Chapter Text
Chapter 22
From the Wizengamot Legal Codex, Section VII: On Courtship, Engagement, and Marriage Amongst the Ancient Houses of Britain
(Revised Consolidation, 1792, with Amendments ratified 1876 and 1923)
- 1. Definition of Courtship
1.1. A courtship shall be understood as a declared and exclusive bond between two witches or wizards, undertaken with the clear intent of entering into matrimony.
1.2. A courtship may not be construed as casual attachment. It bears standing as the preliminary stage of marriage, binding in both law and custom.
1.3. Upon declaration, the courtship shall be recorded with the Office of the Wizengamot Registrar or otherwise witnessed by the lawful Heads of both Houses concerned.- 2. Authority and Consent
2.1. No courtship between heirs of Ancient or Noble Houses shall be valid without the consent of both families.
2.2. The authority of consent is vested in the matriarch or, in her absence, the senior-most guardian of lineage.
2.3. In the case of a witch or wizard lacking a recognized family, or where bloodlines are considered disrupted, the Wizengamot shall act as custodian of consent, judging the courtship by conduct, honor, and legitimacy.- 3. Conduct and Decorum
3.1. Parties to a courtship shall conduct themselves with propriety in all public assemblies, balls, feasts, and Wizengamot functions.
3.2. Scandalous displays of physical intimacy, public impropriety, or reckless endangerment of the family name shall be considered a breach of the Articles of Courtship.
3.3. Private meetings are permitted under circumstance, but in cases of Houses of High Standing, it is customary that a companion, retainer, or elder be present.- 4. Exclusivity and Obligation
4.1. A courtship shall be exclusive in all matters of the heart. To entertain or pursue another during the course of courtship is to commit breach of contract.
4.2. The suitor bears special obligation to safeguard the dignity and honor of the witch courted. This obligation may be discharged by duel, petition, legal redress, or other means deemed sufficient by society.
4.3. Failure to defend the honor of one’s betrothed is cause to deem the suitor unfit for continuation of the contract.- 5. Legal Recognition and Standing
5.1. A registered courtship shall be recognized as a lawful compact, preliminary to marriage.
5.2. Any act of slander, libel, sabotage, or malicious interference against either party shall be deemed an attack against the union itself and may be prosecuted under interference statutes.
5.3. Where one party is of Ancient or Noble blood, attacks upon their intended are understood to carry equal severity as attacks upon the family name.- 6. Dissolution and Penalties
6.1. A courtship may be dissolved only by:
6.1(a) Joint decree of both family Heads;
6.1(b) Judgment of the Wizengamot in cases of irreconcilable breach;
6.1(c) Death or permanent incapacitation of one party.
6.2. The offending party to a broken courtship shall forfeit rights of dowry, inheritance, and legacy attached to the arrangement.
6.3. A dissolved courtship shall remain a matter of public record. The stain of broken faith attaches to the name of the offending party, and this record shall not be sealed except by full pardon of the Wizengamot.- 7. Tokens, Traditions, and Symbolic Acts
7.1. Courtships are affirmed through tokens of intent:
7.1(a) A token of courtship, distinct from betrothal, symbolizing the promise of exclusivity.
7.1(b) The invitation of the witch or wizard to the suitor’s ancestral seat, thereby welcoming them to the legacy of the House.
7.1(c) Joint appearance at Wizengamot function or public assembly, to be understood as tacit sealing of intent.
7.2. These symbolic acts are not merely gestures of affection, but binding evidences in the eyes of law and custom.- 8. Breach, Slander, and Interference
8.1. To spread falsehood or malicious rumor against one party of a registered courtship is to interfere with lawful compact and is subject to penalty.
8.2. Penalties may include censure, fine, loss of inheritance rights, or, in grave cases, imprisonment.
8.3. The courtship shall not be considered dissolved by such interference, unless so decreed by the Wizengamot.- 9. Legacy and Enforcement
9.1. The preservation of lawful courtship ensures the continuation of magical legacy and stability of wizarding society.
9.2. The Wizengamot shall enforce these provisions without fear or favor, as courtship is the cornerstone of dynastic continuity.Thus decreed, so held, and so bound by the Wizengamot of Magical Britain.
The Codex of Courtship lay open on the long oak table, its parchment yellowed with centuries of bloodline ink. The consultation chamber smelled faintly of polish and parchment dust, heavy with the gravity of precedent.
Hermione sat straight-backed, her notes precise, quill poised though her parchment was already filled with sleepless nights of work. Draco lounged beside her, posture deceptively casual, though his jaw was tight, fingers drumming once against the chair arm. Across from them, Narcissa Malfoy was composed marble — silken robes, spine rigid, her eyes fixed on the Codex as though it were both weapon and scripture.
At the head of the table, Barrister Selwyn Hartcroft adjusted her spectacles, her sharp profile catching the lamplight. “We are here because Astoria Greengrass has filed petition under Codex §5.1, claiming her family’s betrothal contract with House Malfoy remains binding. Until judgment, Mister Malfoy’s position is precarious, and Miss Granger—” her gaze flicked toward Hermione, cool but not unkind “—your very presence will be argued as breach.”
Hermione’s quill bit into parchment as she steadied herself. “The contract, if it even exists in enforceable form, is weak. The Greengrass family failed to renew it in 1996. The Registrar’s index confirms the lapse. They’ll try to argue implied continuance under §3.2, but that requires consent. Draco never signed.”
Draco’s lips curved faintly, sardonic. “I was rather busy dodging war crimes at the time.”
Hartcroft’s mouth twitched. “Correct, Miss Granger. But precedent can be twisted. We need more than technicalities. We need narrative. Intent.”
Narcissa’s voice slid in, smooth as glass. “They will argue impropriety. The kiss at the Ministry Gala. The photographs. The Prophet headlines. All of it will be called proof of recklessness — a Muggle-born corrupting my son’s judgment.”
Hermione flushed but didn’t look away. “Then we frame it differently. Under §7.2, public appearances constitute recognition of a lawful courtship. I stood with him at the gala, at the Equinox hearing, at Malfoy Manor. Those are affirmations, not improprieties.”
Hartcroft inclined her head. “Precisely. Symbols matter. But we must address the Blood Ledger. The Greengrass betrothal was inscribed there, which gives their claim the appearance of permanence. The Ledger will not accept your name, Miss Granger — not as a Muggle-born. It was never built to recognize you.”
A chill swept Hermione’s spine, though she had suspected as much.
Draco’s voice cut through the silence, smooth but edged with steel. “I’ll force it to record what it does not want to see. If Astoria clings to faded ink, I’ll carve Hermione’s name fresh — by my hand, by my blood. Let the Ledger choke on it.”
Narcissa’s gaze sharpened, incredulity flaring. “You would deface the Ledger? It was written to preserve centuries of line, and you would risk its magic for her?”
“Yes,” Draco said simply, his hand brushing Hermione’s under the table, deliberate and steady. His voice was calm, aristocratic, but his eyes burned with devotion. “Because she is mine, whether the Ledger acknowledges it or not. And I will not let Astoria, or any relic of blood superstition, dictate my life.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, but her voice was firm. “If the Ledger refuses me, that refusal becomes proof of the prejudice stacked against us. Let them show themselves for what they are.”
For a moment, Narcissa only stared at her, pale eyes assessing, cold as frost. Then, faintly, something shifted. Not approval — never that. But a thread of reluctant acknowledgment. “You would use even rejection as a weapon.”
Hermione’s chin lifted. “Then we let their prejudice become our evidence. If the Ledger refuses me, it condemns itself.”
Hartcroft’s quill scratched against parchment, brisk and sharp. “Then it is settled. We argue the lapsed renewal, the public recognitions, the malicious interference — and, if forced, we weaponize the Ledger’s bias itself. Effective, undeniable.”
Draco leaned back, his arm brushing Hermione’s, voice smooth but intimate. “Then we go in as more than ourselves. I as heir who bends the Codex to my will. You as the witch who chose me despite everything. Together, we make them admit what already exists.”
Narcissa’s lips curved faintly, razor-sharp. “Recognition is not given. It is taken. Very well. Force them, then. That is the Malfoy way.”
Hartcroft snapped the Codex shut, the sound echoing like a verdict. “Then we are prepared.”
Hermione
The Burrow smelled of woodsmoke and onions frying, the kind of homely scent that clung to its walls no matter the season. Downstairs, voices rose and fell in overlapping bursts — Arthur chuckling at something, Ron arguing with George, Molly’s steady percussion of spoons and pans. The laughter threaded up through the floorboards, uneven but warm, as if the whole house was stitched together by sound.
Hermione sat on Ginny’s quilt, knees drawn up neatly, her back against the cool pane of the window. The patchwork blanket scratched at her palms where she pressed them flat, grounding herself. Beyond the glass, the orchard was painted in the long shadows of dusk, the crooked trees moving faintly in the wind. The comfort of the Burrow only sharpened the weight in her chest — she didn’t quite belong in its easy chaos anymore.
Ginny shut the door with a soft click, sealing off the noise below. She crossed barefoot to the bed and flopped beside Hermione, her hair a copper spill across the quilt. Lavender lifted faintly from the pillow where her head had landed.
“You look like you’ve just gone ten rounds with a Dementor,” Ginny said.
Hermione let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. “One barrister. With a side of Narcissa Black. Nearly the same thing.”
“Tell me.”
Hermione didn’t rush. She sat very still, eyes on the darkening orchard, the firelight from downstairs flickering against the low ceiling. When she finally spoke, her voice was level, even. “Hartcroft went through everything. The Codex. Astoria’s claim. All the ways they could twist the law to make me illegitimate.” Her nails pressed against the quilt’s seams, careful, contained. “At nineteen, I should be planning for my future. Instead, tomorrow I’ll stand before the Wizengamot to defend my right to love.”
Ginny studied her. “You hear yourself, right? Nineteen, and you’re about to challenge the oldest laws we’ve got — for Malfoy. That’s not you, Hermione. You’ve always been the careful one, the logical one. This is…” She shook her head slowly, the lamplight glinting off her hair. “This is madness.”
Hermione turned then, and Ginny saw the light in her eyes — not frantic, not desperate, but sharp, unwavering. “I know it isn’t like me. And it is madness. But Ginny—” her voice dropped, precise, deliberate—“ I used to think love was supposed to feel like chaos — sparks and whirlwind and being swept off your feet. With him, it wasn’t like that. It was steadier, deeper. The noise in my head quieted. Things fell into place. As if it was always meant to be like this. For the first time, I felt… anchored. As though no matter how the world turned, I had finally found where I belonged.”
Ginny frowned, her lips pressing thin. “Settled?”
“Yes.” Hermione smoothed the quilt again, but her hands were steady. “My thoughts never stop. You know that. I spiral, I overwork, I tie myself into knots. But with him… it eases. He steadies me — my mind, my body, my soul. With him, I don’t vanish. I become more myself.”
The house creaked around them, the sound of a dropped pan and Molly’s reprimand muffled through the floorboards.
“But on paper—” Ginny began.
“On paper, he was never right for me,” Hermione said, firm, unflinching. “He was cruel, arrogant, everything I once swore I hated. But the war dismantled him. And the way he rebuilt himself… that’s who he is now. That man is mine. Perfect for me, exactly as he is. This him was always meant to be mine.”
Ginny stared. Hermione’s hands were folded in her lap now, neat, deliberate. Her tone hadn’t broken once, though the weight in her words made Ginny’s chest tight.
“I love him,” Hermione said, each word deliberate, immovable. “Not with the kind of love that flickers or fades — but with the certainty that tomorrow isn’t promised, and I refuse to waste what I’ve been given. The war taught me that truth. Maybe it seems too much, too fast, too soon. But it’s real. It’s right. And I will not deny it, not to myself and not to anyone else.”
Hermione’s hand lingered in Ginny’s when a faint, unmistakable crack sounded from the orchard. Her chest tightened—not in fear, but in the anticipation of recognition.
Ginny’s brows shot up. “You… invited him here?”
Hermione shook her head, whispering, “No. He knows better than that.”
Footsteps followed along the gravel path, deliberate, precise. A polite knock sounded on the Burrow’s door just as Hermione descended the stairs.
Draco appeared in the doorway, his presence tightening the air as if the kitchen itself paused to make room for him. The clatter of dishes, the faint buttery scent of Molly’s baking—all of it seemed to hush.
“Mr. Malfoy,” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, pressing a hand to her apron, cheeks turning pink. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
Draco inclined his head with crisp precision. “Good evening Mrs. Weasley. Your home is… warm.”
Arthur’s smile spread, genial and genuine. “Welcome, Draco. You’re most welcome here.”
Ron leaned back in his chair, a smug grin tugging at his mouth. “Told you he had it in him. Malfoy just saves the good manners for shock value.”
Ginny smirked, her gaze darting to Hermione before settling knowingly on Draco. “Terrifyingly polite,” she drawled. “And still looking at her like she’s the only light in the bloody place.”
Draco’s silver eyes flicked to Hermione, and in that instant, the kitchen melted away. Their breaths caught. Every week apart, every letter unsent, every fleeting thought condensed into the small space between them.
“Hi,” Hermione whispered.
“Hi,” Draco returned, equally breathless. Their eyes spoke volumes—longing, relief, adoration—all restrained in a single, perfect look.
Hermione took his hand, the briefest touch that sent warmth racing up her arm. “Come with me,” she murmured, leading him toward the living room. “We need a moment alone.”
Once inside, they stood close, hands entwined, letting the quiet hum of the Burrow frame them. Hermione settled beside him as the fire snapped low in the grate. The light caught on his cheekbones, sharp and pale, and for a moment she couldn’t hear the bustle of the Burrow at all. Just the fire, the shadows, the echo of another night months ago — when it had only been the two of them in her own sitting room, the same firelight painting their skin. A night that had left her marked in more ways than one.
A few months ago
The firelight painted their bodies in gold and shadow, each flicker catching the sheen of sweat, the ripple of muscle, the arch of straining skin. Heat rolled through the small room, the crackling logs keeping time with the rhythm they built together — steady, urgent, entirely their own. The slap of skin against skin blended with the symphony of breathless gasps and half-choked moans, a sound raw and human and completely unrestrained.
Draco moved within her with ruthless precision, yet there was reverence in it too — every thrust deep and deliberate, every kiss claimed as though he meant to consume the very air between them. His mouth pressed against hers between ragged breaths, his tongue stroking in time with the push of his hips. His hands were everywhere — her waist, her thighs, her breasts, even the delicate curve of her neck — greedy, yes, but not careless. Each touch felt like a layering of intention, sensation stacked upon sensation until Hermione thought her body would split open from the sheer immensity of it.
She had no anchor left, no careful mind or logical shield. The voice that always urged restraint, that scolded her for excess, was gone — burned away by fire and sweat and need. She was nothing but feeling, swept under and carried along by the tide of him. The sound of her own voice startled her — loud, broken, shameless, spilling into the dim-lit air. “Yes—yes, oh gods, yes—please—don’t stop—” The words tore out of her unbidden, instinctive, as she surrendered everything she had ever held back.
Draco’s pace climbed with hers, faster, harder, then slower again — torturing, coaxing, drawing out the climb until every nerve in her body begged for release. The pressure coiled, unbearable, until it snapped all at once. Hermione’s back arched, her body seizing in waves, the sensation ripping through her so violently she thought for one impossible instant that her soul had leapt out of her flesh. Stars exploded behind her eyes, blinding, infinite, dazzling — and then she sank back down into herself, trembling, remade.
When she could breathe again, Draco was still moving above her, chasing his own release, his face twisted in something between pleasure and reverence. The sight of it undid her all over again — the raw devotion etched into his every line, as if he were offering himself up to her with every last thrust. When he finally gave in, his body shuddered against hers, and he buried his face in her neck, groaning her name like a vow.
Silence followed, thick but tender. Only the crackle of the fire and the sound of their ragged breathing filled the room. Hermione lay beneath him, trembling, dazed, as though she had been shattered and rebuilt in the span of minutes. Her hands slid up his back, slow and tentative, tracing the fine tremors still running through his muscles.
Would it ever be less than this? she wondered hazily. Could it ever turn ordinary, when every time with him felt like this — like stepping out of her body, like brushing the edge of heaven and earth at once?
The fire popped, sending sparks upward. Draco shifted, rolling to his side but keeping her gathered close, his breath still uneven against her temple. His hand moved in idle patterns over her arm, slow and grounding, tracing skin still humming from the aftershocks.
Hermione sighed into the warmth of him, boneless, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. For a while there was only the hush of their breathing and the glow of the hearth. She might have drifted like that forever, safe in the cocoon of firelight and him.
But then his hand stilled, thumb brushing across the ridged skin of her forearm. The change was subtle, yet she felt the shift at once — the way his body tensed, the way the air thickened with something unsaid.
Draco’s mouth tightened into something sharp. “Only a Malfoy house could host something this grotesque,” he said at last, voice low, bitter. “Trust my family to think they were degrading you, when all they did was carve proof you were stronger than them. Stronger than all of us.”
Hermione flinched, but his grip didn’t ease. His silver eyes burned as he lifted her arm higher, angling it toward the firelight. “Your blood spilled onto those floors, Granger. Onto my family’s precious wood. And it stayed. No polish, no wards, no cleansing charm will ever undo it. Malfoy Manor carries you now, not them. You branded it the moment you survived.”
Her throat worked. “I don’t feel branded with power. I feel… defiled.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, his voice almost breaking. “No. Not defiled. Marked. Marked because you lived when they wanted you gone. Marked because you fought your way out of a place I could barely breathe in. Do you understand?”
Before she could answer, he bent his head, pressing his lips to each jagged line. Not hurried. Not careless. Every kiss was deliberate, as though he were writing over Bellatrix’s cruelty with his own devotion.
Hermione trembled, her eyes stinging. “Draco…”
He lifted his gaze, and there was no hiding it anymore. His voice cracked, rough but reverent. “I can’t erase it. I can’t take it from you. But I swear to you, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never mistake this scar for shame again. It’s survival. It’s strength. And I—” His breath hitched, as if the words scraped his throat raw. “I love you for it. Every line. Every scar. Every version of you.”
Her tears fell freely then. She pressed the scarred hand to his cheek, and he closed his eyes, leaning into it as if it were holy.
Present
Hermione
The memory clung to her like smoke, the firelight of her flat bleeding into the flicker of the Burrow hearth. Even now, with his hand twined in hers in this crowded house, Hermione could still feel the press of his lips against her scar, still hear the vow he had spoken as if it had cost him a piece of himself.
She blinked, the present folding back into focus — the muffled laughter from the kitchen, the creak of the old floorboards above, the hum of life carrying on while the two of them stood apart. Draco’s hand was still warm in hers, his presence just as steady, his gaze just as unflinching as that night.
Draco’s voice, low and precise, broke the silence. “So the barrister meeting… everything we prepared, the Codex, the precedence, the narrative…” He let it trail off, gaze locked on hers.
Hermione nodded, recalling every tense moment at the long oak table, Hartcroft’s clipped precision, Narcissa’s calculated scrutiny. “I have gone over every law and clause. We are as prepared as we can be but I feel…unsure. Like we are not doing enough.”
“We have done enough,” Draco added softly, brushing his thumb against hers. “Every public appearance, every monitored action… you were flawless. Even when they expected you to falter, you were steady.”
Hermione’s chest swelled. “You were brilliant. Calm, collected… strategic. I… I missed this.”
“I missed you,” she breathed, the words slipping free before she could dress them in restraint.
Draco’s grip tightened at once, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “As have I. Too long.” His gaze softened, aristocratic composure cracking to reveal something raw, unguarded. “And now I’m here, and…” His voice frayed; the silence carried what words could not.
Her chest constricted. She leaned infinitesimally closer, letting her forehead brush his. “I love you,” she whispered, as though the words themselves might shatter if spoken too loudly.
His reply was steady but aching, each syllable weighted. “I love you, too. More than I knew I could. More than I can say.”
They lingered, savoring the quiet, the warmth, the electricity of proximity. Every week apart, every stolen glance, every restrained moment coalesced into this small, perfect space.
Eventually, the Burrow’s reality intruded. Draco shifted toward the door, posture still impeccable, but Hermione saw the tension in his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw. Weeks apart had sharpened their desire; every glance, every touch they’d denied themselves, surged between them now, impossible to contain.
Her hand clenched his, pulling him back a fraction, and Draco hesitated—just a fraction—before he gave in. He leaned forward, lips pressing to hers in a kiss that was urgent, possessive, desperate. Hermione responded immediately, pouring all the longing she had swallowed into the embrace. Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging gently, as if to anchor him to her, to make sure he wouldn’t vanish before she had claimed him.
The kiss deepened, tongue brushing briefly, teasing, tasting, seeking—each movement edged with lust and need. Every second was charged, a fire that had been smoldering for weeks, threatening to consume them. Hermione’s body pressed closer, her chest against his, feeling the taut muscle beneath his robes, the heat of him radiating into her. Draco’s hands traced her sides, sliding cautiously but with intent, memorizing, claiming, holding her like he feared she might be snatched away.
It was hunger and tenderness entwined: desire tempered by the knowledge that they had to pull back, yet too much longing pressed against restraint. Hermione could feel the ache of absence in every brush of his lips, the pressure of his hands, the way his body pressed into hers while still holding himself just enough to prevent crossing the line too far.
When they finally drew back, breaths ragged, foreheads resting together, Hermione’s chest heaved with need and relief. Their eyes locked, shimmering with desire, passion, and the knowledge of weeks apart. Draco’s voice, low and rough, barely above a whisper, broke the silence:
“Tomorrow,” he said. “We hold the line tomorrow.”
Hermione nodded, trembling, fingers still clinging to him as if she could anchor him there forever. The Burrow—the warm, chaotic, safe chaos of it—felt impossibly small, yet fiercely intimate. Every heartbeat, every lingering touch, every shiver of desire confirmed it: he was hers, utterly, and she was his.
Hermione and Draco returned to the kitchen. Draco stepped forward, nodding politely to each family member.
“Mrs. Weasley,” he said smoothly, inclining his head, “thank you for such a warm welcome despite our past conflicts.”
Molly’s cheeks flushed, hands tightening on her apron. “Well… I never thought I’d say this, but you are exceedingly… charming.”
Arthur beamed. “Thank you for being there for Hermione when we could not.”
Draco’s aristocratic composure was flawless as they stepped back into the warm bustle of the kitchen. He inclined his head politely to Arthur, offered Molly a perfectly measured farewell, even tolerated Ron’s lingering stare with the faintest arch of a brow.
Then, with all the restraint of a man buttoning his armor back into place, he turned to Hermione. He bent just enough to press his lips against her cheek — not rushed, not careless, but deliberate. A gesture so chaste it could have passed for courtesy, and yet the tenderness of it made her chest ache.
His mask was firmly in place again when he straightened, voice smooth. “Until next time.”
As the pop of his disapparition faded, the room filled with silence. Ginny exhaled first, her smirk softening into something almost wistful. “That man loves you,” she said simply.
Arthur nodded, a glimmer of nostalgia in his eye. “Malfoys were always passionate, though not often in ways worth admiring.”
Molly dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her apron, voice thick. “Oh, Hermione. He looks at you as if you’re the only thing keeping him upright.”
Hermione’s fingers lingered on her cheek where his lips had touched, a faint smile playing across her lips. She let out a quiet breath, heart still fluttering, feeling the warmth of him linger in the room long after he had gone.
Tomorrow, they would hold the line.