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Chapter Text

“Why do you want to get married, Miss Granger?”

Hermione smiled, folding her sweaty hands politely over her stack of papers. “It would be an honor for our union to be blessed during the Summer Solstice in this sacred place.”

She had already mentioned the historical importance of the wedding ceremonies and the powerful beauty of Tintagel, the last items on her mental checklist for this meeting with Audrey, the wedding coordinator. 

“And you, Mr. Weasley?” Audrey asked Ron.

“Do you want to know why I want to marry Hermione or why I want to get married here?”

“Whichever you would like to answer.”

Hermione glanced at Ron with alarm. She had quizzed him extensively on the lore and rituals, but hadn’t thought to prepare him for sharing his feelings.

“We’ve been dating since we were nineteen.” He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “And we’ve known each other a long time before that. Been through a lot together.”

Audrey nodded placidly. Maybe they should have gone with a more romantic love story approach: war heroes finding comfort and security together as the world rebuilt. Now would be a good time for Ron to say why they had chosen the Solstice date too, so Hermione squeezed his hand harder to prompt him.

“And we love each other a lot,” he added. 

“Excellent,” Audrey said, closing their file. “I’ll be honest with you. I need to discuss with Derowen because it’s between you and one other couple. If it comes down to it, would you be willing to consider a different date?”

“No,” Hermione said quickly. 

The Summer Solstice was the height of power, anything else would be a weak consolation. When the sun shone through the rock arch, they would say their wedding vows and be linked to generations of legendary magic.

Ron looked at Hermione’s expression, then quickly backed her up. “Yeah, no. Definitely needs to be the Solstice.”

“Alright. Feel free to explore the castle and we’ll come get you when we’ve made our decision.” 

“Thank you.” Hermione reluctantly followed Ron out the door. 

After months of studious preparation and making frequent treks from London to volunteer in the Tintagel museum, it was out of her hands. Ron bumped her shoulder with his as they climbed the rocky path up to the castle ruins. It was sunny for December in Cornwall, but the cold wind blowing up from the sea seemed to chase around the scattered stone walls and arches to chill her thoroughly. 

Hermione reached the arched doorway with rough cut stairs winding down the side of the cliff. It was a medieval portal to the sea; waves crashing against huge boulders, the gaping mouth of Merlin’s Cave barely visible below them, the castle ruins a beautiful bastion of magical power against the wild world. The perfect place for a wedding.

Ron leaned on the wall next to her, looking rugged and handsome against the dramatic landscape. Her own King Arthur, protector and anchor.

“Look at all those bloody sheep,” he said, breaking her reverie. 

She spun around to see that there was indeed a flock of sheep jumping around the castle ruins.

“Sourcing wool for your mum’s sweaters, are you?” she asked with a smile. 

“Mum doesn’t need any encouragement.” He sat down on a low wall while they waited, casting a warming charm on the stone surface wide enough for both of them. “We could have sheep races at the wedding.”

“What, ride them?” Hermione laughed, sitting down next to him. 

“Yeah.” He leaned forward, gesturing with his hands. “Picture Fleur and McGonagall in an intense race for who could stay on the longest.” 

“The poor sheep.” She let out a tortured baahh noise and threw her head back dramatically. 

Ron joined her in a loud sheep noise until the real sheep looked over in comical alarm.

“Did we just threaten them or woo them?” Ron whispered. 

She baahhed again, adding an inflection at the end like it was a question. A giant sheep with a bit of its tongue sticking out sideways took a decisive step towards them and Hermione grabbed Ron’s arm.

A low voice from behind made her jump. “Nice to see that the Gryffindors’ language skills have only deteriorated further since Hogwarts.” 

Draco Malfoy loomed over them, an apparition in gray amongst the slate stones, pale hair lit up golden in the sun. 

“Better to talk to sheep than snakes.” She scowled at him. 

He had grown into his sharp features, but his slow smirk was exactly the same, igniting an old urge to fight within her.

“Or Dementors,” Ron added.

Draco tensed, his smirk sliding away into an expression of blank hardness. He had narrowly missed being sent to Azkaban with his father, sentenced with only probation after a long and contentious trial. At first her anxiety had spiked when she saw him around the Ministry, her gut not recognizing the difference between a Death Eater on a battlefield or in the bureaucratic hallways of their workplace. Over the years, she had gotten used to him, matching his politely detached expression with her own when they passed each other.

“What are you doing here?” she asked; the strangeness of seeing him on the isolated Cornwall coast setting in. He was dressed formally, the collar of his wool coat pulled up against the wind.

Draco didn’t answer, frowning at something over her shoulder. The sheep had silently come closer, its fluffy head stretching towards the papers in her lap. 

“Oh, no.” She shifted back on the stone, batting her hand at the sheep ineffectively. “Shoo!”

Hermione spent so much time working with magical creatures, but realized she didn't know anything about regular sheep. Would it bite her? Ron gently shoved its flank, but the sheep just twitched and kept intense eye contact with Hermione. 

"Oy—it's shitting," Ron cackled, raising his legs up and away from the steaming pile that was growing under the sheep. 

“Shoo,” Hermione said again, caught by its eerily reflective black eyes.

It took a few steps back, curly wool shaking in a way that managed to be both menacing and cuddly-looking. Ron huffed a breath of relief next to her.

“He’s about to charge!” a female voice cried. A shield spell bloomed up in front of them just as the sheep lunged forward, its front legs clattering against the barrier.

“Go on!” A gorgeous woman stood next to Draco, her arms raised in a threatening pose. “Go, please.”

The flock of sheep scattered immediately. The woman dropped the shield spell, then tilted her head to look at the pile of poop for a moment before neatly transfiguring it into a small, dry brick.

“Great firestarter,” she remarked, then blushed furiously, looking over at Draco.

“Oh. You have a country house in Cumbria, right?” He asked, sounding a bit mystified. 

“Yes.” She straightened her cream colored coat, a sliver of silky white fabric visible underneath. “Hello, I’m Astoria Greengrass.”

Ron jumped down from where he had been crouched on the wall, then matched her change to a formal tone. “Hello, I’m Ronald Weasley and this is my fiancee, Hermione Granger.”

They shook hands, then Astoria turned to Hermione and lightly held her hand in both of hers to help her up, radiating warmth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I love your outfit, Hermione.”

“Thank you.” It was disconcerting for someone so friendly to be with Draco, the definition of cold condescension. “You too. I mean, I like your earrings.” 

Everything about Astoria looked flawless, from her stiletto heels to the giant diamonds in her ears set off by her shiny black hair. Hermione looked down at her own tweedy skirt and boots. 

She had found a tucked away closet at the Burrow, stuffed with classic outfits from when Molly and her sisters were young, and tidy vintage dresses from Ron’s grandmothers. Ginny had laughed watching Hermione try the clothes on and then claim them as her own, but Hermione loved knowing there was history woven into their very fabric. Although she liked her knit and wool outfit, it was possible that she looked like an unkempt and ancient Weasley. 

“Are you sightseeing?” Astoria asked brightly. “It’s a bit brisk, but still a lovely day.”

“No, we’re here for wedding stuff,” Ron said.

“Oh, congratulations! We’re getting married here too. Draco’s family tradition.” She rested a hand on Draco’s chest.

Hermione’s smile dropped. Could they be the other couple Audrey had mentioned? It would be devastating to lose out on the Solstice wedding, but it would be unthinkable to lose to the bully who would probably revel most in beating her. 

“What date?” she gritted out. “Ron and I are getting married on the Summer Solstice."

"You're not," Draco spat with enough venom that Astoria looked up at him with surprise.

He cleared his throat, visibly composing himself. “Perhaps you misunderstood the dates. Our wedding coordinator is seeing another couple just as a formality, but our wedding is scheduled for the Solstice on the twenty-first of June.

“A formality?” she echoed him incredulously. “You’re the couple that’s the formality!”

Draco snorted and Hermione felt a burst of rage, regressing her back into the emotional teenager who struggled to put her frustration into words. No one had ever gotten under her skin like Draco Malfoy.

She turned to face him head on, closer to her than she realized. They had both stepped forward during the conversation, tense and aggressive. Too bad they weren’t closer to the cliff so she could push him off.

“Many generations of my family have been married here during the Solstice. The power is my birthright,” he said smoothly.

Of course. It had felt like Tintagel called to her, but it was just another place that they would try to push her out of.

“Birthright? This doesn’t belong to you just because you’re a Malfoy.”

Draco leaned closer, countering her shrillness with a voice so calm it was almost mocking. “And you think it belongs to you just because you’ve studied it? Read a book about it?”

Her hand went reflexively to her wand, not sure if she actually intended to hex him, but needing to do something aggressive to keep from bursting into tears. 

“I’ve earned it.” She had every right to the power here, even more than the stupid Purebloods, because she wanted it more. “I deserve it more than you.”

His face twisted, jaw clenched so tightly it must hurt. “That’s not how it works. Ancient magic doesn’t care about politics, it cares about blood.”

And hers was mud. Heat flushed through her body, anger making it hard to think clearly. She was a professional adult and a powerful witch. Reacting would mean that he had power to have any affect on her at all. 

She would squeeze his throat until his eyes popped out. 

Ron’s barking laugh rang out, drawing her attention to where he and Astoria were standing. Astoria was laughing at whatever he had said, her hand pressed to her chest. Both of them were somehow managing to tune out the tense conversation like all of this wasn’t a pivotal part of their futures too.

“Are you Daphne’s sister? I don’t remember you from Hogwarts,” she heard Ron ask Astoria.

“Yes, I’m two years younger than her. I wasn’t at Hogwarts until later though because we moved away during the war. Are you friends with Daphne?” 

They were all saved from further conversation by Audrey coming up the path, followed by Derowen clutching a large, flat stone. Hermione felt a small swell of hope at the sight of him loping towards them in bright red combat boots, a contrast to Audrey’s prim steps in heels. Hermione had worked closely with him during her visits, laughing over runic puns and translating historical records. The castle museum was a tourist attraction for both Muggles and wizards, so he valued Hermione’s unique insight. 

“Here you are.” Derowen shook his hair out of his eyes and nodded at the two couples as though he had been the one waiting. “Now you can proclaim the Banns of Marriage on the Sacred Stone.”

He walked to the center of the castle ruins and heaved the stone onto a circular table-like boulder. Everyone drifted after him to stand around it. This was the first step in the marriage rituals and it couldn’t be taken back. They couldn’t possibly mean for both couples to start the process when only one could finish.

“Which couple?” Hermione asked. “It can’t be both of us.”

“Derowen believes that the logistics will work themselves out,” Audrey said, cutting off protests from both Hermione and Draco. “If you understand the sanctity of the Solstice in Tintagel, then you will trust in the process.”

Hermione clenched her fists, fingernails digging into her palms. If she argued, would they just be out? Trust the entirely illogical process indeed. Derowen caught her eye and gave her a small smile. Could he be planning to help her and Ron?

“You are all meant to be here today,” Derowen said. “Both couples, come closer to the sacred stone for the proclamation of the Banns of Marriage.”

“Right now? At the same time?” Audrey hissed under her breath at him. “It’s never been done this way before.”

Derowen just nodded and gestured to the stone, both palms face up. The surface looked like it had been etched with hundreds of names, crowded and overlapping to the point of being illegible. He guided Astoria to touch her wand to the surface of the stone first, gold lines appearing as she scrawled her name.

Hermione had a memory of sparkler fireworks and writing her name in the air. Hermione Jean Granger shining brightly for the space of breath, then absorbed into the universe. This time writing her name would be the opposite of that, her name layered with the other etched names, a permanent link in the chain that went back generations. It felt like growing roots, building a stronger foundation in the world of magic.

As soon as Astoria Florence Greengrass finished her last S with a flourish and lifted her wand, the stone came alive with flashes of gold. The names of her ancestors who had Solstice weddings here were lighting up like rapid-fire constellations. It was beautiful.

Draco went next, his ancestors even more numerous, overlapping letters branching like lightning. Hermione kept her eyes on the stone, unwilling to see his smug face, so confident of his bloody birthright. 

Ron held her hand as he wrote his name, more neatly than usual. A dozen names of his ancestors shone, even though his parents had said dismissively that they didn’t know of anyone in the family who had bothered with the Tintagel stuff—an unnecessary ancient superstition.

Hermione touched her wand to the surface, her hand a bit shaky. This was what she had been working for. She wrote her name extra large in the center, the tilting letters looking thin against the dark stone. No other names lit up. It was fine, it was good to be the first of her line and to be able to stand here now. She stepped back, looking away from the stone and down at the vine-carved wand in her hands.

“Good,” Derowen said. ‘“Now place your hands on the stone.”

Draco pressed his palms down first with a look of determination. Astoria delicately put her hands next to his, barely grazing his fingers with hers. Hermione glanced at Ron to see if he was as affected by the process as she was, but he seemed unconcerned, fingers loosely splayed and with the look of someone completing a necessary assignment or task. She took a deep breath and joined her hands with the others.

The stone almost felt like it was vibrating, deep and low, coming up from the earth. 

“These couples shall be wed on the Estival Solstitium of this year,” Derowen intoned. “Hermione Jean Granger, Ronald Bilius Weasley, Draco Lucius Malfoy, Astoria Florence Greengrass, make your proclamation three times. Three times to the air, the earth, and the sea.”

Hermione felt a rush of wind and the earth seemed to tilt under her feet. She gasped and clutched at the stone, but her fingers felt like they were grasping only air. It was like a pensive in opposite, she thought deliriously. Only sensation and no sight, but it wasn’t bad exactly—like flying with no broom and maybe no body either.

“I, Hermione Jean Granger, intend to wed Ronald Bilius Weasley on the Estival Solstitium,” Hermione yelled, her voice pulled out of her with the wind and thrown in all directions. 

At the last word, the world around her changed and she was plunged into water. This time panic seized her, salt water pressing into her like a wall of tears. This wasn’t real, she reminded herself. Her body was still standing by the stone, and this was just her consciousness making her proclamation to the sea.

She repeated the words and the water was gone. Earth, the last one, was nothing like she would have guessed. It didn’t feel like being buried, it felt like she was the earth herself, rooted and growing, moving forward and backward at the same time.

Hermione tilted her head back and breathed in still air, heavy with power. One of the first times she had come to Tintagel, sitting across from Derowen in the library poring over a history book, he had said something to her, strange enough that she thought he might just be reading out loud to himself. The earth in this place knows you to the bone. She had looked up at him, then back down at her book, unsure how to respond.

Now she understood. She could feel it, a deep humming chord of being recognized. Not as a Muggle-born, a Gryffindor, a war hero, a Ministry Department Head. Not even as a friend or daughter or fiancee. Hermione to the bone, her most essential and true self.

She should make her final proclamation, but didn’t quite want to be pulled away yet. Then suddenly, there was someone else there in the warm darkness, another soul stretching towards hers. Ron? They must be meant to do the last part together. 

She reached out to him, blind in this unreal space. There. It felt like a puzzle clicking into place, even more than when they were physically together. Had they been holding back from each other all this time? All of her doubts about their relationship, the conversations that she knew Ron had with Harry and his concerns, every spat or moment of boredom felt far away in the past.

Ron. There was a sensation of hard muscle pressed against her back, arms wrapping around her, breath against her neck. Her stomach clenched, pleasure and want rising inside of her almost painfully. Hermione fell back and the world tipped again, drawing them closer with a gasp that echoed through her like a shudder.

“I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, intend to-”

His words whispered into her ear, soft as a caress. Hermione wretched away.

“No,” she gasped, and then she screamed.

Panic struck through her, a cold laceration. This was an attack at her most vulnerable, shifting something deep in her marrow. Had Draco blocked her from doing the ritual–  tainted it with his hate somehow? 

“Intend to marry Astoria Florence Greengrass,” his voice came again, rushed and unsure, and then she was alone. 

It wasn’t too late. She shouted her proclamation, her chest burning, and in the next heartbeat she was back in the castle ruins, clutching the stone with tears in her eyes.

No one seemed to notice her; Ron still looked glazed over while Draco and Astoria were talking to each other.

“Did you say no?” Draco asked Astoria, his forehead furrowed with worry. “When we were in that ground space? I thought I heard—”

“Of course not.” Astoria shook her head, confused. “I just said the proclamation in the three places and then was back here. I think I got done first, because the three of you still looked all dazed.” 

Did he really think he had been with Astoria? Maybe it had just been a mistake and not deliberate sabotage. Draco bit his lip, looking at Astoria with something akin to wonder. 

“That was bloody brilliant.” Ron exclaimed, his sudden return to his physical self making her jump. “It felt like flying without a broom! I could have stayed up there forever.”

“Yeah, it was cool.” Hermione said, letting go of the stone to rub her eyes.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Ron asked. 

“It’s just a bit overwhelming.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and Ron pulled her in for a hug, his hands resting heavy on her back.

How had she mistaken Draco for Ron? The feeling of her fiancee was completely different; solace instead of fire. Maybe what she had felt before had actually been a spike of fear that she had misinterpreted, confused by the disorienting power of the earth. They hadn’t even actually touched each other, just bumped consciousness or something. She toyed with the collar of Ron’s coat, running her fingers over the lines of the stiff fabric.

“Well, it’s done now,” Ron said, letting her go so she could look at the stone again. 

Their names had faded a bit, the gold etched in like paint instead of glowing with light. Derowen bent over to look at the lines, then up at each of their faces.

“The earth, sea, and sky have heard your intent,” he said solemnly, then he looked like he was struggling to suppress a grin. “Banns are done, nice. Now see if you can find the next step in the museum library.”

“You haven’t explained how we are both supposed to get married during the Solstice,” Draco said, his tone frustrated. “All four of us proclaimed our intent, but one couple will just be wasting their time.”

Draco glowered at Ron and Hermione again, but this time she saw a flicker of something else underneath. Wariness, maybe. The whiplash of her emotions had leaked away some of her own anger and surety.

“Magic flows deep and strong here.” Derowen picked up the stone with a satisfied smile, ignoring Draco. “Anything can happen where the water meets the earth and sky.”

Audrey blew out a breath, then turned to follow Derowen back down the path. “The museum is occupied with school tours and other wedding appointments today. You can come later in the week to visit the library.”

Both couples stared after them, dismissed for the day. A sudden gust of wind blew up from the sea, pushing Hermione a step forward, then rushing past her to the fields and forest, beyond where she could see. 

Chapter Text

Hermione could map her life by libraries. First was her bright childhood one in Hampstead, where her father told her she could only check out what she could carry herself. The librarians had fallen down with laughter the next time she came in, wearing her twirliest dress over shorts so that she could pull up the skirt and use the extra fabric to hold all 43 books that she wanted. 

Next was Hogwarts, where the magical secrets of her new life were mapped out in thousands of fascinating pages. Then the Ministry of Magic Library, crowded with other employees and filled with whispers and odd smells drifting over from the Department of Mysteries. Those rooms had supported her through reports and presentations as an intern, junior associate, and now as head of the Beasts division with the luxury to take any book she wanted to her own private office.

The Tintagel museum library was a cozy sanctuary, and Hermione was practically humming with happiness as she surveyed the stacks of books and papers spread out in front of her. This was the start of the next phase of her life---stability, belonging, love. She was going to be a wife, the word sounding strange even in her own mind. 

The door creaked open, revealing the only obstacle to her desired Solstice wedding: Draco and Astoria.

“Oh, Hermione, it’s lovely to see you!” Astoria beamed at her, gracefully sliding past her fiance where he stood frozen in the doorway.

“Yes, hello.” Hermione stood up to greet them, their stiff formality causing her to grasp for her own shaky knowledge of etiquette. 

Astoria crossed the room, smiling and raising her arms, palms up toward Hermione. Was she going to embrace her? Clasp her hands? Hermione had the wild thought that a curtsy might be the appropriate action and she felt her smile turn into a panicked grimace.

“Yes,” she squeaked as Astoria ended up sort of clutching her forearms while Hermione’s hands inexplicably balled into fists.

She sat back down and pulled her stack of notes closer to her. Draco and Astoria perched on the comfortable leather couch across the room, as straight-backed as if they were posing for a portrait. Astoria was in a perfectly tailored dress, the muted blue fabric making her black hair and pale skin even more striking. Draco looked stoic and aristocratically handsome in a gray suit, his head tilted toward his fiancee as they talked quietly.

Hermione shook her own head slightly, trying to pull her focus back to the work in front of her. The guidance from Audrey and Derowen about what they were looking for had been vague, but the next steps had to be somewhere in the library. She pulled the next book from her stack and examined the cover, tracing the crossed sword design with one finger.

Draco got up from the couch and slid past her table to the bookshelf beside her, his eyes dropping to her stack of books. 

"How's your research going, Granger?" He asked annoyingly, resting his hand on the table. 

"Excellent," she lied. 

His big silver signet ring tapped against the wooden surface and she stared at it. How would it feel to get dressed every morning and slide something like that on? A symbol of massive generational power and wealth, for the heir of two Sacred Twenty-Eight family lines. Draco Malfoy probably owned more estates, châteaus, and libraries than she had visited in her lifetime. But not this one.

She used her book to knock his hand off the table, a bit harder than she meant to. There was a red mark on his pale skin when he lifted his hand to look at it, then glared down at her. She glowered back until he turned away to face the bookshelf. He murmured something she couldn't make out and passed his wand down the length of the shelves until he had covered the whole wall. His spellwork had the smooth control of a Potioneer, precise movements with a creative flourish.

Draco stepped back, his gaze on the shelves as one by one, a dozen books popped out from their spots and hovered in the air. Astoria clapped from the couch and hopped up to help him grab them. Hermione reached back and snagged one with a brown cover decorated with an illustration of rolling hills.

“Cabbage of My Father: A Memoir of the Countryside,” she read the title out loud. “Excellent wedding theme for you.”

“He did a spell to locate books that mention weddings,” Astoria said, holding out the one in her hand.

Gilderoy Lockheart winked from the front of a copy of Dining with Druids. Clever idea, but it didn’t look like Draco would be very successful.

“Find your own books,” Draco said irritably, pulling the Cabbage book from her hands and adding it to the pile in his arms.

He and Astoria returned to the couch and started reading, so Hermione went back to her book too. Tintagel was linked to King Arthur, so the marriage rituals could be tied in with his legends. She had found mentions of Guinevere’s dowry and references to the church and celebratory feasts, but this didn’t seem quite right.

“—just trying to get to know you better.” Astoria’s voice broke through her concentration and Hermione looked over at them again.

“We just have a lot of work to do,” Draco said with a frown, then dropped his book into his lap. “Right, I guess my earliest memory is feeding our peacocks with my mother. Thank you for sharing yours with me.”

Hermione had thought they were just stiff and formal, but it almost seemed like they were nervous around each other, missing that familiarity that would be expected from a couple getting married.

“I love peacocks!” Astoria exclaimed, beaming at him. “The shades of blue, green, and purple are so lovely. I look forward to seeing them.”

“The peacocks are albino.” There was an agonizing beat of silence, then Draco continued. “But they would be lovely if they were blue.”

He picked up the book again, brow furrowed. Even though they had never been friends, she had known Draco for half their lives. He had always been sharp as a blade, cocky and enigmatic. She wouldn’t have predicted he would end up like this; restrained to the point of being dull.

“Lovely,” Astoria echoed the word a third time, the repetition making it seem detached from its meaning. 

If Draco repeated that something else was lovely, Hermione would definitely lose control and laugh out loud. No wonder she couldn’t concentrate with this strange courtship in front of her.

Astoria looked down at a folded piece of parchment barely visible in her hand. “Draco, if you could be a sea creature, which would you be?”

He paused so long, Hermione thought he wouldn’t answer. Perhaps the question was too scintillating for his pompous brain, or he couldn’t comprehend being anything but a skittering ferret.

“A fish.”

Hermione couldn’t hold in a snort and quickly raised a fist to her mouth and looked away. A fish, in his posh accent, holding himself like a king.

“And what sea creature would you be, Granger?” Draco drawled.

She choked on her laugh and ground out, “Also a fish.”

“I would peg you for a hagfish.” His face was completely neutral, but his voice had the slightest bite under the surface.

“Adept at getting away from predators?” she asked with false sweetness.

“Not the attribute I was thinking of.” 

“I’ve never seen a hagfish,” Astoria cut in. “They must be very lovely.”

Hagfish were vile, wormlike creatures that extruded large amounts of slime and burrowed into the carcasses of larger animals to eat their flesh.

“They’re widely considered the most disgusting creatures in the ocean, if not the earth,” Hermione deadpanned.

“Oh.” Astoria looked at Draco, taken aback. “Well. That was quite rude.”

“I’m sorry, Astoria,” he said, pointedly not looking at Hermione.

She nodded gracefully at her fiance. “Shall we get some tea? Refreshment might make the time pass more pleasantly.”

Draco took a last look at the book he had been trying to read before setting it down on the stack next to him, his fingertips dragging across the worn cover. Astoria waited for him to help her up, the tilt of her chin and the way she leaned in as they walked as precise as any well practiced spell.

Hermione let out a breath as the library door closed behind them. She and Ron had a level of comfort between them borne from knowing everything about each other, from childhood humor to their darkest fears. Thank goodness she didn’t have to go through the vulnerability of getting to know someone again at this point. 

She flipped a few pages in her book listlessly, nagged by the feeling that she was on the wrong track. Draco’s stack of books caught her eye, abandoned for a few minutes at least while they brewed the tea. 

Hermione knelt down in front of the couch to look at the titles. Cabbage of My Father was on the bottom of the stack, and the one he had been trying to read was a pictorial guide to sixth century stone carvings. Clever. The Artognou Stone had been found at Tintagel during a Muggle archeological excavation project; he was going straight back to the origins of the King Arthur legend instead of the later sources she had been referencing. It wasn’t much of a stretch to guess that the marriage rites would be recorded that way too. 

She opened the book eagerly. Every single word had been transformed into HAGFISH over and over again. Hermione dropped it with a growl. The other books were all charmed the same way, that bloody tosser. 

The sound of the door opening made her jump up, and she managed to lean casually against the ornate fireplace before they saw her digging through the books. 

“That’s pretty.” Astoria walked in alone and joined Hermione by the fireplace, inspecting the carved wood mantle and the intricate tile flowers on each side of the firebox.

It was pretty, one of many old architectural elements that made the museum so special.

“Malfoy’s getting the tea?” Hermione asked, absently tracing the small glazed squares that formed a purple orchid.

“Yes, and some treats. Are you and Draco—” Astoria paused like she was searching for the right word. “Are you friends? He’s not usually this discourteous.”

“No,” Hermione said without thinking.

Enemies seemed more appropriate than friends, although maybe too dramatic. They hadn’t exactly chosen to be on opposite sides during the war and should have moved on from that desperate, horrifying time by now.

“We were rivals in school.” 

That was both too much and too little to describe the presence Draco had been in her life. The first person to call her a Mudblood, he had reduced her to tears, then real terror at the sight of his silver mask and coiled dark magic. But she also knew him in the way that you could only know someone after living alongside them for years: he took his tea with two sugars, he tapped his quill on the table when he knew an answer, he was fussy with his hair in humid weather.

“Well, you don’t seem like the most disgusting creature in the ocean,” Astoria said conspiratorially. “I haven’t noticed any slime, at least.”

Hermione laughed. “Thank you. What sea creature would you be?”

“A mermaid, of course. Although I’ve never actually seen one.”

“They’re the second most disgusting thing in the ocean,” she said, then laughed again at Astoria’s indignant expression. “Really. I was up close to mermaids during the Triwizard Tournament.”

Hermione had entertained with this story before, but for some reason let more truth than usual leak in this time. Being suspended under the water was terrifying, Viktor’s attention at age fifteen had been confusing. 

Astoria laughed at the shark-man punchline, then held Hermione’s eyes. “You’ve always been brave, then.”

It wasn’t a question, and Hermione warmed at the assessment. “Well, you need bravery when your first kiss suddenly grows ten rows of teeth.”

“I would think stroking gills under your fingertips would be worse,” Astoria said, shuddering with horror mixed with laughter.

Draco clattered into the room, pushing an entire tea cart with a level of dignity at odds with the way that he had to carefully maneuver the wheels over the rug and stop to balance a plate of biscuits that had shifted. He looked at them with a pinched expression. 

“Hermione wants to change her sea creature to a shark,” Astoria said, then mouthed the word MAN to Hermione with a wide-eyed look of disgust that made them both dissolve into giggles again. 

“Also appropriate for Granger,” Draco intoned, bending over to prepare a cup of tea.

Astoria sat back down on the couch, taking a breath to regain her composure. “Cream and honey, please. Hermione, are you and Ronald doing the magazine too? It will be fun to have interviews and photos together.”

“What magazine?” Hermione asked, perplexed.

“Witch Weekly is doing a feature on our Solstice Wedding. Articles about the preparation and events, then a front page spread for the wedding day.” Astoria looked at Hermione’s face, then trailed off. “Sorry, I thought you were included. It’s just silly; society events, you know.”

Draco and Astoria were so sure they would get the Solstice date that they were being documented by a magazine? It felt like a slap to be pushed out of it, even though being photographed and interviewed was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Do Audrey and Derowen know about Witch Weekly?” 

“Of course. Having us is good publicity for them.” Draco’s voice sounded flat and bored, but it hit like a declaration of war. 

This whole thing was a farce. When she had pushed Audrey for answers, the wedding coordinator had just mumbled that maybe Hermione and Ron could get married on the beach below while Astoria and Draco said their vows in the castle. Hermione had fiercely disagreed, then excused herself to cry in the museum gardens.

She strode over to the tea cart to make her own cup, knocking Draco’s elbow as he poured tea. He cursed softly, then whispered something under his breath. The pyramid of sugar cubes that she had been reaching for dissolved beneath her silver tongs.

“Saccharum Leviosa,” She used her wand to pull the grains of sugar up into a shimmering snake that undulated in the air. “Thank you for telling me about it, Astoria. I’ll be contacting Witch Weekly too.”

“You won’t be in that article,” Draco said darkly, watching as the sugar snake sliced in half, both ends twitching dramatically in the air before falling into her teacup. “Arrangements have already been made, for the magazine and the Solstice date. You don't understand how these things are done."

"How things are done?" Her voice came out too loud. "Your pure-blood bullshit doesn't matter here. It’s a sacred place."

"Yes, Granger," he said, all condescension. "A sacred place where generations of the Noble House of Black have been married. You can’t just come in and take it for yourself because you’ve done some research.”

“I can and I will. You and I both know that only one couple will be getting married here.”

She would contact the magazine to steal the cover story, then get them out of the way somehow. She and Ron would have the best Solstice Wedding there had ever been, paving the way for her future generations. And she would wipe that stupid smirk off of Draco’s face, reminding him what it felt like to lose to her.

"I don't have time to fight with you, Granger."

His tone gave her pause, like fighting with her was a recreational activity.

"Well, it only takes a moment to bring you to your knees.”

She had been referring to the time she had punched him in the face, but Draco’s retort seemed to get caught on his lips and he only pulled in an audible breath, gray eyes sparking before he quickly looked away. 

That must mean she’d won this round. Hermione glowered at him and took a slow sip of tea, trying to ignore her pounding heart. Maybe she should punch him again to clarify her meaning and to stop the unwanted image in her mind of what Draco would look like on his knees. 

When he looked back up at her, his face was hard again. “You won’t stop our wedding.”

“It’s nothing personal, Malfoy,” she reached over and tapped his teacup resting on the cart with her finger, murmuring a wandless incantation. “Just remember who exactly you’re dealing with.”

She walked away from him, back to her table and her superior pile of research. And when she heard Draco gag behind her, choking on a cup full of tea solidified into slime worthy of a true hagfish, all she could do was smile.

Chapter Text

Ron padded sleepily into the kitchen of the Burrow, snagging a piece of bacon from the platter. Molly batted away his hand without even looking up from the skillet, needlessly protective of the huge pile of food. She had grown used to cooking for a hoard of people and hadn’t quite adjusted down for only herself, Arthur, George, Ron, and Hermione living here.

“Morning, Wonniekins,” George called out in his most piercing tone of voice. “You’re looking fresh and ready for the cover of Witch Weekly.”

It had been surprisingly easy to convince Ron that they needed to secure a magazine interview too. It was easy publicity for Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, and he had never been as unsettled by the press attention as Hermione.

Ron cringed, tossing his last bite of bacon at his brother. “One of us has to be the good looking one to promote the shop.”

It hit George on the forehead, then dropped next to his plate of eggs and toast. He shrugged and leaned over to eat the bacon off the table, a greasy spot still visible on his head.

Hermione leaned back in her seat. Scourgify didn’t quite get out the smell of bacon grease and she was already in her work clothes. She had woken up early, restless for some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Before he sat down, Ron leaned over to study her face, the reflexive care of a decade of looking out for each other. She smiled to show him that she was fine: no tears, no nightmares. Many times she had jolted awake, sweaty and shaking as if she was still in battle, and rolled over into Ron’s protective arms. 

Lately, she had been trying to pull herself through it and measure her own deep breathing instead of pressing her chest against his to calm herself. And when that didn’t work, she could always fall back into Ron’s familiar comfort.

He took a sip of water, then made the same throat clearing noise that he had made every morning since they were twelve. Hearing it was as much a part of her morning routine as brushing her teeth.

“Do you want to go out with me and Dean and the others tonight?” Ron asked, nodding at his mum as she set his plate in front of him. “Lav will be there too, so you won’t be the only girl.”

“No, I’m going back to Tintagel to work on finding the wedding rituals.”

It had been frustrating so far. The books she had brought home turned out to be unhelpful and she had been caught up at the Ministry too late in the evenings to make the trip back. Since today was Friday, she had high hopes of work going smoothly and getting to Tintagel before dinner for a relaxing evening of peaceful research. 

“You could blow it off for the night and we can go together on Sunday,” he said.

“It’s important, Ron. This is our future.”

If she couldn’t figure out even this first step of the rituals, they would definitely lose out to Draco and Astoria. Ron frowned at her.

“Yeah, but you and me are more important than the wedding itself. Our relationship.”

Hermione rolled her neck, eager to get out of the house. “Are you saying I need to go to the pub and listen to quidditch talk and the rehashing of old school stories for the sake of our relationship?”

“No. Spending time together,” he said. “Making an effort.”

“You both have work to do at home tonight.” Molly had finished bustling around and sat down across from Ron with her own plate of food. “Wedding work! You need to finalize the guest list and work on invitations.”

Ron squirmed in his chair, echoing Hermione’s feelings about Molly’s many wedding directives. She had been going back and forth between scoffing at the idea of a Solstice Wedding and worrying about proper protocol since it was a big deal in Wizarding society.

“Right.” Hermione abandoned the last of her eggs and cleared her plate. “I need to be off to the Ministry now.”

“Wait,” Ron called out to Hermione and George, who was also making his escape. “I want to show you the improvements on my game.”

Molly sighed heavily at the topic change, while Ron pulled out the new game he had been working on, half hidden by clutter on a side table.

“Do you think it’s ready?” Hermione sat back down next to him. 

She could be supportive with this at least, especially since she had no intention of going to the pub or coming back early enough to do wedding invitations tonight.

“Yeah, it’s coming along.” Ron set the square board in front of her. “See what your dangers are.”

He had been preparing for the Edinburgh Inventors fair, and it had been fun to see the way his ideas had formed into innovative prototypes. Ron's products were much more clever than the original gross-out pranks Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes was known for. 

Hermione opened the drawstring of the game bag, releasing tiny toy creatures that crawled and slithered out onto random squares on the board. There was a basilisk, a smug-looking nundu, a fluttering nixie, a blast-ended skrewt, a spider, and a flobberworm that puffed miniscule amounts of immediately evaporating spittle into the air. 

"Really? The spider takes up two spaces?"

Ron nodded solemnly. "The most terrifying creature is the biggest obstacle."

She shook her head and pulled the block pieces towards herself. The shapes were based on the Muggle game of Tetris, bright and angular in a way wizarding objects usually weren't. It was satisfying to sneak in a bit of Muggle culture.

The hourglass flipped over as she placed the first block, a square that took up four sections. She had to quickly rearrange several times before her blocks all fit on the board around the creatures to win. The remaining sand in the hourglass blew into little fireworks celebrating her victory. 

She sighed in satisfaction. “It’s good! Really, Ron–it’s so much fun.”  

“If these are a hit, we could do a cutesy edition with pygmy puffs and other stuff. Or a gross edition with pustules, toenails, you know," Ron brainstormed. 

Helping run the shop hadn’t been what he wanted, but he was undeniably good at it.

“I’m proud of you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek as she got up to leave. “Have fun at the pub and tell everyone hello for me.”

Ron absently reached behind without looking, likely to pat her on the arse, but he missed and brushed her hip instead. 

All did not go smoothly at work. Hermione didn’t escape to Tintagel until well after dinner, smelling faintly of Horklumps. An infestation of the bristly mushroom-looking creatures in Kenley gardens meant Hermione had to go herself to assist with extracting them without damaging their delicate tentacles. 

It was blissful to arrive at the Tintagel village floo point, the scent of herbs and mint welcoming her to the Primrose Tea Shop. Hermione changed out of her work clothes in the bathroom, then paused wistfully by the empty bakery cases. She had been planning to grab some food, but the treats were all sold out for the day.

Outside, she wove through the clusters of people on the quaint village streets, taking in the sounds of laughter and smells of food drifting in the air. There was still a chill, but she could feel a pulse of anticipation at the first signs of spring. It was tempting to try to be swept up in the joyful crowd, but she had work to do, so bought a pack of crisps from a convenience shop and hiked up to the museum. 

Derowen was switching off the display case lights when she arrived, casting the wood-paneled room in shadow, the statues and taxidermied creatures looming dramatically.  

“Are you heading out?” she asked, a bit disappointed to miss his company.

“I have plans with my Muggle friends.” His voice dipped low with amusement. “They made me their Master.”

Her stomach dropped. Derowen had seemed like a friend, but it was impossible to know who was hateful underneath.

“Their Dungeon Master,” he crowed, pulling on his leather jacket. “They gave me some books to run a game, but it’s all wrong, so I wrote my own.”

“A game?” It clicked into place, relief washing over her. “Oh, Dungeons and Dragons?”

“The dragon! It had five heads. Right? Bloody idiotic. Oh wait, I need to tell you–” He leaned forward and studied her face before speaking solemnly, “To move forward, you need to look again.”

Hermione laughed. “Is that how you speak to the Muggles?”

“Hardly. I act all mystical.” He rolled his eyes back and wiggled his fingers in the air. 

“Imagine that,” she said, amused. “Must be hard for you.”

Derowen squinted at her, then flicked her playfully on the shoulder. “Have a productive night, Hermione.”

He sounded both ominous and greatly entertained as he went out the door. 

She shook her head and headed down the hall to the library, mulling over his advice. Look again at what? Likely one of the books she had already read and dismissed; good thing she had been making an annotated bibliography as she worked her way through.

Her smile fell when she opened the door. Draco was sprawled out on the leather couch, looking shockingly relaxed in smart trousers and a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, dismay clear in her voice.

“Same thing as you, I expect,” he scowled, quickly pulling his sleeves down to his wrists and buttoning them. 

Hiding his Dark Mark. She had caught him in a rare unguarded moment, a slight flush spreading across his cheeks even though his posture still looked relaxed. Shouldn’t Draco Malfoy be doing other things on a Friday night? Glamorous, expensive things that aristocratic assholes did.

There was a tray on the side table with a cup of tea and plates with what looked like a half eaten meat and cheese platter. He was enjoying the cozy library exactly like she had planned to. 

“Right,” she said absently, her eyes catching on his fancy dragonhide shoes on the floor next to the couch. “Astoria’s not here?”

“No,” Draco said shortly. “Is Weasley coming?”

“No, just me.” She shifted her bag on her shoulder, glancing down at her trainers. 

Should she leave? It felt strange to be alone in close quarters with Draco, old fear and even older irritation clinging like cobwebs. He probably wanted to intimidate her, but she wouldn’t let him get in the way of what she wanted to accomplish. 

“Well, there’s plenty of room for both of us,” she declared, hovering in the doorway for another second before striding purposefully to the table.

There were two chairs, one that would put her back to Draco and one that would put her eye level for glaring at him across the room. She usually chose the position of most authority, but it had been a long week at work. She was tired of justifying herself, always finding the balance of respectful assertiveness with people who didn’t think she should be in charge of them. Part of what she had been looking forward to tonight was just being alone with no pretense.

Hermione pulled out a chair and moved it so she was facing a bookshelf, her profile to Draco. He didn’t matter anyways; they already knew that they hated each other, so there was no pressure to act a certain way in front of him. 

She unpacked her crisps and notes, formulating a plan before selecting the books she wanted to revisit. To move forward– what was that supposed to mean? Not history. Maybe geological study would be a good next step. 

“Granger.” Draco’s voice broke her focus.

He was standing above her, looking irritable. He plucked the bag of crisps from her fingers and dumped them out onto a small plate with an assortment of salami, cheese, blueberries, and candied nuts on it.

“Your incessant crinkling of that bag is driving me insane,” he said darkly, pushing the plate toward her.

“Maybe you should call it a night if you’re having trouble focusing,” she said with false sweetness.

“My focus is fine.” He frowned as he watched her pick through the food, inspecting it.

“Did you get this from one of the shops in the village?” She hadn’t noticed a charcuterie place or she would have gotten that instead of the bag of crisps.

“I put it together.”

“You mean your house elves made it.” She rolled her eyes.

It was infuriating every time a pure-blood laggard took credit for what their house elves did, as though they were just an extension of them instead of an independent creature with skills of their own.

“No, me.” He looked away, his expression almost uneasy. “I live in London now.”

That was odd. She couldn’t imagine him anywhere but cloistered in his opulent Manor with house elves and stacks of ancient heirlooms. Did he have a flat? Or maybe a dreary family row house like Grimmauld Place? 

Neither fit with her image of him: a vicious, spoiled child turned cruel enemy. And those were both at odds with the man standing next to her now, who had apparently cut four types of cheese into even slices and layered pieces of salami to look vaguely like flowers. He was still in his stocking feet. 

She picked up a piece of cheese and studied it. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“What do you think?”

The nonchalance of his voice was undercut by the way he was watching for her response. They had both wanted to kill each other not so long ago: Death Eater against Muggle-born. She made it a point to not be afraid of anyone anymore, so Hermione held his gaze.

The war was long over and she was perfectly safe, she knew that. Voldemort was dead. The Death Eaters who still wanted to harm her were in Azkaban and the ones who were free had been determined not to be a threat. She followed Draco’s eyes down to her hand holding the cheese and saw it was shaking.

He leaned over before she could react, gently grabbing her wrist and taking a bite of the cheese. “Poisoning you would be a waste.”

She gasped, surprise and indignation pushing away any remnants of fear.

“That’s good to hear.” Not exactly a cutting remark, but at least her voice was steady and she had forced a sardonic expression onto her face.

He cleared his throat and released her wrist. “I mean from a Potioneer’s perspective. Your new procedures for gathering ingredients from magical creatures has increased productivity and improved our potion quality. If you perish, it would be a loss to multiple Ministry departments.”

“Yes. Well.” She popped the rest of the cheese in her mouth, ignoring the bite missing. “Those improvements are backed up by statistical study. When Widgens argues against them, he’s really showing his own incompetence and not mine.”

She started in on the rest of the plate, avoiding his eyes. Merlin, his snacks were delicious. The candied nuts perfectly complemented the sharp cheese and the blueberries were plump and refreshing. Her crisps tasted like cardboard in comparison. 

“It’s possible you’re both incompetent,” he drawled, turning away from her to settle back down on the couch. 

“Have you met Widgens?” she scoffed. 

Being compared to the other department head was insulting for many reasons, and she was tempted to list them all in order of pettiness. Draco was not her friend though, even if some of the tension had leaked from the room.

He just raised an eyebrow and went back to his book, leaning back against the leather in a posture not so casual as when he was alone, but still much more relaxed than she expected from him. He lifted one arm and rested it over his head, causing his chest to flex visibly through his shirt.

She looked away from Draco and resolutely studied the room instead. It was mostly crammed with books, but there were some decorative things that she’d barely noticed before: bronze statues, a large globe, weird historical looking tchotchkes. 

Why did seeing any man reading make him incrementally more attractive? And was it universal, or specific to her? Shaking her head to clear it, Hermione stood up from the table to look more closely at the items in the room. Everyone had assumed they were searching for a book, but Derowen had only said to look in the library. It could be something entirely different.

The globe seemed normal, if a bit dusty, as she brushed her fingers over the ridges of mountains and spun it around. A black varnished clock ticked on the shelf, but nothing happened when she pressed on the gilt garland designs that entwined it. Candlesticks on the fireplace mantle weren’t noteworthy and neither was the ugly silver statue of an airplane.  

“Are you trying to be distracting?” Draco sighed heavily. 

She set the carved wooden dog she had been inspecting back down on the mantle. Had she been mumbling to herself as she moved around the room? It was easy to get consumed when she was in focused problem-solving mode, the rest of the world blurring away. 

“Are you trying to whine like a mandrake?” 

Maybe she could transfigure the embroidered throw pillow into a pair of earmuffs for herself to truly tune him out. Or the knitted blanket into a gag. 

She switched on the bronze lamp on the mantle, soft light illuminating the milk glass globe shade. Beautiful, but practically useless as a light source.   

“Lumos.” Her own light was much better.

When she had been over here talking to Astoria, she hadn’t actually looked very closely at the intricate fireplace. Now she danced her fingers over the woodwork, pressing and wiggling the decorative pieces that stuck out, and ignoring the sound of Draco shifting on the couch right behind her.

There were four carvings on the millwork of the fireplace: ocean waves and lines of wind on the top corners and a jagged rock and flames on the bottom. The four elements. The sight of them scratched something in her brain. When they had done the proclamation of the Banns, the two couples had called to air, water, and earth only.

“What about fire?” Hermione mused out loud.

The glittering tilework inside the fireplace had a pattern of flowers wrapping around art deco columns. The glow of her Lumos caught a glint of gold as she looked closer. One of the poppies had a gold center nestled in the red petals instead of a dark tile like the others.

“What is that?” Draco murmured, kneeling down beside her.

It was strange that she hadn’t noticed it before, because now the gold tile seemed like the brightest thing in the room, a fragment of a star lodged in an ordinary wall. Draco raised his hand to touch the smooth surface and she grabbed his arm reflexively. 

The sick sensation of being pulled forward hooked her insides, something smooth and cold sliding over her, pushing against her skin. She gasped when the pressure lifted away, leaving her flat on her back looking up at the fireplace tiles. 

Lots and lots of fireplace tiles, covering every surface of a tiny room with a high ceiling.

“Are we,” her voice echoed strangely. “in the fireplace?”

“Yeah? I think so.” Draco sat up next to her. “It's probably hidden here.”

“Of course!” Hermione jumped up and turned a circle, looking around at the tiles.

She knew she would figure it out. Inside the fireplace. Of course there would be hidden rooms in this hallowed place, probably puzzles too. They must be meant to decipher what to do to get the marriage ritual information from the plants on the tiles, since they were the only thing in the room. And there had been an encyclopedia of botanical meanings, The Language of Flowers, in the library.

“The instructions are in the flower meanings! Hawthorn means balance, a strong union,” she said. “That makes sense.”

That would be what they were trying to achieve; their goal for while they were completing the rituals and after. The Hawthorn tree rendered in tiles rooted up from the ground and swept up the wall, its branches heavy with berries and white blossoms. 

Hermione moved on to the next flower, bunches of poppies with crimson petals falling down like drops of blood. Oh. She pressed a hand to her chest and took a step back.

Poppies meant sacrifice. Remembrance and hope, but only after death for the greater good. She snuck a glance at Draco to see if he had realized the meaning too. He had his hands pressed to the sides of his head, mouth open in shock. 

“Malfoy,” she said slowly.

There was no way she would be the one sacrificed, being hurt at his hands make all of her Death Eater nightmares come true again. She would have to talk him into it. It wasn’t like it would have to be death or anything, usually a bit of blood or ingesting some poison did the trick in these types of situations.

“No.” Draco turned away and raised his wand to the wall opposite to her. “Bombarda! ”

Nothing happened, not even a gust of wind. 

“Diffindo,” he shouted, then stared at his wand in horror.

She lifted her own and tried to cast a spell with no effect. Their magic must be blocked in this room. That was unexpectedly dark; they had to make a blood sacrifice with no magic? She took a deep breath and called on her courage. 

“Let’s just get it over with.” She took a step towards Draco, who was pounding his fist against the wall. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

He turned around and looked at her with wide eyes, his back pressed against the wall. “Are you serious? There’s no way you would want to do this.”

“I wouldn’t say I want to, at least right now.” They had hated each other for years and she could admit there had been times that she would have enjoyed making Draco suffer. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

Draco’s mouth opened and closed several times, like a stunned fish. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Have you? Thought about it?”

“Well, you were always provoking me in school.”

“I–are you–” He stuttered, more undone than she had ever seen him before.

Was he really this afraid of a tiny bit of pain? She knew he had been through much worse.

“We can’t be meant to do that,” he said, looking up at the ceiling instead of at her. “Right here? It’s crazy.”

“I mean, it won’t be comfortable, but at least it’s all tile for easy clean-up.”

“Fuck, Granger. What exactly are you and Weasley into?”

She frowned. It had never come up specifically for her to sacrifice another person, but she had jinxed Marietta Edgcombe and trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar. The Horucruxes had maybe been the closest thing—killing parts of Voldemort’s soul. 

“I guess we’ve done some stabbing. But Ron had the proper tool for it and we don’t right now.” She looked him over thoughtfully. “I can probably figure out something with your belt. Unless you have a knife?”

“Stabbing?” He sounded choked and his face was flushed. “What are you talking about?”

“Making a sacrifice. I wouldn’t kill you or anything, some blood loss should be plenty.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “A blood sacrifice? Granger, what the fuck!”

“Yes, that’s what we’re talking about. What’s wrong with you?”

“Orchids, Granger.” He slapped his hand against the wall, on top of a delicate purple flower. “What do orchids mean?”

She stared at the orchids, then dropped her face into her hands. Orchids meant sex. Orchids meant sex.  

“Oh.” She dropped her face into hands and wailed. “Oh no, we have to get out of this room. What are they doing to us?”

“You wanted to strangle me with my belt?” Draco asked, laughter in his voice.

“Or jab you with the metal part until you bled,” she mumbled into her hands, then looked up at him with disgust. “When I said stabbing, you thought–”

“Merlin. Bloody fucking Merlin.” He paced around the small space, tilting his head back and raking his hands through his hair. “What is that?”

Hermione looked up at where he was pointing: a ledge jutted out from the wall above their heads, with what looked like a book propped on it. 

“You don’t think we’re just supposed to get that, are we?” she asked, embarrassment flooding through her. 

It couldn't be that simple, but it looked like it was. 

“Yeah, I do.” He glared at her, then pitched his voice mockingly high and excited. “We need to do what the flower meanings tell us, no matter what it is.”

“It’s not too late to sacrifice you,” she hissed. “How are we supposed to reach it without magic? You’re not that tall.”

He glared down at her, then stretched up to reach, not anywhere near brushing his fingertips against the ledge. 

“Not even close,” she sighed. 

“Hold this,” he said, handing her his wand and taking off his socks. "I'm getting that book."

He stepped back as far as he could, looking appraisingly at the wall. He crouched like he was at the starting blocks of a footrace, then sprinted at the wall and tried to run right up the tiles. His hand got closer to the ledge, but not enough.

“No way,” Hermione scoffed. “It’s too high.”

Draco rolled his shoulders back and smirked at her. "You planned to bleed me out and now you're questioning my ability to jump? You really are the most cruel person I know."

"Voldemort lived in your house," she said scornfully. "And your father’s no peach either."

He only raised an eyebrow at her before running up the wall again, this time with a battle cry whoop.

"I'm not cruel." She narrowed her eyes as she watched him miss the ledge. 

He dropped down, hands on his knees. She must have seen Draco smile before, but she couldn’t remember a smile like this; his gray eyes crinkled and mouth tilted as he exhaled a laugh. It was as jarring as seeing his bare feet on the floor. Disarming.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’ll never make it.”

“Get on my shoulders, then.” He matched her tone, half skepticism and half challenge. 

“What?” He couldn’t possibly want to lift her up.

“Unless you want to be trapped here watching me jump all night.”

“Anything would be better than that.”

It could be designed that two people need to work together; that would be logical for retrieving wedding ritual instructions. Hermione set down their wands and took a deep breath before walking over to him. Whatever expression he saw on her face caused his smile to twist in amusement.

“Turn around.” His voice was a dare, low and provoking.

When was the last time she had been on someone’s shoulders? Maybe Fred’s during the Quidditch World Cup. Ron had just been her friend then, and her teenage hormones had given her nervous butterflies when his older brother touched her waist to lift her up. She had been frozen by the intimate proximity of Fred’s head between her thighs and had been stiff as a board. The anxious anticipation running through her as she turned around with Draco at her back must be an echoed memory of that time. 

There was a rustle as Draco bent down, then she felt his hands below her ribs. She couldn’t hold in a squeal as he lifted her and her legs spread apart. He staggered for a second under her added weight then straightened. His shoulders felt broad with muscle underneath her and his height was almost dizzying.

“Granger.” His voice was rough. “You’re strangling me.”

“That’s my plan.” She tried to relax her body, but her heart was racing, probably from the height. “I’ll get rid of you and take the Solstice wedding.”

He pinched her legs right above her knees and she jerked with a squeak, almost falling backwards.

“You’re really threatening me?” he asked, voice wry with amusement. “You’re at my mercy now.”

“Never.” 

Hermione raked her fingers through his hair and yanked the thick strands hard until she forced him to tilt his head to look at her. The back of his head pressed against her stomach, his lips slightly parted. 

She had pulled his hair to keep her balance and show her control over the situation, but her breath caught when his eyes met hers. Too much, a voice inside her warned. Not enough, another voice purred. She had the dizzying urge to lean forward towards the spot where the side of his neck met his sharp jaw, even though she would surely fall. 

This was Draco Malfoy. Clearly, she was going insane. Maybe it had just been too long since someone had touched her. She should initiate sex with Ron tonight even though it wasn't Wednesday or Saturday, their usual days to be intimate. 

"What are you waiting for? Go over to the ledge," she commanded in her best Ministry voice; perfect for downsizing departments, taking disciplinary action. 

He broke their gaze and obeyed. She kept her fingers loose in his hair, an attempt to override the charged moment with practicality: she needed to hold on for balance, and that was all. She would never let go of his hair again until they both forgot it was happening. 

She could easily reach the ledge on his shoulders, so she snagged the book.

Draco lowered her down to the ground with a grunt and she straightened, a bit disoriented. She held the book out in front of her and Draco leaned in to look at the cover.

It was narrow, with no title printed on the navy blue leather, just a gold design that looked like dozens of interlocking rings. She opened it to find pages of cramped writing that seemed to be in more than one language, none of them English. Celtic? The Latin bits would be easy, but there were some parts where she didn’t even understand the symbols in front of her.

“When the flower bursts from the earth—” Draco translated over her shoulder. “—Flower swells from the earth?”

He reached for the book and the air shuddered into a whirlwind when his fingers touched the pages. They were being pushed out of the fireplace room.

She skidded hard across the library floor, clutching the book against her chest. Draco had knocked into the couch, one arm shoved underneath. The fireplace tiles seemed to shiver, making a tinkling sound before spitting out one of Draco’s socks, then the other, puffing through the air to land softly on his chest.

“Well. That was—” He sat up, seeming to be trying to regain his dignity. “That was—” 

“Something we should never speak of again,” Hermione said stiffly.

“Agreed. We can use a Geminio spell to duplicate the book so we can both work on it with our fiances.”

That was a good idea. The book looked small as Hermione pushed aside everything else on the table and laid it down in the center. This was it; the next step towards her goal, the key to the life she wanted.

"I'll copy it," she said. "So all my pages don't end up with only the word HAGFISH." 

Draco grinned, unrepentant. He opened the book, but she gripped it too so he couldn’t pull it away from her. 

“Fine.” He let go, ending the game of tug of war.

The words faded on the page as he stepped away, black ink turning gray. Hermione clutched it with both hands, staring down at the letters. Could it be cursed against Muggle-borns? It was still legible now, but what if her copy turned blank when Draco wasn’t near? Ron would be able to read it, but the injustice made her stomach turn.

She transfigured one of her blank notebooks into a hardbound book to match, then started the Geminio spell. Draco was cleaning up the food and stacking dishes, not watching her.

On the third page in, she quietly started augmenting the Geminio with a delayed Evanesco variation. The ink appeared on the page of the copy now, but would blink out in a few hours. He wouldn't notice anything wrong until he got home. The finished copy of the book looked almost identical, the gold leaf just a bit more dull and the pages slightly stiffer. 

Draco shrugged his suit jacket on, straightening his collar and brushing off lint, his unexpected smile also tucked meticulously away. He picked up the copied book with a restrained nod, tapping his finger once on the spine before turning away from her. 

Now the strangeness of this evening would be put away and forgotten. Hermione rubbed her palms on the fabric of her pants, erasing the lingering sensation of Draco’s soft hair in her hands.

From this moment forward, her wedding to Ron would go exactly as planned.

Chapter Text

“We’re sick of traipsing around after unicorns!” Frank Widgens shouted at Hermione.

A single drop of his spittle had landed on the polished wood surface of her desk and Hermione stared at it with revulsion. She lowered her clenched fists into her lap. This was her office, and unicorns were under her jurisdiction.

“The cost of building and staffing a proper enclosure would surpass the amount that it currently takes to track them in the wild. If you would refer back to Report 2981J, which I have sent you several times, you would see.”

“We’re wasting time hunting them down. You’ve made it impossible with all your frivolous changes.” He stomped his foot on the floor, then had to brace himself as he slowly slid forward out of his chair. 

Widgens frowned at the ground for a moment, then refocused on his rant. The chair had been enchanted to change based on the intentions of the person sitting in it toward Hermione. Judging by the way the seat was slowly tipping and the seat was subtly contracting, Widgens was feeling extremely unkind.

“Even ignoring the fiscal irresponsibility of your plan, the effects of stress and boredom on creatures can negatively influence the quality of hairs or feathers in the wand cores,” she said, her voice still impressively calm.

He laughed harshly. “Under stress? Are you going to give them little massages and brew them tea? No one cares.”

She cared. And she wasn’t futilely knitting S.P.E.W. hats anymore; she finally had some power to help some of the oppressed and mistreated groups in the Wizarding World. 

“It's cruel!” she cried, hating the quaver in her voice even more when she saw Widgens smile with satisfaction.

He seemed to revel in goading her until she cracked, as though his anger wasn’t just another uncontrolled emotion. At least his chortle turned into a grunt when a splinter popped up from the seat of the chair.

“Stop wasting department resources because you’re soft-hearted, Granger. They’re not your pets.” He paused and sneered at her. “Or your friends.”

“The Ministry,” she cleared her throat and spoke as condescendingly as she could, “cares about the quality and integrity of ingredients. You can submit a written proposal to Shacklebolt about your unicorn captivity idea, but I won’t sign off on it.”

“Then you can forget about my support for your centaur education initiative.” He stood up in a huff, slamming the door to her office on his way out.

Like he ever would have supported her anyways. Hermione reached for the black glass jar labeled VOID on her desk and screamed into it. The sound was sucked neatly away instead of ringing out for anyone else to hear; one of her favorite of Ron’s inventions for her. 

Widgens was the Head of the Beings Division, her colleague in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It originally felt like a rebuke to be passed over for that position since it covered House-Elves, but now Hermione was happy to be Head of the Beast Division instead. More creatures under her jurisdiction meant more influence within the department, a fact that drove Widgens insane.

After screaming a few more times, she scourgified away his spit, then sent a disinfecting charm across the whole surface of her desk. Widgens was an asshole, but overall she had handled that confrontation well. Calm and professional.

She looked around her empty office, at everything she had carefully arranged to establish a rich and formal space that declared authority. Awards and credentials covered a whole wall like a mosaic, with two handsomely framed documents on top: her Order of Merlin and her Muggle-born Registration paperwork from during the war. There was no hiding who she was, so she might as well throw it in their faces.

She pushed the unicorn file aside and returned to the stack of reports that she had been working on before Widgens interrupted her. Half of them had careless errors throughout and she was dreading bringing her employees in to determine if the shoddy work was willful incompetence or a problem that could be fixed with more training. 

Her goal within the Ministry wasn’t to make friends. At least now that she was the boss, there could be any number of reasons that whispered conversations stopped when she walked by and she wasn’t invited to happy hours.

She flipped open the worst one: a recommendation that a Lethifold colony be relocated to Muggle Manchester, because killings by the shroud-like creatures wouldn’t be noticed with the generally high crime rate. Hermione scratched out the word expendable, pausing when she noticed a particular smell in the air. She tilted her head to the side, lost in the scent of something clean and sharp, the sudden memory of her fingers in Draco’s hair making her shiver. There had been something about having the power to pull him exactly where she wanted.

Why on earth was she still thinking about Draco Malfoy? She pressed her palms to her eyes. Maybe this was some kind of delayed trauma response after being forced to spend time with a former Death Eater. Except for when she was at work, she rarely spent time with anyone outside of her small circle who she could trust. Actually, that was probably a delayed trauma response too. 

She tapped the side of the VOID jar, but didn’t quite feel like screaming anymore. Sighing into the void? Sobbing into the void? She focused on her breathing instead, a well practiced technique. Grounded by things she could touch, things she could hear.

Her eyes popped open. She could hear something; the slightest rustling across the room. Her robes were hanging on the stand, with her bag on the hook beneath it. The corner of the fabric was moving as if caught by a breeze, which was impossible, because the room was four levels underground and the window was an enchanted illusion. 

An escaped creature? Hermione tilted her head down and looked up through her eyelashes, pretending to be focused on the papers in front of her as she pulled out her wand and a pair of sharp sewing scissors. Molly had given them to her, along with a sewing kit, so that she could mend Ron’s clothes during her non-existent down time. This was the first time she would actually use them. 

“Homenum Revelio,” she breathed, tense as she waited for the results of the spell to come back to her.

A man was in the room.

She jumped up, casting a Petrificus Totalus and throwing the scissors across the room at the same time. The man blocked her spell with his own shield spell, but the scissors pierced through: he hadn’t been expecting a physical weapon. He grunted, and the scissors seemed to hover in mid air for a second before dropping to the ground, a drop of red blood appearing where they hit.

She cast a Bombarda, crossing the room right behind the explosion.

The puff of fire went out her door, which had appeared to open by itself. Had he gotten away? Or the open door could be a trick and there was someone still in the room about to attack.

“Homenum Revelio,” she cried, turning around in a frantic circle.

The results came that she was alone. Safe. Hermione clutched her chest, feeling her racing heart under her palm. Had the intruder been trying to hurt her? The cloaking spell had been excellent, a sign of someone proficient with illusory magic. The only thing that had tipped her off was the slight motion of her robes and the smell.

The smell.

Draco? Had it really just been him? She rushed over to her bag, digging desperately through the contents. It wasn’t there. The wedding ritual book was gone; only Draco would have taken that. She had been half expecting some sort of retaliation from him and here it was. 

Hermione clutched the hook that her robes were hanging on and let her body sag in relief, pressing her face into the fabric. It had been awhile since she had a shock of adrenaline and fight response like that. Draco was probably rushing back to his office right now, clutching the book like a bloody Niffler.

The text in the marriage ritual book had faded out to be unreadable when she looked at it over the weekend, only darkening a tiny bit when she pulled Ron over to read it with her. He was a pure-blood, so at least it wasn’t cursed to only block Muggle-borns like she had feared.

She straightened and stalked out of the room, hastily setting her security wards behind her. Forget the reports, she needed to find Draco and get the book back now. His smug smile would disappear when he saw her, and she would make him regret scaring her. 

There were slow moving people bottle-necked behind a Centaur in the hall, and she darted around them, energized by her mission. The Potioneers were up on Level Two with the DMLE and Wizengamot, a familiar route since she frequently stopped by the Auror offices to have lunch with Harry. 

Hermione squeezed onto a closely packed lift instead of waiting for the next one. Interdepartmental memos zoomed overhead irritatingly, and the witch next to her was wearing a hideous jacket with feathers that stuck out and brushed Hermione’s hair. She subtly widened her stance and pushed back with her own jacket’s sharp shoulder pad until the witch shuffled over. Sometimes there were benefits to the staid, sculptural business clothing traditionally worn by Ministry officials.

Draco, that arsehole. She had been in the middle of important business that he was interrupting. The lift finally rumbled to a stop and half the group shuffled out. The Aurors were to the left, and the Magic Research and Regulation section was to the right. 

“Department Head Granger?” The administrative wizard looked up at her with surprise, then down at a complicated calendar with dozens of moving pieces. “Do you have a meeting with someone here today?”

“No, I’m looking for the Potioneers’ offices.” Hermione craned her neck to look down the hall and the various office doors.

“Oh, should I get Ellie?” The wizard asked anxiously. “I mean Department Head Nguyen.”

“No, thank you. I just need to check on something.”

Judging by the name plaques crowded around the doors, most of the Potioneers had shared offices. That made sense since they were often in the brewing laboratory or out in the field assisting with ingredient gathering and regulatory duties.

There he was—his name listed on a silver plaque with his titles on smaller plaques hanging below.

D. Malfoy

Intermediate Potioneer

Arcane Spell and Substance Specialist

Ingredient Acquisition Committee Member

Apprentice Inspector

There was a very faint drawing of a face in the D of his name, like someone had tried to erase it. No, not a face– the mouth was crossed lines and there were swirls up the sides. A Death Eater Mask. 

Hermione jerked her head back. There weren’t many former Death Eaters at the Ministry. Draco might actually be the only one, now that she thought about it. For all of her frustration at being treated differently for being Muggle-born, she had never considered what it might be like for him.  She pressed her fist against her thigh to steel herself and opened the door. 

Draco was seated at his desk in one corner of the room, writing on a piece of parchment without sparing her a glance. Blaise Zabini smiled slightly, and a woman she didn’t know gawked at her, clutching a leather briefcase to her chest.

“Good afternoon,” Hermione said sharply. “I’m looking—”

She hadn’t thought this through; she couldn’t just storm down and force Draco to give her back the book. It was unprofessional. It was crazy.

“I require your assistance in locating a lost—” She grasped for something remotely plausible. “A Bowtruckle. A Bowtruckle might be in here.”

The creatures were small and liked to hide, so that could work. Zabini looked stricken, and the woman looked about to burst into tears. Hermione knew that she had a reputation for having exacting expectations, but this reaction seemed excessive. 

“There’s been no sign of a Bowtruckle in this office,” Zabini said smoothly, his smile looking more forced than before.

“I’ll just look to be sure.” 

Draco still hadn’t even glanced at her, so Hermione stalked over to where he sat. His desk was shabby compared to her polished wood one, but the whole area was meticulously tidy, bordering on impersonal. No photos, no mementos, just a narrow rack of potion bottles and a stuffed full bookshelf on the wall behind him.

She leaned on his desk, resting one palm on a neat stack of papers and one next to his wrist.  He didn’t move away, the only thing indicating that he even noticed her was his handwriting, a few drops of ink marring what he was writing now in contrast to the neater penmanship at the top of the page. 

“I know you have it.”

He looked up with half lidded eyes. “Your Bowtruckle?”

She leaned forward, voice low enough that only he could hear. “I know it was you, Malfoy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He dropped his quill and leaned back, regarding her with dull disinterest for a moment before picking up a paper and starting to read it. 

“It was you.” She felt overheated, the stiff collar of her blouse choking her.

His aloofness was infuriating. He was doing it on purpose, like he knew it would make her more angry than just arguing. What would happen if she grabbed the leather strap of his potions harness and jerked him forward? Then he would have to look at her.

Hermione leaned forward farther onto his desk, pressing her palms hard against the scarred wood surface. 

“Accio Librum,” she cast wandlessly down, hearing items start to shift in his desk drawers.

He looked up at her sharply, and she felt a rush of satisfaction. There he was. The sound of clinking glass and a series of leatherbound thumps came from the depths of his desk drawers. He had books in there that were straining to get out. 

“Accio Matrimonium Librum.” She tried, unsure if the variation would work.

There was a hollow clattering, like a small hardbound book hitting the inside of the drawer. It wanted to come to her. Like the book knew that she needed the Solstice wedding, a step towards the life she was trying to build. 

“Granger.” Draco’s voice was a harsh command as he stood up from his desk chair. “Stop.”

The book changed directions toward the top of the desk, shaking the surface as it hit upwards inside the drawer. Hermione could hear the other Potioneers talking and even a sharp gasp, but she didn’t turn around. She almost had it. 

“Stop.” Draco wrenched her hands off the desktop, pulling her towards him and interrupting the spell. 

She had already been leaning over the desk while casting the spell, so the force of his grip made her fall all the way, half splayed across the paper-strewn surface and half on him. Her head knocked into his chest, the brush of his waistcoat pressed against her cheek.

There was that unmistakable smell of Draco, clean and masculine. If she hadn’t been positive before, she knew now; Draco had been in her office and close enough for her to breathe him in like this. 

“You,” she accused, looking him up and down. “I knew it.” 

She jerked her arms out of his hold and braced against him to push herself up. The book was so close, she couldn’t let it go now. Hermione slid off the desk to stand in front of him, sending a flurry of papers to the ground. Draco tried to take a step back, then hit his knees against his desk chair. He fell forward with a curse, caged into the narrow space with her.

He didn't look blank anymore; lips slightly parted and eyes burning. Hermione could feel her heart beating faster, triumphant at breaking through his coldness to make him so—intense. He must be angry. Ready to devour her with anger.

She reached her hands behind her and rested them on the drawer’s lock. "Alohomora." 

Draco looked like he hadn’t noticed what she was doing beyond the fact that the motion had made her chest push forward enough to almost brush against his. The drawer clicked unlocked and she whirled around to wretch it open. 

“Oh—” Draco grunted and stumbled again.

She had hit him with her pointy shoulder pad, excellent. Even more distraction. The drawer was full of papers, but right on top was the blue and gold marriage ritual book. She snatched it and shoved it into her jacket. 

"Granger," Draco hissed, grabbing the stiff fabric and pulling her to the side, away from his desk. 

“Malfoy,” she said back, unable to repress a satisfied smile.

She had definitely won this round, leaving him flustered. And she had gotten the book back. 

“You—” His hand hovered in the air by her waist, like he was considering ripping open her jacket to get the book back.

“It was me!” a wavering voice cried out. “I’m sorry!”

Hermione turned to face the female Potioneer, who she had completely forgotten was in the room. Zabini was still at his desk, but leaning forward, eyes wide and his fist pressed to his mouth. Oh no. Oh, they had watched the whole insane interaction.

“It’s here.” The woman slowly raised her hand to Hermione, a tiny green bowtruckle clinging to her finger.

“What?” Hermione reached out unthinkingly, but the tiny creature buried its face, trying to hide from her. “Oh, the Bowtruckle. You have a Bowtruckle?”

Honestly, what were the odds that someone would actually be hiding the random creature she had blurted out? She grasped for the reason she had supposedly been looking for it.

“I’m sorry,” the woman wailed. “He’s helpful for opening up stuck lids and getting sediment from the bottom of narrow jars.”

“Cynthia didn’t mean to cause any harm.” Zabini got up and put an arm around the woman while he addressed Hermione. “Stickly isn’t disruptive and he’s well taken care of.”

They had named it? Stickly peeked at her, pin-prick sized tears shining in its eyes.

“Right. Well, it’s Ministry policy to register any creatures that are used for assistance in the workplace.”

She had to recover her professional demeanor, mortification hitting her with the realization that she had basically climbed onto Draco’s desk, smelled him, then stolen something from his desk drawer. Maybe they hadn’t noticed.

“It’s my fault. Draco didn’t do anything!” Cynthia scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at Hermione defiantly. “You should leave him alone.”

Blaise patted her on the shoulder as though congratulating Cynthia for her bravery. Draco’s words in the fireplace room echoed in her mind— you really are the most cruel person I know. They thought she had been chastising him in some weird and violent way. Had she been? But he started it. 

“Cynthia,” she said softly, catching a movement in the woman’s front pocket from the corner of her eye. Merlin, how many creatures was she smuggling? “Fill out the registration paperwork for Stickly and make sure he’s well treated.”

Cynthia nodded and whispered something softly to the Bowtruckle. 

“Now, carry on,” Hermione said loudly, not daring to look at Draco as she turned and walked out as though nothing unusual had happened.

She pulled the door shut behind her, sending the dangling name plaques tinkling. That was mortifying. And unprofessional. Mortifyingly unprofessional. She gripped the book hard through the fabric of her jacket, ready to rush back to her office.

“Wait!” The Head of the Potions Department was hurrying down the hall towards Hermione.

“Hello, Elizabeth.” Hermione smiled.

They weren’t exactly friends, but Hermione thought they could be friend-adjacent, both young women who had risen quickly within the staid structure of the Ministry.

“Department Head Granger.” Elizabeth didn’t smile back. “Has there been a problem in Potions?”

“No, everything is resolved,” Hermione said quickly.

“If Malfoy…” Elizabeth hesitated. “You’re not the only one with concerns about Malfoy’s history. I would have preferred that you come to me first, but if there is an issue with Malfoy, he can be moved to a less conspicuous place in the Ministry.”

“Of course not,” Hermione said, the implication hitting like a blow. “Is the quality of his work a problem? Because that’s the only factor that should be taken into consideration.”

Her voice had risen to the level that Ron and Harry referred to as swotty. It chafed to think of anyone being demoted because of their past, or really any reason related to preconceived judgment against them. 

Elizabeth eyed her warily. “His work is excellent.”

“Then that’s all that matters. I have no complaints about your department at all.”

“Good.”

Hermione inwardly winced at the tension, wanting nothing more than to go hide under her desk. “Nice to see you, Department Head Nguyen.”

She got halfway down the hall before pulling out the book, needing to see it for reassurance that this whole ordeal had been worthwhile. The gold designs were duller than she remembered, the leather odd in her hands. No—it couldn’t be. There was no way she had stolen the duplicate she had charmed.

All the pages were blank. Hermione flipped through with a hiss, then almost crumpled the page when she got to the end. HAGFISH was written in lovely calligraphy, ink shimmering slightly. All of that had been for nothing.

She was a fool. 

Oh, he would pay for this. Instead of going back to her office, she turned down the hall to the Auror department. Harry would be up for some good old-fashioned plotting and revenge. This time, she would hit Draco Malfoy where it hurt.

Chapter Text

The salon where Draco Malfoy got his hair cut was a stately black building with enormous flower arrangements flanking ornate gold doors. Of course that prat would come to a pretentious place like this; Hermione felt intimidated even standing across the street scoping it out.

There was no sign in front, but this was definitely the place Astoria had described. Ron had surreptitiously asked her for hair stylist recommendations before their painful first interview with Witch Weekly.

Hermione had felt a bit guilty exploiting Astoria’s friendliness in order to torture her fiance, but that feeling disappeared when Draco smirked and scoffed during all of her answers to the reporter’s questions. It all felt so intrusive and likely to be twisted. Hermione knew she sounded awkward and defensive, but Rita Skeeter had ruined all interviews for her forever.

No matter, there was more than one way to get ahead. Draco Malfoy should be inside this salon right now, vulnerable while he was being pampered. Hermione double checked her cloaking spell, then followed a posh looking witch inside, staying close enough behind her to not get clipped by the swinging door. 

Hermione looked around the reception area, overwhelmed by the different scents of perfumes and the dissonant sounds of many people talking at once. It was comforting to know she was invisible, but she stepped back to avoid being bumped into as she gawked.

A long line of mirrors stretched down the center of the room, each one showing a different hairstyle on the person who looked in it. A refreshment bar took up an entire wall, treats on display in front of rows of glass water jugs with a variety of infused fruits backlit like an appetizing stained glass window.

She’d never seen a salon like this. When her split ends got too bad, Hermione usually tagged along with Fleur to her hairstylist. Everyone ended up frustrated since the beauty consultations were based on personal astrology, and she was missing some apparently crucial elements. No one in the Muggle hospital had noted the cloud pattern at the time of her birth, and her mother hadn't thrown a flower to see what constellation the scattered petals resembled. 

This aggressively posh place would be even worse. Thank goodness no one could see her now, or she would probably have to endure enough scorn to send her into flashbacks of being taunted by the Malfoys at Madame Malkins. 

At least she could get revenge on the younger Malfoy now, a decade later. No sign of Draco, so she crept toward the cutting and styling stations, careful not to bump into anyone and give herself away. Something brushed against her hair, a gentle touch that sent a shock of fear through her. Had her cloaking spell failed? She whirled around, but no one seemed to be looking at her.

She felt the touch again, this time lifting a section of curls off her neck, and twisted her arm back to grab whoever it was. Her fingers closed on hard plastic. A comb? She was hidden from human eyes, but this enchanted object had spotted her. It was black plastic, with wide-set teeth that jabbed at her fingers to be released.

“No,” she mouthed, even though it didn’t have eyes. “Ow!”

It had stabbed the sensitive spot between her thumb and pointer finger, then twisted into a shape that looked alarmingly hostile for a piece of plastic. Hermione flung it across the room, nearly hitting a witch with dreadlocks and drawing stares as it clattered across the floor. There. Now it would leave her and her lost-cause hair alone.

The comb sprang upright, and gave a little shake before turning towards Hermione. Oh shit, it was coming for her. She took a step backward in horror as the comb began to skitter towards her like a demented crab. Maybe this was karmic payback for crying when her mom tried to comb out her tangled hair as a child. 

It launched into the air, bouncing back like a hummingbird when Hermione tried to swat it away. Someone would notice it for sure, and she would be caught. Hermione dropped to the ground, looking for a place to hide.

She crawled under a table stacked with various products, pushing aside empty boxes and bags to conceal herself. The comb lifted the ends of her hair, more gentle now that she wasn’t fighting it. She studied the boxes while it poked her scalp and examined her curl pattern.

Return to Your Prime with Sphynx Blood Serum a box declared, an illustration of a female sphynx winking seductively on the front. Hermione scoffed and tapped her wand on the box to enlarge the small print. Ingredients: Murtlap dung and Flobberworm bile. Contains no sphynx blood. Processed in a facility that also processes peanuts. 

Hermione tilted her head toward the floor to try to spot Draco's dragonhide shoes, but the comb jabbed the back of her neck. She sat up with an impatient scowl. There were other things that she needed to do today besides sabotaging Draco. Tomorrow would be the sacred flower gathering ritual in Tintagel, and she needed to get their formal clothes in order for the accompanying photo shoot. 

Finally, the comb flew away, giving her a last condescending pat on the top of her head. That had been a tedious waste of time, since she had no intention of getting her hair cut here. Hermione crawled out from under the table and looked around for Draco. 

There were plenty of handsome wizards reflected in the large gold mirrors of the stylist stations, but not the blond one she was looking for. Hermione carefully wove her way through the room.

Something bumped into her back and she whirled around. The comb again, this time balancing a bottle of shampoo precariously as it hovered around her.

“No,” she hissed, shaking her head frantically.

It bobbed up and down, almost dropping the bottle. This must be the recommendation after its evaluation of her hair. Hermione dug for a Galleon and grabbed the bottle off the comb, tucking it into the pocket of her cloak. The comb plucked the coin up and then smacked her hand. One bottle of shampoo cost more than a Galleon? 

“Fine,” she mouthed, digging out more coins and setting them on the floor quickly. 

Several people seemed to be looking her way, so Hermione darted down a bright hallway flanked by water fountains flowing dramatically into crystal tubs. There were doors marked with wooden signs identifying the names of hot springs from around the world above glass windows. 

Inside Blue Lagoon, Iceland was painted slate gray with shimmering green Northern Lights dancing near the ceiling. She had to press her face against the window to see through the thick steam of Te Manaroa, New Zealand. Draco wasn’t in Iron Mountain, Colorado, USA or Kitagata, Uganda either. 

Inside the fifth room, she could see a swath of pale skin and bright hair through a tangle of hanging vines. Was that Draco in Jalapão, Brazil? She took a deep breath and silently eased the door open to step inside.

The room looked like a very chic rainforest, with sleek tiles, hanging plants, and a small waterfall flowing from the ceiling to a shallow pool set into the floor. She had an advantage here; the sound of the water would muffle her footsteps. Draco was lying on a wooden table, a folded washcloth over his eyes and a towel draped around his waist. His chest was bare, rising and falling slowly with even breaths.

Most people looked younger when they were sleeping, but young Draco had been hostile and sharp as a blade. Now his mouth was relaxed, lips more full when they weren't pursed into a frown or a tensely polite smile. Hermione bit her own lip. Maybe she should muster enough nerve to book her own spa treatment here, because she had the sudden urge to lie down next to him. It would feel good to let her own muscles relax, her breathing evening out to match his gentle exhales, sounds of a rainforest drowning out everything else around them.

Scars stretched across the muscles of Draco’s chest, a battlefield usually concealed by his buttoned up clothing. She knew about the Sectumsempra curse and remembered hearing from his trial coverage that Draco had been tortured, but it was jarring to see it in person. Dark magic had torn him over and over, deep and unhealable. All those years of being afraid of him, and beneath the leather and metal was just a person covered in scars. 

Hermione gave herself a mental shake and positioned herself behind his head. She was here for a reason and it wasn’t to get existential about the life of Draco Malfoy. Only the top of his hair was within reach, but that would be good enough. Her original plan had been to tamper with his hair by sneaking the potion into his stylist’s bottle of product, but she could apply it directly now and leave no room for error. 

She pulled out the bottle and dripped some liquid onto the blond strands, rubbing it in with her hands as gently as she could. His soft hair would soon be bright blue for tomorrow’s photo shoot for Witch Weekly. Draco would be forced to skip it or show up looking like a blueberry.

The dye was a new product prototype for the joke shop, impossible to remove for 48 hours, then it would fade slowly away. It looked clear in her hands, but was already taking effect and darkening his hair.

She massaged his scalp, earning a low, satisfied noise from Draco that seemed to jolt something deep in her stomach. Had some deeply repressed part of her psyche come with this plan so she could tug on his hair again? No, the hair dye had been Harry’s idea. And if she was enjoying it, then she’d better savor this moment, because it would never happen again.

Draco’s head tilted back a bit like he was melting into her touch, his mouth in a relaxed smile. Maybe he was having a good dream. She leaned forward, studying him closer than she ever had before. That jawline was truly unfair. There was a tiny cut below his collarbone that looked like a recent injury. Was that where she had hit him with the scissors in her office?

He shifted and she froze. 

“Clive? What are you doing?” he asked, voice heavy with sleep.

“Conditioning treatment.” She pitched her voice lower than usual and held her breath, hoping that she sounded like whoever Clive was. 

“What?” 

Draco’s body had lost the relaxation of sleep; maybe she should make a run for it now. But then she wouldn’t get the back of his hair blue. 

“Just relax,” she growled, sliding her fingers under his head to quickly distribute the potion.

He pressed his arm with the Dark Mark tightly to his side, awake and back on guard. It felt like losing something to see the tension return in him. 

“I think I’m done with the cloth.” He reached up to pull the washcloth off of his eyes.

“No,” she gasped, then remembered to drop the pitch of her voice. “Noooo. The conditioning treatment is not complete.”

She clamped a hand over the washcloth. If she massaged his face, maybe it wouldn’t be strange that she was essentially keeping him blindfolded. 

Hermione made a forceful humming noise and started massaging his forehead, making little circles with her fingers. That looked sort of comfortable, didn't it? She wished she had taken Ron up on his offers to give her massages when she was stressed, because then she would know what to do. 

“Who are you?” He demanded, his whole body tensing up and a curl of black smoke erupting from the palm of his hand.

Death Eater magic. Hermione gasped, fear flooding through her body.

“Clive!” The name came out as a desperate squeak before she remembered to drop down to a low drawn out baritone. 

Draco let out a breath and the smoke disappeared. Apparently she was convincing enough as Clive to keep him from attacking, so she started moving her hands to massage him again, one putting potion on the back of his hair and one tracing circles on his forehead.

"How’s your family, Clive?" Draco shifted his head, his body seeming to relax again.

“Pleasant,” she growled. “Healthy.”

His hair looked well covered, now she just needed to extricate herself from the situation and escape. She switched to rubbing her fingers down the sides of Draco’s nose and across his cheekbones, the warm washcloth tickling her hands. That was supposed to be good for relieving sinus pressure, everyone would love that. Draco really did have amazing bone structure.

“Mmmm, Clive,” Draco sighed. “Lower.”

Lower? Lower on his face? She softly poked the hollows of his cheeks, then dragged her knuckles across his chin. This was probably the way to give a face massage– he was smiling, so that was a good sign. Although it almost looked like a smirk.

“Lower, Clive.”

"Hmmmm?" She made a low, noncommittal sound, then squeezed his neck.

Ok, that was weird. That couldn’t be part of a normal massage.

“Clive,” Draco said sternly. “Do that thing I like.” 

She squeezed his shoulders, kneading the spot where they met the base of his neck. This was good; she'd seen other people give massages like this. 

“This is what you like,” she said in a gravelly voice.

“No, lower.”

Hermione ran her hands down his chest, her breath catching as she felt his pec muscles flex, his nipples pebbled under her palms. 

“Lower?” Her pitched low voice sounded obscenely eager. She should run. 

“Yes.”

She was already leaning far over him, but stretched a bit more to touch the lines of his muscular stomach in order to really pretend to be Clive. Oh, his abs were something very interesting.   

Draco reached up and grabbed her as fast as a snake striking, his hands tight around her ribs.

“Granger,” he laughed, pulling her off her feet and on top of him.

“It’s Clive,” she shrieked, forgetting to disguise her voice as she fell onto his bare stomach.

“You’re invisible?”

The washcloth must have fallen off his face. Thank goodness her cloaking spell had held through her surprise and he couldn’t see her. He could definitely feel her though and his grip tightened. 

“Are you searching me for the book here?” He asked incredulously. “Where would I be hiding it?”

“I don’t know about a book,” she gasped. “I’m Clive.”

She braced against the table and tried to pull away, but he was strong, running his hands over her body to orient where she was without being able to see her. Oh, that felt—no. 

Hermione twisted his nipple hard enough to make him cry out and let go of her. 

"The conditioning treatment is complete. Go back to sleep,” she growled, falling off the table and dropping to the floor. 

She pressed herself against the side of the table, trying to take up as little space as possible. The room wasn’t very big, but she had the advantage of being invisible. And hadn’t she slipped away from much worse villains?

Draco's bare legs swung down and his feet touched the tile floor right in front of her. She sat back and crab walked backwards, frozen for a moment by the sight of his calf muscles flexing as he stood.

He leaned around the table, eyes narrowed as he searched. The towel was slung low on his waist and his arms flexed as he tightened the knot. His expression didn’t change as he looked right at her, which was lucky since her eyes were probably as wide as saucers.

This was not an image of Draco Malfoy that she should have in her memory. 

"Granger?" He called softly. "Clive?"

Hermione averted her eyes and started crawling around the table, only to almost run into Draco’s legs coming around the other side. Shouldn’t a salon this fancy have thicker towels that didn’t cling like that? 

She backed up, knocking into a cluster of hanging vines. That would work to keep him contained while she got out of here. 

“Herbivicus,” she cast the charm, sending a line of emerald green light to the ceiling.

The vines surged down, new leaves popping out as they hit the floor. One twisted around Draco’s wrist and her eyes locked on the veins of his muscular forearm as he pulled it down from the ceiling. A tendon in his neck strained with the effort of fighting off the vines and his biceps bulged. 

Merlin, what had she done? All the vines were on the floor before she managed to tear herself away and try to escape. And his towel seemed like it had dropped lower on his waist.

She picked up the damp washcloth from the table and threw it at him, only for him to catch it with an amused grin. Right, Quidditch reflexes. That knowledge didn’t stop her from also throwing everything else within reach: a scented candle, the empty hair potion bottle, and several cucumber slices that plopped on the floor short of her target.

All the effort got her was a view of that brilliant smile, the one she had only seen directed at her. This was a nightmare.

“Aguamenti.” She squeaked out a spell to pull water from the pool nearby.

The water splashed into his face—-an excellent distraction. Draco stumbled towards her, rivulets of water running down his tight abs. She accidentally stepped back in the wrong direction, towards the pool instead of the door. 

Now his towel was soaking wet, and clingy didn’t even begin to describe it. If she didn’t look away right now, she would never be able to look him in the eyes again. Fuck.

Hermione blindly took another step back and fell into the pool. 

“There you are.” Draco reached for her, his fingers brushing her thigh before she rolled away in the shallow water. 

She landed hard on the bottle of shampoo from the enchanted comb. The lid popped off, sending a splat of grape-scented bubbles out into the water.

“Ebublio,” she spluttered and an explosion of purple shampoo bubbles filled the pool and floated up into the air. 

Perfect, she couldn’t even see Draco anymore. The side of the pool was slippery as she hoisted herself out, and the syrupy grape smell made her gag. She crawled away, rubbing soap out of her eyes and spitting it out of her mouth. The door was right there now and she lunged for it, her wet hands slipping on the handle.

"Aguamenti." Draco cast the water spell behind her, but he was too slow. She was already skidding halfway into the hall.

Hermione ran to the main room of the salon, ready to sneak out the way she had come in. Someone screamed and pointed right at her, pulling the attention of the rest of the people in the room, who gasped and gaped at her. 

Had the invisibility spell failed? She looked down at her arms, which were densely covered in purple bubbles. They must be seeing a person shaped soap monster flailing around. Well, hiding wasn’t an option now. She raised both arms and bellowed like an Erumpent, spitting soap from her mouth. The stylists shrank away and she sprinted through the room as fast as she could. 

She made it almost halfway to the door before slipping on the grape bubbles and falling with a crash.That hurt. This was the end for her; lying in a puddle of shampoo staring at the ornate ceiling of a posh salon where she didn’t even get her hair done. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a stylist advancing on her, wielding the broom used to sweep up hair. She let out a melancholy version of her previous bellow.

She couldn’t just lie here and accept her fate. Would Draco Malfoy lay down and give up? Unlikely. He would buy the salon and set it on fire like an absurd rich person. Well maybe not that exactly, but the sentiment was there. Hermione sat up and snatched the broom from the stylist. 

It was a clear path to the door, except for a familiar piece of plastic clattering in front of her and squaring off like a wild west shootout. The comb. 

Two plastic teeth slowly raised from the rest of the line and clapped together. A threat? Did it want something from her? She shook the broom at it and shuffle-slid toward the entrance. The comb rose up into the air like a demented hummingbird, before dive bombing at her.

It swooped under the swinging broom to the pocket in her cloak where she kept her money. It wanted more Galleons? Easy enough. It snatched the coins from her hand with plastic teeth and zoomed away.

She had reached the doors when Draco called her name. Run or look back? Her sudsy hand slid off the gold door handle as she debated. 

“Granger!” He was standing behind her, barefoot and in a fluffy robe, his damp hair an absolutely brilliant blue. “You forgot your refill.”

There was another bottle of shampoo on the floor in the spot where she had just paid the comb. Her refill—since her first bottle was now only bubbles clinging to her and floating throughout the salon. 

“Mr. Malfoy?” Stylists were approaching Draco on all sides with looks of horror on their faces. “Sir? Your hair?”

The last thing she heard all the way out the doors and down the sidewalk was his scream echoing after her. 

“Blue? My hair is blue?”

Hermione pounded on the door to the Tintagel Museum again, then gave it a kick with her high heel for good measure.

“There’s no one here,” Ron said needlessly, squinting at the letter they had received from Witch Weekly. 

The photo shoot for the flower trek was supposed to be a half hour ago, and there was no one to be found. The magazine article was important for the overall plan to beat Malfoy and Astoria, but they also needed to gather their flowers during the Pink Moon tonight, so the ingredients could be prepared in time to brew their potions.

“I think this is fake.” Ron tilted his head, frowning at the letter.

“What?” Hermione stalked down the stone path to snatch it from him, snagging her slinky dress on a thorny bush. “Ugh!”

“Look.” He held it up, gesturing at the spot that listed the time they were supposed to arrive. “The paper is a different texture right here. I can’t believe I didn't catch it with all the counterfeit crap my brothers tried to trick me with when we were kids.”

“Bloody Malfoy!” she shouted.

At least there was the justice that wherever he was, he looked like an idiot thanks to her trip to the salon yesterday. It had taken her an hour to wash all the suds out of her own hair, but the fancy shampoo had made her curls more defined.

“Ok,” she said, trying to regain her composure. It's a flower gathering trek. It’s likely that they’re in a nearby forest.”

Ron looked around meaningfully at the Cornwall countryside with copses of trees in all directions except for the seaside cliff. 

There was no way they were giving up now. Hermione let out a growl of frustration into the night air, tilting her head back and clenching her fists. She should have called Audrey to double check the time. She should have murdered Draco when she had her hands around his neck.

“If we can’t do the ritual, we could just get married at Shell Cottage,” Ron said tentatively. “Or even at home like Bill and Fleur did.”

Hermione’s chest felt tight. A simple wedding would slip by like any other day, and she would be the same afterwards; her future with Ron looking exactly like their past. Tintagel was supposed to make her better. They needed the power from the Solstice wedding ceremony to make everything right, but she didn’t know how to put that in words that made sense.

“I don’t see why this all matters so much,” Ron said, balling up the fake letter and tossing it towards the museum roof. “It’s only stressing you out.”

Hermione stopped and faced him, her frustration bubbling up. “It’s everything to me! Having my wedding here is literally the most important thing.”

Ron looked like she had slapped him. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure out your wedding. Don’t let me stand in your way.”

“Ron.” She softened her tone, realizing what she had said. “Our wedding—”

“Ronald and Hermione?” An unfamiliar voice called from the trees.

Anger forgotten in favor of instinctual fear, they rushed together and raised their wands in the direction of the person.

“Who’s there?” Ron snarled.

“I’m Thomas, a Paladin who has sworn an oath of righteousness!” A man stepped out into the path, dressed in Muggle clothes with a homemade-looking cape on top. “Oh cool! You guys have those custom wands like Derowen. He told me there was a special shop in London. They look like they could do actual magic!”

“You know Derowen?” Hermione asked, lowering her wand and pushing Ron’s down with her hand. 

“Yeah, he’s my dude! We’re doing a real-life one-off tonight and my job is waiting for you guys.”

“Derowen plays a game called Dungeons & Dragons with his Muggle friends,” Hermione told Ron, hissing into his ear.

“Hi, Thomas Paladin.” Ron shook his hand. “I’m Ron Weasley. How does the game work?”

Thomas explained Dungeons & Dragons to a fascinated Ron, who of course had a lot of questions. She could practically see his mind churning with possibilities for how to adapt it into a Wizard game to sell at the shop.

“Sorry, we’re in a hurry,” Hermione interrupted. “Did Derowen give you instructions? A way for us to get there?”

“I must help your quest by leading you to the Rocky Valley. Also, I can heal you with my blessed touch if you are wounded.” Thomas looked them over eagerly. “Are you wounded? 

“No, we’re good,” Hermione said quickly. “Lead us how? Do you have a car?”

Thomas held up a hand in a hold on gesture, then pulled three bicycles out from behind the trees where he had been hiding. 

“Oh,” Ron said eagerly. “I’ve been wanting to try one of those.”

Arthur had a shabby Muggle unicycle in his shed that he liked to tinker with, but he had never brought home an actual bike.

Thomas gave Ron a strange look, then held the bicycle out to him. Ron eagerly swung his leg over, but the whole thing fell when he lifted both feet onto the pedals. 

“Are you alright?” Hermione rushed over to him. “It doesn’t stay up on its own like a broom.”

Ron grinned and hopped back on, never one to back down from learning a new skill. 

“Oy, I’m doing it!” He wobbled down the path until the bottom of his dress robe got caught up in the chain of the bicycle and it fell over again. 

Hermione got on her own bike, straining the seams of her tight dress as she moved the pedals. The motion seemed to come back to her though, a thrill rushing up as she propelled forward into the night air. Maybe it was because she had used one as a child, but the bicycle felt more natural than a broom, pumping pedals easier than using thigh tension to steer. 

Ron cheered for her, then cursed as he tipped over again. If only there wasn’t a Muggle here and they could use a spell to balance the bikes. It was very slow going, and when they finally reached as close to Rocky Valley as they could get on bicycles, they looked worse for wear. Her dress had ripped up the side and they were both dusty from the road.

“I am the watcher in the dark,” Thomas announced gravely, helping Ron put down the kickstand on his bicycle. “May you evade the terrors of the night and complete your path to find some flowers.” 

Ron bowed slightly. “Your assistance with our quest has been valuable. I will remember you fondly.”

Thomas shook his hand with a complicated hand slapping gesture. "Man, I have to ask. Are you a Bard? Master of song, speech and romance? You just look like you have high charisma."

"Yeah.” Ron put a hand to his chest, greatly honored by the nonsense. “Thanks, man."

“Come on,” Hermione pushed his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of Derowen in the trees ahead.

“What class are you?” Thomas asked her with a frown. "You look nice. Although, honestly I think the sexy thing is a bit overdone. Sort of a clichẻ."

The rip on her stupid dress made a slit up to the top of her thigh and the silky fabric had drooped down to show some extra cleavage during the bike ride. It had felt like a defiant statement to pick a Muggle style dress for the occasion instead of traditional dress robes, but now she felt more silly and overexposed than seductively powerful. She glowered at Thomas, irritated by him and the whole situation.

“Order of Merlin. First Class. Thank you for your help,” she said brusquely before starting down the path.

It was rocky, and the air felt a bit damp. Her heels couldn’t make it, but the sharp rocks dug into her feet when she slid them off.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Ron offered grimly.

“I think that would split my dress even more,” she said regretfully, running her hands over the fabric pulling tightly on her hips.

“Bridal style?” Ron said, holding his arm out to her. “It’ll be romantic.”

She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck as he tucked one strong arm around her back and the other under her knees. Hermione dropped her head back and looked up at Ron. He had grown into his looks, handsome enough that people commented on it, as tall as Bill and as broad and muscular as Charlie. They probably made a swoon worthy scene in their formal clothes, making their way into enchanted woods gripped in an embrace.

A few minutes later, it was getting uncomfortable where his fingers were digging into her leg, and she could tell he was getting tired from the way he was shifting her around. One more romantic gesture that should stay confined to novels and didn’t measure up in reality.

He carried her without complaint until they reached a point where the ground evened out. Mossy walls of rock cradled the path, vines hanging down over lumps of stacked stones that used to be Trethevy Mill. Hermione’s breath caught with excitement. Thomas had led them to the spot where the mysterious labyrinths were carved into the shale rock of the valley.

“Where have you been?” Derowen threw his hands up when he saw them, his worried voice loud over the sound of the waterfall. 

Hermione had never seen him upset like this. Audrey was nearby, huddled with two unusually petite photographers who seemed to blur a bit around the edges in the gathering darkness. Fairy blood?

“We were told the wrong time,” Ron explained. “Are we too late?”

“The wrong time?” Derowen’s brow furrowed, then his expression changed to pure exasperation. “Sure, of course. Blue hair and the wrong time.”

“Yes,” Hermione hissed. “Draco and Astoria sabotaged us! They shouldn’t get the Solstice Wedding after doing this.”

“You two! Honking like ducks against thunder.” Derowen shook his head and his voice turned sarcastic. “It’s like you don’t want each other to get married.”

Hermione opened her mouth and then shut it again. You two? And what on earth was he saying about ducks?

Audrey stalked up, studying their disheveled states with her mouth pressed into a thin, frustrated line. Hermione slipped her shoes back on awkwardly and attempted to cross her legs in a way that hid the rip in her dress. 

POP. One of the photographers took a picture, the flash making stars echo in her vision for a moment. They must look like scolded children, dirty and sheepish. Hermione reached for Ron, angling her body and straightening his lapels. 

“One more?” She asked, willing their smiles to look happy enough. POP. 

“Mr. Malfoy and Miss Greengrass have already channeled their visions and started looking for their flowers,” Audrey said. “Come along.”

They followed her down slab steps to the two labyrinths. The ancient mazes looked like part of nature, surrounded by moss growing on towering layers of shale rock. It would be easy to miss them and continue down the path unknowing.

“Ready?” Derowen asked, gently brushing his hand over the rough surface. “Start at the bottom center.”

Hermione shivered as she touched the groove embedded in the cold stone. Maybe she should brace herself to be swept away like during the Banns ceremony, or be prepared to see something bad. For all of her irritation during Divination classes, this felt different. This felt real.

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to find her future.

Chapter Text

The path forward was beneath Hermione’s fingertips and she couldn’t bring herself to move her hand.

Ron shifted next to her, already seeing his future by tracing the labyrinth on the rock in front of him. The sounds of the forest and Audrey and Derowen’s hushed conversation seemed to get louder as she tried to focus. 

Left or right? Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and forced her finger forward in the carved groove. There—like a lucid dream sweeping her in. It felt itchy and stifling, a restless wanting that she didn’t know how to put into words. What was this? There were no clear images to indicate what her future looked like, just this feeling of resentment. 

The line curved up, the first of the circles looping around and hitting a center line going down. Happiness burst into her chest as soon as her finger changed directions. She was Minister of Magic. Working hard for so many years had paid off and now she had real power. A clear image of herself in formal robes appeared, shaking hands to a roar of applause. 

The line ended at the bottom of the labyrinth and she switched directions. No images, but a sharp pang of fear and excitement; she was falling forward into something completely unknown. Warm skin beneath her fingers, vulnerability and satisfaction at unearthing a part of her that had been buried and forgotten.

The line dropped to another straight one, and she gasped out loud with joy at another clear image. Her parents were with her, their eyes bright with recognition and love. And she was holding her baby, his tiny body tucked against her chest. 

The next loop brought back the stifled feeling, but tempered with time. A life of routine, like sand in an hourglass shuffling back and forth within its confines. She pushed in the other direction, chasing the other sensation even though she couldn’t see any clear details. She felt—lust? Definitely passion. Sparring and then calm contentment, what was she doing? There was herself, reaching for someone else and pulling each other forward— 

Her finger dropped away and it was gone. There were no dead ends in a labyrinth, so what had happened? She hadn’t reached the center. 

“What did you see?” Ron was staring at her with a strange expression, his voice rough.

“My parents.” She shook her head, disoriented. “They’ll remember me again. And a baby—a son!”

“What about me? What was I doing?” 

He was shaken, maybe even angry. Hermione froze, thinking through the onslaught of feelings and images. She hadn’t seen Ron at all. Whatever expression he saw on her face made him grimace before turning away from her to walk into the forest.

“Ron!” She called after him. “Wait—”

“I’m going to get a flower.” He didn’t look back, already being swallowed up by the dense trees.

Hermione spun to face Derowen. “What did he see?”

Derowen just raised an eyebrow—if he knew, he wouldn’t share it with her. 

“I didn’t get to the end. Did I do it wrong? And some things weren’t clear,” she cried, her voice laced with panic.

Why hadn’t she seen Ron at all?

Derowen studied her. “The course of true love never did run smooth. If there were sections of your path that were unclear, it means you haven’t made a choice.”

“Of course I’ve made a choice!”

This was ridiculous—she and Ron were engaged. It wasn’t like there was anyone else. And she couldn’t very well have a child without him.

“Why won’t you tell us what to do?” 

“Go find a flower, Miss Granger,” Audrey said firmly, pointing in the direction Ron had gone into the forest. 

She stalked away from them and stumbled down the path, her heart pounding in her ears. All of this was wrong. One of her high heels sunk into the soft ground, so she kicked them off and threw them back towards the labyrinth clearing. Tall trees pressed in close overhead, the ground unseasonably warm under her bare feet. Find a flower, make a choice.

It was quieter deeper in the dense forest, and starting to get dark. Her pace was slow as she looked around, willing answers to appear on the gnarled tree trunks and in the shifting patterns of leaves. There was rushing water nearby, and a fainter sound that made her stop walking. Was that someone crying? Hermione left the path and stepped through the brush to follow the sound. Her dress was already ruined, so it didn’t really matter now.

She pushed through the trees, revealing a waterfall cascading down into a shallow pool. Astoria was there, dressed like a glamorous explorer in close-cut trousers, one hand dancing through the falling water like she was running ribbons through her fingers.

“Astoria,” Hermione called softly, not wanting to scare her. 

“Hermione?” She wiped her eyes, but couldn’t quite hide her tear-stained face. “Are you alright?”

It took a moment for Hermione to register what she was talking about before she looked down at her ripped, dirt-stained dress and bare feet. Maybe the arrival time wasn’t the only thing altered in the letter. Of course heels and this ridiculous dress weren’t right for tromping through the forest.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just had some trouble with a bicycle.” 

Astoria nodded and held out her hand to help Hermione climb the rocks to join her. The mist of the waterfall filled the air and gave Hermione goosebumps.

“Did something happen to you?” She asked cautiously, studying Astoria.

It was strange to see her shaken like this. Astoria was always calm and gracious, diffusing fights and charming everyone. It had been a pleasure spending time with her, despite the awkward situation of their competing weddings.

“The labyrinth,” Astoria said. “It’s—What happens to me in the future is—”

“It’s bad? All of it?”

“Yes. I knew there was a possibility because of a blood curse in my family; I just didn’t expect—” She broke into a sob and Hermione wrapped her arms around her.

“What you saw is only a possibility though,” Hermione said, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “It doesn’t have to happen. Derowen said I need to make a choice to make my future clear, so you can make a choice to change yours.”

“You think so?” Astoria’s nails dug into her arms, her voice desperate.

Did she? Hermione didn’t really know how it worked, but that sounded right. Merlin, it must be something really terrible for Astoria to react like this. Was someone hurting her? Her family or someone else in her life?

“Are you in danger?”

Astoria paused for a long time, and Hermione felt her stomach drop with worry.

“My parents love me very much,” she finally said haltingly. “When Daphne left and they disowned her, it put more pressure on me. I understand my duty, but maybe I can avoid one part of it.”

“OK,” Hermione said encouragingly. “That would be good.”

She didn’t know very much about the Greengrasses beyond that they were rich and influential. Daphne had been disowned? That would be an enormous scandal in pure-blood society. 

“Can I ask you something? You know Draco better.” Astoria paused, weighing her words. “Would he force me—into a situation that I don’t want?”

Hermione gaped at her. Astoria thought she knew Draco better? It was laughable that anyone would ask her about Draco Malfoy’s character with their history. And the question didn’t even make sense.

“Force you to marry him?”

“No, we don’t have a choice about that part.” Astoria covered her face with her hands.

“He wouldn’t make you do anything,” Hermione said forcefully, surprising herself with how sure she was. “Or want to hurt you.” 

Somewhere during the last month, her fear of Draco had dissolved. He wouldn’t do anything to harm Astoria, at least not on purpose.

“Of course, you’re right,” Astoria whispered, as though she was reassuring herself. “I can do it.”

“Is there a way I can help you?”

Astoria laughed at that. “Gryffindor courage. I haven’t even told you what’s going to happen.”

“You can though. If you want to.”

“I know. Thank you, Hermione. If I do need help—” Her voice was soft, but seemed to hang in the air around them, a plea for support.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ll help you however I can.”

The water flowing next to them turned gold, shimmering like a sunburst for a moment before turning back to normal. 

Astoria stepped back with a shaky laugh. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” Hermione put her hand into the water. It was cold, but looked completely normal now.

POP. A different flash of light came from the trees, the shape of one of the photographers emerging after her eyes adjusted.

“Oh, I thought they were gone.” Astoria looked at her wide-eyed. “Can I help you? I mean you always look beautiful, but you have some dirt.”

She gestured toward her own face, wincing. 

“Yes, thank you,” Hermione closed her eyes as Astoria dipped a delicate lace handkerchief in the water to wash off her skin.

Ginny didn’t bother with beauty stuff much, and Fleur could be a bit brusque and judgemental unless she had complete control. Astoria was gentle, and made a pleased little humming noise as she took out her own hair clip and gathered Hermione’s tangled hair into it.

The Muggle-made dress was still a lost cause, since the cheap synthetic fabric wouldn’t scourgify or stitch together with magic as nicely as Wizard-made garments. Astoria ripped off a gauzy piece hanging from the bottom and used it to secure the back of the dress. Hermione was still showing more cleavage than usual, but it felt like a drastic improvement.

“Now you can take our picture,” Astoria called toward the trees and a series of flashes illuminated the area. 

Hermione smiled at Astoria, who seemed to be subtly guiding her into different poses. She must be used to being on display like this, using her beauty as armor and a tool. They looked over their shoulders toward the photographers when the flashes seemed to stop and were caught by one more POP.

“Have you found a flower yet?” Hermione asked, balancing on the rocks they climbed away from the waterfall together.

The soft ground felt good under foot after the cold, mossy rocks. Almost like the dirt was pulsing with energy, ancient and wild. Astoria looked into the trees, her head tilted as though listening to something Hermione couldn’t hear.

“No, but I think I know which way to go now. Good luck, Hermione.” Astoria grasped her hand one more time before disappearing into the forest. 

Hermione turned a circle, all the possible paths overwhelming her. Now what? 

At least she hadn’t felt anything truly devastating in the labyrinth. It had been more frustrating than anything, now that she had time to calm down and think about it. One of the unclear parts had felt safe, but almost blunted. Was she unhappy? In the way of slowly sinking, not noticing that anything was wrong until she was buried underground.

The other feeling had been terrifying. Or maybe exhilarating? Ron had always been a safe haven for her, but that had felt like leaping off a cliff. What possible choice could that be? Something tugged her forward at the memory of the feeling, a desperate ache in the pit of her stomach that if she didn’t move now, then she never would.

She pushed through the trees, away from the waterfall. A different smooth path wound out in front of her, tree branches and overturned logs pointing like arrows. It was like rushing downhill, her legs strong and her lungs pulling in the damp forest air. A nearby stream of water coursed over rocks and gathered speed as it plunged toward the sea.

Here. It was a clearing, tall rocks jutting up on one side and the space between trees revealing the full moon. The sound of insects humming and the breeze tousling leaves seemed to crescendo as she closed her eyes. Everything was in motion: moss growing, water rushing, the air thick with possibility. It was impossible to be stagnant here.

“Granger?” 

She opened her eyes. 

Draco was across the clearing, bright against the tangled trees behind him, beautiful in the moonlight. He was dressed to coordinate with Astoria, like sexy supermodels going on safari. He looked like Indiana Jones without the hat, the top few buttons of his shirt undone rakishly.

“You tricked me.” Her words were a whisper, but everything had fallen silent. She could hear Draco’s breathing, could feel his movement in the air as he stepped towards her. “Ron and I missed the photo shoot.”

“Audrey wasn’t happy.” He smirked. “I thought you cared about this Solstice Wedding thing, but maybe it’s not meant to be.”

There was soft grass on the ground, caressing her feet as she walked toward him. The moon was so bright that it cast shadows, painting everything blue and not just his dyed hair.

“You tosser! I care about it more than you do.”

“I don’t know about that.” His voice was light, but he was watching her intently. “Are you sure the wedding will be for you and Weasley?”

A thrill of adrenaline rose in her chest, the now familiar desire to spar with him, to push for something that she couldn’t quite define. Draco stepped aside, almost like they were circling each other.

“Our wedding will be perfect,” she said, looking him up and down. “Your wedding better watch it’s back.”

“Oh yeah?” He tipped his head back, eyes bright as he considered her. “If I was your wedding, I would be sleeping with one eye open.” 

“Your wedding can suck it,” she spat.

That tipped him over the edge to laughter, his face crinkling into the unguarded smile that always jolted her. She felt it loosen something in her chest now, this other side to him that was usually hidden.

“Suck what, exactly? Is that a Muggle phrase?”

It had been a childish taunt and she had never thought about the meaning that emerged when she considered it now. Suck it. Suck it ?

“Nothing,” she stammered. “Suck a sugar quill.”

His smile dropped just a bit, and he looked almost predatory as he gazed down at her mouth. “I remember you liked those.”

He did? She had an image of herself licking slowly up the sugar shaft of the feather shaped candy, oblivious to anyone noticing her. Oh. There was no way he had seen that, much less remembered it a decade later.

“Your hair is blue,” she blurted out.

“Yes, very strange.” Draco scowled at her, irritation taking over the more alarming expression that had just been on his face. "Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“Of course not. Your grooming habits are your own business.” 

She stepped around him primly so she could get a better look around the clearing. There could be flowers around here somewhere.

"I didn’t do it to myself," he drawled. “At least my hairdresser is in Azkaban now.”

She stumbled in surprise, filled with guilt. "Clive?"

"I knew it was you." Draco closed the gap between them and leaned in close, smiling triumphantly. “And your hair still smells like grape.”

“You can’t prove anything.” She pushed him away, lightheaded from the feeling of his breath against her neck. “So Clive is safe?” 

Draco nodded, amused. “He’s fine. And now I know that Golden Girl Granger gives absolutely intolerable massages.”

“I do not,” she said, indignant at the thought of being a failure at anything. 

“You strangled me.”

“That's how massages are,” She argued. “What does Clive do that’s lower?” 

“What do you think?”

She remembered sliding her hands down his bare chest like he belonged to her, his muscles tight and skin warm.

“I don’t know—the thing you like.” She cleared her throat, alarmed by how husky her voice sounded.

"Clive cuts my hair," Draco laughed. "That’s it."

"Then why did you keep saying lower?" She stuttered, her voice cracking on the last word. 

"I thought it would make you break and admit who you were."

“You tosser.” She tried to hit his chest, but he playfully swatted her hand away.

Instead of breaking, she had groped him in a steam room. Merlin, Draco Malfoy really did bring out the worst in her. The contradictory urge to either cut him down or draw out his smile again was overwhelming. 

“Well, I still won because your hair is blue,” she said, glaring up at him. “And I’m going to get everything I want. Only one of us is getting married on the Solstice.”

She expected him to fight back, but Draco just looked down at her like he was trying to figure something out. 

“Granger, when I—” His voice was quiet, and she watched the muscles of his neck as he tensed before speaking again. “The labyrinth stone—”

Something brushed her ankle when she took a step back, self conscious from his sudden switch to being serious. There were tiny flowers all around her feet, including where she had just been standing. Had they sprung up while they were talking? It would have been impossible not to notice them, shimmering softly under the bright full moon.

“The flowers!” She crouched down, wincing as she accidentally crushed a few delicate blossoms with the motion.

Draco lowered himself down carefully. The flowers only seemed to be directly around her feet and so thick that she couldn’t move without destroying them. 

“I’ve never seen anything like these.” His head was almost on the ground to look at them intently.

He touched one with his finger, then growled as the petal disintegrated into silver dust and floated away. 

“Just touch the stem,” Hermione instructed, wincing as she crushed another one with the slightest movement of her foot. 

Draco gave her a long suffering look. “I know. And you need to hold still.”

Of course he would have lots of experience gathering and processing ingredients for potions. From how she had seen him work, Draco was the type to painstakingly retrieve each plant from the source and not trust the prepackaged ones. Just like her.

“I need flowers too, though. I can’t just stand here.” She shifted her weight to jump over them, but she was caged in.

“Try.” He shifted, kneeling in front of her.

That wasn’t what she did; her whole life had been getting what she wanted through the sheer force of her will and hard work. He was asking her to trust him, to relinquish control during something important. It made her feel like crawling out of her skin.

Draco pulled out a pocket sized leather pouch that clinked as he pulled tweezers and a glass jar from the narrow space. A potions kit with an extension charm. 

“I’ll put the stems between your fingers if you hold out your hand. Drop them in the jar after your hand is full.” He gave her the jar and wrapped his hand around her ankle. “It has a stasis charm, so they won’t bump around and get damaged.”

Hermione stretched her palm down towards him, keeping the rest of her body still. The brush of metal tweezers tickled as he slid a stem between her first two fingers. He could have easily put the jar on the ground and dropped the flowers in himself, but must have wanted to ease her discomfort at not being involved in the process.

When she had a full row of flowers, Hermione lifted her hand to eye level. The petals were like glass, clear except for shimmering silver dust caught in swirling patterns. 

“Like galaxies within,” she whispered. “Beautiful.”

“Yes.”

She looked down and Draco’s eyes were on her. His hand on her ankle suddenly felt heavy, the only thing anchoring her to the earth in this mystical forest. Everything seemed heightened; her skin sensitive under the silky dress, her heart pounding in her chest, the air between them charged. 

Draco’s hand loosened, but instead of letting her go, he slid his palm up her bare leg with agonizing slowness. His touch pulled a shuddering breath from her, every nerve on fire. This felt like a dream, like a moon drenched spell that stopped time in the heavy air. His thumb brushed the soft hollow at the back of her knee and her leg buckled, opening towards him like a blooming flower. 

He bent forward and kissed the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. It was just a brush of his lips, barely even a touch, but the tenderness coursed through her like a flood. It was euphoric torture to stand still and hold the flowers steady. He tilted his head to look up at her, his eyes skimming the curves of her body with a look of exaltation.

The memory of falling into Draco’s embrace at the Declaration of the Banns came to mind. But that had been in a dream space, a confused accident. This was real. She gasped, and it seemed to shock him back to reality. Draco abruptly dropped his hands from her and rocked back on his knees. 

“I’ll put the flowers in the jar,” she explained unnecessarily, opening her fingers to let them drift softly into the opening. 

“Good,” Draco rasped, his eyes locked only on the flowers now, a picture of studious concentration.

They worked in silence, as tense as a drawn arrow. Had he really kissed her? Maybe she had only felt the brush of his skin as he shifted to reach some of the flowers. Hermione clenched her thighs together and tilted her head back to distract herself by looking at the stars. 

Three more handfuls of flowers and they were done. Draco had expertly picked all of them; the only casualties the ones she had stepped on, which were now glittering dust in the grass. She held the jar steady as Draco twisted on the lid. They both gazed at the flowers undulating within for a long moment before he put his tools away and tucked the jar under his arm.

Hermione stepped back and shook out her limbs, released from the effort of being still. “Do you know the way back?”

She had run for miles to get here. But that didn’t make sense; the forest in the area wasn’t even that big. It had likely been some kind of magical illusion, just another part of this night that didn’t make sense.

“I think so,” Draco said stiffly, looking at the gaps in the trees around the clearing. “Our fiancés are probably waiting for us.”

Of course, Ron and Astoria. She rubbed her forehead, a headache growing as she followed Draco down a path. Hopefully Ron wouldn’t still be upset by what he saw in the labyrinth.

It was a different way than she had come, but soon the sound of voices could be heard through the dense trees. Draco lingered at the end of the path, just out of the others’ sight, but she strode past without looking at him. If he said something harsh right now, it would strike too hard. If he said something tender, it would be worse; setting cracks in both of their relationships that couldn’t be ignored.

The area they had started in was darker now, deep shadows hiding the labyrinths. Audrey held a large lantern and someone had cast floating fairy lights that twinkled the way back to the main road.

“You didn’t find a flower.” Audrey looked aghast at the sight of Hermione’s empty hands. 

Draco held up the jar. “Ours are both in here. They’re too delicate to carry.”

“That many?” Audrey looked at Derowen with alarm. “And you picked them together?”

“There are plenty of flowers for both of us,” Hermione snapped.

They hadn’t been given clear instructions for how to acquire the flowers and now were getting scolded for it? This was ridiculous.

“It’s fine,” Derowen said soothingly. “You’ll just have to prepare them together.”

She grimaced. It would be safer to avoid Draco entirely. Hopefully, they would both be more rational and in control away from the forest. Ron handed her the high heels she had left behind and she tucked herself under his arm dutifully. His flower brushed against her arm, a single cone-shaped flower that was bright yellow and as large as a scepter.

“Since all of you technically found flowers, both couples will be moving on to the next step.” Audrey eyed the jar in Draco’s hand. “The flowers will all need to be prepared before the ritual at Mên-an-Tol next week.”

Astoria seemed composed again. She also had only one flower, hers stark white with holes like lace in the petals. Maybe what Astoria had seen in the labyrinth had been Draco hurting her emotionally—like he cared for someone else. His long fingers were splayed around the jar of flowers, brushing the lid absently with his thumb.

No. Anything going on between them was absolutely none of her business. Hermione kept her eyes on Audrey, trying to listen as she explained the location of the ritual Mên-an-Tol and the significance of a traditional dance they needed to perform. Hermione had known that it was linked to good luck and health, but forgot that it was thought to increase fertility too. 

Derowen’s expression grew serious as he scrutinized all of them. "One more thing before we part. There was an oath made in the forest tonight. I could feel it."

Hermione tensed. Had she and Draco accidentally promised something to each other when they picked the flowers? She should have kicked her way through and left the clearing to find a different one for herself. How stupid to just stand there hypnotized by him, exposed in her slinky dress.

“What oath?” Draco asked, leaning forward.

Derowen looked at Hermione expectantly. No, it wasn’t possible. Her relationship with Ron was supposed to be her future and she would be crazy to jeopardize that. 

“We have to go,” she said, gripping Ron tightly and turning away from the others. “Please.” 

Ron let her guide him away, his face turned down as he walked.

“Are you angry at me?” She asked him as they followed the path out, leaving the forest behind. 

Ron bit his lip. “I saw us together in the Labyrinth.”

“And that’s bad?” 

“Hermione, we were together, but I was so alone,” he hissed, coming to a stop and turning her to face him. “We have separate lives. And we’re too depressed to even care.”

He dug his fingers into her upper arms and she jerked back. “I didn’t see that.”

“Then what?” he asked bitterly. “Did you see us happy?”

Ron took her silence as an answer.

“Didn’t think so.”

At least he had seen her. That should be a good sign for their future, shouldn't it? He was upset with her for something that hadn’t even happened yet.

“It just shows a possible future,” she said calmly, forcing her voice to stay even. “We’ll work on our relationship now and everything will be better.”

They wanted to be together. And if she wasn’t with Ron, then where would she be? Who would she be? The restless, desperate feeling returned deep inside of her, but she held on tightly to Ron until they were all the way home.

Chapter Text

Hermione pulled out her mortar and pestle, then reached for the jar of silvery flowers. The stasis spell kept them floating gently, light shimmering with their small movements.

Draco pushed the jar away from her, irritably looking through the tools in his own Potioneer’s case. “No, they’re too delicate for that.” 

“You don’t even know what type of flower they are,” she snapped. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

She and Draco were stuck in the stuffy library at Tintagel, trying to prepare the potion ingredients together without touching and barely looking at each other. Ron and Astoria had already done theirs correctly and on their own, instead of being trapped in unbearable tension like this.

“You remember how easily they got destroyed when we were picking them?” He snatched the stone pestle away from her, then held it up in front of her face. “Look at these crevices for the powder to get stuck in.”

Infuriating. He was absolutely infuriating. She should have stormed out of the clearing without speaking to him. Actually, she should have stomped on all of these flowers first and then left so Draco wouldn’t have any.

He dropped the pestle into the shallow bowl of the mortar and gripped his hands on the edge of the table. It might have been better to meet at the Ministry Potions Department where they would have been around other people. Then he would have been blank and aloof instead of like this, causing her heart to race with anger and—no. Only anger. That was the only thing she should feel towards Draco Malfoy.

“A mortar and pestle,” he groused, as if he couldn’t quite believe the stupidity of her suggestion and had to repeat it out loud like a bloody Jobberknoll.

“It needs to be done mechanically and not magically, so we don’t influence the potion spellwork later,” she said coldly.

“Of course it does. I’m a bloody Potioneer!” He snarled. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Oh, an Intermediate Potioneer.” She drew her voice out mockingly. “I forgot I was in the presence of such greatness. You can’t cut them, that would be entirely the wrong consistency.”

He threw the pair of scissors he had picked up back into his meticulously organized case instead of sliding them back into their slot. “I didn’t forget that I was in the presence of the most condescending swot in the world.”

“If you weren’t doing the wrong thing, then you wouldn’t need to be corrected.”

Now he was just destroying the organizational system of his own tidy supplies, plucking out random items and tossing them out on the table. He dragged a hand through his hair, still faintly blue and now out of place, a thick lock dropping over his forehead as he leaned over. He looked undone again and something cracked in her chest at the sight. 

Hermione pushed her own tools to the side and hopped up on the table so she could reach the jar of flowers. This time he didn’t stop her, just followed the movement of her arm with a heavy gaze. 

“Open it,” he said harshly.

She considered refusing just on principle, or tossing it across the room. Why did he bring out the worst in her? Make all of her emotions more heightened? They just needed to keep it together and complete their task. She unscrewed the lid. 

The flowers smelled like the forest, like moonlit exultation. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back at the rush of sensation, feeling a soft breeze on her face, moving her hair. Even if Draco was the one who had actually picked them, these had to be her flowers; she adored them.

He was standing right in front of her when she opened her eyes, jaw set like he was bracing himself. He placed the two empty bottles for their potions on the table next to where she was sitting, then lifted a pair of angled tweezers.

They both held their breath as he dipped the tweezers into the jar, pulling out one perfect flower by the stem. He picked up one of the empty bottles, tilting the flower so the blossom rested sideways against the opening.

“Blow on it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she muttered, holding her body as still as she could, likely muscle memory from when any movement would have destroyed the flowers as they picked them.

“Fine.” Draco started to pull it away and she grabbed his wrist to stop him.

They bent their heads at the same time, cheeks almost brushing as they leaned over the flower. Hermione pursed her lips and blew softly, hearing Draco do the same. The silver petals dissolved into the air, shimmering dust drifting softly to the bottom of the bottle, not a granule wasted. As soon as the last bit of petal disappeared, the stamen and stem started to wither away too.

“Good,” she murmured, looking at Draco’s lips as he blew the last bit of stem into the bottle.

He was very close to her, close enough that his jaw almost grazed her hair when he straightened up. Her fingers twitched on his wrist and she forced herself to let him go. 

“I know.” He carefully put the stopper onto the jar, so the dust wouldn’t blow out as they talked. “Do you have tweezers? We can each do our own and split the flowers.”

“Yes, I do.” She pushed as much disdain as she could into her voice.

Draco handed her the bottle. Her potion would have the flower powder from their shared breath then. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to dwell on how she felt about that fact.

They worked silently. Draco had made plucking the flower out of the jar look easy, but it required steady hands and intense concentration to not bump any other petals and destroy them.

“Did you see the magazine?” he asked harshly.

She finished blowing the flower she was working on before answering. They were eye to eye for once, with her sitting on the table.

“Of course I did. It’s everywhere.”

The four of them had made the cover of Witch Weekly with the flower trek photos, and it had somehow become the best selling issue of the year.

Hermione and Astoria were together in one image, looking like ethereal goddesses standing by the waterfall. It looped with them smiling at each other, then looking over their shoulders at the photographer. It had turned out innocent and sensual, wild and beautiful. 

Ron was alone in his photo, his dusty robes turned rich and majestic against the forest floor. He looked determined and conquering, climbing up a rock and looking out ahead of him.

The photographer had captured Draco kneeling before Hermione, only her unidentifiable legs in the frame, her silky dress held to the side. The loop started with him looking down, then reaching up to hand her a flower, his gray eyes serious. The blue hair made him look soaked by moonlight, skin lit from within. What should have looked silly had turned out breathtaking, a knight in benediction for the woman on the other side of his fiery gaze.

Hermione had looked at it too long, then hidden the magazine away.

Draco didn’t look at her now, just flexed his fingers before picking up the tweezers again, his shoulders tense.

"Granger." She thought he might be about to lose his temper, to growl at her for messing up his flowers or dying his hair, any number of things to fight about. His voice dipped low instead, as quiet as a whisper. "In the forest–"

She thought about his reverent touch and the brush of his lips on her skin, then forcefully pushed the memory down. 

"Fairy photographers can twist things," she said quickly. “He must have thought you looked handsome when you were angry.” 

“Angry," he echoed, then nodded. 

She needed to call back her anger now, to fill the empty ache growing in her stomach. Rivals. Enemies. Fighting was what they did.

"We won't have to work together again after this." She focused on extracting another flower.

The Witch Weekly editors had convinced Audrey to turn the ritual at Mên-an-Tol into a big afternoon party, so there would be a crowd to lose each other in. It also meant that the elements of the ritual would be embarrassingly public, including the choreographed dance.

There was one flower left after they had both processed twenty six of them, including the one they had blown on together. Draco quickly scooped up the jar and tightened the lid. He must want to study it further, as a Potioneer.

"All done then," Hermione said briskly.

They had gotten through it. Draco tucked the flower jar into his bag, then pulled out a familiar blue book.

“I can’t believe you enchanted both of them.” He tossed the real marriage ritual book carelessly onto the table next to her. “That’s psychotic behavior, even for you.”

Hermione snatched it up, stroking the leather cover protectively. “I did not. You really think I would tamper with something like this?”

She had put plans for taking it again on the back burner with the assumption that Draco or Astoria had it hidden away at their homes. Now he was just giving it to her?

She flipped the pages, ignoring Draco’s glare. The words looked darker than they had when she studied it with Ron at the Burrow or at work. Maybe it did need to be read in Tintagel. 

Draco leaned over the table, scowling. “It was so faded, it might as well be blank. If you didn’t enchant it, then how do you explain this?”

He gestured angrily to the book in her lap, the words darkening more when his hand got closer. "It's only readable when you hold it."

"Do that again," she said breathlessly. "Move your hand over it again."

"What?"

"Put your hand by the book!"

“Why?” He grabbed it instead, the words pitch black for the second that their hands were both on it, then fading when he pulled it from her fingers. 

“No,” he said, defeated.

Hermione touched one finger to the spine, her theory confirmed by the look on his face before he snapped the book shut.

“I’ll take it home and try it again with Ron.”

It hadn’t worked before, but it would be better than Draco taking the book. He scanned the room behind her, seeming to have an internal debate. What was he thinking about? When they had been in the fireplace room? Sitting stiffly on the couch with his fiancee? The Tintagel library had been the location of so many strange moments.

“We should just look at it now.” Draco pressed his lips together and held out the book so she could hold one side. 

She took it, careful to keep her shoulder far enough away not to accidentally brush against his when he leaned against the table next to her. Think about Ron . He had been so upset after the labyrinth, but it had opened up a conversation that was probably good for their relationship. Growing pains---it didn't mean they were doomed. They were doing fine. She had even come home from work in time for dinner every day this week.

Draco flipped up a section of pages in the center of the book so they could read separate parts at the same time. He had such lovely hands; strong and sure, while still being capable of doing precise work. Hands you could count on if you were in that type of a situation. 

She shook her head and stared at the page in front of her. Someone had drawn a tentacle above a very trite poem comparing love to the sea. Nonsense, but she carefully copied the translation on parchment next to her anyways. 

"Truly, then, these words are most serious,” Draco murmured after they had been working silently for a long stretch.

“I know that.”

“No, that’s what it says.” He shifted to stretch his back, rubbing his temples with one hand. “It’s in Aramaic, but some of the words are spelled out phonetically.”

“Like Aramaic written by someone who didn’t know what they were doing?”

“Maybe? It’s a bitch to translate.”

She had been speeding through a straightforward Gaelic section, but it seemed to be random blessings and not anything remotely useful. May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live.

Hermione had been hoping for something more prescriptive; steps that she and Ron could follow to strengthen their relationship. All of this was just making her more unsettled.

After she had filled two more pages, Draco spoke again. “Because it will bind you together for life in a relationship so close and intimate, that it will profoundly influence your whole future.”

Hermione stopped reading, his words catching her like something stuck in her throat. Wasn't that what she wanted? Her future to be influenced; her life formed into something different? 

"Is there more?"

Draco nodded. 

"That future, with its hopes and disappointments, its successes and its failures, its pleasures and its pains, its joys and its sorrows, is hidden from your eyes." He squinted at the book, tilting his head. "I think. Hanah could also be profit, but I'm thinking the opposite of pain–" 

"How do you know you should get married?" 

The question seemed to burst out of her unbidden and Hermione pressed a hand against her chest. Sorrows and pains. The idea of her future was choking her, a terrifying unknown.

"What?" he asked, sounding caught off guard.

She didn’t talk to Draco Malfoy about stuff like this. She didn’t really talk to anyone about this; her fears of what came next, her anxieties about how she would get through it.

"I don't know, never mind.” She forced a hollow laugh. “Lots of these Gaelic blessings are about sunshine and shamrocks, guess the stereotypes are true.”

“Are you asking if I want to marry Astoria?”

“No, of course not,” she said, biting her lip.

Draco was quiet for a moment, maybe considering if he was going to answer. “She’s quite a catch for a family of disgraced former Death Eaters.”

It seemed like a strange way to phrase it; a catch for the whole family and not him specifically.

“It’s a match that would serve both of our family lineage,” he went on. “The Houses of Malfoy and Greengrass will be a good combination for heirs with powerful magic. My Black side also appeals to Florian Greengrass because of our celestial connections and Occlumency abilities.”

She had considered that it might be an arranged marriage, but it was jarring to hear him speak so matter of factly about lineage and pure-blood preferences. Even if she had wanted to be with someone like him, it showed that she never, ever could be.

“That sounds beneficial,” she said neutrally. Beneficial. And passionless, and coldly constructed.

“Don’t look at me like that, Granger.”

“I’m not looking at you.” She bit her lip, remembering how upset Astoria had been by what she had seen in the labyrinth. “Astoria is wonderful. I hope she has a happy life.”

“Do you think I don’t deserve her?” he asked harshly. 

Hermione stared at him, mouth agape. “I didn’t say that.”

Draco let go of the book, words fading away without his touch.

“You don’t have to say it. I know.”

Tension rolled off of him, his hand worrying the cuff of the sleeve that covered his Dark Mark. She hadn’t even meant to insult him, but apparently she had struck deep.

“Malfoy,” she said softly. She wanted to comfort him, tell him that he was different now, or maybe he had been that way all along. “You don’t know shit.”

“Piss off, Granger,” he said mildly, her harsh words seeming to relax him a bit.

“You’re an arsehole, but not because you were a Death Eater.”

“Other reasons, then?”

“Loads of other reasons,” she said, more tenderly than she meant to. It was a relief to see his smirk. 

He was silent for a long moment. “Do you know how close I was to being sent to Azkaban?”

“No,” she admitted, her shame surprising her. “I didn’t really follow your trial.”

She only knew that the war had been bad for him; the torture of Death Eaters had become almost as notorious as their crimes. She had made a single blanket statement calling for the condemnation of all Voldemort’s followers and then tried to hide from everything after the war. It had been Luna’s testimony about what she had seen as a captive that had saved Draco and his mother from Azkaban.

“I’m lucky to be here instead of being hollowed out by dementors,” he said quietly. “I have a job, a life. The chance to have a family.”

It sounded simple, but so impossible at the same time. They had both endured so much on opposite sides of the war, made enemies by circumstances outside of their control. It all felt meaningless in this cozy room, looking at the sharp lines of his face that were now familiar to her.

She held the book as though it was his hand, trying to find the words for what she wanted to say. “You deserve to be happy. Love and children, whatever you want. The past is over and it can’t hurt us anymore.”

“You too.” His voice was tight, and she realized belatedly that she had said us instead of you. “What about you? Are you happy with Weasley?”

“I don’t know.”

She had never dared to admit that out loud, not to her friends who loved Ron as much as they loved her. Not even to herself, really.

“Maybe I don’t know how,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

Her words hung heavy in the room, and she wished she could pull them back. She couldn’t look at Draco next to her, an arm’s length away. They had danced around each other these months, each look and physical touch justified by the wall of their dislike of each other. This honesty was something entirely different, and entirely more dangerous.

“How to be happy? Granger, you will be.”

She almost laughed at his confident tone; he sounded as sure as if he had seen it. 

“You will. As brutal as you are?” He scoffed. “If anyone can take exactly what they want from this world, it’s you.”

That had been true once, but now? Maybe the problem was that she didn’t know what she wanted unless she was fighting for her life or fighting against injustice. Her response was cut off by the sound of the library door opening.

“Hey.” Ron appeared in the doorway as though she had summoned him with her words.

She almost fell off the table. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t seem to notice her sharp tone, and she tried to adjust her reaction to him. They were supposed to meet with the dance instructor, but that wasn’t for hours.

"I wanted to surprise you and help out." He eyed Draco leaning against the table next to her, as stiff as a statue. “Although it looks like you’re done with the flowers.”

“Remember this book that I couldn’t read the faded words?” She held it up and Ron nodded. “We figured out that it’s clear when we’re both touching it.”

“One person from each couple then? That makes sense.”

Right. For some reason she had jumped to the conclusion that it was the combination of herself and Draco, but that didn’t make any sense. Ron gave her a quick hug, his lips brushing her cheek. 

“Malfoy.” He nodded briskly to Draco in greeting. “Where's Astoria?”

Draco nodded back, any trace of emotion gone from his face or body language. “Cumbria. She enjoys the fresh air of the countryside.”

Tintagel was also in the countryside and full of air. Ron made a skeptical humming noise and leaned on the table next to Hermione.

Now she was in the middle of them, a sandwich of awkwardness. Or maybe it was only awkward for her; Ron seemed unbothered and Draco was a statue of polite disinterest. 

It wasn’t like Ron had actually interrupted anything; she and Draco had blown on the same flower and he had called her brutal. Nothing that should be lingering in her mind. Except that she had also admitted that she might not be happy with her fiancé. If Ron hadn’t interrupted, who knows what other deep truths she might have recklessly confessed.

“Should we keep working?” she asked brightly, forcing a smile.

Neither man responded, so she opened the book again, holding it up directly in front of herself. Draco gripped his side of the book, pulling it toward him a bit. The words immediately darkened as expected. 

“Oh, wow. It is easier to read.” Ron rested his head on her shoulder to get a better look. “Hey, did you give Malfoy that thing we had for him?”

She and Ron had started putting the next prank into place, but she had forgotten about it with all of the other things crowding her mind.

“Not yet.” She felt Draco turn his head, his eyes on her, but she kept rigidly facing the book. 

“Malfoy! We have some samples from the shop that might entice you,” Ron said cheerfully, with an undercurrent of someone desperate to make a sale.

Didn’t Ron know him at all? There was no way Draco would go for that. 

“We don’t have to share with him,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “He wouldn’t even want them.”

She had been anonymously sending very specific treats to Draco in the potions department and then to his flat, building up to the pay off at Mên-an-Tol.

“Pure-blood tastes,” she stage-whispered to Ron. 

Ron followed her lead and hummed understandingly, then reached up to hold the other side of the book. Draco pulled it ever so slightly in his direction like it was a subtle tug of war. Ron pressed his side against her, squishing them all closer together. Cozy. Unbearably cozy. 

Hermione slid off the table with all the grace of a Hippograff and ducked away, so they were still holding up the book across the gap of where she had been. Now she could breathe. She casually dug the bag of Zinging Starbees from her bag where she had dropped it on the couch earlier. 

Ron was frowning at the book, maybe having trouble with the translation. She popped a candy into her mouth, belatedly remembering Draco’s reference to her eating sugar quills. He was watching her now, she could feel it without even looking. 

“Do you want green or orange?” She asked Ron, sidling up to him. 

“Marmalade.” He opened his mouth to her, eyes still on the book. 

“What flavor are the green?” Draco asked.

She didn’t think he would be snared that easily, but his eyes followed her hand to Ron’s mouth with unexpected intensity.

“Green apple.” She remembered him crunching on those, the crisp smell in the air and the little noise of satisfaction he made.

She dumped a few more into her hand and held them out to Draco. For a wild moment, she thought he was going to open his mouth for her to feed him like Ron had, but then he neatly plucked the green one from her palm, his fingertips touching only the candy.

Now she couldn’t help but watch the path of the candy to his mouth, the barest glimpse of tongue visible when he opened his lips. Ron flipped the page, then shook the book irritably when Draco let it fall back open because he was distracted. 

“My apologies.” Draco shoved the book at Ron and stood up. “I should be leaving. Enjoy your dance lessons.”

She didn’t remember mentioning the dance lessons to him. Draco and Astoria could probably do any dance in their sleep with all of their Wizarding Society training and experience. 

“Didn’t mean to drive you off, Malfoy,” Ron said happily, handing him a few extra boxes of candy. “Here, take some for the road.”

They watched him walk out the door stiffly, his hands full of sugary treats.

“He sure grew up to be dull, didn't he?” Ron mused. “Poor Astoria. He must be about as passionate as a corpse.”

A spray of icy water hit between her shoulder blades as Hermione skidded across the floor.

“Spine straight! As straight as a Hungarian Hornback’s rump!”

“That’s not even—-” She protested.

“Straight! And point your toes,” Ricky Coo, Master of Dance, shouted.

Hermione quickly pointed her toes and was hit in the ankles with more ice water that dissipated into mist before it hit the floor.

“Not you! The man points his toes. The woman always has flat feet—like a duck. Raise your knees and hop with your flat duck feet. Higher!”

Hermione was talented at many things, but choreographed dancing was not one of them. Especially not these dance sequences, which felt like they had been designed to inflict as much bodily torture as possible.

“This is the dance of wind—make wind!”

“How do we make wind?” Ron snorted and mouthed the word fart.

“Big man like you knows how to make wind.” Ricky Coo reached up and gripped Ron’s face, pushing his cheeks together. “Blow. Mouth in an O.”

Ron looked desperately to Hermione but did it anyway, blowing out a dramatic breath. 

Ricky Coo snorted a laugh that sounded strangely familiar. They definitely hadn't met him before today though, she would remember his frenetic strangeness.

“Precisely.” He clapped his hands. “Blow until you reach O. And tiptoe jogging.”

“I thought the woman was never on tiptoe,” she wheezed and was hit by another spray of water. 

Ron tiptoed over to the wall and sagged against it. “It’s been 47 minutes. How long is this lesson?”

Ricky Coo looked at his watch and then glanced out the door furtively. “We will end with action. Sprint to the other wall. Faster than that!”

Sprinting was impossible; her muscles were wrung out and she was gasping for breath. Ron pulled ahead and reached the wall first, just as Ricky Coo made a shrill beeping noise. They ran to the other wall, and Ron won again. 

“This isn’t fair,” she panted. “His legs are longer.”

“I’m just faster than you.”

It would be a bad idea to put a leg-locker curse on Ron, but it was also so tempting. After he beat her three more times, Hemione sunk down to the parquet floor in defeat. She hated to lose. At anything.

“Ha,” Ron spun around and raised his arms in triumph, then dropped them with a look of confusion. “Where did he go?”

Hermione tilted her head back without moving any other part of her exhausted body. Ricky Coo was gone. 

“That’s weird,” Ron said, sitting down on the floor next to her. “You ok? That was worse than Quidditch drills.” 

She moaned in response, then rolled over at the sound of someone entering the room. There must be another class after theirs, so they needed to summon enough strength to crawl out the door. 

“Hello, I'm Ricky Coo!”

They stared at him in dismay for an awkward moment.

“We know,” Ron said. “You just taught us to dance.”

“Are you Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger?”

Hermione nodded numbly. Merlin, the soles of her feet were throbbing in time with her heartbeat. 

The man clapped dramatically. “Then your lesson is now! I am Ricky Coo, Master of Dance.”

He threw his arms out and wiggled his fingers, then frowned at their perplexed looks. 

“We already went through this,” Hermione said. “You taught us the Trou du Cul and the Faire des Conneries.”

Ricky Coo’s eyes widened. “No. These are not dances.”

“Then what have we been doing?” Ron wailed.

“I would not presume to ask,” Ricky Coo said primly. “I do apologize for being late. A curly haired young man shoved me into a closet and I had a terrible time banging on the door until someone came to help me.”

Ron and Hermione turned to each other, stricken. If the dance instructor had been trapped in a closet then who had been running them ragged? A fake Ricky Coo would be an insane prank. 

“Had you ever seen that young man before?” she asked carefully.

The real Ricky Coo tapped his chin. “He did look familiar. About your age. Curly brown hair and blue eyes? I think he was skulking around the changing rooms last week.”

“If that wasn't you before,” Ron groaned. “Does that mean the dances we learned are wrong?”

“Show me what you’ve been doing.”

They began to dance stiffly, exhausted and increasingly demoralized as the real Ricky Coo looked on with horror.

He began to teach them the actual dance with grim determination. Hermione spun in a slow circle around Ron and raised her arms in the air with her elbows pressed together.

“Go the other direction,” the dance instructor called. “And your bodies should be loose and flowing.”

They were getting the fake and real dances mixed up. Even without the water spray, it felt like physical and mental torture.

“We’re not going to remember all of this,” Ron hissed before dipping her low to the ground. 

“We don’t have any choice.”

After so many years as a couple, Ron had stopped storming away when he was angry, just like she had learned to tamp down her shrill rebukes. The urge hadn’t gone away though. And did their self control even matter—since he could read the flare of her nostrils as easily as if she had been screaming?

“This is bloody miserable.” His complaints were giving her a headache in addition to the aches all over her body. 

“Not everything has to be fun, Ron,” she snapped. “We’re going to face struggles in our future.”

“Some of it can be,” he said through gritted teeth. “Is there anything fun?”

“Of course there is.” Her voice was harsh, a swot scolding that she was fun.

Hermione stopped dancing, waving away Ricky Coo with enough force that he backed down and gave them a moment. Did she and Ron make each other’s life better? Or maybe they did the opposite. Hermione looked at the floor, tears pricking in her eyes. In hopes and disappointments, in joys and in sorrows.  

They had both watched Harry and Ginny come together in the aftermath of knock down fights and laugh their way through all sorts of minor troubles. It was easy to imagine them weathering future storms together. What if she and Ron were just a pale imitation?

“Alright, we have fun times.” Ron said uncomfortably, trying to end the fight without actually resolving any issues. “I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”

“Yes, you did,” she insisted. 

They used to argue in circles, but that had fizzled out sometime in the past few years. It was easier to just ignore, bury it under. They could have it all out, say everything that they really meant, right here in the dance studio, in front of Ricky Coo. Then maybe things would be better.

Ron was already turning away. “Alright, Hermione.”

“You said there’s nothing fun! You think we don’t make each other happy.” She chased after and stood in front of him. “I don’t want you to apologize.”

“Then what do you want?” His voice was tired, his eyes looking over her shoulder at the door.

There wasn’t any winning an argument when he didn’t care enough to fight. And what did she want from him? She didn’t even know what she wanted from herself, how to explain the way her content, routine life suddenly chafed. For the second time that day, Hermione closed her eyes and let the truth out. 

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

The sun shone through the quivering blob of honey levitating in the air. Hermione paused to admire the stained glass effect for a moment before sending the next one up, hidden under leafy tree branches. Hopefully these golden circles would soon be devoured by a swarm of tiny Nixies, who would then follow the trail to the party and find their ultimate snack: Draco Malfoy.

She and Ron had been anonymously sending him treats packed with butter, honey, and flower nectar for weeks. If he had eaten even half of it, he should be a beacon for the normally reclusive creatures.

“Almost done?” 

Ron leaned against a tree at the edge of the row, glancing between her and the crowd of people gathered beyond the standing stones of Mên-an-Tol. There was an awkward mix of both couples’ friends and family alongside other influential guests here to witness the ritual. 

“Yes.” She gave the honey a last approving look and reached for Ron’s hand. “What if it doesn’t work?”

“The Nixies?” He held her hand loosely for a few steps, then let go. “Don’t know why it wouldn’t, you’ve spent enough time setting it up. You don’t even like Malfoy and all you talk about is these pranks.”

“Not the Nixies.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “The ritual. The dance and the flowers. What if it doesn’t work?”

After the fake Ricky Coo debacle, she wasn’t confident in their abilities to remember the dance at all. And even with all of her study and preparation, this wasn’t like a straightforward test; it was a mystical force of nature with rules that she always seemed to be a step behind.

“You’ve spent plenty of time on that too. It’s all you do.” Ron looked at her meaningfully, a mix of fondness and frustration in his eyes. “Are you having second thoughts about the Solstice Wedding?” 

“Of course not! It’s just—” She tried to find the words for how it had felt to see her name alone on the stone, how badly she wanted to be part of something bigger than herself in the magical world. “It’s just dancing is hard. And I don’t even have my own flowers. What if picking them in the same area as Malfoy will mess something up? Plus we still don’t understand how to use the book.”

“We’ve already talked about all of this, right?” he asked, then smiled when she nodded. “And you’ll figure out the book and the rest because you’re brilliant. Just like you always do.”

He rubbed her arms to reassure her, then turned away to rejoin the party. It was nice that he thought she was brilliant and trusted her to solve any problem herself. It didn’t make sense that his unshakeable confidence in her made her feel more alone sometimes.  

“Wait,” she called after him, his reassurance not quite enough for how she was feeling.

Ron turned, a glimpse of the long-suffering look on his face visible before he tamped it down into a tight smile.

“We should practice the dance again. Before the ritual starts.”

“We’ve practiced a hundred times. I’ve done plenty for this—” He sighed and gestured his hand around the whole Mên-an-Tol area. “—whole thing. Way more than you ever show interest in my stuff.” 

It had been a while since she had gone to the shop; maybe a month? She listened to him talk about it all the time, which should count for something. Although she had also skipped the last few Quidditch pick-up league games and was less graceful about listening to his play-by-plays of the games later.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Right, I’ll be there in a minute.”

She turned to the standing stones. They were only chest high, but seemed to be radiating with power as the sun rose in the sky. The ritual with the dance would begin when the sun was at the highest point of the day. Hermione shivered despite the pleasant sunlight and bent down to peer through the circular stone they would pass through during the ritual. For a second, the space within reminded her of the veil in the Department of Mysteries, the blue sky inside it a slightly different shade than the air around it. 

Something would change in her when she reached the other side of that stone. Good. It was tempting to throw herself through it now; like coming up for air after being held underwater. 

What a crazy thought. That would mean that her current life felt like drowning, like pressure from all sides making her smaller and duller. A shudder ran through her and she rubbed her face. Maybe she should get some food, since she’d felt too nervous to eat breakfast this morning. 

Ron had already disappeared into the crowd. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray and started to half-heartedly look for him.

Harry and Ginny were laughing with an older couple, Harry’s arm slung comfortably around his wife’s waist. She knew Harry had felt like an outsider before, but now he was prominent in wizarding society, respected for both his actions and his magical legacy. It was hard not to envy his ease and obvious happiness. But she had found her way too, hadn’t she, with her prestigious job at the Ministry? And soon she would be officially part of the Weasley family.

She snorted in irritation to see that the Heads of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families were occupying all the tables and chairs in the shaded area. Always taking the best for themselves. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were separate from them, slowly circling the crowd. Hermione hadn’t seen them in person in years, and her heart seemed to skip a beat. Curiosity and fear maybe, but now that she thought differently of Draco, it opened a crack to see his parents in a new light too.

Narcissa was beautiful as ever, but Lucius looked frail, like the years in Azkaban had carved him down into something hollow. It was impossible to tell if his wife was clinging to him or holding him up. Snippets of gossip floated in the air as people pretended not to watch them.

“I still say the Greengrasses are unwise to associate with them. Welcomed him into their home and what went on in those dungeons–-”

“Of course she could do better. Definitely the more beautiful of the sisters. Although you wonder if there’s something wrong since they’ve been in a rush to marry her off quickly.”

“---think he might do to her? You know, even if he was only seventeen, a murderer is a murderer.”

Hermione looked at the Malfoys more closely. Draco had joined them, his jaw tense despite his languid posture. Narcissa’s knuckles under her husband’s elbow were white, his face drawn with distress. This family was the embodiment of pure-blood cruelty and hatred; Hermione had literally been tortured in their home because of her blood status. It should satisfy her to see them brought low and judged by their peers.

It didn’t. The champagne churned in her stomach, and she turned away to look around for others that she knew. Ron’s laugh rang out from where he was huddled with Seamus, Dean, and the rest of the group. She could join them or find Ron’s parents to chat with.

Or she could attempt to mingle since she was technically a guest of honor at this party. She was rubbish at small talk though, either too uncomfortably direct with her questions or accidentally let the conversation drift into awkward silence.

“Hello,” she said brightly to the closest person. Friendly. Approachable.

The witch next to her smiled back, but then shuffled over to get out of Hermione’s way. She must have thought Hermione wanted to get past her, not start a conversation. Now she had to go over there or it would be awkward. And she couldn’t just stand a few feet over since she had made the witch move for her. She finished her champagne and set down the glass, even farther from the food tables than before. 

A snorting laugh broke through the dull chatter. Ricky Coo? It would make things even worse for the dance instructor to be here to watch them mess up their performance. He laughed again and Hermione craned her neck to locate the source of the sound, the memory of flat-footed hopping coming to her at the sound.

No, it wasn’t the real Ricky Coo. It had been the fake one that snorted like that. She pushed her way through. Now she remembered that laugh, and who it belonged to.

“Theodore Nott,” she shrieked, and he turned to face her, eyes wide with alarm. “Trou du Cul!”

A man with a handlebar mustache tutted and a nearby woman covered her child's ears. Why had she spent so much time on ancient runic languages, when every other wizard apparently just knew French?

“That is not a dance,” she explained desperately to the people around her before turning back to Nott. “Not a dance.”

Nott looked irritatingly amused by her. “Hello to you too, Granger.”

“Don’t hello me,” she snapped. “You polyjuiced Ricky Coo.”

“Darling, I’m just an accomplice and you’re looking for the mastermind,” he drawled. “Although, maybe there are two masterminds—I have to say, our boy looks good in blue.”

She scowled at Nott as he drained his champagne, unable to tell if he was laughing at her or with her. Our boy? Nott reached to grab Pansy Parkinson’s glass from where she was talking to Gregory Goyle.  Wonderful, now multiple Slytherins were staring at her with varying looks of amusement and disgust.

“You’re the one who tortured us,” she hissed.

“Just a bit of cardio.” Nott’s eyes darted past her to search the crowd. “Oh, Draco!”

She flinched and followed his gaze to see Draco where he was standing with his parents, his expression stormy. 

“Cardio? My legs are still sore from your ridiculous stunt,” she said. “And I can’t believe you actually locked that man in a closet; that’s unhinged.”

“Draco!” he yelled again. “She’s sore! You’re needed over here.”

“What is wrong with you?” Hermione cringed, backing away from Nott and the others.

She had been planning to avoid Draco today and watch the Nixie prank from afar. It had been beyond inappropriate to share her doubts about marrying Ron with him when they were together in the library. The gnawing in her stomach was from more than that misstep though; she couldn’t stop thinking about how good it had felt to talk to him, like a loosening of something knotted up inside her.

Draco turned from his parents and cut through the crowd towards them, so she darted in the opposite direction. A sparkling tower of champagne flutes provided cover for her to hide, a pleasant tinkling sound from the liquid flowing down drowning out some of the sounds of conversation around her. 

She peered through a gap in the glasses. Draco was talking to Nott, who was gesturing animatedly. She nudged the stem of a glass over to see better, then startled at the sight of a Nixie perched on the edge. It sniffed the liquid in the glass, then looked around quizzically. Had it scented Draco?

She scanned the sky and spotted a few more Nixies. They seemed to be circling Draco as he left Nott and started moving through the crowd towards where she was hiding. Should she run away from him or stay close to see if her prank would play out?

The decision was made for her when an older man stopped Draco and slapped a beefy hand on his shoulder. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.

“Draco, how are you, son?” he boomed. “Where’s my darling daughter?”

“Very well, sir.” Draco straightened, stiff under the man’s hand. “And I’m not certain about Astoria, but I’m sure we’ll find each other soon.”

Right, Florian Greengrass, Astoria’s father. Draco had eased into the most restrained and formal version of himself; chin lifted and shoulders pulled back, his lips not quite pulled into a sneer, but somehow hinting that they were about to be. 

“Almost time for the ritual,” Florian said forcefully. “Better track her down, so nothing goes wrong. Astoria’s not quite a lost cause like her sister, but she responds well to command.”

“Of course, sir,” Draco said, his voice smooth and even.

“Right.” He laughed darkly. “You already know. With your unique past comes a unique skill set.”

Draco flinched almost imperceptibly, his stiff expression unchanging. Unique skill set indeed. It seemed wrong to discuss Draco’s painful past in public like this. Couldn’t Astoria’s father realize how uncomfortable he was?

“How was your hunting trip? Pleasant time of year,” Draco remarked, not noticing a single Nixie landing softly on his chest. 

“Excellent trip, as always. There’s nothing like flying at dawn and stalking our prey.” Mr. Greengrass laughed a loud guffaw. “Well, I’m not the one on the broom, of course.”

Draco nodded, then frowned when the Nixie crawled up and reached the skin of his neck. Thankfully, Florian was gesturing with his hands and not watching Draco closely enough to notice the tiny creature. Draco twitched and rubbed absently at his throat. It must have bit him.

“Yes,” Hermione whispered gleefully. The plan was coming together.

“Pardon?” A man asked, reaching over her head to get a glass of champagne. 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she said, cringing when she recognized him as a member of the Wizengamot.

She should move through the crowd, or else people would start to notice her gawking at Draco. The last thing she needed was to look ridiculous in front of all of the influential people here. If she wanted even a shot at becoming Minister of Magic in the future, she needed to maintain a reputation of decorum and dignity.

Draco was looking down at his leg now, shaking his foot subtly while nodding along with whatever Florian was blathering on about. Were they crawling up his pants leg? She ducked behind an arrangement of sausage rolls stacked to look like a pyramid.

“Perhaps you can join us for the next hunt? It’s quaint, but I enjoy using Muggle weaponry occasionally. I know, can you imagine? But there’s something so satisfying about their little death toys…”

Hermione tuned out the older man and watched Draco. Hmm, the sausage rolls smelled good. She used a toothpick to snag one and eat while watching Draco. This close she could see the outline of something twitching up his pants leg before Draco yelped out loud.

Florian looked abashed. “You’re probably right. Anything Muggle isn’t worthy of our time.”

“Yes.” Draco sounded strained as he bent down to gingerly touch his leg, then kicked violently towards Florian as a dozen more Nixies surged up from the grass.

“That seems like a bit of an overreaction.” Florian frowned at his future son-in-law. “New world for acceptance of Muggleborns and all that. Although, I’ll admit that I agree it’s gone too far.”

“I don’t think—” Draco made a choking sound, then doubled over for a moment before straightening back up with effort. 

“Ah, do you remember my brother Arturo?” 

Another man joined them, squinting at Draco as though sizing him up.

“Of course.” Draco reached out to shake his hand, then spasmed to slap his own shoulder instead.

Arturo kept his hand out until Draco twisted awkwardly to shake with the opposite hand. 

“How are you, sir?” Draco’s polite voice was at odds with his hand clenching the fabric of his jacket.

He coughed and then eased his other hand under his collar, before pulling it back out and peering into his fist. There must be a Nixie in his hand. Merlin, would he suspect her since he knew she worked in Magical Creatures?

“Nice to see a Malfoy back in society after all you’ve gone through. Your father certainly knew how to command a room in his day.” Arturo said smoothly.

“Did you hear that Draco will be taking Lucius’s place on the Gringotts Board?” Florian tilted his head toward Draco with a grin. “Quite the honor.”

Draco smiled back, the veins on his neck standing out. How could he manage to stand still with the Nixies all over him and biting him? It was a wonder that the Greengrass men didn’t notice, but they seemed to be focused on alternating between laughing at their own jokes and surveying the crowd disdainfully.

“I do hope you’ll squash that business about misplaced House Elves being able to acquire bank accounts. Those unfortunate creatures.”

“Yes, creatures,” Draco said through gritted teeth, suddenly looking past the Greengrass brothers to scan the crowd. “Magical creatures.”

His eyes caught hers and narrowed in grim determination. Oh, he definitely knew she was behind the Nixie attack. She gasped and turned around, running straight into a woman and knocking over her plate of sausage rolls.

“My father is here today. You two should catch up.” Draco’s voice sounded too close behind her.

“Ah. Lucius likely wants to rest,” Arturo drawled. “Besides, the effects of all that soul sucking makes me a bit chilly.”

Hermione looked back, stunned by the harsh reference to Azkaban. Weren’t these close friends of the Malfoy family? 

Florian laughed loudly, then covered his mouth with his drink. “You’re terrible.”

Draco already looked flushed and tense with Nixies crawling all over him and biting him, but seemed to turn even more red. 

“Lucky Draco is sound and whole, right son?” Arturo gripped Draco’s shoulder, stopping him from charging straight over to Hermione. 

She staggered away, grateful for the time that the distraction bought her. Draco did not look sound and whole, he looked twitchy and murderous. She needed to get lost in the crowd and hide from him now.

“Percy.” She elbowed past a group chatting and grabbed Ron’s brother in relief.

He was the least muscular of the Weasley brothers, but still tall enough to conceal her. She pulled him along awkwardly, using him as a human shield. Draco cast a spell that barely missed them, hitting the ground with a tiny puff of smoke.

“Hermione? What on earth are you—”

Another spell hit Percy in the arm and he flexed his hand in alarm. Was Draco crazy? She needed to get out of the crowd if he had resorted to tossing around spells like a madman. 

“Have you met Audrey?” she asked frantically, practically shoving Percy into the wedding coordinator. 

They shook hands politely, then both looked alarmed when they tried to pull apart and couldn’t. 

“Oh dear.” Audrey examined their entwined fingers. “A sticking spell?”

Draco was trying to trap her. Forget dignity and avoiding attention. Hermione ran through the crowd, Draco right behind her, murmuring incantations.

She stumbled forward, almost falling as another sticking spell attached her foot to the ground. She whirled around and cast a stinging jinx in one smooth motion. It hit Draco in the arm, but he didn’t break stride. How high was his pain tolerance? That thought made her feel a bit sick to her stomach, remembering how he had been tortured years before as a Death Eater.

“You.” He glowered down at her. “How are you controlling them?”

“Controlling what?” she asked innocently, pulling her leg to test how firmly it was stuck to the ground.

Very firmly. Draco had taken off his jacket and undone the top buttons of his shirt somewhere along the way, and he was looming so close to her that she could see the movements of Nixies scuttling around under the close-cut fabric.

“Whatever these fairy things are.” He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his throat, capturing a Nixie between her palm and his skin. “Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

Her words caught at the sight of the sweat beading on his neck and the feeling of his larger hand pressing hers to his hot skin. He was breathing hard from the chase through the crowd. 

“Reverse the spell, Granger,” he growled, then wrapped his other arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. 

She stumbled a bit from her foot being stuck to the ground, but that didn’t explain why she wrapped her other arm around him in a reflexive embrace. She hadn’t wanted to be near him today. Hadn’t wanted to feel this way around him; like her heart was going to burst out of her chest and she didn’t know what to do. 

“It’s not a spell,” she mumbled into his chest, her eyes falling closed at the increasingly familiar scent of Draco.

He squeezed her even tighter, drawing a quiet gasp from her, then used the proximity to pull her wand out of her pocket. 

“It’s not a spell,” she repeated, pushing away from him as far as she could with her stuck foot. Not an embrace either, since he had been just trying to reach her wand. How stupid was she? 

“Contra Incantatem,” Draco cast the reversal spell before she could grab her wand back, the air around seeming to bend.

What was her last spell? A cooling charm in the press of the crowd? No. Oh no. She gasped, whirling around just in time to see one of the blobs of honey that she had set floating in the trees speeding towards them in the air. 

“The creatures are Nixies,” she hissed, leaning to the side so the honey splattered on the ground instead of hitting them. “They’re attracted to you because of the treats.”

“That Astoria’s been sending me?”

“No!” There was more honey gliding through the air towards them and she tried to twist out of his grasp. “Ron and I sent you things packed with ingredients that Nixies would be drawn to.”

“The Truffle Obelisk?” Draco’s forehead furrowed. “The Jolly Walrus Cookie Bouquet? International Butter of the Week Club?”

“From us. But I didn’t think it would have this much of an effect. Did you eat everything?”

Honey hit the side of a nearby table, sending the people around out of their seats and shrieking. 

“Well, yeah, I’ve been snacking on them. The butters are excellent.”

“Snacking on the butters?” she repeated, grasping his arm to try and pull it down far enough to reach her wand. “You’ve just been eating sticks of butter from different lands? ”

He stared at her as though she were the strange one. “What else would I do with treats?”

The cooking process would have diminished the potency; no wonder the Nixies seemed extra vicious. She had thought they would swarm around and maybe distract him during the dance with a few bites, not burrow under his clothes and really hurt him.

And he looked sad when he found out the treats weren’t from Astoria. Hermione winced and let go of Draco’s arm. They were looking at each other when the next glob of honey hit, cold and sticky against her stomach.

Draco grunted and doubled over; the honey had hit him right in the crotch and was filled with squirming Nixies. They were on her too, sucking at the honey on the fabric of her dress with enough force to make her skin crawl. 

“Give me my wand,” she said, then grabbed it from Draco’s hand since he was still bent over, clearly in pain.

She scourgified herself and unstuck her foot, then turned to Draco. “Hold still, I’m trying to help you.”

“Are you, Granger?” He twitched in agony.

“Yes,” she hissed, bending to get a better angle to scourgify the honey away. “I just wanted to annoy you, not torture you with things moving around in your pants that you can’t control.”

“You don’t know that torture.” He barked a strangled laugh and pushed her away. “What do girls learn in school?”

“What?” Her scourgify spell hit his crotch and Draco’s eyes rolled back. “Oh! I didn’t mean—Did that hurt you?”

“No,” Draco said roughly, bending over again.

Guilt and mortification rose in her. It had to be almost time for the ritual, and she had been consumed with this stupid prank instead of preparing herself.

“You need to eat salt to repel them. The Nixies.” 

Draco didn’t move to look at her, so she hurried away from him through the crowd. Where was Ron? It looked like the sun was high overhead, but the crowd was still milling around instead of moving to the standing stones to watch the couples dance.

“Hermione,” Derowen yelled her name and beckoned her over to where Ron and Astoria were already standing. “Where’s Draco?”

She felt her skin flush. “I wouldn’t know. Why ask me?”

“I can’t find Audrey either,” Derowen looked perplexed. “It’s not like her to miss something as important as this.”

“She was caught in the crossfire of a spell,” Hermione said guiltily. 

Surely Audrey and Percy would get unstuck without irritating each other too much. They did seem to have similar fussy dispositions, now that she was thinking of it. 

“Well, the sun won’t wait,” Derowen said shortly. “You can dance without Audrey, but we need the missing groom.”

Ron elbowed Hermione with a triumphant smirk. Right, this had been what they wanted—to sabotage Draco and Astoria and have the Solstice Wedding. Hermione twisted her engagement ring and tried to ignore the churning that had returned to her stomach.

“I’ll help you look,” Ron said with a look that meant he was planning to do the opposite.

Hermione watched the two men walk away, then turned to Astoria. She looked stiff and pale, standing still as if carved from stone. 

“Astoria?” Hermione placed a hand on her arm. “Are you alright?” 

She startled at the soft touch. “Of course. Everything is fine. Lovely.” 

“Are you nervous?” Hermione asked tentatively, remembering her friend’s real fear in the forest after seeing her future in the labyrinth.

“No.” She turned to look at Hermione for a moment, then clutched her hand tightly. “I—I just don’t think I can do this.”

“You’ll be great at the dance.” Hermione said soothingly. “And they’ll find Draco.”

Merlin, she hoped they would find Draco. Now that it seemed like an actual possibility, she didn’t want to stop their wedding and definitely didn’t want to be responsible for ruining their chance at happiness together.

Astoria shuddered. “It’s not—”

“With their bodies and their spirits, these couples are asking for blessings of fortune, fidelity, and fertility. May their futures be full of all three!” Derowen jogged back over and shouted to the crowd, his arms spread wide.

Ron and Draco trailed behind him, Draco holding a dirty lump of something that looked like it had once been white. Only when he brought it to his mouth, did she realize what it was; a salt lick for livestock. 

Oh, no. She couldn’t hold in a laugh at the sight of him furtively raising it to his mouth. The Nixies seemed to be gone at least, and his suit and hair looked immaculate again. He raised the salt lick to her in a sardonic toast as he took his place next to Astoria. Hermione leaned closer to Ron, carefully watching Derowen instead of the crowd. 

“Although the marriage vows are between two souls, their union is supported by the community around them. Thank you for being here today for these couples.”

Ron nodded confidently, giving a little wave at his parents where they were standing. Hermione pulled the jar of flower powder from her pocket and ran her thumb across the lid, trying to find the sense of peace she had felt in the forest.

Derowen continued loudly. “Perspective from others who love you will give you wisdom to see your marriage clearly. As the air surrounds the world and the wind pushes everything forward, so will these couples be guided.”

Their community, others who loved her. Hermione had felt like an outsider for so much of her life. Harry loved her as much as he loved Ron. But others—she had a flashing image of Widgens slamming the door to her office, her co-workers smiling blandly as she passed with her to-go cafeteria lunches. 

Tears pricked in her eyes. She would have a community now. The Weasley family, all of their friends cared about her. But was that her community, or had she just been pulled into Ron’s? 

“It’s time,” Derowen shouted, his words punctuated by a blast from an enormous octagon-shaped horn. “Happiness multiplies to everyone around you when your heart is open. And if the legend of the standing stones is true, happiness won’t be the only thing that multiplies!”

A cheer rang through the crowd as both couples stepped forward. The grass was cropped short to create a makeshift dance floor in front of the stones, and Hermione bowed stiffly to Ron when the musical trio began to play. Wizarding instruments still sounded slightly ridiculous to her, the wheezy melody of what looked like a circular clarinet clashing with the piercing sound of a piccolo-bagpipe hybrid.

The jar of flower powder almost slipped from her sweaty hand as she opened the lid. The fine dust rose up on currents of wind, Ron’s gold and her silver gliding around each other without mixing. Hermione felt a rush of dizziness, the smell of the moonlit forest crashing through her and ancient magic overwhelming her senses.

Draco and Astoria were doing the same on the other side of the space and she snuck a glance at them. Draco's flowers seemed to surge out and fill the air, a silver haze that multiplied and looped around him.

It looked like hers, but more. They had the same number of flowers, so how had he managed that? Draco looked like he was breathing hard, trying to hold back emotion as he lifted a hand to see the flowers swirl around him in dramatic currents. Magnificent.

Astoria’s flower dust was stark white and moved sluggishly compared to Draco’s, low to the ground in fractured circles. Her knuckles were white, gripping the bottle like it was a grenade.

Hermione’s chest ached, pulling her somewhere that she couldn’t seem to find, as sharp as a knife. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to focus and do the steps they had practiced. Surely everyone’s flowers were fine and they would all get through this.

“Hermione,” Ron said softly, pulling her towards him.

He frowned in concentration, then twirled her around. Nice. Almost graceful, even. Start with the skipping motion, three-quarters around the span of the dance area. She counted as they moved, trying to keep her shoulders loose. The flowers swirled around them, Ron’s in thick ropes like river currents, and hers scattered like a galaxy of stars.

Ron turned the opposite direction from her instead of together at the four count. She threw herself after him, trying to make it look purposeful, but tripping over his leg instead.

He caught her and pulled her toward him. “It’s ok, we’re doing fine.”

They were not doing fine, she couldn’t remember the next steps and he was just rocking back and forth waiting for her cue. The trotting part where they broke apart and bowed to each other? Had it been the real or fake Ricky Coo that made them practice that?

She stepped back, doing the flourishing arm gestures, and heard a titter of laughter from the crowd. Oh no. Ron clapped dramatically, his head tilted to the side. Right, after the clap they touched elbows with each other. 

The soft laughter seemed to be taking on a heckling quality. Ron glanced over her shoulder and grimaced. “I don’t think this is right.”

Draco and Astoria were moving through the movements gracefully, and far too quickly for them to copy what they were doing. Draco lifted Astoria into the air and spun her around, the strength and beauty of his movements making Hermione’s breath catch. Astoria twirled perfectly, not missing a step; but her expression was still grim.

Hermione forced her focus back to Ron and pointed her toe at him as he circled around her. “We need to do the hopping thing.”

Or had the hopping been with idiot Nott, not the real Master of Dance? Her feet should be flat and his pointed. She bent her foot flat as a duck, then kicked at him to get his attention.

“Point toe hopping!” she said frantically.

Ron raised his arms like she was doing and hopped from one foot to the other, his movements sluggish. Why did he seem so distracted? She gripped his forearms and sped up the pace of her own hopping. The wind had picked up and seemed to be pulling her off course, making it harder for her to breathe.

“Stop pulling me.” Ron looked away from her, his face calm. “I know what to do.”

If she let him go, they would lose each other in this flurry of flowers and wind. She pulled one of his arms down to wrap around her waist. They could do the slow twirl and he could dip her; that was out of order, but would be better than nothing. 

“Stop,” Ron said, pulling out of her grip. “Stop trying to force it.”

He raised both arms in a smooth motion that looked similar to what Ricky Coo had taught them, but was completely out of rhythm with what she had been doing. The lines of gold flowers swept along with his movement, shimmering in the sunlight.

She closed her eyes, then snapped them open again, disoriented by the wind swirling up around her. The silver flower dust was everywhere, undulating in dizzying patterns like shards of glass. Panic rose in her chest at the sight of his progress and her fractured chaos.

“Ron.” He was moving away from her, the shining ropes of his flowers already passing through the circular stone. “Ron, wait!”

He stopped and held out his arms for her to fall into him. Deep breath in and slow breath out, surrounded by Ron’s familiar warmth and scent. He rested his hands on her back while she pressed her face to his chest. 

When she raised her head, her silver flower dust was suspended in the air all around them. Waiting for her. She exhaled shakily and sent a flurry of movement through the shining flower. Ron lifted her hand to follow the path, sending the silver out into swirling flurries. 

“Oh,” she breathed, wonder replacing her fear.

“Don’t force it,” Ron said.

His hand was still on her back as she moved her arms in graceful circles, bending low and then on tiptoe to swirl her silver flowers along. The wind rose again, but now she was moving with it. Or maybe it was moving with her.

Her flowers were still scattered compared to Ron’s, with some floating out of her reach, but she was able to gather most of them towards the circular stone. Ron laughed out loud as he ducked to pass through the hole, the space a tight fit for his broad shoulders.

Fortune, fidelity, and fertility —she wanted those things in her future. The stone was rough under her hands as she crawled through, flowers streaming past her, the air seeming to thin and stretch for a second.

And then she was on the other side. 

Ron helped her up, grinning. “Maybe you were right about this. I feel good! Strong.”

She felt…off balance. Like she had missed a step and wasn’t quite steady yet.

Astoria was on the other side of the circular stone, preparing to pass through. The white flower powder hovered at her feet, only a small amount slowly drifting through.

“Go,” a man commanded. “Tori, now!”

Hermione’s eyes flew to Draco, even though it hadn’t sounded like his voice. He was gazing down at his hands, the silver flowers looping delicate strings around each of his fingers.

Astoria’s father was the one yelling at her, harsh and loud enough to carry over the music. She didn’t look back at him, only braced her hands on the sides of the circular stone. Hermione didn’t realize she had stepped toward her friend until she felt Ron’s hand wrapping around her arm.

“What are you doing?” He whispered.

She shook her head, eyes still on Astoria, heart in her throat. This was Astoria’s choice to make, to step into the future that she saw before her. Draco finally noticed what was happening and came up behind her with a reassuring hand on her back. His silver flowers were already starting to go through the stone, streaming around them like ribbons. 

Astoria looked down for a moment, then apparated away. 

Draco stumbled forward, then turned around as though he would find his fiancée within his reach. The crowd had erupted into a dull roar of surprise. Astoria’s flowers were gone, either pulled away with her or sucked back into the bottle in her absence. 

“What do I do?” Draco asked, looking lost.

“Keep going,” Derowen shouted, his tone like he was cheering Draco from the stands of a Quidditch game. “Finish the ritual!”

The silver flower dust seemed to pulse in the air like it had when she was dancing and Hermione clutched her chest. It hurt. Like a cord was vibrating inside of her and dislodging something deep within.

Draco stood before the stone with his eyes closed, his head tilted towards the sky. She could feel her heart beating hard beneath her palm. Please. The wind blew his hair forward and she could feel Draco’s sharp exhale even from across the clearing. Please, go through.  

Ron cleared his throat and looked at her quizzically. Had she actually said those words out loud? She hadn't even really meant to think them. Her part of the ritual had been done, but it felt like the tension was leaving her body only now. 

She held her breath as Draco touched the stone reverently and then passed through the circle. The flower dust surrounding him seemed to multiply as he stood up on the other side, a flurry of silver weighing down the sky as Draco stepped into his future alone.

Chapter Text

There was no place better to be on a stormy day than the Burrow. Hermione laid sprawled out on the bed, resting her chin on the plush otter that Ron had gotten for her last birthday. Molly was baking a carrot cake, the delicious smell of spices drifting all the way up the winding stairs.

All Hermione needed was a good book to cozy up with, but instead she was stuck reading the most infuriating thing of all time, the Tintagel marriage ritual book. The text was so faint that it was barely visible, but it wasn’t like she could just contact Draco and ask him to hold it with her to make it readable. She had tried to contact Astoria to see if she was ok after her sudden disappearance at Mên-an-Tol, but had gotten no reply.

In a way, she and Ron had won. Derowen had been cagey about whether or not Draco and Astoria still had a chance at the Solstice Wedding, but it seemed unlikely since only Draco had completed the air ritual. It should be a relief; now nothing stood in the way of Hermione’s path to happiness. She rubbed her temples and tried again to focus on the page in front of her.

When Ron got home an hour later, she was still feeling melancholy and lying on the bed. He dropped a box of Wizarding Wheezes products on the floor and threw his jacket over the chair. 

“Did you have a nice day?” she asked, shifting positions so the lamp light was more directly on the book. 

At one time, it seemed like words in the book would darken a bit when Ron was nearby, but now he had no effect at all. The page she was reading was in English, but she had been staring at the blocky calligraphy as though it was indecipherable. A successful relationship requires falling in love many times, always with the same person. What was that supposed to mean? After all the work it had taken to get this infuriating book, there was nothing helpful in it at all.

“Are you even listening to me?” Ron had tossed his tie, belt, and socks in the direction of the chair and was digging in the dresser. 

“Yeah.” She blinked up at him. “That’s crazy. What else?”

It was probably another quirky customer story or something annoying that George had done. 

“It’s not crazy. I mean, maybe a little, but I could see it working out.” 

“Working out?” She flipped the page. More in English, thank goodness.

“Yes. I can tell he’s nervous, so I told him to take her to that Italian restaurant on Diagon that we always go to.”

“I don’t want to go out tonight.”

The next line was familiar— Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Lord Byron? Tennyson. She sighed deeply.

“Herm.”

Her most hated nickname. Ron was glaring at her. 

“Percy is going on a date with Audrey, the wedding planner,” he said impatiently. 

“Oh, really?” She closed the book, keeping her spot with her finger. “Where are they going?”

She hadn’t really thought about them as a potential couple, maybe since Audrey was a bit older. That was hardly a real obstacle though, if they were compatible.  

“I just told you, they’re going to the Italian place. He’s so excited, he was grinning like an idiot when I saw him earlier,” Ron said, scowling.

“That’s good. He deserves to be happy.”

“I know he does!”

“Then why do you sound like you want to bite my head off?” She ran her fingernail along the edge of a fabric diamond on the quilt below her, feeling the air change with the fight brewing. 

“It’s just—all day he was talking about it. About Audrey. He has this opportunity to have fun, to laugh and to flirt. Maybe they’ll fall in love.”

“That’s good,” she repeated. ”Why are you upset?” 

“You’re not listening to me.” Ron waved his hands with frustration. “Don’t you want that?”

“To go on a date? I don’t really want to go out tonight, but we can if you want to.”

“We don’t have to go out,” Ron snapped. “That’s not even what I meant. Fun. Excitement. Passion. Don’t you want to feel like that?”

Ron had been on edge since the Mên-an-Tol ritual. Not unhappy exactly, but restless. That night after the ritual they had sex with an intensity that felt almost desperate, then both laid awake a long time, silently pretending not to hear the other one shifting next to them in bed. And now Ron was picking a fight about nothing.

"Don't sigh at me like that," Ron said.

She tried not to roll her eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to do. We’ve been together a long time. Maybe that’s just how it is.”

“Or maybe it’s not! What if there’s something missing? We haven’t dated anyone else; at least not as adults.”

This was the point where one of them would normally apologize and they would drop the fight. Even if she resolved to be more fun, it wouldn’t make any difference. Everything always fell back into the same patterns. She could manage to rally and go out tonight though and keep the peace; the book would still be there to work on later.

“Maybe we should see other people,” Ron said.

“What?” She looked up sharply, sure she had heard him wrong. “Break up?”

“No. Just like an experiment. For a few weeks to see what we might be missing.”

“You want to cheat on each other?”

“That’s not what I said.” He clasped his hands behind his head, looking down at her. “Huh, so this is what it’s like to have your undivided attention.”

“Are you kidding?”

He was just messing with her, trying to rile her up. She took a deep breath, trying to force herself to unclench her jaw.

“No, I’m not. We’ve only been with each other and we’re about to commit to a whole lifetime together. What if I want to be with someone else first? Just to see what it’s like.”

Ron’s voice was almost taunting. He wanted someone else? The air in the room grew thicker, like she couldn’t draw in a proper breath.

“What does that mean? An experiment? Be with someone else?” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s, high pitched and hysterical.

“What it sounds like.” He turned to fuss with the stuff he had thrown on the chair, but Hermione could tell he was still watching her. “We could both probably stand to learn something new, bring a spark into our love life. Passion, like I said.” 

“Fine,” she snapped, suddenly wanting to throttle him. “Go ahead.”

“Really?”

Now he looked shocked, his eyes widening. Maybe she’d called his bluff. Or he did want to be with another girl and thought she would fight harder?

“Yes.” She picked the book back up and held it in front of her face, the words blurred by her tears. 

“Hermione, I’m sorry. I don’t—”

“I said go ahead!” She cut him off with a shriek.

It was too late for him to backpedal and apologize, now that she knew he wanted someone else besides her. Did he have someone in mind? Or someone waiting, biding their time until he had this conversation with her?

“I have work to do now, Ron.”

He finished changing clothes, the only sounds in the room the rustling of fabric dropping on the floor and her sniffling. After he left, she threw the book at the closed door behind him. How dare he? How dare he want someone else? Betray her—the one person she could count on to always be there for her? If she didn’t have Ron, then she would be alone. 

The tears she had been holding back hit her hard, then tapered off during waves of anger, only to flow again. She wrapped herself in the quilt and looked out the window, watching the sun sink low over fields that she had looked at so many times, in every season, over the span of years.

And when she had cried herself into dehydration and felt wrung out with hurt, there was another feeling deep within her that she barely dared to acknowledge. Relief. Ron had pushed something to the surface that she would have left buried forever. Maybe he was right and this would help their relationship. She bent forward again, gripping her shoulders and letting her tears flow.

“Muggles adore dragons.” Hermione slid the file across the table to Derowen with a smile. 

Derowen had asked if she had any tedious tasks that could be pawned off on his Dungeons & Dragons friends, and it had been such a relief to focus on something else besides her conversation with Ron and what he had suggested.

“Yeah.” He thumbed through the papers while absently chewing on the end of one of his leather bracelets. “Yeah, this will work.”

“Just make sure they don’t try one of their made up spells while touching the real scales, just in case. If they actually find them, that is.”

A real dragon scale had been discovered in a jar of plastic ones in a Muggle metaphysical store, amongst the useless crystals and sage. Her department had been tasked with determining if it was from a registered dragon and how it had gotten there. 

“I’ll give my Adventurers some leather gloves, they’ll love that.” Derowen said. “And thank you. I was running out of ideas for real-life one-offs.”

“I'm happy to help.”

She had come to Tintagel straight from work the last three days, hanging around Derowen’s desk or the library until he gave her something to do that would help distract her mind.

“Do you want to go over the symbology of the markings on those graves at St. Materiana’s now?” She pulled a book from her stack without waiting for him to answer. “I really think the Chough with the open beak is significant, and it’s different enough from the Trebartha family crest that it drew my attention. Just look at this banner!”

Derowen leaned forward to inspect the photo with interest, then abruptly sat back. “I actually need to leave early tonight. Would you mind setting the wards?”

“Sure, no problem,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. 

She suspected that Derowen had already been staying later to entertain her, although he would never admit it. He seemed to sense that something was wrong, even though she would rather be jinxed with boils than tell anyone about Ron’s fucking experiment.

After Derowen left, she curled up on the library couch with a randomly picked stack of books and the hope that something would distract her heavy thoughts. Ron had split something between them by suggesting there was space for someone else to slide in. A crack for her to imagine her own absence. Or maybe they had cracked long ago, without her really noticing.

Since suggesting that they see other people, Ron had been acting aggressively normal. Maybe even more affectionate. This morning, he had wrapped his arm around her waist like he had done a thousand times, the feeling of his body almost as familiar as her own. This time, her breath caught and she stopped to feel it for the first time in years. His fingers pressing into her, the way that she fit against him and he could tuck his chin over the top of her head. Her eyes filled with tears at a loss that might be happening in slow motion.

If Ron found someone new, this life would belong to someone else. Every coffee cup and blanket, every speck of dust in the Burrow would be lost to her. The overstuffed chair by the window where she read, the way the garden smelled after a spring rain. How Ron cleared his throat in the mornings, the way Arthur cast warming charms on their shoes when it was chilly. The ache of loss was overwhelming. She had done this before—said goodbye to her childhood home during the war. Choosing to break everything apart on purpose, by choice, seemed insane.

They loved each other, of course. Of course. They had saved each other’s lives, she and Ron and Harry. Literally and figuratively in a million tiny ways. Chocolate frogs and Christmases, hands held in the dark, a dance when death was staring them in the eye. 

“Granger?”

Draco was standing in the doorway, a stack of books in his arms. She exhaled a shaky laugh. Or maybe it was a strangled cry. They had done this before, hadn’t they? This bloody room and the ways they kept finding each other here. 

“Were you sleeping?” Draco frowned at her as he crossed the room to put the books down on the table. 

“Yes.” She pulled a knitted blanket up to cover her face, trying to hide the fact that she’d been crying.

She felt like a raw wound, everything that should be buried was too close to the surface and she didn’t have the strength to push it down.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice sounded hesitant, and she imagined him by the table, shifting with uncertainty. “Derowen contacted me and said that I needed to bring the books back right away, since the wedding is off.”

“Your wedding is off?” she repeated, lowering the blanket.

“Our parents haven’t agreed to break the engagement contract yet, but Astoria—” He stopped and swallowed, his voice taking on the bland, disinterested tone that meant that he didn’t want to lose control. “Astoria doesn’t want to marry me. She doesn’t even want to talk to me; just sent a note to apologize for leaving during the ritual and to say that she is unwilling to fulfill her obligation.”

The sight of Draco alone during the Mên-an-Tol ritual came into her mind again, and Hermione’s throat ached from more than just her own crying. If Astoria hadn’t told him that she saw something bad in the labyrinth, then he would have no idea why she wouldn’t want to marry him. It was cruel to leave him like this, to hurt him like this.

“Do you know why she left?” Hermione asked, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chest so there would be space for him on the couch.

He laughed humorlessly. “Because she doesn’t want to marry me. That would be my guess.” 

“But do you know why?”

He lowered himself down next to her carefully, not touching, but close enough that she could see his face. The tension in his jaw, the heaviness around his mouth. He was hurt. Even if it wasn’t obvious, she could read it all over him.

“Of course I know why. It was an arranged marriage. To a Death Eater. It was doomed even before she got to know me,” he said, each point sounding more self-loathing than the last.

“There was something else.” She paused. “Astoria saw something that scared her in the labyrinth stone. Something horrible in her future with you.”

He flinched.

“I don’t think it was you though,” she said quickly, fumbling for what she was trying to say. “There was something that she thought she could avoid.” 

“She can avoid me. You saw her apparate away. Everyone did.” He sat up straighter, his chin lifted. “What did I do? In the future?”

“I don’t know.” Hermione shook her head. “But I know it wasn’t you. You’re not—”

Draco looked down, bracing himself for what she was about to say like preparing for a blow. She shifted toward him, her hand resting on the blanket between them almost touching his, the long lines of his fingers tensed on the soft knit. Seeing Draco this way was unbearable, his pain almost palpable in the air.

“A future with you wouldn’t be bad,” she whispered.

The words stretched between them, delicate and uncertain. Ron had forced this experiment, hadn’t he? Trying something new since they had only been with each other. Maybe part of it was to be honest with herself instead of burying the things she shouldn’t feel. But this was dangerous, the edge of a cliff that she and Draco had both been avoiding.

Draco flipped his palm face up just as she pulled her fingers away and wrapped her arms around herself. There were tiny bruises on his wrist, barely visible where his cuff had ridden up. Nixie bites.

“Why didn’t you heal those? The Nixies?”

It only would have taken him a minute of work and a quick spell, but he had left these markers of pain. Pain that she had caused with her stupid prank. 

“Why bother? I didn’t think anyone would notice.” He shrugged carelessly. 

Nothing about Draco was careless, though. It had been a choice to hold onto the ache of the bites, as a punishment or a penance. The hurt of it felt lodged in her chest, and she reached for his wrist and ran her thumb under his cuff. He twitched at her touch, but she couldn’t tell if it was because he had flinched or shivered.

“Can I heal you?”

Draco paused for a long moment before turning his body to face her, his eyes on her hand circling his wrist. She shifted to kneel on the couch and unbuttoned his sleeve to inspect the bites before picking up her wand. Dozens of circular bruises dotted his arm, stark against his pale skin. 

“Episkey.” Her fingers followed a trail behind the magic coming from the wooden point, tracing his skin as the bruises cleared.

It felt good to heal instead of hurt, to touch someone gently and purposefully. Hermione shifted closer to him, wishing she could clear away other pain as easily as the disappearing bruises. She unbuttoned his other sleeve, revealing the edge of his Dark Mark. If she didn’t know, that curved line could be anything. As if they didn’t have the shared history of terror and pain that had wedged them apart their entire lives.

“Don’t look at that.” Draco tried to pull his arm away, his face flushed.

“Please.” She held onto him, and when he stopped moving, she pushed up his sleeve to his elbow. “It’s ok.”

The snake tattoo was hypnotizing, the skull’s hollow eyes almost staring back. What would it feel like to touch it? Hermione had the strange feeling that it wouldn’t match the temperature of the rest of his skin; the flat black lines either burning hot or as cold as a black hole.

This was part of Draco, part of him that had been twisted with hate and hurt and pain. Please. She thought of the silver flowers springing up around her feet and streaming with him through the stone on a magical wind. She thought of the silvery scars across his chest and her own moonlit tears soaking her pillow late into the night.

Then she took a breath and slid her palm against his tattoo. It was as warm as the rest of his skin, and the last dregs of her fear pushed away. He was just a man, scarred by his past, but not irrevocably. 

Hermione lowered her head and kissed the inside of his wrist, under the snake. In the forest, he had pressed his lips against her skin and caused heat to bloom through her, now she wanted to do the same to him.

“Granger.” He breathed her name, both a question and a warning.

“Would you kiss me if I asked you to?” she asked softly, looking into his gray eyes.

Ron had put this into motion, why shouldn’t she give in to what she wanted? Draco Malfoy used to be her enemy, but he certainly didn’t hate her anymore.

“Why would you ask me that?” His pulse was racing under her fingers, but his voice was light, like it was all a joke.

It wasn’t too late to play it off that way, to say something funny, to say something mean.

“I want you to,” she said, the truth leaving her breathless.

Draco raised his other hand to her cheek, tilting her head toward him just a bit. “We can’t.”

Couldn’t they? His wedding was off, and her relationship was suddenly cracked open for a possibility like this. She shifted on her knees, the feeling of him touching her face sending a pulse of heat through her. 

“Ron and I are trying an experiment—being with other people since we haven’t really been before,” she stammered. “I mean, we’ve been together for so long. He wants to see.”

This was impossible to explain, especially when she could barely wrap her head around what she and Ron had decided.

Draco gaped at her. “You and Weasley broke up?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, he wouldn’t leave me.”

She cleared her throat and let go of his wrist. “Since Ron and I have been together since we were teenagers, he suggested that we try seeing other people before our wedding. To see what it’s like. Find out if we’re missing something.”

“See what it’s like?” He shifted his hand from gently touching her face to gripping her jaw. “And you want me to kiss you, but you’re still going to marry Weasley?”

“No—I don’t know. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

This was crazy. She had just been sad, then confused by her reaction to seeing his Dark Mark.  If she actually wanted to try hooking up with someone else, it would be far more practical to find a random Muggle in a bar without so many complications. 

“Why me?” Draco bit his lip like he was trying to hold in the words, but it looked impossibly sexy.

“What?”

He pulled her forward, fingers tight on her face. “Why would you pick me for your experiment?”

Because he was gorgeous. And made her feel like she was on the edge of something that she wanted to fall into, to lose herself in the feeling of being close to him. Everything that she had been trying to deny and ignore.

She cleared her throat and tried to clear her head as well, before speaking calmly. “We’re in different circles socially. We’re not friends, so things wouldn’t be complicated. And no one would suspect it.”

“That’s all rational.” He nodded and drew her even closer, his breath almost whispering against her lips. “We’re not friends?”

It was hard to think with him so near, his eyes dropping to her mouth, his hand gripping her.

“No,” she said. “I don’t know how to be nice to you.”

Draco smiled and she fell into the sight, that glimpse of who he was when she was lucky enough to see behind the mask. 

“Then don’t—”

She cut him off by pressing her lips to his.

His hand dropped to her collarbone, and she thought for a second that he was going to push her away from him. Then Draco Malfoy was kissing her back. His lips were soft and full, tentative as he moved them against hers. His movements were deliberate and precise, not sloppy and casual like kisses with Ron were sometimes. That was good to know, a comparison for the experiment. Draco wouldn't be as comfortable with her though, which might make a difference. Would Draco use his tongue? Maybe she should, but it would be painful if he didn’t want that, if he just closed his mouth. Or too much saliva would be equally embarrassing, better not even try.

He pulled back and they looked at each other. The expression on his face was one she had never seen before, his brows drawn down and mouth twisted like he was angry or pained. She sat back, ready to thank him for humoring her and then flee the room in embarrassment.

“Granger,” he said roughly, then grabbed her waist to pull her onto his lap. “I don’t want you to be nice.”

He kissed her again, this time harder, hungrier. She ran a hand up his chest, a shiver of pleasure going through her. This was her chance to touch him like she had wanted to. This kiss felt like sparring, every nerve on fire, her mind empty save for the need Draco was stoking inside her and how she could return the favor.

One of his hands slid over her thigh and the other found her jaw again, guiding her head back as the kiss deepened. She had been worried about their tongues? This slow exploration felt amazing, the caress of his lips a question and an answer that made her want more. She slid closer on his lap to face him, running her hands through his soft hair. How she loved his stupid hair, and how indulgent it felt to be able to touch it. 

Draco let go of her face and dropped his head to her neck to kiss her sensitive skin there. Her body was overwhelmed with sensations: the gentle tug of his hands on her hips, his teeth grazing her skin, her heart pounding. 

She arched her back and shifted instinctively, earning a low moan from Draco. Oh. He was hard against her thigh. It would be easy to turn and straddle him, to grind against him until the ache inside her released. 

That would be too much. Would it be? The logical part of her brain fought against the reckless pull of losing herself in him. She sat back, dazed. Draco looked as undone as she felt, his hair mussed and lips wet from her mouth on his.

“That's it then.” Draco kept his hand splayed across her thighs, studying her face and body like he was memorizing her. “Your experiment. Now you can go tell your fiancé what it's like to kiss a Death Eater.”

“No,” she gasped, not even sure which part she was arguing against. “You’re not—it’s not like that. And Ron and I aren’t telling each other specifics.”

“Then what?” he asked bitterly. “What was the point of this?”

“To see what it was like,” she said slowly. “What we might be missing in our relationship before we get married.”

Draco loosened his grip and started to shift her off of him. Unexpected dread hit her at the thought of him leaving her alone on this couch, of never being able to touch him like that again.

“Ron said a few weeks.” Her voice was a breathy plea, and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “So we could do that again. If you wanted to.”

“Kiss?” Draco asked, his voice mocking. He moved away to sit on the edge of the couch, his head resting in his hands. “No, I don’t think I can do that.”

“Right. No, of course not. I didn’t mean to do—” Her voice cracked at the end of the sentence.

Merlin, she had ruined everything. She wanted to kiss him again and do much more than that, which was probably exactly why this was a terrible idea. And apparently, he didn’t want to.

“I don’t want to be in the middle of whatever you and Weasley are playing at,” Draco said, his voice soft and serious. “Using me to hurt him or something.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” She wanted to lean into him and rest her head on his shoulder, but stopped herself and sat back instead, fiddling with the threads of the knit blanket. “I don't want to hurt anyone.”

But that was likely to happen. She wouldn't break up with Ron, so anything with Draco would just complicate things for her. She needed to talk this through with Ron, figure out the perimeters of this experiment and what it really meant for their relationship.

Draco let out a harsh laugh. “No, I know that. But this—”

He shook his head and straightened up, composing himself into his more detached state. “This is complicated. We should take some time to think about it.”

She nodded, then choked out a yes when she realized that he wasn’t looking at her. That was sensible; to need some time to digest this insane request that she had just dropped on him.

“You’re right.” She rubbed her arms, the motion soothing her slightly. “And if we decide to do this, then come to the tea shop Floo point tomorrow evening. If not, just pretend this never happened.”

It would be agonizing to go back to the way they were before, after knowing that he could make her feel like that. The silence stretched between them, and she had to bite her lip to keep from babbling or apologizing again when he looked back at her.

“We'll think about it. What we want and what we're willing to risk.” His expression softened slightly and he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. 

“It's just a hook-up,” she said a bit too loudly. “Just a secret hook-up.”

Draco didn't answer, just studied her until she felt her forced smile falter. What did he see from her? Anxiety, desire, confusion; any number of emotions fighting to make sense in her mind. Or maybe something else entirely, because he seemed to come to some conclusion, shaking his head slightly and standing up.

He left her alone on the couch, in the same place she had been before, but with an entirely new ache filling her body and soul.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in the fireplace Floo point, her hands braced on the stone walls and the smell of tea making her slightly nauseous. What if Draco didn’t come? And why would he? Even if he was attracted to her, that didn’t mean he was willing to be a secret hook-up for an engaged woman.

She had weighed what to do after their kiss in the library, and even considered confessing to Ron and begging to call this whole experiment off. But part of her wanted to see it through, and so she had started making lists instead, until she had half filled the fake marriage ritual book with her weaknesses and ways that her relationships could improve. Not just with Ron—she suspected that she was behind where she should be in everything from female friendships to workplace acquaintances.

Step one was being brave, and putting herself in situations outside of her routine. So here she was, hoping to meet a man for an intimate encounter, despite being engaged to someone else. Even if Draco didn’t come, she could be proud that she was opening herself up to be vulnerable instead of clinging to what felt safe.  

Hermione stepped out of the Floo and straightened her blue dress. She had blown off a stack of Dugbog injury reports to go shopping on her lunch break. In the store, the elegant dress had seemed like something Draco would like, but now, she realized it was similar to one she’d seen Astoria wear. What if he thought she was copying his real fiancee, a pale imitation of who he was supposed to be with?

And worse, she had also bought a ridiculous set of lingerie on impulse, petal pink and almost ethereal in its delicate lines of silk. It seemed safest to focus on their abundant physical chemistry, but the obvious attempt at seduction felt mortifying now that she was actually here. Plus Draco was six minutes late, and her heart felt like it was pounding out of her chest. She balanced on one narrow heel to adjust her thigh-high stockings.

If Draco was willing, this could be a good opportunity to test her performance in different areas of intimacy to judge where she could improve . She hadn’t really considered sex to be a weak spot in her relationship with Ron, since they did it regularly, but clearly he felt like it was. She tugged the lace band of the stocking anxiously, wishing that it didn’t dig into her soft thighs quite so much. Maybe she could transfigure the band to be wider.

The Floo wooshed and she quickly dropped her skirt as Draco stepped out.

“Malfoy.” She winced inwardly at her brisk tone.

No wonder Ron thought she was lacking; her instinct was to treat even clandestine hook-ups like an uptight swot. Draco brushed off his suit jacket and swept a hand over his already perfect hair. He didn’t look nervous, just handsome and aristocratic as always. And tall, even with her in heels.

“Granger.” He held out a brown paper bag to her. “I brought you something.”

The top of the bag was wrinkled as though it had been twisted and clutched tightly, the paper was stained with grease. Food? A gift seemed odd for what this was between them, and out of place with Draco’s dignified appearance.

“Thank you.” She took it from him, willing her hand to be steady.

It was filled with chocolate chip cookies. She pulled one out, frowning as it crumbled in her hand, half of it falling back into the bag. “You brought cookies to a bakery?”

“Yes. Right—” Draco looked down, the slightest flush on his cheeks. “I remembered you liked the charcuterie.”

She had forgotten about eating with him in the Tintagel library so long ago. So he had bought cookies for her now? The cookie tasted both too oily and too crumbly, but she tried to give him an encouraging nod with her mouth full. All of the chocolate chips were clumped in one half of the cookie somehow, so she took another bite of that half.

“The butter in them is from Sweden,” Draco said. “International Butter of the Week Club.”

“Oh.” She looked at him in surprise. “You made them?”

“I had to find something to do with my weekly butter. Apparently eating the sticks plain is frowned upon.”

She snorted, almost choking on the cookie. “Just unconventional. And thank you. They’re good.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Are they?”

How did he do that? Zero in on what she really felt, even when she was trying to hide it.

“They’re sweet.” She tried again, unable to keep a smile off her face.

The cookies were sweet, in more than one way. This was another side of Draco that she wasn’t sure what to make of. It made her feel like she could be different too, like they could both slip outside of the people that they usually were in their daily lives, at least for a moment.

She set the bag down on the floor then put her arms on his shoulders. “Should we get started? I was thinking that I could try several things to entice you, and you could tell me what is most effective.”

They needed to focus on why they were here and what she had resolved to do with this experiment. It was hard to meet his eyes, but she forced herself to look at him with a steady gaze. This experience would be a purely educational one and then she would apply knowledge gained to improve her life with Ron.

Draco stared at her, his expression torn between horror and amusement. “Most effective?”

“Yes,” she stammered. “And if you have techniques that might be…pleasing, then you can share those with me.”

He brushed his thumbs against her waist. “What if I’m already enticed?”

The low pitch of his voice sent a jolt through her. That didn’t fit her plan; all she had done was stand here, awkwardly shifting on her high heels and eating a cookie.

“I can—” She took a deep breath. “I can tell you how much I want to feel your hands on me.”

Dirty talk was on her list. Attempts at that usually fell flat with Ron because she felt silly and got frustrated with his one-word responses. It was easy to verbally spar with Draco though, so it might translate.

“Where do you want my hands?” Draco whispered. 

“On my stomach,” she said. “On my back. Against my skin.”

He splayed his hands wide and slid them up her waist. His touch through the fabric was electrifying; not rough, but not exactly gentle either. Like he knew what he wanted and was ready to take it. His lips brushed her jaw, tracing a path to her lips.

“Wait,” she gasped. “Should we go somewhere else?”

Draco looked around, frowning at the shelves of baking supplies. The Floo point was in a storage room on the main level, and he led her up a narrow flight of stairs to a room that could be reserved for private parties. They were really doing this; soon she would officially be with another man besides Ron. That was good, right? And Ron was likely to be somewhere right now with his hands all over another girl.

No, she shouldn’t think of that. It would be best to clear her head of thoughts of Ron if she wanted to relax enough to figure out what she might be lacking. Draco felt along the wall until he found a light switch, his other hand still wrapped around her, pressing her close. 

The room looked ready for a children’s tea party. A long table was set with a floral tablecloth and fancy dishes, costume hats and metallic decorations stacked at each place. Draco’s mouth found her neck, hot against her skin as he fumbled for the zipper on the back of her dress. She looked up at the ceiling, rough wood beams painted white. There were tiny gold hooks with ornate tea cups hanging from them.

“Are you cold?”

“No,” she said, only realizing that she was trembling when Draco stopped easing her dress down and started rubbing her shoulders. 

She should try the dirty talk again, get back on track. “You're making me feel—”

The phrase she had decided on was feel hot and ready for you, but she didn't feel ready at all. She felt like she was about to fall, like if they went too far she wouldn't be able to come back from this.

“I don't think we should have sex,” she said. 

Draco’s eyes widened. Was he shocked that she was thinking about going as far as sex? Or that this would be a waste of time without it? 

“That's fine.” He recovered, his face carefully neutral. “We don't have to do anything. You know that?”

“I want to. Just…maybe leave my knickers on? And your boxers.”

That should be safe. A barrier to getting carried away physically or too entangled emotionally.

“Sure. Just tell me what you want.” He watched her yank the bodice of her dress down, his eyebrows raising at the sight of her silky pink bra. “Whatever you want.”

She answered him with a kiss, sliding his jacket off, then unbuttoning his shirt. He had some kind of soft undershirt on underneath and she couldn’t hold in a pleased little humming sound. She was getting to the heart of him layer by layer.

Oh, he smelled heavenly. His normal intoxicating scent was overlaid with the sweet smell of baked goods. He must have taken the cookies out of the oven right before coming here. She dropped her head to his shoulder and closed her eyes.  

They stood there for a moment, his arms wrapped around her. This was safe with him, and deep down she knew that, didn’t she? The feeling of his chest moving with his breath was steadying. Nothing would happen here that she didn’t want. 

He leaned down and kissed her cautiously, as though giving her room to pull back. She gripped the front of his shirt instead and deepened the kiss. Soon his undershirt was off, and their kisses broke into exploring each other’s necks and shoulders with their mouths. He made a punched-out sound when she ran her teeth along his collarbone, and the triumph went through her like a shock wave. 

She pushed her dress down past her hips to the floor, revealing a full view of her new lingerie. The cream colored thigh-high stockings paired with a pink silk bra and panty set made her body look like a sweet or a present to be unwrapped.

Draco looked staggered. “Are you always wearing things like that under those fussy clothes?”

She could lie and pretend to be a more sultry and mysterious version of herself. Or she could keep baring more and more of the truth to him, until the only thing left was herself.

“No.” She kicked her heels off, leaning on him for balance. “It's just for you.”

The pained look was back on Draco’s face, like how he had looked before pulling her into his lap and kissing her on the couch. Holding back his emotions maybe? Or deciding not to hold back, for once.

“Granger,” he growled, her words seeming to push him into motion. 

He kicked a chair out of the way and lifted her onto the long table, almost on top of a porcelain plate. She squealed, then stilled as his hands found her knees and gently pulled them apart so there was room to step between her legs. 

“Gorgeous.” His rapt attention left her even more breathless. “So gorgeous.”

It was disorienting to be looked at like that. Vulnerable. She twisted around to neatly stack the plates and move the silverware away from around her, taking a breath to steady herself.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

Everything on the table flew up to hover in the air around them, including the dishes and the twirly decorations.

“I know that one too.” She nudged a fork in the air by her shoulder, clinking it against a delicate teacup. “A bit over the top, don't you think?”

Draco batted a gold ribbon suspended in the air between them, his eyes never leaving her body. “I might be slightly distracted.”

“Oh?” She reached for his neck to pull him closer, dragging her nails up the base of his scalp.

His eyes drifted half shut and all the dishes shuddered in the air. 

“Evil, Granger,” he growled, snapping them back open to focus on his spell.

“How's your concentration, Malfoy?”

This teasing was more comfortable ground between them, a familiar push and pull. She kissed his jaw lightly and ran her fingers through his hair.

“It’s excellent.” He was straining to lower everything gently enough not to break it, the magic entirely lacking his usual flourishes. “Although you’re the perfect test. I wish I had you when I was studying for NEWTS.”

His words were playful, but something in the tone of his voice made her pause her movements. Wish I had you. He took advantage of her distraction to lower her onto the table, her spine hitting the hard surface at the same time as the porcelain dishes softly clattered to the floor.

“There,” Draco whispered. “Nothing broken.”

He kissed with purpose, all focus on her now. Hermione reveled in the feel of his chest and back beneath her hands, soft skin over hard muscle. Her touch seemed to be easing something in him as it was igniting something in her.

Her skin felt impossibly sensitive where he touched, and she gasped when he grazed her nipple through her bra.

“I want your mouth on me,” she whined, arching her back. “Under my bra.” 

Draco held her eyes as he lowered his mouth and sucked her nipple through the silk. 

“Oh,” Hermione’s entire body twitched, the contact causing a pulse between her legs. “Yes.”

His hand eased under the fabric, squeezing her as he teased her nipple with his tongue and teeth. She clenched the flowered tablecloth in her hands. The way he was working her over felt so good, she let her head drop and arched her back.

Her foot fell off the edge of the table, so she wrapped her legs around Draco’s waist for stability. He made a surprised noise, then gripped her hips to steady her. Oh, the bulge of his cock through his trousers was so close, practically against the spot that was craving friction from him.

The air against the soaked silk of her bra was cold on her sensitive nipples. She writhed on the table, and rubbed her hands over them, while Draco watched with fascination. It felt powerful to be desired like this, to have this effect on him.

She sat up and ran her palm down his stomach. He twitched at the contact, as responsive to her touch as she was to his. All she had been thinking about was her list and her experiment. What did Draco want from this? He and Astoria were broken up; he was free to start a relationship with someone new, someone who was actually available. 

This was just a stolen moment with him. They would go back to their lives, with only the memory of these touches. Her stomach buzzed with adrenaline, overwhelmed by the intense desire to get what she could before this chance passed by her. She pulled him into a kiss, pressing her core against him with the movement.

Draco moved with her, his hand sliding down her back to rest on the base of her spine. He pushed her against his cock through the layers of fabric, tilting her pelvis up to a delicious angle. Everything in the world was contained to that rhythm and the rough push of Draco grinding against her. Then he slid his hand between them and added pressure right where she craved it.

His fingers slid over wet silk, circling, rubbing, sending shockwaves down to her bones. She cried out, a sound she barely recognized. His movements were building unbearable tension inside, her body climbing a release that was so close. 

“Draco.” The word came out as a half moan, and she wondered if he heard her. Maybe she hadn’t even spoken out loud, just felt the plea with every fiber of her being.

Her hips thrust faster, searching for relief as he pressed into her aching core. That wasn’t what she was supposed to call him. He was earning it though, with what he was doing with his—then all thoughts ceased as a wave of pleasure clenched through her. Oh. Oh, he kept the pace as she clutched him, until her muscles went limp and she practically fell back on the table.

Merlin. That had just been his hand outside her knickers. Draco leaned onto the table, bracing himself with one hand on each side of her hips, her legs still wrapped loosely around his waist.

“Alright, Granger?” He grinned at her, eyes roving over her body hungrily.

“That was—” she sputtered, her words spilling out mindlessly. "I do not orgasm easily. It takes a long time and I have to be in the right state of mind. My body is not very responsive.”

"No?" He glanced down between her open legs, barely covered by now damp silk.

“No.” She scooted up on the table and snapped her legs together, suddenly aware of how undone and worked up she must look, still breathing hard.

Merlin, what had she been thinking? Nothing was what she had been thinking, only mindless fireworks of pleasure. Draco surveyed her with a slow, cocky smile. At least he liked what he saw, probably because he’d been the one to bring her to this point. She wrapped her arms around her knees. 

Draco straightened, so just his fingertips rested on the edge of the table. "Granger, you're absolutely perfect. Responsive or not.”

"Thank you," she said stiffly, cold and out of place in this room filled with fussy tea service decorations.

His gaze on her felt heavy, and she rested her chin on her hands, covering her still sensitive nipples with her arms. That was it, then. The experiment could be considered accomplished. And fuck Ron. Now she knew that it wasn’t her body causing problems in their sex life, whatever her other weaknesses were.

Her dirty talk was successful. The other items on her list had been utilizing foreplay and trying to be focused in the moment, so that was a yes for both. She had done what she set out to do. Draco picked her dress up off the floor, shaking out the wrinkles before handing it to her. 

“Thank you,” she said again. “That was informative. I appreciate your assistance.”

She slid off the table, then pulled her dress back on over her head. Draco was slipping on his shirt, carefully straightening the collar and taking his time adjusting the cuffs.

“Ready to go eat? Or we can get a drink if you'd rather,” Draco said, as though they had discussed plans ahead of time.

She paused in straightening her stocking, wincing at the snap of lace. “We don’t need to do that. It’s not really part of this.”

“You wanted to find out what you’re missing. Are you saying that your relationship with Weasley is only physical?’

“Of course not.” She turned away from him to inspect a photograph on the wall of a teddy bear dressed in a gaudy hat and necklace.

It was ridiculous, but dinner felt more perilous than everything else they had just done. She couldn't sit across a table from him and look him in the face knowing that he could make her feel like that. How wet she was. What if he had smelled her? What if his hand still smelled like her? She reached her arm back, fumbling to find the zipper of her dress. 

"Here," Draco said, pulling the zipper up and resting his hand on her back. "I’m starving. It’s just food, nothing else."

“I don’t know,” she said, staring into the teddy bear's painted eyes.

Part of her wanted to go, despite her fear and embarrassment. Where else did she have to be? Home to the Burrow, all dressed up and with her body still tingling with pleasure? Even if Ron wasn’t home, she didn’t want to face anyone else who lived there either. Or back to work, to labor over tedious paperwork alone in her silent office?

“There’s a Muggle pub here in town. Close by.”

She looked over her shoulder at him in surprise. “You want to go to a Muggle pub? We would need different money.”

Did he know how non-magical places even worked? Draco just smiled at her and pulled out a leather wallet to show her a fat wad of Muggle banknotes. 

“Blaise and I have been to Muggle places before. Just to see what it’s like.” He scraped a hand back through his hair. “I had a sheltered childhood, you know.”

A sound that was a cross between a laugh and a gasp escaped from her throat. That was quite an understatement. And now Draco and Blaise were exploring Muggle London to get a glimpse of who they’d spent their lives hating?

“We weren't sure of the arithmancy when adding up the numbers on the menu, so we left double that number of money, plus two hundred.” He shrugged. “The proprietor gave Blaise a kiss though, so I think it was alright.”

Hermione stared at him, this charming, ridiculous man. “Yes. Let’s go to a pub.” 

She slipped her shoes back on and tried to fix her mussed hair without a mirror. A bun would be her best bet at this point, but curls kept popping out when she tried to twirl it back. Draco looked impeccable as always. He’d been leaning against the doorway watching her, but looked away when she caught his eye. She couldn’t quite interpret his expression now that he had convinced her to go with him. It was like the deeply disinterested look that he used to level her with before any of the Solstice Wedding stuff. But knowing how he felt about her now—maybe that look had meant something different all along.

They slipped out of the tea shop and into the night, streetlights and shop windows illuminating the cobblestone streets of Tintagel village. Draco tucked her under his arm as though it was the most natural thing in the world. The lights around them didn’t quite obscure the stars, and Hermione could just make out the sound of the sea over the chatter of other people strolling if she listened.

Draco seemed to know where to go, weaving through groups of people clustered outside a white-washed stone building with fairy lights strung around an outdoor patio area. 

“Ye Olde Malthouse Inn?” Hermione read the hanging wooden sign.

“Real Ale, Real Food,” Draco read the next line of blocky script. “I do like my food to be real.”

“Don’t want your expectations to be too high.”

There were charming flower baskets and hanging lanterns illuminating the open door, sounds of laughter drifting out into the street. They stepped inside, Draco’s hand on the small of her back as she climbed the single stone step.

The Inn was crowded with what appeared to be mostly Muggles. Half the tables and chairs were pushed to the side to make room for a makeshift dance floor. Hermione managed to find an unoccupied table that looked mostly clean and sat down on a stool. Draco looked around, eyes wide, then wiped off the surface with a paper napkin.

Draco asked for a bottle of whiskey and she ordered an assortment of all the pub food appetizers listed on the small menu. Might as well, since Draco had a stack of money and was starving.

He methodically tried a single bite of each dish, then pulled the plate of a sliced baguette and hot camembert cheese towards himself. Insufferable. Who was this particular about greasy pub food? She fought back a smile and stole a piece from his plate. He really had picked the best though, it was perfectly crusty and gooey.

He swatted her away idly. “Do you go places like this often?”

“Sometimes. Ron and our friends like Quidditch pubs, not Muggle ones.” She leaned close to whisper the last part, even though the pub was loud.

There was so much wild magic from the forest and the caves, it seemed like everyone would have to know something in Tintagel was deeper than they could see, but she wouldn’t be the one to blurt out magical phrases in public. Draco observed the crowd of people eating and laughing, his eyes bright.

“Everyone looks—” He gestured, like he couldn’t find the word he was looking for.

“Like Muggles?”

“No. I mean, yes, but that’s not what I was going to say. Everyone looks relaxed.” Draco mused. “No one here is watching us.”

Unlike the Wizarding World, where everyone knew exactly who they both were. There was a kind of freedom in it. Hermione felt something in herself relax too as she watched Draco take a sip of whiskey. 

“Out of towners?” A man approached, slapping a hand on Draco’s back. “You’re in luck to be here for the party! It’s Frankie’s last night of freedom—our girl’s getting married. What’re your names?”

“Emma,” Hermione said quickly, the first name that came to mind from one of her favorite books. 

Draco looked bewildered by the friendly Muggle with his hand on him, so she glanced around to help think of a fake name for him. Her eyes landed on the whiskey label: Glenlivet.

“His name is Liv.”

Merlin, why hadn’t she said Glen? Or any other name that could be for a man. The Muggle handed them some beaded necklaces and a couple of shots with a grin.

“Short for Oliver?” 

“No.” Draco glanced at her with an amused smile. “It’s Liv.”

“Nice to meet you, then. I’m Jacob.” He tapped his shot glass on the table, then raised it up to clink with theirs. “To a handsome couple, on a special night.”

Draco raised his shot and clinked it against the others. “To Frankie.”

The noise of the pub and the effect of the alcohol seemed to hit Hermione. Or maybe it was just the proximity of Draco that was making her feel shot through with buzzy giddiness. A handsome couple. What did they look like together?

Draco fed her a bite of bread, his eyes on her mouth and his hand hovering below to catch drips of cheese. This might actually be the best-tasting food she’d ever eaten. 

The harsh sound of feedback from a microphone made her jump. Jacob and some others were testing a sound system, while a group gathered on the dance floor. 

“That must be Frankie,” Draco whispered to her. 

A girl stepped to the center of the dance floor, wearing a shiny sash and bright purple wig. The crowd clapped and she threw her hands up and did a little dance, making them whoop and cheer.

“I’m not having a Hen Night,” Hermione said, watching Frankie tip her head back and laugh, clutching a friend for support.

Ginny had offered to plan one for her, but it just seemed like a lot of fuss and the possibility of not many friends showing up made her anxious. It was easier to decide not to want it at all. Draco looked thoughtfully at Frankie on the dance floor, circled by her excited friends chanting her name. 

“Do you want to dance?” Draco finished the last crust and carefully wiped his hands on another napkin. “Then we can get dessert. They have Sticky Toffee Pudding.”

“Are you serious?” He had seen her flailing around during the Mên-an-Tol ritual and at dances during Hogwarts years, so he knew she was a terrible dancer. “I don’t dance.”

“Theo said you’re just a bit anxious. If you got out of your head, you would be fine.”

“He’s not even a real dance instructor,” she scoffed.

And how rude. She wasn’t anxious, that was just a high-pressure situation . Draco raised his eyebrows and pulled her up from her chair. The dance floor was already crowded, but Draco’s steps were sure as he led her to an open spot, his hand firm on hers. It was a bit thrilling to feel like part of the excited energy around her; bass pounding, bodies moving together. 

Hermione tried to feel the beat of the music and move her hips along in a way that wasn’t too awkward. Draco pulled her in and then out in a smooth twirl. So, not only was he great at traditional Wizarding Society dances, apparently Draco could put everyone to shame in a Muggle pub too. An unguarded smile played on his lips as he moved to the music. By the third song in, Hermione was getting sweaty and losing some of her self-consciousness too.

The sound system crackled and Jacob’s voice rang out. “Thanks to everyone here to toast our girl Frankie, before her wedding day. Come up here Luv, and we’ll sing you a song.”

Frankie looked delighted, getting hugs and pats on the back the entire way to the bar. How beautiful to have so many people who cared about you.

“She’s getting married too,” Draco shouted, raising his arm to point out Hermione. 

“What? Stop it,” she hissed, pulling his hand down. “This is her party!”

“Oh, you are?” Frankie squealed and clapped her hands together. “Join me!”

The group of girls who had been surrounding Frankie descended on Hermione, throwing a pile of beaded necklaces and a pair of blinking, light-up sunglasses on her. One of them handed a pink wig to Hermione, so she trapped her curls under it with a subtly whispered extension charm. It was impossible not to smile back at the girls fussing over her, welcoming her into their joyful group.

Jacob chanted the fake name she had given him into the microphone until most of the crowd joined in. “Emma, Emma, Emma!”

Usually when Hermione was the center of attention, it was in high-pressure work situations or disastrous media interviews after the war. This felt totally different than that as she let Frankie pull her into a hug and join in on a shimmying dance. It was hot and crowded on the dance floor, but it felt like something loosened inside of her as she moved to the loud rhythm, bodies pressing against her, hugging and twirling around.

“We should have a dance-off,” Frankie squealed.

Nope, too far. Hermione extricated herself from the other girl’s arms with a smile and pointed to Draco. “He’s the dancer.”

The music was too loud for Draco to hear what she said, but he must have been watching her, because he immediately pointed to himself quizzically. Hermione grinned and nodded. It would be crazy to pass up this chance for revenge after his dance teacher trick.

“His name is Liv,” she told Frankie. “And he’s very competitive.”

“So am I,” Frankie huffed dramatically, then huddled together with Jacob to plan the dance-off.

Draco pushed through the crowd to her as though parting the sea, an intent look on his face. She couldn’t help but reach out to him, and he pulled her into a tight hug, as though they hadn’t been together just five minutes ago.

“Hey,” Draco whispered into her ear, probably because of the loud music, but maybe because he wanted to be close to her just like she wanted to be close to him right now. 

“Liv, you’ve been challenged! Who’s the better dancer?” 

Draco brushed his hand over the straight strands of her pink wig, not seeming to hear Jacob calling him in the microphone. He was so close to her, the air charged between them. Was he going to kiss her in front of all these people?

“Liv,” Hermione said breathlessly.

He smiled, shaking his head slightly like he was trying to understand her.

“That’s you. Liv—the fake name.”

Realization hit him and Draco looked around at everyone yelling his fake name as though being pulled from a trance. “What’s a dance-off?”

“A competition for who’s the better dancer.” She tightened her hands on his waist to hold him in place, in case he decided to make a run for it. “Between you and Frankie.”

“Yeah?” He smirked at her and twitched his hips under her grasp, the movement playfully sexy. “You think I’ll win?

“Here we go,” Jacob called. “The bride—or groom with the best moves will be the winner!”

Frankie raised her chin at Draco, shaking out her arms like she was preparing for the challenge. Draco let out a low whistle. He joined Frankie in the spotlight and they sized each other up good-naturedly. 

She started off, shaking her hips and snapping her fingers in the air as the crowd clapped along. Her dancing wasn’t bad, but Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off Draco. He was already moving, eyes bright with laughter and his long limbs loose.

Everyone cheered for Frankie, then Draco stepped forward for his turn. The song started up with a simplistic, pounding beat and he closed his eyes and moved his head with the rhythm as though falling into it. His first movements were slow, shaking his hips and kicking his feet before starting into impressive footwork. 

Frankie clapped and he pointed at her, making everyone gasp by sliding to the side as if gliding on air. He unbuttoned his jacket just as the beat picked up, and the gasps turned to squeals and screams.

Draco sped up with the music, lifting his knee up and behind him. In one smooth motion, he brought his toe down to spin around to face Frankie again. The crowd chanted and clapped, every eye on him. He and Frankie went back and forth, their moves getting more and more over the top. 

“Your fiancé is hot," a girl with bright green eyes shouted over the music to Hermione.

She just nodded, realizing that she was pressing her hand to her chest and watching with a rapt expression. And looking at the girls around her, she definitely wasn’t the only one. Draco pulled off his jacket and tossed it to Hermione, causing someone behind her to literally moan.

Hermione should turn and glare at them, but that would mean taking her eyes off Draco. His muscular thighs moving with easy grace, and his incredible arse. His loose smile that pulled at something inside her and made her compelled to move along with him.

Finally, Frankie held her hands up in defeat then grabbed Draco’s shirt to pull him towards her. He kissed her on the cheek sweetly, then sauntered back to Hermione and captured her in his arms. He dipped her down in a dramatic bow, then kissed her on the mouth to the sound of deafening cheers.

“Sorry, Franks,” Jacob said. “The groom is the winner!” 

Draco straightened up and raised their hands in victory. He was a little sweaty, more relaxed than she had ever seen him in public. 

“Congratulations, Liv,” she teased, still holding his hand even as the crowd started to disperse and stop watching them. “I didn’t know you could dance like that.”

He loosened his collar, still catching his breath from the exertion. This version of Draco brought up memories of him before the war, laughing with his friends as they ran down the corridors, swooping circles of joy on his broom after a Quidditch win. Light, magnetic. Himself. 

She squeezed his hand a little tighter. “I like seeing you like this.”

“Dancing?”

“No,” she said, thinking of his carefully controlled politeness and the black suits he had worn like armor since sixth year. He’d even been stiff and formal with Astoria, the person he had planned to spend his life with.

“Then what?” He played with the tips of her pink wig.

The tenderness of him made her want to cry. She couldn’t find the words for what it felt like to see this alternate version of him, like before the pain and hate had clawed through everything. Draco seemed to understand something in her expression though, and his smile dropped a little.

“People don't want to see Death Eaters having too much fun.”

“No one knows about that here,” she said. “You can do whatever you want.”

Draco leaned down and kissed her. It felt more familiar now; their third time. No, the fourth—counting his celebratory kiss. She'd only had one shot of whiskey, but felt drunk right now, with the adrenaline running through her and the sense of anonymity making this night feel separate from her real life. 

What she wanted was him, and not in the way of an anonymous body to practice what would feel good sexually.

There was a hallway leading away from the restaurant area and they stumbled in that direction, barely looking up. Draco backed her against a wall, his hand on her ribs as she arched into him. She felt molten, like her body had been waiting for this since the tea shop, still on edge and craving his touch.

“Excuse me,” a girl laughed as she entered the hallway and pulled a plaid wrap off a line of hooks on the wall next to them. “You know they have rooms here.”

Draco’s movements froze, his cock hard against her. They could get a room. It would be easy to pull him in, to be consumed by desire and have sad and pointless Hermione Granger burned away like ash to become someone else for the night. Someone she wanted to be.

But she’d said no sex. And she’d already lost control with him tonight, slipping farther into something she couldn’t quite understand between them.  

“We should go back.” She forced herself to loosen her grip on the back of his neck, the feeling of his hair against her fingers a last indulgence. “I should go home.”

Draco stepped away, breathing hard. Everything in her burned to pull him against her again. Looking into his eyes was a mistake, it seemed like he was feeling a desperate desire to match her own. 

It was nearly midnight when they reached the tea shop Floo point. She spent the walk studying the cobblestones and the stars, looking at every person they passed to avoid seeing Draco lit up golden by the streetlights. It would be so easy to fall for him. As easy as breathing. Easy as coming up for air after years of not knowing she’d been holding her breath.

“Granger.” He touched her arm, gently pulling her to face him before they went in the door to go their separate ways.

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. And when he opened his mouth to ask for something she was afraid to give or say something she couldn’t bear to know, she pressed her lips against his to stop the words.

Kissing Draco Malfoy was the cracking of some foundational support, it was the opening of the sky.

She shouldn’t see him again.

Chapter Text

Hermione dropped her head to her desk, blowing on a piece of parchment until it reached the edge of the polished wood surface, about to tip over. The void jar looked interesting from this angle; up close she could see facets of midnight blue amongst the swirling black. Had Ron done that on purpose? For years she’d just screamed into it and set it back down, never pausing to notice its beauty. 

Maybe time to see what was right in front of her face was an upside to her current inability to focus on absolutely anything. She had avoided seeing Draco for three days, but he consumed her thoughts anyway. He was electricity, a low hum of pleasure and buzzing giddiness that bled into every routine thing she tried to do.

They hadn’t made plans to meet again after the night in Tintagel, and logically she knew that they shouldn’t. She’d gotten all the information needed from the experiment and methodically started a list of ways to use her findings while interacting with Ron. Go to new places. Socialize with different people than usual. Be more happy. Simple.

The list ended there, because she couldn’t bear to analyze what she and Draco had done physically, especially to compare with her sex life with Ron. It felt too disloyal, although she couldn’t quite decide to whom. Maybe herself. The moments with Draco were too private and too delicate to examine safely, slivers of something precious that she didn’t know what would form if she put them together.

Hermione sat up and returned to her stack of paperwork, the memory of Draco’s fingertips echoing through her body. Focus on work. Widgen’s unicorn sanctuary proposal had made it a step further, despite his shoddy research and overall disregard for the creatures. She tossed everything to the side, not caring if it got wrinkled. It was impossible to think about unicorns right now, just like it was impossible to sit at this huge, formal desk and pour all of herself into work that no one appreciated or cared about. 

She paced around her office for a bit, then dropped down in the enchanted chair opposite her desk. The wood shuddered, reading her intent for herself. There was a reason that she never sat here; what if it showed self-loathing and hurt her? 

The armrests raised a bit, the angle getting uncomfortable. What did that mean, that she didn’t want to relax? The seat slowly tilted up to a position that had her propelled halfway to standing. It was uncomfortable to stay here, stagnant and restless. She clutched the armrests, fighting the tight anxiety clenching in her chest before she stood up. Maybe a walk would clear her head.

Her walk somehow led Hermione to a sunny field in central Suffolk. She hesitated for a moment before stalking over to the cluster of people standing under a tall tree. Really, she practically had a professional obligation to be there, scanning the treetops for Jobberknoll nests.

The birds were prized for their dart-like feathers, which were a valuable ingredient for potions. And there were two dozen Associate Potioneers working at the Ministry; Draco might not even be there. Hermione straightened her sleeves as she approached them, sweaty despite the breeze.

“Department Head Granger.” Jorgenson, a clerk from her department, greeted her, anxiously clutching a pair of binoculars to his chest. 

Her breath caught at the sight of Draco’s blond head, bent down and unpacking a leather case next to Zabini. Did he see her?

The clerk cleared his throat and she forced her attention back to him. “Hello, Jorgenson.”

His reports to her were generally acceptable and she had always been perfectly cordial to him, but the man still looked terrified. She nodded soothingly and put her hands on her hips in a relaxed posture. 

“Is this an inspection?” he asked in a quavery voice.

“No! This isn’t an inspection. I’m just observing some extraction team procedures.” Her smile only seemed to unsettle him more. “For fun! Cross-departmental teams are fun!”

Everyone looked studiously busy, while glancing at her in alarm. Cynthia, Draco’s office mate with the Bowtruckle, ducked behind the folding table just as Hermione caught a glimpse of something fluffy in her arms. Sneaking another creature, most likely.

Zabini smiled at her, but Draco didn’t spare a glance. This was what she wanted—to keep it a secret. What she had specifically asked him to do. It was terrible.

She smiled brightly. “How are you, Zabini?” 

“Very well, Department Head Granger. How are you?” He politely took off a leather glove to shake her hand. 

They were lining up bottles of yellow liquid on a folding table set up beneath the nest. Must be Arnica, to slowly neutralize the poison in the feathers while they were suspended in the bottles. This was a relatively dangerous extraction; the Jobberknolls could shed their feathers like poisonous darts if they felt threatened. 

“Very well, thank you.” She paused, her heart in her throat. “Hello, Malfoy.”

Draco finally looked up at her, his expression blank and polite. “Granger.”

The last time he’d said her name, it had been with adoration. Hearing him speak to her with this cold distance made her want to pull him forward and kiss him senseless. Or claw his eyes out.

She swallowed hard and looked away, just in time to see Cynthia stuffing the fluffy creature into her leather satchel. Probably a wild Puffskein, although there was no way she could justify having one of those as a workplace companion.

“Should we start?” Jorgenson asked, wringing his hands and looking around.

Right. She was the highest-ranking person here, so they were waiting for her orders. “Yes. Please proceed as though I’m not here. I’m just observing for fun.”

The word fun sounded ominous even to her own ears now. Jorgenson shuddered and gestured  for the team of Potioneers to begin. Draco mounted a broom and started flying slowly up to the nest. He wasn’t wearing a jacket today, just a button-down shirt that seemed to drape perfectly over his muscles and a leather potioneer’s harness over it. 

He circled the nest at a distance, then raised a hand to Blaise, signaling with one finger, then four fingers. Blaise nodded and prepped two more bottles to make fourteen. It was hard not to stare at Draco, his thighs gripping the broomstick as he pulled a vial from his harness with one hand and raised his wand with the other.

It was obvious he had great balance, but it still made her heart race to see Draco so high up and working in concentration without holding on. She’d felt his impressive core strength herself, the thought of his muscular stomach under her hands making her bite her lip. Draco flipped up the lid on the vial and sent the dusty contents over the nest on a soft breeze. Sleeping powder, with a numbing agent.

Draco extracted a blue feather and hovered it down, only taking his eyes off the birds for a second to see Blaise take over with his own spell. He maneuvered it neatly into the first bottle, then Cynthia added a few drops of a different liquid with a pipette and capped the bottle. The next feather was already drifting down. 

They worked together impressively, with a trusting ease. She had been that way with Ron and Harry once, but it felt like another life. The fourteenth feather circled around Draco as he lowered the broom almost lazily. Showing off for her? She bit her lip at the thought, as silly as a lovestruck schoolgirl.

“Would you like to do the wellness check, or shall I?” Jorgenson asked.

‘You can.” Her voice squeaked a bit. Merlin, she needed to pull herself together. 

Draco landed gracefully, then leaned over the table to inspect the completed bottles. He rubbed the back of his neck, reminding her how soft his hair felt, how the tendons of his neck felt under her fingertips. She forced herself to look at Jorgenson instead, flying up to evaluate the health of the Jobberknolls.

The Potioneers made quick work of packing up their supplies during Jorgenson’s final checklist. Only Cynthia was watching her with nervous glances, so Hermione wandered over to the tree. It was wide, deep rooted and beautiful. She rested her hand on the rough bark and craned her neck to look up at the bottom of the nest. 

“Any problems, Department Head Granger?” Zabini came up beside her, his face tense.

“No. Just enjoying the fresh air.” She raised her voice so everyone could hear her. “I’m going to stay out here for a bit and take a break.”

Zabini leaned in closer. “We’re authorized to work with these materials, even if they could be used as weapons. Draco Malfoy is a damn good Potioneer, so I hope you can look past your issues with him.”

“My issues?” 

Zabini must be referring to their roles in the war. Or Draco’s bullying before that? It didn’t even matter, because he was accusing her of something completely baseless. 

“What you’re implying is entirely untrue, Zabini.” 

He had the courtesy to look abashed. “You might have reasons to still hate him. But Draco—he cares about this job. He’s not how you remember him.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, but as I said before: this is not an inspection,” she said briskly.

It had been stupid to come here. Tintagel had been a one-time thing with Draco, and now they were even more distant than before. No one wanted her around and that’s how things were.

Hermione didn’t turn when she heard everyone walk away, dropping her forehead against the tree when she was alone. The birds were waking up, their sleepy chirps piercing the air. 

“Granger,” Draco called out, making her jump and scrape her hand on the bark.

He had doubled back, a bit out of breath and gingerly balancing both a broom and a large Puffskein in his arms. “We convinced Cynthia to leave Puffly behind. You wouldn’t believe the smell when these things fart in our office.”

He lowered it to the ground gently and watched it bounce away with an amused expression. Every time she saw him like this, it re-wrote something in her brain, adding a new layer to her perception of him. A former Death Eater with the most gentle, careful hands.

She pulled Draco toward her by the leather strap of his potions harness, a gesture that was more intimate than she had any right to. He only leaned down to kiss her though, his hand possessive on her neck. 

She couldn’t reason with this slow crescendo that her body did when they touched, like falling and being caught at the same time. The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against hers, and she almost moaned. There was a reason she was supposed to be avoiding him; this flood of desire. 

She broke the kiss and sucked in a steadying breath. “I didn’t come out here for you. The Jobberknolls are fragile.” 

His lips twitched, holding in a smile. “Of course. Want to see them yourself? I know you don’t trust Jorgenson’s report.”

“What makes you think I don’t trust his report?”

“Do you?” His smile broke fully through, a light to match the sun shining through the field. 

“Of course not.”

Draco carefully took off his potions harness, then held the broom out to her. “Come on, then.”

“I don’t really like flying.” 

She was slow and awkward on a broom; never really catching up from learning years later than everyone else. Of all the things to study and work on improving, flying had always been low on her list.

“You'll be with me.” He mounted the broom with the grace of having done it a million times. 

Draco tilted his chin up and looked down at her. It was almost like when he convinced her to go to the Tintagel pub. Too disinterested to be believable, like he wanted her to say yes more than he would admit. 

“Are you scared?”

“Never.” She took his hand, and he smirked as he pulled her in front of him.

Draco guided her to lift her leg over the broom, then pulled her back so she was sitting between his thighs. The way the fabric of his trousers stretched over his muscles made her want to run her hands over those thighs. Maybe take a bite. Merlin. She leaned forward to hold the broomstick instead. 

“Show me the nest,” she commanded.

Draco kicked up and the broom rose into the air, and she gripped the wooden handle white-knuckled. There was something so disturbing about the feeling of falling up instead of down, the broom insubstantial with the air rushing all around. Draco leaned over her, one hand on the handle and his other arm around her waist.

They made it to the top of the tree and circled slowly around the nest. It was a clunky Ministry broom, instead of a fancy racer, but Draco’s control was reassuringly smooth and confident. 

“Look, they’re waking up.”

She peered down at the birds, trying not to move any part of her body besides tilting her head. They were moving around and flapping their wings. Draco had been careful and strategic with the feathers he took; they all looked full and fluffy with no signs of distress.

“Very good,” she whispered, not wanting to draw the attention of the birds. “I’ll note your work as above average on the report.”

“Report? I thought this was for fun.” He squeezed her tightly against him and pulled the broom away from the nest.

“Flying is not fun.” The words ended in a squeak as he sped up and wove through the treetops.

Draco had been a daredevil rivaling Harry on a broom, and it seemed like things hadn’t changed.

“We won’t go too high. There’s a spot I want to show you.” He let go of her waist and gathered the hair in her ponytail with his hand, still leaning against her. 

“I can braid it so it doesn’t fly in your face,” she said through gritted teeth, trying to look at her hands on the broom and not the ground streaming far below.

“No, I like it.” He twisted her hair around his hand and pulled her head to the side, the gentle tug sending pleasure through her whole body.

The new angle meant she couldn’t look at the ground, and she felt herself relax a bit. The glimpses of blue sky through the trees were beautiful, and the feeling of Draco’s chest against her back was admittedly reassuring. Had he done that on purpose because he felt she was tense?

"Remember when you pulled my hair in the fireplace room?" His voice was low and a little rough.

Or he just wanted to pull her hair. The thought made heat spread through her chest. “When I was on your shoulders.”

"Yes.” His lips formed the word against the side of her neck. “I couldn't get it out of my head.”

He’d wanted her, even then. She wanted to touch him too, but couldn’t bring herself to let go of the broom. Almost like being tied up while he worked her over, an unbidden thought that made her shiver. Never in a million years would she have expected to get turned on while riding on a broom, but nothing about her time with Draco was predictable. 

The rush of air against them lessened as they slowed and Draco let go of her to guide the broom up. “Here we are.”

His spot was a place where the trees had grown close as a canopy blocking out the sky. Draco twisted around, muttering what sounded like a transfiguration charm on the broom.

“There,” He leaned back on the newly widened wood handle and pulled her with him. 

The sun shone through the leaves shifting above them in the breeze. It felt good to rest against Draco’s chest, his hands on her waist. Exhilarating and surprisingly safe at the same time. 

“Comfortable?”

“Above average.” She turned her face, but couldn’t quite see him without shifting and throwing the broom off balance.

“So cruel, Granger.”

She could hear the smile in his voice, playful and rare as a gift just for her. Draco untucked her shirt and started tracing soft patterns across her stomach and sides. 

“Do you really think I’m cruel?” She relaxed into him a bit more. “Your co-workers think I hate you.”

“Everyone thinks we hate each other.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” She bit her lip, measuring her words. “Elizabeth Nguyen offered to demote you because she thought I was angry with you.”

That conversation had been weighing on her. What if Draco didn’t know how precarious his position at the Ministry really was? She didn’t want him to be angry or hurt by the realization, but it felt right to tell him.

His laugh rumbled against her back. “That’s what Ellie told you. She told me to stay away from you because you were out for my blood.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, feeling stupid. Of course she’d been overthinking the situation while actually being the odd one out. He already knew and they had been talking about her. “A lot of people don’t like me.”

She looked up at the dappled leaves, grateful now to not meet his eyes. What a stupid thing to say; they’d known each other since they were children, of course he knew people didn’t like her. He had hated her for years himself. Maybe part of him still did. 

Draco didn’t answer right away, just rested his hand on her stomach, anchoring her to him. He’d cut her down as a childhood bully, and somehow she had given him a lot more power over her now. 

“You’re intimidating,” he said thoughtfully. “But that’s not what pushes people away.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing no tears to fall. It would hurt to hear her flaws listed out by him.

“When you’re trying so hard to prove yourself worthy, it can make you lose something.” Draco sounded emotional, and she stiffened in surprise. “Parts of yourself that are important. And to make choices that aren’t what you want.”

This wasn’t only about her anymore. He must be talking about taking the Dark Mark. She held her breath, hoping that he would go on. It bent her mind to consider the way that pressure on him to be a Death Eater could line up with her struggle to fit in as a Muggle-born, but it also made sense. 

“Shit.” He huffed a self-conscious laugh that sounded half like a sob. “I’m the last person who should be giving life advice.”

“No—the choices that you made—as a Death Eater,” she stumbled over the words, unsure if she should be pulling their dark history into this sunlit day. “I don’t blame you. Not anymore. You were so young.”

Draco’s chest heaved under her back, choking back his emotions even though she couldn't see him. She had braced herself for criticism, and instead he was showing her vulnerability.

“You should,” he said unsteadily. “You should blame me.”

“Maybe. But that’s not what I want.” She lifted her arms overhead and stretched her body to clasp her hands at the back of his neck. “I want to forgive you.”

Really, she already had, but it felt good to say it out loud, like releasing a dark shadow to drift up through the shifting space between the leaves. Instead of fear, now she had this. Whatever fleeting thing this was between them, it was cracking open parts of her that had been weighing her down.

“Granger.” He traced his fingertips along her arm almost reverently, from her elbow down to her hand on his neck. “Thank you.” 

Her change in position had scooted her up a bit and arched her back. It felt exposed and almost dangerous; he could touch her body all over and she couldn’t even see him, except from the corner of her eye. 

Draco let out a slow exhale, his composure regained. “When you feel trapped, it’s hard to get out and realize what you do want.”

“Do you know what you want now?”

“I thought I did.” His hand found her face, a light touch along her jaw and over her lips. “Turns out I might want more than that.”

Did he mean her? That would be arrogant to even assume, but part of her yearned for it to be true. 

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she whispered.

If she was being honest with herself, she’d been thinking about him long before this experiment, plotting her next prank and fighting with him. Wasn’t that what the pranks had truly been, a way to interact with Draco? It was better to be a thorn in his side than be nothing at all. 

“About what I did in the tea shop?” He traced down her neck, then started to unbutton her shirt.

“Yes,” she breathed, her chest heaving.

His hands were everywhere, squeezing her breasts, tracing the top of her ribs, sliding down her stomach. She wanted to be bared to him, open to him like this.

“You’ve been thinking about how I kissed you?” He slid one finger beneath the waistband of her trousers, brushing her bare skin. “How I touched you?”

“Yes.” She tilted her head back. 

“What else?” His hand was easing down, playing with the lace at the top of her knickers. 

The broom wasn’t very stable, but she shifted her hips against him, willing him to move his hand lower. “How sexy you are when you dance.”

“You liked that?” Draco found the spot to make her moan, his hand rubbing against the wet cotton of her knickers. “Watching me turned you on?”

There was something molten inside of her, that had been dormant for so long. Maybe Ron had been right, that they were missing something, this feeling of excitement and reckless desire.

“Yes. Will you—” She arched into him. “Will you touch me under my knickers?”

Draco made a sound that was half moan and half confirmation, then pushed everything down her hips as she clung to his neck. The air against her bare skin was bracing. Merlin, they were outdoors. At least they should be high up enough to be out of sight. 

He slid his fingers along her slit, sinking into her with a slow glide. Oh. She twitched at the sensation, hard enough to make the broom wobble violently.

“You need to hold still,” he whispered in her ear, moving his other hand down below her stomach and pressing against her pelvis. “Don’t move.”

The pressure from the top of her pubic bone made her clit throb and she gasped in pleasure. It was impossible not to rock against him, but he only pushed harder to keep her still. Every muscle in her body was tense in anticipation, broken by the moment that he slid a finger deep inside of her. 

“You feel so good.” His hands started to move together in a rhythm that rocked her both inside and outside. 

Don’t move. She wanted to push into him, take control of satisfying her hollow ache against his hand. He added another finger and curled them in and out, the small motions causing explosions inside her. It was a new angle for her, his palm hard on her clit and his fingers pushing so deep inside. 

The familiar build was growing, and her legs starting to shake. It was impossible to keep still, and the broom dropped down sharply when she ground wildly into his palm.

“Granger,” he gasped, using one hand to frantically right the broom and the other to keep her from falling. 

This was crazy—she should be absolutely terrified. Her heart was certainly racing.

“I won’t move,” she said, letting her legs fall back open.

Draco laughed and lowered his hand again. “You’re going to kill us.”

She forced her muscles to relax as his fingers sank back inside of her. He moved her body in rough thrusts with the heel of his hand on her clit, rocking her against him while she did nothing but hold on. 

It was a loss of control, melting into him and just concentrating on the sensation without doing any work to find her pleasure. When she closed her eyes, the afterimage of the sun through the leaves danced against her eyelids like fireworks, bursts of sensation rocking through her. The stretch increased, building pressure even more; Draco must have added another finger. 

“Please,” she gasped, and his other hand snaked up to her throat to hold her still against him, his arm pressed between her breasts. “Please.”

Draco answered by speeding up, building her up higher. The only part of her body that she could move was to clench down, shaking and breaking apart with his touch. Her moans sounded like she was in pain, like her body was transcending to another level and her words couldn’t keep up. She cried out again, loud enough that a few birds flew up from the trees when she hit her climax and the aftershocks shuddered through her.

“Fuck.” She shivered as the breeze passed over her exposed and over-sensitive body.

Draco moved his hand from her neck to her jaw and tilted her head up. “Too bad you’re not very responsive.”

He sounded smug as hell—proud of himself. 

“Fuck,” she repeated, then exhaled the word a third time when he bit her neck.

“Alright, Granger?”

“You need to keep holding onto me, or I'll fall off this broom.”

She was lightheaded, her post-orgasmic haze mixed with the height. Draco let go of her neck and wrapped his arms around her. Steady. She tried to adjust her clothing while he held her steady. The tea shop had not been a fluke. 

“That was—” She clutched his arms, debating if it was worth the danger to attempt to turn around to kiss him.

“Draco?”

They both flinched at the sound of a deep voice calling through the trees below. Draco jerked into a seated position, almost making them fall again. She gripped the handle for balance as he twisted around to scan the trees.

"Oh shit." Blaise Zabini sped into view, locking eyes with Hermione before throwing his hand over his face. "Oh fuck! Draco, I thought Granger was firing you." 

“No,” Draco said, voice strangled. “Not getting fired.”

“Mate. Draco, you fuck,” He turned his broom away, laughing and cursing to himself. “This is who—Oh my God! Sorry. Carry on.”

Hermione looked down, dazed to see that her prim work shirt was unbuttoned down to her navel. Blaise Zabini had seen her bra. He knew about her and Draco. 

“It isn’t what you think,” she cried after him, panic setting in.

They had been caught. Zabini didn’t look back, just lifted a hand in a thumbs-up gesture and flew away through the trees. She felt Draco slump in relief behind her.

“Fly us down,” she hissed. “This is a nightmare. He saw us.”

“He didn’t see us actually doing anything. And it’s just Blaise.” Draco flew them down in a steady path, looping through the trees back to the Jobberknoll nest.

“He knew exactly what was going on! We’re supposed to be working. It’s beyond unprofessional. If anyone thinks that you and I are together—” She scrubbed away tears with one hand, anger and fear warring inside of her. “That would be the worst possible thing.”

“The worst?” He laughed incredulously.

They landed rough and she fell forward on the broom. “Yes. I’m engaged to another man. Did you forget?”

Her voice sounded hysterical, even to her own ears. The scandal would be enormous for both of them and Draco’s parents would be horrified. Everyone in both of their lives would be horrified.

"Blaise won't tell anyone," Draco said slowly, trying to soothe her. "He's my best friend."

"He's not my friend though. He has no reason to protect me."

"He wouldn’t want to hurt you. Besides, Blaise knows I wouldn't be with someone I didn't care about."

"You're not with me!" Her words seemed to vibrate through the clearing, their impact as harsh as a bucket of cold water. 

“Then what is this?” He yelled back at her, tossing the broom on the ground.

“It’s—It’s just what we talked about before. An experiment for Ron and I to see what we need that might not be fulfilled by our relationship.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “An exploration.”

Draco flinched, his forehead furrowing as he looked away from her. “Right. My mistake. Enjoy the rest of your day, Department Head Granger.”

“I will, thank you,” she snapped. He had no right to make her feel guilty, she had been honest the whole time about what this was. “I will enjoy my day.”

“You got what you needed.” 

Draco’s voice had a sharp edge that made something sink inside of her. This wasn’t fair to either of them, dragging this out beyond where she had meant to.

“I guess I did.” She allowed herself just a glance at him, alone in the sunlit field, and tousled from flying and being tangled up with her. Then she turned back to her life. 

It was easier not to think of Draco after having some kind of resolution. The week passed in a blur of work, while she avoided both Ron and stopping long enough to fall into self-reflection. She’d nearly forgotten about the Earth Ritual, something that had been crucially important to her before all of this distraction.

“Have you heard from Astoria?” Ron eyed the flock of sheep warily as they wove through the castle ruins.

The ritual was in the cave below the Tintagel castle, a precarious walk down narrow stairs carved into the side of the cliff.

“No,” Hermione lied, her eyes on her feet as they started the descent.

She had been worried about Astoria after she apparated away during the Air Ritual, but now she was the last person Hermione wanted to talk to. She’d stared at the note from Astoria until the owl pecked her hand, waiting for a reply. Astoria said she was fine; simply going through stress.

The stress of her break up with Draco? The stress of an engagement she didn’t want and now she was happy to be free? Either way, Hermione felt like a terrible person since she had been sneaking around with Astoria’s former fiancé and having earth-shattering orgasms. Best not to reply at all.

“Hope she’s alright,” Ron said kindly. “I mean it’s good for us, since we get the Solstice Wedding, but still. I even feel kind of bad for Malfoy.”

Hermione stumbled on a step and Ron reached back to steady her.

“I’m sure they’re fine. It’s not really our business,” she choked out.

Ron held her hand until they reached the beach below, then pulled her to look out at the sea. This spot was underwater at high tide, the cold water surging through the crevices of rock in the cave. Now it was calm, but the waves crashing on the distant rocks seemed like a warning.

Audrey and Derowen were at the entrance to the cave, snippets of their conversation carrying over the sound of the waves. “...Insisted that they go forward with it? But she—”

“I know, but you didn’t talk to them. These families—”

“Doesn’t matter—” Derowen gestured with frustration. “—at tomorrow’s low tide then.”

Ron hugged her close, smiling at the ocean. He seemed relaxed. Happy to be here, with his fiance, as though everything was normal and they hadn’t hooked up with other people in the past week.  

“What are we doing with all of this?” she asked, her voice pinched.

“The marriage rituals?”

Merlin, he was so dense when it came to emotions. She scowled. “No. The experiment of seeing other people. I don’t know how you can just hug me like nothing’s happened.”

Ron pressed his lips together, taking in her sour expression. “Do you remember when I dated Lavender?”

Hermione jerked in surprise. “In school?”

“Yeah. That’s when you realized you liked me, wasn’t it? When you saw me with her.”

“You did this so you can hook up with Lavender Brown?” She tightened her hands into fists.

Lavender had dated Dean for a while, but Hermione thought she was single now and a sick feeling rose in her stomach. What did Ron want from Lavender that he didn’t get from her? Insipid simpering, most likely. She was pretty though, and nice. Definitely nicer than Hermione.

“No, this isn’t about Lavender.” He looked almost pleased by her reaction.

“Then why did you bring her up?”

“I just asked if you remembered that time in our relationship. How you felt.”

Like she could ever forget. She remembered wanting to throttle Ron, jealousy poisoning her like bile. Loneliness. Like the most important people in her life were slipping away. What had she wanted back then? Her imagined future wasn’t too far off from the way her life looked now. She just thought it would feel different than this—happier.

“We were young and stupid then,” she said dismissively, but her heart ached at the thought of her younger self. 

“Seeing you with Krum almost made me lose my mind. It made me realize how much I wanted you. It was a crossroads for us and I think we’re at another one now.”

“Deciding which way to go?” she asked. 

This was the first time they had ever really talked about the possibility of breaking up. Their relationship had been a stabilizing force since the war, sometimes the only thing that felt safe and constant. 

“Maybe not a crossroads.” Ron frowned. “A lookout point? I don’t know, trying to appreciate each other. Paying more attention.”

“Right.” Hermione shook her head, trying to understand. They needed to get back on the same page, even if that page made her wildly uncomfortable. “We need to be more specific about the experiment.”

He raised his eyebrows, like she was suggesting something silly. Even though it looked like she and Draco were done, she needed boundaries instead of this nebulous anxiety that she was feeling. Rules to follow.

“Don’t bring anyone home. Or talk about it. Not to each other or with anyone else.” She picked at her cuticle too hard and grimaced at the drop of blood that appeared. “No sex.”

“Of course, no sex.” He looked surprised and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

“And a set amount of time.” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “A specific date, not just a few weeks.”

He smirked at her mocking tone. “How about until I get back from Edinburgh?”

A little over three weeks, then. Did that indicate that he had someone in mind or not? That he had already been with someone like she had been with Draco? Or it could be that Ron wanted to find someone to hook up with in a different city.  

“Do you have any ground rules for me?”

“No.” Ron looked down at her fondly. “It’s strange to see you like this. You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

She punched him in the chest hard enough that he took a step back, a smile still on his face. 

“Ouch.” He rubbed the spot over his heart dramatically. “Same rules for you. And Hermione, if you want—we can call this off. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No.” She looked at stupid, frustrating Ronald Weasley, who she had loved and relied on for half her life. “You’re right. Something needs to change before we get married. And we need to figure out what that is.”

Three weeks to look at her life and figure out who she wanted to be. Three weeks was also enough time to see Draco again, a thought that filled her with so much desire that it turned into terror itching through her chest.

They crossed the beach to the cave entrance. Audrey and Derowen weren’t arguing anymore, just holding the jars of flowers and watching them. Derowen looked sour, kicking a boot against a rock, and Audrey looked thrilled to see them.

“Welcome to the Earth Ritual,” she said brightly. “Ronald, I need to speak to you before we get started. I would like to purchase a gift for your brother.”

“You want to know what Percy likes?”

“Goodness, no. Your taste is a bit—” Audrey pursed her lips together. “Rustic. I simply want to test some colors against your complexion.”

She pulled out a bundle of fabric swatches and began draping them on Ron’s chest and shoulders. Derowen handed Hermione her jar of silver flowers with a frown, then lifted Ron’s shimmering gold ones up to the light.

“Should I be worried that he has more?” Hermione asked, inspecting her half-full jar.

“You can worry about whatever you want.” 

She looked sharply at him, irritated with his non-answer. “I’m worried about everything, whether I want to or not.”

Derowen sighed, seeming to soften. “Parts of the process like the flowers tend to work themselves out. For the Earth Ritual, it’s more about yourself than you both as a couple.”

The earth part had come easiest to Hermione when they had done the calling of the Banns so long ago. Except for interacting with Draco in that dream space, she’d felt connected. Sure that she was on the right path.

“I think I can do that.” She nodded, feeling more confident with the memory. “I know that I can.”

“Good,” Derowen said. “You must be strong on your own before being bound to another person. Focus on how you want your future to feel. Examine yourself at your core.”

“Should we get started?” Ron asked desperately, grimacing as Audrey held two pieces of green fabric against his cheeks. 

“Skin like a porcelain doll, all of you Weasleys,” she sighed dreamily, then dropped the fabric. “Yes. The Earth Ritual. Into the cave, you go.”

Audrey instructed them to open their jars and set them on the ground, before leaving with Derowen to wait on the beach. The cave had the feel of a grand cathedral, towering heights of stone and the murmur of running water deep within. Hermione closed her eyes and tried to feel the sense of growth and connection that she’d felt before. 

What did she want? The first thing that came to mind was safety. That’s what she had wanted for years, striving for a position of prominence at the Ministry and struggling to keep her loved ones close. But was that it? Her deepest desire in life was just to survive it? That seemed like a low bar.

She opened her eyes to peek at Ron’s progress. His gold flowers were already drifting up into the air. She toed her own jar—not even a stirring of movement. What did she desire, besides safety? Accomplishment, power, family. She had those, didn’t she? There was no reason to feel unsatisfied. 

Ron smiled a little, nodding his head with his eyes still closed. His success pinched at her, and she kicked her jar over to let some flowers spill out. Ron’s gold ones spread out in root-like patterns, stretching along the ground and cave walls. 

“How are you doing that?”

He glanced at her, but didn’t answer, just looked at his flowers with a satisfied look. There was no technique to this that she could figure out, which was infuriating. 

She crouched to poke her finger into her listless silver dust. “Why is this so easy for you?”

“Just because I can do something well, doesn’t mean it’s easy,” he huffed.

“You’ve hardly put any work into the wedding preparation, and the stupid flowers are moving for you. Seriously, just tell me how you’re doing it.” 

“I’m being rooted. Examining my life and thinking about what’s good.” 

“There has to be more to it than that.” All those years of trying to copy off her homework and Ron wouldn’t help her when she needed it. “Are you cheating? Using a spell to move them?”

He glared at her, his flowers seeming to pulse in time with his frustration.

“Is it so hard to believe that I’m just good at this?” Ron shouted, his voice echoing through the cave. “I own a successful business. I’m a good inventor, I’ve got great friends, I love my family. Most people like me. I’m engaged to a brilliant witch. I have solid roots. Just because you’re not impressed, doesn’t mean I’m not impressive.”

“Are you saying I don’t have those things?”

“No!” Ron threw up his hands and started pacing around the cave. “Just—you think I’m cheating because you can’t imagine me doing something right. You think I’m less than you.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re so worried about what I’m doing, but you need to look at yourself to make your flowers move. Your job looks good but makes you miserable. You hardly spend time with friends. When’s the last time you even had fun?” 

“I have plenty of fun.” She bristled at his accusation. “I’m not miserable!”

Her thoughts raced for evidence to throw at him of the last time she had fun. The night in Tintagel with Draco. She shook her head and stared at the ceiling of the cave, at the one spot that Ron’s rooting flowers hadn’t reached.

“You can’t even think of anything,” Ron said. “And for all your nagging about the wedding, now you hate to see me do well.”

Hermione covered her eyes with her hands. Ron was right. She’d been proud watching Draco win that stupid dance competition. Happy to see him happy. Why didn’t she feel that way with Ron? Did she really only feel good about his successes when they were thanks to her? Like some terrible remnant of how Ron and Harry had relied on her as teenagers.

Maybe accepting that Ron’s accomplishments meant that he didn’t need her. So she tried to control what he did, then resented him for it. How fucked up. Maybe this experiment was what they needed. To be forced to look at their relationship with clear eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

She heard Ron’s movements stop, like he could tell from her voice that it wasn’t a throwaway apology to stop arguing, but an actual broken thing cleaved from a place that hurt to dig.

“Ron, I don’t want to treat you that way. I don’t—” Her voice broke, and then Ron was next to her, comforting as always. Even when she didn’t deserve it. 

“It’s ok,” he said, but she shook her head.

“No.” She grasped his arm. “I know you’re impressive. I know that. I just feel pressure—to solve things or something. To be responsible for us.”

He pulled her in for a hug. “You don’t have to be all that. Not anymore. We’re not in a war; we can relax.”

Without holding things together and needing to figure everything out for all of them, she was free to be whoever she wanted. Her core self. Ron’s arms around her suddenly felt stifling and she pulled away from him. A shudder ran through her, and it took a moment to orient herself and realize that it was coming from the ground. Her flower powder was forming in the shape of roots across the stone floor of the cave. Finally.

Hers were starting to work just as Ron’s was completing. She pressed her palm to her heart in relief and Ron grinned at her. His flowers surged with golden brightness, filling the cave like the sun. With a sound like tinkling bells, the lines of flowers pulled themselves back into his jar.

Her silver ones were still moving, but shifting and twisting as though they didn’t know which way to go.

“Can I have a moment alone, please?” She asked Ron, wanting to concentrate. 

“Yeah, I’ll see you outside.” Ron squeezed her arm and hesitated a moment before letting her go. “Love you.”

She pressed her hands flat to the ground, the soft grit of the flower powder swirling. In the Earth part of the Banns, there had been movement and stillness, a deep sense of peace. The stone was cold, but she dropped to her stomach, her cheek resting on the ground. Her breath moved like a breeze. The pulse of life, going back and forth like the lines of the Labyrinth stone. 

Images and feelings turned in her mind. Petrified by a snake in a mirror, stolen by a snatcher in the woods. She was safe now and could protect herself. Alone in a garden, alone on a train, alone in bustling offices. There was something just out of reach. If she could have chosen without the world forcing her, what would have changed?

The silver lines of flowers spread out to fill the cave, illuminating the crevices that would be filled by water during the high tide. She was enough, at peace. Hermione to the bone, her most essential and true self. 

If she let go, she knew they would fall back into the jar and the ritual would be done, but she held on a moment longer instead. She reached down, for something past the stone, an echo that would feel like home. 

Chapter Text

“Almost ready?” Ron knocked on the bathroom door, excitement clear in his voice. “We don’t want to be late.”

She’d had to practically drag him to every other wedding-related appointment, but Ron was downright giddy about wedding cake tasting at the Tintagel Tea Shop.

“Yes, I’m just trying to figure out my makeup.” 

She pouted into the mirror, then bared her teeth at her reflection. Since she usually favored chapstick only or staid, professional makeup, she’d been digging through what lipsticks Ginny and Fleur had left behind. Unfortunately, that seemed to be bubblegum pink or almost gothic shades of wine red and dark purple.

“You look beautiful,” Ron said in a sing-song voice. “Now let’s go.”

“You can’t even see me.” She tried to swallow down her irritation, and wiped off the cloying pink on her lips that made her skin tone look almost gray. 

Ron’s enthusiasm was good. So good, and she had no reason to be annoyed by him. It was her who had unhappiness festering inside like a bubbling stew, ready to make everyone around her miserable too. Ron knocked again, his impatient raps growing louder until she kicked back against the door. 

“I’ll be down in a minute.” She gave up on the lipstick, sweeping all the half-used tubes back into the drawer.

Now her hair. She’d run out of the fancy purple shampoo from Draco’s salon and her curls were noticeably less defined. She twisted back a front section experimentally and tilted her head in the mirror to see how it looked from the side. She usually favored tightly controlled hairstyles that inevitably unraveled by the end of the day. This was a change. Pretty. Romantic, even.

It wasn’t like her to agonize over how she looked, but the possibility of seeing Draco and Astoria at today’s cake appointment with Audrey was making her both jittery and deeply paralyzed with dread. She blew out a breath and let her hair fall in her face before scraping it back into a severe bun. She hadn’t spoken to Draco since she’d walked away from him in the meadow, pulsing with fear and anger, her shirt buttoned askew.

He’d sent her a letter a few days later explaining that even though he and Astoria were broken up, their parents hadn’t yet agreed to unbind the engagement contract. Hermione might see them together at Solstice Wedding events. She’d reread his neat handwriting, her eyes getting caught over and over on the same line: I didn’t want you to think I lied to you.  

Everything with him felt a little like a lie, like she couldn’t quite trust her own feelings when it came to Draco Malfoy. Her steady life, tipping dangerously into gray eyes and a pure-blood world that didn’t want her. None of that was his fault, though. If anyone was to blame, it was herself for dragging him into the issues between her and Ron. 

The letter had been a considerate gesture. He cared enough to anticipate her feelings and reassure her, even after the way she had left things. She’d tucked it inside their cover issue of Witch Weekly and hidden it away again on the top shelf of her closet. 

“Hermione!” Now it was Ginny pounding on the door, even harder than her brother.

“What?”

“I need to pee.” The urgency in her voice was at odds with the fact that there were three other bathrooms in the Burrow. “And do you want the last crumpet? Ron said to save it for you, but I’m starving.”

“Yes, I want it.” She ran her fingers over her eyebrows and made a face into the mirror. Maybe some more eye shadow would be an improvement?

“Let me in before I explode,” Ginny wailed. “And the crumpet is getting cold and hard, it would really be a waste for me not to eat it. Please. Please, please please.”

“Fine,” she sighed, unlocking the door to find Ginny practically pressed against it.

Hermione’s crumpet was in Ginny’s hand, with a few bites already taken out of it. She sat down on the toilet, still eating.

“You look nice,” Ginny said. “I like your outfit.”

“Thank you.” Hermione turned around, but could still see Ginny watching her in the mirror. “Stop making eye contact with me while you’re on the toilet.”

Ginny widened her eyes and leaned forward with the crumpet hanging out of her mouth.

“You’re so gross,” Hermione scowled, but there was no heat in her voice. Ginny was just Ginny, there was no changing her.

“You love me. And you miss me being around.”

It had been a painful change when Harry and Ginny moved out. Like a piece of her life had fractured away, leaving her and Ron lopsided without them. 

“A bit.” She moved out of the way so that Ginny could wash her hands. “Things aren’t the same with you gone.”

“I’m not gone.” Ginny emphasized the word dramatically and frowned. “Why do you sound so sad? You and Ron are moving out soon, too.”

“I know.”

They had viewed a few London flats that felt empty and cold, blank slates that she couldn’t imagine herself in. The Burrow had been such a place of comfort after the war; everyone banding together with love and relief, a secure fortress of love after so much pain. 

“Don’t you miss it here, though?” Hermione absently straightened her toiletries on the bathroom counter, where Ginny’s had been crowded with her own not that long ago. 

“No,” Ginny laughed. “Living with my husband is a million times better.”

Living alone with Ron would be fine. They’d already talked about both pitching in to cook and clean more since they’d be without Molly, and the kinds of things that they would need to buy to be on their own. Hermione just couldn’t shake the feeling of being erased here. Of not being ready to shed this part of her life.

"If Ron and I weren't together anymore, would I still be on the family clock?"

Her name was with the cluster of Weasleys at home now, ticking together in time. 

"Probably.” Ginny dropped the hand towel on the counter instead of hanging it back up. “Unless someone took you off. I'm pretty sure the only time the clock drops someone itself is—you know."

"Right." Hermione swallowed hard at the sudden lump in her throat.

It made something pull deep in her stomach to think of Fred's marker ticking over to mortal peril in the empty house and then falling off the face of the clock completely to land on the floor. 

Later, Arthur had nailed it directly onto the backing of clock, where it still was, slightly behind the rest of them, forever pointing to the space between GARDEN and BED, as though Fred was just dozing on the clover amongst the daisies and plums. 

Ginny frowned. "You really want Mum to always know where you are anyways?"

Yes. Her chest hurt with how badly she wanted it. If there was no one keeping track of her, then she would be untethered, alone. 

“I don’t know. It’s just nice to see our names together,” she said, trying to push away the anxious thoughts. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Why would you ask?” Ginny was looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you and my brother—”

“We’re great,” Hermione said quickly. “No problems here, Gin.”

“Sure. But if you do want to talk before the wedding, you know I’m here, right? If something’s wrong.”

Sure, talk through her brother’s dissatisfaction with their sex life and how Hermione had hooked up with their former mortal enemy. The fact that Hermione was realizing that she might actually be a raging bitch who was deeply unhappy with everything that she had worked for in her life and was dragging Ron down with her.

Hermione smiled and shoved all of it deep below the surface. “Everything is lovely.”

The party room of the Primrose Tea Shop felt unbearably crowded. Audrey led Hermione and Ron to the large table in the center, already piled with plates and silverware for the wedding cake samples. Gustav, the owner and pastry chef, had a row of plain cakes on a side table and was working with several confectioners. They had bowls of frosting and fondant all around them, including some floating gently in the air.

Draco was seated between his mother and Genevieve Greengrass, Astoria’s mother. The sight of him made Hermione’s stomach clench. She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair, to see him smile again. None of those things were hers to have, though. Not in this room and not in this world.

The three of them stood up politely to greet Hermione and Ron. Draco’s posture was straight, only his eyes moving to look her up and down coldly. 

“Ah, I had forgotten about the other couple,” Mrs.Greengrass whispered loudly before contorting her face into a rigid smile. “Hello, there.”

Other couple. They had met at the Air Ritual party and their names had been literally spelled out along with Draco and Astoria’s on the Witch Weekly magazine cover. Mrs. Greengrass had dark hair and similar features to her daughter, but right now looked almost like Mrs. Malfoy’s complimentary twin. They were both tall and willowy, dressed in sharply tailored dresses draped with jewels, and were looking at Hermione and Ron with matching looks of disdain.

Ron ignored the rudeness and extended his hand. “Hello again. I’m Ronald Weasley and this is my fiancée, Hermione Granger.”

“Genevieve Greengrass.” She shook hands with Ron in the most painfully limp way, then moved her curled under fingertips towards Hermione.

Hermione shook her hand briskly, ignoring the other woman’s grimace. These pure-blood society wives had despised her during the war purely because of her Muggle-born status and probably still did. It was hard to look in their eyes, and she felt paralyzed with a combination of anger and discomfort at their scrutiny.

“Hello, Mrs. Malfoy.” She skipped over Draco and shook hands with his mother quickly.

Maybe she could avoid him completely, pretend he wasn’t even here to distract her from this important appointment with her fiancé.

“Granger.” He didn’t make a move to shake her hand, just stood there watching her, his expression distant and aloof. 

The last time they had been in this room together, Draco had reduced her to a puddle of pleasure on top of the primly decorated table. They hadn’t exactly been friends before, but now what would they be? As distant as strangers? Maybe even enemies once again. 

“Malfoy.” Hermione lowered herself into a chair, trying to make her face as blank as his.

“Where’s Astoria?” Ron asked as he pulled out a pile of the tidy notebooks that he used to plan his inventions and lined them up on the table in front of him.

Ron had been diligently planning wedding cake possibilities, excited by the idea of a towering layer cake that he had apparently been dreaming of since childhood. Something worthy of the Hogwarts Great Hall, he’d said, as though he couldn’t think of anything grander than that.

Mrs. Malfoy clenched her hands in front of her. “Astoria is on a holiday.”

“—Astoria is sick,” Mrs. Greengrass said at the same time.

Draco snorted, rolling his eyes so dramatically that he tipped his head back. Maybe his cold mood wasn’t only because of Hermione then. His mother leveled a glare at him and forcefully brushed a bit of invisible lint off his jacket collar. 

“Well, it’s nice to have the mothers join us. And Mr. Malfoy of course. I mean both couples! It’s a pleasure.” Audrey’s voice trailed off with an uncomfortable laugh, the tension in the room palpable.

“I thought the wedding was off,” Hermione said bluntly.

She’d learned from experience that there was no impressing the society pure-bloods, so it was pointless to be demure. It was honestly outrageous that they were even at this appointment, when Draco and Astoria didn’t want to get married.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Greengrass practically spat. “The engagement contract will not be dissolved because of the whims of flighty—” 

“You have been misinformed, Miss Granger.” Mrs. Malfoy said, narrowing her eyes at Hermione and Ron. “This conflict concerning the Solstice wedding date has been unfortunate, but I’m confident that both couples will find a way forward.”

Hermione gritted her teeth. It was almost impressive how Draco’s mother could make such neutral words sound so condescending and dismissive. Her face was a placid, bored echo of Draco’s.

“Really, the only couple who should be here is Astoria and Draco,” Mrs. Greengrass said, turning to the Malfoys. “Especially with what’s happening in your family. The added stress must be taking a toll on—”

“Enough,” Draco interrupted Mrs. Greengrass. “This is not the time or place for such discussions.”

Draco’s voice was commanding, but his expression flickered to almost pleading as he looked at his mother. Sadness shadowed her face for a split second, her brow furrowed as she looked down at the tablecloth.

“You’re right,” Mrs. Malfoy said, leaning into Draco for a moment, before composing herself again. “Shall we try the flavors?” 

“Yes! Absolutely.” Audrey shuffled a stack of cake menus awkwardly, then passed them out to each person.

Ron made a little sound of excitement and pointed at the marmalade section, with five different types listed. “Do you think there’s a sample limit?”

Ron barely seemed to notice the tension or the strange dynamics in the room, his mind only on the cake. Would he pick up on anything between her and Draco? Probably not, even if they were cooing at each other across the table. 

Gustav explained his baking process and the decoration options while her mind wandered. Ron had been jealous and hot-tempered at one time, but it had been years since he’d acted that way in relation to her. He was more protective of his friendship with Harry, grousing if he went out with other friends. Maybe because Ron saw her as a sexless nag who no one else would want. Guilt prickled through her at that self-deprecating thought. Ron told her she was pretty all the time, and they had regularly been intimate before this experiment.

“—and to celebrate Miss Granger’s Muggle-born heritage.” Gustav held up a crystal bowl of sweets in pink wrappers. “A rare delicacy! These are called Mon Chéri.”

He picked up one of the cheap liqueur-filled chocolates and held it up for them all to admire. 

Hermione cringed. “Those aren’t exactly a delicacy.”

Gustav passed them out. “These will be a glimpse into what Muggles offer the world. Apparently, there are real cherries inside.”

Ron popped the entire thing in his mouth and recoiled when he reached the liqueur. “I think mine is rotten.”

“The flavor is said to be cherries dipped in brandy,” Gustav choked as he bit into one. “That might be incorrect.”

Mrs. Malfoy knocked Draco’s from his hand, then used her wand to levitate them back into the bowl. Mrs. Greengrass quickly did the same, muttering under her breath about what Muggles have to offer.  

Hermione defiantly unwrapped her Mon Chéri and stuffed it in her mouth. Merlin, it was just as bad as she remembered as a child, like wet cherries rotting long enough to grow mold. 

“We’ll be sure to incorporate them into your cake,” Gustav said with a cough and pushed the entire bowl in front of her.

“Now then. We’ll begin with French Vanilla and Chantilly Cream, please,” Mrs. Malfoy said. “And a fruitcake to keep with tradition. Without walnuts, for Draco’s preference.”

Draco looked every inch a pure-blood prince, sitting straight-backed between the two women, all of them graceful and intimidating.

Hermione adjusted her own posture and stared at the floral tablecloth. At least it was a different one than when she had been writhing on this table like a wanton idiot. Fruitcake was a tradition? None of the Weasleys had mentioned that and she hadn’t come across it in any books. Maybe it was traditional for one of their specific families and not Wizarding society as a whole.

“I think fourteen layers will be sufficient. The design should be a mix of our sacred family symbols. Parnassus flowers and the heron—”

Gustav was nodding along to their requests and taking notes. What would sacred family symbols for her and Ron be? The logo of her parents’ old dental clinic, a ramshackle outline of the Burrow? 

“—a touch of silver in the fleur de lis. And if you can hint at dragons without being too ostentatious.” 

Mrs. Greengrass laughed and placed a hand on Draco’s arm. “No Sanctimonia Vincet Semper in icing, Narcissa?”

“Well, it’s already engraved on the rings.”

Hermione flinched, turning her head down to look at one of Ron’s notebooks. Purity Will Always Conquer, the Malfoy family motto. His heirloom wedding rings probably held curses that would strike her dead. Draco’s ancestors would be horrified by what he had done with her. Or maybe it didn’t actually matter what the heir did before his suitable marriage. As long as the mudblood didn’t try to conquer the family line.

Ron pushed the notebook closer to her “I’m thinking at least one layer of the chocolate ganache. What do you think of coffee stout muscovado?”

Hermione tried to smile and nod encouragingly, but she had never cared about anything less than she cared about this cake. Mrs. Malfoy and Mrs. Greengrass were still speaking to Gustav intently about fondant designs, and Hermione snuck a glance at Draco. He was already looking at her, his finger tracing a flower on the tablecloth.

Slowly tracing it. He dragged his pointer and ring finger along the rounded outline of the pink rose, then used his middle finger to flick the center of the printed petals. Was he? Hermione felt her cheeks heat up, practically hypnotized as he started rubbing tiny circles against the fabric. 

“Don’t you think so? Really revolutionary.” Ron was looking at her expectantly, like she’d missed what he was trying to tell her.

“Yes, that’s fine,” she croaked.

She wouldn’t look at Draco. She would clench her thighs together tightly and think of anything besides the heat pulsing between her legs. It must be muscle memory, and unconscious reaction to that rough rhythm pressed into her by those precise fingers.

The resolution lasted for the length of time that it took for Ron to explain to her the importance of sound and smell to the overall cake experience, then she broke. Draco was working the sides of the helpless flower tenderly in soft strokes, his long middle finger pushing a featherlight touch against the bud. She bit her lip as he started moving faster, remembering that touch as he increased pressure. How did no one else notice what he was doing? It was practically pornographic.

“Do you know what type of cake you would like?” Gustav sat down next to Ron. Apparently it was their turn.

The confectioners were working on several of the sample cakes, adding the requested designs from Mrs. Malfoy and Mrs. Greengrass. Hermione shook her head to clear it, crossing one leg tightly over the other to diminish her state of arousal. Poor Ron didn’t deserve to have his fiancée mentally lusting over another man right in front of him, even if it had been his idea to see other people.

“Chocolate frosting for sure.” Ron showed him the list. “I’m very intrigued by the marmalade selection, both the filling and the frosting.”

Gustav looked thoughtful. “Brown and orange for a wedding cake?”

“Oh, maybe not.” Ron looked at Hermione, disappointment clear on his face. “What do you pick?”

Ron went along with what she wanted so often, she probably took it for granted. Here was her chance to make more of an effort to be thoughtful to him. 

“Orange and brown are good,” she said brightly. “Sounds great.”

“Yeah?” He beamed, excitement clear on his face.

“Definitely. We should go with your favorite.”

Ron flipped his notebook back a few pages and started pointing out drawings of circular things to Gustav. It was good for her to be supportive and focus on Ron. Not Draco. She looked back up at him, as though her moment of self-congratulation had made her let her guard down. 

His thumb was on the flower now, pushing it in thrusting strokes that made her flush with mortification. Or maybe not only mortification as her body flooded with the thought of his fingers against her moving like that. Or inside of her. A sound escaped from her mouth, a breathy whine that was completely inappropriate. 

Draco’s hand stopped moving, and her eyes rose to his face. His stupid, smug face, grinning with victory. So he knew he could turn her on, what was that supposed to accomplish in this room filled with people who absolutely should not know that they had been together?

Luckily only Draco seemed to be paying any attention to her, but it was only a matter of time before at least Ron noticed. She needed to cut off these stupid games now. She plucked one of the Mon Chéri chocolates from the bowl in front of her and tossed it at Draco’s face.

It hit him on the cheek, knocking his smile into a look of surprise. Hopefully the pointy corner would leave a mark on his ridiculous pale skin. He wouldn’t get away with teasing her like this. Torturing her, really. He picked it up with a scowl and unwrapped the candy from the foil with his teeth. She forced her eyes away, but not before seeing him bite it slowly in half, a tiny bit of liqueur on his lower lip.

“This looks so good,” she said a bit desperately to Ron, staring at the sample cake that had been brought over. “It’s perfect.”

The texture of the chocolate looked strange, almost checkerboard in spots with shades of brown and orange. The whole thing was oval shaped with nubby textured chocolate on top. Gustav carefully levitated a hoop on a pole to the top and speared it into one end of the cake.

“It’s a Quidditch pitch?” Hermione asked, trying to keep the horror from her voice. 

Ron nodded. “Yeah! I can’t believe you actually agreed to it. And the multisensory experience! What flavors do you want to sample for the middle layers?”

“Oh. Just chocolate, I think.” She fumbled for the menu.

The what experience? Her wedding cake would be a towering marmalade Quidditch pitch. That was fine and not garish at all. She could still feel Draco’s eyes on her and she lifted the menu up in front of her face.

“We’re already trying six types of chocolate,” Ron said. “There’s nothing else you want?”

“Right.” Her eyes caught on the Mon Chéris. “Cherry, please.”

“I didn’t think you liked it sweet, Granger.” Draco’s voice rumbled low.

Now what was he playing at? As far as everyone in this room was concerned, they were nothing more than rivals. He definitely shouldn’t know how she liked it.

“Well, I do,” she said primly, keeping her eyes on the menu. “I want cherry.”

“I don’t think you do,” he said with a sharp edge of disdain.

“Cherry will be an excellent compliment to the chocolate that you’ve already decided on,” Gustav said brightly, making a note at the bottom of the page full of Ron’s cake preferences.

“Perfect.” She set the menu down. Maybe she could convince them to go with cherry-flavored cake instead of the disgusting candies.

“Maybe you should think for yourself,” Draco said. “Do what you want instead of going along with the flavors other people choose for you.”

“You don’t want chocolate and marmalade?” Ron asked. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I do want that.”

And even if she didn’t, Draco had no right to call her out. She turned her body to face only Ron. “I do—”

“Granger’s bored with cherries and has an appetite for something more sour.” Draco interrupted, his expression predatory. “Something with bite.”

“Oh, lemons!” Gustav exclaimed, pausing from adding more Quidditch hoops along the top of the cake. “That’s actually a wonderful idea to compliment the richness of the chocolate.”

Ron frowned, looking down at his cake sketches. “I don’t know.”

“That’s what she’s craving,” Draco growled. “Can’t you tell? Just look at her.”

The hostility in his voice finally drew the attention of Audrey and the mothers, who were now all watching Hermione as she squirmed in her seat.

“I’m not,” she said defensively. “I’m not craving that.”

Hermione clenched her hands under the table, her fingernails digging into her palms. Was Draco trying to expose that they had hooked up? Or maybe just upset her because she’d left him. 

“It’s ok if you are.” Ron tapped his pencil against his lip thoughtfully. “You could even have both together. That might be pretty satisfying.”

“Would she be satisfied then?” Draco taunted. “Sucking on a lemon while stuffed full with a cherry?”

Her mouth dropped open, at a loss for words. 

“Candied lemons and cherries plunged deep inside the layers!” Gustav exclaimed. “Oh, and a warm lemon glaze dripped over the top to finish it off.”

Hermione made a strangled noise and stood up from the table. “Excuse me.”

She needed to get out of this room before she started screaming or caught on fire from blushing. She held it together long enough to shut the door behind her and make it down the stairs. 

That idiot had as much to lose as she did if they were found out. More, really, considering how his family would react. The smell of mint tea filled the storage area, a visceral reminder of kissing Draco there. Her heart was pounding as she leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs. She whirled around at the sound of footsteps, then tensed at the sight of Draco following behind her.

“You asshole! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Talking about cake flavors.” He licked his lips, his expression malicious as he looked down at her. “Why? What were you thinking?”

She grabbed the front of his jumper, twisting the soft knit fabric in her fist. “Are you enjoying this? Torturing me?”

“Am I enjoying watching you sit next to him, getting flustered thinking about me?” He braced his hand on the wall next to her head. “Fuck yes, I am.”

“You’re insane.” She breathed in his now familiar smell, his body nearly pressed against hers. “Do you want your mother to find out? Astoria’s family?”

“I don’t care what they think.” He leaned away from her grip, his face clouding with the lie. 

“No? Imagine what they would say if they knew what you did with me. How disgusted they would be.”

She felt lightheaded with adrenaline, and gripped his jumper tighter, pulling him closer again. It was sick how much she wanted him, even with everyone right upstairs.

“You’re the one who wanted to keep me a secret,” he whispered into her ear, anger laced with something raw. “You’re the one who’s done with me.”

He hit the wall with his hand, startling her enough to make her loosen her grip on him. 

“I’m engaged to Ron. What else could you be?”

Draco pushed away from her and started back up the stairs. “Absolutely nothing.”

The pain in his voice cut through her like a knife. She had hurt him, more deeply than she knew she had the power to do. What did he want her to do though?

“Malfoy!” She hurried up the stairs to block his path. “You knew what—”

“I know.” He tried to step past her, but she stayed in front of him, backing up the stairs. “I know! Just get the fuck out of my way.”

“No,” she hissed, nearly stumbling as she reached the top step, her elbow bumping the door.

They were eye to eye for once, with him a step below her.

“You bloody—”

She stopped his words with a kiss, her hands tight on the back of his neck. The words she couldn’t say, the desire that burned through her, all of it pouring out. Draco kissed her back with enough force that her back hit the door with a thump. 

He met her gasp by deepening the kiss, his tongue in her mouth almost punishing. He tasted like the Mon Chéri liqueur, but the sour taste was sultry on him. This was a mistake that would lead to pain for both of them, but stopping would be unbearable. His hands on her were desperate, the explosion after so much build up sparking across her skin as his hand pushed up her shirt and found her breast.

It was always him touching her. Taunting her and tempting her into things she shouldn’t need this badly. She pushed her hand between their bodies, finding his hard bulk through his trousers. The layers of fabric were thin enough that she could feel all of him.

“Miss Granger? Mr. Malfoy?” Audrey’s voice came close from the other side of the door. “That noise—are you two still pulling pranks?”

“No,” Hermione said, cupping Draco’s balls in her palm.

She’d meant to tease and rile him up like he was doing to her, but there was something vulnerable in him like this.   

“Yes. She’s provoking me.” He gasped and dropped his head to her shoulder as she squeezed lightly, like he was overwhelmed with sensation.

She was doing this to him, the walls between them in the real world broken down again in this stolen moment. It was intoxicating; holding him like this, in her power.

She moved her hand up his shaft, her fingers curling around him as much as she could against the outside of his trousers. Draco groaned out loud, his hips twitching when she started to rub up and down his length, his thumb brushing her nipple with the same rhythm.

“Well, stop it.” Audrey rapped on the door behind Hermione’s head. “It sounds like he’s in pain.” 

“Granger.” Draco’s eyes were half shut with pleasure, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away from his cock with effort. “I thought you were done with me.”

His voice was harsh, but there was something vulnerable about the way he was still holding her wrist. Pushing her away, but unable to actually let her go.

She looked into his eyes. “You’re not nothing to me. I’m sorry that I made you feel that way.”

In another life, maybe he could have been everything to her. They would interlock perfectly without all of the forces that kept them apart. These months of battle between them and she didn’t even know what they were pushing towards or running from. Maybe it didn’t matter.

“I want to see you again.” Draco said. “Say yes.”

It would be better not to, more time would only make all of this harder. “Ron and I—”

“I don’t care, Granger. I’ll take whatever I can get from you.” He let go of her wrist to draw her even closer, his fingers pushing into her hair. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He let out a breath at her answer, then dropped his hand to the doorknob next to her hip, starting to turn it. Leaving before she could change her mind? Hermione wrapped her arms around him as he stepped around her, a desperate embrace in the seconds before the door pushed all the way open. She couldn’t rejoin everyone else in that stifling room, deadened by all of the pressure and judgment stacked up around her. 

Everyone’s voices carried through the crack of space, but she and Draco were still shielded. She pressed her lips to his recklessly, one more kiss before he pulled away. 

“Soon,” he murmured.

She let him go at the last possible second, flushed and breathless as they entered the room. Everyone was in the same places, except for Audrey, who was standing close to the door with a disturbed expression. Did she suspect? Hermione smiled at her in what she hoped was an innocent look.

“There you are. Look how great it is!” Ron grinned at her from where he was standing by the giant sample cake.

While they’d been in the stairwell, Gustav and the confectioners had apparently finished. Her and Ron’s cake was a monstrosity, half chocolate and half marmalade, studded with Mon Cheris still in their wrappers. It vaguely resembled a towering Quidditch pitch and something was flitting around and passing through the circular hoops.

Hermione looked closer, then jerked back when drops of liquid hit her face. Cherries and lemon slices had been charmed into fruity snitches. The lemon slice wings flapped aggressively, squirting more juice everywhere.

“Exactly how you wanted,” Ron said. “And listen to the multi-sensory experience.”

Gustav poked at a cluster of Mon Cheris in the shape of a W and a wheezing noise came from the cake. 

“RON.” A discombobulated voice cheered Ron’s name happily. “RON.”

“So cool, right? The enchantment only works for one syllable though. I’ll work on it later.”

“Oh, that’s ok.” She faked a smile while Ron poked the W again.

Draco was across the room examining his own cake, smiling at something his mother was saying. He wasn’t hers. Her life was with Ron and this cake that he’d designed with her in mind. Right? This was what she wanted, where she fit.

The cake wheezed, then growled the multi-sensory experience. “HER.”

“HER.”

Chapter Text

Hermione took off her shoes and lined them up neatly against the wall. It had felt like a good idea to book a room with Draco in the Tintagel Inn. They had already been here with aliases and it was safer not to be out in public. Sensible. If seeing him like this could by any stretch be considered sensible.

“It feels odd to pay for a room since we’re not spending the night.” She glanced at Draco where he sat on the bed, then quickly looked away to study anything else but him; the rough-hewn wooden chair, his jacket discarded on the table, her gold engagement ring on the dresser. 

Posh Draco looked out of place against the white-washed stone wall and nubby blankets. He’d unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and kicked off his shoes, but the effect wasn’t exactly casual on him. Just sexy.

“I can think of worse things to spend my money on.” Draco clasped his hands behind his neck and lay back on the bed as he surveyed her.

She gave him a sharp look. “That makes me sound like a whore.”

For all his eagerness days ago at the tea shop, now Draco seemed almost aloof. Like he was trying to keep some distance in this dangerous game they were playing. She stepped between his legs, her knees hitting the edge of the bed.

“What if I want to be the whore? Why do you get all the fun?” His smirk was harsh, and he didn’t reach for her.

She leaned over him, resting her hands on both sides of his hips on the blanket. His smile faltered, a crack in the teasing. Maybe he was as nervous as she was, and as afraid of what their actions might mean. 

“Fine, but I only pay in insults.”

“My favorite.” He leaned up on his elbows to close the gap between them, still not touching her, but close enough for his breath to ghost against her cheek. 

“Prat,” she said, letting fondness slip into her voice.

Draco kissed her jaw lightly. “Swot.”

His touch was blissful and she lowered herself down until their chests were touching. 

“Arsehole.”

This time his kiss was on the corner of her mouth, just a peck that had her turning her head to follow him. 

“Hagfish,” he said against her lips, and she could finally feel his smile break through. 

It was a relief. She wrapped her arms around him, her full weight making him drop down flat on his back. “Now you’re being truly hurtful.”

“That’s the game, Granger.” His face grew serious as he studied her. “You know it's not like that, though? We don't have to do anything at all.”

“I know.”

She laid her head on his chest, his warmth seeping into her. The late afternoon sun shone through the window, illuminating dust motes floating gently in the air. This was what she had wanted when she saw him asleep in the salon so long ago. To trace soft lines over his skin and play with his hair. To rest with him.

Tears pricked in her eyes and she didn’t even know why. Draco Malfoy, who she had once hated and feared. A pure-blood Death Eater. Now she wanted to tell him all the interesting things that happened to her throughout the day. She wanted to wake up in the morning and see the graceful line of his throat, the exact shade of grey in his eyes that had become familiar to her.

For years, she’d told herself she was lucky. She and her friends had survived the war, then picked up the pieces and moved forward, careful steps towards careful goals. Not looking back or stumbling off the path. And she’d avoided feeling like this; an aching chasm of wanting more, the fear of something unknown. Truthfully, she hadn’t felt this way since her Hogwarts letter had invited her into the world of magic, a place she both belonged and didn’t understand at all.

Draco shifted, his palms spread flat on her back. Did he feel the same way about her? And if he did, what would that mean since they weren’t actually together? She had to know, couldn’t push down her conflicted feelings anymore. 

“Why did you agree to this?” Her voice was a whisper but felt crushing in the quiet space.

“Meeting you here?”

She looked up at him, moving to rest her chin on his chest, “All of it. The experiment. Being with me while I’m engaged to Ron.”

Draco dropped his head back to look at the ceiling, his hands still tracing patterns across her back. 

“My life is strictly controlled. When I saw myself with you in the—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head and rolled to the side. “I mean, when you asked me to kiss you. It was a surprise.”

His movement pushed her off his chest and she sat up next to him. Saw them together. Did he mean the magazine cover?

“Right. A surprise.” She braced herself, not sure what she even wanted him to say. 

She'd asked him a question with no right answers. It wasn't like she planned to leave Ron, so if Draco said something adoring, it would only confirm they shouldn’t be doing this.

Draco ran his hand through his hair, causing a bit to fall out of place. “But you’re like an escape from my life and duties. From the pressure of what I’m supposed to do and living up to who I’m supposed to be.”

Hermione’s heart clenched. An escape. From his real life as a pure-blood heir that she couldn't be part of. 

He was still talking, each word a dagger. “—a release. To get rid of stress.”

She crossed her arms, squeezing herself tightly against the sinking feeling growing in her stomach. She hadn't asked him for more. In fact, she'd specifically told Draco not to expect anything from her. So why did his words hurt? 

It was probably better to be a bit detached. Maybe she had even wanted him to remind her what this was, as her heart had been imagining something different. It wasn't permanent, just a learning experience.

“That’s good,” she said, trying to force her shoulders to relax again. “An escape.”

He brushed back her hair with one hand, a touch so gentle he might have been confirming that she was real, then kissed her. Oh, she’d missed him, the ease that his touch pulled from her body. The kiss was almost lazy, a slow exploration instead of a desperate taste for a starving man. Let’s escape, then.

She unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way and eased it off his shoulders. The memory of touching his chest in the spa had lingered in her mind, and he felt just as good now. Lean muscles flexing under smooth skin, his breath coming faster when her hand found his stomach. She unbuttoned his trousers, watching his face for permission.

He shifted to pull them off, tossing his socks onto the floor after them. It was clear that he was as turned on as she was, the bulk of his cock visible in his tight boxer briefs. 

That was because of her. She undressed down to her knickers also, buzzing under his rapt attention. Instead of the petal pink lingerie, she'd worn a regular bra and panty set. Pretty purple, but plain cotton and typical for what she wore every day; it felt less like a costume and more real. Draco slid his hand around to unclasp her bra as they lay face to face on their sides. 

She’d felt vulnerable in front of him before, but this was different. In the Tintagel tea room and on the broom, it had seemed like he wanted to prove what he could do to her body, her orgasms as his achievement. Evidence gathered for her experiment. Now she knew her potential for pleasure at his hands and just wanted to enjoy him, to make him feel good too.

“No sex. But I want to touch you.” She traced the line of his clavicle, taking in every angle of his body in front of her. 

Those scars again. She wanted to kiss every one, to send some comfort inside him to his bones, to erase past pain. Draco ran his hand along her waist, following the curve of her hip down. They were memorizing each other, she realized. A slow exploration to discover what they could before returning to their real lives.

The slow warm-up of kissing was kindling her desire hotter and hotter. She played with the waistband of his black boxer briefs.

“You want lower?” She pitched her voice into her “Clive” voice that she’d used in the salon and was gratified by his response of laughter.

“Yes, lower,” Draco growled back. 

She pushed his briefs down to his hip bones, then moved down on impulse to bite the tender spot where his muscles tapered to a V. It made him jerk in pleasure, and he fisted her hair with a gasp. 

“No sex?” He rasped.

“I'm only going to use my hands.”

She eased the black fabric down further, letting Draco’s cock spring free. He was big and already hard. Pale skin and blonde hair even down here. 

“Are you smiling at my cock?”

“Maybe.” She was, feeling a strange surge of fondness at this hidden part of him that he was trusting her with. “It’s very handsome.”

His laugh turned into a groan when she pulled her hand up his length, tracing her thumb around the tip. It was going to feel amazing to pull pleasure from him, to find out what he looked like when he hit his edge and lost control.

She knew a lube spell but raised her hand to her mouth instead. The way Draco looked as he watched her made heat pool in her stomach. She sucked on her middle two fingers, keeping eye contact as she drew saliva out by pressing on her tongue. He wasn’t the only one who could be seductive.

Draco’s breath caught when she slid her wet hand over him lightly, moving up and down. The sight of her hand on him made her ache, something inside of her begging to be filled at the sight of him. 

“Umidio,” she panted, moving faster with the increased lubrication.

Draco made a sound almost like a whine, his eyes half closed, then twitched when she added a twisting motion. She watched his face with fascination, amazed that she got to see him like this.

“Wait. I want to touch you too. Before I—” Draco shifted his body to pull his lower half away from her. “Can I?”

“Yes, of course.” 

He hooked his thumb into her knickers, and she helped him take them off her. She was already wet from kissing and touching him, and Draco made a pleased noise when his fingers rubbed between her folds. Her body seemed to melt at the memory of him, her heart pounding and her brain emptying.

One of his fingers slid in easily, even though she felt tight from the angle they were in; laying on their sides. She lifted her leg, giving him better access as he started to move. She closed her eyes and let it slam through her, the pounding rhythm tearing her down and rebuilding again. He added another finger, and pressure on her clit.

She wanted to feel him at the same time, and reached for his cock again. It was dry, the lube spell broken along with her attention. Without thinking, she put her hand between her legs to gather her own wetness to rub on him.

His fingers were plunged inside her and she rubbed around the point of connection, spreading herself more. Feeling him in her was so sensual, and she felt her body pulse harder against her fingers when he thrust in and out. 

“Where do you like it?” He scissored his fingers apart, stretching her from the inside. “Show me.”

She slid her own finger in, between his. So tight, they were filling her together. She adjusted her arm to get deeper, almost to the spot she tried to find when she was alone. There. Her body quivered as she curled her finger inward, touching herself as Draco pulsed deep along with her, rocking her on the bed. 

“Oh.” Her legs convulsed, nearly knocking their hands from the perfect position.

The room was quiet enough that she could hear herself; ragged breath and the sound of their fingers plunging into her soaked folds. She added another finger, moving against her clit with every thrust. Her orgasm was building almost painfully, especially as Draco picked up speed while she was so full. He leaned forward to kiss her and she shifted to meet him, moving her leg to a different angle, then twisting it over him to chase the new sensation. 

She was close, her body tensing and her leg almost up to his shoulder. She stopped moving her hand and pressed hard, her limbs tense and shaking at the point of release.

“There it is,” Draco said with satisfaction and an absolute gush of moisture made her gasp.

Her fingers stuttered against her g-spot while he thrust through her waves of pleasure. She gasped against him, pulling her hand out to clutch at his chest. He withdrew all but one finger, lazily pumping and circling her clit with his thumb. So gentle, but now she was so sensitive that it sent another wave of pleasure through her and she couldn’t tell if it was another orgasm or an intense aftershock.

“I was trying to get my hand wet to touch you.” She pushed his hand away after she caught her breath and dragged her fingers over her sensitive core. Completely soaked. 

“Watching you do that is so fucking hot.” Draco’s voice was rough. Good, she wanted to affect him even more. She wanted to make him fall apart. 

She grasped him again, a new lube spell mixing with her own wetness on her fingers. Her hand seemed to find the same rough rhythm that he had just pressed into her, and she craved the way he moaned and tensed as she stroked him. A soft touch around the ridge made his hips stutter forward, and a faster stroke made the tendons on Draco’s neck stand out as he tried to hold himself under control. She loved seeing him this way. 

“I'm going to come,” he said, like he was asking for permission. “Where do you want—”

Inside of me. Her immediate thought surprised her so much that Hermione’s hand stilled. That was crazy, and way too far. 

“It's ok,” Draco said, pulling away from her. “I'll just—”

He rolled out the bed quickly and pulled a hand towel from the dresser and turned away from her. He'd mistaken her shock for disgust, but really it was the opposite. She watched as his hips jerked, disappointed that she couldn't see his face. He pressed one hand against the wall, the other one working himself over as he braced himself through his ejaculation. 

“Sorry.” He turned around, smiling sheepishly and rubbing his cock with the towel.

“It's fine. Draco, I didn't mean for you to—” she stammered. “I wanted—”

He was staring at her, surprise in his eyes. “You called me Draco, instead of Malfoy.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

It had slipped out by accident, and she touched her cheeks, knowing that a blush was growing there. He didn’t feel like Malfoy when they were like this. He felt like hers. A mistake though, by the newly guarded, evaluating look on his face.

“So I just need to get you off to earn the first name?” He looked her up and down. “Make you moan until you lose your mind?”

“That’s crude.” She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “You're so polite to everyone but me.”

“You want me to be polite to you?” He returned to the bed, grabbing her ankle and jerking her body towards him. 

She nodded, breathless at being manhandled while they were both still very naked. His anger felt almost familiar; like herself when she wanted to push something, couldn’t help but go too far. Draco pulled her leg up and bit the tender skin on the arch of her foot. 

“Please, Granger.” His politeness was more like a taunt. “Say my name when I make you come.” 

He moved to her ankle, then her calf; biting and kissing as she squirmed. If he got much closer, he would see how wet she was getting again, so exposed to him right now.

“Please say it.” He reached the tender spot inside her lower thigh, the exact same place he'd kissed her leg in the forest.

She stilled when he did, looking at her with those grey eyes. Had he found that spot on purpose, guided by the invisible mark he’d left on her that night? 

“Draco.”

He kissed her leg again, not biting or teasing this time, just impossibly gentle and reverent. Her body sang, her heart clenched with tenderness and her body hot with desire. She was already too eager for him, pliant and aching to give in to what they both wanted.

She put her hand on his face, stopping him before she lost all of her willpower. “We should get dressed. So we don’t do something we can’t take back.”

It was one thing to escape and another to burn the life you were escaping from to the ground.

Draco lingered for a moment, eyes closed and cheek brushing against her skin, then pulled away. He gathered his clothes from the floor, barely looking at her as he dressed. Her shirt and jeans were on the floor, but her knickers were on the edge of the bed, so she stretched to grab them.

By the time she’d located and clasped on her bra, Draco was fully dressed. He glanced at her as he stood at the foot of the bed buttoning his shirt.

“Will we see each other again?” He asked nonchalantly, starting to turn towards the door.

“Yes.” Hermione scooted down and hooked his leg with her foot. “Wait. Can we just stay for a while? Talk? Or not talk and just lie here.”

She sounded desperate, but the thought of him leaving made her stomach drop. Being left here would be impossibly lonely. Almost as bad as going back to the Burrow.

“Yeah. I have time, if you want me to stay.”

“I do.” She started to get up to gather the rest of her clothes, but Draco pushed her back onto the bed, his hand on her waist.

“I want you like this though.” He pressed a kiss to her collarbone and brushed his hand along her side, from her hip to where the band of her bra covered her ribs. “You’re beautiful.”

How did he make her feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time? She murmured thanks and arranged the pillows against the headboard, a comfortable place to cuddle him in their own little nest. She didn’t want to let Draco go yet. Not until she had to. 

“What do you want to talk about?” He settled in.

“We could get to know each other better.” She wanted a more full picture of his life, not just the sliver of who he was when they were alone together or the formal way he behaved in public. “What are your professional aspirations?”

“That’s your question?” Draco laughed. “Like a job interview?”

She glowered at him as best she could while being half naked and curled under his arm. Her Ministry job was usually the first thing she told people about herself and a very fascinating subject.

“Fine. I like being a Potioneer,” Draco said. “As for aspirations: I think I'd be happy doing only that, but I'll need to start taking more leadership roles in society soon because of my family.”

The Sacred Twenty-Eight still had prominent positions just handed to them, despite the post-war changes at the Ministry. She hated the unfairness of it all, the way everything always seemed to be stacked towards them and against her. She felt rather than saw Draco sigh, a slight movement she wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t pressed against him.

“Is that what you want?”

“It's sooner than I'd hoped for,” he said quietly. “I don't know.”

How could he not want the power at his fingertips? She’s always felt like such an outsider in the Wizarding World. Like there was something that she needed to achieve or unlock before she felt like she belonged. Draco had that nebulous thing, didn’t he? But he wasn’t how she had imagined, and she never considered what it would be like to not have a choice.

“It's a privilege, though,” she said. “The influence you have.”

“You sound like my mother.” He spun his signet ring round on his finger so it looked like a plain silver band before sliding back into the symbol of his legacy. “What are your career aspirations?”

She took a deep breath. “I want to be Minister of Magic.”

That declaration usually got skeptical looks, maybe even a laugh. Well, you are a war hero, so who knows. It stung, but was expected; there had never been a Muggle-born Minister of Magic, and most had even been Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Draco was silent, then nodded slowly. “You’ll need to learn to listen more.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, surprised by his response.

“Just—You don’t have to necessarily give people what they want. But if you want to be influential, you need to at least understand what they want. What drives them and how that guides their actions. Intimidation isn’t enough.”

“Oh.” She would need to think through that strangely insightful advice later. “But you think I could be Minister?”

“Sure. If you’re strategic. You're doing well so far, with most things.”

“Thank you.” She bit her lip, but couldn't hold in the follow-up question. “What do you think I’m not doing well?”

“You should find colleagues that you think you can trust and make an effort to support them. At least some of them will return it.” He tilted her chin up to study her face. “And train your expressions so it's not so obvious when you think something is bullshit.” He laughed and ran his thumb across her bottom lip. “This expression, exactly. I'm giving you good advice.”

She frowned more deeply. “I'll consider it.”

It felt strange to be called out by him, but he wasn’t being unkind. Ron’s support of her had been unwavering over the years, but also not very specific. Hermione was brilliant, she would figure everything out without any help. Of course she knew Ron was proud of her, so why did Draco’s measured compliment feel more real? It felt like a betrayal to even think about it too deeply.

“Do you have a question to get to know me?” she asked. 

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“Seriously? That's a worse question than career aspirations.”

“I can ask something easier if you need me to,” he teased.

“Eggy bread and bacon.”

He made a pleased sound of approval. “Did you make it, or did Weasley?”

“Molly did,” she said a bit reluctantly. “Ron’s mum cooks most meals.”

She and Ron offered to help out occasionally, but it felt like trespassing into Molly’s domain, and honestly, they weren’t very good at it.

“What?” Draco asked incredulously. “With all your talk of house-elves and me being a spoiled prat, I make my own breakfast and you don't?”

“That is a ridiculous comparison. House-elves are a barbaric tradition.” She pulled away and sat up on her knees to fully glare at him. “The fact that you would compare a mother cooking for her family by choice to what is essentially a captive group forced into servitude—”

Draco’s eyes dropped to her lips, then her chest in her bra. “I think being scolded by you when you're only wearing knickers just unlocked something in my brain.”

“You told me you don’t even have house-elves anymore.” She swatted him, which probably did the opposite of making her point, judging from the way the motion made her breasts bounce.

He batted away her hand, a grin playing on his lips. He loved fighting with her, she realized. No, not fighting. Sparring. That push between them; like they were the only two people in the world, a battle where the only stakes were their own racing hearts. 

“What did you have for breakfast, then?”

“Toasted baguette with Nadec butter from Saudi Arabia.” 

“Oh, bread and butter,” she crowed. “What a chef.”

“Nadec butter, Granger. It’s very robust, almost reminiscent of mascarpone cheese.” 

His posh voice had somehow grown on her; one swot lecturing another. She had to bite down her grin.

“International butter of the week?” 

“Yes, of course. Thank you for improving my life with that, by the way.” He leaned forward, growing serious. “Now listen, the way that it’s fermented—”

“No, you listen.” She knew nothing about Nadec butter but cut him off by pushing him to the side and rolling on top of him. “It doesn't even compare to margarine.”

“Margarine?” He repeated in a tone usually used to describe dementors. “Might as well drink petrol.”

“Delicious.” She held his wrists down, laughing. “Robust—”

Draco flipped her over on the bed in a gentle wrestling move, his hand cradling her head. Unguarded joy was clear on his face; the ease between them cutting past his usual restraint.

It felt incredible.

She was fun. And playful, and fascinating, and completely irresistible to the gorgeous man currently holding her like he couldn't get enough of her. The uptight shrew that everyone saw her as was only one part of a multi-faceted, loveable person.

She and Draco escaped for another hour, talking until they got hungry enough to order room service food from the pub downstairs. Then longer, until the sunlight streaming through the window changed to the glow of streetlights. 

Hermione stretched out her bare legs on the bed, enjoying the way her skin looked in the half-light, intertwined with Draco’s trouser-clad ones. The time together felt decadent, each moment tattooing something into her that she would always remember, the escape twisting into something that felt more like coming home. 

The sun glinted off the imposing black facade of the Wizarding salon. The last place Hermione wanted to be was back where she’d dyed Draco’s hair, but here she was slinking back to the scene of the crime.

“Are you alright?” Astoria paused and held the ornate gold door open.

“Of course!” She smiled, but judging by Astoria’s concerned expression, it must have come out as a grimace. “This place looks so nice.”

They probably didn’t even remember what happened. She eyed the door warily as it closed behind her. It felt important to talk face-to-face with Astoria about Draco. It wasn't that she didn't believe him about their break up. It was just that after spending time together, it seemed crazy that Astoria wouldn't want to be with him.

She trailed after Astoria to the reception area, then stopped dead at the sight of a large poster flashing above the bored-looking reception witch. The words NO ADMITTANCE flashed ominously on top of a moving image of herself roaring like a maniac, then falling flat on her back, purple shampoo bubbles clinging to her thankfully invisible skin. 

And it wasn’t the only one; identical posters were scattered throughout the salon. They certainly held a grudge here for only a little mess. And also covertly dying someone’s hair.

Astoria tucked her arm through Hermione’s, stopping her from backing out the door and running away like she wanted to. “Thank you for agreeing to meet here. I’m only in London for the day visiting Daphne.” 

Hermione nodded. “Sure. How’s Cumbria?”

“Peaceful.” Astoria grinned. “Far away from my parents. And there’s nothing better than rambling around the beautiful countryside.”

“Sounds great.” Hermione could think of many things better than wandering through scrubby hills, but Astoria certainly seemed happy about it. “Do you fly?”

“Sometimes. But hiking really gets you close enough to find all kinds of interesting things.”

They reached their turn at the reception desk. There was a dizzying array of salon services listed in moving script, with no prices or descriptions listed. Hermione pulled out her pocketbook and tried to identify something to get.

“I’ll take a sugaring treatment on my—” She squinted at the script. “Lips?”

That sounded like a delicious little treat. The words shifted and lined up differently. “Or bikini area?”

A bit weirder, because she wouldn’t be able to taste the sugar. Maybe that option was for someone else to get a sugary treat. An unbidden image flashed through her mind of Draco looking up at her from between her legs, his slow smirk growing when he caught her eye.

Merlin, why was it so warm in here? Astoria raised her eyebrows slightly and stepped next to her. 

“Maybe you can do that part after we talk?” She asked Hermione, then turned to the reception witch. “Two deluxe spa treatments, please.”

“Of course, Miss Astoria,” the witch chirped, pulling out a huge, ornate book and using her wand to flip to the right page.

“Right.” Hermione frowned. “That, instead of sugaring. How much is the cost?”

She should have enough money with her, but the shampoo before had been surprisingly expensive. A deluxe treatment might be really extravagant. 

“Oh, my family has a long-standing account here. It would be more of an inconvenience to wait for you to pay,” Astoria said breezily, putting her arm around Hermione to guide her away. 

“You don't need to do that.” Hermione shook her head. “But thank you.”

“Nonsense, it's my pleasure.” Astoria smiled like Hermione was the one doing her a favor.

It made it impossible to argue. Was this a skill that Society women were taught; how to tell people what to do in the most polite way possible? If so, she needed to learn it.

Astoria stopped in front of a wall of fruit-infused water in glass containers and tilted her head back at the options. Sunlight shone through from the window behind like stained glass as the fruit floated gently in colorful patterns. Hermione picked up a silver goblet from the counter below and moved it under the spout of the closest water choice while Astoria strolled to the end of the row. 

“Beet greens and prune juice.” A melodious voice came from the wall. “Rich in vitamin A and iron, this drink has a laxative effect.”

Hermione pulled her goblet away, but the liquid didn’t stop, sending a stream of pale brown that smelled like mud and raisins.

“Mango. Immunity boosting and good for healthy skin and hair.”

She’d accidentally put the goblet under another spout when she’d jerked away from the diarrhea drink. Shit. The mango juice was dripping onto the counter below, and she put the goblet underneath. But the brown one was dripping too. She frantically moved the goblet back and forth between the two, trying to catch the flowing liquid.

“Engorgio.” She fumbled with her wand, trying to hold the goblet steady as it stretched into a wobbly oval shape to reach under both spouts.

The liquids finally stopped, right at the rim of the goblet.

“Is everything satisfactory?”

Hermione turned to face the person speaking, then almost dropped her goblet at the sight of the stylist with dreadlocks who had chased her with a broom the last time she was here. Did she know? The stylist looked just as harassed as that time.

“It’s perfect,” she squeaked, raising the goblet to her lips. Some brown liquid sloshed out of the sides. “Perfect!” Hermione said again, lowering her head to the trough-like goblet and slurping some out. “So satisfactory.”

The combination was like dirt syrup with a mango tang. She coughed, but couldn’t cover her mouth because she needed both hands to hold the goblet steady.

“The basic service package only includes one drink,” the stylist sniffed.

“Right. I’ll just pay extra?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“You’re supposed to pay before.”

Well, it was too late for that. Hermione kept eye contact as she slurped another sip, remembering that she had the deluxe treatment package and every right to enjoy this disgusting drink.

“Gwendolyn, how are you?” Astoria held out a hand to the stylist, whose eyes widened at the sight of her empty finger.

“Not as good as you,” the stylist said as they embraced with stiff precision. “All anyone’s talking about is you and Draco Malfoy. The wedding is still on, right? You’re quite the power couple.”

Astoria’s smile looked strained. “Thank you. I think we’re ready for our pedicures now.”

Gwendolyn looked from Astoria to Hermione, clearly trying to comprehend the we in her statement. Hermione set the goblet down behind her and followed along after them. By the time they reached the throne-like chairs of the pedicure area, Gwendolyn was looking at Hermione with more curiosity than disdain. 

It was strange to be gawked at for a different reason than being a Muggle-born. Hermione sat back onto the chair and eased her feet into the stone basin of water. It was warm, with smooth stones scattered on the bottom that felt good against the soles of her feet. 

“Are you feeling florals or fruits?

Hermione looked around for what Astoria was talking about. More drinks, maybe? A line of bubbles bobbing like Quidditch snitches was drifting towards them, different colors of smoke swirling inside of them.

“I’m not sure.” Hermione blew at the bubbles, which were getting uncomfortably close to her face. 

Astoria inhaled deeply as a bubble passed under her nose, then tapped it away with a manicured finger. “Bergamot and cedar, that’s a bit much.”

She tapped away a few more bubbles with shades of orange inside, then considered a pale pink one. “The jasmine and rose are better to balance the citrus.”

Hermione nodded, then braced herself to let a bubble drift up to her face. It must just be perfume, she could handle that. 

“Vanilla,” she identified proudly.

Up close, she could see that it was a fine mist inside the bubbles instead of smoke. The vanilla was a soft gold that made her think of sunshine filtering through the leaves of a tree. The bubble drifted over to Astoria.

“Oh, this one.” She wrinkled her nose. “Daphne used to absolutely bathe in vanilla bourbon until Mother told her it made her smell like a harlot. I think the tipping point was the face that Narcissa Malfoy made when Daphne leaned in to greet her at a ball.” 

Astoria made a passable impression of Mrs. Malfoy’s pinched look of disapproval and Hermione forced a smile. What was wrong with vanilla bourbon? Although if Hermione ever snuck her way into a ball at Malfoy Manor, perfume would be the least of her concerns. A harlot would be an improvement on what Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy likely thought of her.

Astoria nudged the vanilla bubble back to Hermione. “Do you like it though? I think you can pull it off,” Astoria said kindly. “Like baking something. With…bourbon.”

“It’s nice. Maybe a different vanilla would be better.”

The bubbles rearranged themselves at her words, lining up for her to evaluate them. Astoria tilted her head thoughtfully at her own bubbles, long lashes fluttering as she inhaled, a satisfied smile on her face. This is who Draco had been engaged to marry, but he wanted Hermione instead.

It didn’t make sense. Astoria was gorgeous, and she also had a grace and correctness about her that Hermione could never duplicate. Astoria fit, in society and in Draco’s current life.

“Perfect. The hint of vetiver really makes it.” Astoria placed the tip of her wand to a bubble.

It exploded delicately and the mist lightly landed on the pulse point at her throat, behind her ears and on her wrists. Small dots of color gathered in the air from the mist, then floated down to land on each one of Astoria’s toenails as the stones rearranged to lift her feet above the water in the basin.

“So, how have you been? In general.” Hermione flicked through a few bubbles in front of her. 

They had written owl-post letters, but she hadn't seen Astoria in person since Mên-an-Tol, when she had dramatically apparated away and left Draco alone at the standing stones. 

“Very well, thank you. How are you?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at the rote response. She wanted to really know, not just the polite answer and move on.

Astoria sighed. “Things are— My parents are having a difficult time accepting my decision regarding Draco. And I’m struggling a bit with my role in life.”

“What kind of role?”

“I forget that you don't understand the pure-blood ways.” Astoria caught Hermione’s scowl and shook her head. “That's not an insult. I just meant the burden of importance in carrying on the family lines. Our powers are honed through generations.”

“Right.” Hermione flicked away a bubble with more force than necessary. That was all such bullshit. “But you and Draco did break up, right?”

“Yes, We spoke after I sent him a letter. I apologized for leaving him during the ritual, and he agreed that it would be for the best to try to dissolve the betrothal contract.”

“That’s good that you talked. I know how upset he was.” 

Of course she felt terrible for Astoria too, but the memory of Draco's shock and sadness from the rejection made her ache just to think about it. 

“Was he?” Astoria asked. “He's so distant. Like talking to a blank wall. I mean, a handsome and polite wall, but still. I didn't think he cared much either way.”

“Yes, he thought you hated him. Because of his past and—” Hermione cut herself off, not wanting to betray what Draco had told her. 

Apparently she knew him better than his fiancée, even before they had become intimate. 

“I don't hate Draco.”

“Did you love him?” Hermione asked, and a bubble hit her cheek while she watched Astoria with bated breath. 

She popped it without looking and was showered by a gentle mist of light, fresh fragrance. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Astoria said firmly. “Love might have grown over time, but now it's only obligation.”

Relief coursed through Hermione, and she looked down to see that her toenails had been colored with a beautiful silvery lilac, almost like her flowers from the forest. Only one more question for Astoria remained, and she braced herself to ask.

“How would you feel if he was with someone else?”

“Who?” Astoria's brow furrowed. “There’s hardly anyone else eligible that his parents would approve of, and I can't imagine he would go against them. Draco would follow them off a cliff to do his duty. Well, you know.” 

Astoria gestured to her arm in the spot Draco’s Dark Mark was etched. “And with Lucius on his deathbed—”

“What?” Hermione gasped. Draco hadn’t told her, even though they had talked for hours.

“That's why our wedding isn't officially canceled. The healers advised to not upset Lucius, so Draco and his mother decided not to tell him. And my parents would love to force us down the aisle, so they're happy to push things forward.”

Draco had wanted to continue the charade of his wedding. It felt like a betrayal, but also made sense that he would want to help his father. There were few people who deserved to die a slow and painful death more than Lucius Malfoy, but now he was, and Hermione didn't know how to feel about it. Why hadn't Draco told her?

“So they think he’ll die…soon?” Hermione struggled to find the words. 

If Lucius Malfoy thought his son was seeing a Muggle-born, would it actually kill him? That would serve him right. Her stomach lurched. If she cared about Draco, then she shouldn’t be having thoughts like that.

Something scraped across Hermione’s shoulder slowly, like monstrous fingernails. She twitched in the chair, trying to reach her hand back to whatever it was. The clawing moved into her hair, a horribly familiar feeling. The comb.

“You,” she mouthed, as it bobbed into sight, holding one of her curls in its plastic teeth like a threat. 

“I don’t think he’s ever really recovered from being in Azkaban,” Astoria said sadly. “My mother said he’s getting weaker every day.”

Poor Draco. The comb slid up the lock of her hair, back-combing the ringlet into pure frizz. Merlin, it was evil. Hermione managed to catch the plastic in her fingers and ripped it away from her head.

The comb jabbed at her thumb until she let it go with a squeak of pain. Astoria didn’t seem to notice, her head bowed to peacefully inspect her fingernails while a floating silver file gently shaped them. 

The comb darted away and hopped up a carved gold mirror towards one of the wanted posters. It stopped when it caught her looking at it, then bent into the shape of a letter U. Hermione sank down in her seat, stricken. It knew.

She snuck another glance. The comb jabbed at the bubble creature on the wanted poster, then pointed right at Hermione. It knew and it was threatening her. Evil plastic torture device. Hermione glared with enough fire to melt it, then drew her finger slowly across her throat. The comb responded by pinching the corner of the poster between its teeth and starting to pull it off the wall.

“No!” Hermione mouthed, then pulled out a Galleon to throw at the comb. Maybe it could be bribed before it ratted her out. 

“What?” Astoria asked, then looked past Hermione and smiled. “Oh, it's a concierge comb!” 

The Galleon hit it, hard enough to knock it off course for a moment, but not hard enough to make it drop the poster. The comb swooped towards them, its movement purposeful.

Hermione snatched the poster as it passed in front of her, ripping all but a scrap from the comb’s obnoxious little teeth. Had anyone seen that? What if one of the salon employees took the poster back and recognized her? She crumpled it up and shoved it into the basin at her feet, the water making her picture unrecognizable.

“Paper is great for skin,” she babbled to Astoria, who was looking at her with confusion. “Softening. Skin needs paper.”

“I haven’t heard that before. Well hello, darling,” she cooed at the devil plastic, stroking the comb with one finger.

It twisted in the air bashfully.

“Aren’t you a dear? I have home delivery, so I don't need any products today. No, thank you.”

The comb gave a little bow and hopped back into Hermione’s hair.

“How did you do that?” Hermione hissed and plucked at it, making her hair even more tangled. “Get it to leave you alone?”

“I just declined the products and thanked it.”

She had most definitely declined. Forcefully declined.

“That didn’t work.” She shoved another Galleon at it, then hit herself in the head with the coin after the comb moved at the last second.

“Did you say thank you?”

Of course she had. Or had she? No, she had thrown it across the room instead. Oh.

“Comb? Thank you? I appreciate your…help.”

It pulled free from her hair and hovered in front of her expectantly.

“Thank you. And no thank you to products.” She smoothed her hair, trying to flatten the snarls. It actually had been much softer with the purple shampoo. “Ok, fine. I’ll take some products.”

The comb patted her on the head condescendingly and flew away. The secret to dealing with it was politeness? How irritating. Although she couldn’t decide if she was more annoyed with the comb or with herself.

“Thank you for talking with me about all this,” Astoria said softly, reaching out her hand to Hermione. “About my broken engagement. My parents are so disappointed in me, and Daphne doesn’t understand why I don’t just leave it all behind like she did.”

Hermione squeezed her hand back, feeling a bit guilty for having her own reasons for questioning Astoria about Draco. She did care how Astoria was doing though, and it felt good to have a female friend not related to Ron in any way. 

“Do you ever think about it? Leaving?” 

Hermione knew the pain of breaking away from family, even if it was for the best reasons. Obliviating her parents had been an impossible choice, but for the best in the long run.

“I don’t know who I would be on my own,” Astoria said. “Without the plan that’s been made for me since birth.”

Her words sparked something in Hermione, a raw kind of recognition building. Hadn’t she been struggling with the same thing? Afraid to face who she would be if she wasn’t with Ron, if she left the path she had decided on? 

“I feel that way sometimes,” Hermione said softly, pausing only a moment before telling Astoria how it felt to be absorbed into the Weasley family.

Comforting and stifling at the same time. Like every decision she had made during and after the war was a domino, crashing into the next without time to stop and consider. Astoria was a good listener. And it felt different to talk to someone about this who hadn't been part of it. Who didn't view things from the lens of what they had been going through at the same time, like Ron and Harry did.

The comb popped back into sight, drawing Hermione’s attention away from her conversation with Astoria. 

“Hello, Concierge Comb.” She held out her finger to gently touch it. All she had needed was kindness, all along.

It pinched her hand hard, then flew back to land on a burly man’s shoulder. The man glanced at the comb and then continued towards Hermione and Astoria, his face stormy. Hermione straightened in her chair. Was this some kind of salon bouncer? Surely that wasn’t a thing. 

He stopped in front of Hermione and folded his arms across his chest, one muscular forearm pushing his nametag up. CLIVE.

“Do I know you?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

Oh, she had gotten his voice right, she thought dimly, then panic shot fireworks through her brain.

“No. Do I know you?” She had answered in her own Clive Voice, cringing as her voice dropped even lower than his. It must have been some insane panicked reflex.

“I asked first. Have you been here before?” Clive growled.

“Never.” She couldn’t talk normally now, or he would think she was mocking him. “I have never been here before.”

“Never?” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on powerful thighs. 

“Never.” Her tone dropped into a demonic possession level and he stood back up. 

The comb had darted away during the standoff and returned with another poster. Clive took it carefully and held the paper up to Hermione, looking back and forth between the two.

“I think you have been here before,” he accused. “I think you have entered a safe space and destroyed things.”

Astoria swiftly snatched the paper from his hands, then plunged it into her own water basin. “Thank you, Clive. I wanted to try the paper treatment on my feet. Skin softening?”

“Hello, Miss Astoria,” he said awkwardly, then turned back to Hermione with narrowed eyes. “I think—”

“Miss Granger is my guest today and we’re not sure what you’re referring to.” Astoria said with enough innocent sweetness to melt any heart.

Clive looked at Hermione skeptically. “You did not tamper with Mr. Malfoy's hair? And fill the Brazil Room with shampoo suds? And stress the Cissus Amazonica vines? And throw my favorite candle on the floor?”

He seemed to be listing her crimes in order of offensiveness, his voice wavering when he reached the candle. Poor Clive, she should confess and buy him a new candle.

“Of course not,” Astoria said. “It’s lovely to see you, Clive. I’ll be sure to tell Draco hello for you.”

Clive hovered for a moment, chastened by Astoria’s clear dismissal. Hermione held out another three Galleons to the comb. Maybe that would cover the cost of a candle and whatever help the vines needed. She added another Galleon at the thought of the vine wrapping around Draco’s rippling biceps before he pulled them from the ceiling. Worth it. The comb bounced away, and Clive followed, after a last glare at Hermione.

“Did you do those things?” Astoria asked.

Hermione winced. “Yes, all of it.”

Astoria gaped at her, then burst out laughing. “You dyed Draco’s hair blue? He showed up to formal dinner that night and both of our parents were absolutely horrified.”

“It was payback.” Hermione tried and failed to sound regretful.

“Right.” Astoria gazed at Hermione with sudden focus. “Draco wasn’t upset though. He just stood there with a little smile like he had the best secret.”

Her. The best secret. Hermione had the sudden urge to tell Astoria everything, to confess that she might actually love Draco and wanted to rewrite the world to create a version where they could be together.

It was too much. Too fragile, too impossible.

Hermione dropped her feet back into the basin, the silver on her toes hidden by the water and soggy bits of paper. She would hold him close as a secret too, a shining jewel to keep her warm or burn her apart inside.

Chapter Text

“It’s a beautiful day for the water ritual!” Audrey said brightly, beckoning the two couples over to where she stood on the Tintagel beach.

It had only been a few months since they had met in the castle ruins above, at the beginning of all of this. Hermone looked around at the cave behind her and the sea before her, jutting rocks harsh against the brilliant blue sky. With all that had happened, that first meeting felt like a lifetime ago.

Hermione had been focused only on her wedding with grim determination. Now she was a distracted mess standing stiffly and awkwardly next to Ron, trying to avoid blushing. It was too easy to remember being cuddled up in bed with Draco, dizzy with pleasure.

Audrey pulled their jars of flower powder from a bag and handed them out. The silver dust only filled her jar halfway, but it was still soothing in its beauty. She had been dreading the water ritual, and not just because of the discomfort of seeing Draco and Astoria together. This one would likely be as frustrating for her as the other rituals had been.

“Hello Granger.” Draco’s voice rumbled low beside her as he took his flowers.

His grip was loose on his jar, the flower dust shimmering gently. Maybe she could switch them or dump some in hers so she would have a bit more. He would probably let her if she asked, but there was no fun in that.

“Good morning, Malfoy,” she said briskly, tossing her hair over her shoulder to look up at him.

“Good morning.” He gave her a slow grin, the look on his face saying it was good now.

He made her breathless, her chest expanding with something lighter than the air around her. How had he slept last night? She wanted to hear which butter he had chosen for breakfast this morning, what his plans were for the rest of the day. To test how his hair felt against her fingers since the humidity of the sea brought the tiniest bit of curl in it.

“Good,” she repeated mindlessly, but his eyes softened even more, like they were speaking something beyond the actual words. 

“Yeah, hi,” Ron said loudly.

Hermione tore her gaze away from Draco and looked out into the ocean. Don’t be suspicious. They were supposed to hate each other. Before they left, Ron had excitedly asked what prank she had planned and she had just blinked at him dumbly. Maybe she could splash Draco—that would be mean. But then he would be wet and that was just dangerous.

Derowen clapped his hands together. “Thank you for being here today! Most of you have reached the halfway point of the marriage rituals required for the sacred Solstice Wedding.”

Astoria made a strangled noise, but Derowen ignored her. She might have completed the earth ritual in the cave, but Astoria had definitely missed the air ritual in Mên-an-Tol when she apparated away. It was probably petty to feel satisfied that Astoria was behind on the rituals. At least it showed that Astoria didn’t care about preparing for her wedding, so Hermione didn’t need to feel bad about sneaking around with Draco.

“The water ritual builds the constancy of marriage, the weight of a commitment to never let your love drift away. In a few weeks the fire ritual will be a formal ball in the Tintagel gardens and will channel your passion and desire. Then the four elemental rituals will culminate at the Solstice Wedding ceremony with the forming of your flowers into sacred rings,” Derowen explained.

“Ceremonies,” Ron interrupted. “You’re planning on two, right?”

Derowen looked at the four of them and paused long enough to make the moment uncomfortable. “Of course. Now come forward with your flower dust.”

Hermione reluctantly kicked off her sandals and stepped to the edge of the water.

“Are you ready?” Derowen crouched in the wet sand tracing illegible words that were immediately washed away.

“Yes,” Hermione lied, gripping the fabric of her shorts anxiously.

What if it didn’t work for her at all? What if her path wasn’t smooth because she was trying to go in the wrong direction?

Derowen tossed some sand up into the air and she took a step back. “These rituals can reveal more than you expect sometimes. Just focus on how you feel. Let the magic of the water guide you.”

“Yes,” she repeated irritably. “I plan to continue doing that.”

The water was cold, but she forced herself to go forward until she was ankle deep. The tide was strange here, waves swirling more slowly than the rhythm she expected from the sea. Magic, of course, but it made her shiver. The spell-based magic that she learned in school was more structured than the wild magic of Tintagel, more comfortably predictable.

“Can you hold this?” Draco tossed his jar of flowers at her and started to pull off his t-shirt.

She fumbled with the two jars and stared at him open-mouthed. His abs practically rippled as he stretched his arms up to pull the fabric over his head, an Adonis on a rocky beach.

“Oh,” Astoria made a different kind of strangled noise beside him and Audrey gasped.

“That’s not really necessary since you'll only be putting your feet in,” Audrey said, but her tone held a note of take off more.

Draco tossed his shirt on the dry sand and casually rubbed the back of his neck. Or maybe not so casually, judging by the smirk on his face when his gaze reached Hermione. 

“Show off.” She gave his flowers back, bumping into his chest with the glass jar. 

Merlin, he was gorgeous. Draco’s fingers brushed across hers as he took the jar, sending electric shocks of pleasure through her.

“Does that mean you like it?” he whispered, leaning in to tease her.

The urge to lick his shoulder was almost uncontrollable, but she rolled her eyes and stepped towards Ron, heart beating wildly. 

“Good idea, Malfoy.” Ron gripped the hem of his own shirt and glanced at the three women.

“Ron!” Hermione squeaked, but he was already pulling off his shirt with even more exaggerated posing than Draco had done.

“Oh my.” Audrey raised a hand to her mouth. “Perhaps you can share some workout tips with Percy.”

Ron held his jar of golden flowers up in the palm of his hand, flexing his bicep and tilting his head dramatically to look up at them. Astoria seemed frozen, eyes wide as if she was entranced by the two half-naked men. Draco stretched his arms back and popped his chest forward, like taking two steps into the water was the type of physical activity he needed to warm up for.

“Anyways,” Derowen drawled, keeping his own shirt and leather jacket firmly on. “Put your flowers into the water.” 

Hermione unscrewed the lid. The familiar moonlit forest smell washed over her, peaceful and calm. She sprinkled a small amount into the water, nervous that the flowers wouldn’t come back to her.

“Listen and feel how you are a pillar of devotion and loyalty. Love isn't a grand gesture, it is a choice you make over and over again, constant as the tide. Let your choice flow and return.”

Ron dumped his entire jar out unceremoniously and the water flashed gold around him. Of course she knew Ron was loyal. He had really only wavered once, and after that had been entirely steadfast. Until he had suggested the experiment seeing other people, she had never even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t continue to choose her over and over again.

She was the problem, caught up in thoughts of Draco. Her hand holding the jar was starting to tremble. She planned to make her relationship with Ron the set point in her life, so the way that they were together now how it would be forever. She dumped out the rest of the jar with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

The cold water swirled around her ankles, making her stumble a bit as it pulled away the wet sand under her feet. When they had done the Declaration of the Banns and felt the four elements so immersively, the worst part had been the water. She tried not to think about the phantom sensation of being submerged.

It was hard to tell if the shifting silver in the water was her flowers or only light reflecting. She took a step forward to see better, worried that she had already lost sight of them. 

“They'll find out if I don't,” Astoria said anxiously, loud enough that her voice carried over the sound of the waves. “We have to go along with it.”

Hermione couldn't quite make out Draco’s reply and she turned to see what they were doing.  Astoria’s flowers were in the water, but seemed to be coiled around her legs in a way that was at odds with the motion of the tide. Draco’s jar was open, but still completely full.

They must be Astoria’s parents. Hermione hadn’t exactly asked what had happened after Astoria ran away at Mên-an-Tol, but it must have been bad enough that Astoria felt forced to do this ritual. Was Draco refusing since they didn’t plan to go through with the marriage? The thought made her relieved, but something about the sight of his flowers trapped behind glass also made her ache.

A spray of water splashed Hermione’s back, soaking her shirt. The sea seemed to be getting rougher, and she stumbled as the current pushed her farther away from shore. She reached out for Ron to steady herself, but he had moved back to the beach without her noticing, his golden flowers already lifting back up from the water and returning to the jar.

Of course it was easy for him again. It looked like her flower powder might be sparkling in the water farther out, but it was like a moving mirage that shifted as she took another step. She needed to focus and have a breakthrough like she did in the cave. Love is a choice you make over and over again.

Each day of her future would stretch out in front of her like another link in a chain, no choice required really. She squinted into the swirling water and started scooping her hands through it. Her legs were getting numb and tingly, probably from the cold.

“Hold your choice in your mind,” Derowen shouted, his voice sounding far away.

“I’m going to marry Ron.” She whispered it out loud, but doubt clawed through her.

A wave crashed against her chest, knocking her breath away. She braced her legs to keep her balance, but it was no good—the sand shifted beneath her feet and her head slipped under the water.

So cold, the weight of it was unbearable. She thrashed around, too disoriented to know which way she needed to go to surface. A bubble-head charm—but she would risk losing her wand in the rough crash of waves. Her eyes stung with tears and salt water, sharp all over. Then strong hands clamped around her and pulled her up.

“Are you alright?” Draco sounded terrified.

He was still bare-chested and warm against her cold skin. Relief cut through her panic as she clung to him desperately. Draco shifted her in his arms to look at her face, searching to see if she was hurt.

“Yes, I’m ok,” she sobbed. She was safe now and she sagged against Draco, the comforting smell of him slowing her breathing.

All the water had fallen away. Draco hadn’t saved her by swimming, he was just holding her while standing in knee-deep water.

“Hermione!” Ron splashed over and held out his arms to take her from Draco.

She must look like an idiot, falling down where it was this shallow. It felt like she’d been drowning though, which made no sense. Draco didn’t let go of her, his fingers clenched tightly around her ribs and under her knees.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Ron said breathlessly. “I was trying to run over, but it felt like the water was pushing me back.”

Draco dropped his forehead to her shoulder for a split second, sucking in a shaky breath before passing her to Ron.

“I really am fine.” She swung her legs down, holding on to Ron as she regained her balance. “Where are my flowers?”

“Shit,” Draco said, kicking at the water around his feet. 

He was empty handed too, they’d both lost their jars when he helped her. So she not only failed to complete her ritual, but she had messed things up for Draco if he planned to not do it.

They trudged to the shore, where Astoria was standing with Audrey and Derowen. Her jar of sickly looking white flower powder was already closed. 

“Those waves looked terrible.” Astoria quickly did a drying spell and pulled Hermione in for a hug.

Hermione fell into her arms gratefully. Astoria felt like the safest place to take comfort at the moment, while she wanted Draco too much and Ron not enough. Something smooth and hard hit her ankle and she flinched.

Her jar had washed to shore and it was half full of flowers again. Draco bent down to retrieve his too, all of his shimmering powder back in place. They had all completed the ritual then, in the most unpredictable way possible.

Let your choice flow and return. What had she chosen? Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and tried to feel the ritual magic so it would guide her. It was no good, the only thing she had done was nearly drown to keep from making a choice at all.

“Typhoon Tidying spells will begin Thursday to clean the offices overlooking the Atrium. Please ensure your windows are completely closed.” Kingsley Shacklebolt sent a sparkling checkmark zipping across the room to land on that agenda item.

Hermione made a note to pack her lunch that day since the food in the café always tasted swampy for hours after the flooding. The next discussion point glowed on the parchment stretched across an entire wall of the magically extended conference room. Ministry-wide staff meetings were tedious on the best days, but this one was especially dragging on as she waited to report on the Beast Division.

She snuck a glance at Draco. His group of Potioneers must have come directly from the field because they all looked a bit windswept and still had on their potions belts. If she was alone with him right now, she could pull Draco forward by that leather strap and slide her hand up to the collar of his shirt to unbutton a few buttons.

They had been watching each other and quickly looking away for the past forty minutes. She raised her arms up to stretch her back, turning her upper body and holding it for a second longer than needed.

The pose was sultry and she glanced over to catch Draco staring. Ha. His lips were slightly parted, eyes wide as he tracked her movement. He tipped his head down when her eyes caught his, but she didn't look away, not until he looked up again with a quicksilver smile. She shook her hair back over her shoulders, biting her lip to keep from grinning back at him.

Widgens made his disgusting throat rattling noise and Hermione jerked to attention, feeling flushed. Shit, Andrews was already reporting on the Spirit Division and she’d barely been paying attention. She should be grateful for Widgens’ sinus drip keeping her from missing her turn in front of everyone.

“Good afternoon.” She placed her neat stack of files on the podium and charmed the amplifying horn down to her level. “The horclump infestations in the eastern areas have been eradicated, thanks to the hard work of the Diamond team. The Muggle mushroom-hunters have also completely recovered.”

It felt easier than usual as she went down her list, almost like she was speaking only to Draco. Her voice was warmer even to her own ears, on the verge of a smile, like everything she was saying was unquestionably wonderful.

Now for the most high pressure item, her cross-departmental initiative for improving safety measures during fieldwork. She’d been preparing this for months, anticipating arguments from the usual people.

She described the terrible Hippocamus relocation mission when the Ministry team hadn’t noticed nearby tadfoal eggs and underestimated the increased aggression when the creatures defended their nest. That should get everyone fired up and eager for procedure changes. 

“We need a checklist of simple detection charms to survey the surroundings before a team proceeds.” Hermione caught sight of a group of people from her department whispering and rolling their eyes, then stumbled over her words. “—and more detailed reports after missions. Also, debriefing meetings create a more cohesive picture of dangerous areas.”

She looked back over her shoulder at the sound of a dismissive snort. “Did you have something to say, Widgens?”

No wonder her staff felt comfortable mocking her when her fellow department heads undermined her at every turn. Widgens crossed his arms and stepped back into the cluster of people around him.  

“Of course Granger wants more reports,” a woman laughed from the back of the room. 

Murmurs were coming from all over now: a waste of time, so paranoid, useless paperwork. The ones that didn’t look hostile looked bored, and staring into space and stifling yawns.

Hermione shuffled her papers. “I understand that extra steps will slow down the current process slightly, but—”

“Exactly. Inefficient and unnecessary! Glad to hear you agree it won’t work,” Widgens cut her off and stepped to the podium beside her, pushing to end her turn.

Hermione leaned her elbows on the podium to crowd him out. “That’s not what I said!”

“I think it's a fantastic idea,” Blaise Zabini said loudly, drawing all eyes to where he was sprawled artfully in a chair next to Draco. “Starting with evaluating risk factors will save time in the long run. You wouldn't want to jeopardize your coworkers because of laziness, would you, Donna?”

He looked at the witch who had been heckling Hermione about paperwork with wide-eyed innocence and Donna seemed to melt at his attention.

“No, definitely not,” Donna simpered, twisting her hair around her wand. “But the extra work…”

Zabini shrugged, all casual charm. “If only there was a plan for how to make these checklists as efficient as possible.” 

“There is a plan,” Hermione practically shouted. “I’ll tell it to you.”

She glared around the room as she outlined the specifics of the checklists. Donna was still looking at Zabini with moon eyes, along with half the room. A few people were smiling at her, something that rarely happened.

“Excellent.” Shacklebolt said, casting a checkmark towards the agenda. “Widgens, do you have an update on the goblin’s complaint about the cursed jewels?”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue her next point, then closed it again. The Minister had moved on to the next item on the list, her proposal approved. Just like that? A few minutes of charm and teasing from Zabini had smoothed over what she would normally spend months fighting tooth and nail for.

She glowered at Zabini. He winked back, then turned his attention to Widgens with exaggerated studiousness. Draco looked ridiculously smug next to him, raising his perfect eyebrows at her. Those idiots. As though she needed someone to back her up when she was perfectly capable of pushing through a proposal on her own.

The rest of the meeting was a blur, and Shacklebolt passed over Widgens’ unicorn captivity idea without approving or denying it. He dismissed them and the completed agenda shrunk down and fluttered off the wall to wrap around a waiting scroll.

Everyone was supposed to help tidy up the conference room and shrink it back down to normal size, but of course all but her and a handful of others left quickly. She gathered the crumpled papers and broken quill nubs from the tables and flew them across the room to the wastebasket.

Widgens pushed in a chair with unnecessary force. “Are you blackmailing those Potioneers?”

“What?” She gawked at him, shocked by the accusation.

“It would be quite an angle since half the Ministry is lusting after them and the other half is scared. Clever, except making deals with Death Eaters never turns out well.”

The urge to throttle him was overwhelming. “Malfoy is not a Death Eater anymore. And you can’t seriously think I’m blackmailing anyone.”

“Then why was your proposal approved and mine wasn’t?”

Widgens sounded almost petulant, whining like a child when he didn’t have all his friends to back him up. Pathetic, really. She could bring up the many problems with his plan, there were errors in dietary considerations, poor environmental stimulation, and overall cruel carelessness.

“Why do you care so much?” she burst out. All this time arguing with him, and she had no idea why Widgens was pushing so hard for unicorn captivity in the first place.

“You think that you can control what every single person here does, without even a basic understanding—”

She cut off his rant. “Why is this project so important to you?”

“Because it’s hard to catch unicorns! Not everyone can do it anymore.” Widgens’ face was red, but there seemed to be something else happening besides anger.

“Oh?” she said softly, like trying not to spook an animal.

“After years of service to the Ministry, they’re expecting us to run all over muddy fields and forests, risking life and limb!”

She stared at him. Widgens didn’t even do field work anymore after becoming Department Head. Some of his friends did though, most of them older and not very spry, now that she was thinking about it.

“You want to keep the unicorns in captivity so we don’t need to keep tracking them when we need ingredients?”

“Yes,” he burst out, then stopped short, confused that she wasn’t arguing. “That’s what I said. The Magical Creatures crew are still entirely capable of doing their jobs, but there’s no reason to make the job impossible!”

Oh. There had been performance improvement meetings with some of their staff. Was Widgens worried that his slow friends would be fired? Unicorns were notoriously difficult to locate and generally hated men, no wonder those lazy assholes couldn’t do the job. 

She had taken Draco’s advice to try listening, now what would she do with the knowledge? 

“No reason to make the job impossible.” She repeated Widgens' words, watching him closely.

Widgens clenched his fists, then relaxed them. Not fighting with him was almost better than yelling back, if he got this confused and agitated by her responses.

“Is it just unicorns that are a struggle?”

“They’re the worst of the beasts,” Widgens whined, then launched into a litany of complaints about various creatures.

The female led teams didn’t seem to have trouble locating the unicorns. Maybe she could shuffle assignments around or mix up the people on each team to play to each person’s strengths better. All kinds of possibilities that she hadn’t considered because she had written Widgens’ motivations off as just being aimlessly evil.

“Right,” she cut off his rant about Chizpurfle fangs. “I’ll look into the process of unicorn tracking to see if we can make some changes.”

“Well. It's about time you thought of that.” Widgens said condescendingly, then made an odd movement with his mouth that it took her a moment to realize was a smile.

“There are also good points to be made about the House-Elf education fund,” she said experimentally.

“There are not.” His bluster was back, and he slammed the door on his way out of the conference room.

Well, it had been worth a try. The entire interaction had been shockingly productive. Maybe she should go to Draco’s office and thank him for the advice. And calming her nerves during the meeting. And for saving her during the water ritual.

She nearly slammed into an administrative wizard on her way in the hall, barely noticing him in her distraction. No, she should not find Draco, she should act like the calm professional she was. Every step she took towards her office pounded that sensible decision into her and she’d nearly convinced herself when she reached her destination.

Draco was leaning against her door.

“Oh,” she gasped, looking behind her to see if he’d drawn anyone’s attention. “Hello.”

His smile was slow as he surveyed her. Like his favorite secret.

“Come in, Malfoy.” She opened the door briskly, like they had a planned business meeting.

The second the lock clicked behind them, they were in each other's arms. She’d missed him, so close but not able to bridge the gap. It was bliss to feel his hands on the small of her back, to see the way his hair fell over his forehead when he smiled down at her. 

“You looked good up there during the meeting,” he said. "In charge."

“Yeah?”

It was just flattery, but his compliments made her warm with happiness. He was right, she had been powerful up there, good at her job and comfortable in her leadership role. Even with the Potioneers’ fake enthusiasm catching her off guard.

“Did you tell Zabini to do that?” She kept her voice stern, even as she ran her hand down his arm to squeeze his delicious bicep. “Pretend to support my idea?”

“No.” Draco pressed his lips together, pausing like he was considering his words. “I think Blaise just likes you. Likes the idea of you and me together.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised.

Her fear of Zabini telling everyone he had seen them together had passed, but she never thought that Draco’s friend might approve. No one in her life knew what she was doing with Draco, but he had been talking to Blaise about her. 

“It’s a good idea anyways. People are just in the habit of disagreeing.” 

“Thank you.” She clasped her hands around his waist, drawing him even closer.

Did she dare kiss him at work? Right outside her door, employees were moving through their work day writing reports and filing paperwork. All her time at the Ministry had brought her so much stress, maybe she deserved a little release.

Draco leaned forward like he was reading her mind, his eyes on her lips. The kiss was a sweet sigh of relief, sliding away from everything else to focus on each other. He took a step back, pulling her with him towards the enchanted chair. She gripped his shirt uselessly as he sat down before she could stop him.

“What’s wrong?” He gave her a searching look.

“That chair. It has a charm to react to how the person in it feels about me.”  

If Draco had any resentment about their arrangement, or any part of him still hated her, she would see it. And Merlin, she didn’t want to see that.

“How does it work?” Draco ran his hands over the wooden armrests.

"If the person in that chair is thinking that I'm a filthy Muggle-born, it will become rock-hard and lower slightly, so that they're below me when I'm sitting at my desk. If they’re thinking of me fondly, it's comfortable."

“Smart. You keep everyone honest.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest. 

The chair reclined back a touch and the seat seemed to spread out to be wider.

"I've never seen it do that before."

"Good.” Draco pulled her sideways onto his lap, his large hand warm on her thigh through the fabric of her skirt. “I don't want anyone else to have these particular intentions.”

She dropped her head to his, close enough to kiss his cheek or whisper in his ear. According to the chair, Draco wanted to hold her close. He nuzzled against her, practically humming with happiness. Maybe if they could do this whenever they wanted, it wouldn’t feel as good. Draco would be bored of her and she would be irritated by him, the curse of a real relationship. She toyed with the collar of his shirt, brushing pale skin with her fingertips.

Or maybe a relationship with Draco would be wonderful. Loving and challenging, like nothing she had experienced before. Safety that wasn’t stifling. The thought of it made her lightheaded. Draco gathered her hair into his hand and lifted it off her neck like a ponytail.

“I've missed you.” His voice was soft, almost musing to himself.

She'd missed him too, but this entire arrangement between them hinged on not asking for more, not looking into the future too closely. She was still in another relationship and technically he was too. Of all the reasons Draco wouldn’t ask her to leave Ron, his engagement was the one that clawed at her the most, the lie of it. The irrational hurt that she felt seeing them together at the beach, even though she had no right to be jealous.

“I saw Astoria before the water ritual.” She filled the silence compulsively. “We got pedicures. Me and your fiancée. Had a nice long chat about all kinds of things.” 

He pulled her hair a little tighter. “Did you tell her about us?”

So he wouldn’t correct her, then. His fiancée. Maybe part of him wanted to keep the engagement and not only because of his father being sick.

“Of course not. Did you?”

His nostrils flared, but his voice was controlled. “You told me not to tell anyone.”

“And that’s the only reason?” She pushed away from him, as far away as she could while still sitting on his lap.

Draco let go of her and clenched his fingers around the armrests, but whatever he was feeling towards her didn’t change the shape of the chair. It was still comfortably wide and tilting her against him despite her efforts to move away.

“How far would you let it go, Draco? Your wedding day?” The words felt like poison, but she couldn’t stop. “Producing an heir?”

“Did Astoria tell you why we didn’t break up publicly?”

Hermione’s default was so often anger, an immediate reaction to set everything on fire to avoid looking too closely how she felt underneath. But she needed to be honest with herself in order to move forward.

“Yes. But why didn’t you tell me? About your father.” She looked up at the ceiling to keep him from seeing the tears that had sprung up.

Draco had kept details of his arrangement with Astoria secret, and hadn’t shared with her about his father’s sickness. But he had every right to do that when their relationship was only shifting sand, a temporary thing.

“Really, Granger? You’re the last person who would want to hear about my family,” he scoffed. “And I’m with you to forget about my real life.”

Granger, not Hermione, even though she’d called him Draco. Heaviness settled though her body like unshed tears. It hurt how much she wanted to be the person he told things to. The place he went for comfort and not just escape.

“You could—” She cut herself off, still not daring to look at him.

You could talk to me, the words she shouldn’t say. I want to know you, to be part of everything important to you in the world . But she only saw a part of him when they were alone together and she’d pushed him to be with her at all. It wasn’t fair to ask for more unless the whole situation changed.

“I’m sorry that you’re going through this. Even though your father—everything. It must be hard for you.”

She finally looked into his eyes to find him drawn and tense. His family was more complicated than she had ever imagined, love and pain etched together. The weight of Draco’s duties and his desires for escape warring within him.

The anger had gone out of her and left an ache to comfort him instead. She could keep doing that, couldn’t she? Be a place that he could be free for a while.

“I hate him,” Draco said. “And I can’t, because I’m a version of him. There’s so much pressure.”

She tried to choose her words with care, gently touching his cheek. “Maybe you’re the good parts of him.”

“I don’t know who I am. And I don't want to waste our time thinking about it right now,” Draco said roughly, and pulled her against him for a sloppy kiss.

His motions were more reckless now, as though he was switching off his mind and letting his body take over. He unbuttoned her shirt and pushed up her bra, his hands pulling and pinching at her breasts.

“We’re at work,” she gasped, her whole body jerking at the feeling of his teeth on her nipple.

“Good thing you’re the boss.”

She arched into him, trying to balance logical thoughts with desire. “Leave our clothes on. I know you can work with that.”

He laughed at the challenge, then shifted her to be straddled over his thigh, pushing her skirt all the way up around her waist. It felt different, hard muscle shoved against the place she was aching to be touched.

She started to reposition, thinking he had meant to pull her up to where his cock was likely growing hard so they could grind together.

“No,” he chided, holding her in position by her waist as he started moving his leg. “I want to watch you.”

Her legs fell open farther as she focused on the sensation. His trousers rubbed against tender skin, a wave of pleasure starting to build as he tilted her forward. She gripped his shoulders and relaxed into it, rocking like he guided her to do.

She pushed away her embarrassment and let her head drop back far enough that he could see her face. Draco said he didn’t know who he was, but she knew. He was someone she could trust enough to show her pleasure, and could let go with the knowledge that he would make it good for her. Sensation shot through her entire body as she rocked against his flexed thigh. 

He groaned at the sight of her, and this time he didn’t stop her from shifting to move against his cock. She wanted to pull him over the edge with her, to feel as much of him as she could by grinding against his hard length.

Her breathing was too ragged to properly kiss, so she just clung to him as desperately as when he had pulled her up from the sea. This was exactly what they needed, to push away everything beyond the delicious point of desire.

“Oh—” It was right there, the friction exploding into a fire. She was panting for him, breaking herself apart with his body. “Draco.”

Her orgasm shuddered through her, but she kept rocking until she felt him tense too.

“Shit,” he breathed, then bit her neck and thrusted against her to finish.

She gasped at the surprise of it, almost animalistic. Surely she didn’t like that, but then had to cover her mouth to stifle her moans as another climax crashed through her. 

They were both a mess after, and in her office during the middle of a work day. The recklessness of it was shocking, but she felt good. Better than she had in years. Her past failed attempts to orgasm had been such a point of frustration with Ron and now she was getting off fully clothed on Draco’s leg.

She ran a hand through Draco’s hair to smooth it again. “I don't know how you do that. Make my body react this way.”

“Maybe you're just perfect.” Draco glanced up from his crotch where he was starting a spell to clean himself up.

“I don't think that's it.”

He gripped her through the wet fabric of her knickers, giving her cunt a warning squeeze that made her gasp a laugh.

“Fine. Maybe.” She shifted against his hand, still so sensitive where he was touching her. “Or you just know exactly what to do with me.”

“I want you too much.” His words sounded like a confession, and he looked at his hand between her legs instead of at her face. “That’s probably why.”

“I want you too,” she breathed, not daring to move while she was pinned in place by his possessive touch.

The air was thick with unspoken words. They wanted each other, but what were they willing to do about it? At this moment, she would let him shift the world around her and follow him to the other side.

Draco shook his head slightly and pulled his hand away. “Weasley leaves for Edinburgh tomorrow, right? Gone for a week?”

His tone had turned formal and she flinched. “Yes, that’s right.”

She couldn’t tell if he was calling out the significance of it; when Ron got back the experiment would be over. Unless it didn’t have to be. What if she just kept seeing Draco after the agreed time? It would be cheating, no technicalities to hide behind.

Or what if she just broke up with Ron? Everyone would be disappointed, but that happened with couples all the time if their problems were just too much. She could be with Draco. The thought was thrilling and terrifying.

“And after the week—” she said, stumbling over how to finish the sentence.

“I know,” Draco cut her off. “Owl me. We have time for a few more rounds before this is over.”

He looked at his watch and shifted her off his lap to stand up.

“Yes, I’ll owl you.” She pulled down her skirt and tried to compose herself.

The words had nearly escaped, pleading Draco to what—date her? Have sex with her? Love her and rescue her from an unsatisfying life with Ron? No, she needed to get her head straight and decide what she really wanted, not make rash declarations.

Draco pecked her on the cheek on his way out. “See you soon.”

She nodded, clasping her hands together to keep from reaching out for him. Draco always stayed when she asked, but it wasn’t fair to keep doing that, pulling him toward her in a situation that pushed him away. When she was alone, Hermione sat down in the enchanted chair, welcoming whatever bad intentions she had for herself.

Draco hadn’t asked her to leave Ron, but she had wanted him to. She pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She would have said yes, agreed to an uncertain future with Draco and impulsively left her current life behind.

But that was crazy. She couldn’t throw away her relationship with Ron. Her life had been intertwined with him and Harry since she was twelve years old—it would be like cutting off her own arm. Except for the dire months apart when he had abandoned them during the Horcrux hunt, she and Ron didn’t leave each other. The chair lurched, a splinter of wood jabbing her sharply in the back.

She was betraying Ron though. Even if what she was doing with Draco physically was within their agreement, what she was feeling emotionally definitely wasn’t. She wanted Draco, ached for him like she was in love.

The chair unceremoniously dumped her out onto the floor, reflecting how she felt about herself. A cheater and a liar.

Chapter Text

“Ron?” Hermione stomped down a narrow aisle in Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, glaring over her shoulder at the exploding beans following behind her.

She’d been calling Ron’s name for five minutes and irritation was growing. This was their last chance to spend time together before he was gone for a week, since he had been working even later than her to prepare for his trip.

“Ron!”

A fart-wing butterfly fluttered into her face, wafting its disgusting scent toward her. She stuffed it into a jar of technicolor boogers. The pranks seemed to sense her mood and be doubling down to annoy her.

“He might be in the tower.” George  paused in levitating puking pastries up into an arc in front of a giant mouth.

“Why on earth—” Hermione kicked off her shoes and dropped the bag of treats that she had brought Ron on the floor.

Of course he would be in the most hidden, hardest to get to place in the shop. She started up the ridiculous spiral staircase with a sigh. Her foot slid sideways on the narrow step and she gripped the railing to keep her balance. Stupid curvus charm to make people fall.

“Ron!” She was sweaty by the time she reached the small room at the top.

He was balanced on a tall stool, standing on tiptoes and stretching his arm up as high as he could. The ceiling of the tower room was cluttered with all the things that longed to escape to the sky; fairy lights, huggable clouds, jarred cyclones.

“What are you doing up there?”

Ron nearly fell off the stool at the sound of her voice, then frowned at something cupped in his hand. “I’m working.”

“On what?” She couldn’t help but match his impatient tone, like having her here was an unwelcome distraction.

He dropped his hand with a shriek and something small fell to the floor. “One of them bit me! Shit. Shit!” 

It was the square base plate of his game; the invention he was most excited to show at the inventor’s fair. The tiny creatures were crawling out of the drawstring bag, the spider clinging to the string with long, hairy legs.

“Are you playing it up here? Why are they moving so fast?”

“The stasis spell is influenced by altitude.” Ron jumped down from the stool, looking like he wanted to stomp on the entire bag of creatures. “We can’t just issue warnings not to travel with the set. What if they live in the Alps? What if they’re in someone’s pocket when they take a portkey? The floo network seems fine, but what about the height limit on a broom?”

Usually Ron was the more laid back one in their relationship, but his stress level was clearly about to explode. Hermione took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders, maybe influencing him to subconsciously do the same. A supportive and dutiful fiancée.

“Can’t you just strengthen the charm?”

“That’s the idea,” he said darkly. “I’m trying to test it.”

“Do you want me to try?”

He scoffed, barely looking up from where he was crouched by the gameboard. “No, I don’t.”

She bit her lip, not sure if he was mad at her or just the game. It was always an infuriating balance because if he thought she was taking over, Ron got frustrated or just left her to do the entire task. And maybe she didn’t even want to help, since he only cared about her career in the broadest strokes. Why should she invest too much effort into his?

But that was the kind of thinking that had driven her to feel so bitter and alone. No one won in the unspoken duel of who could take more and care less in certain areas of their lives.

“Really, Ron. I can help you with the charmwork.” 

“This invention is my thing. I don’t need you to come in and do it for me,” he snapped, but dropped the tiny basilisk in her hand anyways.

It coiled up into a snakey little ball that she poked gently. Why would altitude be affecting them? Lower air pressure maybe, and there were several ways they could counteract that. Given a few hours, she could likely solve the problem, but not if he didn’t even want her help. She sighed and nudged the basilisk back into the bag.

“I almost forgot, I brought you some food in case you’re here late.”

“Mum was already here with dinner. George and I have got enough to last the entire trip if we take it all along.”

Ron seemed more at ease now that she wasn’t trying to help with the invention. Fine, then. Hermione crossed her arms, suddenly ready to go home to the Burrow and forget about everything but a cup of tea and a book. Molly had already taken care of her boys, and Hermione wasn’t even needed.

“I might be here all night again, so we should probably say goodbye.”

So he would sleep on the couch in his office again and she would have the bed to herself at home. Draco’s words came to mind, unbidden. Time for a few more rounds before the experiment was over— maybe she wouldn’t have to sleep alone every night.

Merlin, what was wrong with her? She should be thinking about Ron right now. She cleared her throat, trying to get rid of the itchy tightness that had settled there.

“Right. I’ll miss you.” She opened her arms for a hug, waiting as he double-knotted the game’s bag before coming to her.

“I’ll miss you too,” Ron said gently, kissing the top of her head. 

She squeezed him tighter, reluctant to let go of the embrace. They should want to be together the night before he left, that would be normal for an engaged couple. If she was a better partner, she would calm his nerves and he would want the comfortable distraction that her touch brought.

Ron reached behind his back to unclasp her hands. “I’ve got a lot to do tonight.”

She gripped the waistband of his trousers stubbornly. They should want to be together. They were both attractive people, they loved each other. It had hurt her when he first said it, but Ron had been right about the ways their physical intimacy was lacking.

And not just sex itself. Surely Ron didn’t mean to only kiss her on the head like a child before being away for a week? She caught his jaw in her hand and pulled his face down to hers, but his expression was more confused than lustful.

“But I’ll miss you,” she said sincerely.

This time he kissed her on the mouth, but there was a wrong chord to it that she hadn’t been able to hear before. Ron wasn’t desperate for her, didn’t need her like the orbit of everything in the room changed when she entered. She’d never noticed before because she hadn’t known there was any other way.

But maybe he didn’t have a reason to be desperate for her, just a cold shrew that barely paid attention to him. Hermione deepened the kiss, tilting her head back to slide her tongue into his mouth. They had been good at this at one time, that spark couldn’t just burn out without them noticing. She pressed closer to grind against him, to use her body to find a point of connection.

Ron hummed in pleasure, but pushed her away with hands on her shoulders. “George is right downstairs. What’s gotten into you?” 

She wiped her mouth with her hand, self conscious at his reaction. “I don’t know.”

They could lock the door to keep out George, who was paying no attention to them anyway. It had been a clumsy attempt at seduction, and she should respect that Ron had to work. But part of her wanted to strip down completely naked to see what he would do. Could Ron resist her? The thought of testing him made her stomach clench with dark doubt.

He kissed her on the cheek distractedly and picked up his game again. Maybe he didn’t want her because he was expecting to find someone else in Edinburgh. Another inventor at the conference, and they’d hole up in a cozy hotel room like she and Draco had done in Tintagel.

“I think we need to discuss the boundaries of the experiment again before you leave. Since it ends when you get back.”

“The invention?” Ron looked genuinely confused.

“The experiment. Are you playing with me?” She wanted to smack the gormless look off his face. “Seeing other people, Ron!”

“Right.” The realization finally hit him and he blinked at her. “Seriously? What do you think I’m going to do, get laid in Edinburgh?”

She flinched. Getting laid wasn’t what they had agreed on, but they hadn’t exactly been communicating what they were doing all this time either. Maybe his game wasn’t working correctly because he hadn’t even been at the shop. As far as she knew, he had been sleeping with some other girl these late nights before coming home.

“I don’t know, Ron. Are you?”

“Merlin, Hermione,” he said with his most long-suffering voice, as though she had been nagging him for hours instead of trying to bring him snacks and convince him to kiss her.

“I have a right to know! We said not to talk about specifics, we should clarify what exactly constitutes as sexual intercourse.” His incredulous look only made her more strict and swotty. “Does mouth on genitals count? And what about hands?”

“What exactly constitutes,” Ron mocked her voice and laughed darkly. “Maybe I should do some mouth on genitals. Beautiful women there in Edinburgh.”

“Don’t make fun of me. This is serious.”

Brushing her off like she was being ridiculous was a hairpin trigger for what felt like a lifetime of resentment. Uptight Hermione, too concerned about clarifying the rules to actually understand what was going on.

Ron scrunched up his face and then relaxed it with effort, like he was trying to remain calm. “No, what’s serious is getting this game to work. What’s serious is my career, which will take a blow if everything I’m supposed to show in Edinburgh fails. So it would be nice if you would let me get back to figuring this out.”

“Aren’t you worried about what I’ll do while you’re gone?” She hated the tremble in her voice, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

“Sure. I’m madly jealous,” he said sarcastically, untying the drawstring of the bag again. “Ugh, I’m sorry that I ever said that in the first place. The stupid experiment.”

It made her head spin to hear him speak so casually about this. Ron had always been jealous— she’d seen him stew over all kinds of stupid things, and now he didn’t even care who his fiancée hooked up with? Maybe he thought she couldn’t find anyone who actually wanted her.

“I’m glad you did.” She wanted him to look at her, to understand.

The hurt inside had been a dull weight, buried too deep over the years to really notice. Ron must feel it too, since he had changed their relationship so dramatically. They needed to dig into their worst parts and pull them out into the light.

“When you’re with girls in Edinburgh—”

“Hermione, stop.” He rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“No.” She was going to explode from this pressure itching inside of her. “No—you messed things up and brought other people into our relationship. We need to talk about it!”

“Look, I’ll be back in a week and we can have this fight then,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re overreacting to something stupid I said and I can’t fucking think about anything right now but getting this invention to work.”

“I’m not overreacting!” She could see that he was dismissing her, could read it on his face that he thought she was being unreasonable.

“Look, you can make a bloody list of all the things I’m doing wrong and give it to me when I get back. Right now? I don’t care.”

Heat flushed through her body. She had thought that Ron suggesting they see other people was the worst possible thing, but it wasn’t. This was; utter indifference to them basically cheating on each other. Ron didn’t care. Not about her.

“Fine.” She turned away from him.

She swiped at her tears furiously and started down the spiral staircase. Every step felt unsteady, and she gripped the railing as the wood shifted under her feet until she reached the bottom.

“Hermione, I’m sorry,” Ron called out from the top of the stairs.”I’m just tired and worried about the trip.”

He leaned over the railing. Did he mean it or did he just hate to fight? It hardly mattered, Hermione would still be here when he got back, the same as always.

“I know. You’ll do great in Edinburgh, I know it.” She forced a smile and waved up at him.

Ron blew her a kiss. He probably didn’t see the tears still in her eyes from that distance. He didn’t see her, what she wanted from him and how it had changed over the years.

But there was another man who did.

Hermione’s anger faded into a kind of restless sadness by morning. She had absently told Molly that she had no plans for the day while staring into her coffee, which had been a mistake because her future mother-in-law loved assigning tasks.

Apparently they all needed family heirloom jewelry for the wedding and Hermione and Ginny had been sent to Gringotts to retrieve it from the family vault.

“This could be your something blue.” Ginny held up a flapper-style headband with an enormous blue feather attached to it.

“How would I even wear that with a wedding veil?” Hermione frowned, tossing another knitted shawl onto the growing NO pile in the corner of the small vault room.

They had been down here nearly an hour and found nothing useful at all. The Weasley vault was mostly empty before the war, but now had a tidy pile of galleons and a cluttered mountain of junk inherited from Great Aunts Tessie and Muriel.

“Like a garter?” Ginny slid it on over her jeans and flipped the feather up between her legs, cackling. “Wedding night surprise!”

Hermione threw a dusty silk flower at her and Ginny swung her hips like the feather was a baseball bat.

“Do I need a garter?” Hermione sat down on a pile of fur coats. “I can’t remember if it’s on my list.”

She had gone from doggedly tackling wedding planning with an efficient system at the beginning to this state of disconnect where she couldn’t seem to motivate herself to even remember what to do.

“I highly recommend one. Harry pulled mine off with his teeth.” Ginny pulled the feather off the headband and tossed it toward Hermione like a javelin. “And while he was down there—”

“Maybe,” she said quickly, resisting the urge to cover her ears with her hands.

She didn’t want to think about sex with Ron and the sting of guilt and rejection that followed. Or about what it might be like to go that far with Draco. She rolled off the coats with determination to distract herself and opened another box, which was filled with smaller boxes.

“Are you ok?” Ginny kicked a path through the junk towards Hermione.

“Yeah, just nervous. Jitters.” She absolutely couldn’t tell Ginny the truth of how she was feeling about marrying her brother.

“Marriage seems big, but it’s not really that much of a change,” Ginny said soothingly. “It’s still just the two of you going through life together.”

Hermione nodded along as patiently as she could manage. There had to be some bloody jewelry somewhere in here. The high ceiling of the vault didn’t seem to help the trapped underground feeling that was getting worse the longer they were down here.

“Finally.” Hermione opened the fourth small box to find a stack of jeweled rings. “I mean—yes, you’re right. I’ll try not to be nervous.”

The top ring was far too big even for her thumb, but had a pretty fleur-de-lis pattern. Molly had insisted that the Prewett family jewelry was an important tradition, but maybe Ron could be the one to have to wear it. She shuffled through the box listlessly, but all the rings seemed to be made for half giants.

“Oh, this one’s adjustable.” She held it up for Ginny to see, pulling on the metal phoenix to tighten the rubbery ring.

“Hermione, no.” Ginny’s jaw dropped and she covered her face in horror. “Were those in Muriel’s pile?”

“Yes.” Hermione tightened the rubber ring around her index finger and jerked in surprise when she felt a vibration come from it.

“Wrong body part!”

She looked at her ring-laden hand. Too big to be rings, too small to be bracelets. “What body part?”

“Let’s just say now we know too much information about Great Uncle Bob.”

Hermione shrieked and shook her hand free of the cock rings. “Why are they so big?”

“Well, when a man has big feet and big hands, sometimes—”

“Ginny,” Hermione hissed as she scourgified her hands and arms, then .

She opened the next small box gingerly, expecting the worst. There was one ring inside, the right size for her finger and inlaid with rubies.

Ginny leaned over to look. “Oh, flamboyant!”

The jewels sparkled in the dim light when Hermione picked it up. She imagined Ron slipping it into her finger after the wedding ritual that would bond the rings together with the elemental powers; her gold Weasley engagement ring, this ruby Prewett ring, and the silver of her magic flowers.

It could work. Maybe it was a sign of her destiny, that she would be part of Ron’s family. Ginny made a surprised sound and pointed inside the band where a cursive H was engraved. 

“Oh man, you know what that means?” Ginny asked.

“What?” Hermione breathed, ready to slip it on her finger. 

“It means Great Uncle Hiram had a micro-penis.”

The hallways of the bank were bustling with people as they walked towards the lobby to leave. There must be a Gringotts Board meeting today. Hermione pressed against a wall to avoid being knocked over by a trio of irritated looking goblins holding briefcases.

She looked into the chambers that held the grand platform lit up by ornate chandeliers. The twelve witches and wizards of the board were already seated around a table high above everyone else. 

“I’m just going to watch for a bit,” she said to Ginny. “Account interest rates.”

“Only you would find that interesting.” Ginny tilted her head back and clicked her tongue. “Look at all those society assholes.”

Hermione nodded absently, then let the crowd pull her along to the area around the platform. There was Draco in one of the high-back chairs, listening intently to the wizard at the head of the table. His blond hair was slicked back and the stiff collar of his formal cloak was studded with emeralds. He looked like how she remembered Lucius Malfoy, sharp and cruel. 

They were talking about requirements for getting a loan, and arguing about how much consideration the bank should give family status. Hermione recognized Astoria’s uncle, Arturo Greengrass. He was just as much of an asshole as the last time she’d seen him, but Draco seemed to be holding his own when the older man started to go on a tirade. 

Draco was good at this, like he belonged up there. Seeing it gave Hermione an odd mix of pride and unease. If he hadn’t told her he was reluctant to take his role in Wizarding Society, she wouldn’t have guessed it from the imperious way that he commanded the room.

A bell chimed to signal the meeting was over, and Draco’s eyes swept over the crowd. Hermione held her breath, not sure if she should slip away before he saw her. If they were actually a couple, she could push through the crowd to congratulate him.

He took the stairs down from the platform and raised his eyebrows when he noticed her. Happy to see her there. She tilted her head toward a narrow hallway to signal him to meet her, feeling a flutter of nerves.

No one noticed as she darted through the doorway and pressed her back against the tile wall. Out of sight for most of the crowd, as long as people weren’t looking too closely.

“Hey.” Draco swept in and leaned over her, his dramatic cape falling around them both. “What are you doing here?”

“Just keeping an eye on the idiots who run this place,” she said lightly.

“At your service,” he drawled.

This close, she could see strain in him that hadn’t been obvious on the platform. Tension was set along his jaw and his eyes were wary. He had been born into this world, but that didn’t mean it was easy.

“Well, eleven idiots and one who is ok.” She pushed her arms inside of his cloak to find his waist, fingers grazing a wool waistcoat with careful pintucks and braided trim. “Maybe even slightly brilliant.” 

He huffed a laugh and she felt him ease into her touch, his posture relaxing. “Only slightly?”

“Well, you could have pushed a bit harder on bank accounts for recently freed Beings.”

“Give me time. I can’t just burst in ranting about House-Elves, like someone I know.”

She pinched his side and scowled, but part of her loved his teasing. Give me time. It almost sounded like they were part of a team, supporting each other’s causes like they could take over the world together. Maybe she was just power hungry, but the thought filled her with joyful energy. She raised up on tiptoe to kiss him.

Draco pecked her back, then turned to look out the doorway at the people still milling around. “We really can’t be seen here. Everything depends on me stepping into my father’s place. Malfoys have served on the board for generations and after Azkaban and everything, there’s been pushback.”

She nodded; she had been one who argued against Lucius being reinstated. But Draco was good, he would make a positive impact on the board. 

“Alright.” She let go of his waist, but couldn’t stop herself from toying with the silver clasp of his cloak, a snake coiled around an hourglass. “Maybe we can make plans tomorrow.”

“I want to see you now.” He whispered in her ear, sending a shiver of pleasure through her. “Just not here. Do you trust me to side-along apparate?”

He held out his hand, like asking for a formal dance. She checked to make sure no one was looking, then bypassed his hand to fall into his arms. The apparition felt like a twirling tumble, holding each other tightly, and they were both laughing when they arrived.

“Where—” Her words trailed off as she looked around the place he had taken her.

A cozy flat, with a comfortable looking couch and papers strewn across a cluttered kitchen counter. There was a Quidditch banner and framed photos of his family and friends. He’d taken her home.

There was a transience to the way that they had been meeting before this, stolen moments in public places. Draco unclasped his formal cloak and carefully hung it on a hook next to his others, a forest of black and charcoal wool.

“Is this alright?” His back was to her, but she could hear anxiety in his voice.

“It’s wonderful.”

She peered into a half empty mug of tea on the side table, dragged her finger along the spine of a book.

“Yeah?” He ran a hand through his hair, making pieces fall forward instead of being severely slicked back.

It broke some of the resemblance to his father, silver snakes and emeralds adorning the Malfoy heir. Draco was a little threatening this way, with all that powerful authority and imperious pure-bloodness.

She reached up and mussed his hair further, fondness aching through her chest. Powerful, but hers, at least for right now. It was disconcerting how she had come to like all versions of Draco, even the parts she used to fear.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said.

“In a while. I want to do something else first.” She traced along his jaw, pressing closer to him.

Ron would be going wild in Edinburgh right now, so she could indulge too. Maybe she could even spend the night and wake up here in the morning. It was easy to imagine; draping her legs across Draco’s lap as they read on the couch, leaning her hip against the kitchen counter watching him cook something with the fancy butter. 

He kissed her without hesitation, then picked her up, hands under her thighs until she wrapped her legs around him. There was a tapestry with the Malfoy family crest hanging in the hallway, too formal for this cozy flat. She looked away from the cruel words of the motto embroidered in silver thread as they passed.

That didn’t matter right now. She didn’t want to think about purity of bloodlines or of anything at all besides what it felt like to be in his arms.

Draco pushed open a door and shifted her in his arms to turn on a lamp, illuminating soft looking green blankets on a large bed. He tossed her onto it gently, then braced himself to lean over her.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. She felt weightless, only anchored by his gray eyes and the quiet sound of their breathing. This was what love felt like, wasn’t it? Being with Draco couldn’t be wrong when it blew open the entire world with joy.

“I’ve thought about you here. What you would look like waiting for me.” He pushed up her shirt to kiss her stomach. “How it would feel if I could choose you.”

“Here I am.”

“Like a dream.” He took off her shirt and bra, not kissing her anymore, just tracing his fingers across her skin.

She helped him slide off her jeans and then stretched out languidly on his bed, enjoying his gaze. Like he was memorizing her again, this time here. Rooted in his space, in his life.

“Draco.” She sat up to strip off his waistcoat, the silver buttons cold under her fingers.

The layers of his formal clothes needed to be peeled away and on the floor. She needed him now, after seeing him up on the platform in the role that everyone else knew him as. To claim him for herself, have some part of him that no one else did.

“I want to make you feel good.” She pushed Draco back on the bed and yanked off his briefs, positioning her head between his legs.

He cupped her face, tilting her head up to look at him. “Really? We can do this?”

Maybe they should talk it through, lay out boundaries of how far to go. How they felt since the experiment was ending soon and what would happen next. They should, but she couldn’t bear to stop and search for the words, or to risk this fragile moment.

“I want to.” She pushed his thighs farther apart, running her hands up pale skin.

She’d given blow jobs before, usually on special occasions for Ron. A bit awkward and difficult to breathe, but good because he enjoyed them. This was different, the craving to consume Draco. She wanted to make him lose control, get lost in his pleasure. He would scream her name, or maybe whisper it, his voice hoarse and rough as his fingers gripped her hair.

“Please, Draco.” She moved closer to his half-hard cock, her breath whispering against him as she looked up with a steady gaze.

“Fuck.” Draco dropped his head back. “I can never say no to you.”

She licked the underside with a flick of her tongue, not touching him with her hands yet. His hips twitched, hands already starting to clutch the blanket. Perfect. She opened her mouth around him, taking in his cock as far as she could. He was big, so she should take advantage of this time and try to fit it all in her mouth before he was fully erect.

Draco’s leg jerked and she shifted to hold him still. Payback for the time he’d gotten her off on the broom. The thought would make her smile if her mouth wasn’t full of cock. She sucked experimentally and was rewarded with a strangled whimper from Draco.

“Yes,” he moaned, his control slipping.

But oh, he was so good, holding himself back from thrusting into her. She could feel the tension of his restraint and took him in deeper, saliva pooling as he stretched into her mouth, nearly back to her throat. Draco was breathing hard, fisting the blanket as she moved on him in a rough rhythm. Seeing the pleasure on his face made her pulse between her legs too and she hummed around him.

She eased off enough to swirl her tongue around him and gripped the slick base with her hand. He was hard as a rock now, and would be a stretch in any hole. She traced the curve of his head with a lick, smooth and perfectly formed enough to be practically art. 

“Hello, handsome cock.”

Her tongue probed his slit and tasted salt, and his laugh turned into a cry. It was visceral, having him this way. She took his cock deep again, sucking hard enough to hollow her cheeks. Draco rocked into her, thrusts that bounced her head. His movements were less controlled as he neared his edge, evident when he gripped her hair hard.

“I’m about to come,” he panted and started to pull away.

She nodded, still sucking to let him know she wanted it. The sound of him swearing and whispering praise only spurred her on, and she kept the rhythm until he jerked up, a spasm of movement as hot liquid hit her throat. She swallowed, then coughed, gripping his hips to hold herself steady as he came down her throat. 

Draco pulled out of her mouth, working himself with his hand while he looked at her with half shut eyes. Hot warmth hit her face and chest. Draco stroked himself, groaning as he worked out the last drops and smeared the head of his cock across her nipple. 

She was marked by him now, and she traced her fingers through the mess and moved her hand to her mouth, licking off his cum as he watched her. 

“Fuck,” he said exhaled shakily. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“But you liked it?” Her voice was hoarse, vulnerable.

Draco pulled her up to him, so they were lying face to face at the head of his bed. “Incredible.”

He grasped her jaw and kissed her hard, apparently unbothered by the salty taste of him still in her mouth. Maybe he’d dreamed about her giving him a blowjob in his bed too, images of her mouth on him flashing behind his eyelids as he touched himself. He shifted to be above her, kissing her neck as she laid on her back.

Something flashed in the dim light beside the bed. It hadn’t been visible from where she was positioned before, but now Hermione could see a jar on the nightstand with a point of shimmering silver inside. The last flower they had picked in the forest.

Draco hadn’t taken it with him to study it back then, he had brought it home to keep close as he slept, the most intimate place in his flat. Even then, he had wanted her. She looked at the flower now, turning gently as Draco pulled her soaked knickers off and slid a finger into her aching slit.

In the forest clearing, she had felt a press of anticipation pulsing in the moonlit air, something that was coming to a head now, building with her orgasm in Draco’s bed. I love you, she mouthed the words against his shoulder as he rocked her on the bed, letting her body and mind go free.

I love you, she silently said to the ceiling as he eased down to kiss her stomach and sink another finger knuckle deep inside. Her body twitched at the first touch of his tongue against her clit, then Hermione’s brain caught up to what was happening. That wasn’t—no, she needed to break up with Ron first.

“No.” She pushed up onto her elbows. “We’re not supposed to have sex.”

Draco stopped and looked up from between her thighs. “Why not?”

The view of him like that took her breath away. They couldn’t though, she and Ron had agreed on no sex, even if they had fought before he left, even if he didn’t care. She wouldn’t break her word.

“No.” She started to scoot back on the bed, but Draco’s fingers were still curled inside of her, holding her in place. “No sex. I don’t want to cheat on Ron.”

“What? You broke up,” he said forcefully. “I know you did because you had sex with me.”

She shook her head. Going down on Draco had felt like doing something to him. For him, not like actually having sex herself. It was only sex if he penetrated her, or put his mouth on her, right? The double standard hit her like a punch to the stomach.

“That didn't count.”

“Oral sex counts. Of course it does.” He lowered his mouth again and she squeezed her thighs together to stop him.

“I didn’t mean to,” she stuttered.

Her clenching had made the movement of his fingers feel even more amazing, and Draco’s precise tongue was a revelation. He would take such care with her, would destroy her with the perfection of it.

She needed to think, but the sensations of her body were drowning out her mind. “I didn’t break up with Ron. If you do this, it’s too far.”

“That makes no sense.” He pulled his fingers away with a wet sound. “You just sucked me off. It’s the same thing.”

“But Ron—”

“Stop saying his name.” His face shuttered in frustration.

“Ron and I are still together. But when he gets back from Edinburgh—”

Draco pushed himself off the bed abruptly, like he was angry. Because she had stopped him or because he thought she’d broken up with Ron? Or everything all together; the rules for the experiment keeping him at a distance, the sneaking around, her confusion about how she felt. She owed Draco the truth, at least as much as she could manage when she barely understood herself.

“What if I don't marry Ron?” She wanted to pull Draco back, already missing the feeling of lying in bed with him, the only two people in the world. It made her feel desperate, reckless.

“You probably shouldn’t.” He picked his boxers up from the floor and pulled them on roughly, not bothering with a cleaning spell on his skin. "Although if you suck his cock like that, he probably won't want to let you go."

"It's not the same." She winced. “Do you want me to break up with him?”

She should have asked that a long time ago, should have taken action before falling all the way in love with someone else. Draco paused, looking at his trousers for a long moment before picking them up.

Had she read everything wrong, mistaken her own feelings for something more from him? He had to want her to break up with Ron.

“I think there's something wrong with your relationship if you can do this with me.” Draco gestured toward her, naked on his bed. “If you can fuck with me like it means something.”

“I don’t—” she whispered, stricken by the force of his words.

She'd felt guilty before, but hearing him say it out loud knocked her off-kilter. Draco was hurt, and she had used him, at least at first. Like he was just a tool to help her explore and not a person she cared about. She’d taken him for granted, and ignored his feelings.

“If I broke up with Ron, would you be with me for real?”

Draco stopped putting on his trousers and stared at her.

“Will you?” Her voice was shaking.

She hadn’t planned to ask him that, to give him any kind of ultimatum, but her heart was in her hands.

“Now?” He tensed. “I can’t just end the engagement with Astoria.”

“You can’t,” she echoed his words, and it felt like pulling metal through her lungs, pain following the rough path.

“It’s complicated with my father’s health. And if the Greengrasses turn against us, it would ruin my family name even more. I would disgrace generations.” He looked up at the ceiling, dragging his hands through his hair. “I can’t do anything to risk that, not yet.”

“When?”

The question came out like a quiet sob. Lucius was dying, but after he was gone, things would hardly be different. Draco and his mother would be grieving, the Malfoys’ place in society still precarious. Draco couldn't fit her into his life. Wouldn’t.

The awareness that she was still naked in his bed hit with a wave of vulnerability. If she wasn’t Draco’s great love who he wanted to be with, what was she doing? Part of her had justified all of this like they were meant to be together, as though this was the first part of a love story. She gathered her clothes and pulled them on mechanically, like she had a million times before, like she was anywhere.

“I don’t know when. It’s not that simple. You don’t understand the pressure that’s on me—”

He was saying no. Draco paced in front of her, stringing his words as carefully together as a line of pearls.

“—even if the shock didn’t make him worse, the scandal of it would destroy—” 

She let them clink together, hard and cold. The weight of ruining a family, a sinking stone of not being wanted enough. It pulled tight across her neck and choked.

“I love you,” she interrupted.

He stopped and gripped the banister of his bed.  “No. There's a difference between love and knowing I'd be a good fuck, Granger. You were clear with me from the beginning what this was.”

“I was wrong.”

Draco shook his head. “You've just been playing with me. And even if you did love me, it’s not like that between us.”

“Then what’s it like?” He had to feel the same way about her, she couldn’t be wrong about this.

Hadn’t he pushed for more? Every tender touch and playful smile wavered in her memory, the distance growing in a sickening leap.

Draco didn’t answer, just dropped his eyes to her chest suggestively where her shirt was still unbuttoned. After all these years, he could still reduce her to nothing without saying a word. Hermione Granger, used and desperate, still sticky with his cum. No. She knew this cruelty from their past, it was Draco’s oldest and most desperate defense.

“You're a liar.” She spat. “I know you want me.”

He leaned over the bed and got in her face. “If I'm a liar, what does that make you? This whole time you've been pretending with me and going home to your fiancé. Tell me about your love when you're not fucking both of us.”

She wouldn't cry in front of him, couldn’t give him another piece of her heart to reject. “It makes me a liar too.”

She slid around him to stand up from the bed, looking around his room instead of at his face. Rows of books, heavy curtains, a magical flower so fragile that a touch made it crumble to dust.

“Goodbye, Draco.”

Chapter Text

“Ron, we need to talk.” Hermione cast a muffliato on their bedroom door and turned to face him. 

“I know.” Ron sighed. “But are you sure it can’t wait until after the party?”

“Please, I just want to get this out.”

The inventor’s fair had been a great success, and the whole family was gathered downstairs to celebrate George and Ron. He peeled off his socks and tossed them into the corner before sprawling on the bed.

Hermione had let herself have the week Ron was gone in Edinburgh to feel sad about Draco. It was sufficient time to grieve a relationship that hadn’t been real, that hadn't been built to hold the weight of a future. Draco hadn’t tried to contact her.

“Now that the experiment of seeing other people is over, we'll tell each other the truth and move forward.” She clasped her hands anxiously.

What if the other women were better than her? He had likely found someone more fun, more sexy than she was. And how would Ron react to hearing about Draco? It had been his idea to see other people, but she was to blame too, lusting after another man until the stupid experiment had felt like an opportunity instead of the insanity it was.

“Ok. I know you were upset by the idea of me hooking up with someone else,” Ron said calmly. “I’m sorry I kept that all going so long. It was mean and immature.”

Hermione blinked at him. Kept all what going? A relationship with another girl?

“Who did you—”

“Let me finish.” He snagged her hand to pull her closer to the bed, so that she was standing between his knees. “It’s dumb, but it felt good at first to see you so concerned about what I was doing for once, you know? You being jealous.”

“I was jealous.” She rested her hands on his shoulders. “And it hurt me that you weren’t jealous too. That you didn’t care that I was with someone else.”

“Oh.” Ron tilted his head thoughtfully. “Oh, I would care if you were. Is that why you kept bringing it up, so I would be jealous too?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” She shook her head, confused by his apology.

Ron’s words snaked through her brain, realization dawning. He would care, but he hadn’t because he didn’t think she had actually been with another man.

“I’m sorry I made you worry. Look, I'll make it up to you.” He blinked up at her with wide blue eyes.

“Ron, were you actually with someone else during the experiment?”

“Of course not,” he said. “And like I said, I’m sorry that I worried you.”

He tried to pull her in for a hug around her waist, but she pushed him back. “No. I was intimate with another man. Like we agreed to do. I really did it.”

His jaw dropped. “Who?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“What?” He tensed in shock. “Why? What the hell?”

Anger pulsed beneath her guilt. All of this had been his bloody idea, no matter how misguided his motivations. 

“Because you told me you wanted to see other people!” 

It wasn’t her fault that he had been playing mind games. How was she supposed to know he’d been lying? That they had read each other this wrong?

“But Malfoy hates you,” Ron sputtered. “What did you even do with him?”

Honesty was the best. She closed her eyes and forced out the words. “We saw each other multiple times and hooked up. I gave him a blow job and that was the furthest we went.”

And she’d told him she loved him. There was no way Hermione could confess that, and it didn’t matter anyways if Draco didn’t return her feelings.

“You sucked him off? Fuck, Hermione.” Ron raised his hands to his head, disgust clear on his face. “That’s so degrading. Did he go down on you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

At least she had stopped Draco there, one less part to feel guilty about. The entire time she’d been sneaking around, Ron hadn't been with anyone else. The realization shifted everything.

“Of course he didn’t,” he said grimly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron had no room to be judgmental, given how rarely he bothered to pleasure her that way. 

“You’re a Muggleborn.” Ron cringed, like explaining this was physically paining him. “Malfoy wouldn’t want to—you know. It’s kind of messy. And personal—being down there.”

She gaped at him. It almost sounded like Ron was saying her vagina wasn’t good enough. No wonder their sex life made her feel self-conscious and unfulfilled.

Ron winced at the expression on her face. “I mean, I don’t mind. You know I think you’re great.”

“He wanted to—Malfoy,” she hissed. “I stopped him because of you.”

“Did he wear his Death Eater mask? While you were—” Ron poked his tongue into his cheek crudely. “No, don’t answer that. Merlin, that’s humiliating.”

“It wasn’t like that. It was sweet between us.” Her voice caught, tears springing up in her eyes. 

But in the end, Draco hadn’t liked her enough for a real relationship. Maybe she was just a fool, blindsided by lust and flattering attention in the moment. Ron would know, wouldn’t he? He would know better than anyone what she had to offer.

“Or do you like that?” Ron asked with a mixture of interest and disgust. “I could try to be mean to you or something when we’re doing it, if that’s what you’re into.”

He flexed his fist experimentally and made a snarling face.

“No! No, you’re twisting this into something it wasn't. He cared about me.” Even as she said the words, she couldn’t stop the memory of Draco’s eyes dropping down to her sticky chest, his rejection.

“He cared about part of you at least.” Ron’s eyes were filled with pity. “I’m sorry I pushed you into this. When I said all that, I never in a million years thought you’d go knob a Death Eater.”

Hermione sank down on the bed next to Ron. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone what you did.” Ron put his arm around her shoulders. “We don’t even have to talk about it again.”

She shuddered. It hadn’t even occurred to her that their friends and family might find out after the fact. Really, she was lucky that Ron wasn’t angry and ready to tell everyone how crushingly pathetic she had been.

“We should share what we learned from the experience though.” That had been her plan before, but now she couldn’t remember any of the wisdom that she had been carefully collecting.

“Ok, what I learned.” Ron rubbed his forehead. “I shouldn’t try to play games and need to just tell you how I feel. Like how I did during the cave ritual.”

Hermione nodded. That had been a good breakthrough of honesty in their relationship.

“I learned—” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes to stop the incoming tears.

This was too hard. It felt like heartbreak compounding; she had laid her most vulnerable feelings out for Draco to reject and now had to hold them up for Ron to judge as delusional.

“Hey, it’s ok.” Ron pulled her into a hug. “You’re really pretty and really smart. Sometimes you’re just not so smart about dealing with people, but that’s ok.”

His comforting words settled over her. Ron was the one she could count on, if she thought things through logically. Her tears fell on his shirt as she clutched him, back in his arms where she belonged.

“Ronald! Hermione!” Molly’s impatient voice amplified up the stairs. “We need to get back to putting together the table decorations, these ribbons won't curl themselves.”

“Do you want me to tell Mum you can’t?” Ron patted her back gently.

Hermione took a shuddering breath and gave herself a shake. “No. I’m fine. But thank you.”

She could do this, find her way back to her life and be happy.

Molly and Arthur had gone from begrudgingly accepting the Solstice Wedding rituals to obsessing over making the ceremony uniquely “Weasley.” That meant an explosion of Molly’s crafted decorations, piles of unearthed family heirlooms, and Arthur wrangling his children into a rag-tag band to perform with assorted brass instruments.

“I’ve been knitting this for days.” Molly beamed as she held up a box that was bouncing like whatever was inside was desperate to get out. “Wait ‘til you see the binding charm, it’s perfect.”

“Wonderful.” Hermione tried to relax the tension in her shoulders.

The effort was very kind, but hopefully it wasn’t something else orange or brown. Everyone seemed to be unfortunately taking a lot of inspiration from the hideous Quidditch-themed wedding cake.

Arthur danced up beside them, showing off his newest horn, a muggle trombone. Little Victoire followed after him, hugging her arms around a twisted pipe that Hermione suspected was actually a Muggle plumbing fixture.

“Can you play that?” Hermione pushed back a curl of Victoire’s blonde hair and smiled at the little girl’s happy shrug.

She loved the Weasleys and they were her family too. How had she lost sight of that fact? It hadn’t been only Ron that she was betraying, Hermione had nearly jeopardized lots of people who were extremely important to her. 

“The sound of this one is majestic.” Arthur raised the trombone to his lips and sucked in his breath instead of blowing out, making a sound like a strangled bird.

“Blow it,” Hermione instructed.

Arthur pulled the mouthpiece a few centimeters away from his wide open mouth and breathed like he was trying to fog up a mirror. 

“No, blow in it.” Hermione puckered her lips and blew to demonstrate right as Ron walked up.

He shrugged and gave her a kiss at the same time the trombone made a warbling whistle noise. Ron’s family cheered them on as though that’s what she had been trying to do. Ron was being so nice to her, his good-natured forgiveness a good sign for their future. She kissed him back, grateful for this second chance.

“Oh, you two lovebirds,” Molly said happily. “Hold out your hands.”

Hermione and Ron obediently lifted their arms as she opened the box. A fuzzy brown cord launched out of it like a snake and one end circled each of their wrists. 

“This is for hand-fasting?” Hermione clenched her fist and tried to hold still as the cord criss-crossed her arm in an intricate pattern. 

Why had Molly made it so itchy? They were wizards, for goodness sake, there must be some kind of yarn softening spell. Ron raised his eyebrows at her. 

She hadn’t meant for the question to sound harsh, but maybe some irritation had slipped out. Molly flicked her wand between them and the cord pulled their wrists into the air like puppets.

“Oh yes, hand-fasting and a few extra features.” Molly grinned as it pulled even tighter.

“Mum,” Ron whined and picked at the string digging into his skin.

“Just a moment, darling.”

Their arms knocked together awkwardly until Hermione grasped Ron’s hand. The cord looped dramatically into a heart, then began to braid a wooly sleeve around their hands up to their elbows.

“When during the wedding would this part be?” Hermione asked through gritted teeth.

“Oh, probably before all that business with the air, dirt, water. You know—” She wiggled her fingers dismissively. “The elements.”

“The elemental magic is the entire point. And the timing is important,” Hermione explained for what felt like the hundredth time. “Everything needs to come together at the moment the Solstice sun sets.”

Molly huffed. “Family traditions are important too, dear. It’s bad luck for you two to see each other before the ceremony and we can’t do the handfasting after it’s dark.”

“I’m sure we can tie it in somewhere.” Ron elbowed her in the side to make sure she got the joke. 

“Of course.” Her fingers twitched as Ron held her hand.

The itchy feeling of dread must have been from the yarn slowly encasing her up to her shoulder. Either way, there was no point in fighting the inevitable.

Lucius Malfoy died that week. His face glowered from the cover of every Wizarding World newspaper and magazine, his life recounted into breathless stories.

Hermione couldn’t stop staring at the moving images. Lucius looked so much like his son, especially the pictures when he was young. This evil man, synonymous with fear and hate in her mind, was gone, as insubstantial as the paper he smirked out at her from.

But the reach of his legacy still had claws that hurt. If it wasn’t for him, would she and Draco be together right now? But blaming Lucius Malfoy was an excuse, or at least an oversimplification of the entire complicated Wizarding World and both of their roles in it. Hermione incendioed the page and blew the dust onto her bedroom floor.

She switched to looking at the few photos of Draco. Might as well, since she was already feeling low. There he was, stoically handsome next to his mother, his expression unreadable. Another in profile, his head bowed and Astoria touching his back at the funeral.

Draco would be sad. A difficult and complicated relationship with a parent didn’t make losing them easier, and she had seen the way he held his pain inside, only letting a sliver of vulnerability out when he had felt safe with her.

Maybe he was confiding in Astoria now, pressing his face to the hollow of her neck while she threaded her fingers through his hair. Hermione turned all the papers face down and pushed them away. Her time with Draco already barely seemed real, a dream that had happened to a version of herself she hardly recognized.

Now she was stuck with a gap between how she should be feeling and how she really was. Her life had shifted, leaving her knocking elbows and knees against the walls when she tried to fit back into how things were before. 

Hermione crawled onto the bed. Feeling powerful and desired had crumbled into exhaustion, and all she wanted was to pull the blankets around her and disappear into the heavy fabric. Draco didn’t miss her. She wouldn't miss herself, harsh and awkward, unwieldy in the world. Better to let it all fade into sleep for a few hours. She pulled the blanket completely over her head and listened to her breath even out in the cocoon-like dark.

Hermione gazed up at Ron as they walked into the Tintagel museum library, his arm draped over her shoulder. There was a pit of dread in her stomach at the thought of seeing Draco and Astoria, but she was determined to look entirely happy and unconcerned.

Audrey called them here for an urgent meeting to discuss something gone wrong during the fire ritual preparations. She stood beside Derowen at the library table, four jars of flower powder lined up in front of them and sparkling faintly in the afternoon sunlight.

Draco sat in the center of the leather couch with Astoria next to him, her legs crossed primly at the ankles and hands folded in her lap. Not touching each other, although Hermione hated herself for noticing. It didn’t make any difference, they were still a beautiful society couple, destined to be together. Hermione’s heart beat dully in her chest, almost painful as she watched them. She’d known, but it still hurt. 

She pulled Ron’s arm around her tighter, the pressure of the hug grounding her. He was the better choice that she never should have strayed from in the first place.

“Thank you for coming. Hopefully we can sort this out,” Audrey said.

“We’re happy to be here.” Ron nuzzled Hermione’s neck.

Ron didn’t usually like public displays of affection, but he was all over her now, his competitive nature winning out. Hermione leaned into him, relishing the way Draco’s look of surprise hardened into something darker. Good, he deserved to be jealous, to see what he missed out on.

Draco fumbled awkwardly to hold Astoria’s hand. “I wasn’t sure if you two would be continuing the wedding preparations.”

“We are,” Hermione snapped, her adrenaline kicking up as though she’d been challenged to a physical fight. “Ron and I can’t wait to get married. I can’t imagine life without him.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, a gesture that made her want to incendio the entire room. What was that smug asshole going to do, call out her lie? And he had no right to act like he knew her feelings from a few moments of weakness. That’s all it had been between them, really.

“Excellent. To business.” Audrey clapped her hands together. “The fire ceremony calls upon different flowers to add to the ones you found in the forest.”

There wasn’t much room on the couch next to Draco, but Ron squeezed in and pulled Hermione onto his lap in one smooth motion.

“They usually rise from the mosaics during this point in preparation for each person, but it’s not happening,” Derowen said.

Ron tapped his hands on Hermione’s stomach, barely paying attention as he whispered into her ear. “Are you comfortable?”

Her shoulder bumped Draco’s arm as she shifted to balance on Ron’s legs. She wasn’t comfortable perched like this, but it was worth it when Draco tensed even more at her accidental touch. Hermione hummed in exaggerated pleasure and wiggled her hips playfully. 

Immature behavior, but also nice to be doted on in public. It felt good for Ron to be this attentive and protective, even if it was just because he thought Draco had used her.

“When you found the passage in the fireplace, there should have been a specific flower in the mosaic that drew your attention. Do you remember which one called you most strongly?” Audrey asked.

The tile flowers—oh no. It had only been her and Draco in the fireplace room, identifying sex orchids and human sacrifice poppies.

“What passage?” Ron asked, frowning at the fireplace in confusion.

“Where you and Miss Granger found the marriage ritual book.” Audrey tapped the lid of a jar of flower powder impatiently.

“Hermione found the book on her own.”

Audrey’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s not possible. It takes two people for the passage to reveal itself.”

“Malfoy and I got the book together,” Hermione explained, suddenly feeling like a child in trouble. “We just happened to find it when our fiancés weren’t here.”

“So Ron and Astoria haven’t been in the room?” Audrey looked at Derowen, surprise on both of their faces. “But two marriage ritual books appeared.”

“I duplicated the one we found. Well, kind of.” This was sounding worse and worse as she explained it out loud.

“Granger made a fake book and charmed it so all the pages went blank,” Draco said.

Hermione glared at him, the snitch. “The pages have been going blank in the real book too, so it hardly matters.”

“Both books are blank?” Audrey glanced around at all of them, looking for answers.

“Only sometimes. I think we’ve read most of it,” Hermione said.

Well, she and Draco had read most of the book; Ron hadn’t cared enough to decipher the faded words with her and then she had stopped asking him.

“Sorry, what room was I supposed to go in?” Astoria cut in anxiously. “I thought I only missed the one ritual, I didn’t know about the passage. Do my parents know that I did something else wrong?”

Derowen shook his head. “No. And the only thing I want to tell Florian Greengrass is to—”

“Right!” Audrey interrupted him loudly. “This will all be fine. Mr. Malfoy, you were inside the fireplace. Which flower called to you?”

Draco hesitated, staring at the floor instead of meeting anyone’s eyes. “The orchid.”

“Ah, that’s lucky for you, Miss Greengrass. It reveals a passionate nature and virility.”

Audrey kept going, ignoring Astoria's stricken look. “Mr. Malfoy appreciates elegance and prestige, while having his own unique sense of sophistication. A careful and devoted lover.”

Hermione scoffed quietly. Of course, the signs of how things would end with Draco had been there the whole time. An excellent lover who ultimately cared about status and prestige. Even Ron had been able to see the situation more clearly than her. He liked part of you at least. Of course Draco hadn't said he loved her back. 

“Sounds like a polite way to say pretentious whore.” Hermione snarled under her breath, but it was loud enough to make Ron snort.

She gripped Ron’s leg, trying to calm down. Draco was definitely getting under her skin if she was calling him a whore in public. They were adults and she shouldn’t stoop so low. 

“Concerned with my sex life, Granger?” Draco almost sounded amused, the bloody bastard whore.

“No. I’m not concerned with anything to do with you.”

“I can tell,” he said sarcastically.

“Ron and I are busy enjoying each other. There’s nothing like being with someone who knows how to take care of me.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Draco murmured.

“What was that?” Ron nearly dropped Hermione on the floor as he turned his body to face Draco.

“I said congratulations. It must be hard to keep that spark going when you’re both so busy doing other things,” He drawled the last three words, the double meaning clear.

“You prick,” Ron growled, ready to pound Draco right here and now.

“We’re doing very well too.” Astoria half rose from the couch, her voice almost a plea. “Lots of new discussions about our union after the passing of Draco’s father.”

Draco unclenched his fists and moved towards her on the couch. Pulling himself back into the stiff, duty-bound version of himself. “Yes. We’re dedicated to getting married and continuing the family line.”

“If you don't watch your fucking mouth, you won't have a family line.”

Maybe Hermione should take Astoria’s cue and try to calm down her fiancé too, but part of her was ready to hit Draco herself.

“Bit of an unhealthy obsession with my cock, mate.” Draco gritted out, taking Astoria’s hand in his.

They sat ramrod straight, identical expressions of grim detachment on their faces. Maybe Draco and Astoria were perfect for each other. Merlin, she wanted to start screaming at them.

“Anyways.” Derowen stepped in front of the couch, staring down at all four of them with his arms crossed. “Which flower called to you, Hermione?”

“I don’t remember.” The last thing she wanted right now was to have her fortune told about what kind of lover she was. 

“It was the poppy,” Draco said darkly. “Still considering human sacrifice, Granger?”

“More than ever.”

Audrey cleared her throat. “Poppies signify more than death, they also mean rebirth and forgiveness. You bring an unexpected chance of happiness after dark times.”

Hermione’s stomach sank. There had certainly been dark times in their lives, but she hadn’t brought anyone happiness. Maybe the poppy did just mean sadness and sacrifice in her case.

“Perfect. That sounds just like Hermione,” Ron said loudly.

Audrey nodded at him approvingly. “Now to find out which flower Ron and Astoria are drawn to.”

Derowen gestured for them to join him at the fireplace. “The way into the passage will appear when you are open to growth. Consider your future and who you would like in it.”

Ron shifted Hermione off his lap and she curled up in the corner of the couch, sitting as far away from Draco as possible. Open to growth? What was that even supposed to mean? She and Draco hadn’t been open to anything the evening they had found their way inside the fireplace. 

And it must mean there was something wrong with the ritual, since they had managed to stumble in without their fiancés in the first place. Astoria and Ron ran their hands over the tiles, searching for the spot that would shine gold. Audrey pointed out different areas, but they didn’t seem to be having any luck.

Draco shifted on the couch, his movement making her tense even more. Maybe she could hold up the knit blanket like a wall between them. It was agony to be back here, the spot she had healed his nixie bites, where they had kissed for the first time. Even without looking at him, she could feel Draco’s presence like the weight of a physical touch, hurt and unwelcome desire stretching across the space between them.

She broke the silence. “My condolences on the death of your father.” 

“So you’re being nice to me now?”

His voice sounded a little rougher, a whisper just for her instead of trading insults in front of everyone. The fireplace finally flashed gold and pulled the four other people into the room inside, leaving her and Draco alone.

She glared at the hideous knick-knacks on the mantelpiece. “We've already established that I'm not nice.”

“I thought you might be happy he was dead.”

“I—” She finally met his eyes, stunned by the bluntness. “Why?”

Draco shrugged. “Death Eater. Pureblood society prick.”

“I don’t wish death on anyone.”

She dropped her gaze away from his, not wanting to see any vulnerability there that would pull her back in like a hook in the heart. They landed on his lips instead, which might have been worse when the corner drew up in the shadow of a smile.

“No? Not even me? A little stabbing—”

“Don’t. Don’t tease me like things are normal. Not after what I said to you.” Her voice cracked a bit. “And what you said to me.”

“Do you regret it then?” He asked sarcastically, like he already knew the answer and it amused him.

Did he want her to say yes? Write it off as a mistake for both of them before they moved on to marry other people? She didn’t know what to make of this cruel flirting.

“You don’t get to ask me things like that anymore.” 

Draco opened his mouth to reply, then dropped his head on the back of the couch instead. It wasn’t wise to be alone with him—her enemy turned lover, turned whatever this hell was. Draco twisted his signet ring around on his finger, the same nervous tick she had noticed when they had been lying in bed not so long ago.

She considered leaving Ron behind and running from the room, wedding planning consequences be damned, when Derowen stepped out of the fireplace.

“Alright. You two need to tell me what happened during the rituals. Things are off, and I can’t tell which direction the magic is pushing towards.” Derowen pulled a chair from the table and sat on it backwards, facing them.

Did he know that she and Draco had been together? They were careful with their hookups, but Derowen’s instincts seemed almost uncanny sometimes and it didn't seem like a coincidence that he was asking while the others were out of the room.

“Nothing happened,” she blurted out, then reconsidered after seeing Derowen’s narrow gaze. “All that happened was Malfoy lifted me up to reach the marriage ritual book.”

Derowen nodded. “Right. Then in the forest, you found your flowers together and an oath was made.”

“We did not make an oath,” Hermione said emphatically. “We would have noticed something like that.”

Draco rubbed the back of his neck. “There was a moment when I touched her.”

She had to tamp down the urge to swat him. What if Derowen decided they had messed up the rituals too badly to go through with the weddings at all? No, Draco couldn’t be reckless enough to confess.

“Malfoy accidentally groped my leg while we were picking flowers. He wouldn’t touch a Muggle-born on purpose.”

That should shut him up.

“Did anything else strange happen?” Derowen rested his chin on the chairback. “Flashes of light, feeling pulled to do something?”

Everything that happened was strange. Hermione didn’t want to think through all of their reckless actions, especially now that they hadn’t led anywhere but sadness.

“I also took one of the flowers,” Draco said. “But I brought it back today.”

“That might be causing some of the irregularities if you didn’t add them all before the rituals,” Derowen said.

Draco dug in his bag and pulled out the single flower in the jar. The sight of it made something inside Hermione clench painfully, remembering the pleasure that Draco had brought to her body the last time she’d gazed at that flower from his bed.

“You should still be able to add it to your powder. Or Hermione’s, since she has less.”

Draco nodded and unscrewed the lid of the single flower. She expected the blissful calm that usually came with exposure to their flowers, but this last one felt different. The air in the room caved in, a gasp of despair.

A cruel bastard who ruins everything, deserve to feel this way and you’re trapped here, everyone will always hate—

The lid of the jar clattered as Draco slammed it back on. His shallow breaths were audible in the quiet room.

“Keep your flowers separate from Hermione’s for now, Mr. Malfoy,” Derowen said calmly, as though nothing unusual had just happened.

Had Derowen felt that too? Or was it a connection between her and Draco from the shared flowers? 

“Is our flower powder ruined?” Hermione asked Derowen.

If there was something wrong with hers too, it could taint the fire ritual and even the weddings themselves. That sadness hadn’t felt like her, but she could hardly believe that Draco might feel that way. His face betrayed none of the emotion that had just poured through the room.

“The rituals are as unpredictable as nature itself. Your fates are not set in stone.” He looked at Draco meaningfully. “And pain can open a path that is unexpected, but more true.”

Draco threw the jar roughly back into his bag and stood up. “You don’t know anything about my path.”

“I don’t think anything is ruined quite yet.” Derowen ignored Draco’s cold derision and answered Hermione’s question.

“Please tell Astoria to meet me outside.” Draco strode out the door without looking back.

Hermione grabbed her jar of flower powder from the table and opened it quickly, before she could second guess the wisdom of revealing whatever would happen to Derowen. The sensation of her flowers was softer; full of sadness, but missing the sharp burn of self-loathing and despair that had filled the air before. 

At least she’d been honest. Strength and clarity could be forged from loss, if she could trust herself and how she felt.

But how? The question sparked on the tip of her tongue. Her flowers and Draco’s had started the same, but they had both made choices that changed things. She closed the jar and set it on the table.

“During the fire ritual, you’ll add the poppy,” Derowen mused, tapping the glass of her jar.

A chance at happiness. The flower dust in her jar swirled, then the dust in the other three jars shivered into the same circular motion. 

“Shifting fates beyond your own,” Derowen said quietly.

A sparkle of gold passed through each jar, like shards of light in a waterfall. Hermione shook her head, trying to place why that was so familiar. The dust fell still again, the moment passed.

Derowen smiled at her. “You’re quite the force of nature, Hermione Granger. I think Tintagel is the perfect place for you.”

Chapter Text

The Tintagel Museum gardens were lit up for the Fire Ritual party like a summer snow globe, full of fairy lights and lush blossoms scenting the air. It was the last ritual before the weddings and Audrey had gone all out to make it a glamorous event with the two couples as guests of honor. The most prominent members of society mingled happily as Witch Weekly photographers snapped photos.

This was exactly what Hermione had wanted, the push of approval and prestige that the Solstice Wedding would give her, the acceptance from people who had seen her as an outsider. She had already made several contacts that would likely result in mutual career advancement and her face felt a bit numb from all the smiling.

She should be happy. Happy, not restless and wanting something that she couldn’t quite define, that prickled her skin with anxious anticipation. Maybe more food and drinks would help.

She cradled her plate of sausage rolls to her chest as the crowd suddenly moved to make room for Narcissa Malfoy. Draco’s mother had arrived late and in full Victorian-style mourning garb, complete with a top hat covered in a netted veil. The harpist quickly switched the song to a mournful dirge as she passed, causing the couples dancing in the open courtyard to stumble.

“That's certainly a look,” Hermione whispered to Neville standing next to her. 

“I prefer our Gryffindor representation.” Neville touched his red and gold striped bow tie and grinned at Hermione.

She adjusted a strap of her red velvet gown. The soft, clingy fabric was comfortable, but a bit more revealing than she was used to.

“Oh yes, we are the best.” She smiled back at Neville. “Although I suppose you can’t play favorites anymore.”

“Our professors certainly did. But I am trying to make my greenhouses a welcoming place for all students, regardless of the house stereotypes.”

“Sounds like a Hufflepuff.” She smirked, then ducked out of the way when Neville tossed one of the grapes from his hor d'oeuvres plate at her. 

“Kidding. You're doing good work, Neville.”

It was strange to see her classmates growing into who they were supposed to be, moving out of the past to find their place in life. Neville updated her on Hogwarts gossip as they gazed around the party and people-watched. Ron was talking to Dean, the way they were gesturing in the air making her think they were discussing Quidditch strategy.

She spotted Audrey and Percy cuddled together on a wrought iron bench tucked in a gap between manicured hedges. Romantic. She would be Hermione Weasley the next time she was in a place like this, feeling the sensual bite of crisp night air on bare shoulders in a formal gown, tasting the fizz of champagne like possibility on her lips. 

Hermione finished another sausage roll and tried to re-focus on what Neville was saying. The chance for romantic intrigue in her life was over. A door shut, one she hadn’t even noticed when it was open.

“—And I told them to stop feeding chocolate frogs to the mandrakes. Even if they stop crying, the sugar rush later is even worse to deal with.” Neville made a crazed expression, then looked behind her. “Oh, hi Malfoy.”

She whirled around to find Draco close at her back, tripping on her heels in surprise.

“Hello.” He steadied her with a hand under her elbow, the touch sending a quiver through her.

Draco’s lips parted as he looked down at her, holding her arm for a long moment before she pulled away. 

“So, Longbottom.” He turned to Neville, but somehow all his attention still felt like it was on her. “How are things?”

What was Draco playing at? Her friends had never been friends with him, and definitely never made small talk. Neville looked mystified, and slowly lowered the piece of cheese he was about to bite back down to his plate.

“Good?” He asked hesitantly, then went on after Draco gave an encouraging nod. “I’m the Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. This semester is very exciting because we got some new species of Adiantum. Their leaves repel water and I thought that an interesting experiment to try would be stitching umbrellas for the puffkins! Some of the students did have troubles convincing the enchanted needles—”  

Draco was listening politely, but watching her from the corner of his eye. She frowned down at her plate, picking at bits of puff pastry with a fingertip. She was still angry with him, wasn’t she? And the hurt still felt raw when he was near. Whatever Draco was doing; trying to make her jealous or tease her, she would be wise to avoid.

She bumped Neville’s arm to get his attention. “I’ll see you later, Nev.”

“Wait,” Draco blurted. “Uh, Pansy wants you.”

Hermione turned back around. “What?”

“Pansy Parkinson has been saying how much she wants Longbottom to ask her to dance.”

They all looked over to where Pansy was leaning against a table, examining the glittering daggers of her fingernails with a bored expression.

“Really?” Neville breathed. 

“Yeah. She loves—” Draco scraped a hand through his hair. “Plants. And bow ties. Thick eyebrows. Toads?”

Neville’s eyes lit up in response to each item Draco listed.

“Alright. If you’re sure.” He pushed his half-empty plate into Hermione’s hands and walked towards Pansy.

She looked absolutely confused to see him approach her. Oh, poor Neville was about to be destroyed.

Hermione set down the plates on a nearby table and raised her eyebrows at Draco. “Liar.”

The ghost of a smirk appeared on his lips, and she hated the way it lit up her veins. He didn’t get to smile at her like that anymore, not after the wounds they had caused each other.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She kept her voice as cold and harsh as she could.

“I would like to apologize.” He pulled himself up to his full height and clasped his hands. “My behavior towards you was abhorrent during a time of vulnerability. My rejection—”

“Stop that,” she hissed, looking around to see if anyone had overheard him.

Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention, but he nodded and gestured towards a place where the hedge dipped in behind a topiary to form a more secluded spot. She followed him, then immediately regretted it when she bumped into his chest in the small space.

There was Draco’s familiar smell; clean and delicious enough to make her want to bury her face against his neck. Or reach up to where his jaw met under his ear, to the tender place that was so sensitive when kissed. She glowered at him instead.

Draco cleared his throat. “As I was saying, my rejection that day was because of the circumstances of our lives and not because you are undesirable. You are—”

He faltered from his prepared apology, his eyes dropping to her velvet-draped curves, then away as he regained his composure. “You’re perfect.”

He'd told her that before, with his hand between her legs. The sensual memory combined with his determined words now caused a choked noise to escape her lips, but Draco kept going.

“I’m sorry for any pain I caused you and I am pleased to see that you are moving on happily. I wish you all the best in your marriage and your life.” He nodded briskly, apparently done with his declaration.

She hadn’t expected an apology, or the way it would break through whatever walls she’d struggled to construct around her heart. Draco’s controlled expression wavered a bit as he waited for her response, currents of deeper emotion beneath his calm surface. Had Draco been agonizing over this? Rehearsing these words to clear his conscience so he could move on? 

“I accept your apology, but reject your overall premise.” She matched his formal tone.

“That you’re perfect?”

She waved that away, even though Draco's eyes narrowed like he was ready to argue the point.

“That you have no choice in your life. Do you really want to marry Astoria?”

He sighed and absently kicked at the base of the topiary. “What I want has never carried much weight.”

“That's not an answer.”

“This wasn’t meant to be an argument.” He kicked a little harder, scuffing the toe of his shiny shoe.

“Of course it was. This is how we are.”

The word we made something spark uselessly in her chest, but it was true. They had fought the entire time they’d known each other, and the fact that there had been a few months of unexpected intimacy tucked in didn’t change anything.

“Fine.” His eyes were on fire now, far from the polite control of his apology. “What I want doesn’t matter and I’m doing what I have to.”

He looked like he wanted to slam his fist into the hedge, or push her against the branches and kiss the fight out of her. He looked like he wanted her to change his mind.

“And what about what I want?” She asked, her tone just as forceful.

She grasped the waxy leaves behind her, trying to ground herself and pull back. It would be a mistake to bully him into being with her, to lay out her heart to be stomped on again. 

Draco shook his head. “You’re better off without me. At least I have something to offer the Greengrasses with my family name.”

“That’s bullshit. If you felt like you could choose—”

“I can’t,” he exploded, then winced and leaned away from her. “I’m sorry, Granger. I just can’t.”

His pain was palpable, the truth of sadness and regret from his single flower in the jar. This was what Draco was keeping locked tightly inside; he wanted her badly enough to break his own heart.

“And you’re sorry.”

She said it like an accusation, everything they both knew loaded into the words. I love you and I can’t. It was a spell of stillness in the forest, a deep aching want lodged like a stone in her throat that would pull her down to drown.

It was worse than not being loved at all.

“You’re not trapped. You’re just a coward.” She ripped the leaves away from the branch and dropped them on the ground as she pushed past him.

An elderly woman yelped as Hermione emerged from the hedge and nearly bumped into her. The party seemed louder than before, shrill laughter and people standing too close together.

“Excuse me.” She wove through the crowd, feeling unsteady.

What was she thinking, letting herself be vulnerable like that again? It was pathetic. She rubbed her temples hard. Draco’s actions only pushed her away, so what he was feeling didn’t matter. She needed Ron, the man who had chosen to be with her. He was her real fate.

Ron was easy to find, already waiting for her in the center of the courtyard with Derowen. Audrey had extricated herself from Percy and was clearing out the space to make room for the Fire Ritual to come, directing people to stand around the perimeter to watch. 

“Ron.” Hermione wrapped her arms around him, making an effort to notice his smell, the feeling of his body against hers.

He hugged her back distractedly, no showy passion this time. They were just at a comfortable stage of their relationship. Hermione clutched the fabric of his jacket in her fingertips. Or maybe part of Ron could sense that she had once again nearly thrown herself at another man, desperation and bad choices clinging to her like a mist.

“Did you see Neville and Pansy Parkinson?” Ron asked, looking a bit horrified.

She stood on tiptoe to see where he was pointing. Pansy had her fingers wrapped around Neville’s bicep, and Hermione couldn’t tell if the way she was grinning at him was sincere or malicious.

“At least Neville looks happy.”

Ron scoffed. “Then he doesn’t know he’s in danger. Maybe I should go save him.”

“Wait until after the ritual.” She held Ron more tightly to stop him from walking away. “You like my dress, right? And my hair?”

He had complimented her when she had come down the stairs at home all done up, but it couldn’t hurt to push him to appreciate her a bit now. Just to get in the correct frame of mind before the ritual started.

“Oh yeah. Nice fabric.” He patted her waist.

“You too.” His suit was honestly a bit garish with wide blue stripes, but she looked him up and down and smiled appreciatively. “You’re so handsome.”

Ron pulled her in suddenly for a kiss, open-mouthed and hard enough to tilt her head back. She gasped in surprise, still clinging to him when he drew away. The compliments had worked better than she realized. The thought gave her a flush of encouragement, but then she saw where Ron was looking. Draco and Astoria had joined them in the courtyard, walking hand in hand towards the group.

Of course—Ron always wanted her more when someone else did. She knew his jealousy as well as his freckles, from petty fights and ruined Yule Balls. She should be grateful for it now, if it was stoking his desire for her before the test of the ritual.

Hermione realized her shoulders had slumped and forced herself into a more confident posture. It had been foolish to storm dramatically away from Draco, not thinking about how she would have to face him right after.

Astoria waved happily, leaving Draco behind to come greet them. He looked just as uncomfortable as Hermione felt, his chin lifted and posture unnaturally stiff as he stalked over to stand next to Derowen.

Ron's smile grew when Astoria said hello to him, their easy chatter grating on Hermione’s nerves. He was always so very happy to speak to Astoria, just like all her other admirers. Maybe if Hermione was that charming and sweet, things would fall into place effortlessly for her too.

Although she’d never be as beautiful as Astoria. She would never be pure blood, the full package for someone like Draco Malfoy.

“Hello, Hermione. You look stunning tonight.” Astoria embraced her.

Hermione crossed her arms, not caring that she was making the hug awkward. “You too.”

Somehow she managed to look both alluring and untouchably pure, a goddess in her blue chiffon dress. Maybe Ron would prefer Astoria too, if he had the choice instead of being stuck with her.

“Are you having a good time at the party?”

“Sure,” Hermione said darkly, feeling twitchy where Astoria was still touching her.

After Hermione’s hostile response, Draco had gone to his fiancée. Maybe they’d talked about her; his shameful little fling who couldn’t let go. Kind Astoria might have even been the one to suggest that Draco apologize before the ritual, to clear the path for their future and leave old grudges behind.

“Are you alright?” Astoria guided her by the elbow so they were facing away from the others. “Did something happen with Ron?”

“No, nothing happened,” Hermione snapped.

She snuck a glance at Draco, standing far enough away that he couldn’t hear them, his hands clasped behind his back and surveying the crowd with a slight frown.

“Did Draco do another prank?” Astoria’s eyes were wide with confusion. 

“All of that’s over.”

Astoria nodded primly. “Probably for the best. You two were treading dangerous ground.”

“You have no idea.”

Getting lectured was the final straw on the pile of shit, especially coming from Astoria. It felt like losing a competition, then being stomped into the dirt by the winner.

“Our parents were even starting to question what was happening.” Astoria tutted disapprovingly. “Honestly, I don’t know what Draco was thinking, behaving in such a way.”

“Maybe he was thinking with his cock.” The words escaped like blood from a cut, a knife drawing out the bitter poison in her veins.

“I—” Astoria gaped at her, rendered speechless.

“Or maybe I just don’t understand how pure bloods usually act before they get married. Maybe it's normal to want a taste of something else before doing what you're supposed to.” She shrugged with exaggerated innocence. 

The cruelty felt good. Sending the hurt out to hit someone else instead of holding it inside.

Astoria gripped her arm, fingernails digging into Hermione’s skin. “Did you cheat on Ron with Draco?”

“Don’t touch me.” Hermione jerked away.

Gold sparks seemed to rise from the place where Astoria’s hand had been, burning painfully on Hermione’s bare skin. I’ll help you however I can. The words rang through her mind unbidden, an echo of something she said once, what felt like a lifetime ago. She rubbed her arm furiously.

“Did you?” Astoria gasped.

So Draco hadn’t told Astoria what they’d done. Was she so insignificant? It felt like more, but in a practical sense, it had been just a physical fling. Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling the blood pounding in her ears. If it was more, then Draco wouldn’t have been able to let her go.

“I didn’t cheat on Ron. Anything else, you should go ask your fiancé.”

Astoria seemed to shrink into herself, reacting to conflict like a prey animal. “I just—I can’t talk to Draco about something like that. It’s not my place to question my future husband.”

“What did he tell you?” Hermione asked.

It was tempting to just confess everything–every shocking, heartbreaking detail laid out bare.  Astoria would probably cry and Hermione would expose herself for the villain that she really was.

“I thought Draco might be seeing someone else before, when we agreed not to get married. But things changed with Lucius dying, and he told my parents that he wanted—” Her voice trailed off miserably.

“He was seeing someone else, but it’s over now.” Hermione said haltingly. “He chose you. He is choosing you.”

She didn’t wait for Astoria’s reaction, her vision blurring as she stalked over to where Ron was waiting. Any problems between Draco and Astoria weren’t her problem, or even any of her business anymore. 

“What’s that?” Ron stared at her feet, where gold sparks were trailing a path between her and Astoria. 

“I don’t know.” Hermione batted irritably at the hem of her dress until they blinked out like fireflies. “Solstice Wedding magic nonsense.”

Ron hummed in agreement. “At least we’re almost done.”

She bit down the urge to defend the very thing she’d just been complaining about. This ritual was the last chance to get some part of the wedding prep right, when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

Audrey sent up a dramatic spiral of fire from her wand up into the air, drawing the attention of everyone in the gardens. There was a smattering of applause from the people gathered around the perimeter of the courtyard to watch, then silent anticipation to see what would happen next. 

During a normal year, the engaged couple would stand on opposite sides and send their lines of flames toward each other, but now they would all be crowded in the space together. Hermione tapped her heel against the smooth flagstone and tried to calm her nerves. 

She and Ron could do this. There had been many times that she had felt desirable in the last few months, she should be able to channel it now. Derowen handed each of them a heavy black cloak for fire protection and directed them to separate corners of the courtyard, where their jars of flowers were already waiting.

“A spouse is a friend, encourager, protector—any number of roles throughout life,” Audrey addressed both them and the crowd.

Hermione pulled up the stiff hood and dropped her head so all she could see were her flowers directly in front of her. Her jar was still half empty, unlike the others. Audrey had already removed the lids and she could smell the forest rising up from the crushed petals.

Moonlight and anticipation. It was like a balm on her frayed nerves, a tingle of unexpected euphoria rushing through her. She’d thought the painful emotions from the last time they’d opened their jars would return, but this was different. Was Draco feeling the same thing? She didn’t dare look to see.

Derowen tipped over a leather bag and poured out hundreds of tiny mosaic tiles like the ones in the fireplace. They split across the stone in four directions, tinkling softly before settling to spin slow circles around the flower jars. 

“What separates the marriage relationship from all others in life?” Audrey paused for emphasis as the tiles stopped moving and fell to the ground. “Desire. It can burn hot and consume everything, or it can steadily keep you warm for a lifetime.”

Hermione nodded across the distance at Ron. Steady was what she needed. Who she needed.

“The fire in this ritual channels your passion and physical attraction,” Audrey said. “Concentrate on your desire.”

Ron’s green mosaic tiles began lifting into the air along with his powder, assembling into the shape of the plant that he saw in the fireplace. Ivy, a strong and full vine to show attachment and fidelity. 

He reached up a hand and the ivy formed a loose ball hovering above his palm. It felt right. Ron’s word was unbreakable, his loyalty secure enough to trust with your life. The heart-shaped leaves twitched in an invisible breeze, then dissolved into a ball of fire.

Ron appraised it with a satisfied look, then made a tossing motion with his hand. The fire cascaded out into a line in front of him, burning steady and waist-high. Now it was her turn.

The tiles around Hermione’s flowers were shades of red, varying from sunlit petals to the deep crimson of her dress. She could see them beginning to vibrate, could smell the flinty spark of the fire about to start.

“Come on,” she whispered, feeling something loosen inside of her.

A tile poppy rose up, achingly beautiful. Sacrifice and hope. Her true desire didn’t come from surface attraction, it was dragged from the depths of her, forged by the pain of a past that had shifted her core. Hope amongst ruin. But that wasn’t quite right. Hope because of ruin, the unyielding grit that came from living through the darkest point and choosing to fight for light. 

The poppy burst into fire, melding with the silver flower powder to form a line as tall as her. A vision flickered behind her eyelids, of herself lying back on a bed, curls spread wild across the soft surface. Not her own bed, though—she realized with a shock that it was the bed at the inn in Tintagel. The vision of herself convulsed in pleasure while Draco kissed her neck and stroked his deft fingers deep inside. Her last wall of fear and hate was shattered, their trust in each other bursting forth into impossible joy.

No. Draco couldn’t be her instinctual memory of desire. She shook her head until the image dissipated. That fire had burned out. She coughed at the smoke around her, worried to see that her real fire had dropped to ankle height.

She staggered towards Ron, her flames following close with her. The faces of the crowd seemed to be flickering in the light, bright flashes of their eyes and jewelry illuminated. The heat was intense, even with the protection of the cloak.

“Are you sure he’s choosing me?” Astoria stepped into Hermione’s path, cloak billowing around her.

It was chaos on Draco and Astoria’s side of the courtyard, piles of ash and smoke pouring from scattered blazes. Hermione couldn't tell which direction Astoria’s fire was going, but Draco’s seemed to be zig-zagging towards both women. He cursed loudly, then extinguished it with an Auguamenti only to have a new ball of fire pop up again a meter away.

“Watch out,” Hemione hissed, trying to control her own flames so they wouldn’t merge with Astoria’s.

The two couples were spaced out for a reason, to prevent the desire-driven fire from making the wrong connection. She needed to get to Ron if she wanted to complete the ritual.

Astoria gestured around angrily. “Draco and I have only kissed. Nothing that would cause that.”

Draco’s flames surged towards them, heat roaring higher than their heads. He was losing control, the desire in his mind pushing through his constructed walls. The air seemed to swell between them, wavy with heat that stole her breath. She could do it, let go of her fire and connect their flames. Force his hand and complete the ritual with him instead of Ron.

But Draco didn’t want that. His eyes were wide and movements jerky as he cast spell after spell to thwart the path of flames. People in the crowd were starting to shout, everyone coughing and squinting from all the smoke. Hermione took a shuddering breath and shoved Astoria towards Draco. They could have each other, if that was what they wanted.

Her fire rushed alongside as she ran through the piles of ash to Ron, glittering with both the ruby glass and her silver flower powder. Ron didn’t see her coming, too focused on his own fire, jaw set and body tense. Was he angry about what he desired? 

“Ron.” His expression was thunderous as he looked up at her and his fire flared even brighter. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing. Just you.” He softened his expression, but then his gaze snapped across the courtyard to Draco, just for a second, but enough to tell her everything.

Fuck, were all four of them imagining her and Draco together with various shades of disgust and desire?

“You still want to marry me, right?” She asked, her voice shaking.

The question seemed to snap Ron out of his dark thoughts. “Of course I do.”

“Good.” She nodded a bit desperately. “Me too. Do you remember the first time we slept together? When you found me crying?”

Their relationship had been good once—their love, the refuge of it after the war. Not just good, imperative for their survival. Ron had found her curled on the bed that first time, staring at things that weren’t there, at nightmares that haunted whether or not she closed her eyes. He pulled the blanket up over their heads, creating safety that existed only between the two of them.

“I remember.” Ron took her hand.

Both of their flames were crackling around them now, strengthened by the same memory. Back then, she’d reached for Ron with shaking hands, desperate to feel something real. His skin was warm under his clothes and his touch drowned out everything else. 

They moved against each other under the blanket and when she came, it was the start of a new part of her life. Pleasure held back the pain, and when you were falling apart, didn’t you use what you could reach to pull yourself back together? They had been the ones left standing in the rubble of the desolate world.

“I love you.” She stretched up to kiss him now, the heat of their shared breath echoing the fire roaring around them.

It was still true, despite the whirlwind of doubts and feelings that had been overwhelming her. Ron held her together, a structural beam as essential as a rib bone or clavicle.

But what if she wasn’t the same person anymore? That girl drowning under the blankets who needed to be saved? She pushed back the hood of her cloak, suddenly feeling stifled by the weight of it.

“I love you, too.” Ron rested his forward against hers. “I’ll never leave you, I promise.”

Their flames seemed to slow, burning in a wall that almost looked like molten glass. She could see her poppy and his ivy, shining like the afterimage that glowed on the back of her eyelids after seeing something bright. Ron’s gold flower powder was drifting sluggishly low in the flames, but her silver was sparking up and out into the air. 

She gasped a breath. The heat was suffocating her, sweat itching down her back and under her armpits. Was the ritual over? Their flames had joined, but now it felt like they were still on a pyre.

“I love you,” she repeated louder, and a little desperately. “I choose you.”

Ron nodded, then took a step back. As soon as there was distance between them, the fire died out completely, leaving dark scorch marks on the stone and all traces of the mosaic tiles gone. Only their gold and silver flower powder remained in the air, circling a few times before floating back to their jars and dropping in.

Applause rang out from the crowd, apparently impressed by the romantic pyrotechnics. Draco and Astoria still seemed to be struggling on the other side of the courtyard, mostly obscured by their fire and plumes of smoke.

“You did it!” Audrey led them to where the reporters and photographers were waiting. “How are you feeling?”

“Great.” Ron draped his arm around Hermione’s shoulder.

One of the reporters that had interviewed them months ago for Witch Weekly crowded in with a Quick Notes Quill. “Congratulations! What do you say to the people who don’t think you should be allowed to be here?”

“What kind of question is that?” Hermione twitched under the weight of the cloak and Ron’s closeness. “That’s rude.”

The quill shot across the page, spinning her quote into something much worse. 

“She means that we hope people are excited for the wedding,” Ron cut in. “Some of the party favors will be available for purchase at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes after, like the color-changing diamond rings—”

The reporter nodded. “Right. As you know, there’s been speculation that a Muggleborn wouldn’t be capable of completing the sacred rituals. Since it appears you have, will you still try to prevent the Malfoy and Greengrass families from upholding their family traditions of a Solstice Wedding?”

She felt some long-held hope inside of her slide away. This should be a moment of triumph. She and Ron had done it and were still being questioned as though she didn’t belong. No matter how hard she worked at it, they would never, ever accept her.

“The people saying that are arseholes who have clearly never felt the magic here.” She grabbed for the reporter’s notebook, but Ron pulled her back with an arm around her waist. “The Solstice magic doesn’t judge blood status, it judges the person themselves. Deep inside, who they are to the bone.”

The quill drew a wobbly circle around the word arseholes as the reporter sneered at her. “And who are you in the bone, Miss Granger?”

“Worthy of being here.” Hermione twisted out of Ron’s hold, her voice shaking. “I felt it. It’s in the earth, like this place knows my name.”

“Interesting,” he said condescendingly, then whispered to the quill, “touched by earth, hearing voices.”

Camera flashbulbs popped all around her, capturing her frustration. Fuck them. Anyone who believed the lies that Witch Weekly printed would never be convinced that she was anything other than an idiot usurper, no matter what she said. 

“I need to get some air.” She took off the heavy cloak and dropped it on the ground, the relief immediate. 

Ron shifted in front of the reporters, giving her room to escape. He would be fine being interviewed on his own. They always asked him easier questions and he could use the time to promote the shop. She knocked elbows and shoulders as she fled, barely looking up until she reached the edge of the manicured gardens.

It was easier to breathe where it was wilder, the path rocky as she made her way up to the edge of the cliff. A silent string of need tugged her forward and away from the irritation of the party, almost like when she had followed the unseen path in the forest.

This evening had been another mess. Completing the ritual hadn’t fixed things, she still felt restless and wrong, trying to break through to something she couldn’t quite grasp. The castle ruins loomed ahead, stark against the night sky. 

Hermione kicked off her heels as she passed the spot where she and Ron had sat and laughed at the sheep. The scrubby grass was rough and cold against her bare feet. She wanted to feel it. To pierce through the numbness and wake up. 

The visions from the ritual still tumbled through her mind, sharp and visceral. That girl who had clung to Ron with shaking hands and hollow bones. It was heavy, a cloud of sadness closing her in, and she didn’t want it anymore.

She wanted the girl in the memory of the inn with Draco, laughing and marveling at the expansiveness of the world. The one with a future. Did that mean Draco was the man who could make her happy? Or maybe she was asking the wrong questions, looking in the wrong places to feel whole.

The velvet hem of her dress dragged across the ground as she walked to the edge of the cliff and gripped the iron railing. It wasn’t about Draco or Ron and how she could contort herself into a version that they could love. The rituals had pushed at something inside of her, cracking open layers of varnish that had once protected her.

A cold mist swept against her arms. But the sky was clear and she was too high up to feel sea spray. She pulled out her wand and cast a Lumos into the air in front of her. Thousands of tiny diamonds were suspended in the air in front of her, stretching all the way down the cliff into the cave and dancing across the surface of the sea.

No, not diamonds—the feeling and fragrance hit her like a caress. It was her flower powder. Each ritual had stolen some of it away, but the flowers had returned to her now. A constellation of her own making, a map written with fractured stars. 

How had she ever questioned if she belonged here? The magic of Tintagel had been waiting for her, was singing in her blood. Hermione Granger, first of her line.  And she didn't need to change a fucking thing to deserve it.

“I’m ready,” she said out loud, her voice cutting through the night air. 

The flower powder drew closer, settling on her skin like a kiss of moonlight. All of the emotions that she had felt during the rituals and in the labyrinth stone seemed to pass through her in a rush. What she wanted, what she already had. The flowers vibrated into a flurry of silver and then just as quickly dropped away, scattering to the elements once again. Waiting.

She chose herself. Now she just needed to figure out what that path looked like.

Chapter Text

“Are you happy with all of this, dear?” The seamstress fluffed one of the stiff lace rosettes on the skirt of Molly’s old wedding dress. 

Hermione forced a smile into the mirror. Her wedding dress now. It was her final fitting at Madam Mirette’s before the wedding, so the answer really needed to be yes.

“Can I try a different style?” She plucked at the high lace collar. “I mean, is it too late to switch dresses?”

Molly would be disappointed. It had felt like a nice gesture to wear it at the time, especially when Molly cried with happiness and embraced her.

But now Hermione felt a bit like crying herself, looking at the puffed sleeves and yards of fussy ruffles. The seamstresses had already removed two rows of lace from the collar but it still itched her chin, like being choked by sweaty brides of the past.

“You can try to find a different one. There's a difficult client coming today though, so we won't have much time for alterations.” The seamstress unfastened the back of the dress to the waist. “Go on and look through the sample dresses.”

“I’ll pick something simple.” Hermione stepped out of Molly’s dress with a mixture of guilt and relief.

She felt more like herself already, even just wearing a longline corset bra and petticoat skirt. If she still wore the Prewett jewelry, that should be enough for Ron and his mum.

“Try on whichever you like,” the seamstress instructed as she wrestled Molly’s dress into a garment bag. She seemed nearly as happy to get it out of sight as Hermione was. 

The aisles of the dress shop were cluttered, treasures bursting from boxes and racks. Hermione stroked her fingertips along the length of a silk sash and touched a jewel-encrusted bodice. What style did she even like when she didn’t have anyone else making suggestions?

Something soft, that nipped in at her waist. Maybe a deep v-neck with fluttering sleeves? She held up a dress that was far more Muggle-style than she would normally dare and bit her lip. What was she hiding from? Recent events had only shown that she would always be called out and separated as a Muggle-born, no matter what she did. 

She and Ron had made the front page of Witch Weekly after the Fire Ritual party, an unflattering photo of them silhouetted with flames juxtaposed with a photo of Draco and Astoria looking solemn. The headline read A Love So Pure: Will the Malfoy and Greengrass Families’ Solstice Wedding Be Stolen Away? Hermione’s quotes made her sound like both a social striver and an idiot.

A stuffy, traditional wedding dress wouldn’t win anyone over. It was just as likely that she would be criticized for trying too hard and acting like someone she wasn’t. She draped the beautiful dresses over her arm, noticing the slide of more luxurious fabric against her skin. No scratchy, heavy lace, no weight of ancestors that weren’t even hers.

And she could have more intricate accessories with a less embellished dress. Hermione picked up a veil with scallops of beads that would trail down past her waist, and another that could sweep from her updo with a sprig of flowers. There were even elbow length gloves that might be fun, tiny bows at the top.

“Her skin looks sallow against the white.” A haughty voice rang through the open doorway of the changing area she’d left. “Haven’t you been sleeping, Astoria?”

Hermione peeked in. It seemed Astoria had arrived for her dress fitting too, a half dozen seamstresses crowded around where she stood on the low platform in front of a wall of mirrors. Narcissa Malfoy and Genevieve Greengrass lounged on chaises nearby.

“The color of fabric is ivory pearl,” one of the seamstresses chirped.

“It’s dreadful. Ivory pearl. Do you want my daughter to look like an Inferi on her wedding day? Goulish. It must be switched out for a warmer tone.”

“No,” the seamstress stammered, looking to Madam Mirette for help.

“No?” Genevieve repeated menacingly. “Are you telling me you cannot re-make the dress?”

“I mean no, I don’t want her to look like an Inferi!”

“So you agree that she currently looks like a corpse in this shoddy excuse for a dress?”

“I don’t—”

Mirette pushed the frazzled seamstress out of the way. “Of course we’ll adjust it to whatever specifications you want.”

Narcissa tutted. “Astoria, you are looking a bit thin around the face and chest. Are you well, dear?”

“Very well, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Astoria sounded strained, not well at all. Was she nervous for her wedding? Maybe upset by the bombshell Hermione had dropped at the Fire Ritual, alluding to hooking up with Draco. Hermione stepped farther back from the doorway and leaned against the wall, letting a display of puffy veils engulf her.

Being cruel to Astoria had been a moment of petty weakness. Maybe she should try to apologize. Sorry I propositioned your fiancé and fell in love with him. I’m not sure if I actually regret it.

But it was over now and too late to take any of it back. Astoria would marry Draco and Hermione would be happy with Ron, resolute to no longer take him for granted. Hermione pushed aside the veils, and strode into the room purposefully. 

The two mothers stopped talking to stare at Hermione, their expressions cold and judgemental. Narcissa was wearing another black mourning gown, less formal than the Fire Ritual one, but still overly gothic for a Diagon Alley appointment. 

“Good afternoon.” Hermione smiled at all of them with pasted-on politeness.

Astoria glared back, the expression jarring on her kind face. Her wedding gown was traditional Wizard style, with an intricately embroidered hoop skirt and flowing sleeves that draped in points nearly to the ground.

“You look beautiful, Astoria,” Hermione said loudly as she crossed the room.

Genevieve Greengrass made a sound of disgust, probably at the sight of Hermione in her undergarments. No matter that the corset and petticoat had more coverage and structure than most formal dresses.

“Are you here for your fitting too?” Narcissa Malfoy tilted her chin towards the dresses in Hermione’s arms.

“Yes,” Hermione said shortly.

It had been many years since the Malfoys had called her a smelly Mudblood in a dress shop, but some things were hard to forget. Mrs. Malfoy just nodded now, watching her discomfitingly closely. 

Hermione pushed back a heavy curtain to get to the more private changing area. There were beautifully carved wood privacy screens to section off areas to get dressed and she moved behind one, hanging the dresses and accessories on hooks.

It was better to be here alone than to be surrounded by criticism like Astoria. Molly was overbearing, but not mean like that. Hermione stepped into the first gown and pulled it up. It was structured to cinch in her waist, with fabric artfully draped to softly curve around her hips. She looked over her shoulder to check how it hugged her bum in the back. A bit snug, but also very flattering. She gave a little wiggle and smiled.

“We’re supposed to be trying on the bridesmaid dresses,” a voice laughed from behind one of the other screens. 

Hermione jolted in surprise; she’d thought she was alone.

“If you're dull, just say so.”

That voice sounded familiar, and Hermione peeked through a gap in the decorative carving on the screen. Pansy Parkinson stood in front of a full length mirror only wearing a black lingerie set with thigh-high garters. 

“You’re dull.” Daphne Greengrass stepped out from behind a screen, adjusting the neckline of a green velvet dress to show more cleavage. 

Astoria’s bridesmaids, here for their dress fittings too. It was immature to hide, but the alternative of facing them and opening herself up to their snide comments was unbearable. Hermione silently slid off the first dress and tried on the next one. It was more flowy, with a full skirt that would swirl out when she walked and a row of tiny pearl buttons on the back.

“I thought Astoria had better taste than these dresses,” Pansy sighed.

“It’s my mother’s taste.” Daphne rolled her eyes and transfigured Pansy’s knickers green with a flick of her wand. “There you go, just wear that. The groomsmen will love it.”

“Better." Pansy dragged her fingers along the straps of her garters and gave the mirror a sultry pout. “But your mother would die. Or murder me first, then die.”

Daphne pulled her dress down and wiggled one arm out of her sleeve to create a one-shouldered look. “As long as the old harpy meets her end, I’ll be happy.”

“Shhhh.” Pansy swatted her. “You need to be nice, for Tori’s sake.”

“Tori needs to grow a spine and run from all of them as quickly as she can.”

Hermione frowned. Astoria’s own sister was against the wedding? Why? She twisted her arms behind her to fasten the pearl buttons.

“Draco’s not so bad. And he has a giant cock,” Pansy said.

Hermione nearly ripped off the pearl between her fingers, her jaw dropping in a silent gasp. How would Pansy know that? And she wasn’t wrong, which meant that her school-time relationship with Draco must have progressed that far. The fact she was speaking of Draco’s perfect penis at all made Hermione want to destroy her. Or cry.

“I’ve heard that about him,” Daphne said lazily. “Although I think Tori’s a virgin.”

“Poor thing. At least Draco will be gentle with her. He’s very careful.”

Hermione peeked out of the space in the screen again to see Pansy pick up green fabric from the floor and wrap it around her shoulders dramatically. He would be gentle, and so kind. She could just imagine Draco carefully undressing Astoria on their wedding night, kissing her before lifting her onto his soft bed. 

“Not gentle enough. She’s so sweet and compliant, I’m afraid he’ll walk all over her.” Daphne picked up a broach from the table and pinned up the hem of her skirt to be mid-thigh. “Tori needs—”

Astoria burst through the curtains, looking on the edge of tears. “What do I need?”

“Nothing.” Daphne cringed. “We’re just talking about how cute you are.”

“Thank you.” She wrinkled her nose, then shook her head as though to clear it. “Is Hermione here?”

“Granger?” Pansy said disdainfully. “Why would she be here?”

Hermione held her breath behind the screen.

“I saw her, but she might have gone to another room,” Astoria said.

Oh, thank goodness. The worst thing that could happen was to be caught eavesdropping on a conversation about Draco’s cock.

“I think Hermione and Draco had sex,” Astoria said.

Nope, this was the actual worst thing. Hermione bit down on a satin glove to keep from making noise in response to the sounds of shock and horror from Daphne and Pansy.

“That little whore!”

“When? In school?”

Astoria sighed. “No, recently. When Draco and I agreed not to get married, before his father got worse. We weren’t exactly together.”

“Still,” Daphne hissed. “That absolute slut. We’ll kill her for you.”

Pansy let out a low whistle, apparently too shocked to contemplate murder. “I didn't know Granger had it in her. Although the way Draco used to talk about her, I did wonder if all the hate was covering up other feelings—ouch.”

Pansy rubbed her shoulder where Daphne hit her. “You're much prettier than Granger though. And his father would have lost his mind if he knew Draco had sullied himself with someone like her.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched. Sullied himself. 

“Did Draco tell you this?” Daphne seemed to be speaking carefully, looking at Pansy like they were having a private conversation with their eyes.

“Hermione did. Kind of.”

“Then she was probably lying to make you jealous,” Pansy wrapped an arm around Astoria’s shoulders. “Granger always did want to be the best. She probably tried to seduce Draco to ruin your wedding.”

Pansy was such a bitch. Hermione dug her fingernails into the gap in the divider, pressing half-moons into the soft wood. But Hermione had tried to ruin Astoria’s wedding with the pranks at first, hadn’t she? It wasn’t even a lie that she had seduced her friend’s fiancé. Even if she could explain away their physical actions on technicalities, it had been emotional cheating.

“You’re Draco’s friend, Pansy.” Astoria sniffled. “Do you think he’s happy? I mean, happy to be marrying me?”

Hermione froze, waiting for the answer as much as Astoria was.

“I think he’s lucky to be marrying you. You’re an absolute catch,” Pansy said smoothly.

“You need to be thinking about your own happiness, Tori. What you want your future to look like,” Daphne said.

Astoria made a sound almost like a sob. Guilt prickled through Hermione. What would have happened if she’d just left Draco alone? No pranks, no experiment. Everyone would be happier right now if they had ignored their chemistry.

“I can’t think about my future,” Astoria said as Daphne put her arms on top of Pansy’s and  crushed them all into a hug.

“Once you have that Malfoy money, you’ll be able to do whatever you want,” Pansy drawled. “We’ll have fabulous girls’ trips and parties at Malfoy Manor.”

“Maybe.” Astoria pulled away, turning so the other girls couldn’t see her face.

Hermione caught her expression though, and the despair written there was heartbreaking. Astoria looked like she was anticipating the gallows instead of her wedding day.

Daphne pulled on Astoria’s voluminous sleeve, showing a large embroidered heron. “Is mother still acting like a bitch to impress Narcissa Malfoy? She’s always simpering over her like an overgrown house elf.”

“No.” Astoria pulled her sleeve back defensively. “But she says my dress is all wrong and yours will probably need to be remade too. They sent me back to get you both to be measured again.”

“I do hate this dress,” Pansy finally pulled it on, covering the green lingerie. “Do you think they have anything with flowers on it? If not a dress, then some kind of accessory?”

“That’s not your style, Pans.” Daphne frowned. “What kind of flowers?”

“I don’t know, medicinal ones. Something you could find in the Hogwarts greenhouses.”

“Ew.”

Their voices trailed off as the three girls left the changing area and Hermione let out a breath. Thank goodness they hadn’t seen her. She contorted her shoulder to try again to fasten the pearl buttons at the back of her dress. Hermione had imagined Astoria would be happy to be marrying Draco now, despite what she’d said about their relationship before. Why wouldn’t she be? Marriage to Draco would be a life of laughter and fighting followed by those real smiles of his that crinkled his eyes.

Hermione would never see him smile like that again, not at her. It didn’t matter. She twisted her arm back far enough to hurt. The stupid buttons were out of reach, too delicate and finicky for her to do it herself. 

This part of the shop seemed quiet now, probably because Genevieve Greengrass had enlisted every employee to do her bidding and remake the dresses.  If there was a seamstress still around, she could ask for help. Hermione gathered the veils and quietly went back to the room with the mirrors.

Astoria was gone from the platform, so Hermione stepped onto it, her reflection all around in the array of mirrors. It really was a beautiful dress, even when it wasn’t fully buttoned.

And it wasn’t only the dress, she looked beautiful. The ivory flattered her skin more than her usual earth tones to blend in with the Weasleys or Gryffindor red to match her house. The Muggle formal style was so different from her severe wizard-style work outfits that made her look sharp and overpowered her figure. Now she looked almost bare in comparison, just herself on display, fresh and beautiful. 

Would Ron like the dress? He would say he did. She could perfectly imagine his response, a raise of eyebrows and glance at Molly when he realized it wasn’t the family dress, then a smile at Hermione. He would try to remember if she told him about the change when he wasn’t paying attention, then decide it didn’t really matter either way.

Movement in the doorway caught Hermione’s attention in the mirror. Narcissa Malfoy had entered the room, balancing a stack of ornate hats.  Hermione quickly looked back at her own face in the mirror, ready to ignore the vile woman since hiding wasn’t an option this time.

“Are you aware that your dress is…falling off?” Mrs. Malfoy was standing alarmingly close, hats discarded and a frown on her face.

“I can’t reach by myself.” She scowled into the mirror, bracing herself for whatever withering observations were coming.

Light fingers touched Hermione’s back instead, quickly doing up the buttons. She flinched hard enough to nearly fall off the platform, then looked at Mrs. Malfoy’s face looming over her shoulder in the mirror.

She looked amused, and locked eyes with Hermione for a moment before looking back down at the delicate buttons. Hermione studied her puffy eyes and wan skin in her mourning black. This was a woman who had just lost her husband, participating in all this wedding planning.

“It’s fortuitous that we have a moment alone together, Miss Granger.”

“And why is that?” Hermione straightened her spine as Mrs. Malfoy finished the last button. 

Draco's mother didn’t move away, just stepped to the side and began to examine the veils draped over Hermione’s arm. “I read the latest Witch Weekly article about you.”

Was she about to scold her? Repeat the breathless accusations from the reporters? Mrs. Malfoy made a pleased noise and lifted the beaded veil.

“This one is lovely.” She considered Hermione’s messy updo and placed the veil on her head, not very gently. “Parts of the article portrayed you as quite rude, but I’m familiar with the way the press can take liberties. I was unexpectedly touched by your quote about the Tintagel magic knowing your name and guiding your path.”

Hermione tucked a few loose curls back, aghast. “Oh?”

“Yes. You know I had a Solstice Wedding also?”

“Your son mentioned that.”

He’d mentioned it rudely, telling her that she didn’t deserve a Solstice Wedding at the beginning, and then later sweetly, talking about his family while she rested her head on his chest, his long fingers playing with her hair. Draco’s relationship with his father had been difficult, but he loved his mother and admired his parents’ love for each other.

“It was an arranged marriage, right?” It felt dangerous to ask a personal question, but Mrs. Malfoy only nodded.

“I was reluctant at first, but Tintagel and the rituals were a transformative experience. Watching you complete them, I think you understand.”

Hermione felt a lump in her throat, remembering her anxiety and joy during the rituals, the glimpses of clarity that she was still chasing. But Mrs. Malfoy wouldn't have been watching her, specifically. Unless she had seen Draco's reactions to her. Or their reactions to each other, if Hermione was being honest with herself. Panic began to rise. Maybe Mrs. Malfoy was planning to murder her, along with Pansy.

“My life has turned out differently than I planned then, but I’ve never regretted choosing love.” She straightened the edges of the veil with a snap, making it fall gracefully around Hermione’s shoulders.

Her face had a pinched look, as though she might be about to cry and found it distasteful.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Lucius had planned to call in a favor with the Tintagel Board of Trustees and push out your wedding.” Mrs. Malfoy stepped off the platform briskly. “But I believe I will let it proceed. You and the Weasley boy will be allowed to marry at the same time as Draco and Astoria, in separate areas of the cliff’s edge.”

Hermione gaped at her. The absolute audacity of this woman, as though she was the deciding factor. Did Draco know what his father had planned to do? This change of heart might be because of him; a parting gift that the Malfoy family absolutely shouldn’t have the power to give.

“Nontraditional, but very pretty.” Mrs. Malfoy was still looking at Hermione’s dress and veil, her head tilted to the side to fully evaluate. 

Infuriating.

“I don’t need compliments from you,” she hissed.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Another smile passed over Mrs. Malfoy’s face, her expression almost knowing.

Maybe Draco had been talking to his mother about her.

“Mirette!” Mrs. Malfoy called out in the direction of the doorway. “Madame, you are needed in here.”

“Yes, Lady Malfoy?” Madam Mirette rushed into the room, looking frazzled. “May I assist you?”

“Miss Granger’s gown does not meet the standards expected. See how the fabric is pulling at her bust? And the buttons need a protendo charm.”

Mirette examined the dress where Mrs. Malfoy was pointing, her expression serious. “Of course you are right. We’ll take care of it immediately.”

“Good. My future daughter-in-law is not the only bride that needs attention.” Mrs. Malfoy returned to her hats, lifting one, then dropping it back down with a frown. 

“Thank you, ma'am. I'll pull more seamstresses to help now.”

Mrs. Malfoy waved her approval, already halfway out the door. “Genevieve, we should go to the millinery. The hats here will not work, and the girls will be fine on their own.”

Hermione stared at her as she left the room, shell-shocked by the strange interaction. Apparently her Muggle-style wedding dress had Narcissa Malfoy’s approval and would now be made perfect by her standards. It was tempting to argue, but this was what she had wanted in the first place, wasn't it? Draco's mother had been nice in her own baffling way. 

Madam Mirette called in two more seamstresses, who immediately began lifting Hermione’s arms this way and that, pressing a measuring tape to her torso. She nodded affirmation that she did want this dress instead of Molly’s, but switched to the other veil that would be pinned with fresh flowers.

“Stunning.” Mirette nodded her approval and Hermione smiled back at her.

A picture-perfect bride. If this was what happened when she focused on herself instead of making others happy, she should have done it a long time ago.

Something solid hit Hermione’s bedroom window with a clatter. She sat up in bed, clutching the covers to her chest as she looked out, only seeing night sky through the glass. She’d been wide awake and staring at the ceiling for hours, so the noise probably wasn’t a dream.

It was the night before her wedding and Ron was staying with Harry and Ginny to avoid the bad luck of seeing her before they got married. As though that’s all it took to make things right: eyes closed, avoiding each other and hoping for the best. She laid down again, her fingers back to worrying the edge of the blanket. 

Maybe that was what she and Ron had been doing for years, not truly looking at each other because they were afraid to see problems. Admitting it would spin them into unknown territories and upend every single aspect of their lives, so that made sense.

She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. The last few days had been a flurry of things to do and minor decisions to make. Flower arrangements, mint flavors, bridesmaid shoes: everyone in the extended Weasley family seemed to have strong opinions that needed to be discussed.

Another object hit the window. Hermione sighed and pushed out of bed. It was probably a dirigible plum or some stupid prank toy that had escaped outside. She’d have to let it in and attempt to catch it in one of the boxes that Ron had stacked in the corner.

She opened the window, then jumped as another projectile hit the glass. A rock? She peered into the darkness, then nearly had a heart attack at the sight of a person standing in the garden below.

“Shit.” She cast a Lumos down like a spotlight, then wondered if she should have done a shield spell instead.

Was this an attack? The man staggered back and threw an arm up over his eyes, but she could see blonde hair. Draco? His movements were jerky and lacking his usual grace. Was he hurt? She gripped the windowsill and leaned out, her adrenaline at the sight of him chilling into fear.

“Granger?” His voice sounded strange and far too loud for the sleepy hush of the Burrow.

“I’m coming,” she called, shoving her feet into her slippers frantically.

Why would Draco come here? And tonight, of all nights? She hurried down the stairs and eased the door open as silently as she could, even though the rest of the household was in bed. 

The chill of the night air hit her bare legs, a cold reminder that she was in her pajamas. She didn't see him, the garden empty except for an old wheelbarrow and a stack of paving stones. Panic clawed through her chest, a reflex from war times, bracing for the worst.

“Draco?” Her voice cracked a little on his name.

He stepped out from behind the gnarled plum tree, cursing as he bumped into a stinging nettle plant on his way over to her. Strangely clumsy, and his button-down shirt was rumpled with the sleeves rolled up haphazardly.

“Are you alright?” She raised her wand in alarm, ready to cast a diagnostic spell.

“No, I’m terrible.” Draco held up two fingers, then looked down at his hand like it was performing a surprising trick. “I’m terrible in two different ways.”

She dropped her wand and stared at him. “Are you drunk?”

He put his fingers together and spread them out again. “This much drunk.”

“What are you doing here?” 

She grabbed his wrist, wanting to feel that he was alright. His skin was warm, the feeling of him familiar in a way that pierced through her. She had the mad urge to press his hand to her chest to make him feel how fast her heart was still beating from fear, what he had done to her. Drunk. Maybe Astoria had broken up with him and he was here for comfort.

Had he apparated in this state? Or more likely, wandered all the way here from the village floo. There was mud caked on his beautiful, expensive shoes and the ground was dry in the garden.

“This is the Burrow.” He looked behind her at the sprawling house stretched up into the sky. 

“Yes, you idiot.” She pushed his hand against his own chest before she could do something stupid. “You scared me. I thought you were hurt.”

“You’re hurt,” he said, the drunken words somewhere between a childish taunt and a profound statement on Hermione’s feelings. 

She opened her mouth to respond, then shut it again. She was hurt and she was sorry and sad and afraid to trust herself, a million emotions that she had been able to push down returning with a vengeance now that she was face to face with Draco again. 

“I’m hurting—” Draco seemed to lose his train of thought and dropped to his knees on the grass in front of her, resting his hands on her fuzzy puffskein patterned slippers. “Don’t marry Weasley.”

“What?”

“Don’t marry Weasley,” he raised his voice, as though her question had been because of his volume and not the absolute insanity of this situation.

“Hush.” She looked over her shoulder at the silent house, then crouched down to hold his arms and apparate them into the cornfield that stretched out beside the Burrow. 

They needed to get out of sight for whatever this was, before Ron’s parents woke up and saw them. Draco stumbled the landing, nearly knocking her over.

“Oh, you feel cold.” He released her enough to carefully rub her arms and really look at her. “What are you wearing?”

“My pajamas! Merlin, it’s the middle of the night.”

His palms against her skin were giving her a different type of goosebumps. The gentle scrape of his potioneer’s calluses, the reverence of his touch even when he was drunk. She’d missed Draco touching her. She’d missed everything about him. 

“Right. Blaise told me to go home and sleep it off but I don't want to go to sleep unless I wake up next to you. I hate my bed and it doesn’t smell like you anymore, but every time I close my eyes—” 

He cut himself off from rambling and started to unbutton his shirt. “Sorry, you’re cold. Here, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop, I’m fine.”

Did he know what he was saying? Her breath felt caught in her chest, every bit of her trembling. Did he mean all of that? And did it matter if he might not even remember it in the morning?

“No, your arms feel cold.” He draped his button-down around her shoulders, straightening the collar by her neck with concentration. “I can also tell because of your nipples.”

“Draco!” A surprised laugh escaped and she pulled the front of his shirt tight around herself.

He had spoken the words so seriously, as though he was making a statement for the Gringotts board.

“It’s true.” He kept hold of the shirt collar, gently brushing the fabric points with his thumbs as he studied her.

“I don’t wear a bra to sleep.” 

A dumb thing to say out loud. She shifted from one foot to the other, looking up at Draco’s intent face. Maybe this loose, unfiltered version of him was pulling her to be more uninhibited too.

“That’s good. I really like your nipples. And not just when you’re cold.” He said earnestly. “Even when I can’t see them, I know they’re there and I like them.”

“Stop talking about my nipples.”

“Granger,” he pleaded. “If you would just look at them, then you would understand—”

“Stop.” She bit her lip to keep from smiling, but it had the effect of drawing his eyes to her mouth, so she scowled.

“You’re right, that’s not why I’m here.” Draco stood up straight. “I’m here to ask you to run away with me. We’ll start over, a new life together.”

“You don't know what you're saying.”

“No, listen. We’ll go to Canada or Puerto Rico where no one would know us, live as Muggles. Or wherever you want. You have your wand? We can leave right now.” He took her hand, ready to pull her into this alternate dimension that he was dreaming of.

She stared at him, the smile falling from her face. Was he serious? “You wouldn’t want to live as a Muggle.”

“I would do it, though. It would be worth it to feel like I saw in the stone.” Draco squeezed her hand, his words rushing faster. “With you. I want to be happy with you. No more of this other stuff, these people and this pressure.”

“Feel like you saw?” She repeated his words, shaking her head in confusion.

If she went to Canada with him, what was the likelihood that he would sober up halfway there and realize it wasn’t what he actually wanted? And they couldn’t just leave. She didn’t want to leave her life behind. For all her frustration with the Wizarding world, it was hers and she didn’t want to run away from it.

“You were right, I don’t want to marry Astoria. I want the other way. The one where I got you and the way you looked at me was—it was like I’m someone better.”

He lifted her hand to his face, holding her palm against his jaw. She let her thumb drift to the corner of his mouth, his beautiful lips mumbling nonsense. In another life she could kiss him, but that wasn’t something you could just pick and choose.

“Did you break up with Astoria?”

He blew out a breath, soft against her thumb. “No. But she would figure it out once we’re gone. Everyone would.”

A crack in the dream he was trying to sell her. She couldn’t disappear and leave Ron, he would never, ever do something like that to her.

“That’s cruel. You and I have already been terrible to Astoria and Ron, with all of this.” 

She nodded at the space between them, nearly electric with tension and longing. All of this that had consumed her mind when she thought it was hate, then passion before turning to heartbreak. All of this falling in love.

“Just one last terrible thing.” His eyes were too bright, too desperate. “Then we can start over as something new. Like we’d never been hurt.”

His fingers slid lower on her arm to where his aunt had carved into her so long ago. 

“Like we’d never hurt anyone,” he whispered, all lightness gone from his face.

Hermione jerked her arm away. “You can’t just run away from your life, Draco.”

That’s what he was trying to do. A different kind of coward, skulking away in the night instead of actually taking responsibility to make things how he wanted. She was only his escape hatch.

“No? That’s the best fucking thing I could do.” He braced his hands on the back of his head, looking up to the stars instead of at her. “I know why you don’t want to come. I would escape myself too, if I could.”

“You can’t,” she said, her voice hard. “You’ll still be Draco Malfoy in Canada. Everything that’s happened will still be part of you. There will still be nightmares and guilt. Running away with me won’t change the past. It won’t make you better.”

Her chest felt tight, about to crack on the jagged edges of the words that were spilling out. He needed to understand that his half-baked plan was already falling apart, that trying to rely on someone else to make you whole was a tower built from sand.

“Don’t ask me to fix you. Especially not like this,” she said quietly.

“You already are!” He dropped his arms and clenched his hands into fists, clearly frustrated. “I’m different from how I was before you came back into my life. I thought I was fine, almost happy sometimes, then you came and fucked everything up.”

“Fuck you.” She’d thought it herself, that she had ruined things for everyone, but that didn’t mean she wanted to hear Draco say it out loud.

“No, fucked up in a good way. I didn’t know it could be like this, that I could feel like this.”

“Like what? Drunk in a cornfield, trying to run away the night before your wedding?”

“Yes. I mean no.” He laughed, then cursed under his breath. “Just come with me. Come on, Granger, it’s a yes or no question.”

She could almost imagine it; walking with him on the beach in Puerto Rico, doing whatever the hell it was people did in Canada. Draco looked so tempting in the moonlight, a spell that she could fall into and dream along with until they woke up. But she needed more than this. She deserved to be chosen in the sober light of day, to be a part of his life for real.

“No.”

She saw the word hit him, the crush of defeat in his shoulders. For a moment she thought he might cry. Or argue, cut her down before storming off into the night. 

Draco didn't do any of those things, he just nodded and reached for her. “OK.”

She stepped into his embrace, muscle memory melting into him. His hands on her back, pulling her as close as he could, the warmth of his skin contrasting with the chill of the night air. 

“Another way,” she mumbled the words into his shoulder, too quiet for him to hear. “Ask me again and I’ll say yes.”

Longing snapped through her, that persistent chemistry between them. It was no wonder that when she felt this, she’d been pulled away from Ron. What she thought was love paled in comparison, unknowingly trapped in a life of feeling dull and undesirable. She hadn’t even known it was possible, but now she couldn’t bear a future without feeling this way. 

She couldn’t marry Ron. It wasn’t fair to either of them, she needed to end it, even if that meant she would be alone.

The realization lifted a weight from her chest, the decision finally made that she had been afraid to face for so long. She and Ron needed to break up and love each other differently, back to being friends. Or even give each other space to explore who they were as adults in a more stable world.

“It’s OK.” Draco dragged his fingers up through her curls and tilted her head up.

She realized she was gasping for breath. Was it terrible to be feeling relief right now? She should be sad instead of this reckless freedom. Draco’s eyes were molten as he looked down at her, trying to read her change in mood.

“I know,” she said nonsensically.

She hadn’t broken up with Ron yet. There was no experiment to hide behind now, no way to justify what she wanted to do with Draco without it being cheating.

“Don’t kiss me.” Her body arched into him even as she said it, his arms pulling her even tighter.

“I won't.” He lowered his lips close enough to breathe against her skin, a phantom caress against her neck and down to her shoulder when he pushed aside the collar of his shirt she was wearing.

This was the last time they would ever touch. Would he still marry Astoria tomorrow? Probably, with a hangover and lingering embarrassment for coming to the Burrow at all. She held onto him now and dug her fingernails hard into his back.

“Draco,” her voice was a whine, her nipples pebbled in the cold as his shirt fell off her shoulders.

She could feel the warmth of his exhale through her thin pajama shirt, the light press of his lips through the fabric on her back, as though she wouldn’t notice.

“I won't kiss you, Granger,” he repeated, the sorrow of someone who never got what he wanted, who lived a life chosen by someone else.

A liar and a coward. She loved him so much.

The wind whispered through the cornstalks, the sky above them glittering with silent stars as they stood breathing together in the night. This was goodbye, or it would be whenever they let go of each other.

“Why did you never call me Hermione?”

He was silent for a breath, his hands pressing her close for just one moment more. 

“Because you were never really mine.”

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up early on her wedding day, ready to detonate her life. She lay in bed next to Ron’s cold pillow, watching the dust motes float in the first rays of sunlight, quiet as a held breath. 

She had told Draco no.

What if she had gone with him last night? They could be waking up together right now, rolling over for a sleepy hug, pressing a kiss to his jaw. Her imaginings stopped there though, because she didn’t know what Draco would do in response. Profess his love again in the daylight? Or pull away, after sobering up and remembering his obligations?

 Ask me again, and I’ll say yes.

It hurt. All of it hurt, deep and thick in her chest, like heartbreak was actually pumping through her veins. She curled up on her side and closed her eyes again. She’d already shed years of tears in this bed, woken up from countless nightmares clutching this pillow. The embroidered sheets, the ugly quilt; they were all trappings of a life that was over now, no matter what happened today. If she married Ron, they would live somewhere else. If she didn’t, then she would be on her own and leave this all behind.

There was no more time to put off making a choice. She’d been a coward in so many things, doomed by fear and indecision, clinging with both hands to walls that kept her safe by closing her in.

Draco’s love wasn’t enough to change her life. She needed to do that herself.

The first hurdle in breaking up with Ron turned out to be finding Ron. 

She’d rushed to Harry and Ginny’s flat, but he was already gone. Ron wasn’t at the shop or the practice quidditch pitch. Her last attempt was his favorite pub, but then she couldn’t imagine where else he would go. She should know. Had they really slipped so far apart over the years?

The answer was clear, even though it filled her with guilt. With nothing else to do, she let herself be pulled along by Fleur and Ginny to get fingernails painted, hair and makeup done, and all the other steps to becoming a perfect bride.

Hermione slumped back in her chair, only to be jabbed back into perfect posture with a hairpin to the back of the neck by Fleur. They hadn’t wanted to risk getting mussed by the floo or apparating, so a section of the extension-charmed Weasley reception tent in Tintagel had been transformed into a makeshift beauty parlor.

“Are you tired?” Fleur maneuvered another pin into Hermione’s half-done updo and frowned at her in the mirror.

“Nope, I’m great.” Hermione tried to sound like someone who had gotten lots of dutiful sleep and not like someone who had been in the garden with another man in the middle of the night. “So great.”

It would be cruel to tell Ron’s family that the wedding was off before actually speaking to him, but the hours of trying to feign enthusiasm were wearing on her.

“Gabrielle, maybe more under-eye concealer.”

“It’s fine, I love it exactly how it is.” Hermione smiled at Fleur’s sister, who had moved on to doing Ginny’s makeup.

Ginny batted her eyelashes at herself dramatically in the mirror. She was enduring the primping with a surprising amount of patience, considering she’d worn Converse with little snitches painted on them and no makeup for her own wedding.

“Alright. But you need some perking up.” Fleur set down the hairpins and picked up her wand. “I have a present for you that will be perfect. A sweet French tradition.”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged a glance. The last French tradition had been barely-there lace lingerie that nearly made Aunt Tessie faint at the bridal shower.

“Your wedding cake is not quite…” Fleur trailed off and made a hand gesture like she couldn’t think of the word in English.

Or maybe she couldn’t find words in any language to describe the marmalade and chocolate quidditch pitch shaped monstrosity. Hermione had caught a glimpse as George and Bill carried it in, and the cake seemed to have grown in both size and orangeness since she last saw the plans.

“We got you a croquembouche!” Gabrielle pulled out a tall white cake box.

Fleur murmured a spell that made the paper box cut apart into streamer-like swirls and fall away. Inside was an elegant tower of golden brown cream puffs, glistening with a light sugar glaze and dusted with powdered sugar.

“Oh hell, yes,” Ginny dropped the make-up compact that she was playing with and practically jumped out of the chair. “Can we eat it now?”

“Yes, it’s just for us girls.” Fleur plucked the ball from the very top and handed it to Hermione. “We’ll enjoy this and then everyone else can eat that mess later.” 

Hermione bit into the treat, feeling an unexpected swell of emotion. This day was about more than just her relationship with Ron, the whole family had put in thoughtful effort to celebrate them.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

The croquembouche was delicious too, filled with vanilla creme and encased with the perfect crunch of caramelized sugar. Ginny snuck a bottle of Prosecco from the stockpile for the reception and they passed it around, not bothering with glasses.

She would miss these moments, laughing with the closest thing she’d ever had to sisters. What if this was the last time with Ginny and Fleur before she broke Ron’s heart and changed everything?

Fleur finished weaving flowers into the loose updo and pinned the veil to each side, so it draped in the middle, curls spilling over. Like a medieval queen, a fairy princess with beauty drawn from the lush magic of the earth. Gabrielle had turned Hermione’s lips berry-stained and made her skin luminous, her eyelids shimmering above long lashes.

“Did you use veela magic on me?” 

Fleur laughed and kissed the side of her head. “Not necessary.”

The wedding dress was as perfect as Hermione remembered from Madame Malkin’s, and fit like a glove. The buttons up the back were enchanted to fasten and unfasten on their own when she touched them with intention, and the long, flowing layers were sewn with an anti-tripping charm.

“Your curves look amazing.” Gabrielle’s eyes were wide at the Muggle-style cut of the dress.

Hermione slid her hands down her sides, unable to argue. It was shallow and silly, but she was happy that she at least got to wear the dress for a little while before she stopped the wedding. But she’d let herself be distracted for long enough.

“Ginny, can I borrow Harry’s invisibility cloak?”

There were too many people around Tintagel to wander around in a wedding dress looking for Ron. And if he was hiding from her, maybe she would be able to sneak up on him with the cloak.

“Probaby, I’ll go ask him.”

“I want to check something,” Hermione mumbled, no good excuse for wanting the cloak coming to her.

Ginny seemed too focused on grabbing a handful of croquembouche for the road to notice. “It’s no problem. Just hope you’re not planning to disappear.”

Hermione stood alone at the end of the aisle, an hour before her wedding was supposed to start. She’d been too antsy to wait for Ginny to bring her the cloak, but still had the odd feeling of being a bit invisible, a ghost looking at her life from a distance.

This was the future she was about to split herself from, the life she had planned to live. She wandered down the long rug that made the aisle, taking in everything she’d wanted so badly only six months ago. Ron’s brothers had done a good job setting up the wedding site, all the sheep manure gone and quilted blankets spread atop hay bale benches. It was charming in that patchwork Weasley way.

She reached the makeshift arch Derowen had built out of stacked stones. Draco and Astoria would get the real arch, within the sacred castle ruins farther up the cliff’s edge. During the Solstice, the sun would stream just the same through both and transform the flower powder to forge their rings, but still. She and Ron were the tacked-on addition. After all the rituals and preparation, they were barely allowed the Solstice power in the end.

She pushed on a stone towards the bottom of their arch, surprised to feel it shift. It wasn’t even balanced with magic? Had Derowen seriously half-assed this?

It was like he knew that no wedding would actually happen here. She shoved a different stone, causing the whole thing to wobble. It didn’t even feel like anything, at least not compared to the practically vibrating power of the standing stones at Mên-an-Tol or the cave. What a fucking insult.

“Ron and I both deserve better,” she said out loud and pushed it again, knocking the entire arch over the cliff.

Shit.

There could be someone below who she just crushed with her little tantrum. She leaned over the edge, the sea wind pulling her long veil over her shoulder, along with a few petals from her hair. 

The stones were scattered on the beach below, luckily with no signs of bloodshed. She squinted and leaned a bit farther. There was a person down there though, she just caught a glimpse of red hair before they went into the cave. 

Ron?

Surely not. She bit her lip, tasting the lipstick that Gabrielle had carefully applied. But maybe? Ron had felt the Tintagel magic and done well during the cave ritual, it made sense that he would return there. It was certainly a good hiding place. 

She gathered her full skirt up the best she could and draped it over her arm, then started down the rough-hewn stairs. It was warmer than the last time they had been on this beach, but the waves looked wild, sea spray splashing into the air and hitting the rocks that surrounded the cove. The sand felt rocky as she trudged through, grit getting into her low heels.

This spot was below where she had stood at the railing before and seen the night sky filled with her lost flower powder. Was it still here somewhere, tucked into bubbles tossed by waves or sunk deep into the cave’s crevices?

“Hermione?” Ron’s voice cut through the dim stillness of the chasm before her eyes even adjusted to see him. He didn’t sound happy to be found.

“It’s me.” She straightened her dress and pushed the veil behind her shoulders. “What are you doing down here?”

Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, as though it mattered. She didn’t feel so beautiful now, more like a girl playing dress-up.

“I wanted some quiet before everything gets started.” Ron’s voice was less harsh after the surprise of seeing her wore off.

He was sitting on a wide boulder, his elbows resting heavy on his knees. Handsome in the Muggle-style formal clothes he’d switched to in order to match her, instead of being upset about her last minute change of wedding dress. She shouldn’t have noticed that, shouldn’t be thinking about his good points considering what she was about to do. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She sounded so petulant, her nerves vibrating painfully, ready to explode.

He shrugged. It was hard not to snap at him, to start a fight. This would all be easier if he was mean, but he wasn’t. He was just Ron, one of her most important people for more than half her life.

“I don’t want to marry you.” Her words echoed through the cave. Finally, the truth.

Ron blew out a breath. “Come on. Don’t say that.”

“I’m not going to marry you, Ron.” 

“I’ve been feeling nervous too, but we'll get through this.” He stood up and adjusted his suit jacket. “Take care of each other, just like we've always done. We can’t give up.”

“It's not giving up. It's just letting go of something that isn't right.”

“Are you seriously breaking up with me an hour before our wedding, out of nowhere?”

She nearly laughed. “It's not out of nowhere. You can't tell me you're happy.”

“Sure I am. As happy as anyone else. As happy as anyone could be in our circumstances. With our past.”

“So, not happy at all.”

He was settling on her. Thinking the best they could do was each other, broken by the war and too scared to love anyone else. 

“That’s not what I said.” His eyes looked tired, worn thin.

How could he not understand? He’d been there too, feeling their relationship stagnate and fall apart, the other half of the equation that didn’t add up. She just needed to find the correct way to explain and this conversation would go how it was supposed to.

“But that’s how you feel. I can tell. ” He shook his head, but she ignored him and kept going. “We need more than this. We both deserve to be with someone who brings out the best in us.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, like you always know everything. It’s just a rough patch, we’ll get through it.”

“But don’t you feel that way? I can tell you’re not happy.”

Ron dropped his head back and made a tortured sound. “This is about him, isn't it? You think he’s better than me.”

“It's really not. Even with Draco out of the picture, I don't want to marry you.”

She could see her words finally hit, the decisiveness of it cutting him through. Ron had always been able to talk her into or out of things, to appeal to her sense of justice or reason. But not this time.

“You played me for a fool.”

“No,” she said loudly, ready to argue or apologize, she wasn’t sure which.

He cut her off.  “Just stop. I know how it is. After you walked away at the fire ritual, I saw Malfoy pick up your cloak from the ground. He picked it up and just—”

Ron clenched his fist and tapped the cave wall, not hard, but like he was pushing his emotions into the rock to keep himself in control. “That wanker held it up to his face, breathing it in. Like it was something amazing, just because it touched you.”

She could picture it, could imagine the exact look of longing on Draco's face because she had seen flashes of it for months. It cut the anger from her like all the leaves falling from a tree.

“I told you that we were together.”

“You didn't tell me it was like that. Draco fucking Malfoy. He’s in love with you, did you know that?” Ron didn’t wait for her to answer. “A decade of picking up your stupid cardigans that you leave everywhere and I’ve never felt the urge to bloody sniff one.”

Even if it was true, Draco wouldn’t do anything about love besides torture himself over the fact. She had the terrible urge to press Ron for more details, but that would be cruel. And was Ron saying that he wasn’t in love with her?

“I don’t leave my cardigans—”

“You do. And it’s annoying.” He hit the cave wall with more force. “All I ever feel is annoyed. And bored and irritated. And guilty for feeling that way.”

“With me?”

She had imagined this conversation being one-sided, with her letting Ron down as gently as possible. But how many times had she caught him rolling his eyes or pulling a face behind her back? About as many times as she seethed with frustration at him.

“I don’t know. I just want to stop this bullshit and be happy. Why can’t we do that?”

So he admitted that she was right and he wasn’t happy, a point to her side of this argument. She opened her mouth to tell him so and then closed it again. Fuck, she was toxic. They were toxic and it needed to be stopped.

“I want to do that. That’s what I’m trying to do,” she said. 

Ron scoffed and kicked at the ground, where a glimmer of gold was creeping in from the entrance to the cave. “So you think breaking up will make you happy?”

“I—” She took a step back, then pulled her full skirt aside to look at her feet. The gold was spreading rapidly, filling the cave floor and up to the walls around them. “Is that your flower powder?”

“No. Mine is all in my jar where it’s supposed to be. That’s what happens when you do the rituals correctly.”

So bloody smug. The sound of footsteps from the direction of the beach distracted her from a scathing reply. Someone coming to tell them to come get in place for the ceremony? 

“Hermione?” Astoria stumbled in, her massive wedding dress filling up nearly the width of the cave.

“I’m here,” Hermione said dumbly, trying to take in the sight in front of her.

Astoria was cradling a sheep in her arms, its fluffy wool matching her white lace and hundreds of ruffles. She looked miserable, her face splotchy and red, mouth open as though she was out of breath.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” Her voice quavered.

“It’s fine. Are you alright?” Hermione snuck a glance at Ron, who still looked pissed off.

The last time she saw Astoria, her former friend had been rightfully hateful towards her for being with Draco. The plan was to avoid Astoria today and forever after, not to have a confrontation in front of Ron while she looked like a heartbroken bridal Bo Peep.

“Hermione was just dumping me,” Ron said wryly. “Care to join us?”

“No. No, definitely not. I don’t even know why I’m here.” Astoria looked over her shoulder at the cave entrance, the gold so bright that it looked almost molten on the ground. “I was just— I had this feeling that if I could find Hermione, she could help.” 

Something in Hermione’s chest opened in time with the flash of gold. The oath in the forest.

“I’ll help you however I can,” Hermione murmured the words she had said by the waterfall.

Ron frowned at her, then let out a low whistle at the sight of the gold sparks rising in the air. Something was clearly building, maybe amplified by the cave’s magic or the urgency of the looming weddings.

“Are you really breaking up?” Astoria sounded almost hopeful. “But it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” Ron was straining to be polite, but Hermione could feel his tension at the interruption.

“My engagement was so close to being broken because of you and Draco.” Astoria looked Hermione up and down. “Your sexual liaison. But you stopped and now I’m doomed.”

Hermione and Ron both stared at her. A sexual liaison? Ron would take that as proof that their breakup was because of Draco, and it just sounded obscene. And what could Astoria mean by doomed? It was far too dramatic a description for marrying Draco.

“You wanted Hermione to steal your fiancé?”

“I’m cursed. This marriage will kill me.” Astoria buried her face into the sheep’s fluff, muffling her voice. 

Ron barked a laugh. “Malfoy is still dangerous, then. Fuck, Harry and I should go teach him a lesson.”

“Ron!” Hermione pushed a hand against his chest.

His restless energy was meant for fighting with her until they broke up. But they couldn’t just push Astoria out now.

“Malfoy’s not dangerous. He would be a wonderful husband.” Hermione forced what she hoped was a comforting smile. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”

But it didn’t sound convincing, she sounded like she was about to take disciplinary action on an employee. It was one thing to make the hard choice and let Draco go, but entirely another to convince someone else to marry him.

“Draco didn’t do anything wrong.” Astoria looked between her and Ron. “But if I go through with this, I know I’ll die. I saw it in the labyrinth stone.”

“A real curse?”

Astoria nodded. “Incurable. It strikes one Greengrass woman in every generation.”

Family curses resulting in death were rare, usually carried over from some overreach of dark magic long ago. But there was usually some way to avoid them.

“What exactly did you see in the stone?”

“I will submit to my marital obligations and get pregnant right away with the male heir, who will be healthy and strong. Everyone will be pleased with me for doing my duty, then the blood curse sets in after childbirth.”

“What if you don’t have a baby?” Ron asked, his brow furrowed.

So this was the future Astoria had seen and why she was crying by the waterfall. This entire time, she had been going along with the wedding rituals knowing they would lead her closer to the end of her life. A million pieces were clicking together: why Astoria had apparated away during the air ritual, why she’d been happy to separate from Draco without fully explaining. Why she looked heartbroken talking about future plans with her bridesmaids. 

“I have to produce an heir. It’s a condition of the marriage contract between our parents signed in blood. It’s unbreakable.” Astoria’s voice wavered into another sob. “And even if it was, I would never disappoint them like Daphne did.”

“That’s not—” Hermione interrupted, but Ron put a hand on her shoulder and she made her voice softer. “Why didn’t you break up with Draco right away? When you found out the marriage would kill you.” 

It would have solved so many things if Astoria had ended her engagement immediately.

“My parents wouldn’t allow that.”

“Then you need to tell them what you saw in the stone.”

Astoria looked down at her fingers tangled in the sheep's thick wool. “They know.”

“They—” The words caught in Hermione's throat, the cruelty of the realization catching up. 

Astoria’s parents cared more about their pureblood legacy than their daughter’s life? They knew and still practically sold her to Draco’s family. Hermione and Ron’s issues felt a lot less significant in the face of this fucked up situation.

Ron cursed under his breath. “Do the Malfoys know too?”

“No, and they can't. No Wizarding family of proper status would go through with a betrothal if they knew the truth about me. The bloodline can’t be sullied and sacrifices must be made.” Astoria’s voice was growing monotone, as though she was repeating some familiar refrain.

The horror of it was staggering. Hermione hadn’t realized how lucky she was that the Weasleys weren’t those kind of purebloods. She had to make Astoria see reason.

“So you’re just planning to die?”

Astoria shrugged. “Draco doesn't seem to love me all that much. I'm sure he'll recover, especially after I've given him a son. Maybe Ron will eventually die too, then you and Draco can be together.”

Ron’s mouth fell open in a shocked grimace.

“No one is dying,” Hermione said a bit desperately. “I can help you. I’m supposed to help you.”

“How?” Astoria looked pleading for a second, then seemed to steel herself into grim composure. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Maybe you can run away?” Ron suggested.

He looked pained, like he was sure Astoria wouldn’t listen. As happy as anyone could be. As far as Ron was concerned, they were all doomed to differing levels of unhappiness and tragedy.

She hated it. “This isn’t fair.”

Astoria set down the sheep and fluffed her dress. “I’m sorry for interrupting your breakup, it was foolish to come down here.”

The last bits of gold blinked away, as though they’d never been there at all. Nothing about this was right, but what was she supposed to do? It was clear something was meant to happen besides this sick feeling about everything Astoria had just confessed.

“Wait.” Hermione started to follow her. “We made an oath!” 

Astoria was already out of the cave, the train of her wedding dress dragging across the sand, then disappeared completely as she apparated.

Hermione turned to Ron, as though he was the one who needed convincing. “She has to tell Draco. It’s like she’s using him to sacrifice herself.”

“It’s hard to fall short of people’s expectations. Astoria feels like if she doesn’t do this, she’ll be a disappointment to her entire bloodline.”

“That’s absolutely insane.” She wanted to drag Astoria back and force her to listen instead of obediently marching towards her death.

“You’re not wrong, but that’s how these traditional Sacred Twenty-Eight families are. They think their pureblood family magic is above everything. Well, you know how far things can go.”

Of course she did, that ideology had pushed into an entire war. Fucking wizard society, oppressed and bound by duty to the point of destroying everything. 

“It’s sick.”

“I know. But it’s how she was raised. Not your fight.”

The sheep bleated loudly. She'd forgotten that it was there, but it was staring at them, its eerie slitted pupils accusatory.

“How did she even get this thing down those steep stairs?” Ron reached a hand out to the sheep, like it was a dog going to sniff him.

“Then she needs to fight herself! All it takes is a little backbone and a minute of reasonable thought.” She scowled at Ron. Had he seriously moved on from the discussion to coo at the sheep? 

He dug his fingers into its wool. “I guess they can climb on rocks. Or is that goats?”

“Astoria isn’t trapped in her marriage and neither are we,” she said forcefully.

“Promises mean something, Hermione,” he burst out, making the sheep startle. “It’s not so easy to give up on something you were committed to doing.”

Oh. She’d missed a layer of meaning to the way Ron was defending Astoria. His loyalty had always been one of her favorite things about him, so of course it wouldn’t just dissolve in the face of difficulty.

“What promise are you talking about?”

He sighed. “We’re not trapped in our marriage, but I told you that I would always be there for you, and I meant it.”

“I know. And I appreciate that. It’s just—” She reached out to pet the sheep too, nearly touching his hand. “What would you do if you weren't tied down to me? If you could do whatever you want?”

“Travel.” He said it quickly enough that it was clear he’d thought about it before. “Work with other inventors around the world.”

“I want you to live your best life. Even if it’s not with me.” 

His determined expression faltered, finally giving in to her words.

“I don’t think it’s with me,” she repeated.

“Could we really break up? After everything?”

“Yes. We can do whatever we want.”

“It’s just that doing this would really end it. The last thing holding the three of us together.” He looked at her sheepishly. “The Golden Trio.”

She exhaled a laugh and shook her head. She’d thought the same thing, how painful it was to break free from a bond that had saved their lives and given everything meaning once. 

“We can’t live in the past though. What if the future is even better?” 

Her eyes blurred with tears, afraid and excited in equal measures. Ron pulled her into a hug, like he had a million times before. Always comfort, yes, but something else too. They could give each other strength.

It turned out sheep could climb rocks. But apparently only for a while, and then they stopped and blocked the way like a soft boulder.

“Come on.” Hermione pushed on its wooly flank. 

She hadn’t wanted to risk carrying it up the steep stairs in her dress and wedding shoes, but also didn’t want to leave the sheep alone at the bottom of the cliff. After they truly broke up, Ron had apparated away, to grieve or celebrate, she wasn’t sure which. Maybe a mixture of both, if he was feeling anything like she was right now.

They had actually broken up. The relief of it was cut through by the question crashing in, now what? Everything had been leading to this conversation with Ron, the final drop of a slow fall that started the day he suggested they see other people.

Now she was on the other side. She felt the sun on the bare skin of her arms, the sea breeze tangling her hair, freedom taking her breath away. 

“Please move,” she commanded with all the calm confidence that had been lying dormant inside her, and this time the sheep listened.

Ginny was waiting at the top of the cliff.

“How are you doing?” Ginny took her arm for the last rocky step. 

“Did Ron tell you?”

Ginny nodded, concern instead of anger on her face, which was promising. “He and Harry left. Said they needed to blow off some steam. They took all the fireworks and that huge wedding cake with them.”

Of course, that stupid cake was the wedding thing that Ron was looking forward to most. 

“Good, I’m glad.” She fidgeted with the edge of her veil. “Does everyone else know?”

The guests would be arriving any minute, expecting a wedding. She needed to get out of here before they saw her and unleashed their judgement.

“Ron asked me to tell Mum and Dad. I planned to have Fleur wait here and tell the guests, since she’s a bit more charming.”

“What do you think they’ll say? That I broke Ron’s heart? Some of these people don’t need another reason to hate me.” The other reason she had been afraid to break up with Ron spilled out.

“Screw them. What anyone else thinks is none of your concern,” Ginny said lightly.

Hermione let go of her veil that she had been twisting into a tight knot. “You really think so?”

“Yeah. Don’t even worry about it. Fleur and I will take care of everything and then come find you, alright? We’ll bring all the sausage rolls and a couple bottles of wine.”

Hermione nodded, relief flooding through her. Of course she wouldn’t be alone. She still had love, in a million different ways that would fall into place both perfectly and painfully. Her strength wasn’t tied to Ron and the others, and their love wasn’t dependent on how well she fell in line.

“Oh, do you still want this?” Ginny lifted up the invisibility cloak that had been bundled under her arm. “Harry said he trusts you to use it for whatever.”

“Yes.” Hermione took it, the soft weight of it heavy. “There's something else I need to do.”

Chapter Text

Hermione pressed her back against the wall of the castle ruins, watching the Malfoy and Greengrass wedding guests through the hazy fabric of the invisibility cloak. It looked a bit like blinking through tears, a comparison she’d never made in all the times that she had used the cloak to hide over the years.

This moment felt as high-stakes as her adventures then. Draco’s wedding, a day that had loomed over her in more than one way over the last six months. She was here to save a life: Astoria’s. But there was a snarl of emotions inside of her that felt both sharp and fragile, threatening to break.

The cloak was long enough to cover her flowing wedding dress, but Hermione double checked again, wincing at the sound her heels made against the stone when she shifted. Most of the Wizarding World seemed to be in attendance, decked out in traditional finery as they were led to their seats. And all of them would think she was completely insane if she was spotted here.

Where was Draco right now? Maybe on the other side of this wall, breathing in the same fragrant air, looking at the same watercolor sky stretching above the crumbling towers. Their palms could be touching, separated only by the ancient stone. She let her head fall back, seeing both actual tears and gossamer cloak now.

No. If Draco was nearby, it was because he intended to marry Astoria. No amount of heartache and unfounded hope could change that.

Hermione pushed off the wall in a rush and tried to avoid bumping into anyone as she wove through the crowd. It was time to find Astoria and try to talk to her again, to fulfill the accidental vow to help her. There was just enough time to catch her before the ceremony started, although she was probably with her horrible father before he walked her down the aisle.

Maybe she could leave a note? A strongly worded note with Astoria’s name on it, demanding that she reject her family’s cruel and archaic traditions. Hermione could put it on the table at the front altar and then slip away from the wedding without anyone knowing she was here. But Draco might recognize her handwriting and decide to find her—

Hermione blew out a breath. She needed to focus. Astoria. Note. Do not throw herself at Draco and be rejected again in front of all these people.

The center aisle was too congested with guests to get by, so she carefully wove through a row of chairs, snagging a thick parchment program from one of the seats to write the note on. Dear Astoria, please don’t die. You deserve a long and beautiful life where you get to make your own choices. 

Hermione plucked a spare quick-notes quill from a reporter’s bag as she passed and continued dictating the note in her mind. A life where you have a chance to truly love someone and be loved in a way that turns your life inside out and makes you feel like you’re worth it. That makes you see yourself with new eyes and realize that you deserve happiness.

Hermione tripped over a chair leg, nearly falling into Draco’s boss Ellie, sitting with all his Potioneer co-workers except Zabini. Hermione crept sideways in front of them. They all looked past her unseeing, except for the tiny Bowtruckle perched on Cynthia’s shoulder. Its whole body trembled in fear at the sight of Hermione, then burrowed into Cynthia’s hair.

Such an over-reaction, especially after she’d bent the rules for that sentient twig. She shuffled on, then stopped short at the sight of Luna and Neville in the next seats over. Had they found out Hermione and Ron’s wedding was canceled and wandered straight into this one?

If that was the case, they looked surprisingly at ease. Hermione frowned, picking up bits of Cynthia and Luna’s conversation about Nargles. Neville was fussing with his thick hair, pushing it back, then attempting to twist a piece forward over one eye. It looked a bit like Theo’s hairstyle.

Hermione leaned closer.  His dress robes were more stylish than what he usually wore. Even his cologne was different, an expensive smelling musk that made her eyes water even through the cloak. 

A swell of music started, drawing everyone’s attention to the back of the aisle. There was Draco, breath-takingly handsome and stoic, escorting his mother on his arm.

Hermione gripped the program with shaking hands and slid out into the aisle. The distance was too far to tell if he was hungover and still thinking about running away from his life. Maybe he was happy to be getting married and barely remembered the previous night. 

The Solstice magic felt stoked by Draco’s appearance; a drumbeat of power vibrating from the ground, a lightning edge to the air that gave her goosebumps. He leaned down to say something to his mother, then they started down the aisle with an even pace.

His robes were the most formal and old-fashioned kind, sharply cut with a high collar, densely embroidered and studded with charcoal gray jewels. The sole heir of house Malfoy, ready to unite two ancient bloodlines and forge an even more powerful lineage. He almost looked bored.

A new line would form on two family tapestries, exactly as their parents wanted. Fated children, priceless dowry, ceremonial fucking fruitcake. Hermione hated it, but part of her wanted it anyway. If it was her that Draco was marrying, then she would welcome every bit of this Pureblood pretension because it would mean she got to have him too.

They were close now, she could see his father’s snake-head cane tucked into Mrs. Malfoy’s arm like a bouquet, could hear the slow tread of Draco’s shoes. Hermione held her breath as they passed, half hoping he would sense her there somehow.

Draco’s expression didn’t change, chin held high and eyes set ahead. Hermione crumpled the program in her hands and nearly snapped the quill. She was too late to leave a note, too late for anything. What was she doing here? Punishing herself, it felt like.

“Ventus.” She cast without thinking, jealousy burning through her lungs and into the air on the wind spell.

Everything on the altar rattled as Draco reached it. Two jars, metal trays with tiny floating balls of each element, and the marriage ritual book that she and Draco had deciphered together. The silver flower powder in Draco’s jar swirled like a cyclone. Where would her jar be now? Shoved in a corner somewhere like trash or unceremoniously dumped out?

Derowen attempted to hold the trays steady, his eyes narrowing at Draco, then scanning the crowd. Hermione turned around, clenching the sides of the cloak in her hands. It was fine, he couldn’t see her. No one could.

Pansy and Theo appeared at the end of the aisle, arm and arm in green velvet. She was going to be trampled by the bridal party if she didn’t get out of the way. Neville had shifted half out of his seat to look at Pansy and was blocking the way she came. Hermione moved to the next row, but they were all crowded. She was likely to end up sprawled on someone’s lap if she tried to squeeze through.

She backed up quickly, barely beating Pansy and Theo down the aisle. There were huge flower arrangements on each side of the altar and she ducked behind one.The ventus spell was still rippling through the air, shaking the flowers and making everyone in its wide path shiver. It had been reckless, both casting the spell and letting her emotions cloud it. 

The wind tasted of metal, sharp with regret. She pushed aside a pale blue hydrangea and peeked out. Daphne and Blaise were coming, their pace slower and expressions more grim. Maybe Blaise had hoped that Draco would end up with Hermione instead.

No, that was at best wishful thinking and at worst completely delusional. If Zabini—not Blaise because he wasn’t her friend—thought about her in relation to Draco at all, it was probably just to write her off as a fling, and one that had treated his friend badly.

Hermione plucked a lily out of the arrangement and twirled it in her fingers. There was a different way she could send a note to Astoria. The petals separated and gently flapped like a butterfly at the first words of her charm, making room for a short message on its wings.

What could she write that would make any difference? Don’t go through with it and none of this is fair and I’m the one who loves him— everything Hermione wanted to say was too long and too selfish. The lily butterfly quivered in her hands, waiting. She had a quick-notes quill, maybe it would clarify her racing thoughts.

PLEASE. The ink formed a word that matched the ache in her chest. Please— but that was ridiculous, what did she even want? She wanted to force things to her will, to break this day apart and remake it for all of them.

Hermione reversed the charm and started over. If Astoria told Draco what their marriage would do to her, he would end things himself. Hermione just needed to convince her to tell him the truth.

TELL HIM. The message formed onto the wings, then began to flap in a puff of pollen. Hermione lifted the hem of the invisibility cloak higher and let it out to flutter towards Astoria as she walked down the aisle with her father. 

The charmed butterfly batted against the veil that covered her face completely, ghost-like in white lace. Florian Greengrass hit it away, not noticing as it fell apart into a burst of petals.

Another one, then. Hermione inked the same message into a new flower as she watched them reach the altar. Draco was about to see his bride. He reached up to his collar, tugging it looser as he tilted his chin back to look at the sky, golden with the sunset and heavy with gathering magic like humidity. 

Astoria’s father yanked her forward the last few steps, then lifted her veil to present her. None of them noticed the butterfly circling, Hermione’s weak effort gone unread. Draco’s smile looked strained, his eyebrows drawn together. Maybe Astoria was crying again.

“We gather here, on the evening of the summer solstice to forge a union of sacred matrimony. Astoria Florence Greengrass, Draco Lucius Malfoy—” Derowen’s voice was amplified to the farthest ends of the ruins, but the movement of his lips didn't quite seem to match the words he was saying. “You have completed the rituals set forth by ancient tradition and received the acknowledgement of our natural world.”

That wasn’t right, Astoria hadn’t completed every ritual and Derowen knew it. Was he seriously lying during these sacred vows? Hermione ripped a full handful of lilies from the arrangement to swarm Astoria.

Derowen moved from tray to tray, naming each element as they rose up. Shimmering air turned in a slow cyclone, water fell up and down in contained raindrops, earth formed a rock that split back and forth into pebbles, and fire flared like a drop of the sun. Hermione’s butterflies fell back, a few of them incinerated by the fire. 

“Just tell him,” Hermione whispered out loud, leaning halfway around the flower arrangement.

This wasn’t her ceremony, but her skin still prickled with it, silver flashes like her flower powder blinking at the edge of her vision like a mirage.

“Granger?” Pansy came around the side of the flowers. 

She’d left her post behind Daphne on the altar and had one of the charmed butterflies pinched in her fingers, a murderous expression on her face. Hermione stepped back, even though Pansy couldn’t possibly see her through the invisibility cloak.

“I know it’s you, Granger. The pet bowtruckle came and told Blaise.”

Seriously? Bowtruckles couldn’t even talk. Stickly must have done a tiny pantomime to represent Hermione before pointing out where she was hiding. What would that even look like? Probably something rude about her hair.

Pansy reached out like a snake striking, nearly catching the invisibility cloak in her fist. Hermione crouched down and moved to the side, slipping silently away. They were behind the flowers, but people would definitely start to notice them if Pansy kept this up.

“I know you’re there.” Pansy groped in the air blindly. “And I know exactly what you’re trying to do.”

Unlikely. Hermione slipped into the space between the outside rows of chairs and the stone wall, towards the back of the ruins.  

“You don’t know shit,” Hermione said under her breath.

Pansy’s eyes lit up at the confirmation of where Hermione was. “I know Draco doesn’t want you. You thought you could steal him away from Tori?”

It wasn't true, Draco had practically begged to be with her. Hermione moved faster against the wall, glancing at the rows of people watching the wedding. They would see Pansy if they looked over, but not her.

“It’s hilarious, really.” Pansy was out of breath, but still coming fast.

Hermione looked back and nearly bumped into a topiary shaped like a heron. Hilarious. Was she a joke to Draco and his friends? What if he’d sobered up and told them the mistake he’d made coming to her at the Burrow? Frumpy in her pajamas, a shivering fool in the middle of a lonely field.

“I can’t believe you tried to seduce him, like you have a single thing that could hold his attention for longer than it takes to—”

“Draco loves me.”

She dimly recognized her use of present tense instead of past, just as Pansy got hold of the invisibility cloak and pulled it half off. She was backed into a corner, the end of the stone wall curving into a dead end, the only way out the open space at the end of the center aisle.

“Are you still wearing your wedding dress?” Pansy laughed. “Oh my god, this is too good. You told Weasley to sod off and came hunting for a new groom.”

“Shut up.” She tried to yank the cloak back to cover herself again, but Pansy had a claw-like grip on both it and Hermione’s arm.

“You always got what you wanted. So smart,” Pansy taunted. “You don’t look so smart now.”

Hermione’s shoulder hit the wall. She tried to sink down, raising her arms to cover her face so no one would see her. Pathetic and cowering, just like Pansy probably expected.

A few people in the back rows had turned around at the sound of their voices, but most were looking at the spectacle on the altar. Elements swirled around to form a barrier of rocks, fire, water, and wind level with Draco and Astoria’s knees and rising.

Hermione grunted and lunged forward, knocking Pansy back a few steps. Her hip bumped into a low table with a welcome sign and guestbook on it, sending the peacock feather quills rolling away.

“That’s all you’ve got? I don’t know how you’ve had Draco entranced for all these years, but you’re not ruining Astoria’s chance with him too.”

All these years? Too? Pansy wasn’t making any sense. Her eyes darted to the side and Hermione looked over her shoulder. Daphne was stealthily headed their way, and who knows who else.

“I’m not—” She grabbed for Pansy on reflex. “No, listen. Astoria’s going to die.”

This was stupid. They weren’t even on opposite sides, they both cared about Astoria.

“That’s dark, Granger. Darker than I expected.” Pansy pulled out her wand. 

No, no, no. Hermione knocked Pansy’s wand-tip away, but felt another wand jab into her back. Daphne? No, it was Blaise, they were surrounding her.

“I’m here to help Astoria.”

“What?” Blaise pulled his wand back and shifted to look at her. “Not for—”

Pansy started a spell, orange sparks igniting from the tip of her wand. Neither of them were touching her, and Pansy was distracted. Hermione could escape right now and still salvage a scrap of the respect and social status that she had been trying to build in Wizarding society.

“Truly then, this is most serious, it will profoundly influence your whole future,” Derowen’s voice boomed from the altar.

The last time she’d heard those words, it had been Draco reading them aloud from the wedding ritual book. They cut through the air now, etched into her heart along with the petals and the sea breeze.

“That future, its pleasures and pains, joys and sorrows, is hidden from your eyes.”

It was a gift, this sliver of knowledge about their future lives, and not just Astoria’s. For all the pain they had caused each other, she loved Draco. She loved him and it was time to stop running away.

“These elements are in the path of every life and are to be expected in your own. So not knowing what is before you, do you take each other in—”

Hermione shed the invisibility cloak like an ill-fitting skin and sprinted down the aisle. 

It was easy to dodge Blaise and Daphne. Theo tried to block her way, but she kicked at him with the same stupid flat-footed technique he had taught them in the fake dance lesson and got past. Now the whirlwind of the elements was nearly to the top of the castle walls, cutting Draco and Astoria off from sight and shielding them from the chaos. But every other person in attendance was watching, judging by the shouts and spells ricocheting towards her.

Was she living up to their idea of an unhinged Muggle-born? Fuck it. Hermione skidded to a stop at the end of the aisle and turned her face away from the heat coming off the layer of fire and the sting of dust from the earth.

It wasn’t meant to let anyone in, the magic was protecting the couple. She hiked up her skirt for a running start anyways, ignoring the noise of the crowd rising behind her. The water and air should be more forgiving, if she could jump high enough. 

The circling air felt like hitting a wall of wind and the force of it spun her sideways instead of going through. No—she was so close, she couldn’t be too late. Maybe lower and she could slide through the water. 

“Come on.” Her shoulder pushed into the water layer, bracingly cold, then slammed into something solid with a splash.

A person crashed through and knocked directly into Hermione. They both fell to the ground in a tangle of sharp elbows and yards of fabric. 

“Sorry! Oh Hermione—” Astoria loomed over her, wild eyed and desperate. 

The lace veil that had been covering her face was hanging over both of them now like a claustrophobic little tent. Astoria’s dress was making her twice as heavy, the giant hoopskirt pinning Hermione down.

“My parents will kill me, but I just couldn’t do it. Can you apparate me away? Father took my wand.”

“Yes.” Hermione’s legs were going numb.

There were sparks of gold along the edges of her vision. Maybe she was going to pass out. Or no, the oath brought that gold. She could help Astoria like she’d planned and everything would be alright.

“Yes, I’ll try.” Hermione struggled to reach her wand.

Side-along apparating wouldn’t be easy with the bulk of Astoria’s dress and all these people around, but it was doable.

“She’s trying to kill you!” Pansy’s mandrake-shrill voice sounded close, but Hermione couldn’t see past the thick veil.

“Who?” Astoria looked over her shoulder, causing her mass of pin curls to fall over her shoulder to hit Hermione in the face.

“Not me,” Hermione croaked. “Not killing anyone.”

“Tori!” Daphne yelled, then Astoria’s weight lifted away as her sister dragged her up.

Gold sparks filled the aisle, caught in the swirling wind that seemed to have escaped the wall of elements along with Astoria. Draco and Derowen were still on the other side, but cold mist and clouds of dust billowed around the ruins like a contained storm, the wedding guests on their feet in panic.

“Did she hurt you?” Daphne clutched Astoria protectively, the oath gold shimmering around them.

Hermione staggered to her feet and waved some of the smoke away. Was Daphne getting Astoria away? Their parents were trying to push their way out to the aisle, Florian Greengrass red-faced with rage.

Hermione gripped her wand, hand shaking. How could she save the day? She needed to think, to figure out a new plan that was smarter than her other tries.

Or maybe the best thing she could do was provide a distraction so Astoria could escape her own way. 

“Hey!” She raised her arms and widened her stance to block the aisle. “Theo! Pansy!”

Pansy didn’t look up from casting what looked like an exceptionally smoky fireball spell, but Theo took the bait. He ran towards her, brandishing a huge brass candle holder like a sword.

The air exploded in camera flashes as he swung it in the air wildly, missing her completely, but making his dark curls fall into his eyes and his back muscles strain his green velvet jacket. Of course the reporters would be documenting everything.

“You’re terrible at this,” she shouted, ducking a stinging spell that barely missed her head.

Who had cast that? Theo bellowed a war cry and threw the candle holder as though it was a javelin, missing again and sending it straight into the crowd. Shacklebolt cast a shield spell with a boom and the other Ministry officials around him moved into formation to protect the people in the seats. That should block the Greengrass parents for a moment.

Gold light flared, the brightest yet. Astoria and Daphne were gone from sight and relief hit like a wave. It was done, she’d fulfilled her oath and Astoria was free.

But she was still under attack. Another stinging spell and some kind of shrieking jinx flew toward her. The hem of her skirt caught on fire, so Hermione cast a frantic aguamenti, whirling around to try and identify the most pressing danger. 

Theo and Neville were fighting with conjured ropes and Theo’s shirt was half off. Blaise was blocking spells coming from the crowd and Luna was next to him, doing a charm that appeared to only be producing huge pink bubbles. And Pansy was—

This time the smokey fireball spell hit its mark and Hermione felt it burn from her back all the way through to her chest. She braced her hands against her knees, gulping in foggy air.

“Granger?” Draco’s voice cut through everything. 

She looked up, tears in her eyes. The spinning circle of elements had opened, making a path between them as he stepped down from the altar.

He was looking at her like she was his bride, seeing her at the other end of the aisle. Everything seemed to pause, noise and chaos blurring into the background. Draco rushed down the aisle towards her, pushing people out of his way. He didn’t look bored now, he looked captivated, all of his focus on reaching her.

Hermione caught sight of Narcissa Malfoy, the one person who might actually be able to stop him, but she just smiled as her son passed. 

Draco side-stepped to avoid the spot where Neville was restraining Theo, and jumped over a line of purple fire on the ground. The sinking sun hit the arch, illuminating him in light, magic gathering to a crescendo.

He stopped in front of her, only an arms-length away. “You’re here.”

The crowd had gone quiet, breath drawn and all eyes on them. The headlines would be insane tomorrow, the scandal inescapable when they returned to work on Monday. Two ruined weddings, a secret affair—their careers and reputation in tatters.

“Where’s Astoria?” Someone behind her yelled and broke the silence.

“Draco, that’s not your bride!” That voice sounded amused, heckling laughter bubbling up along with the judgment and surprise.

“Granger’s trying to destroy wizard marriage!”

Florian Greengrass was shouting at Audrey. “—get her back here if I have to hold her down and force her!”

“She’s a psychopath!”

“I’m not going to marry Astoria,” Draco shouted over the din. “I’m in love with someone else. I’m in love with Hermione Granger.”

The scattered voices turned into a roar, the crowd wild.

Then Draco’s hands were on her face, focusing her attention only on him. “I love you.”

Nothing else mattered. His grey eyes held no doubt and with him, she could weather any storm. 

Their kiss was a whirlwind of fire and water, air and earth, lit up by the blinding rays of Solstice sunlight streaming full force through the arch. Then the air bent in a pull of apparition and there was only the two of them, transforming the world to fit their love.

Draco hadn’t apparated them far, just to the Tintagel library. Hermione let out a gasp at the familiar sight of the books and the feeling of an embrace that wasn’t anywhere near enough. Draco’s hands were on her waist, his open mouth on her shoulder, frantic to get closer. 

He loved her. He loved her and he’d told everyone. There would be no more hiding now, even if they wanted to. She pushed his heavy outer robes off his shoulders and clutched his arms.

“Are you married to Weasley?” Draco pulled far enough away to speak with effort. 

“No, we broke up. For real this time.”

“Good. So good—fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Draco bent to lift her into his arms, but her dress got in the way when she tried to wrap her legs around his waist.

He squeezed her bum instead, making her laugh. Thank goodness she’d chosen this dress, the one that made her feel like herself. Maybe part of her had known Draco would appreciate it, would worship her like this in it.

Draco walked them backwards to the couch, then sat so she was straddling him, a soft cloud of fabric around them. She sat back a little, taking him in, flushed and smiling. They were back where they had their first kiss.

Could she have her whole life to savor this?  It felt like Felix Felicis, everything that had happened to lead them here.

She pushed his hair back from his eyes, tenderly. “I didn’t break up with Ron because of you, exactly.” 

It was important for Draco to know this was a measured decision and not just a rebound or a mistake. She wanted to build something deliberate with him, something strong.

“No?” His fingertips played with the lace of her skirt, nudging up the fabric to brush her thighs.

“Or it was because of you, but only because being with you made me realize that’s how I want to feel. How love is supposed to feel.”

His hands stilled, silent for a moment before he spoke. “I saw you in the labyrinth stone, us together. A version of my life that was so far from what I thought I could have.” 

That explained his intensity in the forest that night, the way he had looked at her like she was a dream he’d wanted to come true.

Draco dropped his forehead against hers. “I saw myself and I looked so fucking happy, I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe it.”

“It’s real.” She held his face in her hands. “You’ll never get rid of me now.”

He exhaled a shaky laugh. “Is that a promise?”

“Yes.” The room smelled like their flowers, the moonlit yearning that had pierced a through-line between them for the last six months, pointing them towards each other.

Hermione breathed it in. Since she was twelve years old, she’d practiced hundreds of spells with perfect wrist movements, pronunciation and emphasis. The Tintagel magic was different— power that couldn’t be called, in a form that couldn’t be forced. 

Draco traced the pearl buttons on the back of her dress, then froze as they all sprang open.

“I didn’t—”

“They’re charmed to unbutton when touched with intention,” she laughed hard enough to nearly fall off the couch. “What are you thinking about, Draco?”

“You.” He spread his hands on her bare back, making her shiver. “It’s always you, Hermione.”

The way he said her first name was a revelation, as precise as a prayer and as purposeful as a spell. It was a claiming, and something inside her burst into bloom.

“I’m yours.”

Six Months Later, December 21 

Tintagel in the winter hadn’t changed much since they’d been here for the last Calling of the Banns ritual exactly a year ago. The same stark cliffs loomed over the beach and crumbling stone walls reached up to blue sky. There was even a similar-looking flock of sheep that managed to be both cute and menacing.

Draco wrapped his arm around Hermione, shielding her from the cold wind coming in from the sea. Well, one thing had changed.

She turned to face him, sliding her other arm inside his wool coat and around his waist. Maybe two things; she felt lighter and happier than she had in years, quicker to laugh and spoiled with affection.

Draco was wearing a scarf knitted by Molly, an unexpected early Christmas gift. The grey and brown sort of matched his eyes and sort of looked like mold, but the acceptance from the Weasleys that the gesture symbolized made Hermione feel like crying every time he wore it.

It helped that Ron was doing so well. Molly and Arthur complained about the string of girls that he had been dating, not even bothering to bring them home to meet the parents before moving on to the next one, but Ron seemed happy. Definitely happier than when they were together.

Astoria was thriving too. At first Draco was furious that he’d nearly been an accomplice in her early death, but then they had a discussion about the pressures of family and the struggle to break free. Hermione was proud of both of them and the support they gave each other.

Hermione got Astoria a job at the Ministry in the newly-formed Unicorn Acquisition Unit and she had charmed everyone in the department. It seemed like all she had to do was calmly walk out into the fields and the unicorns came to her, ready to be persuaded to give up a few hairs. Daphne had been trying to set her up on dates, but Astoria seemed entirely content to spend her days with creatures and evenings in her cozy cottage. 

“Are you sure we need to go through with this?” Draco tucked a stray curl behind her ear. 

“What, get married?”

They had fallen into a comfortable pattern of dating. She was technically flat-mates in London with Luna, but spent most nights at Draco’s, falling asleep wrapped in his arms and letting him cook her butter-filled treats every morning for breakfast.

He nodded, his expression serious.

Was he having second thoughts about the location? It was a bit crazy to go through all the rituals of a Solstice wedding again, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they had left something unfinished here. Or what if Draco meant he didn’t want to marry her?

In her relationship with Ron, one of them would have quickly changed the subject, burying any hard conversation away instead of resolving it. She didn’t want to be like that anymore.

Her next question was cut off by the sound of a cry of frustration and stomping footsteps coming up the path from the Tintagel museum.

“Is this a joke?” Pansy threw her hands in the air dramatically, Neville trailing behind her.

“Pans?” Draco grinned at his friend, shifting Hermione to stand in front of him with his arms wrapped around her waist.

“Why are you here? It better not be here for the reason I think it is.” Pansy snapped. 

“Hello Pansy, hello Neville,” Draco said with exaggerated civility, reaching over to shake Neville’s hand.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Hello, Granger and Draco. Why are you here?”

The couples had gotten together for quite a few group dinners, Pansy and Hermione each making a feeble effort for the sake of their partner’s friendships.

“To declare our intent to get married.” Hermione leaned her head back against Draco’s chest.

Pansy made a sound of dismay. “That’s not fair. It’s bad enough we have to fight for a Solstice wedding against Audrey and the gangly, prissy Weasley, as though they don’t already have an advantage.”

“His name is Percy,” Hermione corrected.

Another competition for the wedding date, this time with two other couples? A spark of competitiveness in her warred with exhaustion at the idea.

Neville shrugged and shifted a stack of books Hermione recognized from the Tintagel library in his arms. “We don’t have to, if you already have the spot. It sounds like a great experience. Which flowers called to you? The botanical magic is fascinating, especially the ecosystem of the forest being influenced by the moon phases.”

Sweet Neville, this wedding was his dream come true, wasn’t it. Maybe that was why Pansy was fighting so hard, because she knew Neville would give it up to them just to be nice.

“Poppy and orchid. Death and sex, we know.” Hermione sighed.

Draco snorted and pulled her in a little closer.

“Right. Just know that if this turns into a competition, I plan to win.” Pansy rolled her eyes, then turned on her heel to stalk away.

“Nice to see you guys, take care!” Neville waved apologetically, then caught up to his fiancé.

Hermione glanced up at Draco, but he didn’t look bothered by his old friend’s dramatics. He had fought hard for a Solstice wedding too, it seemed odd that he wouldn’t care anymore.

“Well? What were you saying about not wanting to get married?” She tried and failed to sound unbothered.

“That’s not what I meant at all.” He frowned at her. “I’ve just been thinking, what if we’re already married?”

“What?” That wasn’t at all what she’d expected. “How?”

“During the ceremony, when Astoria ran out, I was standing there in shock. I knew that I didn’t want to marry her, but I just felt gutted. Then a butterfly thing landed on my chest and it said to tell him.”

Her desperate message to Astoria. Hermione shook her head, trying to understand.

“So I told Derowen the truth about us. About everything. And the ceremony didn’t stop exactly, did it?” Draco’s casual tone was betrayed by the look in his eyes. “I think we should check the stone and see.”

Could it be true? Surely they would have been able to tell. She’d expected the Solstice magic to transform her into some idealized version of herself after being married. But maybe she didn’t need a different version, she’d just needed to understand who she really was.

“Alright.” She took his outstretched hand.

Derowen had already placed the large, flat stone out on the circular table in preparation for the Calling of the Banns. Its face was a riot of scrawled lines, a thousand years of names branched back like cobwebs sunk cold into the stone. She traced where she thought hers had been with a fingertip, remembering how it felt, wanting this so badly it hurt. If she and Draco were actually married, their names would appear, burned into the stone instead of drifting away unattached.

It was unlikely. They hadn’t been standing in the right place on the Solstice or said the correct words. All of the rituals leading up to the weddings had been jumbled, her heart torn between two men and not really knowing what she wanted.

Draco touched his wand to the stone and began to trace his name. Before he even finished the D, Draco Lucius Malfoy lit up, as bright as when he first wrote it exactly a year ago. 

She gripped his arm, her heart in her throat. “But that means—”

Her own should be there too, forged with Draco’s. Her hand was steady as she lifted her wand.

Hermione Jean Granger, brilliantly clear. All of her strengths and weaknesses that had been revealed in the past year, the pain and ecstasy she had felt had been part of the process. Stubborn, kind, bossy, afraid, clever, loyal, impatient, playful—she belonged here.

“Oh.” She sagged under the weight of the magic, and Draco was there to hold her up.

“I knew it.” He twirled her around as though they were dancing.

“We’re married?”

“Almost.” Draco stilled, his gaze intense. “I promise to love you until the end of my days.”

He was reciting the vows from the marriage ritual book.

“For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, we will belong to each other in mind and in heart,” she said the next part, feeling the words as though she had written them herself.

“This love will not fail, but will grow deeper and stronger as the years go on.”

Wind gusted around them, the leaves of the trees rustling like music.

Derowen wasn’t here to declare them husband and wife, but she could almost feel the echo of his intent.

“I do,” they both said it at the same time, then kissed through their laughter.

A pulse went through her, the sensation of all the elements she’d felt during the Banns at once. They were each other’s anchors through the spinning world and she revelled in it for a few minutes before opening her eyes.

The cliffside area had changed while they’d been kissing. The smell hit her first, moonlight and magic, and every surface around them was covered in petals.

Draco scooped some up, his eyes alight with wonder, the same way he looked at her. The future felt full of promise, a joy that she couldn’t wait to live.

“I guess we’ll let Neville and Pansy have it.” She brushed a petal off Draco’s shoulder. Her husband’s shoulder. “I think formal weddings like that are a bit overrated.”

He tossed the handful of petals at her in a mock attack. “Overrated?”

“Yeah, what kind of person would get competitive over something like a wedding? Pulling pranks, sabotage—”

“I know what kind.” He grabbed her around the waist again with a growl.

“Crazy, really.” She could barely get out the words with her laughter. “Crazy enough to eat full sticks of butter.”

“Crazy enough to dye someone’s hair blue.” He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, biting playfully at her hip. “But you know what?”

She twisted her body to look at him, grinning that cocky, satisfied grin that drove her crazy in a dozen different ways. “What?”

“I won.”