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Chapter Text

Some people have a natural talent for storytelling. 

They know how to set a scene, keep people entertained, enraptured, and hanging on their every word. They know exactly how much detail they should include and how much they should leave to one’s own imagination. Their words can paint a magical picture, creating a story that all can see. 

Astoria Greengrass possessed such a talent. 

She was always great at telling stories and Draco Malfoy especially loved the way she told their story.

He could still remember the first time she had told it. It was in front of an odd gathering of people, a mixture of his friends and hers– which to his utter surprise consisted of Luna Lovegood, Romilda Vane, Ginny Weasley, and Harry bloody Potter. Though Potter was only there because he was attached to the Weasley girl who apparently was Astoria’s best friend. Which was something Draco had not expected in the slightest. 

It had been a wonderful day at the beach, there was a fire crackling softly in a poorly constructed pit the Gryffindor's had dug. Tumblers of firewhiskey and crystal glasses of elf-made wine were generously passed around, courtesy of the Slytherins. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson were lounging on a picnic mat, the two had been utterly lost in each other until Astoria started the story at the behest of the Weasley girl. Even Theo, who was hard to entertain and quick to bore, had a rare smile playing on his lips as he gave her his full attention.

From that moment on she would use any excuse she could find to dust off the old story. She loved telling it, and Draco loved watching her tell it. 

“It’s a funny story,” she would always start. 

“It was late spring, and I was wearing a god-awful hat– one of those floppy-brimmed ones– It had to have been at least this large.” Astoria always spoke with her hands, it was a crucial part to her storytelling. She wasn’t exaggerative with her movements, but they seemed to add an extra sense of emphasis or clarification. When she got to this part of the story, it was always to show how large the blasted hat was. 

“My mother had given it to me and had explicitly told me I was to wear it to her garden party later that day. Only, it was a tad blustery that day and I apparently didn’t secure it properly.” She would always look at Draco at this part, with a smile on her lips and her eyes sparkling. 

He would add little anecdotes of his own in the beginning. Confirm a fact here or there, like the size of the hat or if it was a Tuesday versus a Thursday. But it ruined the flow of her storytelling, so after a while he stopped and instead marveled in the way she told the story from start to finish. 

“I have never had a hat blown off my head before and I always rolled my eyes when I read something ridiculous like that in a book. It just wasn’t logical, strictly speaking, but that is exactly what happened. And there I was, someone who never runs chasing after an ugly hat I didn’t even want.” 

“So I was running like a fool as my mother hollered after me that women did not chase after arrant hats, and there Draco was taking a stroll in the park with his dog, Atlas. Who is such a sweetie by the way.’

“I almost caught it too, the hat not the dog, but mother nature is cruel and just as I was reaching for it the wind pitched and then, Thwack! It smacked Draco right in the face! Though, how he didn’t see it coming for him is still beyond me.” She would pause there, let people get in their laughs as she reminded them all how comically large it was. Then, when they settled down, she would launch into how stunned she was, how Draco had struggled against the wind to remove the hat from his face. 

There would be more laughter as she acted out his struggle and tried to mimic the deep timber of his voice as he blamed the hat for accosting him (which it most certainly did), and how his words trailed off when he saw her standing there. They had both just stood there, looking at one another like two idiots who instantly fell in love at first sight. Then she would flip the script to stun everyone, which it typically did, and tell them exactly how Atlas had torn her hat to shreds believing it was a new toy for him. 

The rest from there was history. 

Draco had shown up at the garden party with what Astoria described as an even larger and more ridiculous hat to replace the one his dog had ruined. He gave a sincere apology to both Astoria and her mother, because how was he to know she actually hated that hat. He called on her later with a proper gift and an intent to court, which she gladly accepted. And as she told the story everyone listened, because everyone loved her stories. 

Everyone loved Astoria. 

He supposed that was part of the problem in the end, because who wouldn’t love her? His mother surely did, as did his father (not that he wanted or needed his father’s good opinion anymore). It had never been a problem, having her be so well loved by others. Draco was confident in himself and their relationship, so he had no reason to worry, no reason to believe he would lose her because of it. 

“It was fate.” She had constantly claimed, and Draco believed that it was. If it was in fact fate’s doing, then it was reasonable to assume that fate hated him because the night of her Bachelorette party everything changed. 

The story tipped onto its side. Found a fresh point of view, and in this new telling of it Draco was no longer the leading man. Instead he was the complication that would forever jazz up their story. A stepping stone to finding the right path, which clearly was not him. 

Here’s how the rest of the story goes, if Draco is the one forced to tell it: Draco fell in love with Astoria the moment he heard her laugh, before he even wrangled the blasted hat off of his face and saw her. He was mortified when his dog destroyed it and did what any respectable gentleman would do, which was obviously find a larger and better replacement. A week later, he called on her. Two weeks later they were officially courting. 

He would leave out the boring parts, like most of their courtship and wedding planning, or tux hunting. Not because he didn’t have fond memories of all those things, but because he was rather dull and dry when storytelling so he might as well refrain from all that. He was also (arguably) the world’s worst small-talker, but Astoria didn’t want to make small-talk. She talked enough for the both of them and Draco found himself quite smitten with not only her but her stories as well. 

A year later, after all the friends and family members were met and all the proper steps had been taken, Draco proposed and Astoria said yes. A year after that, while still wedding planning because Astoria wanted the world and he was more than willing to give it to her, he bought her a beach cottage she had favored. 

Then, just shy of three weeks before their set wedding date, Astoria returned home after her “Hen Night”. It was three in the morning when he heard the door open and saw her slip in. She smelled of cheap booze and something that was disgustingly sweet (sugared strawberries if he had to guess), her hair was a tad messy, she was covered in shimmering glitter in odd places, and her lipstick was smudged just a bit. 

Draco had thought she was drunk at first, and he had expected it. It was why he was still awake, waiting with required potions that would help with her hangover in the morning. Only, when she spoke there wasn’t a hint of a slurred word or a wobble in her walk when she came further into the room. She did, however, look nervous and it made him examine her again. 

“Did you cheat on me?” the question had fallen from his lips before he had fully even processed them. She had denied it, of course. He had never had a reason not to trust her before, yet, for some reason he just couldn’t at that moment. 

As it turned out, he was right for her next words were “I– I just– Draco, they told me they loved me.” 

And all he could do in response was nod. Because of course whoever it was loved her. How could they not? She was exceedingly very easy to love, even as she was tearing out his heart. “What does this mean, Astoria?” 

“It means that— well, I realized that I love them too and I have to give it a go. I would hate myself if I didn’t.” She would hate Draco if he didn’t let her, went unsaid but was highly implied. 

So he did. He let her go.

Actually, it was Draco who left in the end. He had bought the cottage for her after all and he couldn’t imagine himself living there without her. He left with nothing but Atlas hot on his heels, almost everything was all hers anyways or purchased for her. 

The events that immediately followed their conversation were still a bit hazy for him. In part because he got utterly pissed, and partially because he was in a perpetually numb like state. He had the gist of it, but wasn’t completely clear on what happened or the order in which they happened. 

If forced to guess, he would wager he found a bar (he was walking because he had Atlas so it had to have been close by.) At some point (and he really had no clue how or when) he must have run into Potter (who had to be equally shit faced to offer up such a preposterous plan). 

No matter how it happened, who had suggested it, why it was even accepted, or the events that led up to it, Draco woke up in the morning with the worst hangover he had ever had in his entire life. He was in a strange room with a strange smell, wearing even stranger sleepwear, in a strange house with the most peculiar and odd decor, and the most strangest of all was Harry bloody Potter standing in a small kitchen area Draco had stumbled into. 

Apparently one of them (must have been Potter because Draco wasn’t stupid enough to suggest such a thing even with copious amounts of alcohol) had suggested they move in together. So evidently, they do now. Live together. At 12 Grimmauld Place. 

It had to have been the alcohol. It was the only thing that could explain any of it. And Draco was not going to believe that the offer was made because they were friends (because they absolutely were not and Potter was daft for even saying such absurdity out loud). 

They had absolutely nothing in common aside from their shared history, having strict rules about keeping a clean house, and their current broken hearts. In fact, Potter was perhaps the only person in the world who knew exactly what Draco was going through, because Draco’s love story ended with Astoria (the love of his life) running off with Ginny Weasley (who Potter claimed was the love of his).

Otherwise they had nothing in common at all. Potter worked at the Ministry (and had absolutely nothing else to do when he wasn’t working, honestly he needed a hobby) whereas Draco worked independently. He had the estate to manage of course and copious amounts of holdings and properties, but he also did quite a bit of traveling for curse breaking. Or he did a lot of traveling before he met Astoria and became serious about her. Now he mostly worked locally, but specially. He had a knack for the darker artifacts and was often called in to work the Ministry's more tricky cases. 

Draco also detested loud sounds. He preferred the quiet. It was peaceful that way. And Potter, well, Potter was loud as fuck. All the time. 

Draco knew when he was awake, when he got home from work, when he was moping about (because yes, Potter was moping). And Draco was constantly having to remind Potter to turn down his music (which was currently blaring and giving him a headache), or to walk quieter (because Draco’s room was below Potter’s and he could hear him stomping about), or to just shut the fuck up! Mostly when he was going on about Draco being his mate, which he most certainly was not. 

“Potter!” Draco pounded on the door to what once was Sirius Black’s room but now hosted the most insufferable of wankers. “Potter!” He called again with an even louder knock when he didn’t answer him right away. Likely because the music was too loud. 

Well, everybody hurts sometimes. Everybody cries. Everybody hurts, sometimes

The lyrics were incredibly sad, which Draco was not in the mood for. Why the wanker couldn't listen to upbeat songs, was beyond him.

“Damn it Potter! I have work in the morning!” He pounded on the door again. 

The music stopped. 

Footsteps shuffled about, the dark wood door swung open, banging against the wall because apparently Potter didn’t know how to open a door properly. 

Bright green eyes rimmed in red (he’d been crying) met Draco’s cold silver ones and a cloud of smoke wafted out the door. He was hotboxing, and something about that perturbed Draco even more. Because blasting sad as fuck music while crying and stoned out of one's mind was not a healthy life choice, surely.

Potter cleared his throat. “What’s up mate?” 

“I’m not your mate.” 

Potter rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. “Great, you came all the way up here to tell me that? I feel honored.” 

“Your music is loud.” 

“I’m not listening to any music.” 

“Well, you’re not now!” Draco snapped. “But you were, and it was loud.” 

“That it was.” 

Draco’s eye twitched at his remark. The bloody wanker. “I have work in the morning.” 

“It’s not even nine mate–”

“Not your mate.”

“–what are you, some well preserved one-hundred-year-old?” 

“Is that your way of telling me I look nice?” 

“For an old man.” 

Draco glared at him. “Just, keep it down will you?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Potter sighed and Draco took a moment to really take him in. His hair was sticking up in every direction, which wasn’t uncommon for him (perhaps he should buy him a comb). He had already noticed he had been crying, but there was a sort of disarray and chaos to his whole persona that was throwing Draco off kilter a bit, and it was not because he pitied the man. Because he didn’t! 

Though… a better flatmate might have inquired as to why he was smoking in the house. A friend would have asked if he was okay. Since Draco was perfectly happy being neither of those two things, he said “And for the love of Merlin, stick your head out the window if you’re going to smoke that crap inside!” Then he turned and headed back to his room. 

Chapter Text

Honestly, Potter was a good flatmate. Or, Draco assumed he was a good flatmate. He had never lived with anyone before aside from his parents (who didn’t count) and Astoria who was perfect. But if he imagined how it would be living with Theo or Blaise, then he could safely say that Potter was the better option. 

Aside from constantly pestering and asking if he needed anything from town every single morning, he pretty much left Draco alone. After his request to stick his head out the window when smoking, Potter had taken to sitting out on the roof when lighting up and even extended the invite for Draco to join him on occasion. He never did, of course, but he appreciated the offer. 

Not that he would ever tell Potter that, because they were not friends.

Not even a little bit.  

Even if he did stop blasting his strange muggle songs late at night, or early in the morning because Draco had asked (demanded) him to. 

There was no blasting of any songs really, which was perfectly fine with Draco. He didn’t miss it. Not at all. Really. It was easier to think without the depressing songs constantly blaring. Easier to fall into a routine that was uninterrupted with Muggle Depression Music (what a sub-genre.) Which he did. They both did.  

Without actually discussing things, the two easily figured out a schedule that worked for them. Potter was a night owl who had started taking Atlas out for evening strolls. Though he hadn’t needed to, Potter also started feeding Atlas his dinner, allowing Draco to sit down with a nice book and a tumbler of fine whiskey and settle in for the night while his dog was otherwise occupied and spoiled. He suspected this was so Potter would win Atlas’s favoritism, but it wasn’t working so he wasn’t going to intervene. 

Draco, on the other hand, was an early riser and enjoyed a morning jog with his familiar, which meant there was always a fresh pot of hot coffee waiting for Potter when he dragged his arse out of bed. And occasionally there would be breakfast (to the slight protest of Kreacher), if Draco’s morning runs took him by a bakery (which they often did.) They both picked up after themselves (much to the dismay of Kreacher). Potter would bring home dinner every day (again, to the dismay of Kreacher).  

To thank him for this, without actually thanking him, Draco took it upon himself to remove the old screaming portrait of Walburga Black (surprisingly not to the dismay of Kreacher.) He then decided to spiff up the place. The decor was truly horrid, old and dusty. There was a layer of grime that never seemed to leave no matter how many cleaning spells he used, and it was just easier to replace it all. Except the long table in the dining hall which Potter was strangely attached to. 

In return, Potter gave the place a fresh set of paint. All while never actually discussing what they were doing with one another. Luckily Potter had enough sense about him not to paint the walls in Gryffindor red or he would have found himself living alone once more because there was no way Draco would put up with such an atrocious color. Thankfully Potter had decided to use a soft yellow in the kitchen, a muted sage green in the areas with lighter wood and a flat-Prussian blue where the wood was darker. 

It was actually starting to look somewhat decent. 

Livable at least, and Potter seemed… better the last few days. Less mopey. In fact, Draco would have never guessed just by looking at him that he was a man fresh off a horrible heartbreak. But he had seen his face two weeks ago when it had first happened, and he had watched him drink himself into a stupor in the days that followed. He was there to witness Potter crumble in on himself and descend into chaos.

Draco was actually starting to get worried about him. It would not bode well for him if Potter suddenly succumbed to his depression and heartache while he was living with him. No one would ever believe he had nothing to do with the untimely demise of the world's favorite wizard. 

He was so worried about it in fact, that he even thought about reaching out to Potter’s so-called friends and request (demand) they come immediately and fix him! Only, he had no idea how to get a hold of the Weasel and Granger. And honestly he was surprised he hadn’t seen either one of them. What good was it being part of the ‘Golden Trio’ if two of them were awol? 

Not that his own friends were much better, but that was different. 

Sorta. 

Not really. 

Draco’s friend circle was… for lack of a better word, infiltrated. His friends before Astoria consisted of Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and on occasions Daphne. Daphne, being Astoria’s sister, obviously was going to remain loyal to her and Pansy was loyal to Daphne. Blaise was still dating Pansy and that complicated things, while Theo was his own agent. They had all sent a letter of condolences about their break-up, except for Theo who only sent a bottle of fine whiskey, but he hadn’t actually seen any of them. 

Then there were the friends who he met with Astoria, their mutual friends, and it was quite clear what side they took. Not that he was requesting anyone take a side, it was just the sort of thing that happened in a romantic split. It wasn’t like a marriage where they could share custody of a child, there were no custody arrangements for friends. But there was still a choice one had to pick during such times, and it was clear no one was picking him. 

Draco couldn’t blame them, he would have chosen to remain friends with Astoria too had that been an option. She was kind, smart, funny, intelligent, and easy to be around. He held no illusions of how people saw him— but Potter was different. 

Potter had friends. Tons of friends. Surely they would not all take the Weasley girl’s side of the split. He might have understood not seeing the brother of the woman who ripped his flatmate's heart out, but Granger? 

Little Miss I like to stick my nose in everything? Fucking, I have a ridiculous and over-reaching heart for all things pathetic. Golden Girl extraordinaire, who personally launched a “free the house elves'' campaign when they were still at Hogwarts? Defender of the little guy and supposed best friend of Boy Wonder.

Yet where the fuck was she? Why wasn’t she there for him? 

Why was it Draco who was picking the oaf off the bathroom floor every other night because he had drunk himself into a vomit induced state and subsequently passed on on the loo’s floor. 

Why was it that Draco was forced to make small talk with Scarhead just to ensure he had some type of verbal communication on a daily basis? 

Why was he the one in charge of helping Potter through his fucking heartache while his own heart was still busted?! 

And where the fuck were Potter’s friends!? 

“You alright mate?” Potter’s gravely morning voice pulled him from his musings. 

“I’m not your mate.” Draco snipped, pulling down the largest of mugs to make himself a cup of coffee. It was early still and he had just gotten back from his morning run with Atlas who was still recovering in the foyer, his panting echoing down the hall. 

“Hang on, why are you up so early?” 

“I wake up early all the time, Draco.” He could almost hear the eye roll in his tone but Draco ignored it in favor of fixing his coffee just how he liked it. Splash of milk, dash of cinnamon, and two sugars. 

“Not since I’ve been here you haven’t.” Which was true, he hadn’t. Not unless it was Draco waking his arse up because he passed out in the bathroom again. 

“You’ve only been here a few days Draco, don’t act like you know my routine.” 

“First off, it’s been two weeks.” He turned to look at the specky git who was pouring his own cup of coffee now, he took his black, which was appalling. Potter thought so too, if his wince was anything to go off of, so why he insisted on drinking it that way was beyond him. Taking a rather dramatic sip of his own (putting on a bit of a show if he was being honest with himself), Draco leaned against the counter as he looked over his flatmate. He was well put together for it being so early in the morning. Merlin, he was well put together considering it was Harry Bloody Potter, whom Draco had only ever seen in some sort of disarray or another for the majority of their acquaintanceship (Yule Ball excluded of course). 

“Second,” Draco drawled, “it isn’t hard to learn your routine when you literally do nothing outside of this place except for work, which I know for a fact doesn’t start for a few hours.” 

Potter refused to make eye contact. Which was curious. “Yeah, well–” he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck “–I have things to do this morning.” 

“Like?” He didn’t really care, but Potter was acting weird and Draco didn’t like weird. 

“You know, for someone who keeps claiming he’s not my ‘mate’ you sure are curious about what I do with my time!” 

A singular brow lifted on Draco’s face as he watched Potter. He took another drink of his coffee, refusing to take his eyes off of his flatmate knowing the lout would eventually feel bad at snapping at him. He always did, and he always apologized, even when he shouldn’t. Draco wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t apologized to the Weasley girl for her blowing up their relationship. But that wasn’t something he was going to voice out-loud. 

He was, however, extremely curious to know how Potter managed to become an Auror if he was apologizing all the damn time. Or how he managed to avoid getting sorted into Hufflepuff. 

“Sorry, I just–” and there it was “–I’m just–” Potter sighed, his shoulders slumping some. “I’m up early because I have someone coming over for dinner tonight and I wanted everything to look nice.”  

Draco almost scoffed. Everything was already tidy, so what in Merlin’s name Potter thought he had to do was beyond him. Or why he felt there was a need for it… and then a thought struck him. 

Did Potter have a date?

It seemed a little fast, considering only two weeks ago his heart was ripped out by the supposed love-of-his-life, and up until a few days ago he was still drowning in his sorrows and cheap whiskey. “On a work-night? How scandalous, Potter. Should I make myself scarce for the evening then?” 

“It’s not like that.” Potter snapped.

Was he supposed to ask why? Because he wasn’t going to. Of course, he wasn’t above some gentle prodding in hopes to find out why it wasn’t like that as he so elegantly put it. “Is this someone of the female persuasion?” 

“If that’s your way of asking if this person is a woman, then yes. Yes they are.” 

“Then it’s exactly like that, Potter. And good on you.” Draco lifted his mug up as if to cheer him. “You’ve been entirely too mopey, a good romp might do you some good. Especially if it means you’re no longer going to be dressing in rags.” He motioned to his outfit, because that was a question he had been dying to ask since he first saw it. Now it made sense. 

Potter had a date. 

Good on him. 

Really. 

“I told you, it’s not like that.” Draco raised a quizzical brow but didn’t deign to answer. “I mean it. In fact, I was hoping you would join us.” 

“Oh? And when were you going to run this by me?” Draco didn’t really care, but Potter was still acting strange and it wasn’t sitting well with him. 

“When she was already here and you couldn’t say no.” 

How very… Slytherin of him. The fact Potter somehow held traits from every Hogwarts house (except for Ravenclaw because Potter was exceedingly dimwitted) would always be a marvel. Perhaps he could be studied by an unspeakable upon his actual death. 

“I know we do not know each other all that well, Potter, but I can assure you I’m not now, nor have I ever been, interested in Ménage à trois. I’m rather— possessive – of the people I’m with.” 

Potter almost had coffee spewing from his nose at that comment. Thankfully, he managed to contain most of it in his mouth as he coughed and sputtered through whatever stupor Draco had thrown him into. It took almost a whole minute before he could finally speak audible words again. 

“For fucks sakes!” he coughed out, his face an atrocious shade that was not all that dissimilar to his Gryffindor red. “I meant to join us for dinner , Draco!”

Draco laughed. How could he not? Potter looked so rightfully offended that it was impossible not to, but he sobered quick enough. Opting to take in Potter one more time. He was wearing trousers that actually fit and didn’t hang loosely on him, though they were likely still Muggle. His shirt wasn’t ratty, faded in color, though it was still less fitting than what Draco would call adequate. His glasses, which Draco had noticed had a thin layer of tape in the middle just a few days ago, were now fixed and even his hair seemed like he had attempted to run a comb through it. 

“Are you sure it’s not a date?” 

“Positive.” His tone had a sense of finality to it, but Draco still questioned it. 

“Then why are you going through such extremes?” 

“Because I don’t want her to worry.” He said it so softly that Draco almost missed it, but he hadn’t, and because he hadn’t missed it Draco now had questions. More questions than he had answers to. 

The first being who the hell would Potter care enough about to make himself look presentable if it wasn’t his mother (which unfortunately was impossible) or a date? There was only one other person who Draco had ever known Potter to dress up for, and her name inflicted a sinking feeling in his gut. 

“Fuck.” Draco sighed, running a hand down his face in exhaustion. “Potter, please tell me you have not invited your ex over for dinner.” Surely he wasn’t that daft? 

Right?

Although, he did willingly walk to his own death without drawing his wand… so…. 

“WHAT?!” Potter sputtered again, this time some coffee did manage to make its way out of his nose. Poor sod. “What in Merlin’s name made you think that?” 

“Do you want the honest answer, or should I coddle your feelings?” He asked, conjuring a napkin for Potter so that he could clean up his mess. 

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to be nice.” 

“It might. I haven’t tried it, so we can’t be sure.” 

“You’re such a prat.” 

“And yet, you begged me to move in with you. A bit pathetic on your part really.” 

Potter rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe that’s how that happened.” 

“Regardless, it is, and you did. Now you have to live with the consequences of such horribly thought out groveling.”

“Or I can realize my error and kick your arse out.” 

Draco shrugged. “Sure, you can do that. Been waiting for you to come to your senses anyways.” 

The thing was, Draco didn’t actually want to go. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford a place of his own, because he could, about ten times over and still live comfortably for the rest of his life. But as loathed as he was to admit it, he was lonely and Potter made things a little less so. But he’d be damned if he had to sit in on a dinner, in a place he was currently calling home, with the twat who quite literally ruined his happiness.  

Potter might be easy to forget and forgive, but Draco was not. 

“It’s Hermione.” Harry blurted as Draco was about to leave the kitchen. He stopped and turned back to look at him. There was a flicker of anger at her name, and even more at the fact that Potter was all out of sorts over her visit when she should have come around two weeks ago! 

It was about fucking time she showed her face, though that didn’t explain why Potter was nervous about seeing her. “I thought you two were just friends? Tell me Potter, was the Daily Profit correct all those years ago? Have you been in a secret torrid love triangle all these years?” 

“Fucking hell, Draco. Do you even know how not to be a giant git?” 

Again, Draco shrugged. “Not really.” 

“Look, I’m going to say this once, and only once so I really need you to pay attention.” Potter rinsed his own mug in the sink, placing it on the drying rack before turning back to him. “Hermione is like my sister. There wasn’t, nor will there ever be, anything romantic between us. However, she worries. Mostly about me and I know she’s going to be obsessive once she knows about Gin and I.” He slumped a little after getting his words out and it gave Draco pause. 

“She doesn’t know?” 

Potter shook his head. “She’s been out of town, so no. No she does not.” 

So that answered that question. Partially at least. Granger wasn’t there because she didn’t know. Why she didn’t know was a question entirely different. “And you didn’t owl her or use one of those Muggle devices because–?” 

Potter let out a deep sigh, it was shaky and guttural, and Draco had a feeling he was a few seconds away from falling apart. “Because–-” He swallowed harshly and looked down at the floor which was apparently very intriguing all of a sudden, “because she would have come home early and I didn’t want to do that to her. She deserved a break, a vacation, and I couldn’t take that away from her.” 

He could tell that there was more to that story, but he wasn’t all that interested in asking for it. So instead he said “But you deserved a friend.” because there was something so pathetic in how Potter looked that Draco felt he needed to know it. Need to know he deserved better than him, because he was not his friend, and he was a piss poor flatmate if he’s being honest with himself. 

“So do you.” 

Bright green eyes met his molten silver and Draco sighed. “You’re off your rocker if you think Granger and I are ever going to be friends.” He knew that was not what he meant, but explaining his current friendship dynamic with the Golden Boy was not something he was inclined to do. 

Thankfully he was spared it when Potter said “Stranger things have happened.” with a shrug. 

“No Potter, I don’t believe they have.” 

“And what do you call living with me?” 

“An alcohol induced nightmare?” 

“Charming.” 

Draco laughed as Atlas approached him. Having recovered from their run, he sat down by his feet. His big doe eyes looking up at him, his tail wagging erratically, and his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. He reached down and gave his thick head a good pat. “What time is dinner?” Both Potter and Atlas seemed to perk up at the question. Oddly enough, it was because Draco was going to give both of them a bone, though vastly different in the meaning of the word. 

“I’m getting off early today, so six.” Potter’s stupid, excited voice said.

Draco refused to look at him, knowing he would likely want to wipe his stupid smile off of his face. “I’ll be here.” 

“Thanks mate.” 

“Not your mate.” 

Potter laughed. “One of these days, I swear, you’re going to give in.” 

“No likely.” He scratched Atlas behind his ear and smirked as the dog's hindleg started twitching wildly. “You be good today. No chewing on shoes, okay?” He took his happy bark as an agreement. 

“He’s always good. Aren’t you boy? Yes you are.” No longer receiving attention from his owner, Atlas bounded towards Potter giving another bark in agreement and wanting more affection as he jumped up and down around him, his barking continuing. 

He really was a good boy. In fact, Draco had noticed not a single hat, nor shoe, or pillow had been torn to shreds since moving in with Potter. It was almost as if he had outgrown all three bad habits at once. Which was a good thing really. Astoria had threatened on more than one occasion to re-home him if he didn’t stop making a mess of things, and Draco was sure Potter wouldn’t put up with nearly as long as she had. 

Chapter Text

Hermione had a proclivity for a good story. After all, she was famously recognized as the brightest witch of her age, which meant she had done her fair share of reading. Though it was more than that. She could recognize an extraordinary story from the first sentence. Be it written, recorded, acted out, or simply told. 

Now that’s not to say she didn’t always agree with the story at large. For example; she found it difficult not to correct the inaccuracies should they happen, or ask clarifying questions if necessary. Which, if one could imagine, oftentimes ruined the anecdote the story was aiming for. But it didn’t matter, because a good story, one worth retelling or re-reading, could always stand up against her inquisitive impulses and her need to relay the correct information. 

So though the sentence “Hermione, you remember Draco, yeah?” might not necessarily capture one’s astute attention (except for possibly out of fright), Hermione knew instantly that whatever story might follow was going to be a good one. 

Only…. Harry sucked at telling stories. 

Really, he was abysmal at it. 

It wasn’t entirely his fault— he just wasn’t a very energetic person, or a creative one for that matter. His favorite spell was Expelliarmus for Christ’s sake. 

Did it work? Sure. Did it lack any amount of imagination? Yes. Yes it did. Did she still love him despite that? Of course she did. That would never change. 

Though, a better explanation other than “Draco lives here now” would have been greatly appreciated. 

Hell, she would have settled for a shorter version of the story, or one that might have explained how and when Malfoy had gone from… well… Malfoy, to Draco. Or even when the renovations of 12 Grimmauld Place had taken place. 

Better yet, she was dying to know who had influenced which changes, because there was enough of each of them in the changes that made her question so many things. The why was obvious of course. 

Malfoy (or should she also call him Draco? She wasn’t sure.) What she was sure about, however, was the fact that the new look was one hundred percent because of him. Harry had never taken the initiative to “spruce” up the place before. Not when he first moved in right after the war. Not when Ron and Hermione had followed, or when they had left, and not when Ginny had moved in a year later. 

So now she was sitting on a ridiculously posh, and just a tad gaudy, settee waiting for one of them to say something– anything really. Apparently Draco (Malfoy?) wasn’t much of a storyteller either. In fact, the only things he had said since she arrived was ‘Granger’ and ‘Don’t worry, I’m under strict instructions to be on my best behavior.’ She had raised a brow at that, not sure if she should be offended he thought he needed to voice that, or that apparently the arse-hat was even issued such an instruction. 

She had enquired then, with Harry, if she was also supposed to be on her best behavior, because she could not remember him issuing the same instructions to her before bombarda-ing her with Draco freaking Malfoy. There had been a joke about how she wouldn’t listen even if he had made such a request, which was true, and the subject was then dropped in favor of asking about her tan.

“You look great, really Hermione. All sun-kissed and glowing. Australia did you some good.” 

“It was lovely, it always is.” She thanked Malfoy (Draco? Lord it was confusing) when he handed her a cup of tea (which was weird as fuck if she was being honest). He gave a sharp nod and a smirk? The whole thing made her feel off kilter but Harry had pushed on, bringing about some normalcy to the evening and redirecting her attention away from the possible smirk Mal-Draco had given. 

“Did you actually go to the beach this time then? This nice glow isn’t from working in the garden or reading on some patio somewhere?” Both he and Ron had teased her relentlessly last year when she took her annual trip to see her parents, about her ‘farmers tan’ which really was atrocious. 

“It just so happens, Harry Potter,” she tried to give him her best scolding voice, not at all happy about him trying to tease her in front of Dra-Malfoy, but knowing it fell a bit flat, “that I found a nude beach a few clicks away from my hotel, and it was lovely.” No tan lines for her, not this year. Well, except for the small white (more like soft peach) spot around her pelvic bone. 

It was a muggle thing– putting a sticker on your skin when tanning. Typically it was the playboy bunny, or a sticker in the shape of a dick or something else provocative. Of course there were butterflies or flowers. In her case it was a dragon. She wasn’t sure why she had picked it. Maybe because she still wanted to keep some of the magical world with her while on a very muggle holiday. Maybe it was because the sticker was cute and it was unique. Or, less common than a bunny or something else ostentatious. 

Not that she was going to tell Harry any of that. Or Malfoy-Draco. Not when Draco-Malfoy was already choking on his tea over the fact she had been at a nude beach. She hadn’t even confessed to being nude. 

“Such delicate sensibilities, mate.” Harry teased. At least she wasn’t the only one he was teasing. 

“Not your mate.” Malf-Draco sputtered between coughs. 

It was weird… very weird. The awkwardness only grew when Harry excused himself to check on dinner (which wasn’t needed considering she knew it was Kreacher cooking) and left Hermione and Malfoy (she was pretty sure she was going to settle on calling him Malfoy) alone together. 

“You can ask your questions now, Granger.” He sighed after about five minutes of utter silence. 

“Pardon?” 

“Your questions. I’m sure you have a million of them swimming in that overly large brain of yours.” He sounded tired. He looked it too, like he was operating on buckets of tea (of which he was currently refilling his cup with), a tinge of anger, and something else that Hermione couldn’t place. Sadness perhaps. 

Harry had mentioned he was engaged once. Ginny was supposedly friends with his fiancé, though Hermione couldn’t remember what her name was. She was younger than them, she knew that much, but that was about it. Either way, there was no ring on his finger indicating he was married now. She didn’t need to be a genius to know something had happened there. 

He was, after all, filthy rich. Like, he could quite possibly buy over half of wizarding London and not even bat an eye while doing it type of rich. Yet here he was, living with Harry? No, something life changing had to happen for that to have manifested. And Ginny hated Malfoy. 

Not in a ‘you were a Death Eater’ or ‘you were the biggest fucking prat and a bully’ type of way either. She genuinely loathed him, and Hermione wasn’t entirely sure why. She didn’t hold the same animosity for Theo (who Hermione worked with and talked about from time to time) or even Pansy (whom Neville talked about constantly). Which meant one of three things had transpired in the time she was gone. 

One, Ginny had finally gotten over it and allowed him to live there because of whatever life altering event had happened to him. Two, Harry had finally put his foot down to Ginny always bossing him around and informed her that Dra—Malfoy was moving in and that was the end of it. Or three (which was most likely), Ginny and Harry were no longer together. 

Judging by the lack of anything feminine in the recent renovations and redecorating, it was option three.  

But Harry would tell her when he was ready and not a moment before, and again, she didn’t need to be an intellectual to know Malfoy was not going to talk about his personal life either. Not with her at least. No matter how curious she was and how the mystery of it all was eating away at her. 

So instead she settled on a rather easy question. “I saw a small rubbery steak by the front door, that I’m assuming squeaks if squeezed.” Okay, it wasn’t exactly a question, but Malfoy was clever enough to know where she was going with it. 

“It does.” Of course, he was still a prat and obviously wasn’t going to actually tell her anything unless directly asked. 

“I’m assuming it’s yours?” 

“If you are asking if I howl at the moon and run around the house barking and playing with silly squeaking toys Potter insists on buying, then I’m sorry to disappoint but no. No, the toy is not mine.” 

“But it is your dog's, is it not?” 

Finally, he nodded and actually confirmed what she was asking. “His name is Atlas.” 

“Does he not do well with strangers?” it was probably some posh, well groomed, ridiculously thin, thoroughbred of a dog that likely whizzed itself if spoken to in a stern voice. She also imagined it would shake. Like a chihuahua or a maraca, because somehow that seemed fitting. Of course, such an assumption was highly rude and a bit prejudiced of her. But it was also very Malfoy of him to own such a dog. 

Actually, if she was being honest with herself, Malfoy owning any sort of pet aside from an albino peacock or perhaps a Cuckoo bird (which was just as ridiculous as he was) seemed out of character for him. Then again… she didn’t really know the man before her. Not anymore at least. 

“Atlas is,” Draco paused, pouring himself another cup of tea. Honestly, at this point Hermione was wondering if his obsessive tea drinking was because of him being tired or rather a clever excuse to need the loo so he could remove himself from the most awkward conversation of the century. “Well, he’s rather large and a bit energetic.” 

That was not at all what she expected him to say. 

“He can also be rather frightening, and has a tendency to chew hats, left shoes, and pillow cases.” He sighed, taking a drink before adding “So at present, he’s in my room, probably sleeping.” 

“Or destroying your pillowcase.” 

His lips quirked up a bit at her comment and his eyes locked onto her. “Or that.” 

“Well, I did ride on the back of a dragon, so I highly doubt whatever type of dog you have would startle me. Unless it’s a hellhound.” She took a drink of her own tea, which was starting to go cold now. But then she choked a bit and her eyes shot back up to Malfoy’s. “It’s not, is it? A hellhound?” 

“Merlin Granger.” He chuckled, he actually chuckled, his eyes twinkling a bit as he shook his head. “I’m sure you know this, being the advocate of all magical creatures and all, but it’s highly illegal to have a hellhound. And I doubt Potter would allow such a thing in his house, you know, with him being Head Auror and all.” 

“You might be surprised with the things Harry would and would not allow in his home.” 

“Oh, are we talking about Ménage à trois again? Draco, you cad.” It was Hermione’s turn to choke on her tea (though Malfoy had as well) her eyes darting back and forth between the two men, wondering when the hell they had had that conversation and if she even wanted to know. 

“Merlin’s beard Potter.” Malfoy wheezed out. “I told you, I’m not interested in Ménage à trois.” This statement did little to answer the swirl of questions on rotation in her brain. 

Questions like, what!? And, when?! Or, WHY? Maybe even, how?! 

Of course she knew how . What she didn’t know was HOW ! 

Or maybe that wasn’t the right question. 

The right question was most likely something similar to “What the actual fuck is going on between you two?” Which she did not say as the two started bickering. 

Or, Malfoy started bickering, Harry was laughing. Quite loudly and unguardedly as Malfoy spewed some nonsense about being possessive. 

Suddenly, it all made sense. Whatever had transpired, however large or life altering as it might have been, the two were clearly each other's life support at present. And as weird, and strange, and perhaps a million other things as that was, it was clear they needed each other. It was also clear that neither of them were fully accepting this fact. Or maybe it was because they were both hurting too much to fully admit it. Which meant they would need some help. 

It also meant, she wasn’t getting her story from either of them anytime soon. Which was fine really. She was creative and imaginative enough to come up with her own story. She almost snorted into her tea as she imagined the two of them confessing their deeply hidden feelings for one another. 

Oh what a wonderful story that would make. 

She smiled to herself at the thought, her eyes flicking between the two of them as she wondered if it was at all possible. It was definitely a story she would listen to. One worth writing down and shared with the world. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Two star crossed lovers. How Romeo and Juliet of them, only, hopefully in this story neither one of them died. 

She hid a larger smile behind her tea cup as she realized Draco would most certainly be Juliet in this scenario.

Chapter Text

The downside to having his life blown up in his face, the love of his life running off with someone else, and living with his childhood nemesis– aside for the outstandingly obvious heartache and the awkwardness of living with someone who absolutely refuses to die (not that he was actively trying to kill him, it was just an unnerving fact, that was all)– was having to put up with his flatmates insufferable friends. 

Or, Potter’s insufferable friend (because the fucking weasel still hadn’t shown his face since the news broke.) Hermione Granger, on the other hand, had been over every single day since she returned home from wherever the fuck it was she had gone off to– Australia if he remembered correctly and he desperately wished he didn’t remember that tidbit correctly. Which had nothing to do with the fact she had confessed to being at a nude beach (because it didn’t), and had even less to do with the fact he had pictured her on said nude beach (because he hadn’t).

But if he had… it was only because he was a bit sexually starved, she was a…. completely normal witch (not at all extraordinary), and because it was a normal response. 

It had absolutely no other meaning whatsoever! 

Especially because it was Granger! Extremely exasperating and highly unlikeable Hermione, freaking, Granger! 

It wasn’t as though he still harbored the same prejudices of his past (because he didn’t! Really!). In fact, he had even apologized to her roughly two years ago (in the form of a letter and at the behest of Astoria but that wasn’t the point). He had attempted to make amends with those he had wronged, which as it had turned out, was a very long list. 

Both Granger and Neville had been at the top of that list and each got very elegantly worded apology letters. Even Potter, the wanker that he was (and still is), got an apology– in person thanks to the constant mingling of their friend groups. Actually, Potter had gotten three apologies. Once when Draco was very drunk so Potter claimed it didn’t count. Another when he bucked up enough courage to try again. And a third when they were both drunk and living together and the two of them had taken it upon themselves to spew nonsensical apologies. 

As an unspoken rule, neither of them talked about that night.

Then there was Neville, who had written him back. A long wordy thing that started with “Malfoy, I hear you’re a skilled legilimens, so perhaps you locked away some of these memories and haven’t had the time to retrieve them and reflect upon them. No worries, I remember them all. So here are a few things you, oh so conveniently, left out of your apology .” immediately followed by three pages worth of grievances that painted a rather evocative image of exactly how much of a blighter Draco had been in his youth. Or, for most of his life really. Yet, by the end of the letter, and by some fucking miracle, Neville wrote that he forgave him. 

It was more than he deserved, he knew this, but he wasn’t going to turn it down either. Especially not after Pansy and Neville started a budding relationship. While they would likely never be friends,  Draco did take him up on his offer for a smoke from time to time. 

It took two weeks for him to receive Granger’s replay. Not that he had expected one, but when it had arrived he was shocked to see it wasn’t a whole bloody book worth of grievances levied against him. Instead of a masterful and scathing manuscript that would likely take him a lifetime to read through, she had only sent two words. 

That was it. Just two. Written in delicate and pretty calligraphy, in smooth golden ink that glittered, were the words “Thank you” and nothing else. 

Not that she owed him anymore more than that. 

She didn’t owe him anything. 

Except for maybe some peace and quiet in his own damn home! 

She was loud, very loud. All the bloody time! As though she didn’t understand the concept of a whisper or even the appropriate volume one should speak with while inside and not stuck in the middle of a fucking windstorm! If Granger had ever heard of such a concept, she most certainly didn’t practice it– and in the spirit of not practicing it, she also didn’t exercise any decorum when it came to her obnoxious questioning. 

The insufferable know-it-all that she was, she had asked a ridiculous amount of questions that had absolutely nothing to do with anything important. Like how she inquired after a toy of Atlas’s instead of asking why the fucking hell he was living with Potter. Or, where the bloody hell the Weasley girl was. Or why Potter’s breath smelled very strongly of whiskey every time he returned from ‘checking on dinner’. All great questions that would have yielded better answers than whether or not his dog got along with strangers! 

She hadn’t even asked a single question about how their little arrangement had come about. Like she already knew all the answers and had just accepted the fact Draco was living with her supposed ‘best friend’ without an ounce of worry or hesitation. Which was odd. 

Very odd. 

But even that was nothing compared to the sheer irritation he felt every time he saw her coat she had left thrown across a chair somewhere despite the perfectly capable coat hanger Draco had purchased. Or the shoes she always took off at the door but never put on the rack, leaving them tossed about readily waiting to trip someone walking by (oftentimes it was him). Dishes left on the table, tea cups in the drawing room, books everywhere– honestly it was surprising how much of a mess she left in her wake. 

As vexing as all that was, the moment Draco called her out on any of it Potter would shuffle into the room and apologize for her and clean up her mess, whatever it may be. She would extend her thanks of course, but never apologized. For someone who detested the use of house elves and their enforced labor, she didn’t seem to have any qualms about deploying Potter to clean up after herself instead. 

He would have said something himself, called her out on her hypocrisy and her utter lack of consideration for their home, had he not noticed the small smile Potter wore every time he picked up after her. The idiot seemed to like it, which was extremely confusing. Judging by the faint (very faint) smirks he had caught on her face a handful of times as Potter bustled about cleaning up after her, made him wonder if she knew this about Potter. 

And, alright, fair. She was rather intelligent, and had known the idiot a long time, so she probably knew her leaving mess everywhere was giving Potter some type purpose. Even if it was incredibly boring and depressing to know hanging up a coat made the tosser happy. Or, happy-ish. So all in all, Draco really couldn’t fault her for that.

What he could fault her for, and completely and explicitly hold against her until the day he perished (no, he was not being dramatic thank you very much!), was the fact that she had stolen his dog from him! Which was completely inexcusable! 

He was always right on her heels when she was there. Waging his fucking tail and looking up at her with his adorable puppy-dog-eyes. He did not eat her left shoes, though she left them about for him to, he completely ignored them. He did not try to nip at her sun hat she had worn over the other day, not even when she had tossed it haphazardly onto the settee.

Heartbreakingly, when she left for the evening, it took him a good thirty minutes of crying at the door waiting for her to come back before he would sulk his way into his room. The whole thing was rather offensive and he could not understand what his dog found so amazing about her. 

What was it that she had, that Draco did not? Besides the obvious female parts, which Atlas would have no interest in so that couldn’t possibly be it. Was it her hair? Her fucking maddening hair! 

It had always been that way though the once wild and untamed disarray of curls, now seemed less like chaos and more like a crown of defiance. Like each individual strand was rebelling against the others in a disarray of madness. No longer a forest of frizz but a tumultuous jungle of rich chestnut and honeyed gold tendrils that had a habit of catching the light in a rather remarkable yet magical sort of way and they framed her face like a lion's mane– mirrored perfectly by her insufferable, yet fierce, personality. 

Bold, unrestrained, unyielding in nature and annoyingly impossible to ignore. She was a whirlwind of relentless determination, infuriating righteousness, and unmeasurable inquisitiveness! An enigma Draco couldn’t seem to decipher, or an arithmancy equation that was wrapped in so many layers he was sure he would never be able to solve them all. 

She was a rose, beautiful in her own right (if he really thought about it) but not without sharp pricks. Her words often laced with nettle stings, and her arguments precise and piercing, leaving no room for rebuttal. Her mind was sharp and ready to challenge, yet she was too eager to flaunt her knowledge in the most annoying ways imaginable. 

But her worst offense out of everything, was the simple fact that she was quite impossible to forget. 

Sometimes he wished he could forget her. Or rather, that she would forget Potter and by extension him. He couldn’t for the life of him remember why he had even once considered reaching out to her to help with Potter’s downward spiral. 

Extremely exasperating and highly unlikeable! That was what she was… 

So why couldn’t he stop thinking about that one comment from weeks ago? 

He knew it wasn’t because of who had said it, he would have the same type of thoughts (not that he was admitting to having those) about anyone of the female persuasion who actively talked about going to nude beaches, indicating their body was perfectly tanned… everywhere. If for no other reason than to imagine what a perfectly golden body would look like. It had nothing to do with the fact that Granger had been the one to inspire that particular imagery. 

Nothing at all!

And yet… he spent a significant amount of time trying to ignore the images his mind conjured every time he allowed it to wonder. It was a huge inconvenience, one he was ready to put an end to. Which was his only explanation for storming into the kitchen where he could hear Potter puttering about, and declared loudly (possibly a bit too loudly) that they were going out tonight. 

A pub, preferably muggle so no one would recognize either of them, and the chances of bringing home a one night stand were higher. But even if they didn’t, Draco would settle for a pretty face that could replace Granger’s every time he thought about a perfectly tanned body.

It was extremely amusing, knowing how much she got under Malfoy's skin just by simply existing. Not because she was a Muggle-born; she truly believed he had outgrown that particular aspect of his past. However, other areas he was not so fortunate. Like his constant need to keep things orderly, hating when she didn’t put her shoes away or hang up her coat. And his disdain for not having control over everything, like his dog Atlas liking her over him– and oh, how that vexed him.

Or, like now, when he came barging into the kitchen without a single thought for anything or anyone other than himself as he loudly and proudly declared "We're going out tonight!" without realizing she was even there. Though, to be fair even if he had noticed her, he likely would have ignored her. 

At least at first. Eventually she would annoy him enough to interact with her. 

That was sorta his thing. 

Their thing? 

It was hard to say exactly, and maybe it wasn’t so much of a thing as it was a game?  

At least to her it felt like a game and she vaguely wondered if he would agree. Probably not, because he never agreed with anything she said. Not even if he knew she was right, which was most of the time. Part of her wondered if that was just who he was as a person, some type of character trait he just couldn’t help. 

Sorta like his ridiculous height, or the fact he was perpetually stuck in a state of broodiness— because she was positive he couldn’t control that particular trait either. Not like his other ones. He was quiet, pensive, witty and yet he could be rather snarly when provoked, and oh boy did she provoke him. Not on purpose! Or at least not at first. 

She wasn’t sure when she had started playing along or what the rules were exactly, but winning consisted of a very flustered Malfoy, a possible slammed door (this solely depend on where he stalked off to in a huff after losing whatever verbal sparring match they had), a playful bark from Atlas, and an eye roll from Harry. Losing meant Malfoy walked around preening for a few hours while she shared secret looks with Harry and pretended not to be amused. 

It was odd and a bit fun no matter the outcome, though only because she knew it made his day. Even if he would never admit to it. He was like Harry in that way, actually he was like Harry in a lot of ways. Aside from their shared heartache that neither of them ever talked about. They were both quiet, and refused to admit that they were in need of help. 

It had taken her a week to get Harry to stop secretly drinking by giving him little distractions to occupy his time with instead. Malfoy, on the other hand, had only taken two days to get irritated enough with her to distract him from his own woes. It was easy really, she just needed to make friends with his dog. 

The colossal bundle of exuberance and muscle and utterly adorable Great Dane whose paws were as big as his heart, had taken to her almost instantly. And she had known the moment she met him that she was in love with the rather large whirlwind of energy. And for reasons beyond Malfoy’s comprehension, Atlas was completely and irrevocably in love with her. 

It was the bacon. 

Atlas loved bacon! Which was fortunate for her. However, Harry had caught her feeding him some, which was unfortunate, though she promptly sworn him to secrecy. It became her routine then, and Atlas knew it. The only one not clued in was Malfoy. Which explained why Atlas was a slobbery mess of begging enthusiasm at present. Hoping and waiting for her to drop some food for him, which she was about to do when Malfoy had barged in. 

Thankfully he was a bit distracted and totally missed the passing of food to his dog. He also missed when Hermione cocked her head to the side and asked “Like, romantically?” Though, to be fair, Harry had also said “Oh? Where are you taking me to then?” Which was the question Malfoy had decided to focus on. 

A pub, it turned out. Muggle, as to not be recognized. “We can even get you some dinner.” Malfoy said with a nod before actually inquiring if Harry had eaten, which he had not. The whole thing sounded an awful lot like a date, even if it was worded in the form of a demand. 

It didn’t surprise her, he had already admitted to being possessive of those he was with so of course he would also be a dominant who didn’t spew poetry to get a date. No questions, no doubt. Just a simple, this is what we are doing, and that was that. If Harry took any offense at the lack of romance, it didn’t show on his face. 

“You sure it has to be a Muggle place?” Harry asked, popping a crisp into his mouth. 

“Yes, I like the lack of notoriety.” he said rather curtly, because of course he would. “Which is something you should be thanking me for, Potter.” and then for good measure, and just in case Hermione was still wondering what type of relationship the two of them had, he scolded Harry for ruining his dinner with something as mundane as crisps. He concluded his scolding by adding “Honestly, I’m not paying for you to eat only part of a meal, Potter.” All while playing with his fancy cufflink and clearly feigning his disinterest in the matter. 

Now it really sounded like a date, a fact Malfoy seemed to register a few seconds after she had for he suddenly snapped to attention and spun to look at her. A sneer already on his perfectly sculpted face as though he expected her to say something snarky– though she had only just been surprised that he taken note of her at all. 

“ Romantically !” He said it like it was a curse. He most certainly looked like he had been hit by a curse. 

And in response her lips quirked up into a smirk. She leaned against the counter (hiding the food she had been giving to Atlas), and folded her arms across her chest. Giving her head the slightest of tilts she asked (innocently) “Was that a question, or an answer?” 

He scowled. And oh boy, what a scowl it was. “Why are you always here?!” 

Oh, she was definitely going to win the game today. If she had to guess, she was about three sentences away from him storming off after a failed attempt to call his dog to him. He’d likely stomp his way to the makeshift Library he had been working on, slamming the door and warding her out. Not that she ever went after him, that wasn’t part of the game. 

Besides, he would stew over their conversation for a bit (sometimes it was minutes, other times it took him hours, and once it even took a few days to come up with his retort), then he would track her down and pick up whatever argument it was they were having. At which point she would typically concede and allow him to ‘win’ and bite back her smile as his already overly inflated ego grew to a dangerous size. 

She didn’t always let him win the second round of verbal sparring— sometimes he was just wrong and she couldn’t condone him believing otherwise. But he was clever enough not to pick too many fights he knew he couldn’t win. This one, was likely not going to end up in his favor no matter how big of a tantrum he threw. He would either need to confess his feelings for Harry, or deny it flat out.

Honestly, she would be happy with either. At least then she would finally know what kind of relationship they had without actually having to ask. 

She could have… asked… but something held her back. 

She wasn’t fully sure why or what, and she told herself she was only curious because it was in her nature. That, and because Harry was her best friend and deserved to be happy. Even if it was Draco sodding Malfoy who was making him happy. 

“I like it here.” She shrugged, finally answering, her eyes never leaving his. “Also, that wasn’t an answer.”

“Why the fuck–” 

Harry, bless him, butted in with a warning. “Oi, play nice mate.” It was a pity too, as it set her back a bit, drawing Malfoy’s anger towards him as he grunted out his usual denial of not being his mate .

“You know, the word mate could have other meanings besides just friends .” Malfoy snapped his attention back to her so quickly at her words that she was worried he might have dislocated his head from his neck. He most certainly tweaked it, judging by the wince that followed. 

“What the bloody hell are you on about?” 

“You know, the word mate.” He looked at her like he most certainly did not know, so she (oh so helpfully) elaborated. “Each of a pair. A fellow member of-” she looked him up and down before adding “- of a specific thing.” 

He growled, actually growled at her. But she was not to be deterred and continued on. “It could also mean someone you copulate with.” 

“Copulate with!?” He scoffed, sounding rather affronted. 

She was enjoying herself, exceedingly so, so she continued  “Or perhaps form a… mechanical… type of connection to.” She gave him the sweetest smile in her arsenal before adding the striking blow. “I wonder, Malfoy, which version of the word are you so opposed to?” 

Malfoy, unsurprisingly, glowered at her while Harry laughed. “Awe, Draco, I had no idea you had such feelings for me.” 

“Oh piss off Potter!” It occurred to her then that Malfoy might be trying to cultivate a death stare and he was pretty close to mastering it. 

“He is not my mate .” he said it rather low and quietly, yet his words almost felt as though they were thundering around her. “In any sense of the word.” he added.

“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem sure.” Which was a lie, but it was worth it to see the look on his face. 

“Yes, Granger. I’m rather attuned with my body and what it does and does not want, and Potter is definitely on my ‘fuck no, not ever’ list!” 

“Curious that you have a list though.” 

“You’re extremely unlikable, did you know that?” 

“You seem to be the only person who thinks so.” as if to prove her point, Atlas gave a happy bark and licked her hand. 

He was licking off the food residue, but Malfoy did not need to know that. Judging by the glare he leveled at him and the softly mumbled “traitor” proved to her that he still had no idea why his dog liked her so much. 

“I know of the perfect place for you two to go, by the way. I might even tell you if you’re nice to me and say please.” Hell would likely freeze over before he ever said that word to her. Unless it was immediately followed by ‘shut up’ or ‘fuck off.’ Or maybe he’ll branch out and say them both together. 

“There’s no need, Granger, I will not be going to a gay pub.” His nose gave a sudden twitch, like he had smelled something foul. 

“Why not? They’re fun.” 

He narrowed his eyes at her, doing a very slow track of her body from head to foot. His scowl deepened as though he was sizing her up and not liking what he was seeing. Which… okay, fair. She knew his opinion of her, and she knew it hadn’t changed much over the years. Not the mudblood nonsense, but his dislike of her hair, her clothing, and her general being really. 

It was rather uncomfortable, having him look at her like that for so long. She didn’t quite care for it and was in no hurry to ever have it repeated. 

Thankfully he put her out of her misery by saying “The whole point of us going out is to clear our heads–”

“My head’s just fine, thanks.” Harry interjected, but it went ignored.

“-if we show up with you, I’m positive we will only attract the wrong sort of crowd.” 

She wasn’t a hundred percent certain what he meant by that, but she could sure as hell fucking guess. And it wasn’t nice. Having never been bothered by his opinion of her before, it was rather unreasonable to have his words sting so much now. But they did, and she couldn’t figure out why. “I’ll have you know, Draco Malfoy , I am an excellent wing-woman.” 

She was, just ask Ron, or Dean, or pretty much anyone other that Draco fucking Malfoy. Not that she was going to argue her point, though it would have been an excellent argument. Mostly because it was true, and partially because it wasn’t like he could form a rebuttal. Though he tried by giving the most un-gentleman-like and undignified sound she had ever heard him make. And she had once heard him cry “it’s killed me, it’s killed me!” while flailing around on the ground as though he was actually dying. Yet even that was more flattering than the snort he gave her. 

“That’s enough you two.” Harry stepped forward, standing directly in the middle of them as if that would prevent whatever might happen next. She would have gladly reached around him to cast a hex or two at Malfoy if the occasion called for it. However, she was not prepared to shrug off Atlas, who was now whining at her feet and clearly upset.  

She wasn’t entirely sure if it was because he was still wanting food and she was not providing it, or if it was because of the tension in the air. Either way, she bent down and gave him some good rubs and reminded him what a ‘good boy’ he was. When Atlas seemed happy again, and she was done seething from Malfoy’s previous words, she straightened. Then she foolishly attempted to brush off some of Atlas’s fur (giving up after a few swipes), squared off her shoulders and looked directly at Malfoy. 

“It’s not a gay pub, by the way.” not that it would have mattered if it was. Everyone knew they were more fun and significantly safer for women. Not like Harry and Malfoy needed to be worried about that. “Just one owned by a friend.” 

“I do believe I said I wanted a muggle pub.” 

“It is possible for me to have other friends besides wizards, Malfoy.” She snapped, pointing at herself, “Muggle born, remember?” As if he would ever forget. 

His eye twitched somewhat aggressively before he looked away from her with something akin to shame scattering across his face. Which was… curious. 

“But you are right.” She gritted her teeth, really loathed to have to say those words. “It is owned by a wizard.” She clarified when his gaze snapped back to her. It appeared, she might actually lose this game after all.

The giant ponce clearly had some type of kink for being told he was smart, correct, intelligent… or whatever the hell it was that made him preen like a damn peacock. She vaguely wondered if it was praise in general or if it was specific to his intellect. Of course all thoughts of that fluttered away when he opened his stupid mouth again. 

“If you are going to insist on butting into our conversations, then I must request you listen to the whole thing. I would rather not be recognized.” 

It was her turn to narrow her eyes, wondering briefly if she could ricochet a spell off of the stove so it would go around Harry (who was annoyingly still in the middle of them and requesting they ‘calm down’ which was obviously being ignored) and hit Malfoy instead.  “It just so happens, Mr I-think-I-know-it-all , to be in Muggle London.” 

He opened his mouth, likely to say something idiotic, but she cut him off. “And he happens to be a mutual acquaintance of yours! So forgive me for thinking you might actually be interested in visiting him!” 

There was a slight crackle, a bit of a shock that tempted the air around them, and she knew without actually having to look in a mirror that her hair had puffed up to a laughter-induced level of ridiculousness. It was a curse of hers. She was always too passionate, and it always seemed to make her hair come to life. A fact Malfoy seemed rather amused by all of a sudden, though he had enough sense about him not to mention it. 

But of course, he was still a giant prat and couldn’t help but saying “Now I know you’re barking. I don’t know anyone who owns a pub, let alone a pub in Muggle London.” She was pretty sure he also mumbled ‘daft witch’ at the end of his smug little sentence.

“That’s enough.” Harry warned again, a bit louder this time. “Hermione.” He pleaded, likely knowing she was the more intelligent one and therefore could be reasoned with, and because Malfoy was an idiot! 

So of course she listed, and just like that, she deflated and Malfoy fucking won. 

At least this round. 

He immediately lost the second when Harry extended the invite for her to join them. She agreed despite the blonde prat’s protests, for many reasons. One, because she knew where the pub was. Two, she was looking forward to seeing Malfoy's smug face when he realizes he does in fact know someone who owns a pub in Muggle London… and to be honest, her third reason was because she really, really , wanted to piss him off by going.

But first, she needed to head home to change. Preferably into something that would change the way he was looking at her. For her own, personal, self esteem of course…

( For those of you wondering what Atlas looks like, here you go! )

Chapter Text

She had been right, because of course she had! She was always fucking right. It irked him to no end. 

Someone he knew did, in fact, own a Muggle Pub. Someone he knew well and most certainly would make pay for making him look the fool. He just needed to come up with a clever idea for payback. 

But there would be payback. 

He would make sure of that…. 

Once he worked through the rather bewildering fact that Theo Nott was the proud owner of a Muggle pub, ironically named Nott Your Average Brew. Or the fact that it was ridiculously gimmicky and borderline outrageous. He was also sure there was a Statute of Secrecy violation somewhere… he just hadn’t found it yet. 

There was also the baffling fact that Granger knew about all of this before he did, which was something he just couldn’t seem to get over.

Theo was his best friend…. 

How could he not know this about his best friend? 

And how, or more accurately why, had Granger known this about his best friend? 

The whole thing vexed him greatly. Almost as much as her gloating ‘I told you so.’ 

Only, she didn’t gloat. Not at all. No knowing smirks, or smug glances with her bushy eyebrows raised. No backhanded comments or sarcastic quips. She was rather amicable about the whole thing, like their earlier argument had meant absolutely nothing to her. And somehow that pissed him off even more. 

He wasn’t entirely sure why, but it did. 

It was all rather… confounding… learning Granger was friends with Theo, that neither of them had ever mentioned it before. That she had not only known about the pub but had apparently been there on multiple occasions. Then, of course, there was the ridiculousness that was the pub, which didn’t seem to phase her insufferable morality and overwhelming sense of propriety. Which was… odd. 

Very odd. 

“It’s not exactly subtle, is it?” Potter mumbled next to him.

No, no it was not. Not even a little. 

The exterior might have been unassuming as far as Muggle Pubs go. It had a simple sign hanging above the door with the name painted in elegant, curling script and was otherwise rather boring. Well, besides the very large and snarly looking bouncer (who Draco swore had to be related to a troll by some extent). There was a line of patrons trying to get in that went around the block. Not that any of that mattered to Granger who was able to waltz (actually fucking waltz) up to the bouncer (who apparently knew her by name) and was granted instant access. 

For all subtlety of the outside, it was immediately abandoned the moment they stepped inside. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, rich and warm, giving the pub a cozy and inviting feeling that was rather posh. The bar itself was a masterpiece, a long, polished stretch of mahogany that gleamed under the soft golden lights of hanging lamps. Those were the only normal things about the pub. 

Or, the only Muggle normal things about the pub. 

Behind the bar was a plethora of bottles that lined glass shelves, their labels a mix of familiar Muggle brands and obscure (not to mention made up) magical sounding names. Such as, Gin and Rum alongside Double Double Boil and Trouble, Elixir Delight, and Fenix Fire Ale. Some bottles glowed faintly, others had swirling contents that changed colors, adding a touch of whimsy to an otherwise ordinary array of spirits. 

Each unique drink was served in cauldron-shaped cups, their black ceramic surfaces adorned with intricate silver runes (not real ones) that shimmered in the dim lights. They were also comically large in the hands of the patrons. Which was the opposite for the shot glasses that were instead vial tubes with their very own cork stoppers. If one chose to partake in even more ridiculousness then one could buy a ‘mixed drink’ which were actually beakers of different liquids one would then pour into a larger cauldron stationed at their table. Complete with something Granger called dry ice (how ice could be dry was beyond fucking him, but it made the drinks smoke which couldn’t be healthy) and a ladle to scoop out the drink. 

Granger called it ingenuity on Theo’s part. 

Draco called it ridiculous. 

He also called Theo a foul git and many other more colorful words. 

There were also bubbles, and the bubble machine (as Granger called it), that kept a steady stream of luminescent bubbles littering the dance floor. They were not ordinary bubbles, they shimmered with an almost magical-like quality and they floated lazily around the room before gently popping and leaving a faint sparkle in their wake. The effect might have been mesmerizing and dreamlike, but he was honestly waiting for one to pop in the eye of some blighter and the whole thing would be forced to shut down. Seriously, who wanted to dance in the middle of fucking bubbles anyways? 

The answer to that question was apparently Hermione Granger. 

Granger ordered them two vials each, and five different colored beakers she mixed into the large and completely impractical sized cauldron at the booth she also secured them. Then, she drank only one of her vials (Draco later drank the other because why let it go to waste?) before promptly forgetting she had offered to be his ‘wing-woman’ and left them for the dance floor. 

And what in the devil snare was a winged woman anyways? She didn’t even have wings. He should know, he checked. Discreetly of course. He would have asked Potter to clarify (and confirm that Granger was a fucking plonker) but he left shortly after she had under the guise of getting more drinks. 

So Draco was alone… At a Muggle Pub owned by a wizard… Surrounded by Muggles… And women… and he was having a miserable time.

All while Granger was out there… At a Muggle Pub owned by a wizard… Surrounded by Muggles… and men… and bubbles… and having a grand ole time. 

He should have stayed at home, but no… he just had to suggest going out, allowed himself to be bullied into going to a pub she wanted, and was now sitting alone in a corner booth with worn leather creaking beneath him every time he shifted uncomfortably. 

He hated this. 

Hated that his suggestion had been turned into whatever the hell this was. 

That Granger somehow had a say in the matter when she wasn’t even invited (least not by him) 

And he had a rather nasty headache that had no inclination of getting any better and likely wouldn’t as long as they remained at the pub. 

It was the music’s fault (naturally, he equally blamed Granger because he wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her) but it was the music that had initially started the discomfort and pain. It pounded through the pub, songs he had never heard of before, most without any lyrics (Granger said it was techno, whatever the hell that was) in a relentless beat that vibrated through the floor and into his bones. It was loud, brash, and utterly foreign, each bass drop a jarring reminder of how out of place he was. While Granger moved to it as though it was controlling her, or she was controlling it. It was hard to tell.

She moved with an effortless grace, her curls wild and free. He could have sworn he heard her laughter rising above all the noise, which was preposterous if he thought about it, and highly improbable. Yet he was sure of it. And her presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of everyone around her, including Draco’s unwilling gaze. And it was… unwilling… yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her for longer than a minute or two at most. 

It was rather annoying. 

Potter, almost predictably, had not come back with drinks yet. A quick glance around and Draco saw the reason as to why. He was at the bar (still), leaning casually against the counter as he flirted with a pretty little number. Likely boasting about knowing the owner, as Theo was right there too. She didn’t seem to be Potter’s usual type, which of course meant she wasn’t Cho Chang and wasn’t unfortunate enough to have dreadfully horrid red hair and freckles everywhere. So really, she was a step up from Potter’s typical flirtations.

It was good he was enjoying himself, even if Draco wasn’t. Besides, at least one of them should get laid tonight, and that clearly wasn’t going to be him. Though the likelihood of it being Granger was even higher than Potter’s. 

His eyes (unwillingly) drifted back to her. She was still out there dancing, with a new bloke this time. If things kept progressing this way, he was bound to be the only one not getting shagged stupid before the night was out. 

Draco sighed, the sound lost in the din. He leaned back against the booth, closing his eyes for a moment and letting the thrum of the music wash over him. The clink of glasses and the murmur of voices faded into the background. When he reopened his eyes they were once again drawn to Granger’s vibrant presence. 

He really shouldn’t have insulted her outfit. He hadn’t actually said anything about it, but he knew his words would be taken that way. Which was likely why she went home to change. Now, as if getting the image of her perfectly tanned body out of his mind wasn’t already hard enough, she was wearing a small black number that should be illegal, and was likely why she had a gaggle of males all over her.

That and the way she moved her body on the dance floor was rather hypnotic, if not a tad sexual… or, very sexual. Not that he was enticed by her in the least, which would be absurd and impossible. 

It was only Granger…. 

It wasn’t like he wanted to approach her, because he didn’t. There just wasn’t anyone else to look at, or talk to... or... 

Fuck, he wished he could go dance. Not with her, of course... but maybe... a little with her? The thought flickered through his mind, unbidden, a dangerous temptation. He found himself contemplating getting up to find a partner, but he didn’t know this dance, or any of these dances. He had been watching for about an hour, and none of it made any sense. The rhythmic gyrations, the fluid movements, the seamless transitions from one song to the next – it was all a chaotic blur to him.

Granger would probably teach him, if he asked. She’d tease him and piss him off first, but she wouldn’t turn him away. He knew that much. Even if she did have a way of getting under his skin and challenging him in ways he wasn’t used to. But maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be challenged, to step out of his comfort zone and into the throbbing heart of the dance floor.

He shifted in his seat, his decision almost made, when a waitress appeared at his side. "Would you like another drink, handsome?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the sounds. It was an odd way to talk to a patron, but who was he to judge Muggles and their odd customs. 

Maybe this was normal for them? After all, the lovely barista he got his coffee from on work mornings did always call him hun. She wrote his name down as Drake instead of Draco despite spelling it for her multiple times and she always called him hun. It was possible she just had memory issues, but if not, again, who was he to judge? 

Draco gave a quick reply, barely glancing at the waitress (because he really was struggling to take his eyes off of Granger). "Yes, please. Another Pixie Sprite if you please." He believes that was the name of the shots Granger had got them all. 

It was a ridiculous name…. A ridiculous place…. An absurdly ridiculous predicament. 

It was a good drink though, and that was worth something. 

The waitress walked away with a little humph, he probably should have at least looked at her, but his eyes never left Granger. She was looking at him now, her gaze was a mixture of curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite place. The moment stretched, an invisible thread pulling taut between them, connecting them across the crowded room. 

He was going to get up and go to her, self preservation be damned. She promised to be his winged-woman (he still wasn’t sure what that meant) and he was going to hold her to it. And if that meant he needed to join her out there, then he would…. 

Draco was just about to rise from his seat when she turned to the gent she was dancing with. He looked disappointed about something and Draco vaguely wondered what she was saying to him. Not that he had to wait long for the answer. Not even five seconds later (he had not counted) she was making her way back to the booth. 

Their booth. 

The booth where he currently sat… 

He would turn away, pretend he wasn’t looking, if her smile wasn’t so damn radiant. It did something to him he couldn't quite explain. It was as if her very presence brought warmth to the cool, shadowed corner of the pub where he sat. 

He also realized that he had clearly indulged far too much in the drink. Deciding he would not drink the pixie whatever it was he just ordered. He was clearly far too intoxicated if he was thinking Hermione Granger’s smile was radiant. 

Or that she was sexy, which was not at all what he thought when she slid into the booth across from him, that damn smile still tugging at her lips. Draco's heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. 

He most definitely had too much to drink… 

She was so close now, close enough that he could see the fine dusting of freckles across her nose. Has she always had those? And her eyes, which he had always considered a plain brown, now seemed to shimmer with flecks of gold, catching the dim light in a way that made them look almost magical.

Draco found himself completely lost in analyzing her. Her hair, a wild cascade of curls that framed her face perfectly, a riot of chestnut and caramel hues that seemed to dance with every slight movement. Her lips, curved in that infuriatingly knowing smile, were a soft shade of pink, inviting yet dangerous. He could see the faintest trace of gloss catching the light, adding a subtle sheen that made them even more tempting.

He tried to blink it away. Tried to remind himself that he was drunk.

It didn’t work. 

Not when he could see how her skin held that soft, warm glow from the sun, one that he knew extended everywhere, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like under his fingertips. 

He tried to shake that thought away, trying to focus on something else, anything else. But it seemed impossible. 

He really, really, REALLY had too much to drink. 

If he wasn’t already going out of his mind, Granger decided to lean forward propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her fist. Her eyes never left his, though he struggled maintaining his own eye contact and not glancing down at her bosom which, drunk or not, looked… decent. 

He had never thought of himself as a tit man, having a personal preference for a nice arse instead, but hers seemed to be just the right amount of perky and… nope, he was not going to think such things. He was not. 

Draco swallowed hard, feeling a rush of heat rise to his cheeks. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words caught in his throat. She tilted her head to the side, her eyes sparkling, and in that moment, he felt as if she could see right through him, past all his defenses and bravado, straight into the heart of his insecurity. She likely even knew he had been ogling her, he wasn’t exactly subtle about it, and was clearly only there to take the mickey out of him for such things. He would never hear the end of it. 

She was already borderline unbearable, this was surely going to throw her over the edge. 

"I thought you were wanting to get lucky tonight?" she said, her voice a soft, teasing lilt that sent a shiver down his spine.

Draco blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. Surely she wasn’t suggesting what he thought she was… 

Was she? 

He could feel his pulse quicken, a mix of nervousness and excitement thrumming through his veins. He knew he should say something clever, something to deflect what she said or accept it… or… anything. But all he could do was stare, captivated by the unexpected depth of feeling that her presence seemed to stir within him. 

“That was your goal, wasn’t it?” She asked when he still hadn’t answered her. 

He wasn’t sure what game she was playing at exactly and he only had a few options at play. He could lie, which wouldn’t work, or he could tell the truth. Because of course he had wanted a good shag, that had been the whole point. So he answered her with a long, drawn-out, “Yessss” and hoped for the best. 

“Yet I’ve watched you turn away every girl who’s come up to you.” 

He blinked. He most certainly had not. He would likely remember if any women (they were at a pub, these were women, not girls) had come up to him. “Are you barking?” 

She blinked, her fucking smile growing even larger, and she sunk her teeth into the bottom lip (likely to stop it from consuming her entire face, which clearly did not work because she was smiling larger than a fucking clown). “Then what exactly do you call what just happened?” 

“What on earth are you talking about?” 

“The girl, who came to the booth. I watched her say something to you, and you didn’t even look at her.” 

Draco scoffed, looked away from her fucking lips and her dazzling fucking eyes, and glanced towards the bar instead. Wondering where the bloody hell his drink was. And for that matter, where in Merlin’s tits was Harry Potter. 

The pretty (ish) little number he was chatting up earlier was still there, but Potter had apparently done a vanishing act. Draco swore, if he brought his fucking invisibility cloak to the fucking pub, he was going to kill him. 

“Malfoy?” 

His eyes snapped back to Grangers. “What?” 

She signed. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” 

“I would if I had any idea what you were talking about.” He looked away again, he really should have paid attention to what the waitress looked like. He could use another drink… even if he was drunk. 

“The woman–” yes, he emphasized the word because it was important she understood the difference, “- was a waitress, Granger. She only asked for my drink order.” 

This apparently was a hilarious bit of information. So funny in fact, Granger almost fell out of the booth and had to wipe away some tears. 

“Oh yes, har- freaking- har, Granger. I’m a real comedian.” He rolled his eyes, desperately trying not to watch her as she laughed. Especially since she was laughing at him. 

“Malfoy, she didn’t work here.” 

And there went his resolve. His gaze snapped back to hers so quickly he gave himself a slight kink in his neck. “What do you mean she doesn’t work here? She asked me for my drink order.” 

This, apparently, was even funnier than the first thing he had said. 

Perhaps she was the one drunk. 

Hermione Granger, the light weight… 

When she finally stopped laughing at him, she asked an even more preposterous question. “Malfoy, how exactly did she ask you for your drink order?” 

“I don’t know.” he shook his head, not sure why it mattered. “She just asked if I would like another drink.” 

“Was that it?” 

“She might have called me handsome?” 

She erupted in another fit of giggles, honestly, he was starting to take offense now. And to think, a moment ago he was contemplating just how sexy he thought her to be. “You are a numpty.” 

Now he really was offended. So much so he was about to leave. He would have done so, if Granger hadn’t reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket forcing him to stand awkwardly next to the booth. He flat out refused to turn and look at her again. Not because he was being dramatic  (thank you very much), or because he knew that turning around to look at her from this angle would give him a clear view of her cleavage (which it would), but because he didn’t want to. 

She had laughed at him, and he didn’t particularly care for being laughed at. He had met his limit for how many times it could happen in one night, which meant it was time for him to take his leave. If only he knew where Potter was… 

“Malfoy wait, I’m sorry.”

No she wasn’t. She didn’t even sound sorry. 

“Please sit back down.” 

He did not. He would not. 

“Please.” 

Nope, he wouldn’t…. 

….

….

….

He fucking did. 

But he did it with a humph! Which somehow made him feel better. 

“I’m sorry I laughed, it’s just—” she was biting back another laugh, he could tell, even if he was refusing to look at her “- well, she really didn’t work here.” 

“We’ve been over this. Yes. She. Did. Granger.” His eyes kept sweeping across the place, looking for his annoyingly invisible flatmate. Perhaps Theo knew where he was, he had seen them talking together earlier, and when Potter was flirting with the girl at the bar, Theo was there then too. 

Only… Theo wasn’t at the bar anymore. He was likely in the back, or had gone home for the day? The lazy git. 

“Draco,” the sound of his name from her lips made him snap his attention back to her. Sneaky fucking witch. He couldn’t recall a time she had ever said his first name unless it was immediately followed by his last which in turn was rounded out by a quick witted insult. Neither of which happened here. 

She just said his name, as though she had always been saying it, and continued on with her fucking sentence as if the world hadn’t just frozen. He wasn’t even sure what she bloody said, he was so fucking thrown off by the fact she said his first name. 

Thankfully, or rather unthankfully, she seemed to pick up on this and repeated herself. “Draco, if you had actually looked at her, you would have realized she didn’t work here.” 

“Then why did she ask if I wanted a drink?” 

“Because she thought you handsome, and likely posh.” 

He tried not to fixate on the fact Granger had called him handsome, because surely she didn’t mean that she thought he was handsome. So instead he focused on the latter part of her preposterous sentence. “Posh? What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Well,” she said it slowly, like her words might further offend him (in all fairness, they probably would) “typically when a woman like that asks a posh fellow if they would like another drink, they accept and offer to pay for both his, and her drinks in hopes that she may grace him with her presence.” 

Draco scoffed. That sounded absurd. Of course he would have paid for the drinks. Why not just ask him if he would buy her one? That seemed much easier to understand. 

Muggles were fucking weird. 

“When you didn’t even glance at her, she figured you were uninterested and walked away to the next person she thought would buy her a drink.” She continued. 

It still didn’t make any sense. 

“Is this something you do?” 

It was her turn to scoff as she folded her arms across her chest, which she really shouldn’t have done. It was hard enough not looking at them, but now they were pushed up even higher. 

She was doing it on purpose, she had to be. 

Clearly testing his gentlemanly restraints, which were pulled rather taut if he was being honest with himself. 

“Of course not. I don’t like such archaic gender-forms, nor do I like mind games and tricks. If I wanted someone to buy me a drink, I would ask them to, which I don’t, because I’m a capable witch who makes decent money and I don’t need or want a man to ‘take care of me’ thank you.” She said matter-of-fact-like, and she had never said anything that had ever made more sense to him. Though he might later question why she felt so strongly about having someone offer to pay for a drink.  

“Then perhaps I, what’s the term? Dodged a gun? With her then.” 

“A bullet.” She said quietly, uncrossing her arms. 

“Pardon?” 

“The phrase you’re looking for. It’s ‘dodged a bullet’.” 

“How ridiculous, how can one dodge a bullet? Don’t they go super fast? That’s like saying you dodged a Bombarda. It’s practically impossible.” 

She blinked, a smile tugging at her fucking glossy lips once again. “And why exactly would one need to dodge a gun? Is the shooter tossing it at you?” 

Draco shrugged, “I don’t understand why I would need to dodge either.” 

“I don’t know, someone could take offense to your perfectly groomed hair, or your snotty superiority.” 

It was not snotty if he was, in fact, superior. No, not because of his blood, just because he was. And so was she, for many reasons, her brilliant brain being amongst them. “And here I thought you were going to be nice to me, you know, like a wing-woman should be.” He took a guess, assuming that, whatever the fuck it was, was meant to actually help the person they were wing-woman-ing. 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to be.” 

“I never said that.” 

“Didn’t you?” 

“No. No I did not.” Potter had interrupted them before he could. He knew this, she likely knew this as well, but winning on a technicality was still winning. 

Wasn’t it? 

“Okay then, I’ll be your wing-woman.” He still had no clue what that was. He should probably ask her. 

Except… he didn’t. 

He did, however, tell her about what he found attractive in a sexual partner, because she asked. He also… lied. 

Flat out. 

One hundred and ten percent. 

Possibly two hundred and ten percent, if such a thing was possible. 

Because when she asked if he had a preference in hair color, he wanted to say chestnut brown but instead he said blonde. In fact, he specifically made sure he gave every detail that did not pertain to her in any interpretation whatsoever. Because he did find her attractive, highly, but he would not admit to it. He also knew she was clever, far too clever for her own good, and mentioning he liked chestnut brown, curly hair seemed like a recipe for disaster. Besides, the whole point of the night was to get her (and her perfectly, and completely tanned body) off of his mind. Something he had been spectacularly failing at all night. 

So no, no he needed someone completely opposite from her so he could fantasize about them instead. 

A perfect plan. 

One that was working… almost… not really. 

She found her target, made sure he agreed that she found the blonde Muggle attractive and not completely intoxicated, and then she dragged him to the dance floor completely ignoring his protests. 

He hissed at her, tried to get her to understand that he didn’t know how to dance to this type of music, that he was classically trained only, but she wouldn’t hear it. “Just close your eyes.” She had instructed, and laughed when he rolled them instead. 

“Trust me.” 

Not likely. 

“Close your eyes, Draco.” 

Fucking witch knew exactly what she was doing…. 

He closed his fucking eyes and followed her instructions. He felt the music jumping around them, felt the pulse and the sway that came once his eyes were closed. Then he felt her. Her hands on his shoulders, her body pressed against his. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to open his eyes, but didn’t dare try. Instead he placed his hands on her hips and felt them sway with his. 

He focused on the rise and fall of her chest pressed against his as they danced and how her whole body pressed against his. 

“Look at you,” he opened his eyes, looking down at her, “you’re a natural.” she beamed, she fucking beamed! And oh, how he wanted to dip his head and kiss her. Consequences be damned. 

“Granger, I–” his words were cut off when suddenly she stumbled into someone next to them. He had been watching her most of the night (it was all night) and never once had she stumbled, let alone into someone. It had been so sudden and unexpected that he hadn’t even had time to reach out and steady her. His seeker reflexes were clearly a bit dusty. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Granger said in a singsong voice to the blonde chit she bumped into. Only then did he realize it was the same blonde she had picked out for him. “My friend here wants to learn how to dance but rubbish at it myself.” 

Lies. It was all lies. But he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he could say. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what was happening. 

“Oh!” The blonde turned to look at him, taking him in from head to toe and back again. Her eyes were dark and she had a brilliant smile plastered on her face, one that paled in comparison to Grangers but was still lovely nonetheless. “That’s alright.” She had a strange accent, foreign perhaps, not that Draco minded. 

“You seem to have the hang of it though, would you mind? My feet are killing me and he is so determined to learn.” 

More lies, but he understood her game now. If the blonde had any inkling that trickery was afoot, she didn’t call them on it. Nor was she inclined to turn Granger down, and before he really understood what or how some random Muggle had trusted a stranger so easily, he was dancing and swaying to the music with her instead of Granger. 

She was a bit taller than Granger, her hair longer. She smelled of something sickly sweet, almost overwhelming. She had nice tits, not as nice as Grangers though. In fact, he was sure there was too much of them. They wouldn’t fit in his hand, and he had rather large hands. Not that he was opposed to them being large, he just wasn’t much of a tit person to begin with. 

Her arse, on the other hand, was perfect. Or close to it. There was plenty of it to grab, which he did when she gave him permission, and there was enough of it to jiggle should he get to the point of wanting to spank it. But most importantly, she was very into him. She had said so multiple times before the song changed. 

She had even asked if he wanted to go back to hers, which he did, want to that is. It was his plan after all, his perfectly executed plan. Even if it had taken him longer to get there than he had originally expected. 

There was only one problem, one very large and unavoidable problem that he would later hate himself for…. She was not Granger, and as such, he did not, in fact, go home with her. It was also not her face he imagined when he took care of his personal business once he was alone in his bed. 

Chapter Text

Hermione was going to kill him! 

Okay, so maybe that was a tad dramatic… but she was going to seriously injure or maim him. She wouldn’t even feel guilty for it. Honestly, she wouldn’t. 

It had been five weeks— five miserable, futile weeks—of parading around various muggle pubs and wizarding haunts alike, every Friday and Saturday night (at the behest of Draco Malfoy of course) dutifully performing her duties as Draco’s wing-woman. The problem was, however, that she was Draco Malfoys bloody fucking wing-woman! As such, she found it exceedingly very difficult trying to find someone that could stroke his ego, wasn’t turned off by ‘Mr Wonderful Personality’ and didn’t mind a little domineering. 

She had found several women who were (in her humble opinion) perfect for him. They all fit the description he had given her, a nearly impossible task on its own considering how often he changed it, and they all had the desirable characteristic attributes that would be needed in order to put up with his insufferable self. After all, his ridiculously handsome looks would only get him so far. Though, if he would just shut up and focus on fucking these almost perfect women then she wouldn’t have to personally vet every single girl to make sure they could handle his pompous arse. 

Despite her very thorough vetting process, how all of them had met all the qualifications on the extensive checklist he had given her, every single time he managed to find something wrong with the person she’d carefully selected. It was baffling, frustrating, and if she was honest a bit insulting. She had never once failed in her duties as a wing-woman, and she didn’t intend to start now. But Malfoy, it seemed, was doing his best to make her fail spectacularly.

She took a long steadying breath as she watched Malfoy from across the pub. He was lounging in a booth, looking aloof as ever, gazing down at the woman next to him with his usual detached, yet still somehow superior, demeanor. The woman to his right, whom he was clearly bored with, had checked all of his boxes. ALL OF THEM! 

Watching their interaction over the past several minutes, however, she could tell he was going to be adding to his ever growing list of things he didn’t like in a woman. She wondered what it would be this time. Perhaps her eyes were too blue, or maybe she smiled too much? Was too flirty or too eager. It would be a bullshit reason, she was sure of it, and they would end up here again tomorrow evening on the prowl once again.   

Rachel was the name of tonight's candidate. She had said it with a purr when Hermione first introduced herself. She was promptly told not to say her name that way again if she wanted the incredibly rich, devastatingly handsome, but extremely picky, man to go home with her. Upon seeing Malfoy, she instantly agreed and even sobered up a bit. 

Rachel had straight, blonde hair that was not too long, or too short per the request of the incredibly picky man. She had a perfectly straight nose—because of course the pretentious bastard had added that little gem to his check list last week after someone named Susan apparently didn’t have a completely symmetrical one! She did not indulge in too much make-up, had no beauty marks or freckles (which was an absolutely unrealistic and absurd thing to request by the way) and she was not taller than him while in heels, which she was wearing. Yet she wouldn’t be short enough that he would have to bend at the knees to kiss her. Should he want to while they were both standing that is. 

Hermione didn’t really understand that requirement, after all, she herself was rather short and had never had anyone complain about it. She was easier to lift, adapt at ‘climbing trees’ when the need called for it, and extremely easy to fuck up against a wall. But hey, to each their own she supposed. 

The most important thing about Rachel however (and Hermione could not express how important this particular attribute was) was the fact she laughed when asked if she would be okay with a dominant lover. It was not a high pitched laugh either, or a gravely smoker one (both of which had been added to his ‘never, not ever’ list) And then she, Rachel that is, said ‘Darling, I’d gladly suck him off in the bathroom if he wants to boss me around a bit first.’

It was a match made in heaven! 

It would have been love at first suck, had Malfoy not opened up his incredibly annoying, fucking mouth, first! 

Honestly, all he had to say was get on your knees and she would have done it. How hard is that? Why, why , did he have to talk with her first? 

Ugh! He was so annoying! 

Hermione closed her eyes briefly, letting a sigh leave her lips as she rudely dismissed the guy who had been trying to get her attention for the past several minutes. She couldn’t even recall his name, her focus had been so set on Malfoy that she had missed it, or didn’t care enough to recall it. It was no matter, she wouldn’t be going home with him tonight. She wouldn’t be going home with anyone tonight. Again. 

Not now that Malfoy was storming over to her looking rather grumpy, and extremely soaked. 

“What was it this time?” Hermione asked, handing him a napkin to mop up the electric blue, syrupy liquid dripping down his face. She might’ve transfigured it into a proper washcloth if she wasn’t so thoroughly annoyed with him. But at this point, he didn’t deserve such a courtesy. He was lucky she even offered him the serviettes.

Malfoy shot her a look, vexing in its nature, as he dabbed at his face. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing, Granger,” he growled. She didn’t believe it, not for a second.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes or sneer as she watched him clean himself up, she opted for a few calming breaths instead. She wanted to say something but she was too angry just yet. If she did, it would surely be rude. Though it was not uncalled for, she would still feel bad afterwards. So she stayed quiet, and because he wasn’t a complete troll, he noticed this. 

With a dramatic sigh that was very reminiscent of his youth, he threw the napkin down in irritation as he slid into the booth opposite her, his wet shirt clinging uncomfortably to his body. “She was brills, that one. Real perfect, you know, up until she went and tossed her bloody drink on me.” He said it with a smirk, like he hoped his words would temper her. 

They did not. 

“And what on earth did you say to her, to make her do that, Malfoy?” Her voice was deceptively patient. She wasn’t one to blame the victim, which is why she felt a surge of sympathy for Rachel, whom she suspected was, in fact, the true victim of tonight’s events. “Surely she didn’t do it without a reason.”

He ignored her, his attention focused on his soaking shirt as he flapped the material away from his chest in an attempt to dry it. Little blue droplets spraying the table before them. The dye from the drink had left blue stains all down his collar, and she wondered how long he’d sulk over the ruination of that particular shirt before getting a new one. 

“Do you think anyone will notice if I spell this dry?” he asked, his eyes flicking up, looking almost innocent and hopeful. 

She shot him a glare. “Malfoy.”

“Alright, alright. Calm down witch, I won’t do it.” He grumbled, slouching back against the booth with his usual indolent grace, a slightly stained eyebrow raised as he finally turned his gaze to meet her icy stare. 

She was glaring, hard. So intensely in fact that he winced a bit upon seeing it. 

“I am waiting for an explanation, Malfoy. ” She bit out the name sharply, making him wince again. She had started calling him Draco when this whole thing had first started, but when he pissed her off (which was often mind you) he was Malfoy again. She had spent the last two weeks completely regressing, having called him ‘Malfoy’ almost exclusively since he hadn’t managed to do anything to earn the more civil option. 

After a pause, Malfoy straightened, doing his best to look dignified despite the streak of blue stain down his cheek, his all but destroyed shirt, and overall general air of disheveledness. “Well, if you could add ‘not batshit crazy’ to that list of yours, Granger, that would be quite helpful.” He said, as though it was her fault an icy blue drink had been tossed in his face. 

She narrowed her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together. “ You’re the one who drove her to throw a drink in your face, and you think it’s my fault?”

“Hardly.” He scoffed, looking rather affronted. “And I’d like you to not put words in my mouth, if you please, Granger.” 

It was her turn to scoff now, which he ignored. “I was only implying that it would be helpful to know that the next one won’t be prone to dramatics.”

“You’re impossible, you do realize that don’t you?” she said, crossing her arms and giving him a withering look.

“I most certainly am not,” he replied, raising an eyebrow in perfect condescension. “I’m just discerning.”

“Oh, discerning is it?” she retorted, feeling her patience unraveling by the second. “I’m sorry, but there’s a point where ‘discerning’ turns into ‘insufferably picky,’ and you crossed that line weeks ago.”

“Is that so?” he replied coolly, with a smirk that made her fingers itch for her wand. “It’s hardly my fault you’re getting a kick out of setting me up with unhinged women.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a sharp whisper. “ She was exactly what you asked for,” she ground out between clenched teeth, feeling her cheeks flush with frustration.

Malfoy raised a brow, his eyes gleaming in that maddeningly smug way that made her want to hex him on the spot. “Was she, though?”

“Yes!” she snapped, unable to keep her voice in check. “She met all of your requirements.” She started to tick them off on her fingers. “Stunning, intelligent, sharp, no overtly noticeable quirks or flaws, even willing to let you take the lead . And yet, here we are. Again . You’re far too picky, Malfoy, and it’s driving me mad.”

He gave a languid shrug, as though her mounting frustration was little more than an amusing footnote to his evening. Then, after a tick or two, he said “Well, now we know I don’t want crazy. Process of elimination Granger, surely you understand that concept.” 

She took a deep, fortifying breath and closed her eyes. If she was honest, she was starting to wonder if Malfoy ’s newfound pickiness had less to do with the women in the pub, and more to do with avoiding something he wasn’t ready to confront just yet. She just wished she could figure out what it was, that he would bloody tell her already, or at the very least give her a clue. 

Finally, she opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with a resigned sigh. “Malfoy,” she said carefully, her voice softer but no less frustrated, “do you even want this?”

He tilted his head slightly, looking genuinely confused. “If I didn’t, do you think I’d be here every weekend with you?”

“Answer the question please.” 

Malfoy leaned back, crossing his arms over his still-damp shirt, and met her gaze with mild irritation. “Of course I do. What on Merlin’s name do you think we’ve been doing? Scouring the city for deranged women to hurl freezing drinks at me? You think this is fun for me?”

“I don’t know, Malfoy,” she said, arching a brow in challenge, “You tell me. Because every time I find someone who matches what you said you wanted, you change your mind. Or suddenly find them ‘imperfect’ in some petty ways, mind you.” It had, she would like to note, not escaped her notice that sometimes his sudden mind change happened just as someone at the pub had slid up to her and started flirting.

In fact, the one time he had actually taken someone home, it had been on a night where no one had shown even the slightest interest in her. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, because it would be silly to think that had anything to do with it, but she couldn’t help but wonder… 

Of course, Ava (the one he actually took home) hadn’t made it more than three steps inside the door before Atlas started growling at her and scared her away. Which added more things to his checklist. Women who liked dogs, were not in the least bit afraid of them, and didn’t scream ‘oh my god what is that thing’ when first encountering Atlas. Which led to some very interesting questions during her vetting process. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes again. Her gaze bore into him, sharp and unyielding, and to her mild surprise it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat under the scrutiny of it. But then his face morphed back into that infuriatingly calm look, a dismissive shrug accompanying it. 

“A coincidence, I assure you.” he said, though the words came out strained. “Purely conjecture.” he said a bit more sturdier. 

“Oh, really?” She raised an eyebrow, studying him intently. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot more like sabotage.”

“Sabotage?” he echoed, shocked, though she could see a flicker of something else in his eyes. She just wasn’t sure what that something was. 

“Yes. This whole thing feels deliberate. So I’m asking you out-right now. Malfoy, do you actually want to meet someone or is this all some stupid game to you?” 

For a split second, he seemed to falter, his gaze dipping down to the table, and then, almost imperceptibly, flicking back up to her. Was he… embarrassed?

“I just have high standards,” he finally muttered with an air of nonchalance and superiority that irked her so. “It’s not my fault if they’re difficult to meet. You wouldn’t understand, and I won’t be apologizing for them no matter what you say.”

“Oh, please, ” she scoffed, a laugh escaping her. She wasn’t sure whether she sounded more amused or exasperated, and she didn’t care, she was too busy trying to ignore the uncomfortable flutter and disappointment she felt at his words while also trying to gain the upper hand. 

“You’ve rejected perfectly lovely people over ridiculous things. Do you remember that girl at the club two weeks ago? You said her laugh was ‘offensive to your sensibilities.’ She was practically perfect and very pretty!”

“She sounded like a grindylow choking on pudding,” he replied, as if that settled the matter. “It was unbearable. ”

Hermione shot him a pointed look. “Oh, and you know exactly what that sounds like, do you?”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly unamused. “You’re just annoyed because you liked her and I didn’t.” 

She clenched her jaw, tamping down the urge to throw her own drink in his face. “What about the girl at the lounge last week?” she demanded. “You turned her down because you thought her perfume was ‘sickeningly floral.’ What on earth does that even mean?”

Malfoy gave a slight shiver, as though the memory of it alone was enough to repel him. “It means she was like a walking flower shop in the worst way possible. I’ve been in greenhouses just after being fertilized that had more tolerable smells.”

She put her head in her hands, rubbing at her temples, a head beginning to form. “You know, if you don’t actually want this, you could have just said so instead of dragging me around, pointlessly might I add, for weeks . Not to mention—” She cut herself off, catching herself before saying something she’d regret, because Draco Malfoy did not need to know how sexually frustrated she had been during all of this. 

She still wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. And partially because she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how long it had been since she had any dalliances between the sheets with anything other than her own personal toys. 

Malfoy regarded her in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “What makes you think I don’t want this?” he finally asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Because,” she replied, frustration bleeding through her voice, “you’re impossible to please. I can’t figure out if you’re doing it on purpose just to drive me mad, or if you genuinely have no idea what you’re looking for.” or if he was torturing her for some sick, perverse reason. He wasn’t getting any, so she couldn’t get any? Tit-for-tat sort of thing? She didn’t know, but she had a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly what he was doing to her love life— or her current lack thereof. 

His expression shifted a little, the faintest flicker of remorse crossing his face before he looked away. “Maybe I don’t,” he muttered finally, his voice so low she almost didn’t catch it.

The admission took her aback, and for a moment, she was struck speechless. “Okay,” she said slowly, softening. “Then… tell me what you do know.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if weighing his words, but his gaze held hers with a strange intensity. Something seemed to flicker in his eyes, something she couldn’t quite place, a mixture of irritation, vulnerability, and maybe even… fear? 

She wished to Merlin that she knew how to read him, or that he would say something. Anything. Or even that she could look away from him instead of being captivated by the stormy sea raging being his pewter gray eyes. Then the moment snapped like a rubber band, and Malfoy’s gaze drifted away. 

His answer, whatever it might have been, never came. Not in the form of words at least, and not in a form she understood. In lieu of a proper response, he stood up, suddenly, gave her a very sharp nod, and then he just… left. Without a word or an explanation. Without anything other than a stupid nod. He was just gone, and she was left sitting there, gaping, and trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Hermione woke up bright and early and made her way to Number 12 Grimmauld Place with one goal in mind. To get answers. She had questions, plenty of them, and she had no intention of leaving until they were all answered and she had a better understanding of what Malfoy actually wanted, because she really did want to help him. 

Sure, Malfoy’s personality was the equivalent of a rusted nail, and he could be the single most frustrating person she’d ever had the misfortune of meeting, but she was not wholly incapable of seeing the pain and hurt behind his eyes. He had been wronged, his heart broken, his life turned around in a blink of an eye. She knew that sort of pain, knew that it was difficult to get over alone. Malfoy didn’t seem to have a whole lot of people in his corner to help him either, though she wasn’t sure if that was in part because of his riveting personality or for other reasons altogether. 

It did not matter. She was in his corner now and she couldn’t let him rot in his misery, at least not alone. Even if that meant she had to spend a few miserable evenings every week with him, she was prepared to do so. She would have done for Harry as well, but Harry was doing better. Much better, actually, thanks to a certain pub owner. 

He’d moved past the pain, or was actively trying to anyway. But Malfoy still seemed… stuck. Hermione had thought this entire rebound project would lift him out of his rut, but the only thing that seemed to make him spark to life was arguing with her. And while she usually relished a good verbal sparring partner, it was exhausting—infuriating, even. She’d give him a proper ‘how to feel better about being dumped’ strategy if he’d just let her.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself as she waited for Malfoy to join her. Willing, and able, to wait all day if need be. Atlas at least didn’t mind her presence as he lay his head on her lap, it was almost comical how his thick head covered her lap entirely. He would be a great lap dog, he was just too lovable not to want to cuddle and snuggle. It was his size that prevented such a thing. 

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she cooed, his tail thumping against the wooden floor so loudly and forcefully that it practically shook the table. This, she assumed, was what finally woke Malfoy.

“Morning, Granger ,” Malfoy’s drawl sounded from the kitchen doorway not five minutes later. He was clipped, grumpy, and likely assumed it was her fault he was now awake. 

Despite his signature scowl firmly in place and his morning disheveledness, he was still breathtakingly handsome. Not that his appearance was ‘disheveled’ in the normal sense of the word. He was more casually rumpled than anything else. 

The blue stains that streaked his face from last night’s unfortunate drink incident were gone, along with the temporarily dyed eyebrow, which was a pity, really—she’d liked the look. Or more accurately, she would have liked to laugh at the look. He was always so well put together that seeing him anything other than perfect had been a welcomed relief. 

Today he wore a cashmere sweater, dark gray, that looked divinely soft, and his typical black trousers, which of course were finely pressed and fitted. The only things remotely out of place was his hair which was slightly tousled from sleep, or perhaps constantly running his fingers through it, and his socks. He hadn’t put on his shoes before leaving his room. It was odd to see him padding around in socks, of all things— having never seen him in anything but his dragonhide boots and ridiculously expensive loafers. 

They were black socks with small, golden snitches that flitted across the fabric. Harry’s socks, she realized, suppressing a laugh. She’d enchanted them herself, so there was no mistaking them. She would have commented on it, maybe made some snarky but friendly quip, or teased him again about ‘seeing’ Harry in the romantic sense of the word, had he deemed her worthy enough to spare a glance. Which he had not. He had, however, spotted Atlas.

“Atlas, you absolute traitor,” Draco grumbled as he poured his coffee, adding two sugars and just a touch of cream.

Hermione gave Atlas a scratch behind his ear, leaning down to fake-whisper, “Don’t listen to him. You’re a very good boy. Nothing traitorous about you at all.” Atlas’s tail resumed its thumping with vigor, and Malfoy’s frown deepened though he still refused to meet her gaze. 

“Oh, don’t act so wounded, Malfoy,” she said with a faint smirk. “If I were here every day, he’d probably find me much less fascinating.” Which was only partially true. He found her so interesting because she fed him table scraps, but Malfoy wasn’t clued into that little aspect of their dynamics yet. 

He gave a sour look, his mouth twisting into something that bordered on pouty and should not have looked as good as it did on him. “You are here all the time.” 

“Oh, posh, I am not,” she replied breezily, giving Atlas another long scratch. “I do have a job, you know. Monday through Friday, just like you. It’s quite literally impossible to be here all the time.”

He scoffed, but he didn’t argue the point as he took his usual seat at the table. There, she’d left a proper English breakfast waiting for him under a stasis charm, complete with both bacon and sausage links, toast, a poached egg, and a grilled tomato—the closest thing she could offer as a peace offering after last night’s fiasco.

Hermione waited for some sign of appreciation, any flicker of acknowledgment that he’d noticed she’d gone to the trouble of making him breakfast, and that she hadn’t included the beans she knew he hated but had included the fried tomato which she knew he loved. But Malfoy simply picked up his fork, shoveled some egg onto his toast, and barely looked her way while he ate it. The great ponce. She really shouldn’t have expected anything different, but for some reason she had. 

“Malfoy, we need to talk.” she said sharply, crossing her arms. Atlas, who still had his head on her lap, gave a small whine at her sudden lack of attention and she had to fight the urge to look down at the big darling. 

Draco shot her a suspicious glance, eyes narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, looking like he was preparing for battle. Which was probably a fair assumption considering how angry she had been at him last night, but that was then. She really had no intention of fighting him today, not yet at least. 

“What about?” he asked cautiously, taking a sip of his coffee. 

“About what you want from all this, because frankly, I have no idea and I have a suspicion that you don’t either.”

She thought she caught a glimpse of something unguarded in his expression, something almost vulnerable. But then Atlas, sensing the apparent tension, and still upset over not getting his just attention he gave a loud bark that jolted them both. Malfoy’s gaze flicked down, and he scowled when he saw the massive dog’s head sprawled across her lap.

“You’re not feeding my dog at the table, are you?” 

“What?” She infused the single word with just the right mixture of shock and indignation. “Of course not.” It sounded believable. Besides, it wasn’t as though she was currently feeding him so technically speaking, she wasn’t lying. He narrowed his eyes, clearly not convinced but seemingly too tired to press the point further. 

“You do realize that changing the subject doesn’t work on me, don’t you? Your mind might work that way, but mine most certainly does not.” She picked up her tea, eyeing him over the rim of it as she waited for his retort which she was sure was coming. She was not disappointed either, though he didn’t have to be quite as cruel in his words as he was. 

“I’ve told you what I’m looking for, Granger.” He said, mimicking her power play by maintaining eye contact as he took a swig of his coffee. “Several times, in fact. Clearly, you’re not very good at finding it.”

Hermione bit back her own sharp retort, keeping herself in check. This wasn’t about her, or her feelings, this was about figuring out his, “I didn’t ask what you are looking for, I asked what you want from all of this.” 

“It’s the same thing.” 

“No, actually it isn’t. You told me what you want in a woman, yes, and forgive me for saying this but your ‘criteria’ for such a match seems to shift every time I introduce you to someone who perfectly fits your—” 

“ Perfect? ” he cut her off, his grip tightening on his coffee cup, his jaw visibly clenching. “Have you lost the plot, Granger? Because if you think for a moment that any of those women have been perfect , then you clearly are either not listening to me or you’ve gone mental.” 

She pressed her lips tightly together, counting to three before speaking again “First of all, that was rude. I have listened to you, quite diligently so, which is no easy thing by in by, especially when you keep changing your mind like a darn Cornish Pixie high on Moonstone Dust. And before you say anything, because I know you want to, please keep in mind that I’m trying to help you! But I can’t do that if you keep rejecting these perfectly good—” 

“Perfectly unhinged you mean! Or are you forgetting what happened with this last one?”

Hermione blinked, holding back her instinctive reaction to roll her eyes. She’d half expected this outburst, but it was still ridiculous. “She seemed perfectly lovely until you decided to say… well, whatever it was you said to make her—”

“I said nothing that warranted a drink being tossed at me,” he replied stiffly, interrupting her once again.

“Nothing?” She scoffed in a sort of high pitched yell. 

Listen, she wasn’t perfect. Nor was she a saint. She couldn’t always ignore his prattish, condescending, ridiculousness now could she? She might have been a witch, but she was only human and as such she occasionally fell for emotional baiting techniques. She wasn’t proud of it, but there it was. 

“Nothing,” he repeated, his gaze drifting away as he adjusted the collar of his sweater as though it had become unbearably tight. His discomfort only deepened her suspicions, but she let it go. 

“Malfoy…” She honestly didn’t want to spark another argument if she could help it so she changed tactics and with his first name instead. 

“Draco,” She softened her tone, hoping to coax him out of his usual defensiveness. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression you wanted… well, a fling. Something simple, possibly fun, and—” she cleared her throat, keeping her voice even, “something… physical in nature.”

 It was almost adorable how red he turned at her words and she tried very hard not to marvel at it “Have I got it wrong? Because if so, please, please , tell me now.” 

He shifted in his seat, suddenly very interested in a sizable gash on the table, and cleared his throat “No, you haven’t gotten it wrong.” His eyes flicked up to hers, a blush creeping up his cheeks. It was oddly… endearing.

“Okay.” and it was, okay, that is, yet something about saying it out loud and hearing him admit it made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure why. 

“Okay?” He asked, almost cautiously and for a moment Hermione wondered if he noticed her discomfort or if he simply didn’t believe her when she said the word.

“Yes, that— that’s good to hear.” she said with a small nod, “Just making sure. I was beginning to wonder if maybe we weren’t on the same page, and that was the reason this wasn’t working. But if you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.” 

“Good.” She paused, taking another sip of her tea. “So, if we’re clear on that now, I have some questions for you to help clear things up further. If that’s alright with you.” 

After a moment, he gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Right, then,” she murmured, mentally sorting through the dozens of questions she had prepared. She decided to start simple, something he couldn’t possibly squirm out of. “First things first, are you more interested in a casual, one-time thing, or would you prefer something more… substantial?”

He laughed under his breath, rolling his eyes as if she’d just asked him something absurdly obvious. “I don’t have time to chase after a relationship, if that’s what you’re asking.” It wasn’t, but it was duly noted. It was also nearly 100% untrue. He was, after all, spending a decent amount of time with her every week, twice a week. Time that would surely end if he wanted to start dating again. And that was… okay. 

It was okay. 

“Something casual, then,” she said, clearing her throat and focusing on the task at hand, though she couldn’t shake the strange, aching feeling building in her. 

Her concentration wavered as she caught the faintest scoff from him. She raised a brow, giving him a pointed look. “Do you have something you would like to share, Draco?”

His lips curved up into a smirk “Only that there’s nothing casual about sex, Granger.”

“Wait, hold on, now I’m confused again.” she frowned while he muttered something snarky about her swotty little self actually not knowing something, which she chose to ignore. 

“I’m not sure which part of that confused you, Granger, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to spell it out for you if you don’t already know it.” 

She blinked. Then she blinked again. 

He had the audacity to sigh then, his voice laced with exasperation as though he were explaining something painfully obvious. “There’s nothing casual about sex, Granger. It’s unbelievably complicated, and you’re delusional to think otherwise.”

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Good lord, Draco,” she replied, a chuckle escaping her lips. “No wonder I can’t find you a good romp. You’re overcomplicating it. It’s only sex, not a bloody love confession. It doesn’t have to be confusing, or complicated. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be anything other than satisfying one's most basic and primal needs.” 

Draco looked both bemused and vaguely horrified by her nonchalance on the topic “Oh, please. You can’t actually sit there and tell me you enjoy meaningless dalliances, Granger. I won’t believe it.”

“If I’m satisfied, and he’s satisfied, then why does there need to be anything more ?” She paused, noting the delightful shade of pink creeping up his neck. He was flustered, and she was thoroughly enjoying it. Knowing she made him all emotionally rumpled and off-kilter. “No need to make it so complicated .”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed, his cheeks burning as he stumbled over his words. “I—well—I mean—it’s not—” Adorable. Absolutely adorable, he was, and the more he stuttered over his words the more she wanted to ruffle his feathers. The gorgeous, preening, peacock that he is. 

“It’s just sex, Draco,” she said, her tone teasing. “I’ve had it, Harry’s had it, I’m sure you’ve had it—”

“Of course I have,” he snapped, squaring his shoulders defensively.

Her smile widened. “Then why are you so… squeamish about it?” 

“I am not squeamish,” He was positively mortified by the accusation. It almost made her laugh. 

“If you say so.” She let her words hang in the air, watching him squirm more. “Is it the ‘casual’ part of it that’s getting to you?”

“As I said,” he replied, almost in a growl, “there’s nothing casual, or simple, about sex.”

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a soft, almost sultry tone. “But it can be, Draco.”

To her delight, he seemed to choke on his own breath, his eyes going wide as he sputtered. Hermione let out a delicate, breathy laugh, rising from her seat, removing Atlas from her lap as she did. She took slow, measured steps around the table, watching as Draco’s gaze tracked her movement. 

“It’s really quite easy,” she continued, her tone light and teasing as she made her way towards him. She placed her hands on the back of his chair, just above his shoulder, turning it slightly so he faced her. The legs scraped softly against the floor. “If you’d like, I could show you.”

“Wh-what?” His voice came out as little more than a whisper, and she could see the tension in his jaw as he turned to look up at her.

“All you have to do is focus on the feeling of it all,” she murmured, moving to stand in front of him, her gaze steady on his. 

His eyes had blown wide, and she swore she heard him gulp as she stepped between his legs, leaning down, her presence a little too close, a little too tempting. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white as though he were struggling against some invisible force. She was almost positive it was because he was trying not to touch her, and not because he felt awkward with what she was doing. In fact, her intuition told her he liked it. 

She paused, gauging his reaction, then lifted her hand slowly, giving him every opportunity to swat her away. But he didn’t. Instead, he remained perfectly still, his body taut with anticipation as her fingers threaded through his hair, lingering there for a moment before she gave a gentle, experimental, tug, tilting his head up to meet her gaze.

His eyes met hers, wide and slightly dazed, and she was certain she heard a low, involuntary growl escape his throat. The spark in his gaze was dark and unguarded, a simmering mix of anger and… something that made her heart skip. Something that almost looked like desire. 

“It doesn’t take much, you know,” she murmured, her voice a soft, teasing whisper as she leaned down. “A gentle touch,” she added, her other hand cupping his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, “a soft kiss.” She leaned closer still. 

Draco’s breath hitched, and Hermione felt a thrill of victory at the way he tensed beneath her touch. She lowered her voice further, her tone turning even softer. “You don’t even have to be attracted to her, if it’s just for one night. One night of fun. It could literally be… anyone.” She might not have been what he claimed he was attractive to, but she was clearly having some effect on him and she would be lying if she said she didn’t love it. 

At her words, Draco swallowed, hard, audible this time as he clenched the chair arms even tighter, his cheeks flushed. She felt a surge of boldness, emboldened by the way he sat there, motionless, waiting, as if he were under her spell. “All you have to do is close your eyes,” she whispered, her breath brushing his skin like a caress. 

She watched as his eyes fluttered closed as though it had been a command she had given him. A request he needed to follow. His lips parted slightly, his breathing was shallow. Heart pounded in her chest as she leaned in closer, a breath away from his lips, her voice barely a murmur. She was so close to kissing him, it would be so easy to do so. For a brief moment she actually wondered what it would be like, to kiss him. What he would do if she did, if he would kiss her back. If his lips were as soft as they looked. 

“Imagine it’s anyone you want. Keep the lights low, or off altogether. Just enjoy yourself.” she whispered against his skin. To her surprise, he leaned into her and she allowed her lips to ghost along the line of his jaw, just enough for him to feel her, just enough to leave him wanting more. She could feel his breath on her skin, warm and slightly ragged, his usual snark and bravado gone as he sat there, utterly still, his hands clenching the wood so tightly she was surprised it didn’t crack under his grip.

“Like that first night we danced together,” she whispered, her lips grazing his ear as she said it “when you just… let go.”

That seemed to break whatever composure he’d been holding onto. In an instant, his hands left the chair, his grip moving to her waist, his fingers pressing firmly into her hips as he steadied her. She had expected him to push her away, to snap out of the spell he was under. She had hoped, a small part of her at least, that he would pull her closer and finally, finally , kiss her. Actually kiss her. But he did none of those things. Instead, he abruptly stood, so quickly that his chair shot back and fell with a crash, sending Atlas scurrying out of the room whimpering and startled. 

Before she could react, he had wrapped an arm around her waist, the other sliding down to grab her firmly grab her arse. She let out a startled squeal as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around him to keep herself steady. Her pulse quickened, her heart racing as he spun them and backed her up against the counter before setting her down with a soft thud. 

She was still catching her breath when he stepped between her knees, his hands resting on them. His face was inches from hers, his eyes dark with a hunger she hadn’t seen before, and his lips curled into an almost wicked smirk as he leaned closer.

“You think you’re the only one who can play games, Granger?” His voice was low, his tone laced with a deliciously dangerous edge as he tilted his head, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that left her breathless. 

“I-I– it wasn’t” Her heart, along with her words, stuttered. “It wasn’t a game.” 

He hummed, not at all believing her, and leaned in even closer. His hands moved slightly up her legs. Mouth brushing the shell of her ear, breath warm against her skin. “Tell me, do your little one-night stands know how to touch you?”

Her breath hitched, her mind momentarily blank as his strong hands continued up, up, up her legs. Delicately, oh so delicately, touching her. Stopping just below the hem of her skirt “Do they make you shiver, Granger? Do they know how to make you sing ?”

Her mouth went dry, and though she wanted to respond, her body refused to cooperate, every nerve ending seemingly tuned to the sensation of his voice, the way it sent shivers down her spine. His voice seemed to flow through her, slow and molten, lingering on each word as if he wanted to imprint it into her skin.

“Do they even know how to make your skin prickle,” his voice seemed to flow through her, slow and molten, lingering on each word as if he wanted to imprint it into her skin. “or to make dragons stir in your stomach when they say your name?” 

He let the word roll off his tongue, rich and slow. Her name, low and deep, a growl that curled around her. Because he most certainly wasn’t playing fair now. “Hermione.” It was like dark honey, and it enveloped her, each syllable wrapping around her until she was breathless. A shiver ran through her, unstoppable, her eyes fluttering closed. Gooseflesh erupted along her arms, heat flared in her core, and her toes in her shoes. Her mouth parted with a soft gasp, and she could feel the smirk radiate from him without even looking.

His hands slipped higher up her legs, pulling the fabric of her skirt with them. The delicate and light touch moving towards her inner thighs. Unabashedly she spread them further for him. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it, and then, without thinking, she let out a soft, breathy gasp as his fingers traced up higher, her body betraying her entirely.

“Do they set your nerves on fire, Granger? Do they make you drip with want and desire?” he murmured, leaning in until his mouth was so close to her lips she could almost taste him. They brushed over the corner of her mouth, not quite a kiss, but it was enough to send her pulse skyrocketing. Her breath hitched, and she fought to keep her composure as he pulled back, just enough to leave her wanting.

“Nothing to say?” he teased, his tone light and taunting. “Or are you finally out of clever quips?”

Her mouth opened, but before she could form a retort, his fingers slid higher, tracing the path of the lace on her knickers. Instinctively arched into him, her mind hazy with the heady thrill of his touch, every nerve attuned to his proximity, his scent, his voice, his… everything. 

A smirk crept across his face, that infuriatingly smug, utterly gorgeous smirk that made her want to hex him and pull him closer all at once. Then slowly, he leaned back, his hands slipping away as he straightened, leaving her perched on the edge of the counter, breathless and wanting.

With deliberate slowness, he took a step back, his eyes raking over her as if savoring the sight of her thoroughly flustered state. He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall, his face the very picture of nonchalance.

He tilted his head, a faint smirk on his lips, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “If your one-night stands aren’t doing that for you, Granger,” he said, his voice soft and infuriatingly calm, “then why the fuck are you even wasting your time on them?”

With that, he turned, striding out of the kitchen with an air of complete satisfaction. As the door swung closed behind him, she let out a shaky breath, the quiet returning to the room as she tried to compose herself. But the silence only seemed to amplify the thrum of her heartbeat, the lingering heat in her skin, the maddening imprint of his voice, his hands, his mouth so close to hers. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her. Her body ached from the loss of his warmth and touch.

Finally she slid off the counter, her legs weak, her mind still scrambled, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and muttered “That… fucker.”