Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cry tore from her throat before she woke.

Hermione Granger jolted upright in bed, heart pounding as if she’d sprinted through Trafalgar Square. Her cotton sheets were twisted around her limbs, damp with cold sweat. Her breath came fast, ragged. The taste of copper was in her mouth. Phantom pain crawled up her arm where Bellatrix’s knife had once carved letters into her skin.

She reached instinctively for her wand on the nightstand, fingers trembling. 

“Lumos.”

Soft light bathed the room. It was warm, golden, safe. There were no dungeon walls…no Black sisters or the echoing laughter of Death Eaters. All she could hear was the quiet hum of Muggle London below, and the ticking of her brass clock.

It was nearly five, still too early for the sun, too late to bother trying to sleep again. At the end of the bed Crookshanks shifted with a wide yawn and stared up at her.

“Don't worry, old man,” she scratched under his chin, “Everything’s fine.”

Hermione swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet met the soft rug exactly where they always did. Every object in her flat had its proper place. Her bookshelf towered neatly against the far wall, sorted by subject and subcategory, then author, then binding color. Beside it, scrolls of parchment were rolled with military precision in their labeled cases. Policy Drafts, Research Notes, Department Correspondence.

She smoothed the front of her pyjama top and exhaled. The dream wasn’t real. It hadn't been for a long time.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen. Her flat was pristine, modern yet traditional, with polished wooden floors and enchanted plants that thrived on sunlight and trip hop. She had chosen every fixture herself, down to the brushed bronze drawer pulls and the wine-colored backsplash that matched her favorite ink. It was the kind of place that looked staged, perfect in a Witch Weekly spread for Book Lovers. 

She brewed tea by hand instead of magic, an old grounding trick her Mind Healer had given her after her second year of treatment. “Routine restores reality,” Healer Iskander had said.

As the kettle boiled, Hermione leaned against the counter and stared out at the skyline. Rooftops were still veiled in fog, but the sun was slowly starting to peek through.

People thought she was the put-together one. The brightest witch of her age! The girl who rose from war into a perfect life like some phoenix, blazing with degrees and ministry honors, pencil skirts and heels.

She liked it that way, order made the rest of her feel bearable.

The mirror above her bathroom sink caught her reflection as she twisted her curls into a smooth French plait. She paused for a moment, eyeing herself with quiet scrutiny. Shadows clung under her eyes, but her blouse was crisp, and her knee length pencil skirt immaculate. A burgundy blazer completed the ensemble. She looked like someone in control.

Good.

There was no time to spiral. Today, she was scheduled to meet with her Head of Department, and she would not waste the opportunity. She had worked too hard, pushed too long against the tide of people who saw her youth, or her name, or her blood, and wrote her off.

The wizarding world needed law reform, badly, and someone needed to be brave enough to say it out loud, push quills, make points.

Hermione slid a folder into her satchel. It was neatly bound with color-coded tabs marking her notes on elf rights, wand permit equity, and registry reform. She double-checked her wand, tapped her blazer straight, and breathed in.

A framed muggle photograph of her parents caught her eye as she passed the entryway. They stood together on a beach in Greece, arms wrapped around each other, smiling like they had never forgotten her. Her mother’s wild curls blowing in the wind while her father looked in adoration.

They remembered their daughter now. They came back, forgave her. They were proud, even.

She squared her shoulders. She would make sure they stayed proud.

Hermione’s heels clicked neatly against the cobbled walk as she made her way through the quiet early streets of London, the hem of her blazer fluttering just slightly with her brisk stride. The corner shopkeeper gave her a polite nod. He never seemed to remember her name, but she passed by each morning with a look of steel in her spine and a purpose in her step.

Ginny and Harry’s flat wasn’t far, just two streets over, next to a little bakery that always smelled of warm cinnamon. Hermione paused just long enough to knock on their front door with two firm raps. A few seconds later, it creaked open to reveal Harry in half-buttoned robes, his hair still a disaster.

“You’re early,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.

“You’re late,” she replied smoothly, pushing past him into the flat. “I told you last night I had to speak with Price this morning.”

“The reform thing?” he yawned, disappearing back into the kitchen. “You’ve rewritten that proposal five times, haven’t you?”

“Seven,” Hermione corrected, setting her bag down and smoothing a stray curl behind her ear. “It has to be perfect.”

Ginny was in the sitting room, curled on the sofa in flannel pyjamas and a nursing wrap, her red hair a halo of loose waves. She was cradling a newborn, James Sirius, barely a month old. His tiny hands flexed in his sleep as he nestled against her chest. She looked up and gave Hermione a tired, glowing smile.

“He’s been up since three,” she said softly, adjusting the blanket around him. “But Merlin help me, I think he’s perfect.”

“He is perfect.” Hermione murmured, kneeling for just a moment beside them. She reached to stroke James’s dark tufts of hair with two fingers. “And already looks exactly like his father.”

“Doesn't he?” Ginny beamed, then glanced at the satchel. “And don't worry about that proposal. You’ll be Minister before you know it.”

Hermione managed a small smile. “Let’s start with a seat on the Wizengamot, shall we?”

Ginny offered her a sympathetic glance. “Don’t let them talk over you again.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened. “I won’t.”

Harry emerged fully dressed at last, shrugging on his Auror robes and giving Hermione a once-over.

“You look…sharp. Intimidating, even,” he said.

“Good.”

He chuckled. “You ready?”

Hermione gave one last glance toward Ginny and the baby, a quiet softness briefly flickering in her eyes. Then she nodded, brisk again, grabbing her satchel. “Let’s go.”

The morning air hit them the moment the door shut. London was still stretching awake. The air had a chill to it despite it being July. She pulled her blazer a little tighter around her.

Harry fell into step beside her as they walked. “You still seeing your Mind Healer?” he asked, casual but careful.

Hermione kept her eyes forward. “Yes. Only about once a month now. More if I need it…”

“Good. Me too.”

That was all he said, and that was all she needed. They didn’t talk about the dreams. Not anymore. Not since it got worse again two years ago when she'd ended her internship and gone into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement full-time working on policy reform under the Wizengamot Council. Though truthfully, she did more solicitor work than anything, assisting the Council of Magical Law. 

Somehow Bellatrix’s voice had a way of resurfacing when Hermione worked too long, slept too little, or pushed too close to legislation that rattled old bones.

They turned the corner near King’s Cross, crossing over toward a graffitied alley where a series of bricked-up service doors lined the wall. Muggle eyes would see cracked red paint and warning signs. Hermione, however, stepped with purpose to the third door, tapping it with the tip of her wand in a swift, practiced motion.

The rusty latch clicked. A whisper of magic rippled outward.

Harry reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

To a Muggle, it would look like a cramped storage cupboard with dusty shelves, old paint cans, maybe a forgotten broom. As they stepped through the threshold, the world shimmered, rearranged, and expanded into a narrow corridor lit by enchanted torches. Smooth marble replaced brick underfoot, and voices echoed from deeper within.

They had to enter through the Ministry’s auxiliary floo passage, used mostly by junior officials, or those working odd shifts. Hermione didn't have a hearth to floo in, and Harry hadn't been granted direct clearance from his own just yet. So instead, they walked this way most mornings together.

The hearth at the end of the hall flared with soft green flames.

Hermione strode ahead and called clearly, “Level Two. Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” before vanishing into the emerald glow.

Harry followed behind with a brief nod to the floo supervisor on duty, who barely looked up from his morning copy of the Daily Prophet.

They arrived at the heart of the Ministry. She took a deep breath before heading to the Law offices, waving to Harry as he headed to the Aurors section.

Today would be the day they took her proposals seriously. It had to be.

*.    *.    *.  

Draco woke with his face half-buried in a velvet pillow that smelled faintly of perfume and smoke.

His skull throbbed, deep and unforgiving, as though someone had cast a low-level percussion charm inside his brain. His mouth was sandpaper. His throat tasted of ash and stale firewhisky. Somewhere under the migraine haze, he realized the pounding beat he heard wasn’t music. It was his own pulse, grinding behind his eyes. 

He shifted and immediately regretted it. A soft moan came from the woman tangled around his arm. Blonde? Her face was tucked into his shoulder, half-obscured by her hair and glittering mascara smudges. She was naked beneath the thin crimson sheet. So was he.

Draco stared up at the opulent ceiling of The Vermillion suite. Gilded, charmed to shift gently in hue depending on the hour. It gleamed a foggy silver, signaling dawn. Bloody hell.

He didn’t know her name, didn't remember her face from last night either.

Something bitter twisted in his chest. Vanta powder would do that…fracture a night into disjointed pieces. Euphoric highs, manic laughter, and then…blankness. He could smell it still, the acrid sweetness that clung to the walls here. Blaise never banned the stuff from the rooms upstairs. This was The Vermillion, after all. Gambling, potions, secrets, sins. Everything was for sale, as long as someone had the galleons.

Draco certainly did.

He eased his arm out from under the girl like it was a trap about to spring and sat up slowly. 

A half-empty bottle of firewhiskey sat on the floor next to his wand, along with a heel he didn’t recognize and his shirt crumpled like a truce flag. The girl stirred behind him but didn’t wake.

Draco exhaled through his nose and ran a hand over his face. He needed to leave. He had…what? Breakfast with his mother?

A promise he couldn't afford to break. 

He slipped into his clothes and boots, then made his way downstairs. The Vermillion was still cloaked in its velvet-draped morning silence. Sunlight filtered through enchanted stained glass, throwing blood-red pools across the otherwise dim interior. The scent of liquor, smoke, and whatever was left of last night’s indulgences still lingered like ghosts.

Draco crossed the sprawling club floor, past booths that had seen things he tried not to think about. The round corner table was occupied by Blaise, reading over parchment and scribbled notes with a sharp quill and an even sharper look. Business, no doubt. It was always business these days. Blaise was never without something to tally, something to track, someone to own.

Draco didn’t care.

“Hey,” he said, voice gravel. “Where’s your hangover draught?”

Blaise didn’t look up. He just slid a tiny glass vial across the table without taking his eyes off the parchment. “You’re welcome,” he said.

Draco grabbed it, popped the stopper, and downed it in a single swallow. The world rebalanced slightly, though the taste still made him grimace.

“Ever the gracious host,” Draco muttered.

Blaise smirked at his ledgers. “You keep bleeding on my carpets, I might start charging rent.”

Draco rolled his eyes and dropped into a chair opposite him. 

Blaise still didn’t look up. Draco hated that. He hated how Blaise didn’t need the money or the flash, yet made something of himself anyway. Out of nothing of his own. His mother’s marriages might have provided the gold, but Blaise had turned it into power. People looked at him and saw someone to fear, or follow.

Draco...he had a name and inheritance. It was a rather…large inheritance…but that was all he had. 

Malfoy had meant something once. Now it was a cautionary tale, an echo of old money and darker things. A father in Azkaban. And him? The infamous son, too young to be a true villain, but too involved to be innocent. He was the only one their age with the Dark Mark burned into his skin. It was faded now with Voldemort gone for good, but it was still there…forever marked in his shame.

He had been required to serve probation. Community service. Public rehabilitation. A performative penance so the papers would print something about redemption, so the Ministry could pretend justice still meant something.

Blaise had never been marked. Never had to kneel, not to Voldemort or the Ministry. Draco had been forced to do both.

Of course…he still had his wealth. Still had his estate. His vaults. His wand. His reputation…fractured though it was…and a sharp tongue he kept honed like a blade to hide the rot beneath.

The Malfoy name had never sunk lower.

Yet, he was still standing. Still rich. And in this place, Blaise’s den of vice and velvet, that was enough.

Draco apparated just outside his Manor, the familiar crack of disapparition giving way to the still hush of morning on ancestral grounds. The dew clung to his boots as he stepped over the threshold and pushed open the wrought-iron side gate with a practiced hand, careful to stay just out of view from the front-facing windows.

Not that it mattered.

He was halfway across the hedge-lined path when a clipped voice met him like a cold splash to the face.

“You’re late.”

He didn’t even have to look. That tone was unmistakable, ice wrapped in silk.

He turned slowly, exhaling. There she stood on the veranda, robes perfectly fastened, hair in a flawless chignon, a porcelain cup of tea balanced effortlessly in her hand. Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes flicked down his form with the precision of a scalpel. His disheveled clothes, wrinkled collar, his tousled hair and that faint, but undeniable, scent of smoke and debauchery still clinging to him.

Draco straightened his spine, rolled his shoulders once, and strode forward like he hadn’t just crawled out of a club suite next to someone whose name he couldn’t recall.

“Good morning, Mother,” he said smoothly.

She didn’t answer until he passed her to head into the house.

“Vanta powder reeks, Draco,” she said mildly. “And so does desperation.”

He smiled without teeth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The dining hall was already laid out in its traditional excess of crisp linens, silver trimmed china, charmed steam curling from platters of warm bread, eggs, roasted tomato, and a sliced fruit arrangement so surgically symmetrical it almost offended him.

He dropped into the seat at the end of the long table, reaching immediately for the coffee.

Narcissa didn’t join him right away. She entered a few minutes later, folding herself with stately grace into her usual chair. A house-elf appeared silently to refill her tea.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Narcissa raised her gaze, studied him coolly across the table, and said, “Do you have any intention of doing something with your life, or are you content playing the spoiled relic while the rest of us work to rebuild the family?”

Draco sipped his coffee, then helped himself to eggs.

“I’m plenty occupied,” he muttered.

“Gambling at Blaise’s den and sleeping through breakfast is not an occupation.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Neither is trying to claw back social standing in a world that already moved on, Mother.”

There was the faintest flicker of emotion in her expression…disappointment? Irritation? Whatever it was, it passed.

“You carry the Malfoy name,” she said softly. “Try not to drag it through the mud any more than your father already has.”

That landed, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he reached for a slice of toast. “Then perhaps you should’ve married better.”

Narcissa’s expression didn’t change, but her knife sliced through a poached pear like it was his throat.

She tapped the corner of the Daily Prophet toward him. The gilded paper shimmered faintly in the morning light.

“Look at this,” she said.

Draco squinted, brushing crumbs off his sleeve. “Another proposal about Muggleborn law reform? Hardly news.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she gestured to a tiny column tucked near the back. Rising Stars; Hermione Granger’s Unlikely Ascent.

Draco froze for a heartbeat. The words blurred past the hangover haze…polished…ambitious…relentless. Miss Perfect. She always had been. 

“She’s making quite the name for herself,” Narcissa said softly, tracing the headline with a single finger. “You could take your father’s seat at the Wizengamot any time you choose. But let me be clear… you dither, and she–” Her gaze sharpened, piercing as any Malfoy stare could be. “This upstart will vote you out. I've heard she is trying to propose an abolishment to hereditary seats. Unlikely, but with her, the Muggleborns agenda moves faster than you could ever care to move it.”

Draco exhaled, leaning back in his chair. He hated politics. He hated rules. He hated this conversation. Yet a flicker of something darker gnawed at him. Hermione Granger. That pompous, know-it-all, polished little brat. The one who had stood there with that infuriating glare when he had gone to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to finalize the end of his probation a few years ago.

She had been there, watching. Judging. Making sure he knew every detail of her superiority.

He hadn’t seen her since, not really. He had barely glimpsed her. And yet the memory, her polished blouse, curly hair barely restrained, lips pressed together with her narrowed gaze, still twisted in his chest with irritation.

Draco pushed the paper away, though his eyes lingered on her name. “And…you’re telling me what exactly?” he asked, voice smooth, deliberately bored.

“That the seat is yours if you want it,” Narcissa said evenly. “But if you continue to squander your time…” She let the words hang. “…someone else will take what could have been yours. Hermione Granger included.”

He grunted. He didn’t want the seat. Didn’t want the meetings, the debates, the constant policing of outdated traditions. The societal peacocking. It wasn't who he was, not anymore. And yet, the thought of her succeeding where he had chosen to coast…it made his jaw tighten.

“Not interested,” he muttered.

“Not yet,” Narcissa corrected, leaning back in her chair. “But every moment you waste, every day you flaunt your freedom and wealth without purpose…she moves closer. And Draco…” Her eyes sharpened to steel. “She remembers you. She will never forget the Malfoys.”

Draco swallowed, all trace of humor gone for a second. The words struck somewhere deeper than he wanted. He looked away, reaching for another piece of toast, shaking his head.

Narcissa let out a quiet sigh, the kind that could silence a room without raising her voice. She leaned back, folding her hands over her lap as if setting the conversation aside…for now.

“How is Pansy?” she asked smoothly, her sharp eyes flicking to him with careful calculation.

Draco shrugged, brushing a crumb off his trousers. “Her usual,” he said lightly. “Shopping. Drama. Keeps herself busy.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. “Nothing more?”

He shook his head. “Not really. She does her thing. I do mine.”

She studied him for a long moment, expression neutral, before nodding once. Satisfied, or at least placated, she picked up her teacup and sipped slowly, the silence filling the room with its subtle tension.

Draco leaned back in his chair, taking another swig of coffee. The mention of Granger still lingered like smoke in his mind, but for now, he would let it slide. Politics could wait. So could the endless scrutiny of his mother.

For the moment, there was just the rich warmth of breakfast, the quiet dominance of the manor, and the sense that whatever games were being played beyond these walls…he didn't want to play.

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped out of the council chamber, hands gripping her folder a little too tightly. The polished floors of the Wizengamot corridor reflected her sharp heels as she moved.

The meeting hadn’t gone as she hoped. Not even close.

Her proposals, carefully drafted, argued, and annotated, had been glanced at and then dismissed with polite nods that carried all the weight of nothing. Every time she tried to intervene, to clarify, to push back, someone talked over her. Interruptions, procedural excuses, whispers behind her back. Structured chaos, the older members called it. It was absolutely infuriating.

She exhaled, a little too sharply, and walked down the corridor, shoulders tense. Her mind raced through every rebuttal she could have made, every point she could have hammered in. Instead, she had left empty-handed and fuming, the words “polished little know-it-all” echoing somewhere behind her ears.

The walk home felt heavier than it should have. She did have lunch with Harry. That had been peaceful, almost restorative, a rare few hours away from the constant chaos of the council chamber and the endless interruptions at the Ministry. But once she returned to her own den of wolves, the day had spiraled back into the same exhausting rhythm. Meetings where her voice was drowned out. Proposals glanced at and dismissed. Endless chatter and structured chaos. By the time she closed her office door for the week, she felt every ounce of her energy drained.

Now, it was Friday evening, and she was finally home. Alone.

Again.

Hermione loosened the plait that had kept her curls disciplined all day. Then pulled a bottle of wine from the small cabinet she kept for nights exactly like this, the glass cold and reassuring in her hand.

Harry had invited her over for dinner. Ron would be there. Tonight…she wanted none of it. She especially didn’t want to sit across from Ron and his new Muggle fiancée. Elizabeth Monroe. An American. 

She had met her a few times. Elizabeth had kind hazel eyes, perfectly straight blonde hair, tanned legs for days…and a bubbly, easy going personality. And she smiled. A lot.

She was perfect for Ron. Out of his league, really. Somehow that Weasley charm had grabbed Elizabeth’s attention while she was overseas for University. She studied Business and Finance. Ron was in partnership with his brother in their joke shop, the W&W.

The pair were to be married.

Hermione forced herself to swallow the bite of jealousy that lingered, even though she had no real claim to it anymore. She didn’t miss Ron in the way she used to. They had fought too often. She had been too ambitious, too focused on work to nurture the quiet life he wanted. She couldn’t blame him for their break up.

Gods, that had been years ago.

It had hurt at the time, but not nearly as much as she thought it would. What stung now was the repetition of it…watching people pair off, settle down, and build lives while she stayed behind, relentlessly moving forward and…alone.

She had tried dating, but she just…didn't have time for building a relationship. Not when her career came first. She always ended things before they became too complicated, or real.

She set the wine down on the side table and poured a glass. She had politely declined Harry’s dinner invitation, a careful excuse about needing rest and preparation for Monday. The truth was simpler. She didn’t want to be the fifth wheel again. Not tonight. Not when she could spend a few hours just being herself, free from expectation, free from the weight of other people’s happiness pressing on her. Having someone. Creating a family.

Would she ever get time to do that?

Hermione sipped the wine and let herself sink into the quiet, settling into the sofa. Crookshanks stretched and curled on the arm, watching her expectantly. At least, she wasn't completely alone. She had her cat…

Ugh.

For now, the world could wait. She didn’t have to fight anyone. She didn’t have to convince anyone of her worth. Tonight, there was only her, the soft hum of the city outside her window, and the faint comfort of solitude.

She had just taken another sip of wine when a soft tapping at her window drew her attention. She set the glass down and moved over, raising the sash to find a sleek, black-feathered owl perched on the sill.

“Hello, handsome,” she eyed him curiously and gave his feathery head a little scratch.

It carried a single envelope, cream-colored, sealed with the unmistakable Malfoy crest. 

What on earth…her eyes drifted to the owl again, as if inspecting for hidden answers as to why she would be receiving something from Malfoy Manor.

Gods, she couldn't even imagine…

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she took it, breaking the seal with careful fingers. Inside, neat, precise handwriting filled the card.

—

Miss Granger,

I would be delighted if you could join me for breakfast tomorrow morning at the Rosewood Tea Room, 9AM

Best regards,

Narcissa Malfoy

—

Hermione blinked at the note, utterly perplexed. She hadn’t seen any of the Malfoys in years, not since she had caught sight of Draco signing the papers finalizing his release from probation. He had sneered at her in the hallway as he had always done at Hogwarts, and she had just stared back, stiff and controlled. His presence had always jarred her a little.

There was too much history between them. Too much unpleasant history she didn’t want to think about, the kind her mindhealer had once tried to pull out, only for Hermione to deftly change the subject every time. Iskander always wanted to know about her interactions with Draco, like they were some clue to all her problems. 

They weren't.

He was just a bullying little prat.

Likely, still was.

“What on earth could she possibly want?” she asked aloud as Crookshanks hopped onto the counter and sniffed the letter.

No, thank you.

With a sharp exhale, Hermione crumpled the invitation in her hand and tossed it straight into the bin. She sank back into her chair, muttering under her breath, “Absolutely not.”

She let the owl go without a reply.

The quiet of her flat seemed to settle around her again, and for a moment, she allowed herself to forget the strange Malfoy intrusion into her evening, focusing instead on the warmth of the wine in her hand and the luxury of being alone.

Well, with her cat.

Hermione woke slowly, every muscle aching, her head pounding like a drum. Dreamless sleep had done nothing to ease the fog left by the entire bottle of wine she had consumed the night before. She groaned, rolling over and forcing herself upright.

The kitchen was quiet, sunlight filtering through the curtains. She poured herself a hangover draught, grimacing at the bitter taste, and steadied herself against the counter. Another sad, drunken night alone, she thought, swallowing the potion in slow gulps.

Her eyes drifted down to Crookshanks as he rubbed against the bin. Something caught the light, drawing her attention. The crumpled Malfoy invitation sat there, half-forgotten. Her curiosity prickled.

Carefully, she picked it back up and smoothed it out on the counter. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to see what Narcissa Malfoy wanted. It wasn't like it had come from Draco. His mother was an entirely different creature.

She hesitated, biting her lip. She could regret it, surely the conversation would turn into a lecture about her attempts at rising through the Wizengamot council, her radical ideas, her status as a Mudblood. But…maybe, maybe, it would feel good to get some of that frustration off her chest.

Hermione stared at the neatly written note, weighing the risks. One small breakfast. One meeting. She didn't have anything to lose and she was genuinely curious.

Hermione moved through her flat with quiet efficiency, deciding on something sensible for the tea room. A sundress, sensible heels, paired with a modest cardigan. It was polished enough to show she took herself seriously, but not so overdone as to be trying to impress Narcissa Malfoy.

She didn’t bother smoothing her curls perfectly, instead piling them into a more casual ponytail to keep them out of her face. Besides, it was a Saturday in July and the forecast said sun.

With a final adjustment to her satchel and a deep breath, Hermione stepped out the door and onto the quiet London streets. The crisp morning air was refreshing, carrying with it the faint hum of the city beginning its day. She could have apparated, but a walk would calm her nerves and give her time to think…or change her mind.

Somehow she had made her way toward the Rosewood Tea Rooms, her mind cycling between curiosity and irritation. Narcissa Malfoy. Breakfast. What on earth could this be about? Hermione shook her head slightly, trying not to overthink it. One meeting. One cup of tea. Nothing more.

The ornate entrance appeared ahead, tucked just off a tree-lined garden path. Hermione straightened her shoulders and walked in, ready for whatever awaited her and stepped up to the polished hostess counter, setting her satchel down carefully. “I’m here to meet with Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy,” she said, her voice measured, precise.

The hostess gave a polite nod. “Of course, Miss Granger. Please follow me.”

Hermione trailed behind her, stepping out into the gardens just beyond the main tea room. The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting delicate patterns on the cobblestone path. The scent of blooming flowers mingled with the faint aroma of fresh tea and pastries, creating a surprisingly serene atmosphere.

The hostess led her to a private sunroom tucked just off the path, its delicate glass walls opening onto the garden. Inside, Narcissa Malfoy was already seated at the table, poised and elegant as always. Fine china gleamed in the sunlight, and a small pot of tea steamed gently between them.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa said smoothly, rising slightly as Hermione entered. “I’m so pleased you could join me.”

Hermione inclined her head politely, settling into the chair opposite Narcissa with her back straight and hands folded neatly in her lap. She allowed herself a careful glance around the room, noting the understated elegance.

How much did this cost?

With a steadying breath, Hermione prepared herself for whatever conversation Narcissa had called her here to begin.

“Thank you for coming,” Narcissa began, her tone smooth, almost casual. She poured a small cup of tea for Hermione, the steam curling upward between them. “I hope the morning finds you well.”

Hermione accepted the cup politely, her fingers brushing the delicate china. “I’m well, thank you,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. Though she knew it was impolite, she didn't ask about how she was in return. She wasn't interested in niceties. 

“Though I must admit I’m curious why you requested this meeting. It’s been years since…well, since any of the Malfoys have had reason to contact me.”

They never had reason to contact her.

Narcissa tilted her head slightly, eyes thoughtful. “Yes, it has been some time. Life moves in unexpected ways, doesn’t it? I wished to speak with you directly. There are matters of…mutual interest we might discuss.”

Now that got her attention. Hermione arched a brow, the suspicion she felt prickling beneath her calm exterior. “Mutual interest? I can’t imagine what that might be.”

Narcissa’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “I understand your caution, Miss Granger. You’ve always been careful, precise, determined. Admirable qualities, truly. And yet…I think there are opportunities that might be best explored in person, over a quiet breakfast, rather than through letters or formal channels.”

Hermione studied her carefully, weighing every subtle inflection. Nothing in Narcissa’s tone suggested threat…or was she just masking it perfectly?

“I see,” Hermione said finally, her voice cool. “And I’m to take it that you don’t intend to reveal the purpose of these opportunities just yet?”

“I promise, it will make sense soon enough. But I thought it best to begin with conversation. Tea, in the gardens, the kind of setting where one can speak freely without an audience on neutral ground.”

Because we need neutral ground…for what?

Hermione exhaled softly, letting a fraction of her tension ease. She didn’t trust Narcissa Malfoy. She wouldn’t. But curiosity, that insistent, nagging curiosity, kept her here, cup in hand, listening.

Narcissa set her teacup down with quiet deliberation and leaned back slightly, her posture calm but commanding. “Alright. I see by your expression that we will just need to get on with it,” she sighed.

Hermione tensed, preparing for her to rip her a new one about all of her policy proposals, her ambitions…this was probably about the one where she suggested abolishing hereditary seats on Wizengamot council.

Great. Leave it to the Malfoys to be the first to strike.

“You’ve worked hard,” Narcissa continued, “but you know as well as I do that the Wizengamot isn’t always kind to those without certain…advantages. Your career, your proposals, your ideals…they’re admirable, truly, but you’ve clearly struggled. Perhaps more than you should have.”

Hermione blinked, absorbing the words. She shifted in her seat, straightening again. This…wasn’t what she expected.

“A connection to a wealthy, established family,” Narcissa went on, letting the implication hang in the air, “could help you navigate those struggles. Open doors that might otherwise remain closed.”

Hermione’s mind raced for a moment, catching up. “You mean…a connection to you?” she asked slowly, voice carefully measured. “You actually want to support me?”

This has to be some kind of…prank. Where are the Prophet photographers hiding?

Narcissa smiled softly. “I do believe in talent, Miss Granger. And potential. But you understand…there are always considerations to be made.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the teacup. She knew the Malfoys too well to believe there wasn’t a catch, but, gods, she was desperate to finally be taken seriously at work. “Why would you support me? What exactly would you get out of it?” she asked bluntly, letting the edge in her tone sharpen.

Narcissa’s eyes remained steady, her smile didn't falter. “The same as you. The Malfoy name,” she said deliberately, “has endured for centuries. There are those who might say it needs…reaffirming, establishing honor in a world that changes too quickly…” She let the thought trail off, just enough for Hermione to sense the unspoken catch.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. She knew there was always a catch…she leaned back slightly, folding her arms, waiting for Narcissa to continue. “I’m still not understanding…”

Narcissa’s lips curved again, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. “I am proposing an engagement, Miss Granger.”

Hermione froze, her mind catching the words and stumbling over them. 

Engagement? Like a social engagement? 

Or does she mean…? Surely not…

For a moment, she said nothing, staring at Narcissa in disbelief. Then, a sharp, incredulous laugh escaped her lips, echoing faintly in the delicate tea room. “You…what?” she said, still chuckling, though a flicker of unease danced behind her eyes. “You’re…proposing an engagement? As in marriage?”

Narcissa’s expression remained composed, as though Hermione’s laughter had been expected all along. “That is exactly what I am meaning. It would serve us both,” she said smoothly, eyes locked on Hermione’s, watching her process the implication, gauging the reaction.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her voice barely steady. “You’re actually serious…you can’t mean–”

Narcissa inclined her head, calm and deliberate. “Yes. To my son. He has already agreed on his end.”

A tremor ran through Hermione, subtle but unmistakable. Absolutely not, she thought, rising from her chair. Her hands clenched at her sides as she tried to steady herself. She knew she was being rude, but she couldn't help herself. “Thank you for tea,” she said tightly, forcing composure into her voice. “But I must…decline.”

She turned toward the door, her pace quickening, intent on putting as much distance between herself and the Rosewood Tea Rooms as possible.

“Think about it,” Narcissa called after her, a faintly amused lilt in her voice. “Have breakfast at the manor with us tomorrow. Same time as today.”

Hermione froze for a heartbeat, stomach twisting. Disbelief and a sharp edge of nausea prickled at her. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. 

Engagement…Marriage…to Draco Malfoy.

Shaking her head, she pushed the door open and stepped back onto the garden path, the morning air hitting her like a splash of cold water. Her heels clicked against the cobblestones as she hurried away, heart racing, mind reeling. She barely registered her surroundings on the city street. All she knew was that she needed to get as far away as possible and fast.

*.    *.    *.     

Draco apparated to Theo’s estate, the familiar shimmer of magic dissolving the tension of breakfast with his mother that Friday morning. Narcissa had been careful, measured, but the conversation about his seat on the Wizengamot still gnawed at him. He pushed it aside, at least for now, knowing he’d stew over it later in the privacy of someone else’s home.

Theo’s manor was a relief. No polished floors with invisible eyes tracking his every movement, no mother silently judging whether he measured up. There was no demand he be anything other than what he was. Draco liked coming here, liked the ease of it. He knew the loneliness that came with freedom, sometimes it felt sharper than the weight of obligations at Malfoy Manor, but at least here, he could pretend it didn’t matter.

Theo had been sensible for once in his life, leaving The Vermillion early, staying away from the vanta powder that had been pulled out for last night’s chaos. The club was always fun in theory, but the morning-after hangovers and headaches weren’t worth the fleeting thrill. Theo was a man that knew his limits. Draco, he did too, but sometimes he pushed the boundary anyway. Worse, if they were together.

He stepped into the manor, letting the familiar scent of polished wood and faint incense greet him. Theo appeared from the kitchen, casual, relaxed, offering a small smirk. “You’re early,” he said. “I figured you would need most of the day to recover.”

Draco snorted, loosening the collar of his shirt. Late for breakfast with his mother, but too early for Theo, naturally. “Had to get away from the theatrics. Mother’s breakfast was…enlightening.”

Theo laughed softly, “Enlightening? Since when?”

Draco shrugged. “I’ll leave it at that,” he said, heading toward the study. “You’ve kept it calm here?”

Theo’s grin widened. “Calm as it ever is. You want a drink? The girls are coming over. They want to swim.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “The girls? Which ones?”

Theo nodded, tossing a casual glance toward the large pool outside the large bay windows. The sunlight glinted off the water, the air warm and inviting. “Our usual birds. Pansy, Daphne, Astoria. Astoria’s got a burst of energy today. Should be fun.”

Draco chuckled, kicking off his shoes and socks, loosening his shirt further. “Sounds like my kind of low-effort chaos.”

Theo grinned. “Drink if you want. Swim if you want. Try not to drown Pansy while she’s being dramatic.”

Draco smirked, feeling some of the morning tension lift. “No promises there.”

As they moved toward the poolside lounge, he glanced around, letting the warm sun on his skin and the familiar comfort of Theo’s manor ease him.

The sound of laughter drifted across the garden as the girls arrived, sundresses flowing in the breeze, hair catching the sunlight. The air was alive with chatter and the faint scent of sunscreen and perfume. The forecast promised good weather today and all weekend. They were going to take advantage of it.

Pansy lowered her sunglasses, a sly smile curving her lips as her eyes landed on Draco. He caught it instantly, a smirk tugging at his own mouth, and casually strode over to her, hands shoved into his pockets.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth and teasing. “Didn’t expect you to show up looking like a daydream.”

Pansy laughed lightly, leaning slightly into him as if the world around them didn’t exist. “You’ve always had a way with words.”

Draco grinned, rolling his eyes. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know that.”

For anyone else watching, it would have looked like a proper couple, the ease and warmth between them. But they both knew it was nothing more than careless teasing, familiar, but nothing binding beyond mutual understanding. There were no expectations, except maybe the ones from their parents. Maybe marriage one day if it were arranged. For now, it was harmless fun with no strings. Exactly what Draco wanted.

Astoria waved from the garden path, her energy infectious despite her recent illness, while Daphne settled into a lounge chair with a quiet, amused smile. Draco glanced around, letting himself relax. This was exactly what he needed, sunlight, water, and the company of friends who understood the rules, and played by them just as well.

He leaned closer to Pansy, whispering with a grin, “Ready to make everyone jealous of how effortlessly we cause trouble?”

Pansy laughed, shaking her head, “Always.”

Draco smirked and gave Pansy a playful nudge toward the edge of the pool. “Race you in?” he challenged, already shedding his shirt and letting it fall to the stone deck.

Pansy rolled her eyes, laughing as she kicked off her sandals and tossed her dress over her head. “You’re on, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t wait. He launched himself into the pool with a splash, surfacing with a wide grin. Pansy emerged across from him, hair plastered to her face and a triumphant laugh on her lips. The two circled each other in mock combat, splashing water and teasing jabs, drawing laughter from everyone around.

Astoria dipped a toe in first, hesitating before diving gracefully into the water, sending a gentle ripple across the surface. She floated on her back nearby, “Hey watch the splashing!” while Daphne perched on the poolside, tossing her hair back and cracking jokes about everyone’s swimming skills, toes in the water.

The afternoon stretched lazily over them, sunlight warming their shoulders, the occasional cheer and splash punctuating the hum of conversation. Drinks were passed around, light snacks floated on trays. This laughter, warmth, and the chaotic ease of friends was exactly what he needed. And for a few hours, he let himself forget everything else.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the poolside as the laughter slowly died down. Towels were draped over chairs, wet hair hung in tousled waves, and the clatter of empty glasses signaled the end of the afternoon.

Pansy lingered near Draco as the others gathered their things. “You could come back to my place in the city tonight,” she suggested, voice playful but insistent. “We could…unwind. Maybe spend tomorrow shopping. You know, a proper Saturday.”

Draco shook his head, running a hand through his damp hair. “I promised I’d be home tonight,” he said evenly, the weight of responsibility pressing back into his chest. After last night’s antics, he needed to smooth things over, keep the fragile peace intact with his mother.

Pansy shrugged. “Your loss, Malfoy,” she said lightly, already heading toward the pool house to grab her things.

Draco smirked faintly. He made his rounds, saying goodbye to Astoria and Daphne, teasing and waving as he went, though part of him was already dreading the shift in mood that awaited him back at the estate.

With a final glance and wave to Theo, Draco lifted his wand and apparated, the world snapping and twisting around him. When he reappeared on the grounds of Malfoy Manor, the sprawling estate loomed in the late afternoon light, quiet and imposing. He let out a quiet exhale, feeling the weight of expectation settle back onto his shoulders, already anticipating the careful diplomacy and controlled behavior his mother would demand.

It was quiet when he stepped inside. He barely acknowledged the house elves as he made his way to the drawing room where his mother was waiting. Narcissa sat upright, elegant as always, a teacup poised in her hand.

“Draco, a word about tomorrow…” she began, voice calm but deliberate.

Draco tuned her out almost immediately, letting his eyes drift around the room, counting the ornate silver frames and the polished wood floors. He glanced at a portrait of his father.

He hadn't visited him in Azkaban in some time…

“....it would be beneficial for our family if…”

Yes, yes…Draco nodded along as she spoke. He didn’t really care, not now. He reached for the whiskey on the sideboard and poured it carefully into a glass, still eyeing his father’s portrait. He sipped it, feeling the warmth spread through him, dulling the edge of the day.

“...incredibly foolish should she refuse…”

Did Theo and Pansy have a thing? He could swear there was a moment there by the poolhouse when he was leaving…but then, she had invited him over for the night. Not Theo.

Would he have cared if they did?

“...important that you agree before I make any sort of arrangements…”

“I understand,” he murmured, nodding again as Narcissa continued, outlining in precise, calm tones how it would benefit both parties, how it would help…something. He had no idea what he was agreeing to. He didn't care, as long as she would stop her jabbering.

“...tea room tomorrow. Perhaps even have her join us on Sunday for breakfast if she agrees…”

“Yes, breakfast is fine,” he breathed, ready for her to be done. All bloody week she had been pestering him like this. He was near ready to self destruct.

“Oh, darling,” she pulled him into an unexpected hug. “This is wonderful.” He hesitated, then leaned into it.

This…was nice. He couldn't remember the last time they had hugged like this. It almost made whatever it was he just committed to worth it. He was sure he'd regret it later. Naturally. But that was Future Draco’s problem.

She pulled away first. “I’ll send an owl.” And then she was gone.

He downed another long swallow, grabbed the bottle, and headed toward his room after his mother left. Surely it was just some social affair with her friends, something to prove to them…and something about breakfast tomorrow…then a meeting on Sunday. It clearly made her happy, and for the time being he was satisfied with that.

Though, in hindsight he probably should have at least paid a bit more attention. Was this a casual affair, or formal? She would likely mention it again soon enough and he'd find out.

Again, it was a problem for Future Draco.

The halls of Malfoy Manor seemed unusually long and empty tonight, but he didn’t care. Draco allowed the silence to consume him, the solitude both comforting and dangerous. He didn’t care about tomorrow, about his mother’s expectations.

For now, there was only the burn of whiskey, the weight of his own thoughts, and the quiet hum of a Friday night that belonged entirely to him.

Chapter Text

He rubbed at his eyes, the weight of last night’s whiskey still clinging stubbornly. The room was quiet, sunlight creeping through the tall windows. Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretched, and headed down to the dining room, expecting to find his mother seated as usual.

The chair opposite the head of the table was empty. Odd.

“Where’s Mother?” he asked one of the house elves bustling about the kitchen.

“She’s gone to the Rosewood Tea Room this morning, Master Malfoy,” the elf replied politely, adjusting a tray of toast. 

That's what they called him now, since his father's imprisonment. Not Young Master, or Master Draco, anymore.

Draco raised a brow, but he simply nodded. Breakfast alone would do. He poured himself a cup of tea with the flick of his wand, sipped it carefully, and settled at the table.

He didn’t feel like going anywhere today. And he was sure Narcissa had said something about being on time for breakfast this morning. She wasn't even here. A part of him bristled at the manipulation, the witch, but another part quietly appreciated the reprieve. She had been sticking her nose in his business more than usual lately.

Weeks ago, it was about Pansy. Would they settle down into something? Draco had shut that down quickly.

Then, it was about his gambling and drinking. Well, that always cropped up from time to time, but she hadn't minded so much before. Her patience with him was thinning, apparently. 

Well, his patience was thinning, too. The woman just wouldn't leave him alone. The more she pulled at him, the more he pushed away, going to places like Theo’s or The Vermillion to seek out some sort of peace.

Now, here she was, standing him up at breakfast after all her nagging. For the damned tea rooms.

Hypocrite.

Draco was midway through his toast when the sound of hurried footsteps reached him. The dining room door swung open, and Narcissa came bustling in, her expression animated.

He raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “Where’ve you been? I promised to have breakfast with you again, and you didn’t even bother to show up.”

Narcissa didn’t miss a beat, barely glancing at him. Had she even heard what he just said? “I think she will agree!”

That made him stop. He hadn't seen her this excited in ages. Her eyes were sparkling, her smile real. Maybe her women’s society, he couldn't remember the name, had finally made whatever such and such happen. Whatever cause they were buying into, it was different every month.

Draco blinked, confusion flickering across his features briefly. “That’s great. Glad to hear it,” he smiled, her joy a bit infectious despite his mood. “I've set the day aside for you. We can head into Diagon Alley for the day, or hop into Paris for lunch if you prefer,” he suggested, trying to steer the conversation toward something concrete. He was making time to be the good son she had been asking for.

Her eyes flitted over him briefly, dismissive. “Sorry, not today. I have arrangements to make. You can do what you please.”

Draco bristled at the words.

Do what I please? Really? After all that incessant nagging!

His jaw tightened. “Fine then,” he muttered, standing.

He moved toward the stairs, ready to retreat back to his room, when Narcissa’s voice stopped him. She looked up, more serious now. “But you cannot miss breakfast tomorrow. You have to be there. It’s important, and you better not break a promise to your mother.”

Had it been breakfast tomorrow he had promised? Bloody…

He exhaled, a mix of irritation and reluctant acceptance. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

The nerve of that woman. What the bloody hell is she up to?

He didn't want to know. Not really.

He turned and headed up the stairs. He didn't feel like seeing anyone else today, and couldn't risk Pansy catching him out in the city without his mother…or she’d call him a liar, drag him into whatever plans she had for the day.

No, he would just spend today with his favorite bottle of firewhiskey and quiet. Maybe Theo’s or The Vermillion tonight if he paced himself.

*.    *.    *.    

The bottle of Pinot was already half-empty.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the sofa in her flat, wand tucked behind her ear, a stack of scrolls untouched beside her. The light from the corner lamp cast a soft golden glow over the room, but the warmth didn’t reach her thoughts.

She was too distracted to read. Too restless to write.

Draco Malfoy.

An engagement.

In some formal, magical contract if Narcissa had her way, and it seemed she often did get her way. Hermione had spent most of the day pacing, replaying the Tea Room conversation over and over from breakfast…Narcissa’s cool confidence and her sly maneuvering.

She took another slow sip of wine, letting the dry notes settle on her tongue. There had been rumors over the years, little whispers in political circles where Malfoy’s name appeared in gossip columns more than Wizengamot updates. He had money, charm, and a legacy…but nothing real to show for it.

Except for that seat.

His family’s place on the council. It should’ve been hers, she worked harder than anyone. Fought for it. Bled for it. Yet, there he was…a name, a bloodline, and barely any contribution.

Gods, if they would just take her proposal seriously on abolishing hereditary seats. Of course, it wasn't a requirement to earn a position, but only a handful of seats were available that weren't passed through bloodlines. It was hard to actually get one on your own merit. 

And then…Narcissa had been right about one thing. The union of a Malfoy and a Muggleborn would shake the world.

Not any Muggleborn witch would do, either. Not for the Malfoys. They would want the brightest witch of their age…even if she and Draco never got along. It was absolutely like him too, always wanting the best of everything, having to be above others. That was the only reason she could fathom Draco Malfoy would agree to any of this.

The world was changing and Malfoy pride was being wounded. They would want to spearhead the change as if it had been their idea, this progression.

Not that Hermione thought she was the best of anything. Maybe, once. But this business trying to climb the Council ranks had nearly beaten that out of her. 

It would legitimize everything Hermione stood for in the eyes of those who still clung to the old ways. It would be public unity.

A symbol of the future.

She could be part of that.

Would it be worth it?

She set the wine glass down and stared at the darkened window.

Could she stomach it?

She told herself she could at least go to breakfast.

It's just breakfast.

She’d sip tea, listen politely, and maybe even laugh when Draco inevitably said something infuriating. She could hear them out, give Narcissa her performance, and then politely excuse herself with enough dignity intact to decide later what came next. 

Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass again, knuckles whitening. But they hated each other. 

Didn’t they?

She drained the last of her glass and leaned her head back against the cushion. Her curls tumbled over the arm of the sofa, wild and unruly.

Tomorrow would come quickly.

She was thirteen again. The corridor at Hogwarts dim and humming with the echoes of laughter from the courtyard outside. Malfoy’s voice, sharp, sneering, and unmistakably him, said something foul about Hagrid.

She hadn’t hesitated.

Her fist connected with his jaw before his smirk had finished forming. 

The pop of bone and shock of impact was still so satisfying that she woke with a small, startled smile on her lips.

Gods, that had felt good.

Hermione stretched beneath the heavy duvet, rubbing her eyes, but the moment the dream faded, the weight of the morning returned like a stone pressing against her chest.

She was about to have breakfast at Malfoy Manor.

With Malfoy.

Possibly to discuss a political alliance masked as an engagement.

She sat up slowly, Crookshanks hooking his claws into the duvet next to her as he stretched. “I guess we are really doing this, old man.”

With a muttered charm, she summoned her dressing gown and moved to the mirror, tying the sash around her waist.

“You can do this,” she whispered, staring at her reflection. “It’s just breakfast. Just tea. Just…war crimes and awkward silences and the ghost of every single insult he’s ever thrown at you in school.”

Ugh.

She dressed carefully in something sensible and sharp, nothing flashy. A cream flowy blouse with black buttons over a camisole, half buttoned and tucked in at the front. Something casual, but not too informal…She paired it with beige trousers and heels. 

Make up was easy. She didn't wear too much of it, just a rosy lipstick and small amount of mascara. If she were going out with friends, more would have been done–but she wasn't going to make too much effort for this.

Her unruly hair…that was harder. She stared at herself in the mirror, brush in hand, for a long time.

Draco had mocked her curls. Every bloody year.

She could smooth them, like she often did for work in a tidy plait or twisted bun, or that straightening charm she sometimes used. That would be easy, expected, business-like.

But something about the idea rankled.

No. Let him see her like this. Let him see the wild curls, let him remember the girl with the bushy hair he once sneered at. A small reminder of who he had agreed to meet with.

She set the brush down, but still used her wand to at least tame the curls into shape, smooth the frizz that sleep created.

When she was ready and satisfied, she walked away from the mirror. Her heart pounded, but her chin lifted. 

The manor gates had opened before she reached them.

Of course they had.

Hermione passed beneath the towering iron arch with a calmness she did not feel, her heels crunching against the gravel drive as the ancient trees lining the path whispered secrets in the summer breeze. Malfoy Manor rose like a pale wound ahead, sharp-edged, grand, and still vaguely menacing even in morning light.

The door opened for her without a knock. A small house elf smiled and shuffled to let her inside. “Welcome, Miss.”

“Good morning,” she replied, stepping inside. “And thank you.”

“You are expected. This way.”

She followed.

Do they compensate the elves, or are they still slaves to the manor?

The halls were quiet. Too quiet. Her footsteps echoed off stone and marble as she passed portraits who watched her with barely disguised disdain. Their faces, she realized, were all the same breed…high-boned, pale, contemptuous. Ancient Malfoys and proud cousins. All gone now.

Probably dust.

Still, they looked at her like she didn’t belong.

Which…fine. She didn’t.

The elf stopped at the double doors of the dining room, gave a polite bow, and opened them with a quiet creak.

Her stomach flipped.

They were already seated. Was she late?

She was sure that she was precisely on time…

Narcissa sat poised at the head of the long dining table, a pale porcelain teacup in her hand. Draco, lounging casually in a dark jumper on her right, looked every inch the bored heir until his gaze landed on Hermione.

His whole body stiffened.

That reaction, sharp, cold, and unmistakably annoyed, nearly stopped Hermione in her tracks. His eyes narrowed just a fraction, not enough to be rude in front of his mother, but she saw it. Felt the disdain.

Whatever he thought this morning was going to be, she wasn’t sure if she was part of the plan.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa said smoothly, as if nothing were amiss. “Thank you for joining us. Please–sit.”

Hermione blinked, then forced her lips into a polite curve, the mask of someone practiced in the courtroom. “Of course. Thank you for the invitation.”

The house elf snapped his fingers. A setting appeared before the empty chair directly across from Draco with fresh linen, polished silver, and a steaming cup of what smelled like spiced tea. A plate already half-filled itself beside it.

She moved forward numbly.

Opposite him. Of course.

She sat. Her heart thudded like she’d stepped into an ambush, because maybe she had. Her palms felt warm, and the air in the room felt thicker than it had in the hallway.

This was a mistake.

She felt it already, as if this were a trick all along. Still she lifted her chin, didn’t fidget. 

Draco hadn’t said a word. He was watching her like he was trying to understand sonething…like why she was at his breakfast table.

His mother, meanwhile, was all gracious smiles, taking delicate sips of tea like this was a perfectly ordinary breakfast and Hermione was an expected guest.

“A shame we didn’t have more time to speak yesterday. But I’m glad you’re here. It’s important to us that you feel…welcomed.”

Hermione smiled faintly, she didn't feel welcome. Her eyes carefully flicked over to Draco. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

She didn’t miss the way his fingers drummed once against the table before stilling. His jaw was tight.

He still hadn’t spoken, but he was staring. She tried not to squirm under his sharp gaze. She pictured her dream, the memory of her fist…his face. 

Narcissa poured more tea, serene and practiced. “We have much to discuss.”

Hermione nodded, her pulse in her throat.

I don't think he agreed to this…

Hermione straightened her shoulders, picked up her knife and began to peel the grapefruit in front of her. Slowly. Methodically, though her mind was whirring.

She would eat. She would listen. Then she would leave, as soon as possible.

Draco had finally looked away, staring down at his plate like it offended him. His mouth was tight, movements clipped. He chewed like he wanted to destroy the food instead of swallow it. Her chest twisted.

She wanted to snap at him for making her uncomfortable, but she kept her mouth shut. She was already playing someone else's game. She would not appear unprepared for the rules.

Her fingers brushed the linen napkin on her lap. Across from her, Draco lifted his eyes just long enough to meet hers.

There was no warmth in them.

Narcissa sipped her tea, eyes bright over the rim of her porcelain cup. "Draco, really. Don’t be impolite to our guest. The least you can do is thank her for coming on such short notice."

Hermione glanced at him again. His posture had gone rigid.

He set down his fork without looking up, a muscle ticking in his jaw. For a moment, he just sat there. Then, slowly, he reached for his tea, took a long sip, and set the cup back down with deliberate calm.

“I would,” he said evenly, “if I knew why she was here.”

Ah. Just as she thought…he hadn't the slightest idea…

Hermione tried to calm her nerves, keep herself composed.

Narcissa’s spine stiffened, a frown forming. “Draco,” she said sharply. “We discussed this.”

His brow arched, an expression so subtly insubordinate it didn’t match his mother’s level of indignation. He angled his head, mouth tugging at the corner like he might laugh. “Did we?”

Hermione suddenly felt like she was sitting in the middle of a very old and very silent duel.

Narcissa's nostrils flared, and a flicker of genuine heat passed through her eyes. “Do not embarrass yourself.” Her voice had dropped to something colder, less elegant and more iron.

Hermione sat motionless, pretending to focus on the cup placed before her. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, but her fingers trembled. Her heart pounded. She wasn't entirely sure why…nerves, frustration…

Draco’s eyes cut toward her, pale and unreadable. He didn’t say anything.

If they discussed this, why does he look so…

Her stomach twisted.

Whatever game Narcissa was playing, it was not one Hermione wanted to join. Yet, she was the piece being moved across the board.

Fine.

She could play too.

“Well. This isn’t remotely uncomfortable.” Her voice was smooth, calm. She forced herself to sound entirely unbothered, just like she had done many times before during trials where slurs sometimes hurled at her…or suggestions made. It was contempt, but the ones that knew they were going to Azkaban didn't have anything else to lose.

He could have been one of them, had his sentencing gone any different. Not that she had been there. No, she wasn't working anywhere near the chambers or courtroom until he was finishing up probation.

He hadn't grown up at all since then. Same old prat.

She could handle that.

Her gaze flicked toward Draco as she took a sip, the corner of her mouth twitching like she might almost laugh. 

Narcissa dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin and set it down with poised finality. “Let’s speak plainly, shall we?” she said, her tone smooth but purposefully loud enough to draw both their attention. “The Malfoy name still carries weight. And despite everything, it can still mean something again.”

Her eyes flicked toward Draco, pointed, expectant.

He blinked, slow and unimpressed, stirring his tea absently as if she were lecturing about the weather. “That’s a lovely sentiment, Mother,” he drawled. “Truly. Shall we put it on the family crest?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she pressed on. “Miss Granger has become…quite the figurehead for those desperate to rebuild some semblance of a civil society. She’s earned respect in the new world. But what she lacks…is legacy. Traditional standing. Support.”

Draco raised a brow, finally glancing at Hermione, then back to his mother. “You’ve lost me. Is this something for charity? Something your women's society has conjured?” His eyes darted back to Hermione again. “Are you looking for campaign donations, Granger? Because–”

Hermione made a sharp, frustrated sound and set her tea down with a clink. “Your mother is trying to arrange a marriage, you twit.”

Draco froze.

His eyes flicked to hers, shocked, incredulous, and maybe just a little betrayed.

Draco stared at Hermione, then at his mother, his brow furrowing.

And then, he laughed.

Not a smirk or a scoff, but an honest, incredulous laugh that rang through the quiet room. He leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing the side of his face as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You can’t be serious,” he said finally, wiping at the corner of his eye with a knuckle as the laughter tapered into a breathless exhale. “This is what you’ve come up with?”

He looked at Narcissa with something between disbelief and dark amusement. “You want me to propose to Hermione Granger? For what–political rehabilitation? Social optics?” He snorted. “Well done, Mother. Bold strategy.”

Narcissa, unamused, lifted her teacup with impeccable grace. “It is an opportunity–for both of you! Or would you prefer the world continue to see you as a drunkard, a disreputable wastrel, a Death Eater?”

Draco’s smirk fell like a dropped mask.

His jaw clenched, grey eyes narrowing to cold slits. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Of course not,” Narcissa said evenly, not blinking. “But you are what the world sees, Draco.”

The silence that followed was brittle, jagged.

The breath caught in Hermione’s chest. She hadn’t realized how hard her heart had begun to pound.

Death Eater. It stirred her thoughts.

The last time she’d sat in this room, she hadn’t been offered tea. She’d been dragged bleeding through that front hall. Screamed under the Cruciatus.

Her eyes darted that way, as if seeing the ghosts of their past.

Now here she was being offered a seat at the table and on display like some neat solution to centuries of Malfoy rot.

Her mind reeled with realization. They needed her far more than she needed them. Eventually she could climb her way up. It would be…difficult…and take longer than she'd like, but she knew she could do it.

But the Malfoys? They had their wealth, but their reputation was ruined in the eyes of society. 

Hermione was the one with all the cards…

And Narcissa was actually…brilliant.

She pushed the memories down…deep, far beneath the polite mask. Then, before she could stop herself, she spoke.

“I accept your proposal.” The words were crisp, decisive. They cut through the heavy silence like a spell.

Draco’s head whipped toward her.

“What?” he breathed, his tone a mix of disbelief and horror. He looked between Hermione and his mother.

Hermione finally met his gaze. Her voice was cool. “I said I accept. Your mother’s right–this benefits both parties. The Malfoy name can make itself useful for once.”

Her lips curled in the faintest smile. “Unless, of course, you object to being politically rehabilitated by a Mudblood.”

Narcissa didn’t react.

Draco looked like someone had just slapped him. He pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping harshly against the stone floor as he stood. His napkin fell forgotten to the floor, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Absolutely not.” His tone was cold, clipped, almost panicked beneath the surface. “We are not doing this. I am not some pawn for your political redemption campaign, and she–” he gestured harshly toward Hermione, then dropped his hand with a grimace “she doesn’t want this either.”

Narcissa didn’t flinch. She simply sipped her tea, calm as ever.

“This isn’t about want. It’s about survival. You have no career. You have no reputable allies. You drink too much and fight too often. You sleep in houses that aren’t yours and give your loyalty to people who would sooner see you dead than respected.”

Hermione raised a brow, but said nothing.

“I’m trying,” he growled, pacing now, his voice rising. “Merlin, I’ve tried, haven’t I? I’ve done everything they've asked of me–testimony, probation, reformation circles, even bloody volunteer work. What more do you all bloody want from me?”

“To stop acting like a boy and start behaving like a Malfoy,” she said sharply.

Draco turned on her. “No. You don’t get to throw that name around like it means something. You don’t get to decide who I marry, or why.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped, cool and lethal.

“Then perhaps your father and I should no longer provide for someone so determined to destroy what little remains of this family’s dignity.”

Draco froze.

“You’ve spoken to Father.”

“I have, and he supports the idea. If you reject this opportunity, Draco, we will cut you off–formally. Your inheritance. Your name. Your place here.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as the words sank in.

Hermione didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat was dry, her hands cold against the teacup she hadn’t touched. This wasn’t how she’d imagined accepting an engagement, not as some clever political stunt, not as something that would unravel Draco Malfoy like this.

She was his ultimatum. And for some reason, watching him squirm like that was…she felt…bad.

But not bad enough.

Oh how the tables have turned.

He turned, finally, to her and there was something in his face. It was a mix of rage, confusion, but under it all, hurt.

He stared at her for a long, shattering second, as if willing her to take it back–reject this whole thing. Seeing him worked up like that, the power she had over him in that moment…after all the times he had that over her head.

She swallowed thickly.

Then he laughed again, but it was colder this time. Bitten off.

“Congratulations, Granger,” he said bitterly. “Looks like you finally found the perfect way to win the war.”

And with that, he walked out.

Hermione said nothing. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, but her nails dug into her palms. The room had grown stifling. The air was filled with bergamot and unspoken threats.

Narcissa rose at last, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. “He’s always been dramatic, just like his father,” she said, as if it were an afterthought. “Don’t worry. He’ll come around once the idea settles.”

Then, with a smooth pivot that left Hermione reeling, she asked, “Now–how is the policy on magical refugee reparations progressing? I heard the Wizengamot is dragging their feet again.”

Hermione blinked. It took her a full second to respond. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

She had just agreed to an engagement for power. For credibility. For protection. And Narcissa Malfoy was already onto the next topic, as if it had been settled with afternoon tea.

Chapter Text

Draco stormed out of the dining room, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. Mother had tricked him. No other word fit. She had set the stage, planted the players, and shoved him into some ridiculous political theater with Hermione Granger as the co-star.

He needed air. He needed distance from all of this…them.

His mother's meddling. Granger being stupid enough to involve herself. The fact that the two of them were even in a room together…talking…under this roof…after the last time she had been here with the three of them together.

The screams. 

Did neither of them remember that?

His room was a blur as he grabbed his wand and a pack of cigarettes. The door barely closed behind him before he shoved it open again, barreling past the open doorway of the dining room. Narcissa and Hermione were still seated there, calm and perfectly composed, chatting like nothing had happened. Like his fury and humiliation were nothing. Like the screams and the curses and the blood never happened.

Draco’s jaw clenched, his silver eyes flashing with anger. He didn’t slow his pace, not even when he caught their glances flick toward him. 

He had to get out.

Draco stepped into the floo and threw the powder down, letting the green flames engulf him as he called out Nott Manor. He dusted himself and headed directly to Theo’s garden, where his friend was usually found lazing about. The familiar expanse of green offered a small, grounding relief. The early morning sun glinted off the pool water, making the surface sparkle like nothing mattered. For now, at least, it was his space.

Theo was slouched in a chair by the pool, hair sticking in damp, messy curls, his eyes bloodshot and half-lidded. He looked like hell, clearly still recovering from another pool party and likely the Vanta powder-fueled antics that had followed.

“You look awful,” Draco muttered, lighting a cigarette. The familiar drag helped him steady the whirlwind of thoughts. “Did Digby let you sleep out here?”

Theo gave a weak grin. “Morning,” he croaked, voice rough. “Don’t start judging. My house elf doesn't let me do anything. Anyway, you look like you’ve been through the wringer yourself.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh. “You could say that.” He took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling around him. “Mother’s played me. I…I don’t even know what I agreed to. I don't agree to anything! Ambushed at breakfast by Hermione Granger, Theo.”

Theo squinted at him, clearly trying to recall the full story through the fog of his own hangover. “Breakfast…with Granger? At Malfoy Manor with your mum?” he echoed.

“Yes!” Draco snapped, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “Why is Hermione Granger, of all people, in my house, you might ask? Why is she sitting at my breakfast table like she belongs there? Even after…I don’t even–” He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, pacing a little near the pool.

Theo just shrugged, leaning back in his chair, one hand lazily draped over his face. “Sounds…like a typical Malfoy problem,” he said, voice rough and unamused. “You’ll figure it out.”

Draco blew out a sharp plume of smoke, letting it hang in the air before speaking. “No, you don’t get it. Granger…she wants to marry me. To use the Malfoy name. For her career. This goes against everything…It’s not…I don't know what their game is.”

His thoughts whirred. How could his mother concoct such a scheme? She was a purist…so was his father. His own mother had called him a Death Eater. As if that hadn't been the path they put him on, as if he had any choice in the matter. And, so now, what? They wanted him to marry a muggleborn? None of it made sense. If anything, or depreciated the Malfoy name, at least for the traditionalists.

Theo’s jaw dropped, and he leaned forward slightly, eyes wide. “Wait…this was your mother’s idea?”

Draco gave a curt nod. “Yes. Apparently Father’s on board too.” His silver eyes cut to the shocked expression of his friend. “I know, Theo. I know. It’s…bad. There's more…” his rolled his cigarette anxiously between his fingers. “They’re practically pinning me to the wall. Threatening my inheritance if I don’t agree. Can you believe that?”

Theo sat back, rubbing his face with both hands, still trying to process it. “Wow…that’s…I mean, that’s insane. They can’t seriously think you’d go along with it.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh. “Mother believes I’m wasting my life as a gambling drunkard, as if I've made any kind of dent in our vaults. And Father…well, he hasn’t exactly been around to stop her plotting, has he? I’m trapped. They’ve set the board, Theo, and I’m just the bloody pawn...again.”

He tapped the cigarette against the edge of the lounge, ashes falling into the grass, and muttered, “The worst part? I’m expected to pretend I’m fine with everything, like the dutiful heir.”

Theo shook his head slowly.

Draco leaned back, staring up at the pale morning sky, letting the smoke curl around him like armor. “They can't just let me live my life.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, the pool water glinting in the morning sun and the faint smell of smoke still lingering between them.

Finally, Theo spoke, a smirk curling on his lips. It was one Draco knew well, the one Theo gave when he had a brilliantly mischevious idea. “Well…you know. You could always just…pretend.”

Draco shot him a flat look, one eyebrow raised. Not a brilliant idea, then. A stupid one. “Pretend? Theo–”

“Hear me out,” Theo said, fishing a cigarette from the front pocket of his shirt and lighting it with a flick of his wand. “You pretend, then sabotage the whole thing.”

Draco blinked at him, caught between confusion and disbelief. “Wait…you mean actually go along with it?”

Theo exhaled a thin stream of smoke, grinning like a bastard. “You pretend, play the part of the perfect Malfoy, but get under her skin. Push her buttons so much she remembers why you hate each other and breaks it off herself.”

Draco frowned, pacing near the pool, the smoke curling around him. He didn't…hate her…not the way he had always been expected to anyway. Merlin…she was a good person, and a part of him respected that.

That was precisely the problem. 

She was a good person. He wasn't. It was that simple. And she more than likely hated him. 

They didn't mix, not at all. And why would they want to…especially with their history?

The whole ordeal sounded chaotic and exhausting. But…Theo’s idea…that could work, if Granger hated him enough, it probably wouldn't take too much effort. “You think that’s…actually possible?”

Theo leaned back again, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “Absolutely. Mother gets her appearances, it could be fun getting Golden Girl worked up, and you don’t get cut off from any vaults.”

Draco paused, a dark chuckle escaping him as the idea began to spring in his mind into something of substance. “Make it her decision to back out…that could work.”

“Fucking hell. Now you see it,” Theo said, grinning wider. “She’ll do the work for you. All you have to do is play along enough to rile her, just like back at Hogwarts.”

Draco took a long drag, letting the smoke swirl around him. “You're a fucking genius, Theo.” He smirked, the edges of his lips curling dangerously. 

Narcissa was waiting in the drawing room, a single candle burning low beside her. She did not look tired, though Draco knew she had been sitting there for awhile. Her posture was too precise, her hands folded too carefully.

“You were out late,” she said, voice smooth as glass.

Draco shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over a chair. “I spent the day Theo’s.”

“I know where you were.” She studied him, that sharp Malfoy appraisal that made him feel fifteen again. “Have you decided?”

His jaw worked. For a long moment, he considered brushing past her and heading upstairs without another word. But then he saw the faint tension around her mouth, the way relief flickered at the edge of her mask simply because he had come home.

“Fine,” Draco said at last, the word cutting like a blade in his throat. “I’ll do it.”

A small, quiet exhale escaped her, more telling than anything. “You’re making the right choice.”

“Mm.” He kept his face blank, his tone casual. “I’ll send her an owl tonight.”

Narcissa nodded, satisfied. She didn’t notice the way his lip curled when her gaze shifted toward the candle flame.

In truth, he wasn’t conceding. He was planning. If Granger wanted to play at marriage, then fine. He would set the stage. He would push until she snapped. And when she finally tore the whole engagement to shreds herself, no one would blame him for the ruin.

Later, alone in his room, he sat at his desk, pulling parchment toward him. His quill hovered, tip blotted with ink. For one absurd moment, he hesitated. He pictured the last time he had seen her when he was released from probation, those wide brown eyes staring at him. Judging him…maybe disappointed that he was a free man.

Then he pictured her entirely differently. Her face twisted in agony, panting, screaming for help, his name, as his aunt tore into her.

That was a long time ago. Don't let her guilt trip you. That wasn't your fault…

Draco sneered, forced it all way down, and wrote.

—

Granger.

*.    *.    *.    

Malfoy Manor. There was cold marble beneath her. Bellatrix’s shrill laughter pierced the air as the knife of her wand pressed into her arm, carving letters she would never forget. Hermione screamed until her voice was shredded. And still she screamed for help.

Draco stood there. Pale. Frozen. His hand twitched at his side like he might reach for his wand, but he never did. His silver eyes were wide with something that almost looked like pity. Almost. But when she begged “Malfoy! Please…Help me! Draco!” He just stood there, shame and fear pinning him to the floor more tightly than any curse could.

Hermione jolted awake, damp curls clinging to her temples, chest heaving like she’d been running. The dim light of morning seeped through the curtains, soft and thin. Her tongue felt thick, her head fuzzy. The last of last night’s wine punished her for drinking it.

She rubbed her eyes, willing the remnants of the nightmare away, but Bellatrix’s shrill laughter clung like cobwebs.

This dream, again. Being at the Manor again had stirred something deep. The strangest part wasn’t that she had dreamed of Malfoy again. It was that, yesterday, she had almost almost found herself admiring Narcissa Malfoy. After her son stormed out, they talked. She’d spoken with a kind of poised, measured intelligence Hermione couldn’t help respecting.

Surprisingly, Narcissa hadn't offended her, or mentioned her dirty blood. For something so ingrained in the traditionalist high society, it seemed a non-issue.

If it weren’t for the history…for the dream still echoing in her bones…she could almost imagine liking her.

But the last time all three of them had been in that home together…that wasn't just something you just…forgot.

You have the cards, remember. She wants to support you…she’s eager to have her name in a good light again, that's all. The Malfoys always just want to be on top, they don't care how they get there…

They don't care how they get there…

Hermione pushed herself up, clutching the sheet around her shoulders as she swung her legs from the bed. She shuffled toward the kitchen, craving water, maybe tea.

Crookshanks was already up waiting for her, perched near the kitchen window. That was when she saw it.

On the sill outside in her letterbox lay an envelope sealed in green wax. The Malfoy crest stamped deep into the surface glimmered faintly in the light.

Her stomach flipped. An owl had been here sometime in the night and she hadn't known.

Hermione shooed Crookshanks off the ledge and lifted the latch, quickly pulling the letter inside. For a long moment she just held it, the paper heavy, accusing. Then, with one sharp breath, she cracked the seal.

It wasn't from Narcissa.

The handwriting inside was unmistakable…she'd seen it a hundred times in school. Sharp, deliberate strokes.

—

Granger,

It seems we are agreed. I will not waste ink dressing this arrangement in sentiment–it serves us both to proceed. Nothing more.

Understand this. You will not like me, and I will not like you. But I will not lose what is mine and you will come to regret the decision to strongarm me.

Will you marry me?

D. Malfoy

—

Her pulse turned to fire in her ears. What is mine? Her hands clenched so tight the parchment crumpled. The sheer arrogance…no real greeting, no hint of courtesy, just ownership stamped in ink.

The nerve. The absolute nerve.

She stormed to the desk, yanked out parchment, dipped her quill, and began furiously scratching.

—

Malfoy,

You insufferable, arrogant, sorry excuse for a man. You owe me this much. To assume I would want more than the political alliance this arrangement brings is absolutely ignorant on your part, but again with an ego the size of yours I shouldn't be surprised. I would rather chain myself to the gates of Azkaban than–

—

She stopped and stared, then crumpled the page into a ball and hurled it across the room.

A new sheet. The quill dug deep into the parchment.

—

Malfoy,

Your proposal, if one can even call such a graceless declaration a proposal, is insulting in every conceivable way–

—

No, this wouldn't do. He was winding her up on purpose. This was the type of response he wanted from her.

She shredded the parchment, tossed the pieces into the sink, and lit them with a flick of her wand.

One more. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to smooth her hand before setting quill to paper again. This time, her words were clipped, controlled.

—

Malfoy,

An engagement requires appearances, and appearances require…cooperation. We will schedule a meeting, public enough to be noticed, private enough to be tolerable. We can discuss…terms, before anything is to be actually considered between us. You may suggest a time and place, though I reserve the right to decline anything unbecoming.

H. 

—

She stared at the words, each one like swallowing glass. Not what she wanted to say, but survivable. Diplomacy would win her this game. She needed to treat it for what it was, a business transaction.

She folded the parchment, sealed it tight, and shoved it out the window before she could change her mind.

The owl swooped in before she had the chance to second-guess herself. Talons hooked the parchment clean out of her fingers, the seal not yet cool from her wand. Hermione lunged, then froze, hand suspended in the air. Wait! Too late. The bird was already gone.

Ugh.

The reply came almost indecently fast.

—

Lunch. Today. Not in public, just us. My home.

D. Malfoy

—

Hermione let out a bark of laughter, sharp as flint, before rolling her eyes so hard it hurt. “Of course, can’t be seen out publicly with a muggleborn,” she muttered. 

No, none of what he demanded was reasonable. She wasn't eager to go back there again…and wasn't entirely certain she felt even remotely comfortable being alone with him. A buffer was needed, other people around. Any meetings, for now, needed to be on neutral ground in public.

Her gaze snapped to the clock on her desk. Her stomach plummeted. She was already behind. She was meant to assist in chambers this morning for the council. Hearings, deliberations, sentencings…

She snatched up her quill and scribbled without pausing to think, ink spattering in her haste.

—

Some of us actually have to work today. Not all of us sit around waiting for the world to serve itself to us.

Dinner. You can decide where, but I’m not coming to the manor. I’ll be at the Ministry–you know which department. If this suits you, send an owl.

—

She stared at the words, lips pressed tight. She didn't bother with a signature. Satisfying, but stupid. 

Then she bolted upright, quickly dressing into something professional, and snatching her satchel and wand from the chair where she’d tossed them the night before. A quick charm smoothed her curls into something vaguely tidy, pulling half of it up and out of her face with a gold Gryffindor hairpin. A few stubborn tendrils still sprang loose around her face. She swore under her breath but didn’t dare waste another second.

Harry would be waiting. He always was. Every morning, without fail, they walked together from his place to the Ministry. It wasn’t ritual so much as necessity, comfort wrapped in routine. A reminder, at least for the space between her front door and Level Two, that she wasn’t fighting this world alone. That she was safe.

She locked the door with a flick and hurried down the steps two at a time.

The day had gone wrong from the moment she left her flat.

Harry hadn’t minded that she was late. He looked bone-tired, dark circles under his eyes from nights with baby James, but the tardiness was like a mark against her own precision. By the time she reached the chamber, she was behind again. Every eye seemed to flick her way when she slipped into her seat, parchment rustling louder than it should have as she pulled out her notes. The flush crept hot up her neck.

The first hearings were almost insultingly mundane. A wizard fined for apparating drunk into the Leaky Cauldron and stirring up trouble. A shopkeeper was accused of selling defective cauldrons that exploded when stirred clockwise. A witch caught hexing a neighbor’s laundry so it hung in the air for weeks, fluttering over Diagon Alley like a taunt. They were boring, almost laughable, but they still had to be recorded, processed, laws considered and deliberated…

Between sessions she returned to her desk, quill tapping impatiently, eyes darting to the corner where she expected an owl to drop Malfoy’s reply. Nothing. Not a word. The silence needled at her. Maybe she had offended him. Maybe he decided to back out. 

Or he knew exactly how to push her buttons.

By the time the last hearing was called, she felt frayed, raw around the edges. The name sent a shiver crawling down her spine. She had forgotten whose trial was today. Another Death Eater had been caught and they had finally gotten to a trial for sentencing.

Amycus Carrow.

He was dragged into the courtroom in heavy magic suppressing manacles, sneering even as he stumbled. He looked like a beast caught in too small a cage. Hermione’s hand clenched around her quill until her knuckles went white. She had written extensive notes, prepared arguments and evidence enough to bury him a dozen times over, but seeing him there, chained yet defiant, churned her stomach.

Apparently, he had been hiding in London all along. The Aurors finally recognized and tracked him, delaying the arrest in hopes of catching Alecto as well. But she was nowhere to be found. Still out there, somewhere. Hermione knew the case well. It was one of Harry’s.

And it had been hard listening to the witness statements being presented…most of them by friends she had gone to school with. Neville Longbottom's testimony had nearly set her over the edge. 

She wanted to stand, to shout, to hex Carrow where he sat and send him straight to Azkaban without another word. Let him rot in the dark for the remainder of his days, with only the Dementors for company.

But she stayed seated, steadying her voice when called upon to present gathered evidence, quill scratching, parchment filling with her tidy script as though this were just another hearing.

It wasn’t. 

Hermione left the chamber with her jaw tight, fingers still curled around the edges of her notes as if she could squeeze a harsher verdict out of parchment. Five years. Five years in Azkaban for Amycus Carrow. It was a sentence far from justice. He would breathe free air again while some of her friends never would, while Neville still bore scars, while countless others carried wounds that didn’t fade. Her whole body trembled with the effort of swallowing the fury that had risen when the judgment was announced.

Some of the council had found this just as appalling, others said there had not been enough evidence for further conviction. Chief Warlock Pummell had deliberated and concluded with what he felt was fair given what was presented. 

Hermione felt sick.

She didn’t trust herself to face anyone, so she slipped quickly into the nearest empty bathroom, shutting the door behind her like it was a shield. She gripped the counter, knuckles white, and pulled a cloth from her bag, dampening it at the tap. Pressing the cool fabric against her throat, she tried to breathe.

Her reflection stared back at her, pale, lined with strain she hadn’t noticed creeping in. Tears stung her eyes, demanding release, but she blinked them back furiously. Not here. Not where anyone could see. She was not going to shatter in the Ministry lavatory for gods sake.

Pull yourself together…

For a moment she thought of Malfoy, how she had checked for a reply from him all day. Now in this brittle moment, she was grateful for his stoic silence. One more barb from him, one more cryptic word, might have been enough to tip her over the edge. No, best he had stayed quiet…best she shove him into the recesses of her mind and just go home at the end of the day.

She took one more steadying breath, patted her cheeks dry, and squared her shoulders. The day had been hard, harder than it had been in months, but she would get through it. She always did.

When she opened the door and stepped out, she froze mid-stride. A tall figure stood near her desk, unmistakable even from behind…the pale hair gleaming in the dim light.

Draco fucking Malfoy.

For a moment she thought fatigue was playing tricks on her. But no…the pale blond head bent toward her desk, the sharp cut of his shoulders in a light button up and dark slacks, he was real.

Her breath stilled. What the hell is he doing here?

Draco straightened and turned as though he’d felt her stare burn across the office floor. His expression was unreadable, practiced, the faintest curl of disdain playing at his mouth like this was all some tiresome errand. He didn’t belong here. Not at her desk.

“You–” Hermione’s voice caught in a rasp, raw with the anger she hadn’t been able to release all day. She tried again, sharper. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes flicked over her, assessing, before he replied, not even a flinch at her tone. “Waiting. Obviously.”

“Waiting?” Her heels struck hard against the floor as she strode closer, ignoring the few clerks still packing files into their bags who were giving discreet, interested looks. “You can’t just show up here like this. You–”

“Relax, Granger,” he drawled, though his hands were tucked deep into his pockets, tight. “I’m not here to hex your precious files.”

Panic flared sharp and hot. Heads tilted, curious, watching. She fought to keep her stride steady, her breathing even. Her eyes darted toward the Auror Offices. Harry would still be in there, finishing his shift. If he came out now, if he saw this first without an explanation…

No. She wouldn’t let Malfoy orchestrate her undoing in front of half the Ministry.

She straightened her shoulders and forced her voice steady. “Why are you here?”

His mouth curved into a smirk, all practiced nonchalance. “Well, Golden Girl,” he drawled, as if this were the most natural conversation in the world. “Dinner, of course.”

She had been wrong. He clearly didn't mind being in public with her, as long as she was rattled…

Hermione’s face remained composed, but her nails dug crescents into her palm. He wanted a reaction, wanted her flustered in front of an audience. Not today.

She tilted her head slightly, as though weighing his offer with cool detachment. “You came all the way to the Ministry,” she said, voice smooth as glass, “How thoughtful. I'm entirely sure I mentioned sending an owl.”

Draco’s smirk curved slow and deliberate. “I didn’t want to bother you while you were working,” he said lightly. “I found out when chambers would be finished for the day and decided to meet you here. In person.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief, the kind of boyish glint that made his words seem harmless. And his actions could otherwise be deemed harmless, but Hermione knew better. He was enjoying every flicker of discomfort he caused, every pair of curious eyes that lingered on them.

Her jaw tightened, but she gave a small polite smile. Without a word, she stacked her parchments and slipped them neatly into her satchel. The click of her heels carried her toward the floo exit with measured calm.

Naturally, he fell into step beside her, hands in his pockets, tall frame relaxed like they were old friends strolling home together. The weight of glances and whispers followed them.

Hermione forced her breathing steady, spine straight, face serene. She would not give him the satisfaction of a scene. Harry would worry why she hadn't waited for him to walk home, but she could send him an owl later, explaining that something had come up.

She ignored the shadow of Malfoy at her back, ignored the flicker of her coworkers’ eyes that had surely followed them all the way out of the Ministry.

On the London street, the air felt cooler, yet it carried him with it. His presence lingered just close enough to needle, just far enough to be deliberate. When she finally stopped at the mouth of a narrow alley, she pivoted, her eyes blazing.

“You’ve made your point,” she said tightly, voice low so the pedestrians drifting past wouldn’t hear. “You’ve proven you can disrupt my day. Now what exactly do you want?”

He tilted his head, pale hair catching in the light, and allowed a small, infuriating smirk to play at his mouth.

“Dinner,” he said simply. “As I told you. Unless you’d prefer I escort you home instead? Can’t have anyone thinking I’m harassing you in public.” His silver eyes gleamed, daring her to contradict him.

Hermione pressed her palm briefly to her temple, the weight of the day catching up to her all at once. Her voice slipped, not sharp but weary. “Look, Malfoy–just go home. It’s Monday. Today was…” her voice cracked as she looked down at the pavement briefly, trying to recover herself. “I am going to go home, pour myself a glass of wine and–”

She stopped, words tangling as she looked back up and caught the way he was looking at her. Not with his usual veneer of superiority. This was quieter, sharper, as though he was dissecting every syllable, every flicker of her face.

The intensity of his gaze unsettled her. It made her shoulders tighten, her breath catch in a way she hated. Her voice faltered, thinner now. “...and not…do this...right now.”

For a heartbeat, silence pooled between them, the bustle of the London street fading to a dull hum. He was unreadable, the corner of his mouth threatening the kind of reply she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.

Her pause was all the opening he needed. His gaze sharpened once more.

“What do you want from me, Granger?” Draco said, stepping in, words hissing. “You agreed to this little plot of my mother’s. Your letter requested a meeting. Don’t act as though I dragged you into it when I show up to uphold my end of this arrangement.”

Heat flared in her chest. She took a step back instinctively, but refused to let it show as retreat, chin lifting, eyes narrowed and locked on his. “I agreed,” she bit out, “because it is mutually beneficial, but you cannot just show up at my work without warning.”

He followed the space she yielded, closing it again until the air between them was thin and sharp. “Mutually beneficial?” he echoed, mouth curving faintly. “Maybe you should have been Slytherin. I think that fits…” his silver eyes looked her over, “this version of you better.”

Her stomach twisted, the insult sharper than if he had drawn his wand. “Don't you dare. You don’t get to sneer at me for surviving the way your family forced me to.”

She hadn't meant to bring that up, but it slipped past her lips before she could stop herself. Heat rose to her cheeks.

Something flared hot in his eyes, brittle and wounded, though his voice stayed cool. “You’re not the only one paying for their bad choices. You think this is easy for me?”

“Easy for you?” she snapped, voice rising, anger breaking past her composure. Nothing should be easy for him, yet everything was…he got to continue being the spoiled brat that he was while she crawled through the trenches still. The courtroom today proved that.

“You hurt people with unforgivable dark magic. You could have walked away. You could have–”

His laugh was low, scathing, all sharp edges. “Don’t delude yourself, Granger. You have no idea what you're talking about. I did what I needed to do to survive, just like you.”

Her fists clenched at her sides. Her mouth opened to retort, but the look in his eyes made her think better of it.

Logically, she knew he had little option available to him back then, but it still made her twist inside. His face from her nightmare that morning tried to surface and she shoved it down, way down, until she felt a numbness creep over her. 

You are not your history, don't let the trauma limit or define you…the words of her mindhealer sessions echoed…Or others.

Silence pressed between them, taut and dangerous. His jaw worked, rage written in every line of him, a storm barely held in check. 

“I’m sorry–” she started, as his eyes locked on hers. Then, without a word, he suddenly disapparated with a crack leaving the air shivering.

Hermione’s breath caught tight in her chest.

The air hummed where he had been. Her chest rose and fell, her pulse rattling in her ears. For a moment, guilt pricked sharp and unwelcome…her words had cut, she had seen it in his eyes.

Not my problem.

She forced her shoulders square. She hadn’t exactly lied. It was only the truth, and if the truth wounded him, that was his burden to carry, not hers…

Her thoughts felt too raw to bear the walk home. With a sharp turn of her heel, she apparated directly into her flat and dropped herself onto her sofa.

Merlin, what am I doing?

*.    *.    *.    

Draco apparated to the edge of The Vermillion with a crack that echoed like the snap of a whip. His stride was sharp, fueled by irritation, as he swept into the club’s low-lit entrance. Music thrummed from somewhere below, bass and laughter weaving together. It should have dulled his temper. It didn’t.

Hermione’s voice clung to him, clipped and accusing. She had refused him, first at lunch, then at dinner when it had been her idea, like he was some unworthy interruption in her precious day. He had absolutely meant to needle and remind her that she had no business pretending this arrangement was going to be anything pleasant, but her audacity in flinging old wounds back at him? That he hadn’t expected.

It had cut deeper than he would ever admit.

His jaw tightened as he reached for a glass from a passing tray, ignoring the curious glance of the server. She was right about one thing…he did want to make her squirm. He wanted her sharp composure to crack, to feel what it meant to be caught in a trap like he had at breakfast yesterday morning. He would make her pay for it, every moment of this lunatic arrangement his mother had conjured.

If Granger thought she could wield her wand against his, then he would match her strike for strike. He would make her regret agreeing at all.

Blaise approached, his laugh rolling through the club like warm smoke. He shook his head at some joke one of his employees had just made, then turned toward Draco with a raised brow. “What’s got you so worked up.”

Draco forced a casual shrug, letting the corner of his mouth twitch in a wry, almost dangerous smile. “Nothing important," he said smoothly. He wasn’t going to waste another second stewing over her.

He gestured toward the rows of tables in the dim light. “What do the tables look like tonight?”

Blaise’s grin widened. “As good as ever. High stakes, restless players. Some newcomers testing their luck, and the usual crowd trying to pretend they aren’t losing.” He gave a knowing glance. “You’ll like it.”

Draco let himself be guided deeper into the club, letting the chaos of cards, coins, and whispered wagers fill his senses.

He slid into a chair at one of the high-stakes tables, the leather cool beneath his fingers. The clink of coins and rustle of cards filled the air. His mind was already calculating odds, reading tells, weighing the value of bluffs and bets. The other players were polished, confident, convinced their wealth could buy them luck. 

Most of them didn’t realize how much easier it was to take from someone who thought the same way.

His own family was wealthy, filthy rich by most standards, but his allowance had lately been tighter, a gentle leash from his mother reminding him who controlled the flow of gold. 

It frustrated him, but tonight, that didn’t matter. Here, his skill was currency. His talent at reading people and bending them to the cards on the table was worth more than any allowance.

Draco smirked as a wealthy merchant pushed a heavy stack of Galleons toward the center. “Feeling lucky?” he asked smoothly, voice low, almost lazy, but his eyes sharpened like a predator’s.

The man smirked, arrogant. “Luck favors the bold, Malfoy. Care to put that to the test?”

Draco leaned back, letting the chips pile, letting the tension rise, savoring the thrill. He didn’t just play to win. He played to humiliate anyone who underestimated him. By the end of the night, the table would know who controlled the game.

The night had been smooth at first. Draco moved through hands like a conductor, each gesture, glance, and wager calculated to perfection. Coins clinked into his pile as the other players floundered, outmatched by a combination of skill, instinct, and sheer audacity. By now, his winnings towered over what he’d started with, and a faint, self-satisfied smile played on his lips.

Then, somehow as he relaxed into the game, he let his thoughts wander.

Bloody infuriating, Granger.

The way she had squared herself against him in the alley, daring him to argue, daring him to break her composure. He could see her as if she were across the table, glaring, accusing. His mind scolded him to focus, to calculate, to read the other players, but instead, he replayed her words, the incredulous tilt of her chin, the stubborn fire in her eyes.

His guilt.

In that brief lapse, he missed it.

A subtle flick of the wrist, a barely perceptible tell from one of the men across the table–a signal Draco would normally have caught in a heartbeat…slipped past him. He misread a bluff. He misjudged the odds. Suddenly, the hand he had been so sure would seal another win turned against him.

Coins clattered from his pile to the center, and a bitter laugh escaped him, low and sharp. “Damn it,” he muttered, teeth gritted, hand trembling slightly as he gathered himself.

The next morning, Draco slouched into the breakfast room, already feeling the sharp edge of a hangover and a heavier weight on his conscience. His losses still stung.

Letting Hermione crawl into his head at the table and cost him a good chunk of his monthly allowance. It was not catastrophic, but enough to draw a pointed eyebrow from his mother if she caught wind of it.

“Good morning, Draco,” she said smoothly. “I trust your evening was…productive?”

Draco froze mid-grab for the tea, scowling at the faint, sly curve of her lips.

Merlin’s beard, she needs a bell….

“I went to The Vermillion,” he muttered, keeping his tone neutral.

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the kind of look that made him bristle despite himself. “I see. Productive, yet I hear your allowance has suffered a…minor setback.”

His gut twisted, a mixture of irritation and admiration. Of course she knew. The sly, infuriating woman always knew. “No need to worry. I’m still well ahead of the game.”

Her eyes, cool and pale, lingered on him like she was seeing past every shield he had. “And you’ve already burned through more of your allowance this month than you should have.”

Draco scowled. “It’s my money.”

“It’s the Malfoy money, and you need to manage it properly,” Narcissa corrected, serene as ever. She tilted her head, that familiar edge of amusement in her voice that always made him feel ten years old. “Instead of squandering it at the tables, perhaps you should consider spending it more wisely elsewhere.”

He stiffened. He already knew where this was going. 

“Invite Miss Granger out.”

His scowl deepened instantly. “I went by her office yesterday and attempted to take her out to dinner. She refused.”

“At the Ministry? I am sure you went in daring her to say no.” Narcissa’s smile was sharp, knowing. “You think I don’t know your games, Draco? You need to take her out properly. Publicly. Make it known. If this arrangement is to mean anything, people must see it. I don't want any delays.”

He bristled. “But it means nothing. You want me parading her around? Why is this so important to you? She’s…muggleborn! It goes against–”

“I want the Malfoy name restored. That is all you need to concern yourself with regarding my intentions,” Narcissa said simply, not letting him finish. “And if that means dinner with the brightest witch of her age, then you will manage to endure it.”

Draco’s jaw tightened long after his mother swept from the room, her perfume and her words clinging like smoke. She had cornered him neatly, as always.

The way Narcissa had said it…it wasn’t suggestion. It was command dressed in silk.

And she knew him too damn well.

But he couldn't understand her motivation. The Malfoy name restored? By a muggleborn, really? It didn't make sense. If anything, it would tarnish their name and bloodline they held so sacred. Yet, she had plotted the entire thing, had looked incredibly sure of what she was demanding of him. 

Even after all of it…

Draco rubbed a hand over his face, pacing before the hearth. If he let this go on unchecked, Granger would just sink her claws deeper out of sheer stubborn principle. His mother thought she could use Granger, not even considering the consequences…

How far would she let this go on? Indefinitely? Was this truly his future?

Would they expect…heirs?

Little half-blood children running through the manor?

His father, Lucius, would undoubtedly shit himself.

He needed to make this end, and he couldn’t be reckless. His mother could spot a Malfoy lie faster than anyone alive. He had to be subtle, quieter with his deceit. A proper game required patience. He wouldn’t be played by them.

Hermione Granger, damn her, wasn’t the type to be intimidated into retreat. If he pushed, she’d only push back harder. She proved that at her office. But everyone had a price, even her. 

She played the principled Gryffindor, but surely, after being in the gutter of the war, years of trying to climb the Wizengamot social ladder, money would tempt her…enough to give her a way out…enough to make her convince herself that walking away had been her idea.

Draco stopped pacing, a thin, bitter smile pulling at his mouth.

If he failed at getting her to break it off, he’d buy her off.

Chapter Text

All week Hermione buried herself in work as though it could drown out the echo of Malfoy’s parting look.

Her desk at work was little more than a battleground of parchment towers. One stack belonged to Harry’s latest request, a complicated matter involving loopholes in sentencing for a smuggler tied to cursed artifacts. Another pile concerned the thefts plaguing Diagon Alley…priceless relics and magical items vanishing into the underground trade.

Every witness account contradicted the last, every lead frayed into nothing. The Aurors had arrested a man named Elias Cornwell. He was tall, dark curls, weak alibis, but Hermione felt an itch in her chest each time she read his file. He swore his innocence, and something in his eyes when she passed him in the holding cells hadn’t matched the profile of a black market thief. She was sure this was why Harry had asked for her help, the man didn't feel guilty, but the evidence was piled against him.

Still, she had pressed on. She missed lunch twice in the week. By Thursday, her quill scratched until her hand cramped. Work meant control, and control meant silence from the thoughts clawing at the back of her mind.

It wasn't just any Thursday either, it was the third Thursday of the month. That meant an appointment with Iskander, her mindhealer. She knew the witch would try and peel those thoughts to the surface, crack Hermione’s mind open.

Iskander’s office was quiet, charmed to calm and soothe. Pale tapestries muffled sound, and the faint scent of chamomile lingered in the air. Hermione sat on a small sofa clutching a cup of tea that had already gone cold.

“You’ve been working late again,” Iskander observed gently, not a question but a diagnosis. “Is it helping, Hermione, or is it distracting?”

Hermione’s mouth pulled tight. “I don’t see the harm in productivity. I’ve always worked hard.”

“Working hard is not the same as living,” Iskander replied, her dark eyes steady, kind but unyielding. “Do you find room in your days for friends? For rest? For…intimacy?”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the teacup. “My career is important. I can’t afford to fall behind as a Muggleborn, you know that.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I don’t need–”

Iskander’s voice softened, but the words pressed with precision. “You survived a war, Hermione. Survival is not the same as healing. Are you still having nightmares?”

When Hermione didn't answer, Iskander continued, “Tell me, when the memories return, the sound of curses, the weight of fear, what do you do with them?”

Her throat tightened. Her lips parted, then snapped shut. She hated when she asked like that, as though peeling her open was as simple as tugging at a seam.

Normally she didn't mind her sessions, it's why she continued to go for so long…but somehow, she felt off today. Visiting with Iskander felt like a chore.

She forced her voice into something steady. “I manage. I…keep busy. I have cases to build, briefs to draft. That’s how I deal with them.”

Iskander tilted her head. “That sounds a lot like avoiding. Tell me one thing you’ve done recently that was for yourself, and not for the Ministry.”

Her mind scrambled. Tea with Luna had been rescheduled, again. She hadn’t made it to the bookshop as planned…ah. Her lips curved, almost wry. “I had breakfast with Narcissa Malfoy, twice. Once at a tea room, then in her home.”

That made her blink. Not much surprised Iskander, but her dark brows lifted. “That is…unexpected.”

Hermione gave a little shrug, feigning nonchalance. “She invited me. Her son was there too.”

Intrigue sparked across Iskander’s face. “You accepted? And how did it feel, to sit with them after everything? In that place?

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the cup. She hadn’t expected the question to sting. “Uncomfortable, but…necessary.”

She wasn't going to mention why.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve mentioned Draco Malfoy in our sessions before. How was his behavior?” 

She rolled her eyes. “He’s the same spoiled brat he has always been. It doesn't matter. But Narcissa was…surprisingly kind.”

Iskander let the silence stretch, studying her the way she often did, with unnerving patience. Hermione’s stomach twisted, and she looked down into her untouched tea.

She couldn't help but picture him then, silver eyes burning, voice low and scathing in that alley. His anger, his hurt. The way she’d struck him with her words and the flash of guilt that had followed.

“Yet he lingers in your thoughts,” Iskander said quietly. “You get anxious whenever you speak of him.”

Her head snapped up, defensive. “It’s just…history. I've moved on from it.”

“History…” he echoed, voice measured. “Or maybe unfinished business?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. She pushed her cup away, the porcelain scraping faintly against the table. “I don’t see how this is relevant. I came here for help managing my trauma, not to dissect Malfoy.”

Iskander inclined her head, not conceding but allowing the subject to ease. “Very well. We’ll leave it…for now.”

Her breath left her in a rush, relief mixing with unease. But the image of Malfoy wouldn’t leave her, unbidden and insistent, clinging to the edges of her thoughts.

Hermione blinked hard and sat straighter, defensive. “I think our time is up,” she said too quickly.

Iskander smiled, unfazed. “We’ll continue next time.”

Hermione set the teacup down with more force than necessary and left before the witch could see the flush still burning at her throat.

By Friday morning, exhaustion pressed heavy on her shoulders. She couldn’t stop circling the same thoughts…the arrangement, Narcissa’s manipulations, Draco’s disdain.

He didn’t want this engagement, that much was clear. But the truth was simple for him. He had no choice. Refuse, and Narcissa cut him from his inheritance. 

That meant Hermione had leverage. And despite her better judgement, she did want this to work. 

She could picture a united front tearing down tradition and blood purist ideology. A Malfoy and a Muggleborn together. The very idea was intoxicating in its symbolism. It was hope for a better future, a chance to turn the weight of his family name into something useful, something that could open doors for other Muggleborns still clawing their way through a society built against them.

If they could stand side by side, even if only for appearances, it could reshape the very conversations in the Wizengamot. It would force the old families to contend with change.

It also gave her the opportunity to use their Wizengamot seat should she have the Malfoy name…the Malfoy’s owed her that much.

And still…

She regretted her words in the alley.

They needed rules, terms, something solid if this arrangement wasn’t going to implode. Neutral ground. If she could maybe get Malfoy to see her point of view on this, maybe he wouldn’t try to make this difficult.

Hermione sat at her kitchen table, parchment spread in disorganized piles around her half-eaten toast. She dipped her quill in ink and, after a long hesitation, wrote quickly.

—

Malfoy,

I shouldn't have opened old wounds. Consider this an attempt at civility.

Let's meet tonight. The Crown & Thistle, five o’clock. It’s a Muggle pub. If you’re too proud to be seen there, I’ll take that as answer enough.

Please, don't show up at my office, or I will hex you.

H.

—

She stared at the words. Exactly what she wanted…a test.

If he came, perhaps there was something to work with. If not…well. That would speak louder than anything he could say.

She folded the parchment, tied it to her owl’s leg, and sent it off. The bird vanished into the gray morning sky.

Surprisingly, Malfoy didn’t show up at her work like he had on Monday, but he did send an owl around lunch. The black bird swooped down the crowded corridor, scattering memos, and dropped a sealed envelope squarely on her desk.

Hermione’s stomach lurched. Of all times…Harry was standing right there.

She snatched up the letter before his eyes could drift to the Malfoy crest in the wax. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she forced a bright smile. Harry, exhausted and distracted, only rubbed his temples.

“Your notes have been helpful,” he muttered, already turning toward his office. Relief washed through her so quickly her knees felt weak.

She tucked the envelope into her files until he was safely gone. Only then did she unfold it.

—

Granger,

The Crown & Thistle, then. I don’t refuse challenges.

As for your apology, clumsy as it was, I’ll accept it, if only because it proves you haven’t entirely lost your wits. Don’t mistake that for forgiveness.

D. Malfoy

—

Her mouth tightened. Typical Malfoy…arrogant even when conceding. Yet, he agreed.

The Crown & Thistle was loud with the spillover of the workweek. Suits unwinding over pints, laughter rising above the clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation weaving through the dimly lit space. Hermione sat at a small round table near the window, half-hidden by the crowd, her drink untouched.

Her knee bounced restlessly under the table. She had come straight from the Ministry, still in her white blouse and navy pencil skirt. She hadn't bothered going home and changing first. It was the kind of neat efficiency she told herself marked this as business. Though her curls were pinned in a loose knot at the crown of her head, stubborn strands had slipped free, framing her face no matter how she tried to tame them.

For the hundredth time she wondered if he would actually come. His letter had said yes…but Malfoy thrived on control, on needling her. Standing her up would be entirely in character.

She traced a bead of condensation down the glass with her thumb, forcing her posture into something casual, as though she wasn’t waiting at all.

The door swung open.

Draco stepped inside, pale hair briefly lit by the weak evening sun before he disappeared into the pub’s shadows. He wore black slacks and a crisp shirt under a dark jacket. It was simple, but on him it looked deliberate, effortless. He shouldn’t have fit in here. Yet somehow he did.

He looked good.

She hated that she noticed.

And then, as his gaze found hers and that familiar boyish smirk ghosted across his mouth, a shiver ran down her spine.

She had to remind herself…

This is the same boy who once spat curses at you in hallways, with that same smirk comes venom.

He crossed the room with unhurried purpose. Hermione sat straighter, lifting her chin, willing her pulse to even out.

“So you decided to show up after all,” she said coolly.

Draco slid into the chair opposite without asking, stretching his long legs beneath the table as though he owned the space. His eyes swept the pub, faint distaste tugging at his mouth, before settling back on her.

“Charming,” he drawled. “Did you choose this place to unsettle me, or because you actually drink here?”

Hermione arched a brow, lifting her glass. “Both. I'm surprised you came.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” His smirk sharpened. “I enjoy watching you try.”

Her grip tightened around the stem of her glass. “Try what, exactly?”

He leaned back, utterly relaxed, aristocratic ease in a pub full of weary city workers. “To pretend you belong in my world. Or that I’d ever belong in yours.”

Heat flared in her chest, but she forced her expression into cool indifference. “You forget I’ve already stood in your world, Malfoy. Survived it.”

The words slipped out sharper than she intended. She’d just apologized in her letter for old wounds, and here she was reopening them again.

His smirk faltered. Then it returned, thinner, sardonic. “And yet here you are, sitting across from me of your own free will. That must gnaw at you.”

Hermione tilted her head, refusing to look away. “Not nearly as much as it gnaws at you that you haven't shaken me off yet.”

She sipped her drink, steadying herself. He was going to test every edge until one of them snapped.

The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. Hermione unclenched her hand from her glass and forced a breath past the knot in her throat. She hadn’t come here just to trade barbs.

“I shouldn’t have said that the other day,” she admitted at last.

His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest flicker of curiosity beneath the mask.

“It wasn’t fair,” she continued, tracing the condensation ring on the table with her fingertip. “You didn’t have a choice in what happened in your house during the war. I know that.”

Draco went very still. No smirk, no cutting remark. There was just a thick silence. His gaze locked on her, unsettling in its weight.

Her stomach knotted. It was safer to keep him at arm’s length, but some stubborn part of her wanted to see if there was anything human beneath all that armor. Anything she could work with.

She shifted, unable to bear the silence that stretched like a chasm between them. He sat across from her with that detached stillness, every inch of him polished and self contained, as though this cramped little pub were beneath him.

Of course it was.

This arrangement had never been her dream, but she had at least told herself it could mean something. What if she was just deluding herself? What if he despised it, not because of the burden or the politics, but because of her?

He used to spit the word Mudblood like venom. Maybe that part of him hadn’t gone away and that was why he was trying to drive her off, to make her end this before he had to soil himself by being married to her.

Maybe he was just as prejudiced as the old guard at the Wizengamot she was trying to combat.

She drew in a breath, forcing the words out before she could lose her nerve. “I know this arrangement isn’t ideal, but it could be…significant. A Muggleborn and, well, you–” She broke off, hating how desperate she sounded. “It could matter to people who need to see the old walls torn down.”

People like me…

He let out a hollow laugh, “Tearing down walls. Significance,” he echoed, his voice rough,“I’m…not that person.”

Her pulse thudded painfully in her throat. “Is it because I’m…not pureblood?”

The question hung between them like a blade. Surprise flickered across his face, breaking through the mask.

“No.” His silver eyes locked onto hers, sharp and intent. “It’s not that.”

Finally, his gaze broke away, sharp, shadowed. His denial should have comforted her, but it didn’t. If it wasn’t her blood, then what?

Her mind spun through the possibilities. Maybe it was her class, then. In the Muggle world, her parents had been respected professionals. She had never gone without, not counting the war. They went on holidays, she had a warm home and a promising future because of them. But next to the weight of centuries old wizarding names and vaults of gold, that was nothing.

Maybe he saw her as small and embarrassingly middle class.

Or…maybe there was someone else. Someone he actually wanted, a sleek, well-bred witch who would understand the rules of his world in ways Hermione never could…like Pansy Parkinson. She was sure they dated in school. Maybe they still were.

Was she stealing that from him by daring to pursue this arrangement?

The thought dug deep. She had nothing to lose, but maybe he did, and that was something she wouldn't get in the way of. How could she? Despite who she was now, she wasn't that ruthless.

“Then what is it?” she asked softly. “If it isn’t blood. Is it class? Or maybe…you have someone?”

His jaw clenched. Something flickered in his eyes, unguarded, but then it was gone. The shift was so quick that Hermione almost thought she imagined it. One moment he seemed within reach, the next it was as though a curtain had fallen, heavy and impenetrable.

His gaze turned cool, distant, every line of his face carved into careful neutrality. “I don’t want to be married at all, to anyone. Especially not to you. I don’t want to be reminded every day of what I’ve been, or what I’ve done. And you, Granger, will do exactly that.”

Ouch.

Hermione steadied herself. “I’m not naive enough to think it erases the past. But together, we could make the Malfoy name respected again.”

“Don’t stoop so low as to pretend you’re doing this for me or for the Malfoy name.” He leaned back, arms folding, expression still carefully neutral. “However, it’s not like I have a choice. I’d rather not be cut off from my vaults.”

Her arms folded to match his, irritation crackling under her ribs. “Merlin, you’re insufferable. Is that truly all that matters to you?”

“Finally catching on?” His smirk curved sharp. “You’d save us both trouble if you admitted this is a mistake. You won’t stomach it any better than I will. You think you can? Living with me, seeing me every day? Being reminded of what I was, what I did, and what I am?”

The words hit like a slap. She felt them drive straight into her chest. He wasn’t wrong…she had wondered if she could stand to look at him across a table, knowing beneath his sleeve he still carried the Dark Mark.

But she was here, having this conversation. It was…well, better than she expected if she was being honest with herself. He hadn't called her a mudblood, after all.

A mistake.

That’s what he wanted her to believe. What he wanted her to choose.

The thought twisted. Maybe it was a mistake, but she also knew what this could be. An opportunity, a chance to shift the story and make something new out of the ruins the war left behind. 

Why didn't he care about that?

She drew in a breath, lifted her chin, and met his gaze without flinching. “I don't make mistakes.”

“Of course not. Golden Girl of Gryffindor. Perfect grades, perfect speeches, perfect causes. Always so sure the world bends to your brilliance.”

“I didn’t invite you here for an argument,” she said evenly. “I thought we could at least attempt civility, but if you’d rather pick a fight, I won’t indulge you.”

His lip curled, the faintest ghost of a sneer. “How very noble of you.”

She leaned over, plucked a menu from the empty table beside them, and flipped it open, studying the page as if he weren’t there.

Draco’s gaze lingered on her, lips twitching in a near smile. “A boring Muggle pub,” he drawled. “Truly, Granger…a ridiculous choice for a date.”

Her eyes lifted from the menu, steady and unimpressed. “Good thing it isn’t one, then.”

“This is worse than that place in Hogsmeade,” he said flatly, as if the scuffed tables and the scent of fried chips had personally offended him.

Her brows rose. “I didn’t realise your standards extended to menus.”

His eyes flashed. “My standards extend to everything. You should’ve let me choose. There are plenty of better options.”

“Better?” she echoed. “There is nothing wrong with this place. And you said you were up for a challenge.”

A slow, dry laugh escaped him, low enough that only she could hear. “Don’t mistake tolerating your world for a challenge.” His gaze cut to her, cool and appraising, though the heat simmered underneath. “I stood in a room with Fenrir Greyback at my back and Voldemort breathing down my neck. Do you really think a plate of chips is going to test me?”

Her grip on the menu tightened, but she didn’t look away. “And yet somehow,” she said evenly, “a room with me in it seems to rattle you.”

Something flickered in his expression briefly before the wall snapped back into place, smooth and cold. His smirk sharpened.

“Maybe,” Draco murmured, leaning just close enough that only she could hear, “we should test your resolve instead.”

Her brows arched, though her pulse stumbled. “What do you mean?”

“Vermillion.”

The name landed with a small, cold jolt. Vermillion…Blaise Zabini’s club, all velvet and danger. She had read about it in Auror case notes. There were hints of gambling ledgers, whispered deals, the kinds of places that rotated stolen things through shadowy hands. Elias Cornwell’s file had denied every association, but witness statements suggested otherwise. The club had been a thread she had been tugging at for Harry’s investigation into artifact trafficking.

She let the menu fall shut and met him across the table. “Vermillion,” she repeated, keeping her voice even. “You can’t be serious.”

Draco’s smile sharpened. “Ah. Too polished for the den of vipers. Gryffindor restraint at its finest.”

She exhaled, a soft, exasperated sound. “I’d rather not be around whatever shady dealings Blaise Zabini conducts.”

He leaned forward, eyes cool and assessing. “Afraid a little chaos will distract you from your precious career?” The teasing was effortless, but there was an edge to it, a probe.

“My career is important to me,” she said, steady and plain. She didn’t let the question ruffle her.

He let the smirk sit. “Clearly. Or you wouldn’t have invited me here trying to coerce me into an engagement.”

Gods, he is still such a bully. 

Her cheeks warmed, but she kept her voice even. “Don’t be such a prat. I wanted to see if we could be civil without–”

“Civil? You just called me a prat,” he interrupted, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “I think we both know why you really invited me here.”

She tilted her head. “Oh?”

“You want to punish me.” He said it simply, as if it were obvious. “A quiet little test of my patience.”

Her lips thinned. “It has to do with making sure we can function together. Which you are proving difficult if sitting in a pub together is punishment for you.” The words were level, but inside it felt increasingly like punishment for her, too.

He laughed then, low, dry and cutting. “You want retribution for all of it. I know you do. If you truly want this arrangement to work, Granger…” he paused, clicked his tongue. “Then do what I want.”

Excuse me?

She held his look, every muscle resisting the reflex to snap back. “What is that exactly?”

His gaze flicked to the window and back again, measuring. “Go to Vermillion. You and I both know it’s a proper test of alliances. Let’s see who can keep their cards. You want civility? You want to keep me in check? Then come with me.”

She saw the bait the moment he set it down. He wanted her exposed, uncomfortable, dropped into a room full of people who would make a sport of her. If she accepted and floundered, he could claim she failed. If she refused, he would sneer that she couldn’t stomach being tied to him…and he would be right.

It was his counter, no different than her choice of this pub. If he thought he had already won just by showing up, then all she had to do was meet him halfway. 

Right? 

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He smirked, faintly victorious, though a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. “Meet me there at eight. Don’t wear…that.”

Hermione tilted her head, letting the corner of her mouth lift in a faint, controlled smile. “Noted.”

He gave a curt nod, pale eyes lingering on her a moment too long, something unreadable beneath his gaze. She surprised him. “Alright…good.”

*.    *.    *.    

Draco had arrived at Vermillion early. He told himself it was for appearances, but the truth was less flattering. He couldn’t sit still knowing Granger had actually agreed. He had baited her, fully expecting the righteous brush off, and yet here he was…waiting.

It could be humiliating if she didn’t show. Maybe worse if she did.

This was Vermillion. His haunt. His friends would be here, drifting in and out, and the thought of her stepping into that sphere made something tight coil in his chest. It could get awkward. Very awkward. 

He wouldn't exactly be able to deny that they were there together, but he wouldn't be forthright with it either. He only trusted Theo to know about the arrangement his mother crafted. Not that arranged marriages were uncommon, especially in his social class. Hell, he even expected it.

But this was all upside down. No, let them see a couple of outings together, and eventually Hermione would crack and call the whole thing off. He just needed to play the cards right.

Theo leaned against the bar, nursing a drink with the sort of patient amusement only he could muster. He was dragged along for moral support. Draco had claimed it was for strategy. Theo hadn’t bothered to argue, he would have been here anyway on a Friday night.

He let his gaze sweep the room, rich velvet curtains, low amber light, the hum of laughter and clink of glasses. He tried not to think about the interaction at the muggle pub only a few hours ago.

But he caught himself replaying the look of her…white blouse, pencil skirt, hair scraped into a bun that had long since surrendered to the day. A few curls had slipped free, framing her face in stubborn defiance. It was maddeningly casual, and somehow it rattled him.

He scoffed at himself. Curiosity was wasted here. She would probably embarrass herself before the night was through.

Then she walked in.

His glass stilled halfway to his lips.

The music and chatter seemed to dull around him as Hermione bloody Granger stepped into Vermillion. She wore a little burgundy dress that was fitted, precise, with just enough curve to remind him she wasn’t the bookish girl skulking around Hogwarts corridors anymore. Black heels lengthened her legs, made her carry herself with a kind of poise he hadn’t expected. Her curls, usually a wild halo, tumbled down her back in polished waves, catching the low amber light like a velvet flame.

She looked good, better than she had any right to.

Draco breathed into his drink, forcing the tension from his grip on the glass. So what if she’d learned how to dress herself?

“Bloody hell, when did she get legs like that?” Theo muttered beside him, low enough for Draco alone. A slow grin curved his mouth. “If this is you being punished…”

Draco rolled his eyes in answer.

This was Granger, he reminded himself savagely. Golden girl of Gryffindor, all rules and righteousness, nose buried in a book more often than not. She was insufferable. Sanctimonious. Just because she had curves and legs now didn’t mean she was any less Granger.

Merlin, it was bloody distracting though.

Theo’s smirk widened, feeding on his silence. “Careful, mate. You’re staring.”

Draco’s glare snapped to him, sharp enough to cut. Theo only raised his hands in mock surrender, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Her gaze swept the room until it landed on them. Draco’s chest went tight when she smiled, warm and easy, like they were old friends.

“Hello,” she said brightly as she approached their table.

Draco stilled. 

It wasn’t supposed to matter, but he noticed the way her curls caught the glow of the light like dark embers spilling down her shoulders. And damn it all, the dress was far too deliberate to be dismissed as accident.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought back down.

“Hermione Granger,” Theo’s grin was instant, lazy and sharp. “Not sure if you remember me from Hogwarts, but I have to say you look great.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. Of course Theo would play it up.

“Theodore Nott. Slytherin, in the same class. Quiet, but didn’t mind laughing at my expense...” She smiled despite her sharp words. “I remember you.”

Theo’s grin widened, wolfish. “Ah, excellent. Saves me the trouble of introductions.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting with mischief. “Though, if you’d like, I could still make a case for myself.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, faint but unmistakable. Bloody Theo. He was always one to take an opening and push it too far.

“I think I preferred you when you were quiet,” she said, trying for lightness, though Draco caught the way her hand tightened on her glass.

Theo only laughed, unbothered and smug. “No hard feelings, then, Hermione?” He held out his hand across the table. Draco looked down at it, then glanced at her with an arched brow.

She laughed lightly, carefully placing her hand in Theo’s, shaking it briefly. “Not unless you have some evil plot tonight.” 

Her amber eyes slid to Draco before Theo could respond. “Well, you convinced me to come here. Now what?”

Draco’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite the smirk he intended. “Well,” he drawled, slower than he wanted, “I suppose you sit.”

She slid into the booth, directly beside him. Not across. Not leaving space. Her curls brushed his shoulder as she settled in, crossing one leg over the other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Draco went very still.

Across the table, Theo’s brows shot up, a grin already tugging at his mouth like Christmas had come early. He leaned back against the leather of the booth with exaggerated satisfaction, tipping his glass toward Draco. “Sit too close to a snake and people might think you like the bite.”

She was quick, teasing. “I don’t know,” she said, tilting her head just enough to catch the gleam of Draco’s profile in the low light. “I don't think he has teeth. In fact, he’s kind of…cute.”

Theo barked a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.” He looked at Draco, eyes alight with wicked amusement. “Merlin, this night is already worth it.”

Draco’s jaw flexed. He could see it for what it was…Granger trying to keep the upper hand even if she was sorely out of place, Theo egging her on…both waiting to see if he would flinch.

So you want to play?

Without warning, he shifted just slightly closer, his movement lazy and deliberate. His hand lifted, fingers brushing the curve of her temple as he tucked a wild curl behind her ear. The touch was calculated and careful, but far too intimate to mistake.

“No teeth?” His voice was low, silk threaded with steel. “I don’t think so.”

Hermione stilled. He caught the fractional pause, the flicker in her eyes before she smoothed it away, composure snapping back into place like armor.

Theo grinned like the demon he was. “I’ll be right back,” he drawled, pushing to his feet. “You two keep entertaining yourselves.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Where are you–”

“Trust me,” Theo cut in, slipping into the crowd with that grin sharp and secretive.

Silence fell in Theo’s absence.

Hermione’s hand rested on the table, but her body angled ever so slightly toward Draco, defiance and wariness braided into her posture.

She didn’t speak, and neither did he.

The air between them stretched taut, a fine thread ready to snap. Her smile ghosted at the edges of her mouth, a fragile mask, while his fingertips still tingled where they’d brushed her hair moments before.

It wasn’t banter anymore.

Her lashes lowered as she glanced at him sidelong, as though daring him to break the silence. He caught the flicker of unease in her, the same unease twisting through him.

He leaned back a fraction, forcing steel into his tone. “Don’t mistake this for something it isn’t. You can dress yourself up all you like, Granger, but you’re still the same little know-it-all.”

Her smile faltered, the mask slipping for just a breath. The knot in his throat tightened, but he ignored it, holding her gaze like he hadn’t just gutted the moment.

Then Theo returned, sliding back into the booth with a triumphant flourish. In his hands was a crystal decanter, the liquid inside glowing faintly gold, like bottled sunlight.

“Thought we needed an upgrade,” he said, setting it on the table with exaggerated care. The etched glass caught the light, throwing prisms across the dark wood.

Hermione’s brows furrowed, “Is that…Firelaced Selwyn Reserve? There is no way that is meant for customers. You stole that from Blaise’s office, didn’t you?”

“Borrowed. He won't mind.” Theo grinned like a man with a secret. “It’s very limited and very, very expensive. Blaise hides it for special occasions. Consider tonight one.”

Draco rolled his eyes, leaning back against the booth. “Merlin’s sake, Theo. Put new wards on his office before he kills you.”

Granger, predictably, was frowning still. “I really don't think he is going to appreciate this.”

Of course she would be the one to worry about the consequences. Always the dutiful one, too good for her own good. Didn’t she ever allow herself real fun?

Theo waved off her protest and poured, the liquid sunlight gliding into each glass. “He won't even know it's missing. We’ll just have a little bit.”

Her hand hovered reluctantly over the glass. She muttered something under her breath, then finally lifted it.

Draco didn’t mean to watch her, the curve of her lips brushing the rim, the smallest tilt of her head as she took the sip, hesitant and cautious. He dragged his gaze away before she could notice.

Theo smirked knowingly, raising his own glass. “See? Worth it.”

Draco reached for his drink. Pathetic. What was he doing? He hadn’t invited her to hang out. He’d brought her here for a reason.

Vermillion wasn’t meant for restraint. This was where he escaped the polished cage of his family name, where he burned away his edges in smoke and silk and shadows, where bad decisions weren’t mistakes but the whole point.

Granger looked like she would rather read through case notes than taste Blaise’s most expensive firewhiskey. She needed…shaking out of herself. He wanted to see what happened when the golden girl cracked, when she stopped thinking of tomorrow long enough to live tonight.

And if he was lucky, it would scare her away. If she thought one sip of stolen liquor was pushing her limits, she had no idea.

Chapter Text

Blaise’s drink. Blaise’s club. Malfoy’s world. She shouldn’t be here. Hermione knew she shouldn’t be here.

The borrowed dress was shorter than anything she had worn before, above the knee, sleek against her body in a way that felt daring and a little too reckless. A touch too tight in the chest and hips, given she was curvier than Ginny, but it fit well enough. Her hair was let down, charmed into polished ringlets and waves that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back.

As uncomfortable as she felt, she had to admit she looked good.

Then she saw him.

It had left her unsteady, somehow.

Draco Malfoy looked like sin made wealthy. His black suit was sharp, the collar loosened just enough to suggest he had been born with the right to dismiss rules. He leaned back as though he owned this velvet underworld, like every woman in the room would wait her whole life for his glance.

She had tried her best to be casual, flirty even, ignoring her discomfort at just being here. But when he brushed her hair back, “No teeth?,” her body betrayed her. Sparks scattered down her neck, darted through her stomach, and she gripped the glass harder to steady herself.

What is he doing!?

It was a game. It had always been a game. He wanted her to stumble and fold.

She lifted her chin, set her jaw into something she hoped looked cool, calculated. She had fought in a war, destroyed horcruxes, stood against men who wanted her dead.

She would not be undone by Malfoy and his bad intentions in some nightclub.

Theo’s lazy drawl cut through the tension, his grin already promising trouble. “I ran into a few friends upstairs when I was grabbing this. They were in the suite. Thought we might take the party there.”

Hermione’s glass stilled in her hand. The words lodged tight in her chest. Upstairs meant something different. She felt the shift in her pulse, and no matter how carefully she tried to school her expression, she knew the flicker of nerves showed.

Malfoy caught it instantly.

His smirk curved slowly. “The suite. Perfect idea, Theo.”

Her spine straightened, but her stomach twisted. She could already feel herself being maneuvered.

The stairs up to Blaise’s suite curved like the throat of some great beast. It was narrow, dimly lit, swallowing them whole with each step. Velvet drapes muffled the pulse of music below, leaving only the heavy sound of her heels against the wood.

Hermione forced herself not to grip the banister too tightly.

Theo was ahead, loose and unhurried, humming under his breath as though the night held nothing but promise. Malfoy lingered at her side, far too close, his shoulder brushing hers every few steps like he was daring her to flinch.

She told herself to breathe, but her thoughts chased Theo’s words in circles…friends upstairs.

What kind of friends needed a private suite? What kinds of things did Blaise allow to happen behind its closed doors? 

Draco’s smirk flickered at the corner of her vision, as if he could read the tension wound tight through her posture. 

The suite was warm with amber light and smoke, laughter spilling out as Theo pushed the door open. The air was thick with perfume, sharp and sweet, curling around the edges of a high laugh.

Hermione froze.

They were sprawled around the card table as though it were a throne room. Pansy Parkinson at the center, dark hair gleaming, smile cutting. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass were on either side of her, pale-eyed and glittering like sirens, each with a drink in hand and the kind of ease that said this place belonged to them.

Their gazes moved in unison as they stepped inside, first to Draco, then to Hermione.

The recognition was instant.

Pansy didn’t bother to hide the way she leaned across the table toward Draco, as though staking a claim. Her voice poured out like velvet dipped in venom. “Draco. Didn’t expect you to crawl out tonight.”

“It's Friday night, where else would I be?”

She gave a little shrug and let her head turn, lips curving into exaggerated surprise. “Oh,” she drawled, eyes dragging over Hermione in the burgundy dress, lingering on her form. “Granger. I didn’t see you there.”

Daphne smirked into her glass. “Merlin, shouldn’t you be buried in parchment somewhere?”

Astoria tittered like she heard a private joke. Pansy, of course, soaked it in, queen among her court.

Hermione straightened, forcing her spine rigid. She wasn’t here to spar like they were back at school, but their tone made it clear they would relish pulling her straight back into that mud.

Draco, infuriatingly, said nothing, not that she would expect him to. He lounged into a chair like the world bent toward him, cool and untouchable. His silver eyes slid to Hermione, and her pulse stumbled in her throat. She knew, Merlin help her, that she had walked straight into his game.

“You know,” Pansy said, placing down a card on their game table, “last month I saw you serving drinks at the Phoenix Trust Gala event.”

The laughter from the other women rolled low across the table, shifting the air like smoke.

“I wasn’t serving drinks,” Hermione muttered, “I volunteered to collect silent auction bids. Many families still need support after the war.”

“Well,” Pansy smirked, “Hopefully our donations are being used adequately.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “If you–”

“Merlin’s sake,” Theo interrupted, throwing himself into a chair with his easy grin. “Play nice, Pans. Golden Girl’s with us tonight.”

Hermione leaned back against the velvet sofa with Draco across the table as another round of cards was dealt out. 

Cards flicked against the table in quick snaps. She studied the suits, the numbers, the way Pansy smirked as she played, and realised quickly she was leagues behind.

“You’ve never played before, have you?” Theo’s voice slipped at her ear, low and amused. He leaned close, giving off a warmth that made her spine stiffen.

Hermione shook her head, setting down another card. “Is it obvious?”

Theo chuckled, sliding it back toward her with a sly grin. “That one stays until you’re ready, sweetheart. Unless you’d like to lose spectacularly, in which case, be my guest.”

Theo was infuriating in a softer way than Draco…mischief without feeling as though you had a blade to your throat. His sleeve brushed her arm as he gestured to the next play, lingering just a fraction too long. He was teaching her the game, but Hermione couldn’t quite shake the sense that he was testing her boundaries as his knee accidentally bumped against hers.

Across the table, Draco sat like a king in exile, like a Malfoy. He was relaxed here, yet sharp, watching everything. He said nothing, but Hermione felt the heat of his gaze each time Theo leaned closer.

Jealousy? Surely not, not for her anyway. He probably didn't want Theo fraternizing with the enemy.

Then the door opened and Blaise sauntered in. His jacket hung off his shoulders, and his eyes glimmered like he had stories to tell.

“Ah, my favorite snakes,” Blaise chimed, sweeping the room. He stopped for a moment on seeing Hermione, one brow flicking up in surprise, “...and a stray.” 

He kissed Daphne on the mouth, clasped Theo’s shoulder, and dropped into a chair next to Draco like he owned the place.

He did own the place.

“Business all finished?” Pansy asked, flicking her cards down without looking.

Blaise sighed, pouring himself a drink. “No, never. But I was getting bored.”

That earned a few chuckles, but Hermione stayed quiet, trying to sort through her cards and the rules Theo whispered in her ear.

Her small pile of chips slid away into Theo’s smug collection. For all his help, he was winning the game. When his arm brushed hers for the third time in as many hands, she shifted subtly, giving herself space.

He caught the motion, but his smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. “I'm only stealing your chips, not your virtue.”

Her brow arched as she folded her hand.

Pansy snorted into her glass and Daphne pounced, voice like honey. “Oh yes, let's talk about virtue. I’m curious…has Golden Girl ever deemed anyone worthy of entering the castle?”

Hermione’s pulse jolted, heat warming her cheeks, though she forced her expression to remain neutral. 

Viktor flickered across her mind. He was all quiet steadiness and patient hands, her first stolen kiss, her first…everything. He had written her faithfully for years, letters filled with neat script and steady affection. They would meet, have a whirlwind of a weekend, before they went back to their busy lives. He was recently retired now from Quidditch, and even recently suggested they meet again, that he had time at last.

But she didn’t.

Her career had always won, and she had always let it.

Then there was Ron, awkward and loyal, who had tried, who had wanted, but never quite…fit. They were on again off again, until he happened to meet the American muggle, Elizabeth.

As she had heard the story, Ron had spilled hot coffee all over himself in a cafe queue, and Elizabeth laughed, pressing a stack of napkins into his hands while teasing him about his clumsiness. Very American. Somehow, that had been enough to spark everything.

They were wedding planning now, his life had already pulled away from Hermione’s some time ago

The ache still tugged, her mindhealers words intruding…

Do you find room in your days for friends? For rest? For…intimacy?

She refused to give it air. Of course she did. Her friends were important to her. She saw Harry and Ginny every morning. And here she was now, catching up with old…friends.

Be that as it may, she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

Hermione lifted her glass, let her lips curve faintly, and met Daphne’s gaze. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Astoria leaned back from her spot on the floor with a sigh. “Didn’t Viktor Krum take you to the Yule Ball at Hogwarts? He was fit, wasn’t he?”

Daphne twirled her straw idly in her glass, lips curving in lazy mischief. “Mmm, I’d have let him do anything.”

“Hey, now,” Blaise cut in smoothly, reaching to tug Daphne’s arm to redirect the attention. She laughed and let herself collapse into his lap, grinning up at him like she won something. “None of that.”

They finished their round of cards and Theo tapped the deck against his palm. “Cards are a bit dull for a night like this, don’t you think?” His grin widened as he reached into his jacket and produced a slim, black vial that shimmered faintly under the lights. “Shall we make things interesting?”

Vanta Powder.

Hermione stiffened. She had read about it, absolutely never used it. A hallucinogenic, dangerously addictive in high doses, but among the upper class it was a favorite for loosening inhibitions. It required a healer’s script and somehow she didn't think Theo had one.

The rules of this game weren’t written down, but she understood enough to know that judgment would be blood in the water.

“Really, Nott?” Draco’s voice cut in from where he sat. “You couldn’t even wait until midnight to bring that out?”

“What? It’s a party.” His eyes slid to Hermione, glittering with a challenge. “Unless our Gryffindor guest is too pure for games like these.”

The others laughed softly, a ripple of silk and teeth. Theo was trying to corner her. 

She took a slow sip of her drink to buy herself a second. “I prefer my fun without losing my wits.”

Theo’s grin sharpened. “Hermione, you’re at Vermillion.”

Pansy leaned her chin into her palm, smirking like a cat about to watch a mouse squirm.

Her pulse thudded in her ears, but she forced her face into the polite, unreadable mask she used in the courtrooms. Theo’s words hung in the air like bait on a hook, and she knew it. The smart thing was to leave it alone and let them laugh, let the moment pass, and not hand them the satisfaction of seeing her scramble.

From across the table, Draco looked at her like he could see beneath the mask. “She's not interested,” he said evenly, but there was an edge to it. “If she says no, she means it.”

That only made the room hum hotter, eyes darting between the three of them, sensing the undercurrent.

Theo arched a brow, interest sparking in his eyes, but he leaned back and gave a little shrug. “Fair enough.”

Hermione drew a steady breath and tipped back the last of her drink, the burn sharper than she meant it to be. “Well,” she said lightly, “if I’m to at least keep up with the rest of you, I’ll need another.”

Before she could move to stand, Draco was already pushing out of his seat, straightening to his full, easy height. He plucked her empty glass from her hands. “I’ll handle it,” he said simply, his tone unreadable as their fingers brushed.

The contact was fleeting, but it jolted through her like a spark. She blinked and watched him turn toward the bar. 

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” Pansy drawled, her voice soft and laced in venom. “Since when do you play errand boy, Draco?”

Draco didn’t miss a beat. He shifted the glass in his hand, one brow arching as he looked over his shoulder. “Sweet? Hardly.” He let his gaze rest on Hermione, slow and unhurried. “Just thought it might be entertaining to see how long the Golden Girl lasts once she’s drinking like the rest of us.”

Pansy laughed, sharp and pleased, and Astoria hummed approval into her wine.

Theo grinned, then dipped a pinky into the soft black powder, leaning across the table to pass it along. One by one, the others followed suit, tasting it lightly. Laughter began to bubble around the table, voices loosening, the air charged with mischief.

All eyes turned to Draco as he handed Hermione her glass. He didn’t flinch under their gaze, only rolled his sleeves back a fraction, the movement slow, practiced. His expression was carved from marble, but Hermione could feel the restless undercurrent humming off him.

Gods, he'd be magnificent in a courtroom.

Then her eyes caught the faint, faded lines of the Dark Mark inked into his skin. It wasn't stark and black anymore, but a shadow of what it had once been.

Her eyes darted away quickly, throat tightening.

The only time she saw that mark anymore was in the courtroom trials as evidence of horrors committed in Voldemort’s name. During Amycus Carrow’s trial the mark had been bared as if it confirmed every crime.

Seeing it on Draco, just there, permanent, was a jolt. It was a reminder that she was sitting here trying to convince someone branded a Death Eater that their arranged marriage could be spun into something good for their community.

“Go on, Draco,” Pansy purred. “You always were the one with a talent for excess.”

Her chest was tight.

Draco let the silence stretch. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached out for his drink. He lifted it to his lips, silver eyes catching Hermione’s over the rim of the glass. The corner of his mouth twitched, the barest ghost of a smirk.

“I don’t need powder to make the night interesting,” he said at last.

Theo leaned back with a scoff. “The contrarian tonight.”

*.    *.    *.    

Draco let the comment slide, leaning back as if the whole exchange amused him. On the surface, he was calm, collected, untouchable. It was an old mask and well-practiced.

But his pulse hadn’t missed the way Granger’s eyes had flicked to his arm. The Mark. Always the bloody Mark.

He had seen that look before across drawing rooms when the whispers started up again, conveniently around the time when one of Voldemort's minions happened to be on trial. Like he should be too, like he didn't deserve freedom or his inherited wealth.

She had tried to hide it, but he caught the dart of her gaze, the way she swallowed before she looked away.

Of course she would see only that.

Draco knew what they all saw when he walked into a room. The Malfoy heir, coasting on old gold and running himself ragged through clubs and card tables. A wastrel, Narcissa had spat at him more than once…sometimes to his face, sometimes just loud enough that he couldn’t pretend not to hear.

Maybe she was right. Maybe that was all he was now.

So what was Granger doing here, sitting stiff beside him in her little dress, looking at him like she expected to drag him into respectability by sheer force of will?

The thought curdled in his chest. He didn’t want her pity. He didn’t want to be her righteous little project.

So he did what he always did…he smiled the kind of smile that wasn’t quite a smile at all, poured himself another drink, and played the part of the arrogant wastrel heir.

But he didn’t look at them. He looked at her.

Granger’s glass was untouched since he handed it back. She was perched on the edge of her seat, shoulders tight, as if bracing for the next hit. She hated this world and hated herself for caring what they thought of her. He could see it. He could feel it.

He chose to sit next to her this time and leaned over, his voice pitched just for her. “You think you can play it safe here? It will leave a mark you can’t erase. That can't be good for your career aspirations.”

Her eyes flicked to his, sharp and steady despite the heat in her cheeks. “That’s funny. I already have a mark, or have you forgotten? It has only propelled my career ambitions.”

It took him a moment, but eventually the meaning settled like ice in his stomach. The mark that had been given in his house…Mudblood.

His eyes darted to her arm instinctively. It wasn’t there, but there was a faint glimmer there if he looked close enough. She had glamoured it away, hidden it.

He swallowed, tension coiling in his jaw. Even unseen, he could feel the weight of it, the reminder of what had happened under his roof and what she had endured.

They both carried marks that wouldn’t wash away…but no charm could keep his concealed. No, Voldemort had ensured that fact.

He buried the thought quickly in another swallow of whiskey.

Bloody Gryffindor. Always with the last word.

Still, the knot in his throat didn’t ease. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to lose himself in cards and drink until the night blurred away. Until she blurred away.

If Narcissa thought an arrangement with Hermione Granger would steady him, she was mad. In fact, it could readily contribute to him consuming more.

He swirled the amber liquid, watching the others across the room get lost in the Vanta powder Blaise and Daphne were knotted together on the armchair, laughter spilling too loudly, an entangled mess. Theo leaning against the bar, his wand out and casting a spell to make the room hum with music. Pansy and Astoria had abandoned their chairs altogether, hips swaying, eyes glassy, drifting through their own clouds of darkness.

They were in their own world now. And he was caught between the ruin he knew too well, and the one person in the room who refused to vanish into it.

He wanted to see how long she could keep that spine straight, that chin lifted. How long before the mask slipped. He wanted to test it…prod at the edges of her control until she cracked and showed what she was made of…

The Golden Girl with her tidy rules and answers for everything. What would she be without them?

He wanted to find out.

She lifted her glass again, and he caught the tiny tremor in her fingers. She was nervous. The tilt of her head, the way her lips parted over the rim…he found himself following the line of her throat down to the sweep of her collarbone, the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she drew a slow breath.

Merlin, he had to admit…her curves weren’t unpleasant. Even the wild halo of curls framed her face with something dangerously untamed.

Too much whisky. Definitely.

“Hmm,” he murmured before he could stop himself. “You’re starting to look…distracting.”

Her eyes flicked to his, a small smile tugging at her lips betraying the slightest hint of delight. There was maybe a trace of tipsiness in her too.

He let the moment stretch, leaning back just slightly. The tipsy haze made her edges soft, made her a little more…human. And her reaction was entertaining.

The thought both infuriated and thrilled him. 

He should stop. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned closer, voice dropping lower. “Let’s see how far you’ll go to do what I want, shall we?”

Her eyes widened. A flush touched her cheeks. “...Do what you want?”

“At your Muggle pub. We agreed, remember?” His lips curved faintly. “You’d do what I wanted.”

“Oh.” She blinked, flustered. “I did not agree to that.”

Dark amusement curled in his chest. He rather liked getting a rise out of her. He always had.

For a moment he found himself back in Hogwarts, remembering the sharp exchanges, the way they had slung insults at each other with reckless abandon. He hadn’t realized it then when he was a boy, but the thrill of baiting her, of watching her get flustered, had always carried its own dangerous appeal.

He reached just far enough for his fingers to brush against her wrist, a fleeting touch, but enough to make her stiffen. He saw the goosebumps crawl up her arm. That small reaction he couldn’t ignore.

Her lips parted. Wide eyes locked on his. He leaned in a fraction closer, savoring it, letting the heat of his presence cage her.

“I think you’ve had too much whisky,” she said steadily, though her chest betrayed her, rising and falling too fast.

They didn’t look away. The tension coiled tight between them, sharp enough to cut. And he wanted to cut it.

“Do you think you can handle me, Granger, once we are wed?” He couldn't help himself. He hardly registered the words that dripped from his tongue, but he knew they weren't kind. “Or are you clever enough to know when to run?”

Her lips pressed into a tight line and she set her glass down firmly on the table in front of them. He could see her decision forming, hesitant but resolute. She would leave. She had to.

A dark thrill, twisted and guilty, curled in his chest at the thought. He had provoked her. He had pushed her, tested her, and it worked.

“Gods, you're such a bully.” She rose unsteady, and he smirked as he watched her retreat. “I’m going home.”

The room and laughter of the others faded around him. All that mattered was the sharp, delicious feeling of her withdrawal, and the satisfaction of having finally won the game.

Chapter Text

Draco woke with his mouth dry and his head splitting in two. The silken sheets twisted around his legs smelled faintly of perfume and smoke. Pansy’s arm was draped across his chest, her emerald nails biting lightly into his skin as if to claim him even in sleep.

He shifted carefully, rolling onto his side. His stomach lurched. Merlin. He hadn’t meant to stay this long at the Vermillion. Granger had left defeated, he'd won the game, and then he had drowned himself the rest of the night in drink and powder.

Now as his mind sobered with the dull throb of last night's thrill, he wasn't quite sure if he did win. She had simply left.

He felt a little guilty, though he told himself he shouldn’t. She made herself too easy to provoke. Yet somehow he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head, even with the Vanta haze. He couldn’t even properly fuck Pansy, because Granger’s heated expression kept flashing before him ruining what should have been a perfectly good distraction.

She had a talent for finding ways to ruin things in his life recently.

Blaise had set the enchanted windows of the suite’s room in perpetual twilight, but the clock on the wall mocked him with its glowing runes. 

Ten past nine.

“Damn,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. Narcissa was going to be irate.

They had already fought the other day, his mother finding him surly and reeking whiskey. He had snapped at her, said things he shouldn’t have, because Hermione’s sharp words had still been cutting under his skin from earlier that week. And now…he was late to breakfast again.

If his mother's tone yesterday had been frosty, today it would be ice itself. She had every weapon at her disposal to remind him what was at stake…his name, his inheritance, his already precarious place in society.

These breakfasts were her way of keeping him in line.

Draco apparated directly into the familiar echo of the Malfoy Manor foyer. The air was cool and perfumed, the scent of his mother. His boots clicked across the marble as a house elf appeared to collect his suit jacket, but he waved it off and went straight for the dining room.

Narcissa was already there, seated perfectly upright with a porcelain teacup balanced between two slender fingers. She looked at him over the rim of her cup.

“You’re late,” she said. “Again, Draco. How many times must you repeatedly disappoint?”

“I was out late,” Draco replied smoothly, lowering himself into the chair opposite. He leaned back, stretching his long legs, as if the pounding in his head weren’t threatening to split him in two. “With Granger.”

That made her pause. His mother never betrayed anything so unsophisticated as surprise, but he saw it in the fractional lift of her brow.

“Really?” she said, setting her cup down with deliberate care. “You reek.”

“Yes, we had fun.” Draco continued, cooling his expression into something unreadable. “You wanted me to…get to know her. Make an effort. I was doing exactly that.” He let a hint of a smirk tug at his mouth. “Consider it your wish fulfilled.”

Narcissa studied him. Her pale eyes weighed every word, every tilt of his tone. Then she inclined her head, satisfied enough to move the conversation forward.

He felt the tension in his shoulders ease. 

“Good. She will polish what your father tarnished by being sent to Azkaban. Don't tarnish her with your antics.”

Draco said nothing, but his jaw tightened.

Narcissa lifted her teacup again, her voice airy, almost careless. “Speaking of your father. He has requested to see you. It's a matter of…urgency.”

Draco’s stomach knotted before she even finished.

“He sent word yesterday.” Her tone remained serene, but there was gravity in it. “You should go.”

Draco forced himself to breathe evenly. Lucius never asked. Lucius commanded.

“What does he want?” Draco asked, his voice low.

Narcissa stirred her tea with a silver spoon, though she hadn't added anything. “Finish breakfast, then you will go to Azkaban and hear it from him yourself.”

The guard’s keys rattled, the door groaned open, and the stench of damp stone and rust flooded Draco’s senses. His father sat hunched on the cot, pale hands folded like a supplicant’s, but the moment Lucius raised his head, his eyes were sharp as glass.

“Draco.” His voice rasped, but it carried the weight of command. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Draco ignored the comment and stayed near the threshold, gaze cold. “Mother said it was urgent.”

Lucius laughed, quiet at first, then building, a hollow sound that bounced against the stone. “Your mother thought it best to remind you of where you could end up should you disregard the importance of your namesake.” He leaned forward, lips curling.

Draco’s jaw tensed. “Ah. She doesn't want me sitting in here with you after all, then.”

“This…engagement…with the Mudblood. I know it sours, but it will pay in the end if you stay the course,” his father said, ignoring Draco’s comment.

Draco hardly heard that word anymore, tried to carve it out of his own mind since he had watched Bellatrix scribe it with her wand’s blade into Granger’s arm all those years ago. “You've no right–”

“To speak the truth?” Lucius cut him off, suddenly fierce. His hands gripped the bars, veins standing out, knuckles white. “Don’t pretend, Draco. Azkaban gnaws at me. It takes and takes. But I will still guide you. I am your father.”

“I'm surprised you are promoting this kind of…union. I can’t understand why.”

“It was my suggestion.” His father’s voice was hoarse but sharp as glass. “Don’t you see? She’s a war heroine, a rising advocate. Mark my words, the witch will have a Wizengamot seat before long…and without the help of the Malfoy name.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Your suggestion? Why?” He stepped closer to the bars. “What aren't you and Mother saying?”

“If a Mudblood…” he spat the word like poison, then steadied himself, “...were to plead for my release, if she were to stand publicly as my daughter-in-law, even the most stubborn of them would falter. They will bend, Draco. For her.”

The thought made Draco’s stomach twist. Hermione, standing before the Wizengamot, not speaking for justice, not for what she believed in, but for him. For Lucius. 

So that's what this has all been about…

He wanted freedom from Azkaban and was desperate enough to marry his only heir to a muggleborn witch despite his blood purist ideals.

“I knew it. I knew there was more to this arrangement than Mother was letting on.”

Draco’s hands curled at his sides. He wanted to snarl that he didn’t care, that he would sooner rot than have them both shackled like pawns in his parent’s games.

“What makes you believe Hermione Granger would ever agree to your release?”

“Wouldn't she…” his father’s silver eyes bore into his. “For the family elevating her status and providing a Wizengamot seat? Or for love?”

Draco froze, a chill running up his spine. 

“Love?” He scoffed. “Have you forgotten our family simply watched as she was repeatedly cursed in our home?”

Lucius’s lips curved, humorless and cruel. “You need only pretend for a little while…let her believe she wins you, that she holds the reins. By the time she realizes the truth it will be too late.”

His voice dropped to a whisper that still seemed to reverberate through the cell. “You have your freedom. I will have mine. And she…” A pause, the faintest lift of his brow. “She will belong to us, whether she knows it or not.”

Draco’s stomach tightened, the weight of his father’s words pressing down like a curse.

Lucius pressed his forehead to the bars, breath shallow, voice dropping into a rasp. “Please…bring me home, son. Let me die at home. Not in this filth.” 

For a moment Draco couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t staring at the patriarch who once filled every room at the Manor with his imperious presence. He was staring at a man hollowed out, clinging to the bars like a beggar.

Something in him folded…an old, small thing that remembered being certain, that had leaned into his father’s praise…the hand that had once ruffled his hair after a successful lesson, the approving clap after his first broomstick loop, the careful trip to the wandmaker. Let me die at home, the plea scraped straight through that brittle part of him and split it open.

A part of him wanted to promise it, to make it better. He hated that boy still alive inside him. 

Beneath it, another truth pressed cold and heavy. Lucius had bent the world to his will for years…ruining lives, ordering dark obedience in the name of power. He had taught Draco how to follow, how to hide behind a family name, how to look away. Even now, behind iron, he continued to maneuver, to bargain with his son as if strings and threats still snapped where they were tugged.

Draco tasted the old obedience like pennies in his mouth and forced it down. He tried to fold himself into occlumency the way he had learned to close a door…feel the latch, pull the curtain, let the room go dark.

He let a cool, practiced silence slide over his thoughts until nothing inside showed a ripple. The exercise steadied him, but it was never perfect…it only kept the surface smooth.

Lucius’s voice dropped, ragged and pleading. “All I ask is that you think of what it could mean for us.”

He let the occlumency hold while something under it bled…a memory, a boy reaching for his father’s hand and finding only a shadow.

Draco swallowed hard, fighting the pull of it, the tremor in his chest. He hated his father for knowing exactly where to strike.

*.    *.    *.    

Hermione set her satchel down on her desk Monday morning, the weight of Friday night still clinging to her shoulders. The Vermillion…that game, Theo’s charm, the powder, Pansy’s knowing smile…and Malfoy. His…warning, watching her as if the entire evening had unfolded at his design.

She had buried herself in paperwork all weekend, desperate to banish the image of his stare. There had been something in it she couldn’t quite decipher, but it had felt predatory. And she hated that she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

The morning walk to the Ministry with Harry had been as routine as ever. He had been bleary eyed and grumbling about another sleepless night with James, and too consumed with reports waiting on his desk to notice anything unusual in her silence. 

The familiar scratch of quills and the hum of enchanted typewriters should have been grounding when they got to Level Two, but the weight of glances pressed against her skin.

“Morning, Hermione,” called Susan Bones from two desks down. Her tone was easy, but her raised brows said otherwise.

“Morning, Susan.”

Across the aisle, an assistant leaned too far over his desk, voice carrying just enough to be heard. “She was with Malfoy at Vermillion Friday night, I swear it was her. Bold choice.”

So someone had seen us... 

She hadn't expected that. Who worked here and actually frequented that place?

Hermione’s hand curled tighter around her quill as she bent over the first parchment in her stack, forcing her breath steady. She had lived through much worse than whispers. Still, heat pricked at the back of her neck.

This was the plan, wasn’t it? Her name tied with the Malfoys, her presence at their table.

Not like that.

Now, she couldn’t take it back.

Focus. Work first. Always work first.

All day she could hardly think straight. Quills scratched, memos shuffled, parchment piled, but every time someone’s gaze lingered too long, her stomach twisted.

By midday, one bold clerk had stepped right up and asked her about Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. As if it were any of their business. She had fumbled, stammering something about them just having a few drinks and catching up. The words had tasted foreign, wrong, like she’d borrowed them from someone else’s mouth.

What were they, exactly? 

They hadn’t laid out terms, not really. That had been her plan…neutral ground, a Muggle pub, a place where she might wrestle him into something sensible. But he had brushed her off and then baited her right into Vermillion instead. 

Vermillion, of all places. She could still feel the burn of it on her skin, every stare dissecting her. Draco had been right..she might have looked the part that night, but she was still just…Hermione Granger.

And whatever they claimed to see in her, it wasn’t the truth. They didn’t see the girl who had clawed and scraped, who had run half starved from Snatchers through dangerous woods, who had hunted Horcruxes with dirt in her hair and fear in her chest. They didn’t see her survival. They saw a know-it-all Mudblood, dressed up for their entertainment. 

That’s all they had ever seen.

And as much as the Ministry preached reform, as much as the Wizengamot paraded inclusion…it hadn’t changed. Her blood still barred her path. Every motion stalled, every advancement questioned, every whisper reminding her she didn’t belong. It wasn’t fair.

She needed Malfoy.

She pushed her chair back from the desk with a scrape that made her wince. The parchment she had been pretending to work on blurred in front of her eyes, the words smearing together like water stains. She pressed her palms flat against the wood and forced herself to breathe.

This was happening too quickly, and not in the right way. Already the whispers at work, the looks, the bold questions she had no prepared answers for…she felt cornered.

She should have never gone to Vermillion.

Her quill had snapped under her grip earlier, ink staining her fingers. Now the blotches stood as evidence…rash, desperate, impulsive. That wasn’t who she was. Or at least, it wasn’t who she used to be.

It's just…strategy.

Alignment. Influence. That she was tired of being overlooked, of her blood cutting short every path she fought for. Malfoy could change that. 

The Malfoy name can change that.

The thought twisted sour in her stomach. She needed to step back, to breathe, to ask herself whether she was willing to bind everything to Draco Malfoy simply to prove she belonged.

Hermione pressed her fingertips hard into her temples, willing herself to slow down. 

Breathe. Just…breathe.

“Do you think you can handle me, Granger, once we are wed?”

He had been drunk when he said that…that much she could tell even as the syllables replayed. The whisky had steadied his tongue and muted his restraint. He would never have said that sober.

Yet there had been something in his eyes, not just from the drink, but a hardness that made the rest of the world recede. She had felt exposed, examined from some angle she never would have allowed him of all people to look.

The memory sent heat up her spine, unwanted and ridiculous. She forced herself to name it for what it was. He was drunk, he had been trying to needle her and get under her skin. That was all.

She couldn’t keep spinning like this. Maybe Draco had been right from the start…maybe the best thing was to end it before it truly began. Break off the ridiculous arrangement and walk away with her dignity intact. Especially when it was already interfering with her work like it was today.

She felt suddenly childish, rehearsing the conversation before it had even happened…how to say it cleanly to Narcissa, how to sound principled instead of petty or even how to sign the letter without leaving room for bargaining.

She drew in a shaky breath and began to shape the first line in her head. Mrs. Malfoy–

“Hermione?”

Her head snapped up. Harry was standing at the edge of her desk, his hand half raised like he wasn’t sure if he should knock on the wood or retreat. His expression was caught between concern and discomfort.

She blinked, startled. The office was nearly empty. The lights had dimmed, and the corridor beyond was quiet. Had the whole day gone by?

“It’s time to go home,” Harry said, softer this time, and she caught the awkward shuffle of his weight, the way his eyes darted away from hers. 

Great 

He had heard something.

Hermione’s throat tightened.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The scattered parchment on her desk, the broken quill, the ink stains on her fingers…every detail suddenly felt damning and it just wasn't like her.

Harry shifted, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looked more worn out than usual. “Ginny’s making shepherd’s pie tonight…or trying to, anyway…and James has decided sleeping is overrated.” He smiled. “If you came by, I think she’d actually eat instead of pacing with him the whole time.”

Hermione blinked. She wanted to say she was too busy, that she had things to sort through, but Harry’s eyes were steady and soft, pleading without asking.

“And honestly,” he added, lowering his voice, “We could use the company. You would be doing me a favor.”

Her chest pinched. “Harry…” she started, but he only shrugged.

“You can even tell me I’m doing the bottle wrong if it’ll make you feel better.”

Despite herself, Hermione’s mouth twitched. He was offering her a lifeline and pretending it was for him, when really, it was for her.

“I would love to,” she felt herself relax for the first time all day. “Thank you.”

The familiar creak of the Potter front step greeted her before the door even opened. Ginny stood there, hair pulled back in a messy knot, James balanced on her hip. The baby gave a soft, hiccupping whimper, tiny fists waving.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Ginny breathed, ushering Hermione inside with one arm. “He’s been on strike from sleep since noon.” She pressed a quick kiss to Hermione’s cheek, tired but smiling. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“I’ve brought your dress back.” Hermione set the folded dress down on their entry table at Ginny’s insistence.

The house smelled of shepherd’s pie, slightly overdone at the edges, but rich and comforting all the same. Harry appeared from the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, a tea towel draped over his shoulder. “Told you she would come,” he said, relief softening his voice as he bent to kiss Ginny’s temple.

Hermione set her bag down, already reaching for James. “Here, give him to me,” she said gently. Ginny handed the baby over with a grateful groan. James fussed for a heartbeat before nestling against Hermione’s chest, his tiny breaths warm against her collarbone.

“There we go,” she whispered, swaying instinctively. “You just needed someone new to complain to, didn’t you?”

Harry chuckled, sinking into a chair. Ginny laughed as she flicked her wand to summon plates from the cupboard. “Hermione actually believes in rules. Even newborns can tell.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her chest felt warm. This quiet chaos, Harry and Ginny’s easy teasing, the grounding weight of James in her arms, this was the kind of anchor she hadn’t realized she needed.

Her thoughts twisted, knotting themselves tighter with every breath. It wasn’t a future she would ever have if she stayed bound to the Malfoys. Whatever shape this arrangement took, it would never give her a home filled with warmth, with children racing down the halls, with laughter spilling over Sunday breakfasts.

No...theirs would be a house of silence, of appearances and obligations...separate lives stitched together, a marriage built on strategy and show. Could she survive that kind of hollowness? Could she build something empty and dare to call it a life?

What if Narcissa expected grandchildren? A dynasty demanded heirs, didn’t it? Would she be expected to provide one, no matter how stripped of love the marriage otherwise? The thought made her stomach twist.

What of her own parents...did they imagine grandchildren? Did they want to see her with a family? She and Draco were both only children, the end of two very different lines.

The questions coiled tighter, louder, than she wanted to admit.

Should she end it? Should she cut this all clean before it wound deeper into her life than she could untangle? Or…should she try once more? Push at him and needle the cracks in all that ruin and arrogance…find out what had made his eyes look the way they had that night.

The thought of letting go carried relief. 

The thought of prying further carried fire.

Which one did she want more?

Over dinner, Ginny’s laughter rang out, weary but real. Harry nudged Hermione into their conversation, asking her opinions on everything from teething charms to wagers on when James might crawl. He even made a spreadsheet. Ron and Elizabeth’s names were there, bold as ink, a reminder that life had moved forward for everyone else.

When Hermione rose to leave, gathering her cardigan from the back of the chair, Harry followed her to the door. The low hum of Ginny’s lullaby drifted faintly from upstairs where she finally coaxed James back down. The house was wrapped in the fragile quiet of new parenthood.

Harry hesitated before speaking, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hermione…I heard something today.”

Her stomach dipped. “Oh?” she asked, feigning lightness.

His green eyes met hers with a steadiness that made her pulse quicken. “About you. And Malfoy.”

Hermione’s throat tightened.

She lifted her chin instead, forcing steadiness into her tone, fixing that courtroom mask into place. “It doesn’t matter. People gossip. You know how they are.”

“Yeah, but you’re not people,” Harry said, his voice rougher now. “You’re you. And Malfoy…he’s dangerous, Hermione. He always has been. I don’t want to see you get burned because of him.”

Heat crawled up her neck, shame twisting inside her. Burned. He wasn’t wrong, but hearing someone else say it made her feel suddenly exposed.

She folded her hands together to keep them from trembling. “I hear you,” she said quietly. “But I can take care of myself.”

Harry’s eyes searched hers, and she hated how much it felt like he didn’t believe her.

Chapter Text

Draco left Azkaban with his father’s words carved into him like a new brand. Back at the Manor, he found Narcissa in the sitting room with her parchment balanced in pale hands. The confrontation happened almost before he knew it. Accusations spilles from him, sharp and venomous, demanding to know when she had planned to admit that the arrangement with Granger was nothing more than a ruse to smooth Lucius’s way to freedom.

She hadn’t denied it outright, saying she hadn’t encouraged Lucius. Yet, she had let him believe. What harm is allowing a prisoner to hope? If everything aligned, she had said, perhaps his wishes might one day come true.

The words curdled in Draco’s gut. Of course. Every kindness in this family was poisoned. His parents were ruthless, uncaring, and he was theirs, belonged to them, cut from the same cloth…whether he wanted it or not.

Narcissa had gone on, clinically dismantling him piece by piece. Draco was wasting himself, drowning in whiskey and excuses, squandering the freedom when others had been imprisoned or received the Dementor’s Kiss. 

Then, gently, she delivered the knife into his back…to her, Hermione Granger was inconvenient, yes, but brilliant. If she burned her way into his life, perhaps she might succeed where his mother’s influence had reached its limit.

The air in the room had grown tight, suffocating. 

Did they love him? Or was their constant control with this new calculated plan, the closest his parents could manage?

He drew his occlumency around his thoughts like armor, shutting it all out…the sting of her words, the hollow ache in his chest, the shame clawing at his throat.

After all, he was what they had made him.

Draco hadn’t bothered to write to Miss War Heroine. His mother had tried to insist that he keep the momentum and not let too much time lapse. You should be courting her, her exact words.

Courting her…in the traditional sense…as if Hermione Granger, the witch who had built her life tearing down tradition, would swoon over flowers and formal dinners. The thought alone made him laugh.

No. He wanted to push back against the weight pressing on him from all sides…his father’s schemes, his mother’s designs, the suffocating inevitability of it all. He wanted to push away the images that kept returning to him in his sleep…Granger in that tight little dress, the fire sparking in her eyes when he had prodded her too far.

So he kept to himself and avoided his mother entirely. No more breakfasts, she didn’t deserve his company after that neat little confession of hers. He spent the entire week at Theo’s instead, stretching the month’s allowance as far as he could, even pressing Blaise to put their latest indulgence on his tab.

And without a single word from Granger, he almost believed he had finally managed it…that Vermillion had been too much. Maybe she had finally decided she wanted no part of him.

Good, he told himself. It had been easy enough. 

Somehow something restless stirred. It felt suspiciously like…disappointment.

It was better this way. Maybe she had finally seen enough of what everyone else already knew…Draco Malfoy wasn’t worth the trouble. Better she realize it now.

Still, it lodged like a splinter. If Granger, with all her blasted principles and stubborn faith in lost causes, had written him off so…quickly…

It was confirmation.

Draco tried to drown these thoughts at Vermillion. He tipped back another glass, forcing down the burn until nothing else was left.

He slammed the glass down harder than he meant to.

Fuck her.

Fuck that stuck-up, self-righteous little witch.

He could practically hear her voice in his head, clipped and condescending, rattling off every reason he wasn’t good enough…

Draco tipped the bottle again, amber spilling past the rim and drenching his fingers.

“Mate, slow down,” Theo muttered from across the table, leaning back with his usual infuriating calm. “That’s not firewhisky, it’s a Château Laflamme ’72. You drown yourself in it and Blaise will have my head when the bill turns up.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “What, you think I can’t pay my own bloody tab?” His voice came sharp, brittle. “Is that it? Malfoy heir, penniless drunk, bleeding his friends dry?”

Theo only rolled his eyes, lips twitching in that maddening way of his. “Oh, sod off. I hate when you have vintage. You always go sour before the glass is empty.”

Draco said nothing, staring down into the dark swirl of his glass. Silence stretched, sharp and heavy.

Theo watched him. “Keep this up and one of us will start charging you rent. Merlin knows you’ve been haunting my place like a bloody ghost all week. Maybe stay with the elves next, I’m sure they can make space for you in the cupboard.”

Draco stood too fast, the bottle of vintage still in his hand, and stumbled a step before catching himself. His eyes flicked to Theo, fury flashing sharp. Then without a word, he twisted on the spot and disapparated.

He landed with a stumble in Abraxas Malfoy’s crypt, marble cold beneath his fingers as he caught himself on a pillar. 

Bloody hell…

Dust motes hung in the dim light, and the faint scent of old incense made his stomach tighten. He hadn't meant to bring himself here, not exactly. Well, he wasn't sure. He patted himself down. All limbs there.

Not splinched.

His gaze fell on the sarcophagus, ABRAXAS MALFOY carved into its stone like a warning.

Draco’s lips twisted into a bitter snarl. “You useless, pompous git,” he muttered, voice low, venom lacing every syllable. “You think you made a name for yourself? Look at this mess you left behind.”

He kicked at the stone, hard enough that the echo rattled the walls. “Your legacy, all of it–wasted. I’m left cleaning up the shite while the world laughs at us.”

The crypt was silent. The alcohol burned in his veins, mixing with the sharper, colder burn of resentment. And the hollow echo of a family that had built its name on cruelty, fear, and rigid pride.

“Congratulations, Grandfather. You ruined everything for everyone around you. Your son is in prison. Your grandson is a drunk.”

He smirked, but it felt empty as he took a drink straight from the bottle.

Then he braced himself against the cold stone, fumbling clumsily with his belt. His fingers felt thick, uncooperative, and he swore under his breath as he finally managed to tug himself free. The whiskey sloshed in his head as badly as it did in his stomach, and he let out a jagged laugh.

“Abraxas bloody Malfoy,” he slurred, the name curling bitter in his mouth.

He tilted forward, unsteady, and the stream hit the base of the crypt with an ugly hiss. He laughed again, harsher this time.

“You’d be rolling in your grave, wouldn’t you?” he jeered. “Your perfect little heir shackled to a Muggleborn. That’d be the end of your proud name, wouldn’t it? Almost worth doing just for the look on your face.”

The sound of footsteps echoed across the stone ground. Draco stiffened, swaying on his feet as he tried to pull himself together. He turned, belt loose, hair in his eyes.

Theo was there with his hands in his pockets and that insufferably smug smirk tugging at his mouth. His gaze flicked from Draco to the desecrated crypt, then back, and he let out a low whistle.

“Well,” Theo drawled, tone dripping with amusement, “I knew you were in a mood, but I didn’t expect you to take a piss on the family tree.”

Draco ignored him, fumbling with his buckle. Theo just shook his head, mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Been awhile since you last visited dear old Grandad. Not sure he’d appreciate the gesture.” Theo stepped closer, inspecting Draco’s handiwork. “Come on, mate. Save some dignity for tomorrow. You’ll feel clever tonight and sick as hell in the morning.”

Draco barely remembered Theo’s hand clamping onto his arm, the sharp wrench of apparition, and then the chlorine thick air of the Nott manor poolhouse closing around him. His knees buckled as his boots hit polished tile.

“Brilliant landing,” Theo said lazily, steering him toward the bed as if Draco were some petulant child instead of a man who had just relieved himself on his grandfather’s grave. “Go on. Sleep it off before you make a scene in the main house. The elves wouldn't like it.”

Draco muttered something sharp under his breath but allowed himself to be shoved toward the mattress. His fingers fumbled with the laces of his boots. The bloody things refused to come off.

Theo sighed, set two tiny vials down on the nightstand with exaggerated care. “Hangover draught. Or two, depending on how much you like yourself tomorrow.”

Draco managed to wrench one boot free and dropped it with a thud. He crawled gracelessly onto the bed, half on his stomach, half still twisted sideways.

Theo lingered in the doorway, tone cheerful. “Oh, and don’t suppose it’s a bad time to tell you…I invited Hermione to the Quidditch match tomorrow. Thought you’d like the company.”

Draco froze with his arm still tangled in his shirt sleeve. His brain tried to wrap around the words, sluggish with firewhisky. Quidditch. Granger. Company. 

He turned his face into the pillow. “Go to hell, Theo.”

Theo’s laugh followed him into the dark.

When morning came, Draco groaned into the pillow, throat raw and stomach rebelling against the world. His head throbbed in rhythm with every distant birdcall outside the poolhouse window. He squinted at the nightstand and groaned louder. Two hangover draughts. Theo, as always, prepared for every eventuality.

Thank gods for that arsehole.

With a grimace, he grabbed one, yanking the cork off and downing it in a single, grim gulp. The bitter burn scraped the back of his throat, but mercifully, the spinning in his head slowed just enough for him to breathe without gagging. Pocketing the second draught like a small emergency, he flopped back against the pillows and tried to summon some sense of normalcy.

Match day. Quidditch. The one thing that should have felt like a reprieve from his parents demands, from the endless weight of the Malfoy name…except that Theo had dragged him into it with the kind of smug grin that made Draco want to punch him and thank him at the same time.

“Puddlemere United,” Theo had said a few days ago, eyes gleaming like he’d discovered the perfect excuse to involve Draco. The team was a long time favorite of both of them and Theo had investments to keep profitable. Draco had the nostalgic pull of youthful obsession. It had been some time since he had gone to an actual match, keeping track of teams lately through betting. And of course, they both had their bets on Puddlemere today.

Draco swung his legs over the edge of the bed, mind already whirling. His head still pounded, stomach churned, and he felt a faint, irritating prick of excitement he didn’t want to acknowledge. 

He rubbed at his temples, muttering under his breath. “Bloody hell…” then shoved his feet into boots, tugged on a cloak over his shoulders, and finally swung open the guest poolhouse door.

Outside the morning was crisp, the air sharp enough to cut through the haze in his skull. Theo leaned casually against the wall, wand tucked into a pocket, a grin like he had just won a duel.

“Sleep well, mate? Can’t have the Puddlemere pitch seeing you in this state. Clean yourself up in the manor first.”

Draco growled, ignoring the jab, and let Theo lead the way back to his house. His hangover would probably last the whole game, but at least he had one hangover draught left…just in case. 

“After that,” Theo added, still smirking, “we head to the pitch. Best seats in the house. VIP. You can thank me later.”

The VIP seating was empty when they arrived, the early morning sun catching the polished wood. Theo handed him a bottle of water, and Draco accepted it with a nod, grimacing at the chill against his still throbbing skull.

“You look slightly less like a corpse now,” Theo said, smirking. 

Draco rolled his eyes but allowed himself to sit, pulling on the jersey Theo had insisted he wear. Team colors, navy blue with gold. Normally he would have scoffed, refused outright, but Theo had that sharp, don’t-argue-with-me tone when it came to his Quidditch investments. Draco knew better than to test it.

Theo fussed over the seating arrangement like a ritual, muttering charms under his breath and performing small gestures like tapping a wand here, brushing a hand there, anything to ensure the team’s favor. Draco leaned back against the plush chair, water in hand, silently counting the minutes until the game started.

He allowed himself a rare, private glance around. Everything was in place, every charm and precaution meticulously done by Theo completed. He let the order and precision calm his buzzing thoughts for a moment while the hangover throb remained beneath the surface.

“You’re insane,” Draco muttered, more to himself than Theo, who only grinned.

“You’ve got to be,” Theo replied, tilting his head. “Team’s counting on us. It could be the difference between winning and losing.”

Draco huffed and. Then his gaze flicked to what Theo had in an empty seat. Another jersey. It was just the two of them here, why did he have a third?

Then the question was answered.

Draco’s head lifted at the sound of footsteps echoing on the stone, and there she was. Hermione Granger.

She looked incredibly casual in blue denim and a simple cream camisole with a matching cardigan. Her curls were caught in a long plait, a few ringlets springing loose around her face. Their eyes met for a beat, and she flushed slightly before glancing away.

“Hermione,” Theo grinned. “Glad you came. Knew you couldn’t resist.” He stepped forward, tossing her a Puddlemere jersey. “Here, you’ll need this. Put it on.”

She caught it with an arched brow, hesitating a moment before unbuttoning her cardigan and slipping it off, then sliding the jersey over her head.

Theo’s grin widened. “Did a little…research, actually. You dated Viktor Krum after Hogwarts for a bit, didn’t you? How well do you know the game?”

Hermione blinked, clearly caught off guard, but her lips curved into the faintest smile as she tugged the jersey into place. “Oh, I might’ve watched a match or two,” she said, tone light.

Draco’s jaw clenched. He narrowed his eyes at Theo, whose smugness was practically leaking into the air around them. 

Why the hell did he invite her?

A shard of memory broke through his fogged brain…last night. Theo shoving him toward the poolhouse bed, his irritatingly cheerful voice saying something about “tomorrow.” About Granger and Quidditch. Draco’s stomach squeezed.

Merlin’s bloody balls…that’s why he told me to clean up.

He sank further into his seat with a low huff, keeping his eyes on the players as they made through rounds on their brooms.

Hermione smoothed the jersey into place and took the seat beside Theo. It was almost purposeful. Draco’s gaze dropped to the empty space at his side, then slid back to where she perched, braid falling neatly over her shoulder as Theo leaned in, saying something that drew a quick laugh out of her.

She hadn’t thought twice about sliding close to him at Vermillion. This time she chose distance. He made a mental note of it. Why had she bothered coming if she weren't there to try and convince him to comply with their ..union?

The world beyond the VIP box erupted before he could dwell on it. The stands became a single living thing, a roar swelling and rolling like thunder as banners of Puddlemere blue and gold unfurled across an enchanted sky. Fireworks burst high above, crackling spells with the words PUDDLEMERE UNITED in dazzling arcs. The air itself seemed to vibrate with excitement. Then players shot out of the tunnel, formation sharp, broomsticks gleaming.

“Welcome, witches and wizards!” boomed Lee Jordan’s voice, magically magnified and brimming with energy.

Draco leaned forward despite his throbbing head. Even his sour mood couldn’t blot out the adrenaline humming in the stadium.

"What a match we’ve got today, Puddlemere United against the Caerphilly Catapults!”

A second voice followed, smoother, rolling with the lilt of Wales. “Madoc Llewellyn here, thrilled to be your co-host for today’s clash. You’re in for a stormer.”

“Leading Puddlemere as always, the man with nerves of steel and the reflexes of a lion, Oliver Wood!”

The crowd exploded. Hermione startled, then clapped. “Oh! Oliver! We know him,” she smiled, eyes following Wood’s dramatic arc across the pitch.

Theo shot her a look, his grin sly. “Right, he was in Gryffindor, too.”

“And for the Catapults, look sharp for one of their deadliest Chasers, the lightning-fast Katie Bell!”

Hermione leaned forward as the teams took their opening positions, braid slipping over her shoulder again. Her eyes darted between Oliver Wood, circling confidently at Puddlemere’s end, and Katie Bell streaking into formation for Caerphilly.

“I don’t even know who I want to win now,” she admitted, half to herself. “I’ve got friends on both sides.”

Draco’s voice cut through the noise before he could stop himself. “Puddlemere. You want Puddlemere to win, of course.”

She blinked, her gaze snapping to him past Theo. He flicked his eyes toward the jersey stretched across her frame, then back to the pitch. “You’re wearing their colors.”

The crowd’s roar filled the space between them. Then, almost cautiously, she nodded. “Right. Puddlemere it is.”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, then her gaze turned back to the players.

Draco sat back, pulse knocking harder than it should have. Ridiculous. He hadn’t meant to say anything…least of all something that sounded like…camaraderie. Yet she had gone along with it so easily, as though it cost her nothing to side with him. The cruel mask of pride he usually had on was slipping. His head throbbed too much to hold it steady.

He found himself watching her profile a moment too long before tearing his eyes back to the pitch, jaw tight. 

*.    *.    *.    

It had been a good day, one of the best Hermione had in months.

In the courtroom, her arguments had landed sharp and sure, cutting through the Ministry panel’s objections one by one. She had defended the proposal for house elves to be granted the right to open their own Gringotts vaults. If they now had fair employment, if they could earn wages and choose their work freely, she had argued, then they deserved the autonomy of managing their own finances.

By the time she had finished, the silence in the chamber hadn’t been disinterest…there was weight. It felt like a turning tide.

Walking out, she had felt lighter in her step, her ministry robes brushing around her ankles as though lifted by the rush of purpose. This was exactly why she had gone into law in the first place, the chance to push the boundaries and to pry open the cracks of an ancient, rigid system. It was time to let something new take root.

“Well done, today, Miss Granger!” 

“Exceptional.”

The praise had followed her out of the courtroom and by the time she returned to her office, the dreariness of the week had melted away. 

Her thoughts of Draco Malfoy that had plagued her since Vermillion, him not writing at all…at least for apologizing for his rude behavior, faded to the background. It was irrelevant in the glow of victory.

…Until she spotted a single letter waiting for her on top of her stack of files, sealed with dark green wax she didn’t recognize.

Hermione frowned, breaking it open. The script inside was large and bold, almost theatrical.

—

Hermione.

I hear you’ve been buried in your work and thought you might enjoy a diversion, something more to your liking considering last week’s…excitement at Vermillion. There’s a Puddlemere United match tomorrow morning. Box seats, of course. Consider this an invitation to join us and an opportunity for certain parties to make amends for their less-than-gracious behavior.

And before you ask, no, this isn’t some trap. Life’s short, Hermione Granger. Come watch a match. You might even enjoy yourself.

–Theo Nott

—

Hermione stared at it, caught between suspicion and amusement. Quidditch. 

She leaned back in her chair, the parchment dangling from her fingertips. She should crumple it and toss it into the bin. There was work to finish, more cases to prepare, a dozen things more important than spending her Saturday at a Quidditch match. She wanted to keep the momentum of today’s success going.

And yet…something about the easy audacity of it made her pulse quicken. Theo’s words were far too casual, but threaded with a kind of charm that made it difficult to dismiss. He hadn’t denied Malfoy’s part, either and hinted that apologies might be in order.

Her lips pressed thin. She had promised herself she would give Malfoy one more chance before she wrote to Narcissa and called the whole thing off. Perhaps this was it, the chance to see if he could behave like something other than an entitled, sneering prat.

She set the letter down, smoothing the crease with her thumb. Against her better judgment, against her own prickling irritation, she felt the faint tug of curiosity.

Quidditch could be fun. She hadn’t followed teams in years. Her work consumed too much of her time. Keeping up with rankings or transfers always slipped through the cracks. When she did allow herself the indulgence…listening to a match on the radio while working late, she was all in.

Viktor had seen to that. During their brief, strange relationship, he had taught her more about the sport than she ever expected to care about. The intricacies of the Keeper’s position, the brutal strategies that unfolded in the air, the way a crowd’s roar could make the air itself seem to pulse. She had pretended at first, humoring him, but somewhere along the way it had sunk into her and never quite left.

She exhaled slowly, staring at the invitation again.

It couldn't hurt.

The stadium loomed ahead like a colossus of wood and banners, its sheer size was enough to make Hermione’s stomach flutter even after all these years. The roar of the crowd carried on the wind long before she stepped inside, a living heartbeat that seemed to shake the very ground.

She adjusted the strap of her bag nervously as she wove through the bustling entrance. Vendors shouted about butterbeer and children ran past clutching toy broomsticks that whirred with enchantments. For a moment, she forgot herself…forgot the letter, the arrangement, Draco Malfoy’s smirk. The air felt charged, like she was a girl again walking into her first match at Hogwarts.

By the time she reached the stairs that led up to the private boxes, her nerves returned in full force. She smoothed her cardigan over her camisole.

Theo was there, leaning against the railing, grinning like the cat who had not only caught the canary but plucked its feathers for quills. “Hermione,” he greeted warmly, pushing off the rail. “Glad you came. Knew you couldn’t resist.”

She smiled politely, then her gaze shifted past him and landed squarely on Draco Malfoy.

He sat back in his seat, posture immaculate despite the shadows beneath his eyes. The team colors draped across his shoulders looked almost unnatural, as though Theo had forced them on him. His pale hair caught the morning light, his expression was unreadable save for the faint tightening of his jaw as their eyes locked.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat and she quickly looked away. Seeing him that way, he looked…less like the bully she was used to. It was a stark contrast to the last time they were together.

She settled into her seat, next to Theo, not Malfoy, and kept her eyes on the pitch, pretending her pulse wasn’t skittering wildly at the excitement around her.

The game began in a roar, a living tide that swept through the stands and rattled Hermione to her bones. She leaned forward in her seat as Wood made a daring save, the quaffle hurtling back across the pitch in a blur of blue and gold. Her hands clapped together before she realized it, her grin wide and unrestrained as the commentators shouted over one another.

She had forgotten how infectious it was, how the entire stadium seemed to breathe together, cheer together, live together in each mad dash of play. It felt like being carried by something larger than herself.

Every so often, she stole a glance past Theo. Draco sat on his other side, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the match. He looked…different. Tired, like someone who hadn’t slept in days, but his expression wasn’t cold.

Then Puddlemere scored. The stands erupted, and Draco let out a laugh, a real one. He leaned forward clapping, grinning at something Theo shouted, his face unguarded.

It was disarming. Strange. Hermione didn’t see the boy who had spat slurs at her in school, or the man she assumed wasted himself in shadows. She saw just a man cheering for his team.

Her gaze lingered, almost against her will. Who was Draco Malfoy beneath the polish and poison? Was this the side his friends knew well…the one he had always hidden from everyone else?

The thought jolted her, and she forced her attention back to the pitch.

The chasers streaked downfield, the crowd’s roar swelling as Puddlemere pressed for the goal hoops.

Another score!

Hermione shot to her feet with the rest of the stands, hands in the air, a cheer ripping from her throat. It was loud and unrestrained, the kind she hadn’t made since Viktor had taught her to love this game.

Theo cheered beside her, clapping until his rings flashed, while Draco leapt up on the other side, hollering with a grin, his voice lost in the sea of noise. For one dizzying heartbeat, the three of them were bound together in the same wild rush.

The moment caught in Hermione’s chest. It wasn’t just the crowd, it was the startling realisation that they wanted the same thing, cheered for the same victory, in this very moment.

She sat quickly, trying to smother the flush of exhilaration still buzzing in her veins. The match had made her too excited, too alive, and as morning bled into late afternoon the heat pressed in, grounding her again.

Theo dropped into his seat with the smug air of a man proven right. “Told you. My rituals always work.”

Draco rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, though the twitch at his mouth betrayed him.

Hermione snorted before she could stop herself and both men turned.

Her cheeks flamed. “What? Superstitions don’t decide matches.”

“Says a witch,” Theo countered with a grin.

Draco leaned back lazily, drawl edged with dry amusement. “Go on, Nott. You should listen to her. Granger knows everything.”

It should have stung. Once, it would have, but his tone carried a lilt she hadn’t heard before. It was lighter, almost teasing. She smiled before she realized it. When their eyes caught, his lips curved into something fleeting, almost boyish. For a breath, it was easy to imagine him as anyone else, just a man enjoying himself.

The moment was over just as quickly. The smirk returned, practiced and sharp, the mask she knew too well.

Before she could think more of it, her breath snagged on the glint of gold darting across the pitch. “There, look!” She shot to her feet, pointing toward the far side. “Their Seeker’s seen it!”

The Catapult Seeker was closing in on the Snitch. If he caught it, the match was lost.

Theo cursed, Draco surged up beside him, and all three pressed to the rail, voices tangled in the roar of the crowd.

The Catapult Seeker’s fingers brushed gold…

Puddlemere’s Seeker dove, snatching it from beneath him in a dazzling blur

The stadium exploded. Hermione’s delighted cry joined the roar, her arms flung high as Theo whooped like a child. He seized them both in his excitement, dragging them together in his arms for an embrace.

She laughed, breathless and bright, clutching the jersey against her chest. Draco, hauled in without warning, didn’t pull away.

“See? My rituals work. And now,” Theo’s eyes glinted as they cut to Hermione, “I’ve got a new good luck charm. Sorry, Hermione, you’ll have to come to the next match. Non-negotiable.”

Hermione blinked, laughing nervously. “This was…fun. A lot of fun. Real fun I haven’t had in ages…”

Her words tangled under the weight of Draco’s gaze. He was watching her intently, unreadable. The mask was already sliding back into place. “But I don’t know if I’ll have time. Work is–”

“You heard him,” he said at last, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “They’ll lose if you don’t.”

Her heart kicked hard in her chest, breath caught between exhilaration and something she wasn't quite sure of.

The swell of noise from the crowd began to ebb, cheers giving way to chatter as spectators gathered their cloaks and drifted toward the exits. The rush of victory left Hermione’s pulse humming, but already the edges of reality pressed back in.

Theo stretched, lazy and satisfied, still wearing his grin like it belonged there. “Come on,” he said, clapping his hands together like he personally secured the win. “We’re celebrating. Lunch, my treat. You’ll join us, Hermione?”

The invitation was casual, but his eyes sparkled with expectation.

Hermione’s lips parted, her first instinct to agree…because yes, she wanted to keep laughing and bask in the lightness she hadn’t felt in months. But the tide of her better judgment swept in fast. She had work waiting, plans to refine, fires to keep lit.

“I–” She hesitated, tucking a curl behind her ear. “It’s kind of you, but I really should…”

Her excuse faltered when she glanced at Draco. The boyishness was gone. His eyes were cool, remote, the walls rebuilt brick by brick. Whatever warmth had flickered between them was erased, as though it had never existed.

Of course. Why would he want her there? He hadn’t invited her. He hadn’t apologized for Vermillion. Today had been Theo’s doing, not his.

For one aching moment, she saw again the way Draco had laughed, he’d been so human. And gods, how easy it had been to imagine how it could be, where she might stand beside him without the shame of history. A future where their very presence together could shift the world, show something new, something better. They could have been allies.

But the look on his face now cut that vision down as swiftly as it had come. He hated her, surely, more than she hated him.

She cleared her throat, the momentary brightness of the match already fading. “I appreciate it, Theo,” she said carefully, her voice smoothing back into polite restraint. “But I’ve put things off for too long that really can’t wait.”

Hermione tugged the Puddlemere jersey over her head, the cotton brushing warm against her skin before she folded it carefully between her hands. The noise of the match still buzzed in her veins, but the fabric felt suddenly heavy…like something she wasn’t meant to keep.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker across Draco’s face. His gaze dragged over her in a way that made her stomach dip. It was quickly replaced with polished indifference.

She held it out toward Theo with a polite smile. “I should give this back.”

Theo accepted the jersey only halfway before pushing it gently back into her hands with a rakish grin. “Nonsense. Keep it. For next time.” He winked, as though the matter were settled.

The rest of the afternoon, Hermione sat at the small kitchen table with case notes spread around her like a fortress of parchment. Harry had left her stacks of testimony and scraps of evidence to sift through for Elias Cornwell’s defense.

It was a flimsy case at best. No proof of theft, only a few witnesses whose words shifted like sand when examined closely. Elias had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time…Hermione knew it, could all but taste the injustice of it. He was also a muggleborn, she was sure this was just pointing fingers. It would feel good to win this one and see the charges collapse in on themselves.

Somehow it made her restless. Another hearing. Another client. Another day clawing for justice piece by piece, while the system lumbered on unchanged. She didn’t just want wins in court…she wanted reform, like her proposal for the house elves. More needed to be done.

For that, she needed a seat.

She pictured it with startling clarity…sitting in the Wizengamot chamber, her voice steady, her influence reshaping laws, forcing through collaboration with the Muggle world, dragging the old guard into a new era.

Yet the image was tainted now.

All afternoon, flashes of the Quidditch match had slipped into her thoughts. The heat of the crowd, the rise of adrenaline in her chest, the wild moment of triumph when the Snitch was caught. Theo’s arms crushing her in celebration. Draco beside her, laughing like any other man.

That laugh had struck a cord. Then his walls had returned and she had been reminded, like a splash of cold water, that he hadn’t truly wanted her there at all.

The thought of writing to Narcissa circled her mind like a restless bird. Some moments, she longed to cut the cord cleanly, to step away from the arrangement and free herself from Draco Malfoy and the constant ache of it…to free him from her. Yet ambition pressed back harder. Her vision was too sharp and felt so close. The chance of reform dangled before her like a door she couldn’t quite walk away from.

Hermione pressed her palms into her eyes, exhaustion thrumming in her bones.

Maybe it was time to stop forcing something neither of them truly wanted. Maybe she should write Narcissa tonight, admit defeat, and be done with it.

…why was that so hard

Perhaps because Narcissa had come to her. The Malfoys needed her as much as she needed them. The alliance was mutually beneficial, a bargain struck for survival as much as ambition.

But it didn’t account for the two people inside it…Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

Hermione exhaled, staring at the scattered notes, but all she could see was a golden blur darting across the pitch, and Draco’s brief, unguarded smile…an echo she couldn’t quite shake.

A tapping at her windowsill pulled her from the whirl of ambition and exhaustion. She blinked and the world came back into focus. The sound persisted, sharp and insistent.

An owl.

She pushed to her feet, feeling the stiffness in her spine from hours spent sitting at her little table. When she unlatched the window, the bird swept in with all the entitlement of an invited guest. Its plumage gleamed shiny black in the late evening light.

The Malfoy crest gleamed on the envelope.

She unfolded the parchment with careful fingers, though the sharp edges of the handwriting was unmistakable.

—

 Granger,

At my mother’s insistence, I must extend to you an invitation to the upcoming St. Mungo’s Summer Charity Gala tomorrow.

This is a formal event. Wear something appropriate.

D. Malfoy

—

Hermione set it on the table, staring. She should crumple it. She should toss it straight into the bin with the day’s rubbish and forget it existed.

But she didn’t.

Her mind betrayed her. It drifted, not to Narcissa or the promise of politics and networking, but to the Quidditch stands…to the blur of blue robes, and an easy going smile.

She hated that she was even considering it.

When she finally drew her quill, her hand was steady, her words deliberate.

—

Malfoy,

I accept.

Where should we meet?

Also, what color will you be wearing? I’d rather avoid looking mismatched, though I suspect you’ll insist on something that flatters your own vanity.

H. Granger

—

She sanded the ink, folded it crisply, tied it to the owl’s leg. The bird swept off into the evening, dark wings vanishing against the sky.

Hermione sank back into her chair, pressing her palms flat against the table. Her heart was still racing, though she told herself it was ambition…and not the memory of a boyish smile. Not her curiosity and the thought of what it might mean to see a glimpse of it again.

Chapter Text

—

We’ll meet at the event and enter together. Eight o’clock this evening. The charity is hosted at the McLaggen estate.

Slytherin green. Surely you expected nothing less.

D. Malfoy

—

The McLaggen estate. Cormac McLaggen, with his glossy hair and inflated ego, had once fancied himself her prize. She had agreed to a handful of Hogsmeade dates with him, back when she was raw with doubt and searching for something to anchor her worth. It had been short lived. He had been all ego, boasting louder than he listened.

Apparently, he didn’t even remember her. Or if he did, he never acknowledged it. She had seen him occasionally, strutting alongside his father in Wizengamot sessions, acting as if she were invisible. It didn't sting, exactly. In fact, she was glad of his lack of interest in her for the most part, but the thought of setting foot in his family’s gilded halls made her bristle.

Her gaze flicked toward her wardrobe, unimpressed by what waited there. The gowns she owned were practical and worn at fundraisers where she had stood on the other side of the guest list…speaker, solicitor, volunteer. Nothing she had fit for the kind of scrutiny she would face tomorrow.

If she was going to step into this arena, it had to be properly. She would need help from someone who could ensure she looked the part of a woman who belonged at the table.

Her quill hovered over the parchment again, this time not for Draco but for a friend she trusted. Someone who could drag her through the chaos of last minute fittings and make sure she emerged with a dress that wouldn’t make her look like a child playing dress up.

Hermione hadn’t seen Parvati Patil in nearly a year, though she kept up with her in letters here and there. Parvati had grown into someone who always seemed to be somewhere, like a colorful butterfly flitting between exclusive dinners and impossible-to-get-into events. Her clients were a swirl of wealthy witches and ambitious wizards.

When Parvati opened the cafe door she looked every bit as polished as the society pages always made her seem.

“Hermione!” her smile was genuine as she swept Hermione into a warm hug. “It’s been ages.”

“Too long,” Hermione admitted, startled by how comforting it felt to see her again.

Parvati slid into the seat opposite her, dark eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So, you're finally ready for love?”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

Parvati tilted her head knowingly. “You wrote about a last minute emergency. A gala tonight? You said you needed help,” she said, as if to remind her. “You do know matchmaking is my actual profession now, don’t you?”

Heat pricked Hermione’s cheeks. “Oh! No, I don’t need a matchmaker. I need a friend with a great eye for fashion. I have no idea what to wear and need help with a dress.”

Parvati arched one perfectly lined brow. “A dress. But my reading said–”

“Just a dress.” Hermione said quickly. “I would be happy to pay for your expertise.”

A hum of amusement vibrated in Parvati’s throat. “Mhm...”

She reached across the table, gave Hermione’s hand a quick squeeze, “I won’t pry. If you need a dress, you’ll have one. I’ve dressed half the Wizengamot at one time or another. Politicians, donors, socialites, the odd Minister’s niece. You’ll be a masterpiece tonight.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “And, no. I won't take your gold.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn't feel right not compensating you.”

“If you're so determined, then come see me for a reading soon. You can pay me then, and tell the clerks all about my brilliant divination skills at the Ministry office.” She laughed. “Now, finish your tea. We’re going to Muggle London. Bond Street. The designers there will have beautiful gowns, even without the charms. These things are half fashion show, half battlefield.”

Hermione sighed, though she couldn’t stop the tug of a smile. “You really have become a woman of many hats, haven’t you?”

Parvati winked. “That’s how you survive in this world. A touch of charm, a touch of strategy, and knowing when to keep your mouth shut. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re unforgettable.”

And she did.

Parvati swept her through boutique after boutique until Hermione’s head was spinning with fabrics that whispered against her fingers in shades she never would have dared pick herself.

The gown they finally settled on was nothing like the safe navy or black Hermione had imagined. It was a red as dark as blood and every bit as bold. The off shoulder neckline folded into a sharp, elegant sweetheart line, its long fitted sleeves balancing the deliberate sweep of the bodice. The gown hugged her curves, unforgiving but striking, before falling to the floor in a wrap that cut into a slit, a flash of leg with every step. Glittering heels completed the look.

Hermione stared at herself in the shop mirror, unable to hide the flush that rose in her cheeks. This wasn’t the neat, professional witch who argued her cases with logic and precision. This was someone daring and…visible.

Parvati’s lips curved knowingly. “A nod to your house. A statement of your blood. The sort of red no one forgets.”

Hermione only nodded faintly, throat dry. She spent years defining herself by intellect. To be seen as a woman first, not a witch or a reformer…this was needed.

The hair stylist nearly undid the entire look by trying to tame her curls with straightening charms, until Parvati stepped in. “No,” she said firmly, hands on her hips. “The curls stay. They’re part of who she is.”

It had been a battle even for the updo Hermione thought she wanted. In the end, Parvati won, and Hermione had to admit…she was right. Her curls were polished, styled to fall in controlled, glossy waves, pinned at one side and swept over her shoulder in a vintage cascade.

The makeup was the final test. Hermione resisted Parvati’s urging for full glamour spells, insisting on something more natural. They settled somewhere in between. When the mirror showed her reflection, her breath caught. The smoky shadow brought depth to her amber eyes, a suggestion of mystery she had never thought belonged to her. The blood red lip matched the dress perfectly.

She raised her chin, staring at her reflection like she would a stranger. Hermione Granger, who lived buried in parchment and ink stained fingers, had been set aside. This woman in red, with hair tumbling in polished curls and lips like fire…was someone to be reckoned with.

This was the woman who would sweep in beside Draco Malfoy tonight.

She apparated just beyond the gates of the McLaggen estate, the crack of displaced air jarringly ordinary against the elegance of the evening. A few enchanted coaches rumbled up the long paved drive, lanterns swinging on their frames, footmen were ready to assist jeweled passengers. She, of course, had no such arrival. No carefully timed appearance to turn heads…just herself.

Hermione drew a quiet breath, forcing her shoulders back. Her heart jumped anxiously, betraying nerves she refused to indulge. Her fingers brushed against the smooth fabric of her gown as if to anchor herself. Parvati’s bold reminder whispered in her mind, that confidence was not a costume, but something she must choose to carry.

She felt eyes on her and turned. Her mouth went dry.

By his coach, set slightly apart from the others lined along the drive, Draco Malfoy was watching her. The fading light of dusk caught in the pale cut of his features. Emerald silk gleamed at the lapels of his tailored black suit, the Malfoy crest on his silver cufflinks. 

He didn’t look like the same man she had seen at the Quidditch match yesterday, flushed with boyish excitement. Here, he was the picture of composure. And there really was no denying it. He was devilishly handsome.

His expression was unreadable, but his pause was unmistakable as she approached him. He had noticed her first. She saw the way his eyes dragged over her gown, the curls falling over her shoulder. She doubted he appreciated the deliberate defiance of her being here, but he seemed caught off guard by her appearance. Was it so shocking?

She drew in a steadying breath and willed her expression to remain neutral, businesslike. 

The air between them stretched taut, heavy with what neither of them were willing to say. Then his mouth curved, faint and sardonic, his gaze sweeping once more over her gown.

“I should have known Gryffindor courage would come wrapped in Gryffindor red.”

Hermione allowed herself the barest flicker of a smile, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Well, someone has to represent the houses properly. You chose Slytherin green, after all.

His brow ticked as though he hadn’t expected her to volley back. The practiced smirk returned, but it seemed more like the aristocratic mask than anything.

Then he extended his arm.

For a moment, she only looked at it. He had tried to bait her at every turn since this arrangement began, and now, this sudden politeness? This careful civility? It was all for show, of course. Even so, he wasn't one to pretend for the sake of anyone, she was quickly learning that. So why now?

Almost as though he could sense her doubt, he said plainly, “I promised my mother I’d be on my best behavior tonight. Come on.”

Her heart tugged in two directions. Instinct told her to keep her distance from his games, his masks, his shifting moods. Another part of her whispered of why she had come at all if she wasn’t going to participate. She wanted to see what lay behind his masks when he wasn’t trying so hard to hold them in place. And, of course, there was her dream…the reform she envisioned, the future she demanded of herself.

So she set her hand lightly against the dark fabric of his sleeve.

“Best behavior,” she echoed, tilting her head just enough to catch his eye. A spark of something slipped past her composure. “What does that look like on you, Malfoy?”

For the briefest instant, his mouth twitched as though he might actually laugh. “You’ll have to tell me, Granger. I’ve never worn it long enough to know.”

Inside was a storm of silk and velvet, the rustle of gowns blending with aristocratic voices. The air buzzed with the intoxicating mixture of politics and opulence. Centuries old jewels flashed beneath the lights, ambitious Ministry officials wove through the crowd with champagne flutes in hand.

Hermione’s sharp eyes immediately began cataloging faces.

There was Madam Marchbanks by the refreshment table, hawk-eyed and fierce, cornering some poor intern. Eldred Worple gestured wildly as he trapped a couple of glazed-eyed witches with tales of his latest book. At the grand staircase, Minister Shacklebolt laughed too loudly at a joke from the Head of Magical Games and Sports. There were foreign delegates shimmering in embroidered robes, new Wizengamot members Hermione half-recalled from memos.

Her mind whirred, already mapping networks, sketching connections, threads of opportunity she might pull.

“Granger,” Draco’s low voice cut through, smooth and precise.

She nearly jumped

“Slow down,” he murmured, eyes narrowing, reading her too easily. “You’re counting, aren’t you? Names, titles, positions.” His lip curled. “Plotting a bloody chessboard.”

She didn’t deny it.

He leaned slightly closer, voice pitched like velvet steel. “Do yourself a favor. Absolutely do not talk about work here. These people are predators. Bore them, and they’ll devour you before dessert.”

“Why do you care?” The words slipped out before she could think better of them.

Draco smirked and plucked two glasses of champagne from a floating tray, guiding her forward with the faintest press of his arm. Whispers trailed behind them now, heads turning as the pair began to draw notice.

“I don’t,” he said. “Frankly, I’d be entertained. But you’re on my arm tonight.”

Hermione stiffened at his words, resisting the tug of his pace for the briefest moment. On his arm. The phrasing stung. It almost sounded like ownership.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

But the room was watching, the glittering crowd already whispering, and her pride would not allow her to falter. So she matched his stride again, spine straight, her expression carefully composed.

“Then I suppose I will try to spare you the embarrassment of being devoured,” she said with an edge beneath her voice. 

His smirk deepened, but his eyes flicked sideways, studying her in a way that made the base of her spine prickle. He looked like he would devour her himself. For a breath, with them both like this, she wondered if she would let him. 

“Smile, drink, gossip…but keep your speeches to yourself. Trust me, no one here wants to hear them.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? They had never wanted to hear her. 

Draco steered her toward a cluster near the far wall, and Hermione braced herself as familiar faces came into view.

Theo was the first to notice them. His grin lit instantly, as though they were back at the Quidditch match instead of in this nest of silk and politics. “Ah! Puddlemere’s lucky charm!” he declared, spreading his arms in welcome.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed hot. She opened her mouth to protest, but Theo’s laughter drowned her out as he clasped her hand, pulling her effortlessly into the circle.

Pansy Parkinson was there, a glass of something pale and glittering poised delicately between her fingers. She glanced up from the Greengrass sisters with an arched brow that flickered with surprise before smoothing into amusement. Beside her, Daphne leaned into Blaise Zabini’s touch, his hand resting casually at the small of her back, while Astoria whispered something sharp enough to make them both laugh.

Hermione felt it instantly, how seamlessly they inhabited this world and navigated its codes.

Then her gaze swept wider, cataloguing the other groups scattered across the ballroom. Almost all were cut from the same cloth. Old families. Recognized names. Even the younger faces she didn’t know by name carried themselves with the weight of legacy. Pureblood…or half blood with a vault deep enough to have some pedigree.

What she didn’t see was herself.

Of course she wouldn’t. She hadn't expected it, not being on this side of the event.

Muggleborns, even those from affluent Muggle families, rarely walked this world. If they had status, it was in their own sphere of Parliament members, ambassadors, captains of industry. They held sway in Muggle galas, not here, where their names carried little weight and their bloodlines even less. 

She smoothed her hand down the fold of her gown, pulse thudding, and forced her chin higher. She had fought in a war. She had helped build a new world, even if it was still flawed. She had earned the right to stand here, even if she was possibly the only one of her kind in the room.

Pansy’s eyes flicked between the two of them, sharp and curious. “You do keep turning up, don’t you, Granger?” she mused. Her smile curved like she knew a secret. “And here I thought last week was just…novelty.”

Astoria broke the tension. She leaned forward slightly, her smile warm in a way that surprised Hermione. “You look stunning. I love your gown,” she said simply, her tone free of barbs. “The red suits you.”

The words hung there, a small but deliberate offering, and for a moment the edges around the circle softened.

“Thank you,” Hermione returned her smile carefully. Astoria’s kindness felt genuine, but in this world of layered intentions, even kindness could be strategy.

The conversation lilted around her in overlapping threads…shallow and utterly suffocating.

Pansy had launched into an elaborate recounting of someone’s scandalous engagement collapse, Daphne offered dry commentary, and Astoria occasionally laughed. Blaise, Theo, and Draco had drifted into low talk about Quidditch investments, percentages and sponsorships…not even about the game itself.

Hermione, meanwhile, stood silent.

Her glass of champagne sweated against her palm, half finished and forgotten. Her smile, carefully measured, ached at the corners. The sound of their group blurred into background hum with the rest of the room.

Her eyes kept drifting past them…past skirts sweeping the marble floor…past jeweled cufflinks flashing under candlelight….and toward the whirlpool of influence and legacy that surged near the edge of the ballroom.

Wizengamot members were deep in conversation. Shacklebolt moved like a sun with others orbiting. Foreign delegates cloaked themselves in authority. Names and faces and possibilities she catalogued since she stepped through the door were surely having better conversations than this.

No one had asked her a single thing of substance

Not Draco, who hadn’t spared her more than a sideways glance since Theo teased her. Not Pansy, who wielded her attention like a blade and had chosen to keep it turned elsewhere. Not even Theo, who seemed content to let her blush and then vanish into the background.

Fine.

Draco’s warning whispered back in her memory. She tilted her chin. If she was prey, then so be it. She would rather be devoured than ignored.

When laughter rippled through the group, no one noticed as she shifted her weight back, slipped her empty glass onto a passing tray, and eased into the current of the crowd.

*.    *.    *.    

The carriage ride was smooth, the thestrals pulling steady through the night air with their leathery wings whispering against the clouds. Draco could see them. He hadn’t always, but the summer after his fifth year, after he had sworn his oath and his aunt had dragged him into the crucible of cruelty, he had.

Bellatrix had tried to make him her apprentice. He wasn't just the Malfoy heir, but the heir of the Black family as well. She had wanted him to learn her brand of devotion…which was an obedience forged through bloodshed.

He remembered the way she laughed when curses left her wand, the way her victims…Muggles, Muggleborns, nameless, but never faceless…fell screaming before him. His stomach turned even now at the memory. He had not killed, but he had watched. That had been enough. It was enough to strip away his innocence and let him see the creatures harnessed before him.

He pressed the thought aside feeling a phantom burn of the dark mark branded into his arm, and stared into the clouds instead, jaw tight.

Theo’s voice lingered in his head, from the day before after the match, after Granger left. His friend had insisted he go back to Malfoy Manor after Draco revealed the extent of his parents plot. Theo saw what he couldn't, that Narcissa wasn’t scheming against him so much as desperately trying to keep the Malfoy name intact.

“You’ve at least got your parents,” Theo had said quietly, bitterness ghosting beneath his words. “Be grateful for that. My mother was gone before I ever had the chance.”

Theo had never known his mother, dead in childbirth. His father had rotted in Azkaban, bitter and cruel to the end. Now Theo stood alone as the last of the Nott line. Perhaps that was why Draco had listened…for once. 

That was why he had sent the bloody invitation at all.

Narcissa had been pleased, of course. She had rewarded him with his full allowance early, a gesture that almost made him laugh. He even promised, swore, really, that he would be on his best behavior. 

…for one night, at least.

So he waited, like a gentleman, instead of heading into the McLaggen manor without the unnerving witch.

Then she arrived.

She didn't clatter in awkwardly as he expected, but she apparated cleanly onto the drive. And he certainly had not expected Hermione Granger to look the way she did.

For a moment, he hadn’t recognized her. The gown was the first shock in blood red silk wrapping her curves, slit high enough to reveal a long line of leg with each step. Her hair, those untamable curls, were polished into glossy waves and pinned to fall like a dark waterfall over one shoulder. She looked…radiant. Commanding. Well, she always had been the bloody commanding type, but she didn't look like the girl with ink stained fingers in tweed.

He was staring before she turned and caught him. He forced himself into recovery and quickly smoothed his features into practiced coolness…but he could still feel it, the treacherous hitch in his thoughts. 

It echoed the dreams he had no business having, and didn't want in his head. They’d started after Vermillion…restless images of her laughter, of her mouth tilted in defiance, of her body in that tight little dress brushing too close in corridors that didn’t exist…He would wake unsettled, furious with himself, swearing to put them from his mind.

He shook the thought off like a man brushing away sparks before they caught flame.

It didn’t help that the images rose again the instant her hand touched his arm and he caught the warm scent of honeysuckle in summer. She was hesitant. The distrust was written plain across her features. That stare was enough to drag those treacherous dreams back to the surface. 

Draco had to force himself against the instinct to snap at her suspicion and betray the coil of heat threading through his restraint.

He had promised to behave.

Yet…everything about her made him want to do the exact opposite.

And worse was the way his friends seemed to just accept her. Theo managed to make her welcome, which Draco continued to find suspicious. But even Blaise, Pansy, the Greengrass girls…there was no open slight or rejection. They made room for her as though it were natural. Maybe it was because she arrived on his arm tonight. It was the only thing that made sense.

So he buried himself in safer ground, letting Theo and Blaise pull him into talk of Quidditch rankings, of Puddlemere’s chances this season. He let their banter wrap around him like armor, fixing his attention anywhere but on her. So much so, in fact, that he didn’t notice when she slipped away.

A pause in Blaise’s story gave Draco just enough air to glance around the ballroom. The throng glittered and shifted in tides of silk and velvet, but no trace of that blood red or curly mane caught his eye. His frown threatened to give him away so he lifted his champagne glass to his lips as if bored.

Maybe she had gone to the ladies room…or…

He bit back a sigh. 

Of course she would bloody well sneak off to talk about work. Merlin forbid Granger last a single evening without lecturing someone into submission.

He let the pause stretch before asking, “Did Granger say anything before she wandered off?”

The women turned toward him. Pansy arched a sharp brow, the corner of her mouth curving in wicked amusement. Daphne’s lips pulled into a grin she tried, and failed, to hide. Astoria outright giggled, her hand flying up to cover it.

None of them had noticed her leave.

“Losing track of your date already, Draco?” Pansy sighed. “Well, you're likely to have more fun without her anyway.”

He set his glass down with deliberate care, rolling his eyes in a show of annoyance. “She’s hardly my date.”

That only made Daphne’s grin widen.

If Granger thought she could vanish here, she was mistaken.

He slipped from the circle, glass still in hand, and moved through the ebb and flow of silks and robes, Astoria’s giggles fading behind him. The crowd swallowed him easily, but his eyes kept cutting for her hair, that crimson gown…

Not here.

He pushed past a laughing group of old Quidditch mates that had tried to pull him in, ignored the sharp perfume of Lady Rutland, and ducked through an archway into a side parlor.

The atmosphere changed at once. It was quieter, denser. The laughter from the main hall bled into low conversation. Inside, there was a cluster of elder Ministry men hunched near a fireplace smoking cigars. Magnus McLaggen was among them, his laugh booming even here, shaking the brandy in his hand. His son stood at his side, broader now than Draco remembered from Hogwarts, posture slouched but gaze sharp as he drank in the conversation…and Hermione.

She was there.

She stood in the center of the knot of men with her eyes bright, her voice animated, her hands in motion as she spoke. Every head was tipped toward her. Even Magnus, who had made half his fortune bullying his way through committee meetings, seemed content to let her carry the moment.

The sight stopped Draco where he stood.

She was the only woman in a room full of men smoking. He noted it instantly. And Granger wasn’t merely speaking…she was alive. It almost amused him, her ignorance or audacity to be in here like this.

Cormac McLaggen looked absolutely enthralled. He leaned toward her just enough to make his interest plain, his grin a touch too wide, his laugh too quick whenever she so much as glanced at him.

Hadn't they dated in school? He vaguely remembered seeing them together a few times, and once all dressed up at the Christmas party Draco was caught trying to crash. 

Snape had followed him that night.

He pushed that particular memory back…Snape’s face when he had revealed the unbreakable vow that was made to help Draco with his impossible task in sixth year…

His amusement soured in an instant. 

Cormac’s grin widened again, eager, stupid, and Draco’s jaw locked. Hermione was smiling back. Every flicker of laughter from McLaggen was a spark against the fuel already stacked too high inside him.

No. Enough of that. No more smiling for that blockhead.

Draco’s steps carried him forward. The decision wasn’t entirely conscious. 

“Granger.”

Hermione turned, and the sight of her nearly undid him again. Chin high, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes bright from the thrill of speaking. That smile. Gods, she was radiant in the haze of smoke.

Draco smoothed his features, forced the mask of ease back into place, and stepped into the circle. He offered his arm, every inch of his breeding weaponized.

“You’ll forgive me for stealing her away,” he said, tone smooth. His gaze flicked to Magnus McLaggen, who gave a thin smile and a polite nod. The McLaggens were wealthy, Pureblood, but nothing compared to a Malfoy. “I wouldn't want anyone accusing me of abandoning my date for the evening.”

There.

His claim staked, quiet but unmistakable.

He didn’t look at Cormac again.

The night air was crisp as he led her out to the gardens. Lanterns floated at measured intervals along the labyrinth of hedges, casting golden pools of light, but beyond them stretched only darkness. The shift from the heat of the gala was almost dizzying.

Hermione didn’t notice. She was still flushed with the thrill of being heard, still carried by the spark of debate and discussion. Her words tumbled out, likely forgetting who exactly had her arm. She spoke about the gala, the officials, how refreshing it was to speak of things that mattered rather than gossip.

Draco listened, at least on the surface. His face schooled into polite detachment, but every word she spilled, every flash of her bright eyes…grated something in him…

She had snuck off. 

…to McLaggen, of all people.

His grip on the thought coiled tighter and tighter until it nearly strangled him. He forced down the urge to snap, to let his temper loose on her. Instead, he let his anger cool until it sounded almost like amusement when he finally spoke.

“So,” he drawled, cutting into her stream of words. “Did you sneak away for the thrill of debate, or because Cormac McLaggen was so…riveting?”

She stopped, blinking at him, and dropped her hand from the crook of his arm.

He turned toward her, pale eyes sharp in the lantern glow. “You’re supposed to be my date tonight.”

The words fell heavier than he intended, edged with possession he hadn’t meant to reveal. He felt the weight of them himself as soon as he said it, and his jaw tightened against it.

He didn't actually care. No, this was about societal standards, appearances, the game his parents expected him to play. That was all. Yet, the image of her, alive and radiant in that circle of men with McLaggen hanging on her every word, kept flashing behind his eyes like a taunt.

It made his blood burn.

Hermione’s brows shot up, and that little spark of excitement in her eyes turned to heat.

“Your date?” she repeated, incredulous. “I didn’t realize I was some sort of…accessory, Malfoy. I did not agree to just stand silently at your side and look decorative.”

Her voice carried in the stillness of the garden, echoing faintly off the hedges.

Draco’s lips curved slowly. He could almost taste her indignation in the air between them. She was blazing, all righteous fury and flushed cheeks, and Merlin help him, he liked it…far more than he should.

He should have stepped back and swallowed the strange thrill of it. Instead, he stepped closer.

“You want to know the truth, Granger?” His voice was low and cruel as though he could cut even himself on the words. “I invited you here at my mother’s request. That’s all. And fortunately for me–” his mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace, “-she gave me access to one of my vaults…enough to end this ridiculous arrangement you've both plotted.”

Her eyes widened in surprise before narrowing dangerously.

“You arrogant–” Her voice broke with fury. “Do you honestly think you can buy me off like some courtesan?”

“You said it yourself…you want to build something for the future, right?” His tone was cool, trying to use reason to mask the ache beginning to twist in his gut. Still, he pushed. “Everyone needs gold, Granger. Especially those who pretend they don’t. With money behind you, doors open. Why chain yourself to me when you could have everything else?”

Her lips parted, outrage crackling in her every syllable. “You are insufferable–”

“Practical,” he cut in. He couldn’t look away from her, from the fury that made her more alive than anyone else in his hollow world. “So, come on. Name your price.”

“My price?” she bit out, stepping in so close he could feel her breath against his jaw. “You have insulted me in every possible way since all of this started. Since we were children! How could–”

Her words faltered, because he was looking at her differently now. He couldn't help himself. The flame in her eyes trapped him. His chest rose sharply. The very air between them was suddenly a wire, pulling them inexorably closer with every breath.

Then his gaze dropped treacherously to her lips.

The world seemed to narrow and he became very aware of how close she was.

“I don’t want your money,” she breathed, slicing through the moment like a blade.

He blinked, the spell shattering. His pulse was in his ears.

Hermione’s chin lifted, the flame still gleaming in her eyes. “I thought…Merlin…I thought beneath all that pride and conceit there might be something more to you. Something good. Maybe I was wrong.”

The words struck like a blow. Draco didn’t move. The hollow in his chest echoed. It was the confirmation he had known would inevitably arrive.

He was exactly what his parents had made him and nothing more.

He sneered, the mask snapping back into place, more bitter and more cruel. “Of course you were wrong. What did you expect? I’m a Malfoy, the legacy of centuries of arrogance and rot. That’s all there ever was. That’s all there ever will be.”

The words tasted like poison, but he forced them out anyway, daring her to flinch, daring her to see the truth and leave.

Her silence unnerved him.

She just stood there, refusing to retreat but saying nothing. The Golden Girl thought he was proud? What about her, little miss righteous know-it-all?

No, he would show her.

“Do you know what you are to them?” He continued, tongue dripping venom. “A novelty. A clever little upstart they’ll pat on the head before they shove you back in the dirt where you came from. You’ll never be one of them, Granger. No matter what you wear, no matter how much noise you make. They’ll always see you as a filthy little mud–”

Her breath hitched, and he bit back the word. It came easier than it should have, like back when they were in school.

Her hand came up, swift and sharp, aiming for his cheek.

He caught her wrist before she could land the blow. The force of it dragged her closer, the heat of her body colliding with his. His breath stuttered as she pressed against him. She was right there…heat and fury sparking off her like live current. She was so alive, so close, and as hot as a blazing sun. He craved that heat.

His gaze betrayed him again, dipping to her mouth. Her lips trembled. When he forced himself to look up, expecting flames, what he found instead made him falter…

Sadness.

The fight drained from her eyes, leaving something heavier and infinitely worse. That fire was gone, completely doused by his words. Guilt curled into the hollow in his chest before he could steel against it.

She tugged her wrist free and stepped back, voice soft. Her words landed harder than any slap.

“You win.”

She pulled her wand from where it had been hidden within the slit in her dress. She didn't look at him again. The sudden echo of her apparition snapped against the hedges, leaving Draco alone in the dark.

Silence rushed in where her voice had been, the word still ringing in his skull…win.

That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted to end this ridiculous arrangement, have her admit defeat, and push her away before she tried unraveling him further.

He had pressed, and pressed…maybe too hard, but at least she had finally broken.

Victory, at last.

Slowly, Draco straightened, dragging breath into lungs that felt too tight. He smoothed his expression back into cool detachment, the old mask sliding into place, though it felt heavier than it had in years.

When he finally turned back toward the glittering lights of the gala, he carried the shape of her sadness with him.

He won.

So why did it feel like he had lost?