed his words. He'd lost precious time in the chase, and Cletus did not respond to threats.  The peacock lurked behind a bush, his crest quivering with indignation. "Come on, old boy, cooperate for papa."

Cletus squawked angrily. Draco slowed, arm outstretched in a bid for calm. He was accustomed to Cletus' volatility, but the bird currently had several hundred thousand galleons worth of jewellery in a pouch around his neck. Scandalous. Ridiculous. Anything for just one of Hermione's smiles. "That's it, boy." Draco approached carefully as Cletus stilled, beady eyes fixed on him, neck oddly bent. "What's wrong?" Surely the black velvet bag dangling from his neck wasn't that heavy. Gods the bird was melodramatic. He closed the final distance and patted his saddle, making soothing sounds as Cletus fretted. Draco palmed the bag as the bird eased into his touch. "We'll get it off you soon. Just a few more minutes."

The crunch of desiccated leaves to his right elicited a honk from Cletus. "Accio w—" The words were ripped from his mouth as breath left his body. His torso felt caught in a vise as something cold pressed against his nape, then encircled his neck, closing with a click.

Draco scratched furiously, pulling on the newly appeared collar, then crumpled to the ground as his legs buckled. Cletus flailed violently in a bid to get away, talons outstretched forcing Draco to lift his arm as a shield, the effort winding him.

The edges of his vision clouded as he pressed himself upright, his head throbbing. "What the fuck," he panted, stomach churning violently. The collar tightened.

"There, there, old boy." Draco looked up at the nebulous form stepping through the ward boundary as his fingers scrambled to decode the runes engraved into the unyielding band around his neck. A Magic dampener.

"Well," Draco managed. "There's a surprise."

"Wouldn't be, if we moved in the same circles."

"That was your choice, Greg," Draco drew himself to a stand.

Gregory Goyle stepped forward and pointed his wand down. A blast of infernal heat knocked Draco on his backside.

Draco wondered how quickly Hermione would get here if she sensed the disturbance. Fuck.

"You turned your back on our values."

"So you turn your back on decency instead? What is this about? Money?"

Greg spit, his face thunderous. "This is about tradition, Draco. You've strayed from the path, but I'm here as a friend to bring you back to it."

"Pass." Draco clutched the collar. "Remove this now and I'll forget all about this, let you on your merry way." He drawled easily, even as his lungs burned, desperate for oxygen. He couldn't feel the wards, didn't know what Hermione or even his mother might feel right now. Goyle had become a mountain of a man. Malice wafted off him in waves, his eyes hateful as he watched Draco struggle. Whatever brought Goyle here, he didn't want his argentosa or his mother anywhere near it.

Greg laughed mirthlessly, wand aimed at Draco's chest, blood red sleeve brushing the ground.

Cletus flew into a nearby tree, wailing.

A flick of his wrist and Draco was dragged toward him as an incarcerous bound his hands behind his back. Draco tried to dig his heels in, but it was useless. Dirt clumped and sprayed, landing with dull thuds.

"You and your damnable birds. Everyone else is wracking their head, coming up with stupid plans. But I know your weaknesses, figured you'd never key me completely out of the wards. After all, we're old friends."

Greg sidestepped Draco's kick, flattening him to the ground with a twist of his wrist.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Greg tilted his head in thought. "It's not what I want, Malfoy. I'm not here on my own, or for myself. This is bigger than me."

"Out with it, then," Draco flexed his hand in an attempt to wandlessly summon his wand. He needed to subdue the fuck, petrify him, something anything before Hermione showed up and—

"You've been a very naughty boy, Draco. I would love to kill you and the Mudblood. But the others have different ideas."

Draco schooled his features into dispassion even as his heart thundered erratically. "That's over. A slight misunderstanding. She's nothing to do with us."

Greg squeezed Draco's shoulder and pulled him forward until Draco landed chin first at Greg's feet. "You always were a shite liar," he mused before kicking Draco in the stomach. "You just spent a fortune on the filth a few hours ago. I saw you."

Draco coughed and saw the dark red in the spittle. Greg kicked him again then pulled him to a stand by his hair. "Need to take it easy, the lady won't appreciate me damaging her goods."

"You always were a brute," Draco snarled, iron flooding his mouth.

"A useful one." Greg bound Draco's feet as he chuckled. " Now, tell me where the Mudblood is or I'll march up to the house and ask Narcissa. She might even appreciate the company. Lucius has been locked up for how long now? Always did like your mother."

Draco growled. "Leave my mother out of this. She isn't even here, you oozing pustule. She would've responded to this already. And the elves shall any minute." Draco tried tugging on the wards and felt nothing.

Greg leaned over and slapped him with his heavy, open hand. "Where's the Mudblood, Draco?"

"How the fuck would I know?" Draco spat along with blood.

"Enough!"

Dread flooded Draco's synapses. He hoped Hermione would not come. He hoped the elves would summon Ron or Potter. He hoped he was wrong about the nasally register he'd disastrously, stupidly seduced so long ago.

"We have him. The mission is accomplished." Monique LaRue stepped through the slit in the wards and crouched in front him. Her smile was frightening. Draco winced as she extended her hand, only to card it through his hair. Tears fell from her eyes as she sighed. "You forced our hands, Draco." Draco wriggled as she caressed his arm and chest. "What are you wearing?" She rubbed the front of his shorts and Draco curved his body away from her disgusting touch, bile rising in his throat.

"I was out for a run," Draco grimaced.

"Hmmm." She stood and flickered her wand, levitating Draco. "If this is the Mudblood's influence, I might be persuaded to kill her quickly."

“You’re making a mistake, Monique. Don’t let yourself be used—“

“Ah, but you used me, hmmm? Tried to. As you see, I’m not so stupid as to be tricked by anyone.”

Greg snickered. "If the Mudblood dressed like that, I might be persuaded to take my time."

"Don't be disgusting, Gregory," Monique spat. "Touching it invites disease."

“Monique,” Draco wheezed, the collar constricting impossibly. “I apologise for my previous behaviour. It was ungentlemanly, and…you deserve…better.” The lie was heavy and bitter as it slid off his tongue.

“I do,” she ran a blood red nail down his leg. “And now I have it. Don’t you see we belong together? Don’t you understand that I think of you, I dream of you all the time? What was I to do? Let you marry that filthy Mudblood?” She drew a sharp breath and shook her head. “Stand by as the Statute which has kept our people safe for centuries is desecrated by that mongrel and her science?” She rubbed her cheek against his thigh as Draco fought off a shudder of revulsion. “Don’t you see how well our love fits? Please don’t make me beg.” She mewled.

“The poxes serve a function, Malfoy,” Greg spat, stumbling toward him, eyes fixed on Monique, clearly disgusted by her antics. “It wasn’t enough for her to steal our magic, now she wants to let all the dogs in, hunt us down. Our world, our magic, shared with filth! But we’ll be putting her down first.”

Draco bit back several invectives as they manoeuvred him through the slice in the wards.

“Yes, once our bond is consecrated. I will enjoy destroying the parvenue.” Monique laughed mirthlessly. "The Light will shine on all the darkness, cast it off. A new dawn."

Several cracks of Apparation thundered behind them. Greg lifted his wand and hurtled a bombarda, splintering several trees.

Curses whistled through the air as several pairs of feet thundered toward them. Draco prayed Hermione wasn’t among them.

"Go!" Monique hissed, nails scraping Draco's leg as she jostled him close. The whirling pinch of Apparation tugged behind his navel. They were leaving. Hermione was safe. Draco thanked the founders silently as Wiltshire, the estate and his future tumbled away from view.

Chapter Text

Hermione sighed contentedly as she watched her friends dance under the pavilion. Twilight on the estate was enchanting, a spectacular sunset glimmered over the chalky downs of Wiltshire. The sky writhed in anticipation of its starry swaddling, clouds drifting lazily; ancient trees sighing and swaying, their branches reaching for the wix dancing under the large pavilion, which twinkled with (synthetic) fairy lights.

Hermione brushed the sleeves of her flowy cassock, tracing the beautiful oak leaf embroidery Mipsy had added, thankful for the elf and the Manor. The wards were a soothing, motherly caress, swaddling her in this idyllic corner of Britain. Pansy and Ginny’s raucous laughter washed over her as she luxuriated in the (rare) peace and security.

Hermione had learned so much more about magic in her weeks at the Manor. Earlier, when Narcissa departed for Andromeda's (and she was eager to leave Hermione and Draco unattended, something to ponder), Hermione felt the wards settle over her, put her in charge. They were alive, and the house was a sentient creature. Via the wards, Hermione felt the moods of all the living creatures, the urge to fly from the Abraxans; Jet's chagrin when Mipsy reprimanded him. She could even feel the peacocks, spiteful things.

Hermione fretted with her collar. It was slightly uncomfortable, the colloquially known dog collar. Still, playing the vicar to Draco's tart was worth it. She blinked away images of his broom thighs.

Draco would be arriving soon.

“The cat who got the cream,” Pansy lifted her glass. “It suits you, Granger. Welcome to the 28.”

“Chin chin,” Ginny rucked her papal robes and tucked them between her legs. Behind her, Harry was dancing rather awkwardly, knobbly knees on display with his fringed jorts. “You look…satisfied. Have you been, satisfied?” Ginny smirked into her wine glass.

“Not quite like that. But the night is young.”

Ginny cackled.

“Your chaperone is right here,” Pansy stood, champagne sloshing, and smoothed her halter top. Of course she elected to tart up. Hermione ogled her playfully. “There’ll be no satisfying while I’m around. And certainly not until the betrothal is official.”

“I’d boo you but your tits are dazzling in that top,” Ginny whistled. “Narcissa’s away, let the cat play. The betrothal could be months away. You don’t really expect our girl to go without for that long.”

“She’s had longer dry spells and survived.” Pansy turned as Neville sauntered by in a rochet.

A chorus of wolf whistles as Neville blushed.

Was every wizard in Hermione’s circle blessed with impeccable fitness?

“I’ve given Draco the suitor’s gift.”

Pansy and Ginny exchanged a look before howling.

“Draco must be spiralling. He is rather keen.”

“If he were any keener he’d be a banshee,” Ginny high-fived Pansy.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I’ll be accepting the betrothal jewellery. Which I suspect— “

“Hermione!” Ginny embraced her enthusiastically, Pansy’s arms landing on top.

“When? How? If hope he takes you to the vaults. The collection is legendary.”

“Ferret will do the most,” Ginny waved her glass around as Harry stared from the distance. “Maybe a cheeky photo op draped in jewels?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Woefully grasping. We’ll think of something once Hermione’s free to roam.”

For once, Hermione had no pithy comeback or snarky retort. She was uncharacteristically placid. Their conversation continued as she reflected on how far they’d come in a few short weeks. Mipsy’s rambling excitement about her (secret) trip to Aurora Alley was the figurative cherry on top. Her day had started with Draco, hours of deep discussion, of whispered (inappropriate) enticements, of intellectual and other forms of stimulation. Harry’s update about the recent arrests had only heightened Hermione’s joy. She looked forward to (metaphorically) stretching her legs and returning to life, work, busyness as she and Draco continued their inevitable courtship.

They’d amiably and maturely settled their miscommunication. Hermione was learning quickly (as always) that they were more similar than she'd dared hope. She was relieved that Draco reciprocated, rather, she reciprocated his feelings. That their minds were so well-aligned. She smiled widely at her friends. One day she'd apologise for refuting outright the idea that Draco and her were well-matched.

Well, thank them at least.

Draco matched her energy, mirrored her hopes and dreams. Her pragmatism was a boon; she could imagine a very happy and comfortable life with Draco. And that certainty led her to offer the suitor's gift, her spin on the customary suitor's gift: a smart watch with bespoke dragon hide straps, their initials engraved on the case back. The gift signalled that she accepted (encouraged) his suit. That she was amenable.

Now it was Draco's turn. She kicked her feet excitedly.

Yes, some magical traditions were still woefully quaint. A month of dating concluding in a swift engagement would certainly invite commentary in the non-magical world. But Hermione and Draco shared history, friends, a past; the hidden and the occult; years of orbiting one another. Her formerly secret (long held, embarrassing) interest in the pointy pain in the arse was unfurling. A bloom Hermione would tend.

Hermione was done with pretence, with defences. She would accept the brooch and Wickersham could fuck well and truly off.

The wards notified her of Draco’s arrival with a frisson of excitement. She marvelled at the symphonic quality of their magic, how they accompanied one another so well. The house settled onto its foundation, content that its scion was at home. Hermione closed her eyes, reaching for the silver filament of Draco's magic, entwined with hers. She pulled gently and joy responded. He was happy to be home. She sensed the home was herself. She fluttered her eyes open with a laugh. Home.

Soon, she'd be engaged to Draco Lucius Malfoy. Soon, she'd return to her work. Soon they'd be building a life, a home, together.

Hermione was truly, gloriously, effervescently alive and happy.

Nothing and no one would stop her now.

That was an hour ago.

First, the chaos racing through the wards, yowling energetic demands from the western edge of the estate. Draco apparated, his magic jagged. The frightened eruption of confusion felt by one of the peacocks.

Then, an unknown signature tainting the wards. Hostile. The wards trying to expunge it. Then, the cries of trees, of the land as an explosion rocked it. If Pansy hadn't braced her, Hermione would've apparated on her own. Terse instructions to Harry and Ron as they, as always, obeyed without question. The estate was being violated, its son injured.

They'd arrived in the glen too late.

The world was now upside down, reason and logic replaced with disorder and the unthinkable. Hermione was livid, her magical core erupting.

Narcissa had returned, a study in controlled anger as Harry and Ron reconstructed the scene.  

Draco was gone. Hermione held his discarded wand against her chest as she tugged on their bond. Show me the way. "This magical signature has been here before." Hermione clutched Draco's wand tightly, eyes narrowing at the muddy, webbed intruder signature, nebulous in the scene diagnostic.

"We recast the wards after the trials." Narcissa’s pitch was a note or two higher. "No one who meant us harm should have been admitted. Especially not after Kingsley requested you stay. This person has been here since."

They reached for each other's hands, silently scrutinising the shred of their protective energy.

It must have been someone who'd been to the Manor after the trials. Someone whom Draco had trusted.

"I'm sorry, Lady Malfoy. "Mione." Ron wore the sheepish look that normally sent Hermione into the stratosphere.  "I should've gone with him to find the blasted bird."

"Wot was he doing?" Hermione glared at her motley crew of tarts and vicars, who’d joined her, wands at the ready, the second she felt the disturbance, the removal of Draco's energy from the estate. The Malfoy Manor wards were aflame, surging in displeasure, demanding the return of their heir, retribution for the transgression. Rage coursed through Hermione's veins, fed by the wards and her own outrage at the audacity of someone taking something—someone—who was hers.

That never ended well. Hermione prided herself on how deeply—overwhelmingly—she loved, how fiercely she protected her loved ones. Before the war those protective impulses manifested as keeping Harry and Ron alive while trio lurched from one dangerous escapade to another. But the war had necessitated drastic measures. Ruthless ones. Hermione didn’t hesitate. She'd obliviated her own parents, effectively orphaned herself to keep them safe. She'd harangued, wheedled and harassed Harry and Ron until they consented to a modified trace she developed to track them in the aftermath of rebuilding.

"He went after Cletus." Theo sighed. "Apparently the fowl was your betrothal jewellery presenter."

Hermione took a deep, steadying breath. Several. The flowy cassock she'd donned to play the vicar to Draco's tart chafed, constricted. "It's not your fault, Ronald." She glanced at Harry, wand flicking and circling to reveal footprints, vestiges of magic.

A honk reverberated nearby, a rustle of leaves as Cletus stormed into view.

Hermione's eye twitched as Cletus noisily recounted the events. Hermione scratched his head.  Draco and his penchant for theatrics. Draco and his attentiveness.

Draco Draco Draco

Cletus squawked and train rattled.

"We'll get him back, Curls," Theo murmured, transfiguring his bowtie into a jumper. His lycra short shorts remained intact, tanned thighs quivering.

"Of that I am certain," Hermione said crisply. She almost pitied whoever had done this. Few knew just how far Hermione would go, what she was capable of, to protect what was hers.

The war had changed her irrevocably.

"There was a cursed object here," Harry muttered. He stood and cast another ghostly diagnostic, revealing a swirling, grey knot. "Incarcerous, levitation…bombarda?"

"We picked up the betrothal jewellery today," Ron flicked his wrist and enlarged the spectral image.

Hermione willed herself calm, even as her pulse skyrocketed. Of course Draco planned it for this evening. She imagined him, flushed with satisfaction, knee bent as he proffered the traditional brooch, slutty shorts straining. She'd have wrapped her arms around his neck and encouraged him to move expediently to more private settings, where she could express herself more freely.

Twice now her slutty shorts agenda had been disrupted.

 "See this? Modified imperio. Looks like that case up in the Dales." Ron's voice was cold, assessing.

Harry nodded. "Identical I reckon."

"What case?" Theo moved closer to the wobbly diagnostic.

"A Muggle was imperio'd through a necklace that she'd received anonymously. Her sister was likely the target. Graduated Hogwarts last year. Nasty business."

"We’ll need to notify Kingsley. And Robards." Harry gritted out.

"Wait." Hermione gripped both wands, knuckles whitening. "If we involve the Ministry, our options will be limited."

"What options did you have in mind?" Harry approached his best friend carefully.

"You're joking!" Ron exclaimed at the same time.

"When have I ever joked about a mission, Ronald?" Hermione's mien was thunderous. "When have I ever taken an offense against my precautions lightly?"

Ron cocked his head back, sighing. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’ll live, Ronny boy.” Harry transfigured his jorts into jeans.

Theo tsked disappointedly.

“Say we do this on our own— “

“We are.”

“How are we doing that exactly? And wot options are thinking? Nonofficial wand options?” Ron was already strategizing.

The ground around Hermione's feet heaved. Draco's wand grew ponderous, warm. Her wand responded, gossamer filaments of gold encircling its tip. She lifted both in a slash as she traced from memory the movements Rosa Cecile Malfoy had described in one of her passages. Up rose the land, birds squawking as two bursts—one argent, one aurelian—fusilladed. Hermione watched as her magic braided with Draco's, resembling a creeping vine with effulgent thorns. A gust of wind, a smattering of sulphur, of ozone. This is what their magic together could do. A flick of her wrists and the whip cracked, rending the sky.

"Hermione." Harry' gentle admonition. “Talk me through your thoughts.”

She siphoned the curling effulgence and lowered her hands reluctantly as the surge of connection cannonaded down her spine. Epiphanies long and short in the making thundered through her chest: of course Draco Lucius Malfoy was her magical match; obviously their mutual orbiting, the confusing push-pull, the tenor to give, to take, to never yield; the quiet watchfulness; the wounded withdrawals. Draco lashing out yet dogging her steps; Hermione judging and critiquing as she closed in. Why had she waited so long? They could have—

"Options that might, under close inspection, land us in Azkaban. I, for one, have too much work to do for a stint in prison."

Theo yelped gleefully. "This is the Curls I've been dying to see. The witch who took down Voldemort, destroyed a horcrux, broke into Gringotts—"

"Disfigured Marietta Edgecombe—"

"Thank you, Blaise! I'd forgotten that. Our Golden Girl is a spiteful little thing."

"We can't just cast obscure spells without thinking of the consequences." Harry sounded weary. "As angry as you are—"

"I'm incandescent."

"I get it. Ron and I might need to be a bit more—"

"The rest of us have no such restrictions. Or compunctions." She swirled to face Narcissa. "And there are other spells available. The Unforgivables are so—"

"Unimaginative." Narcissa sniffed, dabbing her face delicately with a black hanky, an affectation, surely. Hermione felt her future mother-in-law's unwavering certainty.

"Are we thinking blood sucking spongiform curses, or some light imperiusing?" Blaise straightened his spine. "I have one or two from Nona’s grimoire that I'm eager to test."

"C'mon, Potter," Theo sidled up to Harry, elbowing him roughly. "You know there's no use in talking her down. Either saddle up, or pony off."

"It might help if we keep it quiet," Ron rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. "You said yourself you don't know which aurors you could trust. Everyone's dragging their feet on the New Dawn investigation."

Harry threw his hands up in frustration. "Remind me to revoke your top secret clearance."

"That's what you've been hiding." Hermione's jaw ticked, anger cooling as she began comparing outcomes, analysing variables. "Secrecy is of the essence then. No Kingsley, no aurors. Just us. Let's figure out who kidnapped my fiancé."

Narcissa smiled and dabbed her eyes again.

"Hermione, do you think Malfoy would want you to risk your life? We'll figure out a plan and—"

"No." Hermione slashed her wand angrily. "I've sat here for weeks. I've complied, I've been reasonable. But that ends now." Outrage flooded her synapses. "Draco is bound to me. You need me to find him. And I will find him." The wards screeched their assent. She looked at Narcissa, felt her magic reaching for her own. Yes, they would bring Draco home.

"Hermione's bond will lead us to Draco," Narcissa's tone would brook no argument.

Hermione returned her attention to the diagnostic. She was done debating their options. She, and they, would do whatever was necessary. "A cursed object. The jewellery then. "

 "Wolfgang & Mits is elf-owned. Melba and her kinfolk are trustworthy." Narcissa glowered at the knot. "This is blood magic. The caster would have needed to imbue the piece with their essence and Draco's essence."

Hermione paled and bit her tongue. Who in hells had access to Draco's essence?

Blaise caught her gaze and shook his head. "Draco's kept his essence to himself, I swear it."

Theo cleared his throat. "After your meeting I suspected Draco would finally catch on. That you would catch on. He’s been a saint. A brooding, whingeing, pining tosser of a saint."

"I'm aware you conspired to bring us together, Theodore. You're transparent."

Theodore had the decency to look abashed. "It wasn't just me. And it worked, didn't it?"

Ron crossed his arms. "Even I saw how good Malfoy would be for you."

Harry and Blaise nodded grimly.

If Hermione had the wherewithal to splinter off a sliver of rage, she might have been unsettled. She might have pulled from her mighty reserves of spite, of vitriol, and read them all for filth. But—

It didn't rankle anymore. It had worked out. Draco was hers and she would be his. Whoever had done this had severely underestimated The Hermione Granger.  "Draco and I are of one mind regarding our future. The past is in the past." Still, as Draco had feared, someone from his past had disrespected their home.

The snakes exchanged looks.

"Speak." Hermione couldn't care less about her tone. Agitation was thicker than blood.

"Some of Draco's pre-war acquaintances may have knocked about the Manor before…Draco sorted out his priorities." Blaise clenched his jaw.

Narcissa arched an impeccably shaped brow, a gesture so Draco-esque that Hermione had a lump in her throat. She shook her head to dispel the potential mawkishness. This was no time to cry. She'd have plenty of time to inventory Draco's every look and gesture after she'd found him.

Theo gestured in surrender. "In Draco's defence, he did think anyone was capable of change. He changed, after all."

"Idiot," Ron snorted.

"Flint, Goyle and Pucey attended one or two gatherings. We used the old carriage house. In my defence, I thought Flint and Pucey were somewhat redeemable."

"Pucey's a potion head," Harry said, tone disgusted. "And Flint's served two stints in Azkaban for smuggling Class XXXXX creature components. Redeemable." Harry spat.

"And the Goyle boy?" Narcissa stepped forward, gimlet-eyed. "His mother Cecily went mad when Archibald died from…" Narcissa trailed off.

"I remember that. Swept through Azkaban—" Harry grabbed Hermione's arm. "Goyle Sr. died of dragon pox."

"Of course he did," Hermione rubbed the divot on her forehead. "The poxes serve a purpose and all that."

"Goyle is too thick to have done this on his own," Theo paced. "And we haven't seen him in years. How did he manage to find the jewellery and curse it?"

"The old witch!" Ron smacked his forehead. "At the shop. She touched the brooch."

"Did you recognise her?" Hermione seethed.

"Purple hair, ancient. She kept asking questions. She was with a wizard. I knew they were off but I just thought regular off, not blood magic, blood purity off. She didn't take her wand out once. And I didn't see anything odd. Gave me the creeps."

"Wait." Blaise whipped his wand in a circular pattern as Theo muttered under his breath. "We ran into someone questionable at the Savoy. She was rather…insistent."

"Marlene," Theo hissed. "That bitch."

"Monique. Monique LaRue." Blaise amended.

Narcissa's magic flared. "I'm aware of her.  The mother has also been rather insistent." She met Hermione's gaze. "French. She was never a consideration."

"And Draco made that quite clear," Blaise averred, smoothing the collar of his chasuble. "She's, excuse my language, fucking batshite."

Hermione clenched her fists. There was no point litigating Draco's past. Not now. Not until he was back home with her and even then—

The crack of apparation echoed as Pansy and Ginny appeared, wands at the ready.

"What happened?" Pansy shouted. "Where's Draco?"

"Neville and Andromeda are helping the elves lock down the Manor," Ginny pulled Hermione into a tight embrace.

"A lunatic with despicable taste in shoes might have absconded with our Drakey," Theo hissed as pants materialised with a tap of his wand. "We think Goyle—"

"Goyle?" Pansy groaned. "That loser is still alive?"

"A working theory," Hermione ground out as she felt Narcissa inspect the wards. "And he may have had some help from one of Draco's past…encounters."

"Salazar's sake," Pansy clicked her teeth in disgust. "Who? I'll hex her into next year!"

"Hexes won't suffice," Hermione took a calming breath.  She needed to be pragmatic. She'd need her wits about her. She needed to try a few of the spells Rosa Cecile had documented in her grimoire.

"LaRue."

Pansy twisted her mouth. "Theo's right. Awful inclinations, sartorial and otherwise. Wasn't she involved with Dolohov's nephew?"

"Skeeter's her aunt," Ron grunted. "Has she ever been here?"

Hermione clenched her jaw tightly, wondering how many magical transgressions Kingsley could be convinced to overlook. Hermione had several containers appropriate for one beetle-sized Rita Skeeter.

"Never."  

Harry caught Hermione's gaze, undoubtedly suspicious of the turn her thoughts had taken. "Can you feel him through the bond, Hermione?"

"Barely." Hermione's eyes fluttered close as she tugged on the now wispy tether between her to Draco, a tether that, moments ago, felt nearly solid. Something was dampening his magic. Show me the way. "But I have a better idea."

"The trace," Ron whistled. "That was quicker than I expected." He withdrew several galleons from his pocket and handed them to Harry. Tossers.

"I protect that which I hold dear." Hermione said simply as she exchanged a look with Narcissa. Sometimes her dear friends could be so very stupid. And sometimes, moments like this, when feelings overwhelmed her, she'd forget how she always planned for contingencies, always protecting those she loved.

"Don't worry, Hermione. We'll find him."

"I'm not worried.” Magic crackled from her fingertips, her hair rising as if electrified. The audacity of anyone—dark wizard or no—to violate the sanctity of her home. To take—for surely Draco was taken and to what end—her man. Hermione had long guarded her penchant for ruthlessness, particularly when it regarded those she loved. She'd do—and had done—things that were unspeakable and likely unforgivable. No one understood the violence she transmuted to become a healer, to channel the myriad worries and catastrophizing into repairing, fixing, curing. To be gentle. That animal within her, protective, fiercely demanded vengeance, that howled for justice gnashed its maw and shrieked, rattling her bones. Yes, whoever had done this should worry—for they had just crossed Hermione Jean Granger. “They, however, should be."

Ron's mouth gaped open as if to speak, but Hermione dismissed him with a glance. Harry and Ron knew better than most just how far Hermione would go to keep her chosen family intact. 

Narcissa's eyes were malicious, glittering jewels. Hermione felt the frisson of approval and relaxed infinitesimally. She'd never hide who she was again. In Narcissa she had more than an ally. She had an accomplice. The wards pulsated and encircled them both, a silent covenant for those who would defend its own.

"Yes, dear. They absolutely should."

Đ

You are mine, Hermione whispered into his neck, her hair tickling his cheek. He reached for her, face swathed in haze, in shadow. His argentosa loomed above him, gaze lachrymose, mouth taut.

You are mine, Draco Malfoy. The sickly smell of lilies, burnt sugar. His stomach churned as bile erupted—

Draco rolled onto his side and retched, vision flickering, eyes fluttering open. The ground was cold, stone, wet with decades of moisture, air dense. Dungeons, he surmised, as he flopped back onto his back, the heavy shackle around his left ankle dragging. Evidently he'd lost consciousness during the apparation to wherever he was. He groaned as he scrubbed his face with his sleeve and pushed himself against a wall. His head pounded, his mouth tasted like iron, and his lungs were thrashing. At least he had the use of his hands.

The thick bars of his cell loomed. A shuffling of feet from the darkness beyond the steel of his enclosure let him know he wasn't alone. Where the fuck was he? How long had he been unconscious? His clothing was filthy, his skin smudged with dirt. He very likely smelled, or would, if he spent much time in the disgusting cell.

The bite of the magic dampener around his neck burned, bruised. Draco tried, and failed, to wandlessly remove it, then resorted to brute force. He tried to prize his fingers between the collar and his throat to no avail.

Fucking Goyle. Fucking Monique. Two people he'd ever expect to see together. Or again. Monique with her continental aspirations; Greg who'd likely never left Britain. Prize idiots, mediocre magical beings had bested Draco Malfoy, had ruptured the wards that had kept his ancestral home safe for millennia. These were the villains that meant Hermione harm? Rank amateurs, pitiful witches who whinged about Muggleborns and broadcast their own shortcomings. Draco lamented not having duelled them in the glen, not having the foresight to be ready. He'd spent his years as a wastrel, partying and playboying whenever his conscience twinged, safe in the assumption that the world had changed, that the world was safe. He should've improved, practiced—he was certain Hermione's wandless magic was unparalleled, inimitable witch that she was. What peace had she had after the war, knowing there were factions intent on hurting her, killing her? Another wave of nausea rolled through him at how close they'd gotten to her.

Monique's short-sightedness (obsession) had been the distraction that pulled them away from their obvious goal. Draco had to keep them away from Hermione.

"He's awake."

Draco didn't recognise the voice, though to be fair there were at least a dozen bells ringing in his ears. Concussed perhaps? Or the damnable magic dampener.

"There's a handsome reward to be had if you release me," Draco swallowed hard, ignoring the slight tremor in his voice. "Surely you want more for yourself than to—"

"Shut it, filthy blood traitor." The voice spat, thickly.

"An obscenely wealthy one," Draco managed. "One who could greatly improve your circumstances—"

The sizzling pop of a poorly aimed stinging hex landed on his cheek. It was sure to leave a mark.

"Shut your gob or I'll send you to the lady in ribbons."

"Arrêt!" Clipped footsteps announced Monique's arrival. "Gregory, send this lout away."

"No. This is my family's home. And we don't hurt other purebloods." Goyle ran his wand along the bars. "Unless they're blood traitors."

"You've done enough. Draco must look presentable." She reached her hand through the bars, eyes glazed over.

Draco recoiled despite himself.

Goyle appeared next to her, scowling. "You'd risk our cause for him?"

"He is our cause," Monique purred. "Our prince. If we save him, everything else will fall into place."

"My redemption, is it?" Draco shook his head. "Kidnapping me, shackling me in a dungeon?" He rose shakily. "What did you think would happen, Monique?" Draco's mind raced as he taunted. What was their end game? Clearly Goyle and the witch were in disagreement over what to do with Draco. And it was obvious they were both involved in the threats against Hermione's life.

Hermione.

He had to keep her safe. He'd do anything to keep her safe. "Release me and we can discuss this like mature wix. I may have acted hastily, Monique. This is no way to convince me." Draco pulled his leg, rattling the shackle.

Monique's gaze flickered to the floor before inhaling sharply. "You'll come around in time, Draco. As for love? We are not raised to expect love with marriage. Our unions create dynasties, consolidate power. Ensure tradition endures. Love isn't a requirement. And I love you enough for both of us." She smiled menacingly.

Draco shuddered in revulsion as he took in the faraway look of her eyes, the rapt adoration of her face as she expounded on the supposed virtues of Pureblood matrimony. He'd been a fool, a cocky, unthinking idiot, pursuing mindless diversion without regard to consequences. Draco had distanced himself years ago from those who still embraced blood supremacy, determined to redeem himself and his family name. He should've known that wizards like Goyle would or could never understand the need for change. Would never accept that blood supremacy was wrong.

"Greg, I've known you most of your life. Surely we can discuss this like the gentle wizards we are. The witch has clearly lost her mind."

Monique hissed, pointing her wand at Draco.

"Don't speak wrong of her," Greg spat, flattening Draco against the wall with a flick of his wrist. "You aren't fit to lick her boots." Greg reached for her arm as she pulled away. He frowned and sighed wearily. "She wants you alive. You should be grateful."

Draco snorted.

Monique flicked her wrist and Draco felt the tingle of a scourgify. "You will clean up. Gregory has robes for you. You'll present me with the betrothal brooch, and then you'll marry me, Draco. Tonight." Monique whispered as she leaned against the bars. "Our union will send a clear message to our world. When they see our faces on the front page of every newspaper, everyone will remember that tradition, that purity, keep our world safe. The mudblood will be humiliated of course, distraught. But she will be permitted to live, returned to the muggle world after we take her memories."

Draco lurched toward the bars, blood pounding in his temples. He'd kill them both with his bare hands if they mussed a hair on Hermione's head. Hermione. His glorious, gods given witch. The witch he'd endangered with his past. Everything he feared. "A marriage bond won't take unless all participants are willing."

Monique purred. "But you'll be willing, won't you? Or the mudblood will die slowly. I will have her brought to you in pieces until you comply. It is in your hands."

Greg snickered. "Wiltshire is just an apparation away."

Draco stepped back, mind reeling. He'd have to rein himself in, let Monique believe he was willing or else Hermione would—

Hermione was formidable and very likely already on her way with Potter and Ronald to retrieve him. Still, if he continued his Malfoyesque behaviours, he'd push the limits of Goyle's patience. Goyle who was currently regarding Monique like a lovesick Crup. Goyle was enamoured of the insane witch.

It was unlikely the two of them acted alone. New Dawn. Goyle was very likely swept up with the terrorist organisation. He always was a follower. And Monique? An opportunist. She'd truly convinced herself she loved him. Fate had converged to bring these two disparate, embarrassing mistakes from Draco's past together.

Draco had to buy time, keep them away from Hermione. Surely Potter and Weasley would have relocated her safely by now, though Draco doubted she'd comply. His witch was very likely plotting his rescue, every inch of her brilliant mind focused on finding him.

Draco's fears had become real. Was this a life to offer his witch? Looking over their shoulders? Draco had done and believed many terrible things in his life. He'd hoped he'd finally become someone worthy, someone good. Someone Hermione could love.

Draco shifted and looked at his captors, reaching in vain for his magic. The bond was a faint, dull pang. Quieting. He would not fail her now. He would do anything to keep Hermione safe.

"Granger is no longer a concern," Draco forced himself to smile and stepped closer to Monique, the shackle taut. "It was a ruse."

Greg scoffed. Monique blinked rapidly, lips parting.

Draco deployed winsome smile (#9) and chuckled. "Mother was concerned about her little announcement. My interest was pure calculation. They're mistrustful, Muggleborns." Draco sniffed haughtily. "It was the only way I could get close enough to derail her plans without arousing Ministry suspicions."

"You think I'm stupid," Greg lifted his wand.

Draco carded a hand through his hair, the picture of insouciance, displaying a sliver of his abdomen.

Monique licked her lips.

"I know you are," Draco drawled. "But Monique knew, didn't you, mon cher?" He wrapped a hand around a wrist and stretched his arms, gently stroking the watch he'd only just received from his Hermione. Her assent. He would keep her safe. "I knew I'd see you at the Savoy. You helped more than you could know."

"Yes," Monique whispered. "I knew you needed me."

Draco tapped his forefinger on his watch and gestured at his now bedraggled, filthy clothing. "I'll need some time to prepare, don't you think? Ablutions and sustenance are required." He tapped the collar. "And this is no longer needed."

Monique unlocked the cell with a twist of her wrist.

Goyle grabbed her forearm. "Leave the collar on. I don't trust him."

Monique hesitated. "I should, yes—"

"Whatever you wish. But my toilette is non-negotiable." Draco proffered another of his numbered smiles and gave silent thanks to every god in memory as she succumbed to his well-practiced charms.

Ħ

Hermione paced the perimeter of Harry's wards, wand tapping against her thigh. Goyle Manor darkened its environs, arched windows ominous as they captured what little sunlight pierced the pall. Twelve hours had passed since Draco's kidnapping.

Theo, Blaise and Ron chatted quietly behind the hedge over a hastily scrawled map of Goyle Manor's layout. The last ping from Draco's smart watch had come from this vicinity, and she felt the marginal strengthening of their bond, sensing him within her grasp.

Corralling all concerned parties and their main character energies (gods, everyone Hermione loved was truly, irrevocably a main character) had been a struggle, at first. They'd returned to the Manor as Hermione rushed to her suite, kitted out with Weasley Technomag routers (honestly why more magical people didn't avail themselves of technology stymied her), opened her Family360™ app and tracked Draco's smart watch to a village in the Yorkshire Dales. 

Pansy and Ginny, unwilling to sit on the side-lines, had volunteered to surveil Skeeter in case Ron's instincts about LaRue were valid. Hermione loathed the vindictive 'journalist' and secretly hoped for another opportunity to put her in a jar.

Pansy, who had her own vendetta, had immediately stupefied the reporter and confirmed that Monique had owled with an invitation to Goyle Manor.

Hermione had already thought through the variables. Draco's kidnapping forced Harry's hand; the investigation into New Dawn had unfortunately pointed toward numerous aurors under his command. Unsure of who to trust, he’d reluctantly ‘deputised’ Theo and Blaise.

They'd keep the mission secret and use Goyle to root out other New Dawn cells.

Hermione was upset, but not surprised. Of course the wizarding (outdated, backward) world would cling to anything considered 'tradition'. But Hermione refused to countenance a world that regarded others as less than for whatever reason. Her friends, her chosen family, all promised to help with that effort. And she couldn't waste an iota of energy on that particular issue right now. She had to rescue her Draco. Hers.

Theo and Blaise's recollections about Goyle's home were extremely helpful. Hermione could hear its wards flickering ominously, laden with curses targeting Muggles and the Muggleborn. Her plan to polyjuice herself as Skeeter (distasteful, but needs must) was promptly discarded.

Narcissa Black Malfoy stepped into the breach. "He is my son." The steely reserve of the witch was aspirational. Ron insisted he'd accompany her in the guise of her rat-faced photographer Tattell. "He's a poncey git, but he's your poncey git."

Their pureblood…blood would circumvent the nasty wards. Once inside, Ron would open the Floos and signal them for entry.

Hermione tensed as the others crouched, Harry signalling silently for quiet. Soon they’d storm the gates, crash through the Floos. Both wands pulsed in anticipation. Hermione smiled at the rush of adrenaline, at the options unfolding before her. So many spells, so little time. Hermione was grateful yet again at being underestimated.

She almost felt sorry for them.

Chapter Text

Đ

"Our readers will be wondering why the change of heart, Draco. Weeks ago you seemed quite smitten with Dr. Granger."

"That is a terrible question, tante," Monique demurred from his right, her hand clasped tightly around his forearm.

They were sitting in Goyle's shabby drawing room. Greg hovered nearby, wand at his side, face grim. Wary.

Draco forced himself to smile at Monique. "I must agree with dear Monique," he drawled as he returned his gaze to Skeeter, who was remarkably unflappable despite the very evident illegalities of his predicament. The reporter seemed mesmerised, gaze fixed on Draco. He did his best not to linger on her lime green beret or her ridiculously dyed red hair. He shifted on the threadbare sofa, angling away from Monique, who tightened her grasp and moved closer.

The bumbling photographer snapped picture after picture. Draco hoped, prayed, Hermione would get here in time. Potter. Even Weasley. If images of this chicanery got out, Hermione would be vulnerable to embarrassment, to gossip mongering. To speculation. Monique pinched his arm, a scowl forming on her face. 

Draco wondered how he’d once, for several hours, considered the arrangement of those features pleasing.

"I'm dizzy with anticipation, Rita, as you might imagine." Draco patted Monique's hand in a simulacrum of affection. "I've known your niece for some time, and she's been most understanding as I sowed my wild oats. But she succeeded in collaring me. Isn't that so, cherie?"

He brushed fingers against the chafing restraint on his neck. The journalist’s eyes flickered, widened before her face became inscrutable. 

Monique smiled wildly, obliviously. "Thanks to you Draco and I found one another. I never doubted we would have a happy ending." She smiled so beatifically at Draco that he flinched before hiding it with a laugh.

Greg’s fervent mumbling contributed to the ruse.

Rita regarded the tableau carefully, quill gone quiet. "It was my pleasure." She nodded at the photographer. "Tattell prepare my tea. Unless there’s an elf who can do so." She pulled out a handkerchief and patted her neck. "My humours are most turbulent today. Excitement, no doubt."

Tattell shook his head energetically. "Alright, Missus."

"The Ministry made us free our elf," Greg snarled. "I'll summon a ket—"

"No, Mr. Goyle. Tattell is hopeless at temperature regulation. I insist he do everything by hand. The tea is quite delicate, a rare blend, and easily burnt. Goodness!" she squawked, nearly doubling over as Monique mewled in concern. "I really must have my medicine, please show him to the kitchens." She pulled a pouch from her pocket and handed it to her photographer.

"Follow me," Greg muttered.

"Don't take too long," Rita called after her bumbling companion, lips taut. "It's incredibly difficult to find good help these days." She clapped her hands together. "So Draco! Our readers will be interested to learn so much more about you and Monique. What does your mother think of the union?" She crossed her ankles demurely, her brown and lime green skirt stretching precariously.

"My mother will be quite pleased, I'm sure." Draco gritted his teeth. "She understands the importance of following tradition."

"Of course, of course. Only a mother could understand the duties and obligations inherent in your position." Rita winked, her quill scratching furiously.

"And a wife, tante. Of course I will support Draco…"

Draco froze, hearing tunnelling out as Monique blathered on. Rita's statement was eerily similar to something his mother…he shook his head. He was imagining things, surely. His interminable imprisonment (a day? A week? It felt like an eternity since he'd heard Hermione's musical laughter, held her tiny hand, inhaled her fragrance of spice and earth) had clearly befuddled him. Draco forced his attention back to the shabby room in the shabby manor.

"And what of the courting protocols? I assume you followed Wickersham, or shall." The reporter's twinkled merrily.

"Erm, whatever Monique desires." Draco was unnerved.

"I don't think they'll be necessary, tante. Draco will be offering me the brooch, and we're happy you're here to document it."

"Wonderful!" Rita clapped her hands together, lips twitching.

This blasted, godsdamned witch and her infernal, cock-addled niece. Still, this was time he could stretch out, wear through. Just like he'd done with his ablutions. Draco reckoned he'd spent at least four hours on his toilette as Monique paced outside the door of Goyle's insalubrious lavatory.

"I do love Wickersham, don't you?" Rita's chin waggled, stern eyes fixed on Draco.  "I find the 1758 protocols most invigorating. This isn't a negotiation, little dragon! My niece must be courted with the respect, decorum, and circumspection she is due."

Draco's heart hammered in his ears. He leaned forward, carefully inspecting the witch, noting the delicate placement of her feet, the rigidity of her posture. There were few witches in his (formerly) wide acquaintance who carried themselves with such comportment. Rita Skeeter didn’t move in circles privileged enough to have been tutored as thoroughly as—

She'd called him little dragon. Only his mother referred to him by that moniker, and always privately. Could it be? He nearly startled to a stand as Monique tittered nervously.

As much as Draco hoped Hermione would rescue him, it was a dangerous endeavour. Goyle Manor's wards were likely as pernicious, as anti-Muggle as they'd been before the war, Ministry be damned. Hermione's life and limbs (precious, sacred life and lovely, lovely limbs) could be cut short.

"Yes, I'm well acquainted with the 1758," Draco pulled on his collar as Rita tracked his every movement. He hoped his suspicion proved correct. "I wouldn't wish to dampen anyone's spirits with improper courting."      

'Rita' nodded. "Your mother has already waited too long for your nuptials. Any idea of how much longer she'll be waiting?" 

Draco smirked in relief. It was Mother, his beautiful, bellicose mother. "I'd say no more than three months. But it all depends on the witch sitting next to me. I've been far too distracted to mark the time."

"There's so much to prepare for a wedding such as this," Monique patted Draco's thigh as he tensed.

'Rita' tilted her head toward the direction of the quill before casting a muffliato. "Let’s discuss our little family matter."

Monique nodded as Draco watched the witch he was nearly certain was his mother keep her wand at the ready. 'Rita' stepped toward Draco, hand outstretched for Monique's and began a steady stream of babble. "The collar was a smart move. Wouldn't want the boy to get any ideas. I hope the Goyle boy didn’t ward it. He's clearly smitten with you."

"Of course not!" Monique squawked indignantly as 'Rita' inspected the collar. "He may be pureblood, but he is not a LaRue. He will not stand in my way. He understands he might have been a good match had his family not fallen so low."

'Rita' brushed her thumb surreptitiously against Draco's jaw, a movement so familiar, so ingrained that Draco knew without doubt his mother stood before him. A slight pinch and her hand continued to the collar, tracing the runes. "I'm glad to hear it." She patted Draco's cheek before turning to Monique, who now stood next to her. "Ġield ðē þurh mē."

Monique's knees buckled, her gaze slackened.

"Are you hurt, little dragon? 'Rita's' face began to bubble and distort as he stood quickly.

Draco winced as he touched his ribs. "Healing spells were clearly not a priority at Beauxbatons."

Narcissa tutted. "Mediocrity aspiring to greatness."

"Mother, what was that?"

"A spell from Rosa Cecile's grimoire." She patted his cheek and returned her attention to Draco's erstwhile kidnapper. "Remove the collar now." 

Monique nodded dumbly and pulled out her wand, drawing it across her palm. Blood welled thick and hit as she slapped it against the collar.

The collar opened with a whistling click. Draco reached with trembling hands, ready to remove it.

"Don't touch it, Draco." His mother hissed. Her transformation continued, raven and platinum overtaking the artificial auburn of Skeeter's tresses.

Monique removed the collar gingerly as his mother summoned the ridiculously oversized bag she’d worn.

"Place the collar in the bag and give me your wand." Once Monique had obeyed, Narcissa commanded her to sit.

Draco was nearly overcome as he embraced his mother forcefully, as tears of gratitude and relief streamed down his cheeks. "Where is she?"

His mother stared up at him, smiling. "Storming the gates, I imagine. It was her plan, you know. An excellent tactician."

Draco wiped his face roughly and returned her smile, gaze darting to the door. "A most singular witch."

Narcissa turned to Monique and bound her hands and feet, releasing the muffliato with another elegant flick of the wrist. A cacophony of noise—explosions, struggle, shouting—came through the doors before quieting.

The door flung open and Hermione, hair wild, cheeks flushed, ran through. "Draco!" She leapt into his waiting arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Draco! Draco! Draco!" she cried between kisses.

Draco met her rapid fire kisses as best he could. "Her—Mi—On—E! I—am—sorry!"

She pressed hands to cheeks and her lips to his. “Wot—why—shut up!” Her fervid blessing.

His magic—their magic—surged up his spine, argent and Aurelian. Draco felt himself rising, levitating, with his witch. A kaleidoscope of colours and emotions, fractals of dizzying depth and breadth encircled them.

"Are you alright?" She cast a diagnostic, brow furrowing at the orange and purple. "You're hurt, they hurt you!"

Draco peppered her with kisses as she murmured the findings. “Good thing I'm marrying a doctor."

"Four broken ribs—"

"A brilliant, compassionate, healer—"

"Draco, you need to lie down, get—"

"My brave, scheming fiancée."

"This better not be your proposal, Draco. It leaves much to be desired."

He groaned with relief, with gratitude, licking the seam of her perfect mouth, deepening their connection. "I knew you'd come," he offered, arching an eyebrow. "Please note my restraint."

"I'll always come for you." She kissed him again and again. "In every way. No restraint necessary—unless you're into that."

Draco spun her around, chest bursting with glee. "I knew you'd feel me through the bond. That you'd find me. Abounding in silver, indeed. My witch. Brilliant. Magnificent. Glorious. Witch." He punctuated each word with a kiss.

"The bond was helpful, Draco. But it isn't—"

"Six in custody, not counting LaRue." Interrupted Weasley's baritone. "You alright, mate?"

Draco took in the man's heaving chest, the ruddy face as he cast another binding spell complete with glowing handcuffs. "Thanks to all of you. Spectacular." Other than the itchy robes, the dull twinge from his ribs, and the general sensation of being less kempt than he preferred, Draco never felt better.

Potter stepped around him, hair (amazingly) more dishevelled than usual and waved toward the dazed witch. "Eight apprehended wizards. Theo and Blaise found another one. What's wrong with that one, other than the whole kidnapping, blood purity terrorism shite?"

Monique stared blankly.

Hermione pushed out of Draco's arms, landing with a soft thud as she regarded the crazed witch, wand pointed at the floor. "I looked forward to duelling her."

"Over a wizard? Hermione dear, that's dreadfully déclassé. Even if the wizard is my son." Narcissa wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Draco almost frowned.

"I suppose you're correct, Lady Malfoy. Though," Hermione traced a complicated pattern, the tip of her wand flickering purple then black. "Forgiet þæs ungetreowan. Forgiete nama and wlita."

Monique's head slumped onto her chest.

 "That's much better."

"Well done!" Narcissa cooed. "Rosa Cecile was quite the witch."

"Wot was that?" Harry's head swivelled between Hermione and Narcissa.

"She'll never trouble the Malfoys again." Hermione rolled her neck, imperious gaze pinning Harry. “Nothing requiring Ministry attention.”

Draco smirked at his two devious witches.

Harry's eyebrows shot up as he met Ron's amused gaze. "Then it won't receive any?"

"Correct." Hermione huffed a curl from her face as she returned to Draco's embrace.

Narcissa smiled and smoothed her hair, restored to its elegant chignon. She then transfigured the hideous Skeeter outfit into robes that met her standards. "I've always admired your sagacity, Mr. Potter."

Harry chuckled as he levitated LaRue out of the room.

Draco beamed at his audacious, courageous, divinely beautiful witch. He would never let her go, if she'd have him. He kissed her cheek again. "Tattell?"

"That's me," Weasley  Ronald chuffed.

Draco easily resisted the (meagre, inconsequential) urge to roll his eyes. "Thank you, Ronald. You kept my mother safe, my witch out of danger. You rescued me. I owe you a life debt. Two." He extended his hand to a blushing Ronald.

"It was nothing, mate. Hermione had you sorted. She tracks us all you know. Grabbed her mobile and abracadabra, there you were. She can't help but worry. It's one of her…meritorious qualities." Ronald nodded, entirely pleased with himself.

"Thank you, Ron." She kissed Draco again. "You do indeed owe him. Before I forget." Hermione gave Draco his wand, fingers caressing the watch.

"Alright there, old boy?" Theo called as he burst into the room followed by Blaise. True to form, the pair were wearing chic silhouette black turtlenecks and tactical? Vests. Theo pulled Draco's head down for a kiss as Blaise proffered a hand.

"Just fine, chaps. Perfect, even." He kissed Hermione's head tenderly. "Wait. What do you mean she tracks us all?"

Hermione patted his cheek. "It's nothing."

"Sure, for you. D'ya remember when I told you she wanted to give me and Harry microchips in case—"

"I didn't do that, Ronald." Hermione snorted. "Which is why you got a modified trace instead."

" Hermione, you shaved my arm for surgery. The hair never grew back!" Ron pulled up his sleeves and displayed a freckled forearm with a distinct hairless patch. "If Harry hadn't come in I might be microwaved right now!"

"It was for your own good," Hermione said, much too easily.

"Wait, are you saying—"

"You never offered me a chip, Curls! I'm offended." Theo pouted. "I could get into trouble and then how'd you find me?"

"You are trouble," Hermione amended crisply.

"I'll keep my trace, thanks." Blaise brushed non-existent lint off his robes. "The panic counter-charm is a nice touch."

"You got a panic button?" Harry cried from the doorway, eyes narrowed at Hermione. "I demand an upgrade. Malfoy got a watch, for fuck's sake!"

"All of you?" Malfoy stared at his diabolical witch.

"Malfoy." Ron released a long-suffering sigh. "I've told you. Welcome to the club. If she loves you, she'll want to know you're safe at all times. I said it'd do you good, once you got used to it. That you needed it, getting into the scrapes you do. And look! We saved you. At least you got a watch. Merlin's beard I wish that had been an option. I'd still have my hair!" He waved his arm.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's almost as if I haven't extracted all of you from some rather sticky situations."

"Your assistance was greatly appreciated in Berlin. When she said hentai I naturally assumed—"

"Leave it out, Blaise! I've deleted that rather disturbing scenario from my mind." Hermione wrapped her arms around Draco, forehead thudding against his chest.

"Granger?" Draco lifted his dazzling witch's chin.

"Is it too much?  I know I can be quite… intense." The uncertainty in Hermione’s eyes, the tremor in her voice undid Draco. She was miraculous, munificent, her love boundless.

Draco lifted his hand and displayed his wrist. "So when you said smart watch, you weren't describing its appearance."

Hermione Granger was many things: stubborn, brilliant, gorgeous, cunning, coy—but Draco had never, ever imagined this.

"If you don’t want it—look. I've heard it all before. But the war, there were so many times I…" she fisted Draco's robes. "I need to keep my family safe. If any of you were hurt, or, or…you were kidnapped, for fuck's fucking sake!" She curled into Draco's chest.

"Hermione's instincts saved my son's life. Everyone here, to some degree, a public figure of significant interest. I'm grateful for Hermione's watchful eye. And Lucius will be added to our, what was it, dear? Family Three Hundred application when he's released."

Hermione groaned.

"Shh, it's alright. Track and chip and do what you need," Draco squeezed her tightly. "I'm honoured to be your family." He kissed her forehead. "I'd wear a collar, but this experience has put me off the notion completely."

Hermione offered a watery smile as she looked up. "We'll revisit at a later date."

"If we're done here," Harry ruffled Hermione's hair as she batted his hand away. "Floo is reopened and the anti-apparation has been lifted. Go home, er, to the Manor. We can debrief…never."

Ron cleared his throat. "This was what we needed. Now we can ferret out other cells."

"Boo!" Theo’s wand launched confetti. “Place looks better already.”

"How's about they won't weasel out of their punishment?" Ron smacked his lips.

"That's enough, Bilious." Theo lilted.

"Mother, Hermione and I will head home," Draco kissed his mother's knuckles as she smiled.

Triumphantly. "Do. I'll be along...later." Eyes gleaming, she kissed Hermione's forehead.

Draco lifted his witch. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

"RIP Wickersham," she whispered, blushing prettily.

"Fucking finally."

"That's the plan, love. I'll take us home."

"Au revoir, lovebirds! Take plenty of pictures, I haven't seen Draconus since third—" Theo's voice grew distant as the whorl of Hermione's—of their—apparation pinched them away.

They landed with a stumble outside of Draco's rooms. His core roared with pleasure, recognition, their cores oscillating, entwining, uniting, rising. Power coursed through his veins, every patch of skin on skin contact was electrifying. The wards thrummed, welcoming him home as the Manor seemingly sighed in relief.

Draco leaned against a wall and pressed Hermione closer. He tilted his hips. Flames of need licked up his spine as every cell in his body screamed more more more

"It's so intense."

"We can just—"

Mouths captured fevered mutterings. Draco backed into his rooms as the doors swung open.

Gods, Hermione was home. Hermione shrugged her robes off, then pushed Draco's off.

"Lie down and I'll heal those ribs." She vanished his shirt and began palpating his chest.

Draco hoisted her up higher, enjoying the feel of her plush derriere as he squeezed. "You are my home."

Her ministrations paused as she cupped his face, thumbs caressed his lips. "You're my home too. If younger me saw us now."

A crack of apparition. "Little master!" came Mipsy's grateful wail.

"Mipsy, old girl. I'm fine, I'm fine!" Draco set Hermione down and crouched to embrace the elf.

"I am not old. Mipsy is wise." She pinched his cheeks. "And Miss was so smart to save the little master! Soon we will have little Malfoys to track. They will all have watches." Mipsy nodded as Draco hugged her again. "Mipsy will send champagne. And food. Master smells hungry."

The elf disapparated with a pop.

Little Granger-Malfoys," Hermione huffed. "Not that I'm thinking…that is. Do you want children, Draco? If this works out?"

"At least half a dozen, if it pleases you," Draco traced her hips, pressing his thumbs into the divots of her thighs as he stood.

"And the watch, the trace, that doesn't bother you?" She leaned into him, face rapt, eyes fluttering.

Draco caressed her arm. "I find your interest in surveillance…arousing."

"You're serious?"

"Mmm," Draco unwound her messy plait, making a veil of her glorious curls. "Third year Draco would definitely wank over this." He tugged on the platinum tress as she pressed closer.

"Wot are you saying?" Out came the offensive pointed forefinger, this time to caress.

"I've tracked you for ages, Granger. Discreetly, of course." Draco smirked. "That slap was germinal to my development. Did you think your ink pots replenished themselves?"

"And I sat at that table in the Restricted section on purpose. Shortened my skirt, too. Would drop things all the time to see if you noticed. Vanished the ink in my pots because I knew you'd refill them."

"I knew it! You vixen." Draco pulled her close as he walked her backward to the bed. "I hexed MacLaggen when you took him to Slughorn's party. Boils."

Hermione spun him around and pushed him onto the bed. "I hexed Romilda Vane when she bragged about your wicked tongue. Scaly arse rash."

Draco shuddered as his witch batted her eyes. "That…makes so much sense." It was wondrous how his witch both tethered and unmoored him, how easy they could be with one another.

"I've been designing your betrothal jewellery since the Yule Ball, I think. Krum's lucky to have all of his appendages." Draco hummed in victory.

Hermione's eyes widened. "You're joking!"

"Journals as evidence, darling. Would you have taken Krum if he'd been missing a toe? Several fingers?"

"You're lucky you have all of yours, the way you've carried on." Hermione cast the diagnostic again. "The ribs are fractured. The episkey you did—"

"Monique cast it."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Episkeys aren't good enough. Here." She waved and flicked her wand, the other hand palpating Draco's chest tenderly. “I have tinctures for the bruising.”

A ripple of warmth and snap and the pain evaporated. "I just needed your talented hands."

"The only hands you'll ever need." She hummed approvingly before flicking the diagnostic away. "Who designs courting jewellery as a teenager! Honestly, Draco." Hermione laughed and the fire roared to life.

"To think, I could've benefitted from your hands all this time." He kissed each palm tenderly.  “All it took was some DRC and spirited repartee."

"A dash of kidnapping sprinkled with blood supremacist terrorism," Hermione deadpanned. "We've set a courtship record."

"Ah." Draco sighed, thoughts settling, heart quieting. "I planned on giving you the betrothal brooch last night."

"I'd planned to accept it."

"You knew?"

"Draco, you're not subtle. Narcissa and Mipsy were practically levitating with glee."

Draco pulled her close and rested his cheek against her stomach as she stroked his hair. "I would've done anything to keep you safe."

"You did. I suspect some heroics transpired in the glen."

"Heroics are your purview, darling."

"You're insufferable." She scratched his scalp.

Draco pinched an arse cheek. "And all yours. You saved me."

"You lured them away, or dissembled, or something Malfoyesque. They had carte blanche to the Manor once they collared you. Though they would've met the business end of my wand."

"Granger, you vicious, ruthless thing." He looked up at her. "I've dreamed of you since that day on the train. I didn't always know why. I didn't—I never—did my best by you." He swallowed the lump in his throat. " I wish things had been different. All of these years I could've been loving you."

Hermione's face softened as she brushed his tress back. "We have many years ahead to love one another. We did it, Draco. We're here." She brushed his lips chastely, tenderly and pressed her palm against his heart. "Always here."

Draco let the tear fall as her pulse thundered through his palm, her smile easing the now fading tumult. "I want to savour every moment, Hermione."

"That sounds…agreeable." She pulled her jumper off.

Draco vanished the offensive trousers with a wave of his wand. "Indulge your fiancé’s boyhood fantasies."

Hermione vanished her jeans. "Go on."

"Bathe with me."

"That sounds…delicious. You wouldn't happen to have any Le Comet, would you?"

She pushed him into the ensuite, harkening to their first encounter. Draco took in her imperious gaze, eyes flashing with want, with need. He was well met, well-matched.

"Why?" Draco waved the taps on, and a rush of aromatic, warm steam filled the room. He watched a hundred emotions and thoughts flit across her darling face.

Hermione gasped as she looked around the well-appointed (ridiculously lavish) ensuite. "This is larger than the prefects’ bathroom, Draco. You absolutely spoiled, poncey—"

"Your spoiled, poncey fiancé," Draco averred, fingers dancing along the waistband of Hermione's sensible black knickers. "This is your life now, should you wish it. But I'll live wherever you want, be it a dingy flat, a pokey cottage, or a tent on the moors. Wherever you are is home."

Hermione tapped her chin. "This will do. I love Portoro marble."

Champagne and two coupes winkled into existence along the bath’s ledge. 

Draco knelt. "I’m glad to hear it, future Lady Granger-Malfoy."

Hermione preened and ran her hands from her stomach to her magnificent breasts until they spilled over the black, no nonsense cups. "Good boy."

Draco sighed, exhaustion replaced by contentment, relishing her praise. Up and down across her luscious expanse of thighs, breath a vibrato, thoughts and fears and questions easing away from the shore. Now, always, Hermione was the answer to every question, the resolution and the bulwark against fear. Draco tipped his head up and kissed the soft, neatly trimmed thatch of curls, a brindled ornamentation of her most perfect cunt. His. His most generous, perfect witch.

Draco's breath was an agonised tatter: "I live to please you."

She vanished her brassiere with a wink.

Ħ

Hermione's hands lay on Draco's head in benediction as he pursued his reverent cataloguing. She would not coax; she would not rush. For Draco wanted to savour every moment, and though she was a creature of exacting, fevered appetites, she knew this moment was about reclaiming, recalibrating.

They'd first collided in a frenzy, wine spurred and taunt laden with little regard or remorse; animal need spurred on by defiance. An enthusiastic reminder that life and its idiosyncrasies still held the power to surprise, to comfort.

Today, now, this moment was a restoral. Hermione had her man—of that she was certain—and Draco was compelled to convince, on bended knees, with fractured breaths, with barely-there flutters of his lips and eyelashes, with murmured confessions, castigations, invocations. An irrevocable reacquainting.

She could grant this concession. A slow, grateful sigh escaped her, his warmth seeping into her body. His want melding with hers. Her need sharpened, shaping itself to Draco’s irrevocable longing. “Kiss me.” An imperious invitation.

 Draco stood, a languorous thing, the right corner of his mouth tilted up. He kissed her, both hands sweeping her hair up and over her shoulders, patting, pulling. The platinum tress errant, wilful, framed her vision as he twirled and pulled it with his forefinger. "However will I deserve you?" An agonised whisper.

"You will." A confirmation. "Let me tend you, love." A command. Hermione leaned into him, rested. "Get in the bath." An invitation.

She noted the cords of his muscles as he clambered in, the veins of his forearms as he reached for her; the ink of his pupils devouring the granite of his gaze as he watched her; how his breath hitched when she kneeled between his legs.

Draco's shoulders relented, his mouth—expressive, vibrant—curled, expectant. He was beautiful, an ancient god in repose. He leaned and pulled Hermione closer, her knees grazing his thighs, the juncture of his legs.  She summoned a washcloth and conjured the bath oils and tinctures from her rooms, enumerating the bruises that mottled his alabaster skin. Draco sighed.

Hermione doused his hair, a hand anchored on his shoulder as he watched, mouth parted. The water became slick with oils as she laved and soothed and healed each abrasion and bruise.

"You're beautiful," Draco snaked an arm around her waist and kissed the corner of her mouth. “My fell, formidable witch.”

She shuddered as her sex clenched, as the evidence of his need thickened against her. It was their call and answer, the push-pull of their lifelong tether.

His shoulders relaxed further, his gaze flickering from her mouth to her hands. "A goddess, implacable yet munificent."

"Contradictory." Water poured with both hands over oil-silked skin. "Possessive." Hermione felt the slick of her arousal, the wetness of her anticipation, of her delight in his praise. She clenched her thighs.

Draco hummed, noncommittal, tilting his head to the side, gaze fixed on her tensing muscles. "You contain multitudes."

She rose, water streaming from her skin. And he watched, avidly. She tempered herself, moved slowly, allowed herself to be seen. To see. She pressed her lips to his temple, releasing the cloth so hands could lave, pull on Draco’s sopping hair, trace broad shoulders, map scars. Draco watched; he reached, encircled, gathered, hands splayed across her back, pulling her closer, his breath a heated prayer over her breasts. He groaned when she relented, her chest on fire, nipples peaked. 

 "I could've lost you." Hermione tucked her face into his neck, hands anchored on shoulders. A rumble from his chest as she listened to the even lub dub lub dub of his heart, as she inhaled and exhaled with him. Close they were, and still, she wanted him closer.

Draco already knew her well. He opened his mouth and descended on her breast, teeth holding nipple as he licked, as he suckled. Hermione writhed as her hips undulated, her now seeping sex fluttered.

He released her with a whimper. "You could never lose me." Draco assured, gathering her into his lap, a leg on either side of his hips. "I am here. I am yours." A shift of his hips and his insistent member grazed her thigh. He kissed her again, slower still, yet ravenous. She licked his lips and he latched onto her tongue, moaning into her mouth.

Gods, this man. This incorrigible, insufferable, charming, bewitching man. Draco and his mouth claiming, hands persuading. She rose slightly, allowed, welcomed, encouraged the press of his thick, worlds-ending cock. "Draco," she sighed, words of reproach dismissed by how deeply he possessed her mouth, tongue delving, teeth nibbling. The fragrant oil-slicked water, the steam, the heat of Draco's blooming skin tempered her anxiety; adrenaline and fury and anguish dissipating as he urged the tilt of her hips. All her fears and worries, of being too much, not enough, of hiding, of being seen, evaporated.  Water sloshing, spilling over as she relented, allowed herself the respite. "I'm supposed to take care of you, not…rut."

Draco laughed—and Merlin, was it good to hear his laugh, the rumble of his chest barrelling through her bones. He fisted her hair and pulled, tongue and teeth marking the site of her pulse.

"Fuck," she prayed, as she stretched an arm back and rocked, her sex aching, as insistent as his. Her skin was a conflagration. She held his gaze as she rocked, as water roiled. His face mirroring her desire, her dreadful need, yet still, always, irrevocably Malfoy.

He smirked. "That's the idea." he crooned, tenor plummy as he kneaded her breast, suckling hard, tongue tracing a tight circle around her areola. Cinereal eyes held hers, daring her to be seen, to look. He moaned, water-logged lashes fluttering, at every gasp that trembled from her lips.

Hermione watched him, hungered for his hunger. Their first encounter had been many things; whispered promises of many more. Oh how they’d eluded, evaded, avoided. Fled. 

Now their bodies exchanged silent vows: his wish to be seen, her permission to be found. Draco trembled, eyes glistening, inviting her appraisal. She nodded. 

“Yes?” He confirmed, ever her Draco, as hands bade hips to stir, to rock. To undulate.

Hermione shivered violently: cunt dripping, welcoming. Draco’s cock was agonising in its promise. She reached for him, held his gaze as she squeezed his cock, ruddy and thick and oh so…hers. Hers. Hers.

Hermione entwined an arm around his neck, seeking leverage, skin sliding, water sloshing. She was meant to be healing, tending. And yet—

Draco kissed the valley between her breasts. "I’ll take care of you."

This infuriating man. "You're hurt."

He chuckled and pinched a nipple before laving it tenderly. "You cure all that ails me." He laughed, wickedly, arrogantly.

And she joined him, smile wide, laugh loud, bright. They both knew, didn’t they?  Arms wrapped around him, anchoring herself. Hermione covered his mouth with her own, tongue seeking, tasting, chasing as they exchanged secret sounds of pleasure, of surprise. Draco's hands palmed her backside, spreading her lasciviously. Back and forth, to and fro, push and pull—their lifelong cadence. Desire exploded in her pelvis, a whorling, winding sensation that skated up her spine. Hermione was acutely aware of every inch of him: fingertips digging into skin; the heat of his mouth; the velvety softness of lips; the firmness of his thighs; the pressure of his cockhead at her entrance. His irises were slivers of dappled moonlight around a vortex of need. He licked one nipple, then another. Her cunt throbbed. She would devour him.

"Fuck.” He declared before sucking her breast savagely. 

Hermione whimpered. Something…something about hard-headed, insufferable prats echoed in her head as Draco continued his inexorable, maddening worship of her breasts, one then the other, licking and nipping and suckling.

Their initial encounter had been revelatory; frightening in its ferocity.  This union was an avowal. Hermione watched, transfixed, as Draco tenderly pushed her breasts together, scraped teeth over each painfully erect nub, eyes fixed on hers through every swipe, through every clamp. 

Draco was brazen and dared her to be: she pressed her fingers against her clitoris, small circles to match the rhythm and pattern of his tongue. 

“What do you need?” He taunted with a vicious suction before releasing her aching nipple with a pop. “Let me tend you, Hermione.” He groaned again, eyes still fixed, and clamped over the other nipple.

 Colour rose high on Draco's cheeks; she swallowed his whimpers and mewls, his obscene affirmations. It was fascinating, the attending and the undoing, how being this close was too much, not enough. She repositioned herself, the lips of her sex parting as Draco gasped, as he pushed ever so gently, taunting. Promising. Vowing. Her eyes closed, head tilting back.

“Look at me,” Draco smiled. A slight rock of his hips up up up “I am yours. This is us. Remember this.” His forehead on hers, eyes steady.

Hermione met the ardour of his gaze, eyes tear-stung, heart splintering in acknowledgement as she arched into him. “How could I ever forget? I never did. I was afraid.” 

Again that knowing smile. The one she had long ago besmirched. “No more hiding. I am made for you. I can take all of you. Don’t hold back from me.” That beautiful, secret knowing smile, endeavouring to be of use; certain to be of need. 

Gods they’d always known one another too well.

A whimper of recognition, at the fevered hue of his skin, at his heavy-lidded beholding. An affirmation. Pleasure and heat and release rolled up her spine, thrumming in tandem with Draco’s pulse as her fingers circled, as his cock insisted impolitely. Their braided magic oscillated, constellated in hues of sunshine and moonlight.

Her hips as she notched him at her entrance. Her blood was boiling.

He pulled her hair again to reveal her neck. "Yes?" Tongue traced a lascivious path from collarbone to earlobe.

"Yes.” She allowed. “Inside me.”

He growled. A thumb on her clitoris as a forefinger traced the site of their union. Draco pushed up with a groan. “This is where I belong.” He groaned hoarsely, his hand a vise on her hip.

Hermione's vision bled white as he slowly, generously, irrevocably filled her, her skin erupting in geological formations; mountains of want, valleys of need. A cartography of their coupling.

"I wanted to savour, but I will please my impatient witch." Another cant of his hips, a lift of his knees and their chests were flush, thumb pressing and circling. "I will give you what you want when you want it." His voice fractured, still he bade.

Hermione groaned and trembled as her man, her Draco, slid his mouth over her own. Her sex fluttered at the intrusion, even as it made room, as it accommodated, as it urged. Keened when he withdrew.

"Obstinate, headstrong witch," Draco panted as he lifted her, arse spread wickedly, and slammed her down. "Just needed me to be of use, to make myself known." Another lift, another rocking of his hips as gravity conspired, elevating bliss to ecstasy. "I was born to serve this singular cunt." Water sloshing, lifting, rocking. "To serve my singular witch." Their rhythm was wanton, filthy, worlds-ending. "To stretch this pretty pussy that was made. For. Me." He punctuated each word with a thrust of his hips.

Hermione was deliriously, gloriously full, arms wrapped around his neck, their pelvises flush, his tongue flickering as he sucked. She held his head close, her sex fluttering around him. Stillness; even as water roiled, as breath staggered and hitched.

"You've ruined me, Draco." She ground onto him, friction seeking. Tears, hot, unexpected, rolled down her cheeks. She was unmade, undone. And she welcomed whatever rose from the rubble. "I love you."

"I love you." He sounded petulant, his bottom lip jutting out, even as a finger traced her other opening, teasing, insisting. “See how your existence ravages me, darling.”

She groaned as the tip of a finger breached her back hole.

"We make each other." His hands splayed her open, thumbs pressing into the juncture of her thighs. "When we ruin, we’ll rebuild. Together."

Hermione clenched. Fluttered, the drag of Draco's cock extracting her release. Draco was sex incarnate, sodden platinum hair clinging to his face, tendons of his throat taut. His teeth were gritted as he continued, devotedly, irrevocably, his services to his witch. "I'll soothe this pussy with my tongue, hmm? Apologise for rushing to appease my insatiable witch."

Up up up heat, her magic flooding out, erupting. Hermione trembled, her orgasm a testament to the singular focus of her wickedly talented wizard. Her Draco.

Her mewl reverberated across the marble.

"That's it love, milk me," Draco groaned and she felt him twitch inside of her, his strokes quickening incrementally. Water sloshing, skin sliding, mouth seeking. “My cum belongs deep inside my witch.”

Hermione whimpered, body trembling as the heat of his release filled her. “Give me all of you, Draco. Fill me with your come.”

Draco’s thrust savagely, movement less suave, pure instinct; water a cascade on marble floors as his eyes clouded over, as he panted, as he slumped ever so slightly, as they sat back, as the swell crested into the abyss of satiety.

The house sighed, heaved in unison: stone wood heaving scraping shifting acknowledging the worlds-building, heat-seeking, expectation-sundering congress between its argentosa and its scion.

"Good morning," Draco rasped in her ear, sweeping hair aside and pulling her closer.

"Morning," Hermione yawned, dazed, contented. She threaded her fingers through the hand resting on her belly. She jolted up. "Morning?!"

Draco rolled onto his back with a laugh. "You were quite amorous, love. Passed out after our fourth round."

"Third, you unerring dissembler." She batted away the hand that crept to her exposed breast. "Your mother will be livid."

"Please don't mention our parents when I'm fondling you." Draco groaned dramatically, but withdrew the offending appendage.

"We're late for breakfast, Draco. Move!" Hermione sprung off the mattress and made for his wardrobes. "I'll have to transfigure something." She summoned her wand and began rifling through his (expensive, bespoke) excessive and bewildering array of clothing.

"May I suggest my old jersey?" He stood behind her, body smooth, hot, exposed. A tiny tilt of his hips and Hermione's (sore) cunt fluttered.

"Fine." She moved away from him. "No more of that now. Wickersham is spinning in her grave."

"Unlikely. Spinning was considered uncourtly behaviour."

Hermione didn't miss the glint in Draco's eyes as she slipped the jersey on and fitted it with a flick of the wrist. He whinged as he dressed, and they performed their hasty ablutions together before heading to the yellow breakfast room, guilt tattooed across their (her) faces.

Lady Narcissa Malfoy smiled placidly as they entered, eyes bright, perspicacious. On the table in front of her were several large books and an array of parchment.

Draco kissed his mother's cheek before sitting next to Hermione, who was still somewhat discombobulated at nearly being caught in flagrante delicto.

"I trust you slept well?"  Narcissa lilted as she annotated a page before turning it.

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione said brightly.

"I definitely feel…invigorated," Draco cooed.

Hermione resisted the urge to elbow him.

Mipsy popped over, smiling from ear to ear. "Here's your tea, Miss. And nourishment." She poured what was definitely an herbal tea and set down a potion bottle filled with what appeared to be sludge.

"Um, thank you?"

Mipsy winked and pinched her cheek.

They definitely knew. Her cheeks were an inferno as she trained her gaze on the table, on the tea (Mipsy knew she preferred coffee and Dan Can Oolong or Assam in the afternoons) which was entirely too fragrant, entirely too decaffeinated. And she needed caffeine to get through this day.

"And the suite provided everything you needed? " Narcissa brought the tea cup to her lips.

"The house has been very receptive to my needs, Narcissa."

Draco chortled into his coffee.

"Yes. That. The wards have claimed you, and so has Draco. It seems there's nothing else to be done. The betrothal jewellery presentation isn't necessary, if you're both ready to move on to the next phase."

Hermione swallowed the acrid tea with a cough. "I, that is we, have agreed to…to…"

"I will be proposing to Hermione, Mother."

"Wonderful!" Narcissa clapped her hands and levitated one of the books toward Hermione. "I think jewel tones for an early spring wedding. They'll work well with your complexion. We can use the orangery for the reception."

Hermione gaped as she perused the bridal book set in front of her, pages covered in Narcissa's elegant hand. "Spring is a few months away, Narcissa. Draco and I just started this," she gestured between them with her hand. "Two months? A bit premature to plan a wedding."

Draco arched an eyebrow. "Are you saying you're uncertain you'll marry me?"

"Honestly, Draco." Hermione blew an errant curl from her face, which Draco helpfully tucked behind her ear, features soft, slightly apprehensive. She reached for his hand. "We're still getting to know one another. What if you—"

"You've known each other since the age of eleven." Narcissa said briskly, rising. She smoothed her elegant sage green robes, chin set imperiously. "You know the fundamentals. The idiosyncrasies, the discovery, keep a marriage entertaining. Allow you to choose one another every day. What do you think of the amethyst for the bride's maids?"

"Narcissa," Hermione summoned her most level tone. "I appreciate your encouragement. I’m honoured to be the Malfoy argentosa. I’m certain Draco is my match."

"I'm glad ancient magic meets your approval." Lady Malfoy's mouth flattened.

Draco sighed, head falling back. "Mother, please—"

"You’re not strangers, after all. You've run in the same set for the last decade. It has been evident to everyone in your circle that the pair of you were made for one another, long before the bond manifested."

Mipsy made a low noise of agreement.

"I shan't be rushed in what will very likely be the only time I'll be courted. Besides, once Harry and Ron clear up this New Dawn business I'll need to focus on the vaccines, ensure that goes smoothly. Any wedding would have to wait at least until the following year."

"Well, if that's what you want," Draco ladled fruit onto his plate. "A year, five years. As long as—"

"I have no problem with most modern mores; I'm keenly aware times have changed. But you and Draco have decided, no?"

Hermione pressed her lips together in a bid for patience. Restraint. Lady Malfoy as an ally and accomplice was wonderful, affirming. Lady Malfoy as a mother (in-law)? Hermione drew herself tall. She could give as good as she got.

"It must do, Narcissa. My relationship with Draco is private. Now, I love you both, I do. But please don't push this issue. I'd like to…" Hermione worried her lip as Narcissa sat back down.

"Savour each moment," Draco supplied, kissing her hand.

Narcissa smiled softly, eyes lambent. "I understand, dear. And it isn't my wish to intrude on your marital concerns. However, there are certain aspects of Draco's position that might make savouring difficult."

Draco groaned as he cupped his head. "Please don't torture Granger with #3. I know you want a grandchild before age and infirmity take you, Salazar's sake. And you'll have them?" He looked up at Hermione. "I hope for a dozen.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Two. Maybe." Draco patted her knee. "And yes, fairly soon after we’re married. We’re in our thirties after all."

“You’re older than me, Granger.”

"Well, that's settled then. My dragon has found a worthy witch, a boon to our houses. Your union will be fecund and felicitous."

"I…thank you.” She should've known Narcissa would exert her considerable influence after last night. This was her way of chastising them for tossing Wickersham out the window. But Narcissa had all but vanished them away, left them to their own devices? They were adults, full blooded, able bodied adults who already knew one another.

The beginning of a headache panged behind her eyes. "I'll think very carefully about what you've said. I'll head back to the suite. Draco, a walk later? Tea in the library?" She leaned over and kissed his forehead chastely.

"You'll find that difficult, dear." Narcissa tutted as Mipsy chuckled.

This was becoming annoying. Hermione was exhausted, a tad sore, and extremely behind on her work. She needed a nap and some coffee and— "Why?"

"The suite's gone, Miss." Mipsy covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Wot…what does that mean?" A frisson of…excitement skittered down her spine.

Draco stood abruptly. "That can't be right, Mother. Hermione and I are bonded! I feel it, she feels it! The house responds to her! Bloody family magic and rituals." Draco cupped her hand to comfort himself, fingers grazing over her knuckles.

Narcissa's gaze flickered between them, a smile dancing on her lips, eyes glittering.

Triumphantly. "My suite sealed itself when your father and I returned from our honeymoon."

Hermione's temples throbbed. The wards reached for her, soothing, calming. Oh gods.

She buckled into her seat.

"Mother, we haven't time for riddles or more esoteric mysteries or—"

"After Draco's conception," Hermione whispered, meeting Narcissa's gaze. "This. Is. Insane."

Draco opened and closed his mouth several times, momentarily dumbfounded before dropping to his knees at her side. "Do you mean?" He flexed his fingers over her stomach as Hermione began to cry…and laugh.

Joy, unmitigated, unparalleled, flooded her synapses, barrelled through her bloodstream. She'd always been so careful, using Muggle and magical contraception. She'd thought often of her future family, bemoaned at times her (once) spectacular failures at love, doubted she’d find a wizard worthy of the tremendous love she offered. And here, finally, she'd found the love she deserved, the love she wanted.

With Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Draco rested his head in her lap, crying. She patted his cheek as tears fell, mingled with his.

"I'm unreservedly, inconceivably happy, Hermione. Thank you. Thank you." He kissed her stomach reverently.

"Oh gods, Draco! There's so much we have to plan, figure out. A baby. Our baby."

"A curly haired little terror. I will it so." He kissed her stomach, her hands, her thighs.

Hermione kissed his temple, soothing his hair. "I'm lucky to have a wealthy babby daddy. Childcare won't be an issue."

"Obscenely so. But Mipsy and I can handle it, can't we, old girl? I'll want to stay home with the children. Obviously."

Mipsy squawked. "Mipsy is wise. And very happy for the little Malfoys."

"Gran—"

"Leave it, love."

"As I said, fecund and felicitous." Narcissa had made her way to them, and kissed Hermione's head. "A boon, mighty, fortuitous. We are twice blessed. Your father will be so pleased." She tousled Draco's hair. "What do you think of the emerald green? Ginevra and Pansy wear it so well."

Hermione laughed, deeply and loudly, at the ridiculous game of fate, at her crumbling best laid plans. Draco stood and gathered her in his arms, murmuring gratitude and affirmations into her hair.

"I can't wait to see you swollen with our child, love."

Hermione Jean Granger (soon to be Malfoy) kissed her magically chosen mate and thanked the gods, Rosa Cecile, her interfering friends, and Draco's indefatigable persistence. Soon they'd welcome a child, bright and bold, the best of them. She tucked her face against his chest and sighed happily, gratefully.

They were truly on top of the world.

And no one—nothing—would stop them now.

FIVE MONTHS LATER

Five months later

Đ

"Just one more, love." Draco patted Hermione’s swollen belly through the half-open door as she sighed in an attempt to sound extremely put out. "Daddy's missed you."

"Draco." Hermione deployed her McGonagall tone. "It's only been a day. You've talked and sang and read to my stomach for the last five months. A few more hours, please."

Draco sighed but kept his hold. "I have so much to say to Scorpius. Don’t I, son? Your papa is a talkative fellow."

"We don't even know baby’s a boy. We both wanted it to be a surprise." And it had been, thus far. Draco had steadfastly refused (following his beloved witch's lead) to inquire, or let anyone inquire, about the baby's composition. Hermione was healthy, the baby was healthy, and that was enough. Muggle medicine once again outperformed magical healing. Draco marvelled over the blurry, black and white pictures of his child, who was wilful as his—their—its?) mother. Hermione had rallied valiantly through a trying trimester replete with all day sickness, vague aches and pains, and near interminable exhaustion. And Draco, ever doting, had catered, pampered, and attended her in every moment.

Narcissa had been given carte blanche for the wedding planning after the pair returned from a quiet holiday in the Alps. Hermione had cried (yes, the crying, another side effect of carrying the Granger-Malfoy heir) when he'd presented her the ring, a platinum affair set with a flawless (ethically sourced), radiant square diamond.

Their friends received the news joyfully. Several collected their winnings from longstanding bets placed on the couple.

Ronald was a few hundred galleons richer and, overly pleased by his success, had called in one of Draco's life debts.

Draco would have two best men beside him at the altar.

It was a small price to pay for his witch's joy. For in all things it was his duty to please her, comfort her, and make her happy.

Not that the months since the conception had been flawless. There had been discussions, some rather heated, with Hermione ascending to pre-war heroine form. They'd volley, they'd parry, they'd bicker before resolving their (slight, inconsequential) differences in a whorl of desire. Draco had insisted on generous endowments in the marriage contracts, and Hermione had, after initial dismay, been pleased. Draco would always put his family's well-being first.

Along with the physically difficult aspects of pregnancy and (over) working on the vaccines development, Hermione's grief for her parents had been exacerbated. Draco travelled to Australia with her, where he arranged for two of the (alleged) best Legilimens and mind healers who'd tried, and failed, to restore her parents' memories. It was little wonder then, that, despite her joy in marrying Draco and welcoming their child, planning (which she enjoyed immensely) had been left to Narcissa's capable hands. It was, Draco knew, something that wix who dreamed of marrying often dreamed of doing with their mothers.

"Before you go—"

"I have to finish her hair, you absolute twat!" Pansy yelled.

"I have another gift for you."

"Draco!" Hermione's perfect belly protruded through the door. "You've already given me so much! I'll need extension charms on my arms and neck to wear everything. I don't need anything else."

"Oh?" Draco stood and relinquished (regretfully) the hold on his child's home. "You can't really wear what I'm giving."

He gestured to his companions. "I'll send it in, okay? Back up a bit."

"Don't look!"

"Love," Draco placed a hand over his heart. "I promise to abide by all of your traditions, including the incredibly odd one of not seeing the bride before the wedding. Now, please. Open the door."

The door opened and Draco ushered his companions in.

Hermione screamed. "Mum! Dad!"

Ginevra and Pansy's joyful nattering soon swelled.

Draco's eyes watered as he listened to his wife, -45 minutes or so, be congratulated by her parents. Heard her sob as they, too, sobbed. Apologies. Promises. He leaned against the wall and smiled, wiping his face roughly.

He would do anything for his family, to keep them safe.

He’d even joined Harry and Ron in persuading Kingsley to release Lucius (under Harry's supervision) so he could restore the Grangers’ memories. Snape and his father had learned together, after all. And while his mother was a gifted Occlumens, and Draco had some ability, no one alive matched Lucius's talents.

The door swung open and Hermione leapt into his arms. "Close your eyes, you incorrigible—" a kiss. "Sneaky—" another kiss "—gorgeous perfect wizard!"

"Anything for you, my love. Anything." Draco laughed, eyes closed firmly as hands explored the field of lace and silk pressed against him.

"But how? Who?"

"Ah, that's my other surprise, and hopefully a pleasant one." Draco resisted the urge to open an eye. He could hear the cogs of Hermione's mind turning.

"Not…not Lucius?" She sounded incredulous. Her cordial letter thanking him for his well-wishes had turned into a healthy and complicated correspondence. Draco, not privy to the contents of each letter, marvelled again at the generosity and absolute cunning of his abounding in silver witch.

He shuddered as she traced the tip of his nose with her own. "I can't wait to thank the daylights out of you later, Malfoy."

Draco leered. "As long as I'm on my knees when you do, Granger."

Her hair tickled as she whispered in his ear. "Well, you have been an extremely good boy."

Draco shivered at the mental image of his fecund wife, thighs bound in silky stockings, stood in front of him with a leg draped over his shoulder. Perhaps she'd keep the veil on, he had some rather interesting ideas—

"I love you, Draco Lucius Malfoy. I can't wait to marry you."

"And I love you, Hermione Jean Granger. I’m counting the seconds until I marry you."

"See you soon. I'll be the one in white." She pecked his cheek and withdrew.

The snick of the door closing. Draco opened his eyes and shook his head as the commotion from the bridal suite swelled.

"Ready, mate?" Ron called from down the hall, patting his (elegantly) combed hair uncomfortably.

Draco felt no desire to roll his eyes. He smiled widely, as Ron stared at him, beady eyed. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"Theo and Charlie disappeared, I'll round them up and meet you downstairs."

"Sounds wonderful, Ronald."

Ron gave him another look before walking away, his head shaking.

Yes, everything was remarkable. In a few moments Draco would marry the love of his life, the most brilliant witch of the age, the mother of his child. Their families were united, their friends well-pleased. Draco knew he deserved it. And he knew he'd spend the rest of his life being a worthy and honourable husband, father, son, and friend.

Draco Lucius Malfoy and Hermione Jean Granger (Malfoy) were definitely on top of the world.

No one, and nothing, would stop them ever.

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