By Any Other Name

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/55534333.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Theodore Nott, Ginny Weasley,
Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Molly Weasley, Fred Weasley, George
Weasley, Pansy Parkinson
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Regency, Regency Romance, Inspired by
Bridgerton (TV), Romeo and Juliet References, Eventual Smut,
Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pining Draco Malfoy, Auror Draco Malfoy,
Slow Burn, Library Sex, Dark Mark Removal (Harry Potter), Adult
Hermione Granger, Bisexual Theodore Nott, BAMF Pansy Parkinson,
Secret Identity, Duelling, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Alternate
Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-War, Post-Hogwarts, Bisexual Ginny
Weasley, Ron Weasley Bashing, Minor Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum,
Hurt/Comfort, narcissa black gets better, but she starts as kinda a bitch,
Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-04-28 Updated: 2024-11-17 Words: 42,956 Chapters:
7/30
 By Any Other Name
by xTimexTurnerx

Summary

Hermione could smell the spice of his cologne, something slightly woodsy and old… like
parchment from the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. The scent oddly suited him and
his antiquated existence in this formal, strict sector of the Wizarding World.

She shook her head slightly as if to remove the smell from her brain and returned to the
matter at hand. “Would people truly believe you’re courting me? A muggle born?”

Draco’s gaze snapped to Hermione’s face intensely, searching it. “I will make them believe,”
he said with such conviction that Hermione found it impossible to argue.

“How do you plan to do that?” Hermione asked, annoyed to find her voice sounded quite
breathless.

“Leave that to me,” Draco said, a smirk taking over his face that Hermione had never seen at
Hogwarts; it was charming and dangerous at the same time. A flush crawled up her neck and
sat beneath the dense twist of curls at the nape of her neck.

[A Regency AU/Bridgerton-inspired fake dating Dramione romance peppered with Romeo +

Juliet references.]

Notes

Hello! Welcome to this Regency AU/Bridgerton Dramione fic, so happy to have you here!
Chapter updates will come weekly on Sundays, over 30k words (6 chapters) are already
written. I plan for this fic to be roughly 30 chapters, and I don't want to do the math on how
many words that would make this because then I might panic.

Major Canon Divergences: Fred is alive! Lavender Brown is alive. Mr. Weasley is not alive,
but died pre-war. Most of the canon through fifth year holds, if it doesn't, a character will
comment to let you know. Major events of the War/ seventh book hold. Many witches in the
Regency era leave Hogwarts after OWLs, so sixth year is different (no past Ron/Lavender, no
past Harry/Ginny).

I post teasers/updates on my Instagram @LibrarishLizzie.

 Two Households

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene.

-Prologue, Romeo & Juliet

January 11, 1812

Dear Reader,

While a drab weather blanket has covered Wizarding London with the agility of an
experienced nurse, this season is shaping up to be the most interesting in living memory. I’ve
had the unfortunate pleasure of participating in many annual mating rituals thinly veiled as
social endeavours, but only the return of exciting players could spur this quill to use.

You don’t know me, and you never shall. But be warned, I most certainly know you.

It will thrill Pureblood and half-blood mama’s to no end to learn this is the year that seems to
finally be the time the one and only heir to the ancient Malfoy fortune, Lord Draco Lucius
Malfoy the Duke of Wiltshire, has returned to London with the intent of finding the next
Duchess. Sources close to Draco shared, “He’s finally gotten all of the romp and foolishness
out of his system. I think he’s ready to settle down and get to making some incredibly blond
heirs!” While my source wished to remain anonymous, his credibility is sound (and looks are
quite dashing, if I may be so bold).

As a refresher to those not in the upper echelons of Pureblood society (with a capital “P”),
the Malfoy family is a prestigious member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight; the pureblood families
with the most illustrative, and exclusive, wizarding lines. While money is an impolite topic of
discussion amongst such wizards, the Malfoy fortune is rumoured to be the highest of all,
estimated anywhere from 10 to 50 billion galleons.

Despite their inordinate riches, the Malfoy family fell into scandal during the last Wizarding
War, when the then-reigning patriarch, Lord Lucius Malfoy, was caught cavorting with the
wrong side. Since his imprisonment and untimely death, Lord Draco Malfoy and his mother,
Lady Narcissa Malfoy, have made incredible attempts at reparations, including donating to
the war repair fund, financing an orphanage for children of wizard and muggle soldiers, and
providing funds to extend St. Mungo’s wards for long-residence patients. Oh yes, our resident
bachelor not only has a massive fortune ladies, but he cares for children as well.
In between his good deeds, Lord Malfoy has had plenty of time since the war to galavant
about Europe, stimulating the northern continent’s economy with his liberal use of galleons
spent predominantly on hospitality, food, and entertainment. Over the last three years, this
magazine has provided photographs of Lord Malfoy with at least a dozen different female
paramours, all stunning. All Pureblooded.

While the attempt to mitigate the harm of pureblood propaganda is admirable from Lord
Malfoy and his mother, one has to wonder if the Malfoys have changed? If Draco Malfoy
does indeed intend to wed the next Duchess of Wiltshire, you have my confidence her
bloodline will be secure back half a millennium. Even if they publicly embrace muggle-born
witches and wizards, I doubt you’ll ever find one on their family tapestry.

Until next time my loves,

Lady Bletherson

“So tell me, were you absolutely foxed when you gave this quote, or were you sober cutting
shams with some reporter?” Draco Malfoy fumed at his long-term best friend, Theodore
Nott, who at the moment was lounging on a tufted chair in his study with a dramatic arm
tossed over his eyes.

“Do you need to shout so early in the morning, darling Draco?”

“Theo, it is two in the afternoon,” Draco said with gritted teeth.

“My point exactly. We can disagree once the sun sets, like proper gentlemen.” Theo turned
over on his side, showing Draco his back.

Draco was not appeased. He shoved Theo’s shoulder hard, causing him to roll off the settee
with an undignified ‘ umph .’ “Every insipid mother within 50 miles of London is going to
shove their droll daughters at me in hopes of them becoming a tenant for life at Malfoy
Manor!”

Theo stood up quickly and stumbled, squinting his eyes against the bright windows. “Firstly,
you should be thanking me. A rake like you? A chance at skirt like that article provides? I’m
put out I haven’t been offered your best Brandy yet. And secondly, how do you know it was
me?”

Draco put his fingers to his temples and recited the Malfoy motto in Latin ( “Sanctimonia
Vincet Semper” ) to ease some patience into his tense muscles. “No one else in my close
personal acquaintance would insist on the reporter commenting on their–” Draco flipped back
to the article– “looks being ‘ quite dashing .”

Theo opened his eyes fully, “I did appreciate that bit.”

Draco tossed the paper at his (potentially former) best friend, which he caught easily. “Who is
she?”
“Your next wife? Why Draco, that is entirely up to you–”

Salazar, Theodore was testing him, which was no easy feat. “The reporter, Theodore. Who.
Is. The. Reporter.”

Theo walked past Draco and over to the well-stocked spirits cart. Over the faint tinkle of ice,
Theo responded. “Oh. Well, that’s a spot of difficulty.”

“A spot of difficulty.” Draco deadpanned.

Theo did have the sense to look abashed. “In truth, I was a tad foxed. And I may have…
forgotten the finer points of the soiree last night.”

“Forgotten the finer points?”

“Draco, dear, you are going to have to stop repeating everything I say. It was a mistake to go
to the Zabinis last night, get drunk as a wheelbarrow and talk very loudly about your return to
the Pureblood social scene. I recognize that, and I’m quite sorry. You have my deepest
condolences that women will be frothing at the mouth for a spot on your dance card.” Theo
took a deep sip of his drink and immediately turned for a refill.

Draco realized his anger was perhaps, slightly over the line, and collapsed into a plump velvet
chair.

To be fair, he had a difficult last 48 hours.

He had been pleasantly draped over a French opera singer in her breezy château when a
rather insistent and violent owl pecked his right pinky finger raw until he opened up a lengthy
letter from the family solicitor.

The contents of which could be summed up in one, highly loaded sentence: In order to obtain
full access to his estate and title, he must be married by his 25th birthday… in less than six
months time.

Draco spent the next 36 hours arguing with the above-mentioned solicitor, combing ancestral
archives to see how correct the solicitor was, and pacing holes into the Manor’s study. All to
come to the conclusion that the marriage clause was sound, serious, and unbreachable.

“You don’t remember anything about the reporter?” Draco asked in a more reasonable tone.
If he could find her, he could pay her to write a retraction.

Theo poured a second drink and put the glass in Draco’s hand. Draco thought the last time he
saw Theo without a drink in his hand was before the War. “Afraid not. I could ask Blaise for
his guest list? Obviously, Bletherson isn’t the real name, but perhaps–”

Draco waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, taking a deep pull from his rather strong drink.
“Don’t trouble yourself, I have enough happening without letting this damned hum get the
better of me. Although–” Draco took back the now crumpled paper “–the last bit was
particularly vulgar.”
Theo suddenly became enamoured with twisting his crystal glass and studying the intricate
engravings.

“What?” Draco demanded after a moment of silence.

Theo cleared his throat and stood up, clearly unable to say his thoughts staring directly at his
long-term best friend. “Well… she was not… mistaken… Was she? Would your mother
approve of you marrying outside the Sacred Twenty-Eight?”

“Of course not,” Draco growled. “But that doesn’t need to be trotted out in the newsprint to
make us look like… like…”

“Elitist, snobbish, rich Purebloods?”

“Exactly!” Draco exclaimed.

Theo stared at him, let a silence hang in the air and then dramatically whispered, “But aren’t
we elitist, snobbish, rich Purebloods?”

Draco glared at him. “You know I think the Pureblood superiority is nonsense, and I will
happily distract myself with any willing witch that would like to tumble with me,” (although
the Dark Mark on his left arm had a clear preference for whom he spent his time with), “But
when it comes to inheritance? I don’t have a choice, Theodore.”

Theo looked down and sniffed. “I know, Draco. It’s the same for me.”

“You did get one thing wrong. I’m not having children.”

Theo’s sharp gaze lingered on Draco’s face. “If you say so.”

They both finished the liquor in their glasses. “I wish it could be different,” Draco added
quietly, the stormy grey of his eyes clouded with trouble.

Theo poured two more glasses and after distributing them, raised his in a toast. “To duty.”

“To duty,” Draco echoed dully.

“Unfortunately, Miss Granger, we are unable to offer you a position at this time.”

Hermione’s head swivelled slightly as she looked back at the ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the
window. “Has the position been filled?”

The short, older wizard blushed red. “Erm, no. Not quite. We are just searching for a
candidate with different… qualifications.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Muddle, I have seven NEWTS and an Order of Merlin,
First Class for my efforts in the war. Am I to understand you find my qualifications lacking?”

“We are all so grateful for the role you played in the war, Miss Granger. A true hero!” He
chuckled as if he expected her to join in. When she did not, he cleared his throat. “However,
war is an extreme circumstance. Now that order and propriety have been restored…”

Hermione stared at him fiercely without blinking. “Propriety?”

“Exactly, propriety. And we at Muddle & Thorns consider ourselves to be exceedingly

proper. And hiring a young woman, a young unmarried woman with… connections, at that,
would be highly unusual.”

Hermione shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her previous six failures to
secure a job suddenly made sense. Hermione began with the Ministry of Magic, and when
those rejections came through she went for less and less grand opportunities until she landed
herself here, an exotic magical plant shop off of Diagon Alley.

Each of her previous rejections had boasted their deepest regrets about not being able to offer
her employment, and she assumed her timing was poor.

But that hadn’t been it.

Hermione could have a thousand NEWTs and a cabinet of medals, but the fact remained she
was an unmarried muggle-born witch in 1812. She had no wizarding family to pull
connections, and she could not help being what she was.

Of course, more than one fudge had spread about her and Ron or her and Harry over the years
(mostly thanks to Rita Skeeter), but she assumed the wizarding world at large had seen
through the empty words.

She assumed wrong.

Not only was she an unmarried muggle-born, but she was thought to be barque of frailty. A
Bird of Paradise. A bit of muslin. A woman of easy virtue, who helped herself to two male
war heroes outside of marriage.

“I see,” Hermione said softly, tearing her gaze from Mr. Muddle. “Thank you for your
candour, Mr. Muddle. This has been quite enlightening.”

A smile broke out on the man’s wide nervous face. “Of course, Miss Granger. I do wish
circumstances were, ah… different.”

Hermione stood up in a slight daze and stumbled out of the shop, barely hearing the bells
chime behind her as the door slammed shut. The world seemed to be tilting slightly, the
narrow alleyways of wizarding shops contracting in to squeeze her lungs.

All of her hours, years of studying… The months of traipsing through a forest, eating boiled
mushrooms and assisting in defeating the darkest wizard of all time… it all amounted to this.
A rejection from every single post she applied for.
Hermione felt physically sick; her anger bubbled in her gut with the futility of her situation.
She stumbled over the cobblestones in her impractical, feminine shoes and clutched the wall
for support. She shut her eyes in the chilly February air and took deep, calming breaths.

There was a problem ahead of her, and she was nothing if not a great problem solver.
Hermione simply needed to remove the emotional piece from her situation and look at it with
objective eyes. She felt cold sting her cheeks and looked above her to find snow gently
falling. Its sudden appearance and gentleness calmed her.

Right. The problem was Hermione was unemployable as an unmarried witch with two male
best friends, despite her accolades and intelligence.

Her original tactic of acquiring more of the above-mentioned accolades was faulty; it did not
address the societal barrier in front of her. The only way to become a hiring option was to
change public opinion about her friendship with Harry and Ron, as well as…

Hermione paled, her logic pausing in its tracks.

She had to get married.

It’s not that she was entirely against the idea of romance, per se, but after her short and
disastrous attempt at a relationship with Ron, she had never found another person to turn her
head in that way. She had been so busy researching, applying, interviewing and otherwise
bracing herself for a whirlwind career that Hermione hadn’t paid any attention to eligible
wizarding bachelors.

That would have to change. Quickly.

If Hermione could find a well-connected wizard that was practically minded and open to her
being an equal (potentially platonic) partner, why a marriage might quite suit them both.
Wedded wizards were also looked on more favourably than their bachelor counterparts; seen
automatically as more serious and reliable, whether it was true or not.

Someone like her must exist in male form. She simply would have to find them.

But where? Hermione scanned her brain for more epiphanies, but it seemed to have
completed its job for the day with its solution. She had no idea where eligible bachelors
would spend their recreation time. She couldn’t exactly show up on men’s doorsteps
uninvited and demanded to question their compatibility with her.

…Could she?

No. Even in her desperate state, Hermione knew that she would have to do something
repugnant to secure herself a husband: she would have to formally participate in Wizarding
Society.

And there was only one person Hermione knew that delighted in Wizarding Society.

With a heavy sigh, Hermione turned on the spot and apparated from London to an overgrown
field outside the Burrow where she was sure to find Mrs. Weasley.
With any luck, Ginny or Ron would be home to serve as a buffer for her enthusiasm. But if
they weren’t, Hermione only had herself to blame as she had sent no notice of her visit. There
had been no time; now that Hermione had identified the solution to her problem, she wanted
to act on it quickly.

Hermione’s heels sunk into the grass as she made her way to the slightly crooked door and
knocked.

The door opened and Hermione immediately saw a bush of red hair in the bottom of her
vision and looked down to see Mrs. Weasley’s beaming face.

“Oh, Hermione dear! What an absolute delight to have you turn up on this dreary afternoon!
Come in, come in. I was about to pour myself a cuppa, would you like one as well? Of
course, you would, look at that thin coat! Tut, dear, you really need to take better care of
yourself. Sugar in your tea? Naturally.”

Mrs. Weasley bustled around the kitchen as teacups floated behind her, ready to collect the
named ingredients. Hermione knew better than to interrupt her words or attempt to turn any
refreshments down– not when she was about to ask for Mrs. Weasley’s aid.

Feet thundered down the stairs. “Mum? What’s all the fuss?”

Ginny Weasley came into view, her gorgeous auburn hair falling in perfect ringlets down her
back. Her light skin, endearing freckles, and bright eyes had always made Ginny popular
with wizards. However, most men who showed interest quickly rescinded courtship when
realizing Ginny was much more devoted to her career as a female Quidditch player than she
was to romance. Or, they felt emasculated by her athletic skills and retreated with their tail
between their legs.

Mrs. Weasley bemoaned often how her daughter’s beauty was wasted, that she practically
had seven sons rather than six, and that Ginny would die alone next to a broomstick.

“Mione!” Ginny said brightly, jumping the last few steps and pulling her friend into a hug.
“Did you owl?” she asked when pulling back.

Hermione finally found her voice. “No, sorry. It was a rather… sudden decision.”

“You’re always welcome!” Mrs. Weasley shouted from the table where all the tea trappings
floated down into place. “I’ve added a third cup for you, Ginevra.”

Ginny privately rolled her eyes to Hermione before walking to the table and grabbing a seat,
leaning back against the chair.

“Sit straight,” Mrs. Weasley chided.

Ginny gawped at her. “It’s only you and Mione!”

“Only an… an adventuress,” Mrs. Weasley whispered looking around although the room was
still empty, “slouches at the tea table.”
Ginny groaned. “Mother, can I have a sip of tea before you call me a prostitute?”

Hermione nearly choked on her first sip of tea and used the cough to cover her laugh that
desperately wanted to escape.

Mrs. Weasley’s face turned red and Hermione decided to intervene before a wall-shaking
argument burst out between the two fiery women. “I’ve decided it’s time for me to find a
husband.”

Ginny’s mouth dropped open and Mrs. Weasley’s head snapped to look at Hermione so
quickly she was worried the older woman may have tweaked a muscle.

“Who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?” Ginny said.

“That’s wonderful, dear!” Mrs. Weasley continued as if her youngest daughter hadn’t
spoken.

Hermione returned her teacup to its saucer. “I was rejected from another job today and the
proprietor made it quite clear that I would have more luck building a career if I was
married.”

Mrs. Weasley’s smile dimmed slightly at the mention of a career, but she bounced back
quickly. “Absolutely, marriage shows your responsibility and respectability.”

Ginny made a noise that suspiciously sounded like a snort.

“I don’t know anything about proper Wizarding society, and with my parents…” Hermione
trailed off, an unexpected lump rising in her throat. Her parents were safely in Australia, with
no memory of her existence.

“Being muggle,” Mrs. Weasley offered softly as a lifeline.

“Right, being muggle, I’ve never attended any of the formal Wizarding events in the season.
But I would like to find someone practical with professional connections.”

“Those are amiable qualities,” Mrs. Weasley nodded vigorously.

Ginny looked concerned and stared into her friend’s eyes across the table. “Mione, are you
sure about this?”

“Quite,” Hermione said in a small voice. “So I’ve come to ask for your guidance, Mrs.
Weasley. I would greatly appreciate your sponsorship and assistance in my participation this
season.”

Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands and then launched out of her chair to hug Hermione. “I
would love nothing more, my dear! Oh finally! All these years of preparation won’t be
wasted–”

“Mum, I’m right here,” Ginny grumbled.

“–I’ll have to update my files on the available wizards, and alert the other families of our
attendance. What a thrill. I’ve given up on Charlie, but there’s no reason Fred, George, and
Ron shouldn’t find themselves wives this season as well.” Mrs. Weasley finally let go of
Hermione and immediately started dictating notes to a self-writing quill that popped out of a
nearby drawer next to Mrs. Weasley’s finger.

“You’re really doing this?” Ginny asked, sounding weary.

“I don’t have a choice, Gin,” Hermione said.

Ginny nodded her head. “Mum, add my name to the invitations as well. If Hermione is going,
I’ll tag along and watch out for her.”

Actual tears escaped Mrs. Weasley’s beaming face.

 Ancient Grudge
Chapter Summary

The opening of the Wizarding social season.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

-Prologue, Romeo & Juliet

Hermione’s life changed drastically and quickly once she decided on her new path.

She gave up her rented room at a witch boarding house in London, which was for the best as
she got frequent complaints about her potion experiments being loud, odious, or strange, and
moved into the Burrow at Mrs. Weasley’s insistence.

Living under her roof would allow Mrs. Weasley to act as Hermione’s proper chaperone for
the season, and as a bonus, Hermione got to live with her best friend.

Ginny’s bedroom had been magically expanded for them both to comfortably reside.
Hermione was given Fred and George’s old room to set up potion equipment–the walls and
floors were already stained and scorched from their experimentation over the years.

Ginny was the only remaining Weasley child living at home, which was proper for a young
witch of the time. Charlie worked with dragons in Romania, Bill married Fluer Delacour
several years earlier, Percy recently wedded Audrey Macmillian, Fred and George lived in a
flat together in Diagon Alley and slept in Charlie’s large room when home, and Ron was
most often galavanting about Europe finding new people to regale with his heroic war tales.
When Ron did return to England, he had a room in Harry’s estate that he frequented most.

On the same day Hermione moved in, Mrs. Weasley whisked her and Ginny off to Madame
Malkins for a new wardrobe that was in fashion and appropriate for the events they would be
attending throughout the season.

Hermione lived frugally by nature and had saved up the majority of her galleons from her
Order of Merlin award and converted her muggle savings account into wizarding money after
the war. She was confident in her ability to support herself financially through the season, but
Harry wouldn’t hear of it.
They went out to tea the day after she arrived in the Burrow and Harry calmly let her know
that his line of credit was open to her at all shops.

Hermione groaned. “You know I’m partially in this position because people assume
lascivious things about the two of us? How on earth will using your credit line help matters?”

Harry’s brows furrowed beneath his wire glasses. “They do?”

“Honestly, Harry– don’t you read?” Hermione shovelled a teaspoon of sugar into her tea
more forcefully than was strictly required and stirred.

“Don’t have much time,” Harry said tiredly, and that was true. After the war Harry not only
threw himself into the Auror department at the Ministry of Magic, but in raising his godson
and ward, Teddy Lupin. Now that Hermione looked carefully, she saw the tired purple stains
under his green eyes.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Harry.” She said more gently. “Do you ever think about…
I don’t know… getting a wife yourself? Someone to lean on and help with Teddy?”

Harry smiled cheekily at her. “Is that a proposal?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “Seriously.”

Harry’s face turned sombre. “I do, I think it could be good for him… and me. Poppy is a
fantastic nanny, and the rest of the house staff are incredibly helpful… but I can tell he wants
a mother figure. I plan on attending some of the events this season, we’ll see what happens.”
Hermione’s face split into a grin. If there was anyone worthy of happiness, it was Harry. “But
back to you! I have an unreasonable amount of gold, and it would bring me great joy if you
spent some of it.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Hermione conceded. Just like that, she was prepared to attend Wizarding
Society formal events and signal her availability for matrimony.

The first invitations arrived within the week, crisp white OWLs delivering letters to
Hermione and Mrs. Weasley over breakfast.

The Duchess and Duke of Wiltshire

Formally request the presence of

Hermione Jean Granger

guest of Weasley House

at their Annual Opening Ball

21st of February
 at 7:00pm, Malfoy Manor

Transportation by carriage, portkey, and Floo

will be accommodated

Please return your owl no later than the 13th of February

Hermione sucked in a breath at the location– Malfoy Manor. The last time she was in those
halls she was pinned down and tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange. Now she needed to return and
make small talk over o'er d'oeuvres.

While Mrs. Weasley prattled on about which dresses the girls should wear, Ginny noted her
friend’s pale face and stood next to her. “We don’t have to go to that one,” Ginny whispered
to Hermione.

Mrs. Weasley paused her happy chatter and stared at them. “Well of course we should attend!
It’s the premiere opportunity to present you, dear, and declare your intentions.”

“Mum,” Ginny warned sharply.

Mrs. Weasley glared at her youngest before stepping forward to hold Hermione’s hand and
dropping her voice to its maternal warmth. “I know you went through difficulties there, dear.
No one would blame you for being hesitant. But I’ve found that sometimes the best way to
bury ghosts for once and for all is to stomp on their graves.”

Hermione smiled involuntarily at the silly metaphor and felt a surge of warmth for this stand-
in mother figure. How long had it been since Hermione heard comforting words from an
adult? “What about dancing on their graves?” Hermione asked.

“I think that’s even better,” Mrs. Weasley replied, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

The first ball of the season was always hosted at Malfoy Manor. Even when Draco’s father
was standing trial for his war crimes, Narcissa Malfoy fretted over tablecloth linens and
candle height.

Draco’s annual tradition had been to arrive incredibly late, imbibe in several magically
enhanced alcoholic beverages, peel Theo off whatever woman was his target of the evening
and escape to a vacant room where the two would drink merrily and play exploding snap or
wizarding chess.

This year, however, was different.

This year, Draco had to welcome guests with his mother. He had to peruse the eligible
witches and carefully decide whom to focus his attention on.

His singular concern at the moment was that the insipid Lady Bletherson’s article would
make it nearly impossible for him to have the upper hand in any connection with a woman.
Ambitious mamas would have been researching him for weeks and prepping their daughters
to fold themselves into a perfect Lady Malfoy-sized silhouette. How could he know
someone’s true character?

Draco took in his appearance in the mirror. His strikingly light hair was trimmed neatly and
held in place lightly by product (he shuddered remembering his school days when he slicked
back his hair with handfuls of Sleekeasy hair potion).

His dress robes were a deep emerald that undercut his pale skin in a way without making him
look ill. Draco’s shoulders and arms had filled out since his time at Hogwarts, and standing at
his full height, he realized startlingly that he looked like a proper man... He looked like his
father.

Draco frowned automatically and was distressed to find a frown deepened their resemblance.
He relaxed his face into a cool mask of indifference and slightly mussed the front of his hair.
There. He was a devilish rake once again, avoiding Lucius’ shadow and dodging his
footsteps.

Two gentle knocks sounded on his door and he opened it to find his mother standing ramrod
straight in a light grey dress and black gloves. “It’s time, darling.”

Draco offered her his arm and she lightly took it. Lucius’s death and the war had taken an
irrevocable toll on his mother. Her once elegant frame was now waiflike, her cheeks hollow.
Her elves performed miracles with makeup, filling out her face to resemble what it once was.
Perhaps it was because Draco knew her so well, that he could see the nearly imperceptible
seems where magic and reality met in a blur.

Narcissa’s eyes had been brighter the last several weeks since Draco announced his intention
to marry, and that was something. But for a former tidal wave of a witch, the small waves she
made now as she prepared for the annual ball left a palpable absence throughout the manor.

It seemed his mother was content to become a smaller version of herself each day until fading
away completely and if Draco thought of it too closely, his heart ached fiercely and
helplessly. He could only hope that his taking on more responsibility with the estate and
settling down would ground her back to earth and swell her with life once again.

Malfoy Manor was grand and all surfaces had been polished to shine in preparation for the
night’s festivities. His mother had chosen light green and gold to allude to the coming spring
and lighten the heavy marble accents. Stunning flower arrangements floated in the air several
feet below the ceiling that was charmed to seem like the inside of a gold, satin tent. Ornate
fairy light globes danced around the space to create intimate lighting.

“It’s gorgeous, mother,” Draco said earnestly once they descended the grand staircase.
Narcissa’s mouth quirked up in one corner. “Thank you, Draco dear.” They took their
unofficial place at the mouth of the stairs– visible once guests entered, but not unfashionably
close to the door or study entrance; the ideal spot for greeting.

“I’ve had the highest owl return yet for this year’s ball,” Narcissa said with a slight spot of
smugness to her tone.

Draco’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you think that has something to do with Lady Bletherson?”

“That silly gossip sheet woman? I have no idea, but I rather thought it had something to do
with Harry Potter finally agreeing to attend and others following in his footsteps.” Her tone
was carefully neutral as if bracing for Draco’s reaction.

It was no secret that he and Potter disliked one another. Although, after Harry had spoken in
Draco’s defence during his war trial and saved him from a stint in Azkaban, the ire had
dissipated from his side. Draco never pictured him and Potter throwing back butterbeers
together, but there was no open hostility.

Technically, they worked in the same Ministry department– the Auror Office. However given
Malfoy’s unique role, Draco rarely saw the inside of the building, and very few knew he was
on the payroll.

“What an interesting development,” Draco commented.

Narcissa nodded her head once. “Quite. I’m hoping it signals the past is being slowly
forgotten, if not forgiven.”

Their centuries-old clock chimed 7:00 and Draco took a deep breath to steel himself against
the oncoming storm of surface-level socializing– one of his least favourite things about these
soirees (next to their boredom, restricting clothing, and lack of quidditch).

Witches and wizards from across Europe would be pouring in at any moment, whether by
portkey, magical carriage or directly into the opened Floo network in the receiving study
located off the main hall. The Manor’s house elves would lead guests to Draco and Narcissa.

After the war, the Malfoys offered freedom and wages to any of their house elves desiring it–
all elves had vehemently decided to stay employed and all refused wages. Draco kept small
accounts for each of them at Gringotts where earnings were deposited each week in case any
of them changed their minds.

The door cracking open for the first time pulled Draco out of his reverie. The shock of orange
hair and clashing bright fabrics instantly let him know the Weasleys had arrived.

Countess Weasley was first in a yellow dress with fuschia florals that brought out the red
splotches in her complexion, as well as a ridiculous feathered hair piece where the ends
whipped with each thunderous step.

Behind her was the twin with two ears (Draco honestly could not tell the two apart otherwise)
dressed in a vivid green set of dress robes making him appear like the Irish National
Quidditch Team’s mascot. Fred/George was followed by Bill Weasley and his French wife,
both in far more stylish and muted colours than the rest of the family.

Harry Potter was next in the caravan, breaking up the unseemly amount of ginger hair with
his dark, untidy locks and regular black dress robes. It appears his mother was correct; the
Boy Who Lived was deigning to attend a function at Malfoy Manor when he never had
before. As Harry took several more steps forward, the reason why became abundantly clear.

Hermione Granger.

She was arm in arm with the youngest Weasley and striking in a vivid light purple dress and
delicate white gloves that contrasted marvellously with her tanned skin. Her usually
untamable, black curly hair is twisted into an elegant updo with a purple rhinestone
headpiece.

Other than the Triwizard Tournament ball in fourth year, Draco had never seen Granger look
so… feminine. He had to admit she had grown into a beautiful woman, although that had
nothing to do with the tight feeling in his chest.

Draco remembered with a rush the last time Hermione was in Malfoy Manor. The time when
Hermione was tortured by his Aunt Bellatrix and he stood by while it happened. He used
Occlumency and a pensive to help with the worst of the war memories, but he never allowed
himself to block out the moments where he watched other people suffer.

Why should he be allowed to forget their pain when they weren’t?

His own scar on his upper left shoulder pulsed as he thought of his aunt and her cursed
blade.

Countess Weasley’s loud voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he hoped to Merlin they
didn’t show on his face. “We’re so pleased to attend tonight, Duke and Duchess!” Her odd
feather headpiece bobbed violently.

“We appreciate your presence,” Narcissa said smoothly. “Thank you for attending.” Mrs.
Weasley clutched Lady Malfoy’s gloved hand with unnecessary force.

“And of course! My children! Lord Fred Weasley, Lord Bill Weasley and his wife Lady Fleur
Weasley, and Lady Genevra Weasley. We are honored tonight to be joined by Sir Harry Potter
and Miss Hermione Granger.” Each one bowed or curtseyed as introduced, and Draco nearly
smiled to see Hermione think so deeply about executing a perfect curtsy.

“Thank you all,” Draco’s eyes connected with Harry’s, “for being here, truly.” Harry nodded
once and lightly led the group toward the ballroom.

Draco turned his head slightly, watching Hermione in particular walk away. The longer his
eyes were on her, the more his chest tightened… with guilt.

Out of all the people he was cruel to at school and harmed either bystanding or direct action
during the war, Hermione was one of the people that brought him the most shame. Hermione
never deserved his vitriol, but he targeted her for years based on his jealousy and inferiority.

But also… what in Merlin was she doing here? At a Wizarding Society function? The launch
of another marital mart season?

Was Hermione Granger… looking for a husband?

It was the obvious answer but seemed the most impossible. Before Draco could wrap his
head around this fact, another group of nobles entered and his mother tapped lightly on his
arm to drag his attention back to their joint hosting duties.

Within thirty minutes the majority of their guests had found their way to the ballroom (any
later was considered quite rude when magical transportation was so expeditious), and Draco
and Narcissa finally entered to lead the party in an opening dance.

The live band took up their strings and Draco easily led his mother around the floor. For the
first time in Draco’s memory, his mother genuinely lit up. Other couples started to join,
including, Draco noticed, Harry Potter leading Hermione Granger.

Were they courting? There had always been rumours, of course, but she seemed to be
lecturing Harry as he danced her around the floor, making it rather unlikely they were an
amorous pairing.

Draco stumbled over a step and his mother’s smile faltered. “Sorry,” he amended quickly,
diverting his eyes back to where they belonged.

“I would assume your skills are rusty, you haven’t been dancing at our balls since…”
Narcissa faded off, leaving the rest unspoken… since before the war. Since before your father
died. Since we were social pariahs in a world that used to bow before us.

“Not that rusty,” Draco countered, sharing a small smile.

The band drew to a close and Draco bowed to his mother. “There is a queue of women
waiting to dance with you,” she whispered.

“Mother, what have you done?”

“Merely taken a morsel of initiative.” With a polite wave, his mother walked away. When
Draco turned to return to the party, he saw a bevy of mothers and daughters lining the edge of
the dance floor.

He could have groaned, but instead took a fortifying breath and ventured forward.

“Do you think Mum secretly wants me to be a spinster? What else could be the explanation
for this awful, yellow monstrosity she dressed me in?” Ginny whined, gulping her
champagne. Hermione did have to admit, that the yellow dress was atrocious, and she didn’t
consider herself particularly fashionable.

“Three suitors have already asked you to take to the floor,” Hermione reminded Ginny and
she made a sour face.

“One was thirty years my senior, another only reached my shoulder in height, and the third
was dressed in magenta.”

Hermione hid a laugh behind her gloved hand. “And what do you have against magenta?”

Ginny glared at Hermione as if this should be obvious. “It looks horrid with my hair. I can’t
be photographed spinning about the floor with him!”

Fred came up behind Ginny with a champagne flute in each hand. “Wocher, sister. Have any
bees been drawn to your sunflower self?” Ginny thrust her elbow back to make contact with
Fred’s arm. “Ow! Don’t raise a breeze or you’ll never find a husband.”

“At least I don’t look like a leprechaun,” Ginny retaliated haughtily.

Fred threw back one entire flute of champagne and ditched the glass on a nearby servant’s
tray. “You’re only jealous you can’t pull it off as well.”

“Where’s George tonight?” Hermione countered, trying to cut through the sibling rivalry.

“Playing in an Exploding Snap tournament with some potential investors. We want to open a
Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes in Hogsmeade. He’s there and I’m here, trying to squeeze the
wizards full of juice.” Fred knocked back his other glass of champagne.

“Charming,” Ginny noted, rolling her eyes.

“May I have this dance, Lady Granger?” Hermione turned away sharply from the Weasley
siblings to the man speaking. She recognized the blonde, handsome face in front of her, but it
took a moment before his name registered: Cormac McLaggen.

The traces of amusement vanished from Fred’s face.

Cormac’s face stayed strikingly handsome. “I apologize, that was rather abrupt without a
proper greeting. Lord McLaggen, at your service m’lady. We attended school together.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Hermione acknowledged with a small curtsey. “I would be honoured
to accompany you.” She felt the ghost of Fred’s fingertips trying to graze her elbow in a
warning, but she ignored him; she was perfectly content with forming her judgments of
suitors’ characters.

McLaggen offered his arm and led Hermione to the centre of the floor as a quadrille started to
play through the ballroom. His arm fit smoothly to her waist and he held her aloft hand firmly
as he led her around the floor.
On their first turn, McLaggan spoke lowly into Hermione’s ear, “May I be so bold as to say
you look stunning tonight?” Although it was phrased as a question, his tone was too
confident for it to sound that way.

Hermione felt heat travel to her cheeks; it had been a long time since someone had flattered
her. “Thank you, my lord. How are you finding the ball?”

Hermione stepped in between the dancer next to her and her partner, as the routine required,
before returning to McLaggan who cracked a wide smile. “Honestly? Rather dull, but I will
say it has improved markedly since being in your presence.”

He was a smooth talker, perhaps too smooth. “What merriments do you regularly enjoy?”
Hermione asked earnestly.

McLaggan answered quickly and Hermione started to get the sense that he rather enjoyed
discussing himself. “Quidditch is brilliant, and hunting as well. Most of my family gets
together each year to hunt quail. It’s primal, you know? A proper hobby that all gentlemen
ought to have.”

Hermione nodded politely and waited for him to return a question to her ( How did she like
the ball? What were her hobbies and passions? ), but the air hung silent. She cleared her
throat. “I remember you from Hogwarts–”

McLaggan’s face split open into a grin. “Oh, I remember you too. But I must say, you’ve
rather blossomed into a fine young woman since then.”

She couldn’t quite tell if it was a compliment. “Thank you? Yes, well–”

McLaggan pulled her closer, so the front of her gown nearly grazed his front; it was entirely
too close for a public dance, and a first dance at that. But Hermione didn’t want to cause a
scene, so she tried to subtly step back. “What do you say we take this conversation
somewhere more private, Miss Granger?”

To hell with a scene, Hermione snatched her gloved hands out of McLaggan’s and took a
large step back. “I find myself inclined to remain within the parameters of the ball.”

McLaggan’s grin turned slightly devilish, her retort didn’t seem to phase him in the slightest.
“Playing hard to get? You minx, I do love a challenge. I’ll grant you, I didn’t expect it given
your reputation.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione asked, her face now flushing red with anger rather than
admiration.

McLaggan could see her genuine irritation building and for the first time, his smile faltered.
He looked around the room making sure no one was listening before taking a step closer and
whispering in her ear. “Miss Granger, we all know that you travelled unchaperoned with two
wizards for the better part of a year. Don’t pretend to be some innocent maiden.”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open and instinct took over. She lifted her slippered foot and
slammed it down on McLaggan’s shoe, causing him to wince and double over. Several
dancing couples looked toward the disturbance, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to care.

Hermione stormed off the floor, drawing the attention of nearly every witch and wizard in the
room and cutting through the crowd to the nearest balcony. Her breath was coming in short,
shallow gulps and it felt like every person was too close. The party sounds were swirling
above her head and pressing down, trying to push her through the floor. Just as her vision
began to swim and her brain dredged up Bellatrix’s cackle from those years ago in this same
house, she burst through a set of doors into the cool February air.

She took deep gulps of the night and slowly her humming body returned to its homeostasis.
She pulled off her elbow-high gloves and stared at the bandage on her left arm before ripping
that off too.

Mudblood, crooked and red glared back up at her as fresh as the day Bellatrix carved it. Her
wound went through a small cycle of scabbing over and then cracking back open to bleed
every few days. Whatever poison was in Bellatrix’s knife had done its evil work; the cut
would never heal no matter what potions and salves Hermione subjected it to.

“Hermione?” Harry’s familiar voice asked.

She turned around. “You can’t be out here alone with me, Harry.” Her voice was harsh and
much snappier than intended, but McLaggan’s remarks still were playing on a loop in her
head: Don’t pretend to be some innocent maiden.

Harry’s eyes flickered down to her inflamed arm and she saw his jaw tighten. “I know, I just
wanted to check and make sure you were alright. Should I duel McLaggan?”

Despite her ebbing anger, a chuckle escaped Hermione’s mouth. “No, I think I’ve made
enough spectacle for one evening. But I want to leave.”

Harry nodded as if he expected this answer. He opened his mouth to respond when Ginny
pushed her way onto the balcony as well.

“That was bloody brilliant, Hermione. Can you step on Longbottom’s toes for me? He’s
trying to get me to dance with him for the third quadrille in a row.”

“Hermione wants to leave,” Harry said finally. Ginny looked up at him and realized how
close they were. She saw her friend’s face colour red and Ginny tried to take a step back from
Harry, only to realize she was already against the railing; the balcony wasn’t large enough for
the three of them to fit comfortably.

“I’ll go with her,” Ginny said breathlessly.

“I’ll see you two home. Where’s your mother, Ginny?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Accosting the only other red-haired witch at this ball and insisting
she must be related to us somehow. I’d be shocked if she hasn’t produced our family tapestry
yet.”

Harry’s lips pulled up into a smile. “I’ll let her know we’re leaving. Meet me by the Floo
Powder, we’ll leave the carriage for the others.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said genuinely, feeling badly for scolding Harry earlier.

“What are friends for?” With a wink, Harry disappeared back into the fray.

Ginny finally looked at Hermione standing in the bitter night with only her purple dress, and
her bare arms and flicked her gaze back up to Hermione’s eyes. “Do you want to talk about
it?” Hermione shook her head no. “Well, I’m here if you do. Let’s go, that was plenty of
socializing for me for one evening.”

Hermione pulled her gloves back on, and it felt like a piece of armour sliding over her to
ready herself for the battle of walking back into the room she had just made a fool of herself
in.

Draco was escaping the party at the refreshment table, trying his best to blend in with his
surroundings. He was nearly breathless with the non-stop dancing forced by desperate
mothers throwing their unwed Pureblood daughters into his path.

“Care for a dance?” A feminine voice asked.

Draco sighed deeply and turned around, ready to politely decline this rather forward woman.
To his happy surprise, it was his longtime friend, Pansy. “Oh thank Merlin, it’s you.”

“Wizards do often thank Merlin for my presence,” she acknowledged with mock humility.
Pansy was dressed in a dark purple, rather off the ball’s theme of spring, but it looked dashing
on her. At this point in her social career, Pansy didn’t have to play by most rules– she was
twice widowed and in possession of a large fortune from each sequential spousal death.

Theo staggered up behind her and clapped a hand on both Draco and Pansy’s shoulders. “Ah,
the whole gang's back together. Parkinson, you look ravishing. Have you gotten another
proposal yet?”

Pansy feigned indignance. “Theo, I’m clearly still in mourning,” she gestured to her black
gloves and thin black trim around her gown.

Theo snorted, “And I’m a calm Hungarian Horntail. Could you marry Avery Jr. next? He’s
absolutely wiping the game tables with me and if he died I’d never have to pay back what I
lost.”

Draco laughed despite himself.

“Much too young,” Pansy scolded before taking a step closer. “You know it can only look
like an accident if they’re old bats.”

“Excuse me,” a feeble voice cut in as a middle-aged redheaded witch cut around the trio to
grab a refreshment glass.

“Did you hear our darling Draco is on the market?” Theo continued.

“I’d like to live to my 25th birthday, thanks,” Draco shot back.

Pansy clucked her tongue. “Tsk tsk, so rude, Draco. Mummy certainly taught you better
manners. Are you denying me a dance, then?”

“I would never.” Draco offered his arm and Pansy took it.

“You’re next, Nott,” Pansy warned as Draco took her to the floor.

“I would despair if I wasn’t!” He called over the heads of the patrons between them. Pansy
snickered.

The two friends took their spots amongst the partygoers and stepped together once the music
began. “So, are the rumours true? Are you trying to find a tenant for life to make Wiltshire
her home?” Pansy’s dark curls bounced slightly as they started the upbeat steps of the
quadrille.

“Yes, I have to. My inheritance has a Marriage Claus,” Draco whispered.

Pansy nodded sympathetically. “Mine did as well. At least you had a few extra years in
yours; I had to be a wife by 21 to get any dowry.”

Draco was surprised she never shared this detail, but not of its existence. In their world,
power and inheritance always came with stipulations. “And does it require you to keep
finding new victims… I mean, husbands?”

Pansy smirked while executing a perfect dip in Draco’s arms. “No, that’s simply fun. I need
to find some entertainment in a world that just wants me to pick out table decorations for
useless parties.”

Draco chuckled and twirled Pansy under his arm; she had always been angry about the
societal restrictions on her sex. “Have you identified your newest target?”

Pansy looked around the room over Draco’s shoulder. “Not quite, I pick them with care. Only
the old wizards have left a trail of broken and abused witches in their wake. I haven’t found
the one most… deserving.”

Draco nodded. After everything he had seen in the war, he didn’t condone harming others…
unless they truly deserved it.

And there was a list of deserving wizards who escaped punishment for their heinous crimes.
As a result, he became a silent accomplice to Pansy’s mission of eradicating the worst of
them. As one of her oldest friends, he would always keep her secrets.

A gaggle of whispers broke out amongst the guests and Draco looked around subtly to see the
source of the commotion just in time to see Granger stomp on McLaggan’s foot and storm off
the dance floor. Draco’s eyebrow arched up.

“What? What am I missing?” Pansy leaned in to ask.

“Granger just assaulted McLaggan,” Draco said, slightly dazed, still following her progress
through the crowd toward a balcony.

Pansy chuckled. “I’m sure he deserved it. Did you know he’s the reason Hannah Abbot had
to spend the entire last year in Italy? He was found unchaperoned with her and refused
marriage; they sent her to some distant aunt until the rumours died down.”

“What a cad,” Draco chided. If you were going to exist and play in the world of proper
Wizarding Society, there were strict, unbreakable rules; the ones surrounding protecting a
witch’s modesty were of the utmost importance.

“Isn’t that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, Draco dear?” Pansy teased, and the remark
chafed against Draco.

“The witches I’ve been involved with don’t belong in this part of society; there are different
rules.”

Pansy’s eyes snapped to him and looked cold. “I didn’t realize a woman's modesty was only
important above a certain level of wealth.”

Draco shut his eyes, realizing how entitled and pompous he sounded. Theo’s remark from
several weeks ago rang in his head: “But aren’t we elitist, snobbish, rich Purebloods?”

The orchestra was playing the final measures of their dance and Pansy pulled him close for
one more comment. “Be careful, Draco– if you don’t want to turn into Lucius you need to act
differently than him.”

Draco’s grey eyes snapped open and Pansy curtsied with her fake smile firmly in place before
leaving the floor to find Theo. The tips of Draco’s ears were red with embarrassment–was he
nothing more than a spoiled, bigoted Pureblood? How could he enact any meaningful change
in society when he sought a wife who played by antiquated rules and came from an elite
family?

Draco ran his hand through his hair in frustration before moving quickly off the dance floor
to make room for the next set of couples. He saw Potter’s telling mess of black hair, one of
the Weasley’s ginger tresses, and Hermione Granger’s barely contained curls making their
way toward the room’s exit.

The sheer number of people slowed their progress, and Hermione glanced around the room
trying to appear unbothered to deflect attention. But Draco saw the crease between her
eyebrows– the same one she had at Hogwarts working on a difficult magical concept.
 Their eyes connected across the room, a clash of warm brown and cool grey. Hermione
instinctively gripped her gloved left forearm. An agonizing rip of awareness tore through
Draco’s chest… that was where her scar was.

Witches and wizards shuffled around for Potter and the trio was able to move again. Granger
faced forward and dropped her arm. Although they moved quickly, Draco was almost
positive he saw several dots of red on Granger’s pristine white glove and felt nauseous.

Suddenly the party was too loud, too garish, too ridiculous. Draco stumbled toward the same
exit he just saw Hermione exit from and immediately felt better in the empty hallway. He
took off toward his room at a quick clip, begging not to run into anyone along the way.

Once inside his dark green and gold room, he slammed the door and cast a locking charm he
invented.

His dress robes were constricting and he immediately moved to rip them off. He then peeled
off the magic bandages he changed each day and turned to see his own back in his looking
glass.

There they were; dozens of thin, agitated red lines among the one choppily carved word on
his left shoulder– coward. He realized he and Hermione Granger had something in
common… they had both been forever scarred by his Aunt Bellatrix’s cursed knife.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for the kudos and reads! It means a lot to me!
 This Contract
Chapter Summary

Draco and Hermione finally discuss what could be a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

I have no joy of this contract tonight:

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;

Too like the lightning.

-2.2, Romeo & Juliet

22nd February, 1812

Dear Reader,

While we’ve only had our first event of the Season, there is still plenty of salacious news to
report. From the surprising to the tawdry, last night’s opening ball, held by the Duke and
Duchess of Wiltshire, has inspired my quill most profoundly.

Those not in attendance may like to know the Manor looked delightful and welcoming, with
notes of new spring and a hopeful embrace of warmer, longer days despite the frigid chill still
draping much of Europe. Those in attendance know the decor was quite far from the most
interesting aspect of the event.

Several surprising figures walked the halls of Malfoy Manor last night including two war
heroes: Sir Harry Potter and Miss Hermione Granger. The-Boy-Who-Lived has declined all
previous Wizarding Society invitations not directly related to the war and its reconstruction
efforts. One theory of his motivation is the sudden emergence of Hermione Granger.

Miss Granger, born from non-magical parents and a war heroine in her own right, has never
sought out the upper echelon of society (composed mostly of Pureblood families) until now.
The pair opened the ball dancing a lively quadrille together.

This author happens to have it on good authority that it is Sir Potter’s credit line at the
modiste supplying Miss Granger’s seasonal wardrobe, which could indicate a potential
courtship or the financial beneficiary of a close friend.
Sir Potter was not the only gentleman Miss Granger danced with; more memorably, Lord
McLaggan asked her hand after consuming several goblets of fairy wine. Whether it was the
imbibing or his troubling nature, this author is not sure, but their quadrille ended with Miss
Granger stepping on Lord McLaggan’s foot.

While some may feel inclined to pardon Miss Granger’s behaviour due to inexperience at
these events, I highly doubt accosting a dance partner is permissible in any circle of society.
If it is a husband she is seeking, I feel inclined to remind her more flies are caught with honey
than vinegar.

Our most eligible bachelor, the Duke of Wiltshire, kept himself above the fray of drama by
dancing with a gaggle of well-bred Pureblood witches. While I hate to seem boisterous, may I
be the first to point out I was correct in my assumption of where Lord Malfoy’s interests lay?

Lord Malfoy’s final dance of the evening was with Lady Pansy Rosier (formerly Parkinson), a
longtime friend of the Malfoy family and recently widowed for the second time. Could
romance be stirring between the two?

For the sake of Lord Malfoy’s health, I personally hope not. Some have covertly been
referring to Lady Rosier as the “Black Witch Widow” after the surprising and circumstantial
death of her second husband, Evan Rosier. And while Lord Malfoy may be a surly man, an
ugly one he is not. I hope he continues to enhance the scenery of many Society events yet.

Until next time my loves,

Lady Bletherson

“Well that’s just fantastic,” Hermione scoffed over the breakfast table the next morning,
throwing her copy of Lady Bletherson on top of her toast and marmalade. Dark purple
splotches started appearing through the thin paper, absconding the words.

“What is?” George asked, snatching the paper from the table and attempting to read through
the globs of sticky fruit.

“Apparently I’m an ill-mannered cow who is an embarrassment to her sex and will never
fetch a husband,” Hermione said irritatedly and then took a large bite from her toast.

“Cheer up, I think you look much more like a horse,” Fred quipped from her side.

George chuckled as he read the column and Hermione stared daggers into him. Ginny
slapped his arm. “Ow, wotcher! Or else you’ll be the next ill-mannered cow this twit writes
about.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I don’t care if that woman writes about me, I don’t want to find a
husband.”

“Don’t let mum hear you say that,” Fred warned in a low tone.
“I don’t–” but Ginny was cut off by the front door swinging open and a grinning Ron
Weasley standing in the doorway.

“Do you ever owl?” Ginny fired off, looking annoyed by her brother’s sudden appearance.

“Great to see you too, Gin,” Ron said, throwing his bag down at his feet.

Fred and George leapt up from the table and crushed Ron in an aggressive hug. “Thank
goodness you’re here, no one has told a war story in nearly a fortnight,” Fred said after
letting go.

Ron didn’t bother to reply to his elder brother. “I’m starving,” he proclaimed and sat at the
head of the table to Hermione’s right and started loading his plate with every breakfast food.

“I swear, you only come home for the food,” Ginny said.

Ron’s mouth was full, “Dat’s not true.”

“Ronald, can you chew first?” Hermione asked, disgusted.

“You’ll catch more flies with honey, Hermione,” George said in a sing-song voice, quoting
the wretched article.

Hermione was about to retaliate when George’s face erupted with bat wings, Ginny holding
her wand aloft in front of her. “That’s about enough of my brothers for this morning, don’t
you agree, Hermione?”

Fred and Ron howled with laughter as George flailed his arms.

Hermione chuckled despite herself. “I do.”

“Is that my Ron?!” Mrs. Weasley’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs.

Ginny quickly muttered the bat-bogey countercurse at George before her mother could see
what she had done to her brother.

Ron jumped up from the table and into his mother’s arms, all smiles and crumbs of her
cooking clinging to his clothes. “Oh, it’s a test on my poor nerves you popping in with no
warning, Ron! You could send an owl next time, love. How are you? Have you been eating
well? Have you met any witches? Are you thinking of settling down? Honestly, Ron–”

“Mum, let the poor bloke breathe,” Fred snickered.

Mrs. Weasley relaxed her grip a fraction and took in Ron’s face above hers. “You look peaky.
Breakfast to start.” She pushed Ron back into his chair and disappeared into the kitchen, most
likely to make another heaping plate of breakfast trimmings, even though the food on the
table was scarcely running low.

“What ‘ave I missed?” Ron asked, ignoring Hermione’s earlier plea to eat before speaking.
“The Malfoy’s opening ball,” Ginny supplied.

“I did that on purpose,” Ron said lowly. “The less time I have to spend near the pale git the
better.”

“You know, some may call you a pale git,” George pointed out.

“Hermione nearly broke McLaggan’s foot while dancing with him,” Fred supplied.

“I did not break it,” Hermione snapped.

Ron put down his food. “You were there, ‘Mione?” His gaze was slightly wounded, and a
slight pink rushed to Hermione’s cheeks.

While the tawdry rumours around herself and Harry were baseless, they were slightly… less
so where Ron was concerned. While nothing too untoward had happened, especially not in
those long nights camping in various forests, they had shared one kiss in the heat of the Battle
of Hogwarts.

After they had laid the fallen Order members to rest, Ron got down on one knee and
proposed to Hermione. She was shocked; they were eighteen. They were traumatized. They
had been living like each day was their last. She wasn’t ready to toss away figuring out her
own bright future for a certain one with him.

And in the years since, Hermione secretly applauded herself on her decision six years ago.
Ron had grown into a braggart and shirked responsibility, coasting on his name and war
accolades; it was incredibly unattractive to Hermione. She valued passion and ambition
above most things in a partner.

Ron had reacted badly at first, but they had gotten over the awkwardness within a year. Every
once in a while though, moments like this crept up and reminded her again of their failed
connection.

“Yes,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, careful to keep a flat tone.

“She’s tasked mum with finding her a husband,” Ginny said primly.

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “A husband! Well, that’s… aren’t we a bit…?” He floundered to
find words, perhaps because he realized he shouldn’t be so shocked at this information. A
witch of 24 was well within the acceptable range (on the higher end of it, to be true) of
marriage.

Hermione was saved from continuing this painful line of inquiry with Mrs. Weasley’s
reappearance, carrying a toppling plate of scones. Once depositing them on the table, her eyes
widened at Ginny and Hermione. “And why aren’t you two properly dressed?!”

“Because we’re eating… breakfast?” Ginny said slowly.

“A suitor could be by at any moment for either one of you!” Mrs. Weasley shrieked.
Ginny snorted in an unladylike fashion. “The only bloke who danced with me last night was
Longbottom.”

Mrs. Weasley levelled a withering glare at her youngest. “Lord Longbottom comes from a
long line of respectable wizards, and he has a teaching position at Hogwarts. He’s a fine
suitor.”

“He can’t go two minutes without talking about plants!” Ginny retaliated. Her brothers
erupted into laughter around the table.

“Upstairs. Now.” Mrs. Weasley pointed her finger to the staircase and Hermione moved
immediately without complaint; she wouldn’t dare provoke the matriarch’s ire. She heard
Ginny’s heavy stomps behind her.

“Ron can come and go as he pleases, but Merlin forbid I don’t wear a corset and petticoat to
breakfast…” Ginny muttered angrily under her breath as they pulled on their multiple layers
of appropriate day wear.

Hermione missed the simple, muted and functional clothes that she spent most of her time in
since the war. Now that she was to be a Lady of Society, she donned dresses in light, bright
colours that wouldn’t stand up to one day in a potions laboratory or the splotches of ink from
a fervent research session.

She sighed forlornly as she examined the blue frock in the looking glass, embroidered with
intricate and beautiful stars. It was stunning, of course. But Hermione didn’t quite feel like
herself.

“Do you think I could wear my leather boots under this?” Hermione asked Ginny.

Her friend laughed. “Mum would spot it right away.”

“These slippers are useless against the cold!” Hermione complained, pulling on the blue silk
shoes that offered no support.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Don’t you remember? Us women are supposed to be indoor
ornaments, confined to the house. Why in Merlin would the weather matter?” It was a dreary
statement, but tragically true.

They were about to return to the sitting room when an owl pecked on Ginny’s window
carrying a wrapped bundle of flowers.

“If these are from Longbottom, you tell no one ,” Ginny threatened as she opened her
window and retrieved the parcel. Hermione mimed sewing her lips shut.

Ginny gave the handsome owl a pet for its trouble and glanced at the attached card before her
mouth broke into a grin. “They’re for you.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “What? But I barely danced with anyone! And you saw what that
insipid woman wrote! She accused me of shacking up with Harry and assaulting
McLaggan!”
Ginny handed the flowers and card over. “You did assault McLaggan, but he absolutely
deserved it.”

Hermione ripped open the card.

My deepest apologies for our misunderstanding.

You are a Lady of high moral character and above reproach,

I shall remember that in the future.

Yours,

Cormac McLaggan

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Hermione whined, offering the card to Ginny before she could ask
for it.

Ginny’s eyebrows raised. “Well, at least he knows he was a twit. Hopefully, now he’ll leave
you alone… and ease up on the fairy wine.” Hermione vanished the flowers and stuffed the
card in her trunk.

“Flowers don’t usually mean that someone will leave you alone,” Hermione said darkly.

Ginny tilted her head. “True… do you think he sees you as a challenge? That could be quite
vexing.”

“Whatever he sees, it won’t be my hand in marriage. That I can assure you.”

Ginny nodded sympathetically. “Best hope a new suitor courts you today then.”

A new suitor did not court Hermione that day.

Nor the day after that.

Hermione spent several listless afternoons trapped in the Weasley’s sitting room with a book
perched in her lap while she watched the clock.

The monotony was broken only by Neville Longbottom arriving to promenade with Ginny
one afternoon, which she returned from in an agitated mood. (“Do you think men even want
to hear us speak? Or do they merely want an audience for their inane fixations? I can tell you
far too much about Gillyweed now.”)

By the following evening, Hermione was ready to admit that Lady Bletherson may have one
worthy point: she needed to show her more sweet, docile side in public to attract a willing
partner. She vowed to do so at their next function– the Pucey’s ball.

Mrs. Weasley continued to educate Hermione on the available wizards and needle Ginny into
showing more enthusiasm for Longbottom’s suit. By the time the next evening rolled around,
Hermione’s mind was swimming with family lineages, titles, and more interestingly for her–
wizard’s occupations. She was, as it was, looking for a marriage of mutual gain and career
advancement.

That evening Hermione pulled on an emerald green gown and let Ginny enchant her hair into
a complicated up-do with small glittering stones placed throughout. Mrs. Weasley had
insisted Ginny wear an orange dress to “enhance” the unique shade of her hair.

“At least I won’t be attracting anyone new,” Ginny mumbled under her breath to Hermione as
they prepared to Apparate. Harry was not attending this function, so his carriage was not at
their disposal. Fred also had decided to sit out this event, citing a headache.

“Hopefully I will,” Hermione countered.

Ginny grabbed her hand tightly and smiled at her friend. “Mione, anyone would be lucky to
have you.”

Honey instead of vinegar, Hermione found herself thinking before turning on the spot and
Disapparating.

Lady Bletherson’s most recent article enraged Draco.

“ Our most eligible bachelor, the Duke of Wiltshire, kept himself above the fray of drama by
dancing with a gaggle of well-bred Pureblood witches. While I hate to seem boisterous, may I
be the first to point out I was correct in my assumption of where Lord Malfoy’s interests lay?”

Draco truly did not believe in blood supremacy; it was brainwashing forced on him as a child
and a justification for some wizards to feel superior to others. However, it was how he was
raised– he spent his childhood playing with other Pureblooded children, forming Pureblooded
connections, and dancing in Pureblood ballrooms. Could he be faulted for gravitating toward
the familiar?

Lady Bletherson thought so.

With that in mind, Draco resolved to dance exclusively with witches he never had before at
this evening’s ball, of any and all blood status. Let the damned witch write an article about
that .

Although, he should be glad that he had not been shamed as Hermione Granger or Pansy in
the gossip column. Pansy was tough, and would probably delight in the silly nickname
bestowed upon her. However, knowing what a cad McLaggan was, Draco felt pity for
Granger–and that being her first event in Wizarding Society. How welcoming , he thought
dully.

Narcissa had stayed in bed this evening rather than attend, still recovering from the effort
hosting the Opening Ball. Still, she had managed to see Draco off in the foyer and fix his
cravat.

Luckily, men didn’t require chaperones.

The Pucey’s estate was handsome, but nowhere near as expansive as Malfoy Manor. Draco
had visited it numerous times throughout his childhood, running down the hallways with
other Pureblooded children his age.

He avoided entering the main ballroom and hung in the corner of the foyer, delaying the
inevitable bevvy of eligible witches waiting to unsubtly drop their dance cards in his hand.
With his resolution to dance with witches outside of his normal circle, he did not look
forward to the withering glances from the Pureblood mamas as he turned their daughters
down.

He held a flute of champagne, taking slow methodical sips as he watched each entering party.
Draco heard the Weasleys before he saw them– Lady Weasley’s laugh was raucous, slipping
through the front door’s cracks before one of the twins peeled it open for her.

Lady Weasley’s apparel was garish again, this time a tall beehive of her slightly greying
ginger hair was perched on her head with small yellow butterflies clipped amongst the
tresses, and an orange-red gown pulled tightly around her body.

Behind her, the smallest Weasley didn’t look any better in an orange gown, and next to her,
Draco was dismayed to find, was her elder brother, Ron Weasley. Their gazes connected and
the Gryffindor’s face twisted into an ugly smirk.

While Draco offered Harry respect for his part in the war and efforts to keep him and his
mother out of Azkaban, he extended no such courtesy to Ron Weasley. Once he learned that
Weasley left Harry and Hermione during their time searching for Voldemort’s Horcruxes, any
small modicum of respect Draco had for him vanished.

The final nail in the coffin was their capture at Malfoy Manor. Sure, Weasley had screamed in
the basement for Hermione, but he did nothing to save her from Bellatrix’s knife. What was a
Gryffindor without loyalty? Without bravery?

After the war, while Potter toiled in the Auror department, Weasley travelled and gambled
and played up his part in Voldemort’s demise; it disgusted Draco.

Draco was arrested from his thoughts when his eyes caught sight of Granger– if she looked
stunning at his own house, it didn’t hold a candle to her tonight. Maybe he was biased, but
her emerald green gown reminded him of his own bedroom colour scheme, modelled after
the Slytherin common room, and it lit something warm in his chest.
Her tight curls were sprinkled with emeralds that caught the light, and her arms were encased
in black silk gloves. Suddenly, Draco would give anything to run his bare fingers over them.
Her brown neck was bare and elegant, with green earrings dangling by its side.

Draco did not know if the Earth shifted underneath him, or if time stood still, but either way,
he was lost in a way he had never been before looking at Hermione Granger in that moment.

Then, a blinding agony ripped through his left forearm so sharp he dropped his glass and
gripped his arm tightly, screwing his eyes shut.

He had become accustomed to his Dark Mark burning when he entertained muggle-born
witches, as Lord Voldemort’s (and his father’s) evil hatred for muggles and muggle-borns
lingered in the very fabric of the curse that could not be removed from his skin. But usually,
Draco was preoccupied with other physical activities at the time that distracted from the
mark’s burn.

Within five seconds, Draco raised his Occlumency shields to block the pain– something he
hadn’t needed to do since the War. But the damage was already done. Half of the room
looked over at him in concern, while the others engaged in whispered conversation behind
gloved hands or fans.

Astoria Greengrass rushed out of the receiving line over to him; they had danced together the
previous week. “Are you quite alright, Lord Malfoy?” She hovered, concern leaching out of
her pores.

“Quite alright, just a momentary muscle spasm. Must have been too rough on the quidditch
pitch with Lord Nott.” The lie flowed easily off Draco’s tongue, and Astoria’s eyes softened
with relief.

“It can be quite a dangerous sport, I’ve heard!” She exclaimed prettily.

Draco took out his wand and vanished the mess of sticky champagne and glass on the floor.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. “May I escort you into the ballroom, Miss
Greengrass?”

Her smile was genuine. “I would be delighted.”

Draco knew he would have to dance with the woman, it was only proper. Astoria was pretty,
Pureblooded, and available; he should be thrilled. But he found himself irritated that he was
unable to hold up his promise to himself of expanding his social circle so soon into the
evening.

“What in Merlin do you think that was about?” Ginny whispered to Hermione as they made
their way into the main ballroom after witnessing Draco Malfoy shatter a champagne glass in
the foyer.

“I have no idea,” Hermione answered truthfully. She thought she noticed Malfoy’s face in
pain the second before he bent double, but knew her curiosity in the matter would never be
sated so it was pointless for her to ruminate.

The Pucey’s ballroom was grand but smaller than the Malfoy’s. The event colours were warm
white and light purple, with fake clouds floating above the dance floor and purple flowers in
the center of each table. Although the effect was beautiful, Hermione couldn’t keep herself
from wondering how much of this opulence was immediately discarded after the event.
Couldn’t that money be used in a way to better wizarding society?

The pair stood off to the side of the dance floor and watched various couples take to the floor
for the opening song, including Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass.

Malfoy’s features had sharpened since leaving Hogwarts. He had reached his full imposing
height, several inches over six feet tall and his shoulders had become more broad. Any
lingering roundness from youth had disappeared from his face, leaving behind an angular jaw
and aristocratic chin that were striking. Hermione noted that his white-blond hair was styled
more loosely than it used to be, and unfortunately, it made him look attractive.

Hermione mentally baulked at herself. Draco Malfoy? The bully who called her slurs
throughout her childhood? The man she had punched in the face at 13? The elitist prick? The
one who listened to her screams as Bellatrix–

Hermione stopped herself from going down that particularly upsetting thought path and also
knew her assessment wasn’t completely fair. Malfoy had also refused to kill Dumbledore.
Refused to identify them at his Manor. Left the Battle of Hogwarts before causing harm to
anyone.

He was an infuriatingly complex case of morality that Hermione’s brain desperately wanted
to sort: good or bad. Lamentably, life post-war was not so simple. People couldn’t be all evil
or all heroes; it was a concept Hermione struggled with.

“Is that… Dean Thomas? From your year?” Ginny whispered urgently to Hermione, and she
was happy for the distraction.

Hermione took in the handsome man walking toward them with purpose. “Yes, it is.”

“Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, hello,” He greeted amiably. The two witches curtseyed in
unison and Dean Thomas waved them off. “Oh, none of that. Schoolmates shouldn’t have to
curtsey to one another.”

“Lord Thomas, it’s lovely to see you again,” Ginny responded with a genuine smile.
Hermione caught her friend’s look of lingering interest over Dean’s figure and vowed to be as
invisible as possible.

“And you, Miss Weasley. I’ve actually been following your Quidditch career,” he admitted as
a high blush rose up his dark cheeks.
Ginny’s face transformed into beaming delight; it was a sight to behold, Hermione thought.
And by Dean’s face, Hermione privately thought he must agree with her. “Have you? I’m
flattered! We barely get any press coverage in the women's league.”

“It’s a shame,” Dean said seriously. “You lot are more talented than most of the men’s teams
with their weekly columns.”

“You played at Hogwarts, correct?” Ginny asked, stepping closer to Dean.

Hermione was well and truly forgotten, and she didn’t mind in the slightest. She slowly
inched herself away from the couple to retreat to the refreshment table. Naturally, Ron was
there with an overflowing plate of sweets.

“Oi, why do you think they make these plates so small?” Ron asked Hermione once she was
within earshot.

“Because you’re supposed to eat one thing at a time, Ronald.” Hermione stopped herself
from rolling her eyes, but Merlin it was tempting.

He ignored her remark. “Have you found a husband yet?”

This time, Hermione did roll her eyes. “No, Ron. It’s only my second ball.”

“You know who’s looking quite fit? Lavender Brown. I think I might ask her to dance,” Ron
said smugly.

“You do realize you’ll have to put down your dessert plate to take her hand, right?” Hermione
quipped.

Ron shoved one more small cake in his mouth and swung back a glass of champagne. “A fair
trade,” he exclaimed jovially before taking off in Lavender's direction.

Of course, Ron would be attracted to the most insipid woman Hermione knew. Lavender,
along with most of the witches in their year, had left Hogwarts after their OWLs. Most
parents thought it unseemly for their daughters to have above an ordinary wizarding level of
education. Elite, Pureblood girls were often enrolled in finishing schools to learn how to
become the mistresses of old magical estates.

Hermione was the only female student to return to Hogwarts after the war and complete her
NEWTs.

It wasn’t Lavender's lack of education that Hermione disagreed with, but her innate
personality traits. Lavender was a devout Divinitationist, and put stake in the positions of the
stars over facts or logic; Hermione couldn’t be more her opposite. Within a minute, Ron was
guiding the blonde to the dance floor.

Without Ginny and Ron, Hermione felt quite alone. She took a moment to absorb the scene
before her, couples spinning and laughing on the dance floor. Older wizards and witches in
clusters, chatting animatedly. Was she the only one not having a delightful time?
Not for the first time, Hermione felt alienated from the world around her. As a muggle-born,
she never fully fit into Wizarding Society; as a witch, she never felt satisfied in the muggle
world. As an ambitious witch, she was the odd one out among her female peers; she was the
only one applying for full-time jobs. It seemed she was the only one dreaming of changing
the wizarding world rather than producing heirs and having elaborate daily teas.

And now… was she the only one who couldn’t attract a potential suitor? What if her plan
failed? What if no wizard wanted to be her husband?

The panic started rolling up her chest, constricting her heart tightly. Hermione merely needed
some fresh air, a moment to calm down without being on display to hundreds of others. She
retreated through a set of doors on the far side of the ballroom and was delighted they opened
to an empty hallway.

She leaned against the cold, stone wall and took deep breaths in and out, feeling the panic
slowly ebb from her torso. Hermione had become accustomed to these moments of anxiety
during the War and had done enough research on how to de-escalate herself.

“Did you get my flowers?”

Hermione’s eyes shot open, and there was Cormac McLaggan, holding open the ballroom
door and smirking at her. While Hermione’s panic flattened, her stomach dropped.

She could not be caught unchaperoned with McLaggan.

She instantly stood up and brushed imaginary dirt off her green gown. “Yes, my Lord. It was
a beautiful bouquet, thank you.” Hermione started walking and aimed to slide under his arm
and re-enter the ballroom.

McLaggan moved and blocked her entrance. “I expected an owl back,” he said in a low
voice.

A flash of irritation sparked in Hermione’s veins. Honey not vinegar , she reminded herself.
“I apologize, my Lord. I am still adapting to Society's customs. Now I would like to rejoin
the festivities.” Hermione took a step around his body in the opposite direction to slip
through that open crack, but he moved again.

To her deeper anger, he shut the door behind him leaving the two of them alone in the dimly
lit hallway.

No.

To hell with honey, vinegar it was.

“This isn’t proper,” Hermione said bluntly. “I request you let me pass and return to the
party.”

McLaggan’s smarmy grin stayed firmly in place. “Of course, in just a moment. I didn’t want
prying ears.”
Hermione’s heart started dancing quickly against her ribs. McLaggan was truly refusing to let
her leave.

He took another step forward and Hermione retreated one back. He noticed her movement
and grinned more. “I have found myself to be quite fascinated by you, Miss Granger. I know
I behaved badly at the Malfoy ball, and I am sorely sorry. But I think I have the power to…
persuade you to explore our attraction further.” Cormac licked his bottom lip and took
another large step toward her.

Hermione was nauseous and the adrenaline of being cornered pushed her nervous system into
fight or flight.

Cormac grabbed her upper arms and took another step forward; her chest was brushing
against his now. Before she could comprehend what she was doing, Hermione freed her left
arm and punched Cormac McLaggan cleanly in his nose.

After his dance with Astoria, Lady Greengrass cornered Draco and struck up an energetic, yet
exhausting conversation. Despite his best efforts, Draco’s eyes wandered over the older
witch’s head and caught the flash of Hermione Granger’s green dress exiting the back of the
ballroom.

What in Merlin’s name was she doing?

Before he could contemplate Granger’s motives for wandering an estate alone and
unchaperoned, he saw something that made his jaw tense: Cormac McLaggan following her.

The scum looked over his shoulder before opening the door, checking to see if anyone was on
to his lurking. Draco recalled what Pansy had said at his ball: “Did you know he’s the reason
Hannah Abbot had to spend the entire last year in Italy? He was found unchaperoned with
her and refused marriage; they sent her to some distant aunt until the rumours died down.”

Once he saw McLaggan slide the door close he made a hasty apology to Lady Greengrass
and moved quickly, taking care to keep his face neutral. Granger may be an insufferable swot,
but she didn’t deserve the humiliation she would receive if she was caught with McLaggan.

Draco opened the door as quietly as he could, just in time to witness Hermione Granger
punch the arrogant ass in the face. He couldn’t help it, his jaw fell open and he stood frozen
for several seconds.

McLaggan doubled over, clutching his nose with both hands. “You bitch!” He muttered
angrily.

The insult spurred Draco to action. He stepped forward and seized the shorter wizard’s
shoulders, pushing him against the wall. McLaggan’s eyes widened and his hands fell away,
revealing his bleeding nose.

“Apologize,” Draco hissed.

“The bitch hit me,” McLaggan spat.

Draco’s usually concealed temper flared. With a quick movement, his wand was at
McLaggan’s throat. “I can only imagine that she wouldn’t do so without good reason.” I
certainly deserved it in my third year, Draco thought.

McLaggan’s eyes flickered over Draco’s shoulder to where Hermione was standing. “My
apologies, Hermione ,” McLaggan said in a dark, low tone clearly using her first name as an
insult rather than her proper title.

Draco quickly weighed the risks of a further altercation against the benefits of punishing
McLaggan. But then, the git opened his mouth again. “Who knew you had so many male
friends willing to jump to your aid, huh? Did you sleep your way through the Slytherin house
as well as Gryffindor?”

Draco saw red. “ Furnunculus .” He watched the curse turn McLaggan’s face into a mess of
painful boils with satisfaction. Cormac started whimpering and Draco let him go, the wizard
dropping to the floor.

Draco spoke with a barely leashed fury, his voice deep and full of gravel. “If you look in her
direction again, or at any other eligible witch, I will hex pieces of your body off that no
mediwitch will be able to grow back.”

McLaggan ignored Draco, reaching into his cloak for his wand. Draco stooped down to the
floor to grab him by the front of the robes and held him an inch away from his face. “Am I
understood?”

Cormac’s light eyes widened and he held up both empty hands. “ Yes! Merlin, yes! She’s not
worth the bleeding trouble.”

Draco shook him once. “You are going to leave this ball, speak not a word to anyone about
this, and you will not attend another event this season.”

Cormac nodded furiously and Draco finally released him. “Find the tapestry at the end of this
hallway on the left, there’s a servant’s staircase leading to the grounds. Leave now.”
McLaggan scrambled to his feet and took off quickly, clutching his boiled and bloody face as
he did.

Draco took a deep breath and finally turned to look at Hermione Granger for the first time
since entering the hallway.

Her eyes were large circles of shock and her open mouth was concealed behind a black-
gloved hand. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and Draco’s anger popped like a balloon.
He lowered his voice to a gentle whisper. “Are you all right?”
The question was followed by another burning stab of pain through his Dark Mark; at least
this time he was prepared. Draco clenched his jaw and refused to give voice to the pain.

He also realized these were the first words he had spoken directly to Hermione Granger in
nearly six years.

Hermione closed her mouth and wiped her hand under her watering eyes. “I may have injured
my hand, but yes. I’m all right.”

Draco moved toward her instinctively and she took hasty steps backwards, running into the
wall. Draco held up his hands in surrender and shuffled back several steps. “I was only trying
to heal you. It’s your wand hand, isn’t it?”

Her brown eyes searched his face, looking for any sign of trickery, and given their history
he couldn’t blame her. “Why are you helping me?” She asked in a small voice that was more
vulnerable than Draco heard his entire six years at Hogwarts; it made his chest ache in a
surprising way. He suddenly felt like he let McLaggan off far too easily.

"His behaviour is inexcusable. No witch at a Society event should be made to feel unsafe,”
Draco responded truthfully but knew in his gut that wasn’t the complete answer. His Dark
Mark pulsed in pain under his robes.

Hermione seemed to accept this and responded to his earlier question. “It is my wand hand.”

“May I?” He asked, gesturing to her arm.

She took a deep breath and then swallowed. Draco walked slowly toward her, not wanting to
startle her again. When he was within arms reach, Draco gently took her gloved hand and
started to pinch the tip of her fingers to remove it. The motion was surprisingly sensual, and
Draco was taken aback once more by her beauty. The green gems in her hair glinted with the
dancing fire from the small hallway torches.

The pain in his left arm continued to increase.

“No!” Hermione said suddenly. Draco dropped her arm immediately. “Sorry! I mean, I’d
prefer to keep my glove on.”

Draco remembered– her left forearm. The one his Aunt carved into. He nodded and gently
grabbed the hand again. “Not a problem.”

For a long moment, Draco forgot what he was supposed to be doing. His throbbing Dark
Mark was irrelevant; he could feel her warmth through the glove and was overwhelmed by
her scent– something clean and fresh, reminding him of the sea.

Hermione glanced up at him and their eyes met– Draco didn’t think he had ever looked her
properly in the eyes before. Surely if he had, he would have remembered the lightning that
shot through his veins. He never had such a visceral reaction to a woman before.

He couldn’t tell if she was similarly afflicted, but she took another large breath that heaved
her breasts against the low cut of her dress and he couldn’t help but take another step closer.
They were too close now. If anyone walked in, he would have to marry Granger on the spot,
and yet… it seemed worth it for this chance to breathe her in, to be lost in her amber eyes.

“My hand,” she whispered in a soft voice that Draco wanted to hear whisper all sorts of
improper things to him.

Without looking away, he raised his right arm and said, “ Episkey .”

The pain must have subsided, because Hermione sighed a breath of relief. Unfortunately, it
triggered the idea in Draco’s mind that he could make her sigh in other ways–

Hermione pulled her hand gently out of his. “Thank you.”

Draco shook his head lightly to clear the fog her presence created and stepped backwards.
“Of course.”

The relief in his mark was immediate; the pain dulled to a low ache. They stared at one
another for a minute, neither of them able to break the spell of eye contact or find anything
more interesting to say than what was being non-verbally communicated between them.

“Dance with me?” Draco said.

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Here?”

Draco smirked. “I was thinking of the ballroom.”

Hermione smiled back, and it was damn beautiful. “That makes more sense. We can’t be seen
going in together.”

Draco nodded in agreement. “You enter this door and I’ll take another passage around. I grew
up visiting here as a child, I know all the corridors.”

Neither of them moved.

Salazar, he wanted to stalk forward like a predator to prey and push his mouth against hers.
Where had this come from? He had always been fascinated with her at school, but never in
this context. Something had morphed and changed as they both grew into adults. Hatred to
lust, annoyance to infatuation– he couldn’t tell.

“I’ll see you in a moment,” Hermione finally said and slipped through the door back into the
ballroom, her green dress swishing behind her.

Pull yourself together, Draco, he chided. He had been with gorgeous women all across the
continent and hadn’t acted like such an enamoured school boy.

Hermione Granger was not a real option, he reminded himself sternly before walking
through the hallways to reenter the room through the front door. By the time he was back to
the dance floor, his face was the usual mask of bored indifference. His Dark Mark faded into
painless oblivion.
He spotted Hermione on the floor’s opposite side and walked around its perimeter to reach
her. He had to ask her to dance now, he already propositioned her. It wouldn’t be proper to
leave her without a partner, even if no one would know.

Draco was all polish and charm. “Would you care to dance, Miss Granger?”

Hermione must have undergone a similar transformation to his own, as her smile was bright
but didn’t reach her eyes. “I’d be delighted, Your Grace.”

Funny how he hated his title on the lips of anyone but her. On her lips? It sounded like a
promise and endearment. Draco offered her his arm and led Hermione to the floor. He pulled
her into a perfect dance form and gently started leading her in the prescribed steps.

If Draco thought touching one of Hermione’s gloved hands was distracting, it was infinitely
worse with his hand on her waist–he nearly groaned out loud. He had to lead his thoughts
away from how easily he could pull Hermione to him or else he’d do something highly
improper and embarrassing like pull Hermione against him in a ballroom full of people .

“Why are you attending these events, Miss Granger?” Draco asked the first question he
thought of, but kept his eyes fixed above Hermione’s eyeline to avoid falling into another
trance in their honey glow. With that thought, his Dark Mark gave another painful pulse
under his left sleeve and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise of
surprise.

Hermione swallowed before deciding to reply honestly. “I’m seeking a husband.” Draco’s
grey eyes snapped down to her, never breaking his strong lead in their dance. She cleared her
throat and averted her own eyes. “I want to be employed and make contributions to society.
I’ve found that to be a difficult task while unwed.”

Her reasoning made sense. Hermione Granger looking for love? Unlikely. Hermione Granger
seeking a practical partnership? Believable.

Draco spoke to distract himself from the now insistent throbbing on his forearm. “It’s your
hope that a husband would be well-connected and willing to let you work?”

“Rather than sit idly at home as an ornament?” Hermione said dryly. “Yes.”

He couldn’t blame Granger for doing the same thing he was–seeking a partner as a means to
an end. They could have been quite a perfect pairing on paper, had her lineage been different.
That last thought troubled him and made him feel a flicker of resentment for the traditions he
could not change.

Hermione spun away from him as the dance required, and for a brief moment his hand
brushed the bare inches between the end of her glove and the beginning of her gown; Draco
felt the now familiar warmth shoot through his fingertips. He had to admit it– she was
breathtaking and he was attracted to her.

But his Dark Mark was there to burn hotter to cut his pleasant thoughts short.
“I think we can help each other,” he found himself saying before truly deciding to.

Hermione arched an eyebrow and it only served to make her look more beguiling. “How in
Merlin could I be of assistance to you?”

The idea took hold quickly and flushed out behind Draco’s eyes, driven by a desperation for
more dances with her. “You need to be found… desirable to other wizards. I need to be seen
as more…” he floundered to find the right words.

Hermione’s calculating eyes lit up with understanding. “More accepting. Less of a

Pureblooded bigot?”

Draco scowled, forgetting for a moment her talent for vexing him. He had been blinded by
the pretty gemstones and green silk, but Hermione Granger, know-it-all swot, still lay
underneath the finery. As he thought unflattering thoughts about her, his mark dulled in its
pain. “I wouldn’t quite phrase it that way.”

“Lady Bletherson might,” Hermione chided, a small smile pulling up the corners of her
mouth.

“Yes, that’s the problem.” Draco countered. “I don’t want a future wife to think I uphold
those ancient values.”

Hermione squinted her eyes. “That’s partially true, but why are you seeking a wife? I told
you why I want a husband. If we’re to scheme together, you at least owe me that.”

It was terribly uncouth to talk about fortunes in public, but Granger was right; he owed her
the truth in return for hers. Although, for some unnamable reason Draco found he couldn’t
look into Hermione’s eyes as he whispered out his confession. “I must marry before my 25th
birthday to inherit my estate. It’s a common provision in many inheritances, but I was
unaware of it until recently. I turn 25 in less than four months time.”

Hermione turned Draco’s comments over in her mind while walking in a circle around him,
following the dance’s steps. “What exactly are you proposing?” she asked cautiously when
returning to his arms.

He wasn’t sure if it was the Slytherin or Malfoy in him, but the plan was ready on his tongue.
“A false courtship. I court you publicly, and other wizards will see you in a desirable light.
Lady Bletherson will halt her Pureblood commentary about me, and I’ll be able to search for
a wife without half of the Sacred Twenty-Eight breathing down my neck. In addition, I’m
happy to arrange a meeting with my ministry and business connections for proper
introductions.”

This Draco was comfortable with: facts. Logic. An agreement, where both parties benefited.

Another song started and Hermione did not move to step out of Draco’s arms… a good sign?
They dutifully began the next dance, a much slower waltz. Draco’s hand flexed around
Hermione’s waist and he pulled her in closer.
Hermione could smell the spice of his cologne, something slightly woodsy and old… like
parchment from the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. The scent oddly suited him and
his antiquated existence in this formal, strict sector of the Wizarding World.

She shook her head slightly as if to remove the smell from her brain and returned to the
matter at hand. “Would people truly believe you’re courting me? A muggle-born?”

Draco’s gaze snapped to Hermione’s face intensely, searching it. “I will make them believe,”
he said with such conviction that Hermione found it impossible to argue.

“How do you plan to do that?” Hermione asked, annoyed to find her voice sounded quite
breathless.

“Leave that to me,” Draco said, a smirk taking over his face that Hermione had never seen at
Hogwarts; it was charming and dangerous at the same time. A flush crawled up her neck and
sat beneath the dense twist of curls at the nape of her neck.

Their swaying steps did not provide any respite from each other’s heated gaze, each of them
slightly flushed with the exhilaration of what they were proposing.

“I have one question before I agree,” Hermione said as the band began the final verse of
music. “Tell me, Malfoy. Would you ever truly marry a witch who wasn’t Pureblooded?”

The question was an important one– Hermione needed assurance that their agreement would
be strictly professional. Being the recipient of Malfoy’s smirks would be fun, but she didn’t
want messy emotional entanglements that would jeopardize the life she truly yearned for
herself.

Draco felt a stab of hurt at the question, not from his Dark Mark, but from his pride. Did this
offer not show how willing he was to be with witches from any blood lineage? Did Granger
still think him unchanged from their time at school? But the question wasn’t unfounded,
because in reality… he could not marry whoever he wanted.

He didn’t let any of his thoughts shine behind his eyes as he delivered his answer. “For my
mother’s sake, no. I would not. Even though a witch’s blood status is inconsequential to me.”

It was Draco’s most bare truth; duty, honour, and his mother’s expectations kept him from
breaking the final tether to his lineage and marrying anyone outside of her approval. He
thought of her wan form laying in bed, fragile and delicate. If Draco could bring her
happiness in this life, he would, even if it meant limiting his own.

Hermione’s warm eyes inspected his face for any sign of falsehood but found none. His
demeanour was back to steely and unruffled, the Draco that Hermione recognized filling back
in quietly. Her better judgment was screaming at her to deny his offer and bow out while she
still could– when had trusting a Slytherin ever gone well for a rash Gryffindor?

But it was precisely her brave, slightly impulsive nature that made her return his smile. “Well
then. Let’s cause a commotion, shall we?”
Chapter End Notes

Thank you so much for kudos, reads and comments! I'm so excited it's Bridgerton
season 3 this week that I may be able to squeeze in a bonus update :)
 Not My Will
Chapter Summary

Draco and Hermione promenade with an unwilling chaperone.

Chapter Notes

In honour of Bridgerton Season 3 (part 1) being posted today, here's a bonus update!

My poverty, but not my will, consents.

-5.2, Romeo & Juliet

2 9nd February, 1812

Dearest Reader,

Our season is in full swing with multiple balls happening each weekend– my dear, how shall I
be expected to juggle them all?

Rest assured, Lady Bletherson sees and knows everything.

Whether you found yourself at the Pucey’s Annual Ball, the smaller more intellectual
gathering at the Princes, or tragically without invitation to either, this author has reports
from both.

I would be remiss to not immediately address the Duke on everyone’s mind. Lord Malfoy was
seen opening the Pucey’s Ball with Miss Astoria Greengrass, making this his second event in
a row on her arm. By all accounts, this author would paint Miss Greengrass to be the precise
mould for the Duchess of Wiltshire– stunning, polite, intelligent, and of course, Pureblooded.

You can then imagine my surprise when Lord Malfoy then took to the floor with none other
than the infamous war heroine, Miss Hermione Granger. The couple danced twice together,
and rather closely at that. While the pair is handsome to behold, Miss Hermione Granger is a
muggle-born activist; the antithesis of a Wizarding Society wife.
This author must then wonder, to what end are these two engaging in conversation? Is it a
mere reacquainting of old schoolmates? Reparations for the Duke’s former dark alliances?
An attraction sparked by Miss Granger’s sudden appearance into his elite circle? Whatever
the case may be, rest assured gentle readers, I will solve this mystery.

Hermione scanned the rest of Lady Bletherson’s gossip sheet for her or Malfoy’s names but
delightfully found neither. She silently thanked whatever powers that be that the witch hadn’t
been privy to her incident with Lord McLaggan.

“Did you see? You’re the first thing Lady Bletherson is talking about.” Ginny said over the
breakfast table, delightfully helping herself to the hot muffins on the table.

Mrs. Weasley was their only other company, Ron and the twins surely sleeping off their
indulgence from the night before. However, her exuberance over the topic of courtship made
up for the vacant seats. “Hermione, dear, I can’t believe you have snared the attention of a
Duke, at only your second ball!”

“It’s Malfoy ,” Ginny mumbled under breath.

Mrs. Weasley glared at her youngest. “Now hush, we all know the Malfoys have been…”

“Evil?” Ginny supplied.

“-- Unpleasant in the past,” Mrs. Weasley continued with no mind to Ginny’s interruption.
“But he and his mother have been quite instrumental in the war reconstruction. The Duke
even works in the Auror Department, on consult, mind you–”

“He what?” Hermione said sharply, dropping her toast directly onto her plate. Draco Malfoy?
Working? At the Auror’s Department?

Ginny looked equally shocked. “How has Harry never told us this?”

Mrs. Weasley tried to look regretful, but her delight in knowing information the two younger
witches did not was too powerful. “Oh, it is of the utmost secrecy, I only found out by
accidentally opening an owl meant for Harry when he stayed with us several summers ago–”

Ginny snorted at her mother’s use of the word ‘ accidentally ’ very sure that Mrs. Weasley
picking through the mail was anything but.

“The Duke, given his… unique background, works on helping the Auror Department with
more clandestine information on the dark wizards left in society. And in examining recovered
dark artifacts, if I remember correctly.” Mrs. Weasley took a satisfied sip of her pumpkin
juice.

Hermione’s mind was still reeling over the fact that Draco Malfoy, heir to a fortune she could
spend the rest of her mortal life counting, had decided to work rather than hedonistically
galavant across the continent. She had hundreds of questions buzzing through her mind but
was interrupted from asking a single one with a knock on the door.
The Weasley’s kitchen maid scuttled to the door to reveal Lord Thomas, clutching a bouquet
of rather gorgeous flowers.

Points for his promptness, Hermione noted seeing Mrs. Weasley’s unique clock chime ten
o’clock. The matron jumped out of her seat faster than Hermione had ever seen her move.

“Lord Thomas! What a fortunate surprise to see you here so early.” He bowed to Mrs.
Weasley and then immediately sought Ginny’s eyes over her shoulder.

Hermione chanced a look at her best friend and was pleased to see Ginny return Dean’s smile
with an undercurrent of delighted surprise.

Dean approached Ginny who stood from her spot at the breakfast table. “I was hoping I could
have the honour of escorting Miss Weasley about town this morning, under your careful eye,
of course, Lady Weasley.” Ginny took the flowers out of Dean’s hands.

“Oh! She would be absolutely delighted!” Mrs. Weasley cut in before her daughter could
answer.

Dean kept his eyes on Ginny. “Would you, Miss Weasley? Be delighted?”

Ginny nodded. “I think so.”

Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands together. “Go get your parasol and jacket, dear! We can’t
have that alabaster skin burning in the hot morning sun…”

Ginny laughed at something Dean said under his breath before bounding up the stairs. Dean
turned to Hermione still sitting at the dinner table and bowed. “Miss Granger, charming to
see you again.” Hermione stood and gave Dean a slight curtsey and he waved her away. “Do
not interrupt your breakfast on my account, please.”

Ginny returned before Hermione could formulate a response and the three left the Burrow in
a bustle of activity and chatter. The room fell entirely silent, and Hermione was left alone at
the breakfast table.

She started to chew her toast once more before a thought occurred to her: would Malfoy show
up at the Burrow? They had agreed to a false courtship the prior evening, but no specifics had
been decided.

“What in the bloody hell was all that commotion?” Ron asked, yawning as he made his way
down the last of the steps into the kitchen.

“The sound of your mother’s hope being restored,” Hermione quipped.

Ron looked confused before grabbing the closest pastry on the table and shoving it
unceremoniously in his mouth.

“Are you joining me?” Hermione asked, secretly hoping the answer would be no, just to
avoid any awkward commentary about her connection with Malfoy the previous night.
“No, actually. I’m going to the Browns to call on Lav.”

“Lav?” Hermione snorted. “You’re already on such familiar terms?”

Ron grabbed his dark red coat off the rack and started putting it on. “We all went to school
together, ‘Mione. Don’t act like she’s a stranger.”

“She didn’t finish school,” Hermione said lowly.

Ron glared at her while buttoning his jacket. “Not every witch wants to learn everything they
possibly can just for the sake of it.”

“Knowledge is everything, Ron!” Hermione scolded.

He rolled his eyes before putting on his hat and opening the door. “Keep telling yourself that.
Cheers.”

Hermione let out a grunt of frustration and buttered her next piece of toast with more force
than was necessary. Just as she was about to take a bite, there was another knock on the door.
Was she ever to get a moment’s peace?

“Hello,” she said angrily, pulling open the door.

Harry put his arms up, “What did I do?”

“Oh, sorry. Nothing. Come in,” Hermione stomped back to the table.

“Well, you seem to be having a lovely morning,” Harry said, a small smile in place to let her
know he was joking.

“Just Ron being irritating as usual,” Hermione explained as Harry sat opposite her.

“Where is he? I sent an owl yesterday, I was hoping to bring him ‘round the house and play
some Quidditch.”

“Oh, haven't you heard? He’s going to court Lavender Brown.”

Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Lavender Brown? Isn’t she a bit…”

“Vapid?” Hermione supplied.

“Er, yeah.” Harry agreed reluctantly.

Hermione took a sip of her tea. “I don’t think that’s at the top of Ron’s mind.”

“Clearly.” Harry agreed, then looked around at the empty parlour. “Where is everyone?”

“Well, the twins are still in Charlie’s room. Mrs. Weasley is chaperoning Ginny and her
suitor.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose over his spectacles. “Ginny has a suitor?”

“Dean Thomas, actually.”

Hermione watched her friend’s face blotch red and his green eyes narrow. “But... he’s my
mate! And Ginny… well. She’s a bit young for him, isn’t she?”

Hermione laughed. “Harry, she’s only a year younger than us! We’re all well into our
twenties, a perfectly reasonable time to look for marriage. I don’t know if she’s actually
seriously considering him, but Mrs. Weasley certainly hopes so.”

Another knock at the front door rang through the kitchen.

“I swear to Godric, if I can’t finish my breakfast–” Hermione grumbled.

“I’ve got it,” Harry said immediately, hopping up and answering the door. Whoever he saw
made him stop short.

“Malfoy,” Harry said stiffly.

Hermione heard Draco’s unmistakable deep voice. “Potter. Is Miss Granger in?”

“No,” Harry responded.

“Harry!” Hermione called out in chastisement.

Harry begrudgingly opened the door and gestured for Draco to enter. He had to stoop slightly
to fit through the crooked door frame, and when he straightened Hermione raked her gaze
over him. He was in a dark green outer coat, clutching a black hat in his hand. The slim lines
of his clothing drew attention to his height and the broad muscles in his shoulders. He had
become tragically handsome in the last six years.

Hermione stood and curtsied, “Your Grace.”

When she looked up again, Draco was smirking at her, grey eyes dancing in the early
daylight. He bowed formally. “Miss Granger.” He handed her a bouquet of exquisite light
pink roses surrounded by smaller white buds.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, taking the bunch of flowers and pressing them to her nose to smell
their sweet floral scent. “Are these–?”

“English roses. Or–”

“ Rosa Gentle Hermione ,” she finished quietly, overtaken by this simple moment of
thoughtfulness.

“My mum keeps robust greenhouses,” Draco muttered, a light pink gracing the tops of his
pale ears.

Hermione found herself to be unusually speechless. She thought of her own mother,
somewhere in Australia. Maybe she grew these exact rose bushes but didn’t remember why
she was drawn to them. Hermione’s heart squeezed painfully.
Draco cleared his throat. “Would you accompany me around town?”

It was fake. Draco was upholding their bargain, she knew that… but her heart still lifted
slightly. “Yes, I’ll just need a chaperone.” Hermione looked pointedly at Harry, who was still
standing in a shocked stupor by the door. “Harry? Can you act as a chaperone? Or I can go
ask one of the twins?”

“No,” he said suddenly, jerking out of whatever thoughts he was having. “I’ll do it.”

“Many thanks,” Draco said smoothly. “I’ll wait outside for you to fetch your things, Miss
Granger.” He bowed to them both in turn then ducked back out the door.

Hermione made her way to the kitchen to hand the flowers to the kitchen maid for them to go
in a vase and Harry gripped her arm as she walked by. “What the hell is going on?”

Hermione wrenched her arm free. “Draco and I danced last night, we have… an
understanding. And he’s here to court me. That’s it.” She smiled as she handed the roses over.

Harry sputtered and followed her to the coat rack. “Hermione! It’s Draco! His Aunt–”

Hermione turned around, feeling a little furious now. “I am quite aware of what his Aunt did
to me, Harry. I live with it every day. You were the one who spoke in his defence at his trial
and said you saw good in him. Was that true?”

Harry looked abashed, and nervously ran his hand through his unruly black hair. “I just don’t
understand this.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to stand five paces behind us.” Hermione sniffed.

When Hermione and Harry emerged from the lopsided burrow, Draco had to consciously
keep himself from smiling. Hermione was wearing a sensible woollen coat and thick
burgundy scarf and mittens, of course.

Other witches in her position would have brightly bejewelled jackets that did little to cut the
cold air either spelled to keep the wearer warm or hope that Draco would chivalrously offer
his own jacket at some point in their stroll.

But Hermione wasn’t other witches.

Draco held out his arm. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she didn’t say anything
before placing her arm through his. There was a small thrum of pain through his Dark Mark,
but Draco had prepared for the day by taking pain potions to cut its effect.

“Potter looks quite put out,” Draco leaned and whispered in Hermione’s ear, nodding back to
where Harry was standing.
Hermione rolled her eyes, “Don’t mind him. Where shall we go?”

“To be seen? Diagon Ally,” Draco responded simply. “Are you opposed to Apparition?”

“Why would I be?” Hermione asked.

Draco couldn’t contain his smile. “Some witches don’t appreciate the havoc it wreaks on
their hair.”

Hermione laughed. “There’s not much we can do to make it worse.”

While Draco would have once agreed, her unruly curls had certainly grown on him in the last
week. “Meet us at the Leaky Cauldron, Potter?” Draco called out behind them.

Harry grunted in affirmation before Draco grinned down at Hermione. “Hold on.” He turned
to face her and put his other hand on her free arm for good measure.

In one slow moment, the sun shone behind Draco’s white-blond hair and Hermione thought
he looked like a fallen angel with his pale countenance and black apparel. And what's more, it
felt good to be held by him, even from a slight distance and through many layers of fabric.

The pull of Apparition cleared Hermione’s mind thoroughly. After the uncomfortable
squeezing stopped, they were in front of the Leaky Cauldron, and Harry landed a moment
later.

“I thought we might walk for a while and then have tea at Rosa Lee’s?” Draco asked
Hermione. She nodded and realized this was her first date. Ever.

“Sounds good,” she affirmed. Even if it was a fake date, it was something.

The day was bright and chilly and the small streets of Diagon Alley were full of witches and
wizards bustling around. Several stopped to stare at the pair of them, or whispered rather
obviously to their friends.

The couple walked in silence for a few moments and Hermione strained her mind to find
something small to talk about, but that was her problem. She never enjoyed the small talk
aspect of socializing, she was much more interested in someone’s morals, principles, and
philosophies… those just didn’t bode well for courting conversation.

“The flowers were very… thoughtful. Thank you. I’m sure they’ll help sell our ruse of
courtship.” Hermione said finally.

Draco looked down at her. “Do you know I’ve never brought a witch flowers before?”

Hermione looked up at him in confusion. Maybe the rumours in Witch Weekly had been
greatly exaggerated? “Have you never courted anyone before?”

Draco let out a small laugh. “No, I’ve… courted … many women.” The way he said the word
sounded sinful coming out of his sideways smile.
“Then why no flowers?” Hermione asked, her brain trying to make sense of this puzzle.

Draco leaned closer to her ear and whispered, his hot breath tickling her sensitive flesh.
“Because if I were really courting you, I wouldn’t need flowers, only five minutes alone in a
drawing room.” He lingered for a moment before straightening and continuing to lead them
down the sidewalk as if nothing happened.

Did Hermione think the air was chilly?

She had been terribly mistaken.

Hot.

The air was hot.

Her scarf and gloves were suddenly flames around her flesh as all of her face blushed. No
man had said something so deliciously improper to her before, and Hermione was stuck
between being scandalized and mesmerized.

“No retort?” Draco jabbed, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his own pulse racing from saying
such a thing to Hermione Granger and being so close to her skin.

Hermione couldn’t let him know what his words did to her. “You aren’t half as shocking as
you think you are,” she deadpanned.

“I think the other passersby today find me quite shocking,” Draco muttered as another couple
pointed in their direction.

“I’ve heard something interesting,” Hermione said, desperate to change the topic. “That you
have been working for the Auror Department.”

Draco stopped walking for a moment and turned to her with a trace of urgency and fear in his
silver eyes. “Who told you that?”

“Oi, are we going to Rosa’s or not? It’s far too chilly to be milling about,” Harry complained
as he caught up to them.

“Of course,” Hermione said, turning to continue their walk. Draco’s tight grip on her arm let
her know their conversation was far from over. They made their way quickly and quietly to
the shop.

“I’ll nip into the pub next door,” Harry said. “I don’t fancy staring at you two all afternoon.”

Hermione laughed. “What about chaperoning?”

“Malfoy, do you plan to defile Hermione in a tea shop?” Harry asked blandly. Hermione
slapped Harry’s arm.

Draco’s mouth quirked in one corner. “No defilement.”

Harry nodded and with a grunt turned and entered the next-door tavern, leaving Hermione
and Draco. Malfoy opened the door for her and she was relieved to be in the warmth and
slightly cloying sweetness of the room.

A table in the less populated corner seemed to be Draco’s destination as he led them to it. He
took Hermione’s jacket from her shoulders and held out her chair. Objectively, Hermione
knew Draco had to have manners instilled from his Pureblood upbringing, but it was still
such a novelty for her to see them on display for her .

An older witch came over and set a teapot on their table along with a large selection of teas.
Hermione selected an Earl Gray and Draco took the same, never removing his calculating
eyes from her face.

Once the witch walked away, Draco leaned over the table. “How did you find out about my
employment, Granger?”

Hermione enjoyed stirring her customary sugar into her tea and then taking a long sip from
her cup before answering. “Mrs. Weasley apparently intercepted one of Harry’s owls several
summers ago and found out. She shared it with me this morning as she fawned over your
title.”

Draco shut his eyes and rubbed his temples as if this was very distressing news indeed. “She
is an incorrigible gossip.”

“Why are you so upset? It’s a good thing you’re doing, Malfoy. I was—”

“It’s a dangerous thing I’m doing,” Draco corrected in a low tone that made a shudder run up
Hermione’s spine. He looked around to make sure none of the other patrons had started
listening in.

Hermione slipped her wand out of her boot and cast a quick “ mufflato ” on the surrounding
tables before returning it and looking back at a surprised Draco.

Draco’s straight eyebrows were furrowed. “How the hell do you know that spell?”

Hermione dismissed him with a wave, “Long story, some other time. Continue.”

Draco continued to look at her with surprise but went on. “I am helping put dark wizards
behind bars with information that could only come from me, if that were to become well
known–”

“You would have a lot of enemies,” Hermione answered.

Draco nodded. “They could come after my mother, my friends. And now that we’ve been
seen publicly…”

“Me.” Hermione finished quietly.

“Precisely,” Draco took a long gulp of tea. Hermione tried to not follow the flex of muscles in
his neck as he did so, but…
“I’ll make sure the information doesn’t spread,” Hermione vowed, interrupting her own
thoughts. “I know it might be difficult to trust my word, but I’d rather not be targeted by dark
wizards.”

Draco’s face relaxed for the first time since they sat down and Hermione noticed how much
younger he looked when he wasn’t worrying. Silence hung in the air awkwardly for a minute.

“So tell me, Malfoy. Do you often start dates with chatter about mutually assured
destruction?”

He was slowly slipping back into his well-bred charm and winked at her. “Only the good
ones.”

Hermione hated how easy this was for him, his endless ease and grace. She felt awkward and
mousey in comparison. “You’re so good at this,” she said frustratedly. Draco raised his
eyebrows as if to ask, good at what?

Hermione brandished her hands around. “ This! Courting, talking to women, being
charming–”

“So you think I’m charming?” Draco interrupted, putting his chin on his hand. “Continue,”
he mocked her earlier remark.

“Ugh!” Hermione crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “Forget it.” Her frustration was
adorable, but Draco wouldn’t vocalize that opinion. He was too afraid of being hexed.

“I’m sure you’re also fine at it. Try a line on me.” Draco said, taking a sip of his tea.

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. “Um… would you like to see my rare manuscripts at my
apartment?”

Draco coughed, tea almost escaping his mouth. Her words brought up images he very much
did not want to picture (especially in public) involving pushing Granger’s hips against a shelf
of scrolls. “Well, Granger. That was direct. I don’t think it will get the result you’re after, but
it will most certainly get any bloke with eyes interested.”

Hermione buried her face into her hands. “See! I can’t do this. Honestly, we should call the
deal off now–”

Her frustration was strangely endearing. “Woah, steady. That was your first attempt. I’m sure
your inner swot hates not getting something perfect on the first try–”

“Not true,” Hermione fumed.

“--But some things take practice. We have plenty of balls or other inane Society events to
catch you a dull, well-connected husband. Fret not.” Draco said the words, but honestly, he
was having much more fun chatting with Hermione Granger than he expected and wasn’t in a
hurry for their arrangement to come to an end. “What career are you after, anyway?”
Hermione brightened at his question. “Honestly, any work at this point would be welcome. I
love Ancient Runes, so curse developing or breaking would be fascinating. Or translating
work. Then naturally I could make changes in Muggle-born relations in the Ministry, but
they’ve rejected all my applications. Access to a potions or charm lab would be ideal, I have
some fascinating ideas–”

A foreign warmth flooded Darco’s chest watching Hermione Granger animatedly talk about
her ambitions and passions. She was so… alive; rouge curls moving as she spoke with her
hands, her smile reaching her chocolate eyes. His Dark Mark, which had been only a low
throb of pain up until now, started burning hotter cutting through the barriers of the pain
potion.

“--so really I’m open to plenty of possibilities.” she finished breathlessly.

“That leaves us many options,” Draco said, keeping his smile tame. When had he last smiled
so much in one day?

Hermione had never realized how crystal clear the grey of Draco’s eyes were before now;
like stone sparkling in sunshine. She shook herself slightly. “Yes, plenty of them. What about
you? Did you see Lady Bletherson’s column today? She doesn’t quite believe our ruse.”

Draco’s face darkened slightly at the author’s name. “I saw it. I’d have quite a lot to say to
that witch if she didn’t hide behind a pen. That reminds me…” he reached his long fingers
into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, black leather notebook. He put the
object on the table and slid it across to Hermione.

She picked up the object curiously. “Thank… you?”

“It’s enchanted,” Draco explained. “More convenient than an owl or floo, you can write in
there and it’ll show up in my matching one.” He tapped his jacket pocket again, where she
assumed he must keep it. “We can coordinate our efforts this way, learn things that will help
sell our facade.”

“If you’re trying to slip me a part of Voldemort’s soul in a diary…” Hermione trailed off,
grinning.

Draco’s grin split wider than it had all day. “My gods, Granger. Was that a joke?”

“Thought I would try it out.”

“There may be hope for you after all,” Draco teased. “But I swear, no Horcruxes. Just a bit of
finicky spellwork that took me ages.”

“You enchanted it?” Hermione said with surprise.

“Your astonishment wounds me. I did return to get my NEWTs as well if you remember.”
Draco pointed out. He was right; they were part of a small group of “seventh” years to return
after the Battle of Hogwarts and took most of the same classes. However, Hermione had been
so absorbed in her unprecedented course load that she barely remembered how well he fared.
“I’ll wait to be impressed until I use it,” Hermione decided, pocketing the small book.

Draco laughed. Actually laughed, and Hermione thought it was a lovely sound– deep and
rich, filling the space around them. “Too right.”

“Do you think we’ve been seen by enough people?” Hermione asked after several silent,
pleasant moments looking at one another.

“Most likely. Shall we put Potter out of his misery?” Draco asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “After all the things I’ve done for him, Harry can wait as long as
we please.” Despite this declaration, she stood up and Draco jumped to hold her jacket out
for her to put it on. He put plenty of coins on the table and finished the last sip of his tea.

Hermione led the way out of the shop so quickly Draco couldn’t jump in front of her to open
the door; she had always walked as if she was in a rush to do something.

“Granger, you have to let me be chivalrous.” Malfoy chided, putting his hand on top of hers
on the handle of the pub’s door.

She snatched her hand away as if burned. “Oh! I’ll make a note of that,” she said earnestly, a
blush colouring her brown cheeks.

Harry was the only one at the bartop, which made sense as it was barely past lunchtime. As
Hermione approached she saw two drained glasses. She instantly grew concerned; Harry
hadn’t drank much at all since right after the war.

“Harry! What on Earth are you doing?” She scolded, walking over to him. Draco followed
but remained several paces behind, knowing this level of intimacy between friends did not
include him.

“Trying to forget that my mate is out with Ginny and my best friend is next door with a
Slytherin,” Harry slurred slightly, sounding utterly foxed.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Harry. If you’re interested in Ginny you could court her yourself, you
know!” Hermione said, pushing the empty glasses away from Harry.

His face turned bright red and Harry adjusted his glasses. “Why would I–?”

Hermione tutted before sitting in the seat next to him. “Please. Just because Ron is oblivious
doesn’t mean I am. And why does it concern you who I’m out with? I’m a grown woman.”

Harry’s slightly unsteady gaze turned to look at Malfoy and Draco met it with a steady look.
“He could get you hurt.”

Malfoy knew Harry was referring to his work with the Auror Department. Harry was the
Assistant Head of the department for Merlin’s sake, he was one of the few who knew what
Malfoy did. “That won’t happen.” He said seriously to Harry, and he meant it.
“He saved me from McLaggan,” Hermione cut in. Malfoy furrowed his brow and looked at
her profile, serious and standing up for him to the wizarding world’s saviour.

Harry’s head spun on a swivel to glance at Draco, suddenly sobering up. “McLaggan? Did
he–”

Hermione put her hand on Harry’s upper arm causing him to turn back to face her. “He was at
the Pucey’s Ball last night and tried to corner me in a hallway and… well. Malfoy ensured he
wouldn’t bother me again.”

“After you punched him,” Draco quipped.

Harry snorted. “Did you?”

Hermione blushed. “He deserved it.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I should have duelled him after Malfoy’s Ball,” Harry muttered. He stood up
and walked over to Draco, holding out a hand. “Thank you.”

“Er, no problem.” Malfoy felt this entire moment was surreal. Harry Potter was shaking his
hand to thank him for defending Herimone Granger’s honour…

If Draco from ten years ago could see himself now.

The three walked to an Apparition point, and Draco turned to Hermione. “Well, Miss
Granger, it’s been… an entertaining outing. Thank you for your company.”

He gave a formal bow, making his head come in closer contact with Hermione’s body. She
caught the smell of his woodsy cologne and had to consciously stop herself from taking a
step forward. She curtsied, looking down to the ground and then back up into his silver eyes.
“You’re quite welcome, your Grace.”

A ghost of a smile traced Draco’s lips at her use of his formal title.

“I’ll see her home,” Harry promised and clapped Draco on the shoulder.

Draco did not care to admit how many times he opened his small, leather notebook that
afternoon hoping something would appear on its pages.

He used many of his tried-and-true distraction techniques: flying around the grounds, reading
new research on curse breaking, visiting the Manor’s vast kitchen for something sweet from
the house elves. Nothing could turn his nervous attention for more than a few minutes at a
time.

“Are you unwell?” his mother asked over their shared dinner.
“Me? No, I’m fine.” Draco said quickly; too quickly for it to be his normal, calm demeanour.

Narcissa took an impossibly small bite of the roast on her plate and looked at her son with
deeper scrutiny. “Does this have anything to do with you cutting roses from my greenhouse
this morning?”

The top of Draco’s ears went pink, and he cursed himself. He wasn’t actually courting
Granger, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re
talking about, mother.”

Narcissa tsk-tsked her son while taking a sip of wine. “I noticed it was the Rosa Gentle
Hermione you picked.” She then took a folded leaflet out from her robe pocket and slid it
across the table to Draco; Lady Bletherson’s article from this morning stared up at him.

“It isn’t like that ,” Draco insisted, pushing the article about him and Granger back toward his
mother.

Narcissa arched a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at him and Draco felt eleven years old again,
squirming under his mother’s gaze. “We’re… friends. We’re helping each other. I’m helping
her find a match and she’s providing me good press.”

Narcissa continued to stare at Draco while taking another sip of her wine. “Well, it’s an odd
choice of companionship, but I’m glad it isn’t a romantic attachment.”

All of Draco’s hope and happiness from the day deflated, remembering his mother’s words
once again as to why Granger could never be an option for him. Even if she made him laugh
and smile and feel…alive. “I think I’m full. If you’ll excuse me,” Draco said, abruptly
leaving the table. He could feel his mother’s lingering stare.

Draco pulled off his formal robes and threw on a pair of pyjama pants, leaving his chest bare
before throwing himself on his bed. He tenderly touched the bewitched bandages across his
back covering his cursed scars and decided changing them could wait until morning.

He was about to turn out all the lamps in his room when two words appeared in the small
notebook opened on his desk.

Draco rushed to sit at the desk and read what Hermione wrote.

Testing, testing.

He rolled his eyes at her utter perfunctory greeting. Granger, that is the most unoriginal
way to test a communication artefact.

Malfoy is an elitist snob.

He chuckled and forgot about his frustration from only a few minutes ago. Granger is a
know-it-all.
Well, we’ve proven they work.

Yes. Are you impressed now?

Only marginally.

Yes, Salazar forbids a Gryffindor gives a Slytherin a compliment.

What’s next in our charade?

Draco paused before writing back, debating if he should subject Hermione to the full gaggle
of his Slytherin classmates. It would be a perfect opportunity to solidify their charade of a
true courtship, so he wrote before he could change his mind. Pansy is hosting a dinner
party next weekend, much more intimate. You coming as my date would make a
statement.

Excellent. Who should I bring as a chaperone?

Anyone other than weasel, please.

Which one? Hermione could almost feel his annoyance through the paper and smiled at
herself.

You know which one.

Yes, your Grace. Hermione hesitated, not wanting their conversation to be over. Before she
could invent something else to say, ink appeared.

As enjoyable as it is for you to use my title, if we’re going to sell a courtship you should
use my name. Merlin, Draco could picture her rose lips saying ‘your Grace,’ and he wanted
her to moan it into his neck…

Hermione’s heart raced. Why did this feel so incredibly daring? I shall agree if you call me
by mine as well.

Very well, Hermione.

It did something to her, reading her name in Draco’s elegant handwriting. She stared at it
before dipping her quill back in her ink and writing back. Very well, Draco.

Many miles away, Draco stared at Hermione’s cramped sprawl with a smile on his face and
fell asleep dreaming of amber eyes.
 Madmen Have No Ears
Chapter Summary

A dinner party with the Slytherins.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

O, then I see that madmen have no ears.

- Romeo & Juliet, Act 3, Scene 3

“YOU FILTHY, DISGUSTING MUDBLOOD! HOW DARE YOU DEIGN TO POLLUTE

ONE OF THE PUREST LINES IN WIZARDING SOCIETY! YOU ARE UNFIT TO LICK
THE DIRT OFF OF THE DUKE OF WILTSHIRE’S BOOTS! IF YOU CONTINUE WITH
THIS MOCKERY, THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES!”

The red Howler stuck its ribboned tongue out at Hermione before burning itself to ash on the
window sill of her and Ginny’s room. Hermione took a deep breath and opened the window
to push the black dust outside. Despite knowing whoever sent this Howler wasn’t worth her
time, a small tear slipped out of Hermione’s eye.

“Hermione…” Ginny whispered from behind her.

Hermione wiped her eyes and spun, unaware that Ginny had lingered in the door frame and
heard the foul letter. “It’s nothing.”

Ginny walked forward and wrapped Hermione in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. I never thought
people would react like this….” Ginny pulled back. “The war is over.”

Hermione laughed sadly. “Wouldn’t that be marvellous? If everyone changed their minds
because the good side won?”

“Maybe Malfoy or Harry can find out who sent–”

“No,” Hermione said sharply. “I don’t want to bother either of them with this, it’s silly.”
Ginny looked unsure. “Well, if it happens again, you should.”

Hermione nodded, knowing what she was about to say was a lie. “I will.” Unfortunately, she
had grown accustomed to the vitriol of bigoted wizards for her blood status.

“Good.” Ginny was satisfied. “Come to breakfast.”

Hermione followed her friend without another word, glancing back to the window sill once
where the black ashes of the Howler had rested only a minute ago.

“Ladies! Lovely to see you this morning!” Mrs. Weasley bellowed. Hermione noticed that
both her pink roses and Ginny’s bouquet from Dean were serving as the centrepieces of that
morning’s table.

“Hi, Mum,” Ginny said dutifully, kissing her mother on the cheek before sitting in front of
her flowers and filling her breakfast plate.

“We have much to discuss now that you two are being courted,” Mrs. Weasley said. She
whipped her wand out and a long scroll unrolled in the air next to her.

“Mum, me and Dean went on one walk,” Ginny choked out.

“Ginevra! This is exactly what I’m talking about. He must be ‘Lord Thomas’ to you until the
appropriate time.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. Hermione’s cheeks reddened slightly,
thinking of how Mal–Draco had asked her to use his name only last night. But that was
different. They were different; theirs wasn’t an actual courtship.

Mrs. Weasley checked her parchment. “We need to discuss social calendars. Obviously, other
engagements must be forgone if either of your suitors invites you to an event.”

Hermione cleared her throat and both of the red-headed witches in the room looked at her.
“Lord Malfoy has asked me to accompany him to a dinner party at Pansy’s… er, sorry I don’t
recall her newest last name.” She winced in apology at Mrs. Weasley.

A quill was jotting notes on the parchment while Mrs. Weasley beamed at her. “Excellent
work, Hermione! A dinner party is quite the invitation after only one ball and promenade!
Ginny, dear, what about Lord Thomas?”

“He said he would like to dance with me at the Abbott’s ball next weekend,” Ginny admitted.
“And if that all goes well, I was going to invite him to the Quidditch Gala.”

Mrs. Weasley’s smile dimmed somewhat. “Ginny… if you’re quite serious about courting, it
may be time to put that hobby aside.”

Hermione winced, anticipating the fight that was about to take place. Ginny’s face turned
scarlet, and she pushed her half-eaten breakfast plate away from herself. “Dean supports my
Quidditch career. It’s not a hobby, mother. I get paid. It’s a job. And if I have to be less of
myself for a man, then I don’t want the man.”
With a loud groan, Ginny pushed back her chair and stormed back upstairs. Mrs. Weasley
sighed and collapsed in a chair, rubbing her forehead. Hermione was trying to think of
something comforting to say when Mrs. Weasley turned to her. “Well, dear, we’ll have time
at least to review dinner party etiquette together.”

While Hermione had already read extensively on the subject, she merely smiled and took a
demure sip of her tea. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley.”

Draco buried his head under a black satin pillow to drown out the incessant banging on his
door. He had been in the middle of a delightful dream where Hermione whispered his name
into his ear as she kissed his neck.

“Mal-fuck! Open this door, or I swear to Salazar I will piss on the floor!” Theo’s voice
echoed and Draco groaned.

He pulled himself out of bed to open the door handle and immediately dove back in the
covers as Theo stormed inside, slamming the door behind him. “‘Morning, Theo.”

The Slytherin jumped on top of Draco, who grunted in pain. He finally dragged his head out
from the pillow to see the very wide blue eyes of his best friend.

Theo got up from the bed and started pacing on Draco’s lush green carpet. “Oh, so YOU DO
recognize me? You remember me? Your dearest friend? Known you since you were in
nappies?”

Draco ran his hands over his face. “Can we skip the dramatics and get to the point?”

Theo stopped pacing and looked at Draco as if he had seven heads. “The point? The point,
my darling Draco, is you have been holding out on me.”

“What are you on about?” Draco’s voice still held the scratchy remnants of sleep.

Theo tossed a leaflet at Draco, The Pureblood Periodical. On the front cover was a moving
photograph of him and Gran–Hermione from several days before in the tea shop. It was over
her shoulder, having a clear shot at his expression.

The way Hermione’s hands moved in the photo, he guessed it was when she had been
explaining the different career paths that interested her. The look on his face though…

“Shit,” he said quietly.

Theo looked triumphant. “ Shit exactly! You didn’t tell me you already found who you
wanted to be a tenant for life in Malfoy Manor! And that she’s muggle-born! And that you’ve
decided to toss ALL the rules out the bloody window!”
Draco couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph of himself. He was smiling at Hermione, in a
relaxed and genuine way that he didn’t recognize on his own face. But it was his eyes that
were the most damning. His grey eyes were alight and fixed on Hermione like she was the
only witch on the planet.

“It’s not like that,” Draco said quietly.

Theo stopped pacing and looked about to start in on another dramatic rant when he caught the
troubled look on Draco’s face. He came back and sat on the edge of the bed. “I was being a
tad dramatic for the effect, you know I will be thrilled if you find someone to make you
happy. You bloody deserve it.”

Draco ran his fingers through his sleep-mussed white-blond locks. “No, I mean… her and I.
We’re not really courting. It’s an… arrangement.”

Theo’s brows furrowed before he whispered. “Has Hermione become a witch of easy
virtue?”

“What? No!” Draco smacked his friend’s arm. “I’m helping her find a husband that will
advance her career, and she’s helping me get better press about being an elitist Pureblood.”

Theo looked down at the picture once more. “Sure, that makes sense. But mate…”

Draco sighed. “What?”

Theo nodded to the black and white Draco down on the pamphlet. “Take it from someone
who has been in love at least thirty-three times with witches and wizards alike… that’s not
fake.”

Draco kicked his legs to push Theo off the bed. “I’ll keep that in mind. You can judge in
person at Pansy’s tomorrow.”

Theo’s eyes widened again. “You’re bringing her to Pansy’s?”

Draco pulled the pillow back over his head. “Goodbye, Theo.”

He heard his friend exit, humming something that suspiciously sounded like Celestina
Warbeck’s song “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong, Love.”

Once he was quite sure Theo wasn’t going to barge back into his room, Draco hopped out of
bed and over to his desk to see if Hermione had written to him. He broke out into a smile
when he spied her handwriting blooming across the page like a flower.

We’re officially on day five of Ginny and her mother not speaking.

Silence sounds incredible right now. Be thankful you don’t know what it’s like to have
Theodore Nott wake you up.

If Theodore Nott was waking me up, That would be QUITE a scandal, even for Lady
Bletherson’s standards.
Draco recognized Hermione’s joke for what it was, but he still found himself with an
unwanted twinge of jealousy at the implication.

Too right. We must protect your sterling reputation by having you woken up by Lady
Weasley and her ten thousand children.

Hermione chuckled. Last I counted it was seven, not ten thousand.

Seven too many. Draco wrote the comment before he thought about it, and immediately
wished he could take it back.

Spoken like a true only child.

Aren’t you also an only child?

Yes, but I still enjoy the chaos and joy of their large family.

Draco’s heart hammered more steadily in his chest, and before he knew what he was doing he
wrote the one question he didn’t want an answer to. Do you want children?

I don’t know about seven, but one, two, or three sounds perfectly reasonable.

There it was. Black and white. Written on paper in Hermione’s elegant script.

It didn’t matter how Draco looked at her in the tea shop.

It didn’t matter that he thought Hermione was clever and insufferable and beautiful.

Even if Draco decided to go against his mother’s wishes and choose someone who was not a
Pureblood… it didn’t matter.

He could never choose Hermione.

Because Hermione deserved a husband who not only advanced her career but came from an
unprejudiced family and gave her children of her own. And in those respects, Draco was
sorely lacking as a prospect.

The following evening Hermione and Ginny got ready side by side for their separate events.
Ginny had finally gotten to choose her colours for the evening’s ball and selected a beautiful
blue gown that complemented her skin and hair.

Hermione chose a deep red gown and a matching short jacket that were slightly more clean
and professional than her sparkling ballgowns; she was hoping she struck the correct balance
for a dinner party; this would be her first one.
Ginny checked a small watch lying on her bureau before returning to the mirror and fussing
with her hair. “Harry is coming by in twenty minutes for me and mum… I’m sorry you’re
stuck with Fred tonight as a chaperone.”

Hermione was curious if Harry was accompanying the Weasley women as an act of goodwill
or because she had been correct when she called out his romantic interest in Ginny.
“Honestly, I think he’s the best choice for an intimate gathering with Slytherins. He certainly
won’t be easily cowed, and not nearly reactive as Harry or Ron.”

“True,” Ginny affirmed. She smacked her glossed lips together and took several steps
backward. “What do you think?”

Hermione took in her friend’s appearance from her carefully curled hair to her jewelled
slippers. “I think Dean Thomas will be driven to distraction.”

Ginny cracked a wide smile and warmth spread through Hermione’s chest. Hermione was
happy for Ginny, she so rarely got excited about romance. And yet, Hermione also felt
slightly hollow herself. The only man in her life was one that she would never have and
wasn’t interested in her outside of ensuring himself good press.

“Good, that’s the goal. You look lovely as well,” Ginny added looking at Hermione. “Very
Gryffindor.” A simple golden headband shone in Hermione’s hair, half of her curls pinned up
while the rest hung loose to the middle of her back.

Hermione smiled. “Thank you, Gin.”

“GINEVRA!” Mrs. Weasley’s voice boomed up the stairs. “YOU MUST MAKE HASTE!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Have a splendid time infiltrating the Slytherins, antagonize Malfoy
for me.”

Hermione chuckled. “Will do.”

Hermione listened to the bustle of activity below before all went silent, indicating the female
Weasley’s departure. Several moments later there was a gentle knock on her door.

She opened the door to see Fred dressed in surprisingly subdued black dress robes with only
a small pocket square of purple as a pop of colour. “Ready?”

“You look uncommonly dapper,” Hermione pointed out.

Fred tipped an imaginary hat. “Purebloods have lots of galleons, Hermione. Galleons I want
them to invest in a second shop.”

Hermione respected his honesty and was happy his seeking investments from the Slytherins
would keep him on his best behaviour. “I hope this evening is fruitful for you.”

Fred offered his arm and Hermione took it, walking down to the foyer. “Even if it’s not, I’m
sure the free feast will be delicious.”
“One can hope,” Hermione agreed. Then it was just the two of them, waiting for Draco to
arrive as their escort. The silence made Hermione fidget with her short lace gloves and
second-guess her appearance. Fred observed her in silence, leaning casually against the wall
with his arms crossed.

“Is the Golden Girl, war heroine, Hermione Granger… nervous? For a dinner party?” He
asked incredulously.

Hermione ceased moving and glared at him. “I’ve never attended a Wizarding dinner party
before!”

“But you have eaten dinner before?” Fred teased. Hermione huffed out an irritated breath.
Fred dropped his teasing grin and stepped closer to put one hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be
fine. If anything embarrassing happens I’ll just cover it with something ridiculous.”

Hermione groaned. “You haven’t brought any joke shop merchandise, have you?”

“Define ‘merchandise.’”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Fred smiled mischievously before opening
it. “Ah, just the Slytherin we were looking for.”

Fred gestured inside and Draco stooped slightly to enter.

He was handsome, of course. Hermione knew this.

But… Hermione seemed to have forgotten the sharp line of his jaw and the solid lines of his
muscled shoulders in the past week since she’d seen him. His dress robes were tailored to
perfection and suddenly her mouth felt rather dry.

Their eyes connected and she saw Draco start at her shoes and rake up to her hair. “You look
stunning this evening, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you,” she squeaked.

Fred looked between the two of them. “For Merlin’s sake, I’m standing right here. Can you
both wait for the smouldering looks until we’re out of the foyer?”

Hermione looked to the floor but not before she noticed the tops of Draco’s ears turn slightly
pink. It’s a ruse, she reminded herself. He’s playing his part.

“You look stunning as well, Weasley.”

Fred stared open-mouthed at Draco for a beat before bursting out in laughter. “Did the war
knock a sense of humour into you, Malfoy?”

“Among other things,” Malfoy muttered.

“Well, I’m suddenly excited for this evening in the snake pit. Shall we?” Fred asked jovially.
Draco had to admit, Hermione had chosen the best option to be her chaperone. Ever since
their incredible departure from Hogwarts in his fifth year, Draco always had a begrudging
admiration of the Weasley twins.

Malfoy had Weasley and Hermione each take an arm to side-along apparate them to the
Rosier estate, bequeathed to Pansy by her late husband.

The Rosier manor was one of Draco’s least favourite of the pureblood households. While
Malfoy Manor was quite grandiose and gothic, the Rosier home was pure darkness. The
stonework was black, the gates a dark, twisted iron. Around the property the night seemed
blacker, the days seemed more dreary. Even the flowers in the garden were deep reds, greens
and black as well.

“Charming,” Fred said brightly, nodding at a large black flower that had spikes growing
scarily resembling teeth.

“This place makes your manor look charming and homey,” Hermione said under her breath.

Draco chuckled. “Doesn’t it just?”

When Draco put his hand up to use the ugly, ornate knocker the door opened of its own
accord.

Pansy stood there in a gown of vibrant green, her hair coiled into tight twists atop her head
that reminded Draco vaguely of snakes. “Welcome!” She stepped forward and air-kissed
Draco on either cheek before pulling back and observing his black outfit. “Would it pain you
to wear some colour, dear Draco? Merlin knows the place is dark enough.”

Draco let out a low chuckle that pulled Hermione’s attention to his long, elegant throat. “I’m
a wizard of simple tastes,” he protested.

Pansy rolled her eyes and let him enter before turning to Hermione, who held her gloved
hands together nervously. “Thank you for the invitation, Lady Rosier.”

Pansy blanched. “Please, call me Pansy. Or the Black Witch Widow, honestly anything other
than that .”

Hermione smiled slightly, feeling more at ease than she expected. Draco held out his hand
from the doorframe and pulled her inside. “Don’t terrorize my date please, Pansy.”

“Feel free to terrorize me though!” Fred chirped, still standing on the threshold.

Pansy eyed him appraisingly. “Weasley, I think you’re the first of your lineage to step foot
here.”

Fred was completely unflappable. “What a tragedy, the estate is so welcoming.”

Pansy held her stern glare for a moment before cackling in laughter and waving him in, “By
all means, come in.”
Once they entered the drawing room, Draco recognized the party’s other guests. Of course,
Theo was by the bar cart, pouring drinks for Blaise Zabini and Adrian Pucey. Goyle stood
next to his new wife, Penelope by the fire. The two Carrow sisters were carrying on a lively
conversation by the large stained glass window and Draco noted Avery Jr. handing Pansy
back her drink as she entered the room once again. He wondered if Pansy was indeed trying
to soften Avery Jr. up at Theo’s request to forgive his gambling debt.

“That’s a lot of Slytherins,” Hermione said softly, following Draco’s eyes around the room.

“You can ignore them all,” Draco offered, looking down at her perfectly sombre face.

Hermione smiled and looked up at him, “Now where would the fun be in that?”

Draco felt his heart lurch as he held her gaze and he wanted to say something, anything, to
keep her smiling like that as long as possible. He also realized he was still holding
Hermione’s hand and quickly let go before the other members of the party noticed. Draco’s
dark mark let out a small stab of pain but was once again buried under the protection of
several pain potions.

Draco was about to start introducing Weasley to the group, but the ginger wizard was already
at the bar cart striking up a conversation with the three Slytherins there.

“Well, he makes friends quickly,” Malfoy muttered.

“I’m quite envious of his ability to do that,” Hermione confessed.

Draco looked into Hermione’s brown eyes as she glanced at Fred. “Do you find it difficult to
converse with others?”

Hermione looked back to Draco and he wasn’t sure if he imagined a slight blush on her
cheeks. “Draco, you knew me at Hogwarts. I was a know-it-all. I never made muggle friends.
Then when I got into the wizarding world as an outsider, it was just as challenging.”

Draco wanted to protest that Hermione wasn’t an outsider, but the words died on his lips– she
had been as a muggle-born. He never thought about how difficult it would have been to enter
Hogwarts for his first year without already knowing at least half of their class.

“Supper is ready!” Pansy announced. Hermione gave him one last smile before holding out
her arm to be escorted into the dining room.

Theo brushed past Draco’s other side and whispered, “ It doesn’t look fake, ” on his way up
toward the front of the group. Draco kept his face unaffected and prayed to Salazar Hermione
hadn’t overheard his friend.

Pansy never did anything by halves, and her dinner parties were no exception. There were
nine courses, all delivered to the table by invisible hands and cleared by magic. Their goblets
magically refilled anytime they were less than a third full, and soon all guests were laughing
riotously over small things.
Throughout the meal, Draco glanced to his right where Hermione was seated. She was
uncharacteristically quiet, always looking around at the table at the beginning of each course
so she could observe how all the other wizards approached the meal before she did herself.
Draco doubted anyone, save himself, watched her carefully enough to notice.

Draco was surprised to feel his heart ache slightly for her, navigating this snake pit with grace
and poise. Well of course she did. She’d been forced to be an outsider her entire life.

He must have stared too long because suddenly Hermione’s eyes were on him. Her cheeks
were flushed and the fairy wine stained her lips enticingly red.

Draco knew it was a bad idea, but he leaned down to whisper in her ear anyway, catching her
uniquely clean and feminine scent that produced a haze for him stronger than any fairy wine
could. “Not so scary, are we?”

“No,” Hermione admitted. “Not so scary at all.”

Pansy let the laughter around the table naturally die down before addressing the table.
“Witches, if you’ll accompany me to go through to the drawing room. Gentlewizards, your
after-supper cigars are waiting in the gallery.”

Hermione’s eyes suddenly looked more alert and slightly panicked. “Don’t worry,” Draco
whispered again. “It’s just for an hour or so, so you all can gossip about us.”

Pansy walked over to Hermione’s chair. “Dearest Hermione, you must come with me. I have
to tell you all sorts of embarrassing stories about Draco.”

“More embarrassing than when I punched him in third year?” Hermione asked back.

Pansy’s eyes widened and she looked at Draco over Hermione’s head, a predatory grin
breaking out across her powdered cheeks. “We have SO much to discuss, Hermione.”

Before Draco could defend himself, Pansy pulled Hermione through the room’s far east door
and shut it behind them. Merlin help him.

Draco followed the other wizards back to the gallery, where some took the offered cigars and
lit them with the tips of their wands. Others helped themselves to the plentifully stocked bar
cart. Theo was one of the firsts and returned holding both himself and Draco glasses of
whiskey.

Weasley was instantly at ease, building on the goodwill he built telling hilarious stories
during dinner. Zabini and Pucey were sitting on either side of Fred, laughing at some fresh
anecdote. The three of them puffed Wizarding cigars with glowing tips that changed colour
each time they inhaled.

Draco noticed Theo’s eyes were trained on the Gryffindor. “Is it just me, or has Weasley
gotten remarkably fit?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I think it’s just a bloke our age you haven’t shagged or grown up
with.”
Theo cracked a feline smile. “Mystery is half the fun, darling Draco.”

“Do you know which twin it is?” Draco asked under his breath, covering the comment by
taking a sip of his strong drink.

“The one with two ears,” Theo said simply. “And hopefully they can be used to listen to me
as I whisper absolutely filthy–”

Goyle stood slightly repulsed by the bar cart and slowly made his way over to Draco and
Theo, which Draco took as an opportunity to elbow Theo and silence him.

“Good to see you, Goyle,” Draco said with detached politeness.

He never knew how to act around Goyle since the war. As children, Goyle had followed
Draco around with idol worship; he was often embarrassed to think of how he had treated
him. Once Draco and his mother started contributing to the reconstruction efforts after the
war, Goyle ceased reaching out to the Malfoys; Draco took that as a definitive answer that
their friendship was over.

“And you, Malfoy. Nott.”

Theo lifted an imaginary hat off his head.

Goyle sniffed before swirling his own drink around in his hand. “I can’t believe the guest list
Pansy thought was appropriate for tonight.”

Draco felt a chill of anger run down his spine; he put his drink down on the nearest flat
surface and turned to Goyle. “Ms. Granger is here with me, and Lord Weasley is her
chaperone.”

Goyle laughed an ugly dark thing that brought back memories of the Slytherin common
room. “A Weasley at a Slytherin function? Dabbling with Granger is one thing, Malfoy. No
one blames you for that; you’ve had nearly every other witch. You should colonize every
Gryffindor bitch you can.”

Draco went very still.

Unhumanly still.

Every cell in his body flushed with shock and heat. Theo noticed the change in his
demeanour and shifted between Draco and Goyle, putting his arm on the other man trying to
signal him to be quiet.

Goyle blundered on, unaware of the mood shift in the two men in front of him. “Honestly, it’s
a genius way to get back at Weasley and Potter.” Goyle leaned in closer. “When you’re done
with her, let me know. I’m sure we could have a good time, a bit of fun on the side. Penelope
turns a blind eye to these things.”

In a flash, Draco’s wand was at Goyle’s throat. The burning anger was something Draco
hadn’t felt in years, all he could hear was his blood rushing in his ears. Draco was reformed;
he did the best he could to bury the dark things he learned during the war. Although he
shouldn’t, wouldn’t, Draco was certain he could cast one hell of a Cruciatis Curse at the
moment.

Just like his aunt always wanted.

The once jubilant room went silent and the other men got up and approached the trio.

Theo must have sensed the violence dancing in Draco’s veins, as he put his hands on Draco’s
wand arm. “He’s not worth it, mate.”

Weasley came and stood on Draco’s other side, casually taking out his wand as well. “While
there are not many things I take seriously, the honour of one Miss Granger is one of them.”
Fred raised his wand and Draco felt a swell of appreciation and genuine fondness for the
Weasley twin standing next to him. “Would you care to recant your previous statement?”

Goyle’s thick face had turned an indignant shade of red. “I don’t need to dignify you with a
response, blood traitor .”

Before Draco could act, golden sparks shot out of Fred’s wand and hit Goyle square in the
neck. The force of the curse sent him flying backwards into the wall. For a moment, Draco
didn’t think Weasley’s curse did anything to the other man.

Then, Goyle’s face… hands… any bit of exposed skin started growing bright orange hair at
an alarming rate. He shrieked when he looked at his palms and instantly started trying to rip
the hair out.

Fred grinned. “So sorry, that won’t work. I’ve been trying to get the counter-curse exactly
right but haven’t managed it yet. I promise to send an owl along when…or if… I finally do.”

Goyle yelled and started to stumble toward Weasley, but Malfoy shot a non-verbal
incarcerous and the man was instantly bound. He was satisfied that he got to send some spell
Goyle’s way, even if Weasley deserved the lion’s share of the recognition for his creative
spell work. “Theo, do you mind telling Lady Goyle that her husband is in desperate need of
an escort home?”

Draco looked over at his friend and saw Theo’s appreciative gaze trained on Weasley.
Salazar, he was relentless. “Of course,” he murmured.

Zabini clapped Weasley on the shoulder. “I think you should come to all our little get
togethers, Weasley. Best show I’ve had in ages.”

Weasley smiled and spun back around. “I’ve been working on that curse for months, thrilled I
finally got to have a human test subject. I’d love for you all to come by the shop sometime,
see exactly what is is we’re currently producing…”

Draco’s rage started to simmer, finally. He grabbed his abandoned glass and drained the
powerful drink in one gulp. He stood glaring over Goyle’s bound form until Theo returned
with an anxious, although not together unsurprised, Lady Goyle. Theo and Draco helped her
carry her husband to the fireplace where they Floo’ed home.

Theo refilled their glasses and then stood next to Draco’s shoulder. “That wasn’t fake,” he
pointed out in a low voice.

Draco didn’t need to ask what Theo meant. “No witch deserves to be spoken about like that.”

Theo nodded. “I agree. Which is why Weasley stepped up, and quite dashingly, might I add,
defended the lady’s honour. I was talking about the bit where you almost used an
Unforgivable and got yourself a one-way trip to Azkaban over Granger.”

Theo tapped his temple as if Draco needed a reminder of his friend’s innate Legilimens
abilities. In darker days, Draco had forced Theo to invade his mind over and over to build up
his Occlumency shields, but his friend had not used his gift on Draco in some time.

“To be fair, you were practically shouting it in your thoughts.”

Draco merely nodded and tried to think of how he could explain away his temper about
Hermione, but came up short. And fuck, he was so tired. Tired of lying to himself about it,
his mother, and the wizarding world. For once, a witch had captured his complete attention.
With her sensible wool coat, daily updates about the Weasley’s home, her burning passion for
a life of purpose, her stunning beauty…

“I fancy her,” Draco said and then drained his second glass of alcohol.

Theo smirked slightly. “I think ‘fancy’ is a bit mild, judging on that montage you just ran in
your head–” Draco immediately slammed his rusty Occlumency shields into place. “--but at
least we’re getting somewhere.” Theo let the silence sit between them for a moment. “Any
idea what you’re going to do?”

The question was vague, but Draco understood his friend perfectly: would he give up
everything to be with her? Would he break things off with Hermione so he could take his
place in Pureblood society?

“No,” Draco said honestly. “I know I can’t give her what she’s looking for.”

Theo’s brows furrowed. “What in Merlin’s balls do you mean?”

“She wants someone who can help her career, so she can work and change the Wizarding
World. With me… she’d be stuck planning parties and dealing with asshats like Goyle for the
rest of her life.”

Theo looked stricken. “But all of that–”

“She wants children,” Draco said quietly.

Theo took a deep breath and winced as if anticipating Draco’s reaction. “Mate… you can
have children.”
Draco glared sharply at his friend. “You know I can’t. We want different things. Hermione
could never be happy being the Duchess of Wiltshire.” His dark mark seared hot suddenly at
the thought, cutting through the pain potions. Draco grimaced.

Theo’s brows raised. “Hermione?” Draco realized instantly he hated hearing her name on the
lips of another man. “If you’re certain that’s the way of things, you need to finish up your
arrangement with her and cut out. You’re already in too deep.” Gone was Theo’s aloof
playfulness, leaving someone serious in its wake.

Draco took a moment and considered his friend’s words. It was true. He was already too
attached to Hermione, but he would not break his word to her. Draco needed to start pulling
together a list of available men and introduce her.

… Even though that thought made him nauseous.

All the more reason it needed to happen.

“You’re right,” Draco admitted.

Theo noted his friend’s morose face and easily slipped back into his charming facade and
clapped Draco on the back. “Don’t look so down, I was bound to be right at some point in our
friendship.”

“Gentlemen, would you please join us?” Pansy’s sharp voice interrupted the friends and the
wizards got up to follow her instructions.

Weasley, Zabini, and Pucey extinguished their cigars and left together, chatting amiably. Theo
made to follow them and Pansy looked sternly at Draco as he exited last.

“Goyle?” She asked.

“Deserved it,” Draco responded. “Keep him off guest lists with me in the future.”

Pansy arched a perfectly manicured black eyebrow. “Such a brute,” she chided.

Draco didn’t bother to correct her assumption that he was the one primarily responsible for
Goyle’s embarrassment.

Despite the fact he just acknowledged out loud that Hermione and him were impossible and
that he needed to start limiting his contact with her… Draco’s eyes were still drawn to her the
moment he entered the room.

Hermione sat next to the fireplace and the flames behind her sharpened her gorgeous profile.
The light danced off the gold circlet in her hair and the warm tones in her red gown, casting
shadows along her elegant neck. She looked like she had become fire itself and Draco, at the
moment, didn’t give a fuck if he got burned.

He walked directly next to her and sat on the couch she occupied. She stopped laughing at
whatever it was one of the Carrow sisters had said and turned to him, a smile still on her lips.
“Is everything okay? Penelope looked quite worried when she collected her husband.”
Strictly speaking, this loveseat wasn’t designed for two fully-grown wizards to sit next to
each other. Draco’s left side was wedged against Hermione’s right and he could feel the heat
between their two bodies; it was maddening. “Yes, Goyle fell ill.”

Hermione quirked one eyebrow up in question. “And the yelling coming from the gallery
before that?”

Draco didn’t want to lie to her, but he also didn’t want to waste this moment where their
bodies were as close as they ever would be talking about Goyle. He chose to evade. “What
did Pansy tell you about me?”

Hermione noticed him skirting the question but didn’t call him out on it. “Oh, many things. I
was particularly fond of the story about how you went through a near-naked phase around the
age of 4.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “All children do.”

“Do all wizarding children think muggles have pointed teeth to eat wizards too?”

Draco groaned. “I was young!”

Hermione laughed, and it lit up her entire body. Draco clenched his jaw to ground his
thoughts from straying to the carnal.

The party at large conversed together, but Draco and Hermione remained in their separate
bubble, trading childhood stories.

Draco couldn’t tell if the alcohol dulled the pain potion’s effects or if his dark mark was
merely more painful the more time he spent with Hermione. Either way, the pain was
crescendoing in a distracting way and he knew he had to extract himself or explain to
everyone why he needed to clutch his arm.

In a moment of perfect timing, Hermione yawned behind her gloved hand. “We should get
you home,” Draco said wistfully.

Hermione nodded, “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

It took several minutes to extricate Fred from his new group of admirers, Theo casually
sitting on the arm of his chair. Draco shot his friend a scolding look and Theo merely smiled
in response.

“I’ll stop by the shop in Diagon Ally this week,” Theo promised.

Fred looked up into Theo’s face, a charming half smirk on his lips. “I’d like that.”

Well. Perhaps Theo and Weasley weren’t as far-fetched of an idea as Malfoy thought.

“Shall we?” Fred asked as he sat up and put an arm out to both Draco and Hermione.

Hermione smiled. “We shall.”

“Malfoy, I can see her home if you’d prefer to travel more directly,” Fred offered as they
collected their cloaks and stepped outside of Rosier manor.

Weasley’s suggestion made sense, of course, it did; it even took the sharp pain out of Draco’s
dark mark. “My upbringing won’t allow it. I have to see her home,” Draco smiled easily at
Weasley.

Fred leaned in and whispered, “If you want more time with me, no need for the subterfuge.”

Hermione leaned around Draco’s torso to laugh at Fred. “Fred!”

He put up his one arm not linked with Malfoy’s in surrender. “The heart what it wants,
Hermione.”

Malfoy laughed softly at their antics and apparated them to the edge of the Weasley’s
property. When they landed, Fred immediately disentangled from the couple. “Thank you for
a delightful evening, Malfoy. Be inside in the next few, Hermione!” he called over his
shoulder.

For the first time, Draco and Hermione were alone. Hermione’s whole body hummed with
awareness. Draco turned slowly to face her, gently holding both her gloved hands in his.
“Thank you for accompanying me this evening,” he said lowly.

Draco’s voice reminded Hermione of velvet and she found herself uncounsciously leaning
into him. “Of course, thank you for the invitation.”

The knowledge that their evening was the byproduct of an impartial agreement seemed to
leave both of their minds as they stared at one another in the light of the moon.

Draco lifted Hermione’s left hand and pressed a slow kiss to her gloved knuckles. Her breath
caught in her throat, leaving her body in a small gasp. He wanted the noise imprinted in his
brain forever. He also needed to see what other noises she could make–

“I should go in,” Hermione said in a small, wavering voice.

Draco shook his head slightly to clear the fog of her presence. “Of course. I’ll walk you to the
door.”

They moved in silence, hand in hand. Hermione told herself it was for guidance in the dark,
but Merlin she hoped it was for pleasure. All too soon they reached the door.

“Good night, Hermione,” Draco said, his voice dragging like gravel over her name.

Could she ask him to say it again? No! Of course not. “Good night, Draco.”

She opened the door with her free hand and the light from inside spilled onto the threshold,
breaking their spell. Draco stepped back and bowed to her before turning on his heel and
marching back to the apparition line. Hermione stood in the doorway, watching, until he
disappeared with a pop.
“He’s become a decent bloke,” Fred’s voice said from behind her. She turned and he was
examining his nails.

Hermione flushed. “Who? Malfoy? It isn’t like that, honestly.”

Fred’s eyebrows raised and he looked at her. “Anyone with eyes can tell you two fancy each
other. He hasn’t been subtle about courting you.”

Merlin, how desperately Hermione wanted to believe him. To pretend she was any other
witch and Draco was any other wizard, and their relationship an uncomplicated case of
mutual admiration.

Hermione crossed her arms, “We have an agreement.” The words were quiet and strained;
Hermione was horrified to feel her eyes fill with tears.

Fred’s eyebrows immediately furrowed in concern and he moved a step closer. “Hermione, if
he’s forcing you to do something–”

A tear spilled over and Hermione chuckled. She wiped it away quickly. “It’s nothing like that.
I need to seem desirable to the marriage mart and he needs to seem tolerant and accepting of
all witches no matter their blood status. He’s helping me connect with suitors, I’m providing
him with good press. It’s mutually beneficial.”

Fred was silent for a moment. “Then why are you crying?”

Hermione laughed without humour. “Great question, Fred. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“Listen,” Fred said so seriously it took Hermione aback. “Merlin knows I avoid inserting
myself into other’s business, my mother does plenty of that for the entire family. But from
what I observed tonight, Malfoy has genuine feelings for you. If you feel the same… perhaps
you should let him know.”

Hermione’s immediate reaction was to deny Fred’s claim, but instead, she stayed silent,
digging her nails into her arms through her gloves before wordlessly turning and walking
upstairs into her and Ginny’s empty room.

Draco expected the manor to be silent by the time he walked through the front door.
However, a flickering glow came from the study off of the foyer. He walked through the arch
to investigate and saw his mother curled in a large armchair.

Narcissa’s face was bare, and Draco could see each wrinkle, the dark spots under her eyes,
and the small age spots on her deathly white complexion. There was an empty goblet on the
table next to her and a small newspaper.

“Mother,” Draco greeted cautiously.

She took her eyes away from the fireplace and looked at her son with an empty expression.
“Sit.”

The residual warmth that came from being around Hermione evaporated as he took the chair
opposite his mother. “Is there something the matter?”

Narcissa raised her hand and the newspaper next to her floated over the few feet into Draco’s
lap. It was a copy of the Pureblood Periodical that Theo had brought over earlier this week,
with the photo of him and Hermione. This again. “Mother I told you, this isn’t–”

Narcissa wordlessly held up her hand indicating Draco should stop talking. “Let us speak
plainly. Hermione Granger is an accomplished witch, handsome enough, and would do
wonders for our image.”

Draco’s traitorous heart lept into his throat.

“However,” Narcissa continued and Draco had to Occlude slightly to distance himself from
the sharp pain of disappointment. “We both know she is not a suitable Duchess of Wiltshire.”
Draco felt his mother watching his reaction.

Although Draco managed to keep his face neutral, he couldn’t help but ask, “Why not?”

Narcissa sighed deeply. “Have you read the marriage clause of your inheritance?”

Draco startled slightly at the question. “Of course, I combed through all of the legal texts I
could find about age restrictions–”

“Did you read all of the clause thoroughly?”

Draco blinked. Of course, he had… right? He had to marry by 25 or forfeit his inheritance,
his role as Malfoy heir. “Yes… If I don’t marry by 25, I won’t receive the inheritance and the
Malfoy assets will pass to the next closest male heir.”

He looked into his mother’s eyes and they looked softer than they had all evening. “No, dear.
If you don’t marry someone suitable by 25 you will lose the inheritance.”

Draco’s stomach sank. “And who is suitable ?”

“A witch with at least half-blooded wizarding ancestry,” Narcissa said softly. “The magic
won’t recognize a muggle-born witch as the next Duchess.”

The statement took Draco’s breath away. Why did this revelation hurt so much? He already
knew he couldn’t pursue Hermione; she wanted things he could never give her.

But there must have been some secret, hidden part of himself that held a kernel of hope that if
he presented her the choice… she might still choose him.

That hope was well and truly extinguished now.

 He felt his mother’s hand on his arm, rubbing soothing circles and couldn’t remember when
she had gotten up. “I’m sorry, darling. But that’s not the worst of it.”

Draco’s gaze snapped to Narcissa. “What could be worse?”

Narcissa cleared her throat and swiped a rouge slip of blonde hair off of Draco’s forehead. “If
you did decide to violate the blood status piece of your inheritance and marry a witch with
less than half-blooded wizarding ancestry… you would be cursed. To be barren. You could
never give your wife children. The ancient magic in our bloodline will not stand for Malfoy
children to be birthed to… unsuitable mothers.”

Draco felt sick. His mouth went completely dry and he had to actively fight the clawing in his
stomach. While Draco swore he would never have children for a good reason, he couldn’t
believe the vile magic that swirled in his blood that would permanently take the choice from
him without his consent.

“I know,” Narcissa whispered while pulling Draco’s head into her torso and wrapping her
arms around him. She hadn’t held him this close since the war.

Suddenly he’s 16 again, with the Dark Lord and his father holding wand tips to his left
forearm branding him with the ugly mark that still burns whenever he’s happy around
Hermione.

He’s standing in the Astronomy tower, wand up and shaking as he points it at Dumbledore.

He’s being held back in the hallway outside the drawing room, hearing Hermione scream as
his aunt digs her cursed knife in her, just like she’s dug it into his own flesh.

And there was no choice.

He became a Death Eater. An attempted murder. A bystander.

When will he be given a fucking choice in this life?

When will he get to choose who he wants to be? Who he is? What he likes? Who he loves?
Who he marries?

And for the first time since then, Draco let himself cry over the futility of his situation while
his mother silently held him.

Chapter End Notes

I'm back! Posting updates as often as I can on Sundays. Check my IG @librarishlizzie

for updates. Thank you to all the comments, hits, kudos. In the dorkiest way possible, it
makes me feel like a writer to know someone reads this.
 I Am Not Here
Chapter Summary

Hermione and Draco both grapple with the fallout of their evening together.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here;

This is not Romeo, he's some other where. - Act 1, Scene 1, Romeo & Juliet

Lucius Malfoy looked drastically different than he had six months ago. The once perfectly
straight white-blond hair was tangled and stained by dirt. His pristine, expensive robes had
been replaced with the striped Azkaban uniform. But what Draco noticed the most was the
difference in his father’s eyes.

While they had always been dark and cold, there was a spark–usually of hate or cruelty–but
a spark nonetheless. This Lucius Malfoy’s eyes were lifeless and Draco couldn’t remember
how he had ever been so terrified and enraptured by the man before him.

“They will deliver the Kiss tomorrow morning,” Lucius said. The fight had gone out of his
voice as well, but the superiority couldn’t be completely peeled from his tone.

“I’m aware,” Nineteen-year-old Draco said stiffly. He refused to sit in the stone chair across
the table from his father, choosing instead to stand against the opposite wall. He felt some
small sense of satisfaction being taller than his father at the moment.

“There are several things I must review with you as the Malfoy heir….before. First, and the
most important, is you must marry a Pureblood witch and secure our lineage.”

Draco’s eyes snapped up from the dirty floor to his father’s lined face. Deep in the bowels of
Azkaban prison, less than twelve hours from metaphorical death, his father was concerned
about the succession line?

“I will marry whomever I damn well please,” Draco spat.

“Please, save the dramatics, Draco. You know how these things work.”

“Or maybe I’ll never marry,” Draco mused just to watch his father’s brows knit together in
anger.
“You will become the head of Malfoy house, which at the moment is a difficult task. But with
your mother’s aid, you can return glory to our name and restore our place in society.”

Draco’s jaw dropped slightly. “Are you bloody mad? Mother is still on house arrest, I only
escaped imprisonment because of Saint Potter’s testimony, and–”

Lucius put up a hand to stop his son. “We backed the wrong horse. And we are now paying
the price. But that does not mean you cannot rebuild our reputation.”

Backed the wrong horse.

Paying the price.

Like their lives had been one long chess match, and his father had simply played the wrong
piece rather than raised Draco on racism and hatred.

Like Lucius had simply missed the attack of a bishop next to his king rather than forced
Draco to attempt murder at sixteen.

Like there wasn’t a permanent mark branded on Draco’s arm, burning with the foul potion
his aunt dug into his skin.

Like Draco’s back wasn’t a criss-cross of never healing wounds from her fucking knife and
‘coward’ wasn’t carved into his shoulder.

WE.

Backed.

The.

Wrong.

Horse.

Draco stalked toward the table with a deadly calm and put his hands down before his father.
He leaned forward until his eyes, still so bright, forced his father’s empty brown to meet his
harsh gaze. “I will NEVER have a child. I will never create another heir. The Malfoy line will
die with me because it fucking should.”

For the first time, Draco saw his father’s face whiten and shock register. Before he could
respond, Draco turned on his heel and left the cell.

He never saw his father again.

Draco woke in a cold sweat, his father’s weathered face still staring at him through the
darkness. He grabbed his bedspread in an unforgiving grip to ground himself to the present
moment. He wasn’t in Azkaban. Lucius was dead.
He took five deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Part of his release
conditions from the Ministry involved court-ordered mind healing. And although he found
most of the sessions a waste of time, the breathing exercises helped him more than he liked to
admit.

After several minutes, Draco released the comforter and could make out the dark shapes in
his room through the dim moonlight pouring in through the windows. It was still the middle
of the night, but he felt wide awake.

His mother’s confessions settled into Draco’s bones. While he still felt like a puppet pulled
by a hundred years old strings, Draco realized there were several things he could do.

First, he can force himself to relinquish his… crush on Hermione Granger. He was no longer
a besotted teenager, he was a grown man. Despite the fact that Draco had never faced
difficulty before in giving a witch up, he felt confident he had a way to do it.

Next, he can find Hermi– Granger , a suitable husband. One that was kind, keen to submit to
her every wish, family and career-wise, and would support her. Draco’s jaw clenched but he
refused to give the jealousy that came with that thought any foothold in his mind.

After, he could find himself a suitable Duchess of Wiltshire. He didn’t need a love match, he
needed a competent witch that would be fine without children and living quite separate lives.
Because even though he wouldn’t be cursed and barren, he still intended to keep his word to
his father.

Finally, he could use his inherited wealth to support Granger behind the scenes, funding her
initiatives or research or whatever it was that she would do to make the Wizarding World a
better place. And that, at least, would make him happy.

Laying in the dark, his heart rioted against this plan. Draco couldn’t stand the silence of his
thoughts for another moment. He sprang out of bed, didn’t bother to change, and took a
fistful of floo powder from the top of his bedroom mantle.

“Nott Estate!”

Theo jumped several feet in the air as Draco spun onto his bedroom carpet. “For fuck’s sake,
Malfoy!”

Draco noted that Theo was still in some of his finery from Pansy’s earlier this evening. His
shirt was unbuttoned most of the way and his sleeves rolled up. And the dark curls usually
neat on Theo’s head were dishevelled as if fingers had been run through them over and over.

None of this was unusual. What was unusual, was that Theo was seated at his desk. Writing.

“Are you… doing work?” Draco asked incredulously.

“What are you doing in my bedroom at half three?!” Theo thundered.

Draco ignored him, his issues totally forgotten for a moment. “I’m sorry, but are you
actually… looking at ledgers ?”
“What if I had been shagging someone?” Theo yelled.

“Is that scrap paper… to work out figures? ” Draco said disbelievingly.

Theo slammed shut the book in front of him and stuffed the papers around his desk
haphazardly into it. “I refuse to answer questions to the criminal breaking and entering into
my bed chamber in the middle of the night.”

“Theo, we’ve had our floos connected for fifteen years.”

Theo ran a hand through his hair and glared at his best friend. “What in Merlin’s ball sac
couldn’t wait until later today?” Draco’s teasing smile immediately dropped. Theo noticed
and his dramatic anger evaporated as well. “Oh, it’s bad.”

Draco nodded. “Do you have any alcohol in here?”

Theo raised his eyebrows but said nothing, pulling out some mead and two glasses from a
desk drawer. He poured them each generous glass and Draco sat in an ornate armchair by the
fire. Theo came to sit opposite him.

Draco drained his cup in one swallow and Theo immediately poured more. “I’m going to say
this once and it can’t leave this room and it must be forgotten.”

“Shit,” Theo muttered under his breath and finished his glass and poured a second helping.

“You were right. I more than fancy Hermione Granger. I was quite possibly on the brink of
telling her I didn’t think I could give her children but I would give her anything else to make
her happy, Pureblood society and my mother’s expectations be damned. I would have plenty
of money to fund whatever she wanted to study, and maybe I could have even come around
on the children bit.” Draco said the last sentence quietly, never having said or thought it
before this moment but knowing it was true.

Theo’s dark blue eyes stayed trained on Draco’s face as he ran a hand over it, scrubbing his
eyes. “But I didn’t read the fine print carefully enough. Isn’t that so like me?” Draco laughed
humorlessly. “So tunnel-visioned on the fact I had to marry that I didn’t bother to analyze
who I had to marry.”

“I have to marry a half-blooded witch at least. Or I not only lose my inheritance, my mother
the only home she’s ever known in her adult life but I will be cursed to be barren and never
produce any dirty-blooded Malfoy children.” Draco chugged the second serving of mead and
held his glass wordlessly out in front of Theo for a third.

Theo’s mouth was dropped open. “Fuck.”

Malfoy snorted. “Too right.”

“Mate…” Theo began, somber.

Draco held up a hand. “I can’t. I can’t talk about it any more, or think about it anymore. I
have to move forward. I have to focus on the plan.”
Theo’s brows raised. “You have a plan?” He finally moved to pour Draco another serving of
mead.

“Yes. I do. Step one, squash my feelings for Granger.” Draco held up fingers as he counted.
“Two, find her a proper husband. Three, marry some Pureblooded witch who doesn’t want
children. Four, fund whatever Granger wants anonymously.”

Theo stared at Draco for a full thirty seconds before laughing. “You realize three of the four
points in your life plan have to do with Granger, correct? You’re going to be signing yourself
up for a lifetime of pain if you follow her career! And her relationship with someone else!”

“I won’t be in pain,” Draco said confidently.

Theo rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. You’re a tough Malfoy with a stone-cold composure
rooted in deeply fucked up family practices, but Draco–”

“You’re going to help me sharpen my Occlumency skills again.”

Theo closed his eyes and put down his glass, rubbing his temples. “If you had marched in
here and said you were taking up nude ballroom dancing, that would be less surprising.”

“Please.” Draco said, the words coming out in a rasp. Theo’s eyes snapped open. Malfoys did
not beg. Draco had never begged.

“It’s going to be awful,” Theo warned.

“It was last time,” Draco agreed.

Theo shook his head, dismissing his best friend. “No, worse than last time. Last time you
were afraid for yourself and your family, and we were working to protect them and yourself.
This time…” Theo trailed off. “We’re going to try to do something against what you want.
We’re going to bury…” His feelings for Hermione.

The rest of the sentence doesn’t need to be said. “Does that change things?” Draco asked
hollowly.

“We’re going to find out,” Theo said grimly.

Draco turned slowly to face her, gently holding both her gloved hands in his. “Thank you for
accompanying me this evening,” he said lowly.

Draco’s voice reminded Hermione of velvet and she found herself uncounsciously leaning
into him. “Of course, thank you for the invitation.”

Draco lifted Hermione’s left hand and pressed a slow kiss to her gloved knuckles. Her breath
caught in her throat, leaving her body in a small gasp. And this time, instead of interrupting
their moment, Hermione held Draco’s heated gaze. Her hand was still millimetres away from
his mouth and she made no effort to return it to her side. She intertwined their clasped hands
and stepped impossibly closer to him.

Draco’s silver eyes held her warm brown ones in their cold fire. He didn’t dare to blink or
move his gaze away from hers, terrified to break whatever spell held this moment together in
its delicate threads.

He moved his hand still holding hers aloft down to her wrist, up to her elbow, her shoulder,
and the side of her throat. And when it finally found its place, hooked around the back of her
neck with his fingers twining into the base of her curls, he barely needed to exert any
pressure for Hermione’s lips to surge forward and press against his.

Draco’s mouth was smooth, firm, warm, and perfect. It was a far cry from Krum’s stiff kiss or
Ron’s (unfortunately) wet one; Hermione had never felt so instantly or entirely consumed by
touching someone.

After a few moments, Hermione threw her arms around Draco’s neck above her, pressing her
corseted torso against his jacketed one.

She heard a deep, gutteral moan from the back of Draco’s throat, and then their mouths were
open and tongues were dancing. Gods, that was the most incredible thing she ever heard.
Hermione wanted to know everything that she could do to make Draco lose control and make
more of those noises.

And if there was one thing Hermione was great at, it was research.

She moved her lips from his mouth to his jaw, continuing to bury her head in his neck and
kiss his ear, teeth coming out to nip at his earlobe.

“Fuck, Hermione,” he whispered. His hands wandered away from her neck and shoulders
down her back before coming to rest on her backside and pressing her to him.

She met his lips again hungrily, passionately, dragging her hands through his perfectly styled
hair and gripping the back of his head. Draco took the opportunity to kiss his way down her
neck now, and she couldn’t help but moan out loud when he reached the top of her jacket
buttons.

He let loose one single, deep laugh and leaned into Hermione’s ear. “Good girl.”

Hermione woke up guiltily, sat up and peered around the room to see if Ginny was already
awake, but couldn’t see through the pitch black. Hermione blinked and relaxed; it was still
the middle of the night. She shifted uncomfortably, realizing that between her legs was wet.
Her face burned in shame and she moved them apart so they were not touching.

She read enough anatomy textbooks to understand that her body was reacting to her dream
about Draco and absolutely forbade herself from recounting the details of it now unless her
condition worsened. She forced her eyes shut and willed herself to fall back asleep, both
hoping and not hoping in equal measure that she dreamed of Draco again.

When Hermione woke up again hours later, she was smiling. The intense silver of Draco’s
eyes lingered in her head and warmth broke out over her entire body and she kicked her feet a
bit before swinging herself out of bed.

Ginny groggily looked over to Hermione. “What has you so happy?”

Hermione tried to bite back her smile but she couldn’t. Ginny was suddenly more alert and
sat up. “No, seriously. The last time I saw you like this you scored more ‘O’s on your NEWTs
than any previous Hogwarts student.”

Hermione ran over to Ginny’s bed and sat on the foot, over the covers. “I need you to hold
your thoughts for a moment and just listen.” Ginny went to speak but nodded instead to show
her comprehension.

“I think… I know … I fancy Malfoy. It may be for nothing because I don’t think he could
ever marry me, or even fancy me back. But… Ginny. I’ve never felt like this! And I promise,
he’s different than when we were in school. You know he works for the Ministry, and even
the party last night… it was fun . I had fun with his friends. And I think… I think I should tell
him. Gryffindor bravery, right? The worst he could say would be he didn’t feel that way–”

“--Hermione–”

“I guess the worst thing would be he didn’t feel that way and he wouldn’t hold up his end of
the bargain to help me find a husband. Oh. I don’t think I told you, that’s why we started–”

“--Hermione–”

“But honestly, he’s shown so much interest, I don’t think I could be mistaken in thinking
there’s something there between us–”

“--Hermione!” Ginny yelled, grabbing her friend by the shoulders. “You’re rambling. You
always ramble when you’re over-excited.”

Hermione forcibly closed her mouth. “You’re right.”

Ginny took a breath and slowly released her arms. “So, from what I understand, you and
Malfoy had some sort of arrangement which is why he was courting you. But, he’s been
showing signs of interest and you’re interested back?”

Well. She made it seem so simple. “Yes.”

“And you want to tell him you’re interested?”

“Yes.”

Ginny nodded before getting out of bed herself and starting to pace. “The family… all of
society, actually, will go mental if you two are together. If you thought that one Howler was
bad, Hermione…”

Ginny’s point punctured a small hole in Hermione’s happy bubble. “I’ve endured it before.
Remember all that nonsense during the Triwizard Tournament?”

Ginny turned back with her arms crossed. “Yes, but Hermione, you can’t imprison and
blackmail everyone who writes negative things about you and Malfoy! We don’t even know
who Lady Bletherson is, and there will be too many others to count.”

“I didn’t imprison Rita Skeeter,” Hermione muttered. Ginny cast her a wildly dubious look.

Hermione took a deep breath before saying the next point slowly. “Ginny… Society will
always hate me.”

Ginny blinked at her. “That’s not true.”

“No, it is,” Hermione said seriously. “If it’s not for being muggle-born, then it’s for having
the audacity to be an ambitious woman. If it’s not for that, it will be for being a female war
hero, out of place among all the other male recipients of Order of Merlin. If not that, it’ll be
because my skin is darker than is fashionable. Ginny… this world, even the Wizarding world,
is not set up for me to win.”

Unshed tears gathered in Ginny’s eyes as she slowly walked and sat down next to Hermione.
“I… I don’t even know what to say, Hermione. I didn’t realize…”

Hermione nodded. “I know. Sometimes I’m willing to give up small pieces of myself to fit in,
do what Society wants, and make my life a bit easier; that’s why I’m looking for a husband in
the first place. But my heart, Gin…” A tear escaped her cheek. “It would be so nice to not
compromise my heart.”

Ginny put her hands on top of Hermione’s and squeezed. “I don’t want you to compromise
your heart. It’s what makes you who you are. Although I may wish your heart chose
someone, anyone , other than Malfoy…” Hermione chuckled. “I’m here for you. Always.”

Hermione felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest, and she felt hopeful for the first
time in months. Maybe she could have more than she dared to dream for herself.

Draco didn’t return to Malfoy Manor until early Saturday evening. Theo had been correct.
restrengthening his Occlumency walls was worse this time.

Much worse.

He forced Theo to invade every memory and fantasy of Hermione until he could completely
lock them away. Draco’s shining grey eyes were now dulled as he kept up strong enough
Occlumency shields to completely block any Hermione-related feelings.

Now, it was time to test them.

As soon as Draco stepped through his bedroom fireplace, he walked over to his desk and
opened his enchanted notebook.

Hermione’s last line from their previous conversation about children lay at the top of a new
page: I don’t know about seven, but one, two, or three sounds perfectly reasonable.

Draco closed his eyes and prepared for a twinge of pain, loss, or guilt but none came. Good.
His shields were working. When he opened his eyes once more, he realized there was a new
sentence below that must have been written at some point since last night.

I missed you at calling hours today. Are you coming by tomorrow to promenade? I have
something I’d like to discuss with you.

She missed him.

Those simple words managed to twinge his heart painfully, and Draco immediately closed his
eyes and pictured the words floating away in the distance of a calm lake. Then, he pictured
his mental shields as a physical brick wall, and put a new row of bricks on the top, one at a
time.

Draco felt nothing at all by the time he picked up his quill to write back.

I have a prior engagement. If there’s a detail you’d like to discuss, you can write it here.

The page remained blank for several moments before Granger’s words started to slowly make
their way across the page.

No, it can wait until I see you in person at the next function. The Longbottom’s ball next
Friday?

I will meet you there. I would like to schedule a dinner for you to meet my eligible
ministry contacts as potential suitors. Would two Fridays from now be suitable?

Yes, two Fridays from now is suitable.

Draco nodded to himself and almost shut the notebook before more words appeared.

Is all well with you? You don’t seem quite yourself.

Hermione could tell he was Occluding through a notebook. Draco clenched his jaw and
pictured the tall, brick wall around his heart. It took every ounce of effort he had not to write
‘ No, all is not well. ’

Instead: Yes, just tired. I will see you on Friday.

Draco slammed the notebook shut and climbed into his bed. He had a house elf bring him a
dreamless sleep potion and he took it in its entirety before shutting his eyes and falling asleep
by seven o’clock on a Saturday night.
He would need his rest to do what was necessary in the morning…visiting Miss Astoria
Greengrass for a proper promenade.

8th March, 1812

Dearest Gentle Readers,

It has been said that of all bitches, dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine. If
that should be true, then this author would like to show you her teeth. There are several
scandals taking place in our dear Wizarding Society that absolutely must be addressed.

How else will we be able to gossip about them at the Longbottom’s ball this coming Friday?

First, it has reached this author’s ears that a scandalous, secret engagement has taken place.
One Lord Ron Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class, and Miss Lavender Brown were
overheard claiming their deep love for one another and speaking of an existing proposal
yesterday while promenading. If such a contract exists, no one is privy to it in either the
Nobel Weasley or Brown houses outside of the two lovers.

This means Lord Ron Weasley has not asked for Lord Brown’s, the Baron of Northumberland,
permission to wed his only daughter. What in Merlin is a proposal without the permission of
a maiden’s papa?

Nothing, dear readers. Nothing.

Secondly, readers may recall my promise to solve the mystery surrounding the Duke of
Wiltshire and Miss Hermione Granger’s sudden friendly behaviour at several Society events.
Earlier this week the Pureblood Periodical printed a photo of the lovebirds seen on a tea date
at Rosa Lee’s in Diagon Ally (at a table for two, no chaperone seated amongst them), added
below this paragraph for the reader’s reference.

Upon inspection, the look on the Duke’s face seemed to point toward a blossoming attraction
for the muggle-born witch. The Duke also brought Miss Granger to an intimate dinner party
at Lady Parkinson Rosier’s estate this past Friday eve, and reports say they sat quite
intimately together on a love chair for most of the evening, only speaking to one another.

However, this photo (added below this paragraph) of the Duke and Miss Astoria Greengrass
was captured by an inside source yesterday morning, while the couple promenaded around a
park local to the Greengrass estate.

Only two conclusions are possible given these dizzyingly contrasting photographs: one, the
Duke of Wiltshire is a rake. He is using his status, looks, and manufactured charm to bewitch
two eligible Society witches at once, creating unrealistic and empty expectations for at least
one (if not both) of the women in question.
Two, the Duke of Wiltshire and Miss Granger decided to no longer continue their courtship
sometime between Friday eve and Sunday morn. What could drive either one away? Did the
Duke finally realize Miss Granger’s lineage wouldn’t match the rest of his family tree? Or did
Miss Granger remember the atrocities of the Second Wizarding War, a war in which the Duke
was on the wrong side?

While this author never believed there could possibly be an enduring affection, let alone a
marriage, between these two unlikely parties, it had been nice to believe for a moment that
blood purity was on its way to being well and truly antiquated in the marriage mart.

But, the world does not change quickly enough for that and Society moves even slower.

Until next time,

Lady Bletherson

Hermione heard Mrs. Weasley’s shill screaming from Ginny’s room. After reading Lady
Bletherson’s article delivered to her window, Hermione found herself frozen in shock.

Ginny took the article from Hermione’s still hands and flew her eyes over the text. When she
finished, her worried dark, brown eyes flicked up to find Hermione’s sad, light ones. “Oh,
Mione…”

She couldn’t speak. Ginny pulled her friend into a hug, and after several seconds Hermione’s
body thawed and she curled around the red-headed woman and let herself be comforted.

“Although it’s no shock Malfoy is an arse, I’m sorry you believed he wasn’t momentarily,”
Ginny muttered into Hermione’s ear from their hug.

Hermione pulled back to look at Ginny’s freckled face. “Shame on me,” she said quietly.

Ginny’s large brown eyes fell. “He’s an arse and an idiot. Imagine having to live in his cold
Manor and bear his unnervingly pale children? Get Howlers delivered to your window from
now until the end of time? Honestly, I think this is for the best. If you can find an attraction
for Malfoy, you can certainly find it for someone else.”

Hermione knew Ginny was correct… logically. But that was the problem with hearts, wasn’t
it? They were messy, illogical creatures ruled by emotion and feeling. Despite knowing that
life with Malfoy would have been extremely difficult, it didn’t stop her heart from wanting
it.

The worst part was she couldn’t even be cross with him. When Ron and Lavender originally
dated in the sixth year, it was purposely to enrage Hermione. Therefore, she was allowed to
be enraged.

Draco– Malfoy , she corrected herself (Hermione needed to start creating more distance
between herself and him to aid in her heart’s new quest to relinquish attachment to him). She
and Malfoy had a deal. Based on his writing from the journal the previous evening, he
intended to keep it. Draco would set her up with eligible bachelors.

It looked as if she already held up her end of the bargain; Draco had found a new Duchess of
Wiltshire.

It just wasn’t her.

A particularly loud “HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HER BEFORE HER FATHER??
BEFORE YOUR OWN FAMILY?” echoed from the kitchen. Hermione and Ginny
exchanged knowing glances.

“At least Ron is having a worse morning than you,” Ginny said cheerfully.

Hermione cracked a smile at her friend. Between Mrs. Weasley’s screaming and the
nauseating image her mind conjured of Malfoy and Astoria standing at a wedding altar
together, Hermione lost her appetite. “You go ahead to breakfast, I think I may lie in. I have a
headache.”

Ginny shot her friend a glance conveying that she was not fooled by Hermione’s weak lie but
would let it pass given the extenuating circumstances. “I’ll report back on how many dishes
Mum has shattered.” Ginny left the room and shut the door gently behind her.

Hermione breathed out a sigh of relief before climbing back into her bed, pulling the covers
over her head and letting the tears slip out that burned behind her eyes for the last twenty
minutes.

She remembered only two mornings ago when she told Ginny, “It would be so nice to not
compromise my heart.”

How foolish. How naive. What muggle-born witch in 1812 had the luxury of marrying for
love? Hermione vowed she would redouble her efforts to meet new eligible wizards at her
upcoming events. She would review Mrs. Weasley’s copious notes and avoid scandal. She
would be a desirable match.

But right now… for these few minutes, Hermione let herself sob out her disappointment.

Unfortunately, Draco’s Occlumency walls were rusty. He could not immediately become an
expert with one practice session after six years of negligence.

Lady Bletherson’s article was enough to put a deep crack through Draco’s shields, and he
instantly felt pain and panic flood through. Draco had to physically sit on his hands to
prevent himself from grabbing his quill and the enchanted journal to write an apology to
Hermione.

Draco wanted to tell Hermione that Astoria was a lovely witch, what everyone expected in
his wife, and he felt absolutely nothing for her.
Draco wanted to tell Hermione when he sat next to her Friday night his body felt more alive
than it ever had.

Draco wanted to tell Hermione he didn’t care how deeply his Dark Mark ached, he would
stand in dragon fire to just speak to her again. To make her laugh. To feel her waist under his
hands.

Draco crumpled the pamphlet and threw it to the ground before stumbling to his fireplace and
tossing a handful of Floo Powder in the small flames. “Nott Estate.”

Theo let out a colourful string of truly inventive curses involving dragon bullocks and Salazar
Slytherin when Draco spilt out onto his carpet. “What is wrong with you?! Can’t you owl like
a normal wizard?”

“Did you read it?” Draco asked hoarsely.

Theo’s irritated blue eyes instantly calmed. Their decades of friendship built enough of a
mutual understanding that Theo didn’t need to ask Draco what he was saying. “I did.”

“Do you think… she … read it?” Draco asked.

Theo bit the inside of his cheek. “I do.”

Draco’s hands were shaking as he pushed himself up to stand across from his best friend. “I
need you to help me rebuild my walls.”

Theo’s eyebrows raised. “How much of them are left?”

Draco swallowed. “Nothing.”

Theo swore and ran his fingers through his hair. “We were at it for nearly six hours Saturday,
it’s only Monday morning.”

“I know.”

“Your mind doesn’t want to shut this out, you’re working against yourself.” Theo shook his
head and began to pace. “Occlumency isn’t designed for this! It’s an extension of the brain’s
natural protection mechanisms against trauma; it works best as a form of protection. People
use it to cope with terrible things, to protect against threats, against wizards trying to pry
information out of their brains or access their treasured memories. I’ve never heard of anyone
using it to stop loving someone, especially against their own will.”

Draco took a deep breath. “What if I only focus on pain.”

Theo stopped walking and turned to his best friend. “Sorry?”

“My Dark Mark burns around Hermione. I’ve been taking pain potions to dull the sensation
and honestly, I don’t care about the pain, but if I focused on that feeling maybe Occlumency
would work more effectively.” Draco said calmly.
Theo’s jaw dropped open. “Your Dark Mark is still burning? How? Mine hasn’t since–”

“--Since the War, I know,” Draco said quietly. “Voldemort wanted to change the Dark Mark
in a way that would ensure followers lived by his blood purity rules; a forced obedience.
After he cast my charm… he had my Aunt Bellatrix ink over the mark with a potion he
developed. Or was Snape developed? I don’t know, honestly. It hurt like hell, and my mark
burns whenever I am in the company of people he wouldn’t have approved of.”

Just another way his Aunt Bellatrix had maimed his body permanently , he thought bitterly to
himself.

Draco wished he could have watched Mrs. Weasley kill her.

Theo sat down roughly at his desk’s chair. “I… I had no idea.”

“I know. The inking over happened only a month before the Battle of Hogwarts. I think he
was starting to feel the end approaching, and got desperate. I don’t know of any other Death
Eaters who Bellatrix did it to.”

“Have you tried an anecdote?” Theo asked.

Draco laughed dryly. “Only several hundred.” Although not an officially recognized Potion
Master, Draco had achieved an ‘O’ in his Potions NEWT exam and trained individually with
Snape, the only Potions Master in Western Europe, before his demise. If Draco had not found
a cure, there was little hope. And Theo knew it.

“Well that’s shit,” Theo said.

Draco cracked a grin at his friend’s blunt assessment. “It is.”

“But I think you’re right. We can use it. We can focus on the pain you feel around Hermione
and that will help strengthen your walls; your mind will think it’s protecting itself.”

Draco nodded, the smile slipping off his face. If he lost the pain of not having Hermione, he
would also lose the joy she brought him. That was the cost of Occlumency, it blocked
everything about the memory or subject you attempted to lock away.

Theo knew him well enough to know what was going through Draco’s head. “We don’t have
to though. Have you thought about…” he ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at
the rug before continuing, “telling Hermione everything? How you feel? The inheritance
stipulations? If you were about to tell her a few days ago, I don’t see why the–”

“She wants children, Theo,” Draco said. “Before, I could have potentially given them to her,
if I worked through my feelings about my father. And I could have funded any career of her
choice. Now? Now I would be dooming her to live without a family of her own and I
wouldn’t have my inheritance to support her.”

Theo paused and took a step closer to Draco. “Would you still want to be with Hermione if
she was infertile?”
Draco blinked slowly. “Of course, but I haven’t wanted children for a long time.”

“What about the galleons? Do you care about being rich?” Theo pressed.

Theo knew the answer to that question. If Draco simply wanted to be a rich heir he could;
instead he worked for the Auror Department. He donated his entire salary and then some to
the War Reconstruction effort. While most of his possessions were high quality, he didn’t
have an inordinate amount of them. Draco, at his core, was not materialistic. In the past,
Lucius’ need for opulence embarrassed him, especially the older he got. Draco felt shame at
the way he teased the Weasleys for their finances throughout school.

“No, I don’t.”

Theo looked directly into Draco’s bloodshot silver eyes. “And what if she feels the same for
you? What if Granger thinks the price is worth it? Shouldn’t you let her decide?”

“It would kill my mother.”

The truth hung heavy in the air. Being a part of the Wizarding Society was what Narcissa was
born and raised to do. Draco couldn’t stand the thought of her withering away to nothing in
some small cottage, ripped from the only life she had ever known. The war, Lucius’s trial,
and his death had nearly worn her away to nothing. Draco had enough on his conscience; he
couldn’t be responsible for his mother’s unhappiness and making her lose everything.

“Okay,” Theo conceded. “Let’s start again, then.”

And even though Draco could tell Theo thought this wouldn’t work and it was a lost cause,
they were brothers in circumstance rather than blood– Theo worked with Draco for several
hours until his walls were rebuilt.

Within twenty-four hours of Lady Bletherson’s released article, Mrs. Weasley had managed
to cajole her youngest son into speaking to the Baron of Northumberland, properly proposing
to Lavender Brown, and selecting a day (Thursday) for a formal family celebration dinner.

Hermione observed the Burrow’s chaos quietly behind a quill and parchment. For the first
time in her life, she had a difficult time concentrating; her thoughts unwillingly walked
toward Draco’s silver eyes and strong jaw more than she would care to admit. Hermione had
to forcibly pull them back to Mrs. Weasley’s notes on eligible bachelors, and despite knowing
this was her best (and only) course of action, Hermione couldn’t force herself to be invested
or feel anything other than numbness when contemplating her future.

Over the next few days, Hermione managed to narrow down her notes to five wizards she
would seek out at the Longbottom’s ball. The first was none other than Neville Longbottom
himself.

He was the first, and easiest, choice. They had attended school together, and fought in
Dumbledore’s Army and the Department of Mysteries together. His obsession with herbology
didn’t bother her, and Hermione was sure he would be kind and willing to let her live
whatever life she wanted. Of course, she had always seen him as an awkward, blithering,
brother type, but she was fond of his friendship. Friendship was a deeper connection than
many Soceity marriages were founded on.

Three of the men on her list Hermione didn’t know well at all: Grim Fawley, Ahmed Shafiq,
and Thomas Travers. Each of them was a member of Sacred 28 families and had vast
connections in their respective fields.

The final name on her list Hermione knew was in poor taste, but the small, bitter part of her
simply could not care: Theodore Nott.

Malfoy’s best friend.

Also eternally single, well-off, already the head of his estate with a fortune only bested by
Malfoy himself. Theo was funny and while, admittedly, a ne’er do well, he was overall
harmless. Hermione knew he hated blood purity and would be quite happy to leave her alone
to live a life of her choosing.

“Do you mind clearing this area, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked kindly, followed by a broom and
duster magically cleaning the parlour by themselves.

Hermione startled. “Yes! Of course, I apologize. I didn’t realize the time.” She gathered the
notes up in her arms and made sure to seal the ink bottles tightly.

“Well, I’m glad someone has found my notes useful!” Mrs. Weasley beamed, fluffing the
already plump couch cushions. “It’s quite smart of you to keep searching, given that Lady
Bletherson article earlier this week. Not to mention the Duke turning down our invitation for
this evening–”

Hermione nearly dropped everything out of her arms. “I beg your pardon?”

Mrs. Weasley stopped and looked at Hermione guiltily. “Oh! Before I finished the article, I
sent the Duke an invitation to Ron and Lavender’s celebration supper this evening. He sent
his regrets, which of course could mean nothing! This was all so last minute, it’s perfectly
reasonable he would already have plans.”

Mrs. Wealsey continued to chirp on, but Hermione heard nothing.

“I’ll take these upstairs,” Hermione cut in suddenly. Without waiting for the older witch’s
reply, she turned and ran up to her and Ginny’s room and slammed the door behind her.

Hermione threw the parchment rolls, quills, and ink bottles on her bed before dropping to her
knees and pulling the small, enchanted journal out from under the floorboard beneath her
bed. Surely Draco would have written to her and explained his declined invitation.

Hermione flipped through each blank page of the journal and had to come to terms with the
fact that Draco had not written to her.

The knowledge hit her with the force of a lightning strike. Hermione felt her bones rattle
around in her body, begging to expel the dark energy. The absolute last thing she felt capable
 of was sitting around a table to celebrate her ex- paramour’s engagement to a woman she
couldn’t stand.

But the Weasleys were her social hosts of the season, and to fail to show her face at dinner
would be unbearably rude. Hermione breathed in through her nose for seven counts and
exhaled out her mouth for eleven. After several rounds, she felt calmer. Her bones settled and
the nervous energy dissipated.

Hermione needed to simply do what she did best and lock Draco Malfoy in a small box and
store it away in the dark corners of her mind.

Witches and wizards had commended her on her bravery after the Wizarding War when the
truth was she was too busy to be anything but brave. There simply had been no other option.
No time to feel fear. To feel grief. To feel overwhelmed.

Now that the war was over and there was no evil to fight, she found herself still using her
same coping strategies when her emotions bubbled over.

Grab them.

Contain them.

Lock them away.

Draco was such a recent addition to her life that she found his box was quite small. She
pictured tossing it at the base of her skull, in the deepest darkest corner of her brain.

It was next to the large box her thoughts of her parents were locked in. Next to the memory
of her torture at Bellatrix’s hand.

Ginny entered the room and Hermione lifted herself from the floor, at ease, and forcibly
calm.

“Are you all right?” Ginny asked worriedly, seeing the mess of quills and parchments strewn
across Hermione’s bed.

“Of course,” Hermione said. Ginny’s concerned gaze found her friend several times as they
dressed silently for Ron and Lavender’s engagement supper.

Chapter End Notes

I have written the next few chapters! Huzzah! So there should be some regular updates
for a bit.
 My Sin is Purged
Chapter Summary

Tensions come to a head at the Longbottom's ball.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.

-Act 1, Scene 5, Romeo & Juliet

Hermione had one goal in mind for her appearance at the Longbottom’s ball: to catch
attention.

Judging by the looks on the entire room’s faces when she entered the ballroom, Hermione
thought she accomplished her aim thoroughly. Her dress was a bewitching gold, looking like
the liquid metal had been poured over her body and somehow frozen in its moment of highest
shine.

The gown’s straps were slender, bearing her upper arms in a borderline scandalous way.
Hermione had enlisted Ginny’s help to wind her curls into an elegant updo, and she used
some clever spell work to weave thin golden threads throughout that caught the light.

They were accompanied by Mrs. Weasley, Harry, Ron, Lavender, and George this evening;
most of the family was saving their energy for the Quidditch Gala the following night.
However, Ron and Lavender were eager to show off as an officially engaged couple, Harry
was forced to show his support begrudgingly to his best friend, and George couldn’t miss the
opportunity to talk to potential investors. Hermione hoped Fred would accompany them as
well, feeling closer to him after their evening at the Parkinson dinner, but he claimed illness
and stayed behind.

Hermione forced her gaze forward rather than immediately scouring the crowd for a familiar
tall head of white-blonde hair. She was attempting to infuse a sense of purpose and optimism
in her spirit, although Malfoy’s silence still pulled naggingly at any spark of joy she
experienced– like a destructive gust of wind on a small spark, extinguishing if before its fan
into flame.

Luckily, Ginny was enthused enough for the both of them while getting ready for the
evening. The red-headed witch kept talking about Dean Thomas’ best qualities, wondering
what they would dance to at the night’s engagement, and fantasizing out loud about the
perfect proposal (it involved a Quidditch pitch and a snitch that could be caught and opened
to reveal a ring).

Dean Thomas quickly made his way toward their group by the entrance and asked for Ginny
to open the dance with him, and the handsome pair made their way to the edge of the
dancefloor, gloved hand in gloved hand.

Hermione felt a flutter of movement by her side and looked down to see Harry tensely open
his hand and close it into a tight fist. She looked up to her best friend’s face to see his jaw
clenched. Harry looked at her out of the corner of his eye and gave her a small shake of the
head as if to say, I don’t want to hear it.

Fine. Harry was perfectly well within his right to watch his chance of happiness dance the
evening away with another suitor.

George and Harry quickly walked away toward the refreshment table and Hermione was left
with Mrs. Weasley as Ron and Lavender took to the floor. Hermione tracked the couple’s
progress to the dance floor and there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

Looking achingly, heart-wrenchingly, handsome in a dark grey set of dress robes.

And in his aristocratic arms the blonde, lithe form of Astoria Greengrass spun around him in
flawless steps on the dance floor.

The sight felt like a punch to her stomach, so much so that Hermione’s gloved hand moved
over her corset to ensure nothing had struck her.

“You look astonishing, my dear.” Mrs. Weasley said kindly, cutting through Hermione’s pain.
She ripped her eyes away from Malfoy and Astoria and took a moment to soak in Mrs.
Weasley’s words; they pricked a sense of joy and sadness in Hermione. How she wished her
own mother could be here and say those words.

No.

She couldn’t think about her parents tonight; that box was too big and terrifying to open in
public.

So Hermione took a breathe and refocused on the present moment. “Thank you, Lady
Weasley. May I ask a question?”

“Of course, dear!” Mrs. Weasley looked delighted.

Hermione saw Theo across the room, leaning against the far wall with a cocktail in his hand.
“Are women allowed to ask gentlemen to dance?”

Mrs. Weasley’s smile dimmed slightly. “I suppose so. It is not often done, but there’s nothing
directly forbidding–”
“Thank you,” Hermione cut in, before picking up the hem of her dress slightly and making
her way through the crowd to the familiar Slytherin.

Theo whistled lowly when she approached. “Merlin, Granger. You’re stunning.”

Hermione took a step closer to him. “Thank you. Would you dance with me?”

Theo’s eyebrows raised high, disappearing behind his dark, curly hair. “Well, this is a first.
I’ve never been asked to dance myself.”

Hermione held out her gloved hand. “And?”

Theo took out his wand and vanished his drink before grabbing her hand. “And… I’d be
delighted.”

They walked silently to the floor and Theo immediately took her into his arms. His posture
wasn’t as stiff or perfect as Draco’s was when they danced; it was more relaxed, but no less
elegant.

“What do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?” Theo asked bemusedly.

“I have a question,” Hermione began carefully.

Theo’s smile fell. “If it’s about Malfoy–”

“No,” Hermione said, perhaps too quickly. “It has nothing to do with Dr–Malfoy.”

“Proceed, my fair lady.”

“Have you thought of marriage?” Hermione asked bluntly. With other wizards she would
need to use more tact, but Theo and her were familiar enough that she felt she could skip the
niceties.

“It’s a lovely institution,” Theo said breezily.

Hermione glared at him. “I’m quite serious, Theo.”

“My my, you are full of surprises tonight,” he said and took several moments to answer. “I
don’t intend on marrying. I have full access to my trust and estate, and I enjoy the…
company of plenty of witches and… wizards,” he said the last word quietly.

Hermione wasn’t phased by Theo’s declaration. “Your dalliances could continue. I don’t need
a real husband, I just need one that will allow me my freedoms. I plan to work and earn my
own income, so your fortune could be left untouched. We could live completely separate
lives other than Society events.”

Theo’s dark blue eyes looked into her warm, brown ones and his tone lacked its former
humour, but he retained his good nature. “Asking for a dance and my hand in marriage in one
evening, that’s forward of you, Granger.”
Hermione smiled smally. “I realize this offer doesn’t hold much enticement for you. But, I do
believe Society will look on you more seriously with a wife, which could be lucrative in
terms of business endeavours. I would also be open to discussing children, even if they were
conceived with the help of magic or muggle science rather than traditionally–”

“Granger,” Theo cut in softly. “You are a stunning woman and the most intelligent witch of
our age. You’re even enjoyable company when you let loose and aren’t swotty. Any union
with you holds plenty of temptation on its own, but I cannot marry you.”

Hermione cast her eyes at the floor as the song ended. She took a step back from Theo’s grip,
rejection and embarrassment burning up her cheeks. “Of course. It was foolish–”

“--Hey hey, no.” Theo put his finger under Hermione’s chin to tilt it up and their eyes could
meet. The band started another song and he pulled her back into his arms; Hermione could
tell he was trying to comfort her and appreciated the effort.

Theo looked over his shoulder. Hermione followed his eyes and saw Malfoy staring at them
over Astoria’s eyes. Hermione immediately broke her gaze and looked back to Theo before
she could read into the moment and analyze Draco’s gaze.

Theo looked back down at her, more resolutely. “It’s not a foolish idea. You’re offering the
perfect life for most blokes, and I’m confident you will find someone soon who can give
what you’re looking for. But I … can’t.”

Hermione looked into his pained gaze for a moment. “Is this because of Malfoy?” Theo gave
her a knowing look but said nothing. Hermione scoffed. “Malfoy and I haven’t been
genuinely courting.”

“I know,” Theo said simply and spun her effortlessly around his finger before pulling her
back into his grip.

“And he’s clearly found the next Duchess of Wiltshire,” Hermione nodded to him and Astoria
on the opposite side of the dance floor.

“It appears so,” Theo said hesitantly.

“Then what could possibly be the obstacle?” Hermione said, bitterness seeping out into her
words.

Theo leaned closer to her ear. “For an incredibly bright witch, you are being shockingly
stupid.”

Hermione snapped back and glared at him. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not the one who’s
been spotted courting other wizards! I would happily be the object of Malfoy’s affection, but
he picked someone else . I’m doing my best to move forward.”

“There’s that Gryffindor feistiness,” Theo said through a smile. “Perhaps turn it toward
someone else?”
Hermione humph ed and bowed to Theo as the dance closed. Before she could walk away, he
grabbed her wrist. “If for some ridiculous reason you don’t find a match, you’re always
welcome to come live in spinsterhood at Nott Estate. I’ve got plenty of rooms, too much
money, and a potions lab that’s mostly unused. But I don’t think it will come to that.”

Hermione’s anger melted away and she regretted snapping at Theo. “Thank you, Nott. That’s
incredibly kind of you.”

“Ugh, I hate being sincere. You’re welcome. I need to wash this kindness down with some
whiskey if you’ll excuse me.” Hermione chuckled as Theo bowed to her and immediately
walked his way back toward the bar.

Hermione looked after him and pondered his words, perhaps she should be directing her ire
towards Malfoy himself. His radio silence was so abrupt after their last night together, she
felt she deserved some explanation–

“May I have your next dance?”

Hermione spun back to see Draco, gloved hand out, jaw tense, with eyes flat and colder than
usual. For a moment she felt like saying no, just so he had to feel a sliver of the pain she felt
herself over the past week.

But gods, she could smell him this close. His cologne with hints of the forest in fall and
parchment… how could she possibly say no?

“Yes, my lord,” Hermione said before bowing and taking his hand.

Draco’s arms were immediately strong and possessive, pulling her closer to him than he ever
had in public. Their torsos were nearly flush, and Hermione stared at his freshly shaven jaw,
rather than look up into his eyes. She was already flustered enough by their closeness, she
couldn’t get lost in his silver gaze too.

His hand was tighter around her waist than she remembered, and it felt deliciously like he
was caging her in, keeping her close. Like her dream…

“You danced with Nott for an extended period of time,” Draco commented stiffly.

Hermione was glad for the interruption to her disastrous train of thought. “Yes.”

They moved in silence and Hermione was unwilling to be the one to break it. She felt Draco’s
hot breath closer to her ear. “What did you discuss?”

“My situation,” Hermione replied curtly. Draco’s hand that was interlocked with hers
tightened its hold. “I asked if he would be open to an arranged marriage, and he declined but
did offer me a place in his home if I fail to secure a husband.”

Draco stopped moving and Hermione bumped into his chest as she attempted to continue the
next dance step. She was finally forced to look up into Draco’s eyes.
They were narrowed… in anger? In jealousy? In disgust? And yet, they weren’t their usual
silvery-blue. They were dull, flattened, like an unmoving photograph of what she knew them
to be. Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion– what was wrong with him?

“Come,” he said curtly. He took Hermione by the arm and discretely led them to the far
corner of the ballroom, pausing there wordlessly until the end of the dance. He let go of
Hermione to clap for the band and then looked back down at her with the same vacant
expression.

Draco took out his wand and removed the silver chain from his waistcoat. “ Appare Vestigium
,” he muttered. The chain turned gold for a moment and then returned to its usual shade.

“A tracking spell?” Hermione whispered.

Draco put the chain in Hermione’s hand and closed her fingers around it. “Give me five
minutes, then follow the chain.”

He left before Hermione could ask a single question and she was left with her mouth hanging
slightly open.

What on earth had gotten into him?

And was it worth risking her reputation to follow?

Draco’s Occlumency shield was being held together by a thread. The first crack had been
looking over to see Hermione ask Theo to dance. She asked him.

He didn’t blame Theo for agreeing; it would have been rude and embarrassed her not to. But
then they danced… and danced. For more than one song. It was inappropriate for pairs
outside of courtship, and Theo could not court Hermione.

Obviously, there was an explanation! Theo was his best mate and had spent hours helping
Draco bury his feelings for Hermione.

So Draco danced with her and asked for an explanation. “I asked if he would be open to an
arranged marriage.”

Hermione asked Theo to marry her.

Draco’s vision splintered; his mind felt like a cracked egg sizzling in a pan. Slices of pain cut
through his wall. He went from completely numb to on fire; his Dark Mark burned, his heart
was either in his throat or his stomach and it all took his breath away.

He blindly gave Hermione his chain and gifted himself five minutes. He burst into the empty
hallway off the ballroom and gulped for air, like emerging from underwater.
Draco fumbled down Longbottom’s unfamiliar corridors, opening random doors until finding
one that led to a small library or study. Fine. He immediately collapsed on a chaise and buried
his face in his hands.

Deep breaths.

Strengthen your Occlumency walls brick by brick. Think of each stone forming something
strong and impenetrable.

By the time Hermione turned the door handle four and a half minutes later, Draco wasn’t
fully Occluding, but he had a leash on his pain and fear.

“What in Godric’s name is the matter with you?!” Hermione asked crossly once she closed
the door behind her.

“I–”

“No,” she spat. “I’m not quite finished! I’m not sure if this is some Slytherin game if you
enjoy teasing a stupid Gryffindor, but I won’t have it! Your attentions, and lack thereof, are
giving me whiplash! And I will not subject myself to such torment.”

“Hermione–”

“You almost kissed me last Friday, did you not?” she demanded.

Draco took in the red on Hermione’s cheeks, the few tendrils of golden laced curls that had
escaped her carefully twisted hair, and the sinful metallic dress that hugged each of her
curves carefully.

She was fucking stunning. The thought sailed through his Occlumency walls and shattered
them like a rock through a glass wall.

“I did,” he admitted. The burn in his Dark Mark spiked, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Right.” Hermione looked victorious for a moment, as she had in school when answering a
difficult question in class first. Draco loved that look.

Then she continued her tirade, “Which was not part of our agreement! Now, apparently,
you’re courting Astoria and ignoring me. But then , you demand to speak to me in private,
against all rules of Society! You cannot have it all, Malfoy. You cannot have us both. We
either stick to our arrangement, modify it, or, or…” Hermione gestured around herself wildly,
trying to pull the proper words out of thin air.

Draco took two steps closer to Hermione and she flinched but didn’t move away. “Or?” he
asked.

“Or, we sever all ties.”

Draco sucked in a harsh breath and shut his eyes. He called on every ounce of Pureblooded
composure in his blood to pull a semblance of his Occlumency shield into place; he wouldn’t
survive this conversation otherwise.

“I apologize, I will uphold our agreement. I’ve invited several eligible candidates for your
dinner next week.” Draco kept his eyes trained on the floor.

Hermione took several steps forward this time, and put her gloved hand on his cheek, gently
guiding his face until their eyes met. “Where did you go?” She asked quietly. “You did that
this week–grew cold and formal. What’s wrong?”

Fuck, she knew. How did she know? How could Hermione see through him so easily? Had
she always? All those times in Hogwarts he was watching her, studying her, trying to
outsmart her… had she been doing the same?

He looked into her pleading golden brown eyes and they suddenly widened in shock. “You’re
Occluding,” she whispered. Draco closed his eyes and leaned into her touch on his cheek.
“Why? What’s wrong?”

Draco’s Dark Mark felt like it was trying to burn through all his flesh to reach his bone. His
head ached with the difficulty of holding the splinters of his fragmented shield together. He
opened his eyes and meant to dismiss Hermione’s concern, but saw blood.

Small dots of red blood were seeping through Hermione’s satin cream glove clutching the
side of his face.

Right in the spot where his Aunt Bellatrix carved into her.

The dam barely holding back his wave of emotion cracked.

Hermione’s eyes immediately softened. “There you are.”

“You’re bleeding,” he said hoarsely before gently gripping the gloved hand on his face.

Hermione looked down at her arm and scowled. “I must have forgotten to change the
bandages, it’s nothing–”

“Please,” Draco said quietly. He had to fix it. He couldn’t stop what happened to Hermione
on his drawing room floor, but he could help her right now.

Hermione’s breath caught, not used to hearing Draco’s voice so raw. “All right.”

Draco brought her arm down from the side of his face to cradle it between them. He pinched
the tips of her gloved fingers to gently pull the glove off, letting it fall to the floor.
Hermione’s left forearm was tightly wrapped with a bandage that matched her brown skin,
but red splotches marred its surface, glinting slightly in the firelight from the wall lanterns.

He paused for a moment and removed his gloves before unwrapping the bandage. In a
different moment, Draco would have paused to soak in the marvel that was their bare skin
touching. But right now, his focus was purely on Hermione’s revealed scar.

Mudblood.
The letters were jagged, angry, and looked as if they were carved yesterday. Just like his own
marks that marred his back.

Draco felt his eyes well with tears, the pain of seeing it so closely after all these years nearly
taking his breath away.

How could she even stand to be in the same room as him? How could Hermione let him touch
her like this? He was Bellatrix’s nephew. He tried to kill Dumbledore. He was born from a
rotten family tree and was cursed to prove it.

“I’m all right,” Hermione said softly. “It doesn’t hurt much, it just doesn’t heal either.”

“I know,” Draco nodded and looked back into her amber eyes. “She cut me too.”

They were silent as Draco cast several healing charms on her arm. Then, he cleansed her
bandage and added a few cooling enchantments that he used on his own bandages. He
wrapped her arm with the care of handling something precious.

“Oh, did you add a cooling charm? I hadn’t thought of that. That’s quite brilliant.” Hermione
said, her voice breathless.

Draco bent down and retrieved her glove from the floor, before cleaning the stain and sliding
it back over her arm slowly. He wanted to savour the touch of his bare fingers on her arm
now that she was more comfortable. He pulled the glove all the way up to her upper arm and
let his fingers drift up to her slender golden strap.

Hermione shivered in pleasure at his touch.

Draco didn’t think.

He didn’t breathe.

He merely surged forward and pressed his mouth against Hermione’s because the only thing
that hurt more than doing so was not doing so.

She made a small noise of surprise, but immediately sank into the kiss, moving her incredibly
soft lips in response to his. Her hand slid from Draco’s cheek to the back of his neck and he
gripped her waist like he did earlier on the dance floor, pulling her flush against his body.

Her scent was dizzying. Her taste was a beacon, a curse, a prayer, a damnation.

All he could think was more, more, more . The word throbbed in time with heart, in the pulse
of his fingertips as he held her.

Draco ran his tongue expertly over Hermione’s lips and she parted them immediately, letting
him enter her mouth and deepen the kiss. She let out a contented sigh as their tongues finally
met, like she had been waiting for this her entire life.

Maybe she had.

Maybe he had too.

His Dark Mark felt like a bone-deep burn, but Merlin, he didn’t care. He would take the
cruciatus curse, Aunt Bellatrix’s knife, or whatever fucked up form of torture this life could
think to throw at him as long as he could just keep kissing Hermione .

Draco walked them slowly backwards until Hermione’s back lightly bumped the built-in
bookshelves behind her. Draco ripped his mouth from hers to kiss her jaw, her ear, her neck,
anywhere and everywhere that was available to him above her gown.

Hermione’s breath was coming in small pants and it made Draco feel feral . He was a man
undone. He was reduced to a mouth and nerves and hands and was incapable of anything else
other than worshipping the witch in front of him.

Was it magic? Did she douse herself in Amortentia? Did she have veela blood? Because
Draco had never felt this utter… consumption before in his life. No witch elicited this
response from him. No one felt like her, tasted like her, was her.

Hermione’s fingers moved to his hair and yanked on it in a clear demand for his lips to return
to hers. It felt like electricity spiked through his scalp through his entire body and he
moaned.

Moaned.

From her touching his bloody hair.

Their lips crashed together again, tongues immediately caressing each other and—

“Hermione? I found that— BLOODY HELL!”

Draco shot away from Hermione suddenly, the moment shattered between them. He was on
the other side of the room, gasping for breath before he looked up to see the intruder.

Ginny Weasley stood in their doorway, shocked with her jaw dropped. She quickly schooled
her features and shut the door behind her. “What are you thinking?” she hissed at both of
them.

Draco opened his mouth to respond, to take the blame, but Ginny held up her hand to cut him
off. “You need to leave this room. Now. And for Godric’s sake, walk by a mirror and fix
yourself.”

At one point in his life, Draco would have challenged a command from the Weaslette, but
now was certainly not the time. He nodded to her once and took several strides toward
Hermione. “I’ll write,” he said, kissing her once on top of the head before exiting the room.

Once the door shut behind him, Ginny turned to Hermione with wide eyes. “Are you mad?”

Hermione was still pressed against the bookcase on her tip-toes. She realized this and set her
slippered heels back on the floor. Ginny descended on her and gripped her friend’s upper
arms. “If you would have been caught you would have been ruined. Mum noticed you left!
She sent me to find you.”

Hermione’s stomach sank. Between the dizzying kiss and the threat of total ruination, she felt
slightly nauseous. “I didn’t…”

Ginny waited for Hermione, her normally level-headed and loquacious friend, to finish her
sentence. When she didn’t, Ginny’s eyes softened. “It’s all right. Let’s get you sorted out and
back to the ball. We can discuss this later.”

Hermione’s shock slowly started to fade and she only felt an aching emptiness from Draco’s
departure. “I would like to go home.”

Ginny shook her head. “We can’t draw any attention to ourselves. Wherever we leave a
function early, it always appears in Lady Bletherson’s column. The best way to avoid
suspicion is to go back into the ball and pretend you are having a grand time.”

Hermione gave a watery chuckle, “That may be difficult.”

“You’re a damn Gryffindor,” Ginny reminded her. “Don’t let a wizard make you forget that.”

Hermione steeled her spine. “You’re right. Fix me.”

Ginny finally smiled before casting several charms to fix Hermione’s appearance. When she
was done, Ginny took her friend’s hands in her own and stared into her slightly distraught
gaze. “I have found the eligible bachelors on your list. Let us go get Harry to make
introductions and find you a husband.”

Hermione nodded vigorously and followed her friend back into the ballroom. Hermione had
under 60 seconds to reign in the fracturing pieces of her heart and bind them together enough
to survive an evening in polite society.

That kiss– no .

She could not possibly reflect on that kiss and then momentarily go and stand tall and smile
at other gentlemen.

Grab the memory.

Contain the memory.

Lock it away.

Her old war coping mechanism thrummed in her brain, and before she could think twice it
was exactly what she was doing. The memory of Draco’s lips was soon buried underneath a
pile of emotional junk and trauma.

Too bad her lips still tingled. No amount of compartmentalization could stop the effect
Draco’s body had on her.
Ginny chanced a look back at Hermione before opening the doors back into the ballroom.
“Ready?” she said encouragingly.

Hermione nodded; there was no choice. She had to be.

And so, back into the lion’s den, they went. Mrs. Weasley instantly found the pair and started
chattering about Lord Longbottom, Lord Fawley, Lord Shafiq, and Lord Travers—
Hermione’s self-selected bachelors.

“How was the dance with Lord Nott?” Mrs. Weasley asked excitedly.

Hermione felt like she was underwater. Had she danced with Theo tonight? Or was that
months ago?

Ginny saw Hermione’s faraway look and jumped in for her. “It went well! We were just
discussing that on the way back from the wash room. They danced twice!”

Mrs. Weasley’s smile cracked open like a pistachio shell. “Well, that’s just wonderful, dear.
Unfortunately, word from the other mamas is that Lord Longbottom will be proposing to
Miss Abbott later this evening, so I rather think him to be wasted energy on your part. Mind
you, you are much more handsome than she, but she has a greenhouse and you know how
that man is about his plants.”

How Mrs. Weasley could speak so much without taking a breath was one of life’s greatest
mysteries. “I’m happy for Lord Longbottom, they sound like a perfect fit,” Hermione said
robotically, but not insincerely.

“Aren’t you kind!” Mrs. Weasley beamed. “Perfect, I’ll grab Harry and have him introduce
you to the others. Ginevera, Lord Thomas was searching for you by the refreshments.”

Ginny nodded once and left them.

For the rest of the evening, Hermione smiled. Hermione met Lord Fawley, Lord Shafiq, and
Lord Travers in a dreamlike haze.

She could only focus on the faint tingle in her lips and the dark corner of her heart where
Draco was buried. There was no room for anything else, so Hermione danced prettily and
said little.

In other words, Hermione was the perfect Society debutante.

It was Hermione’s most successful Society event to date.

After leaving Hermione and Weaslette in the study, Draco knew there was no salvaging this
evening for himself. His Occlumency walls were destroyed neatly and entirely, like he had
never practiced a day in his life. He could absolutely not return to the ballroom, dance with
Astoria, and see Hermione dancing with other wizards. He would end up burning the entire
property to the ground and fucking her in its ashes.

With his defences shot, Draco moved closer to the ballroom doors and shouted Theo’s name
in his head– hoping the Legilimens was paying enough attention to hear him.

THEO THEO THEO THEO–

“Fuck mate,” Theo burst out of the ballroom. “You know, for a Legilimens that’s like yelling
in their ear!” Theo took in Draco’s flushed and haggard appearance and unconsciously
scanned Draco’s brain for an explanation.

Hermione’s glove dropping to the floor.

The sound of her back bumping against the bookshelf.

Her moan–

Theo untangled himself mentally from Draco’s memories. “I see our efforts of ridding you of
your infatuation with Granger have been futile.”

Draco glared. “Your powers of observation remain as sharp as a flobberworrm, Nott. Thank
you. Please give Miss Greengrass my regrets and a fitting excuse as to why I will not be
returning to this evening’s festivities.”

Theo bowed and looked his best friend over once more before retreating back into the ball.
The door shed warm glowing light over Draco for a moment before one again leaving him in
the dim hallway.

Draco let out a long sigh and ran his fingers through his hair, one strand twisting and pulling
around his Malfoy signet ring. “Fuck,” his whispered to no one but himself.

He kissed Granger. Snogged Granger, within an inch of her life.

And he would give any earthly or spiritual cost to do it again. This is why he needed to take
himself home immediately; before he compromised her in front of an entire ballroom and had
to marry her on the spot.

Draco slowly walked out of Longbottom’s estate until he reached a safe Apparition point and
materialized in his bedroom. He often opted to use the front door to alert his mother that he
had returned home, but he couldn’t bear her piercing gaze or her questions tonight.

Draco slowly peeled off his shoes, formal dress robes, his underclothes, until he was left bare
in the middle of his room.

If only Hermione could be here with him.

The simple thought sent his mind reeling, and he couldn’t stop hearing the noises she made
earlier that evening when he kissed her neck… her chest…
Instantly, he was hard.

His swollen cock demanded release, and Draco knew he would not get any of the other tasks
he wanted to accomplish tonight done if he didn’t succumb to his baser urges and rid himself
of them.

The damage had already been done in that study, what else could it harm to remember it
now?

Hermione’s hands moving to the back of his neck, pulling his hair…

Draco slowly began stroking himself, shocked at how quickly the pleasurable sensation
spread.

Draco had fantasized about Hermione a hundred times since they struck their bargain (and he
was thrilled his Dark Mark remained dormant when he was away from her), but for the first
time, he had real memories to replace his fantasies. He knew what she tasted like. He knew
how her breath sounded when he explored her mouth with his tongue.

His hand pumped faster, a tingling pulling tight at the base of his spine.

And Merlin, if the Weaslette hadn’t walked in, Draco wouldn’t have stopped. How could he?
He would have pulled those scandalously thin gold straps to the side and freed her breasts
from her corset. He ached to see the perfect mounds against his pale hands.

Draco’s orgasm came suddenly, taking him aback like a shove over the edge of a cliff when
you had intended to stay on high ground.

In the aftermath, Draco’s heated blood cooled. He found his wand and spelled away the mess,
tugging on a pair of old pyjama pants. For the first time in weeks, his brain felt clear and his
heart wasn’t aching.

But there was much to do; Draco had two letters that needed writing before he could sleep.

He retrieved a fresh piece of parchment from his writing desk and dipped a quill in emerald
green ink.

Dear Head Auror Jones,

I am writing to request access to the cursed dagger of Bellatrix Lestrange, as catalogued

by Harry Potter at the end of the Second Wizarding War. My purpose to develop a
stronger anecdote potion that can help present and future wizards infected by similarly
cursed blades.

Sincerely,

Auror Draco Malfoy

While examining and disabling dark artefacts was his confidential job within the Auror
department, he had never asked for permission to examine a specific object; the department
merely sent him objects they needed his assistance with.

And although his Aunt’s scars covered his back, Draco had never sought out her blade to
make an anecdote for himself before, because the simple fact was that Draco did not believe
he deserved his scars to be healed. In a twisted way, their pain assuaged his guilt over the
atrocities he had witnessed and passively allowed to take place during the war. His suffering
was deserved; a logical consequence to his actions.

But Hermione’s suffering?

That was unbearable.

If it was the last thing he did, Draco Malfoy would see the scars scrubbed clean from her
skin.

With that letter sent off with his personal owl, Draco retrieved his charmed journal. Taking a
deep breath, he opened the small book and saw his last note to Hermione: Yes, just tired. I
will see you Friday.

How foolish of past Draco, to believe his Occlumency walls would stand a chance against the
most formidable witch of their generation. With his emotions fully flooding his body, Draco
wrote.

Dear Hermione,

I want to first apologize for my behaviour over the last week. You were correct to call
out my treatment of you, it has been far less than you deserve. I would like to offer an
explanation, that is no excuse, for my actions.

I have grown fond of you, as evidenced by my affection shown last weekend and this
evening. After the dinner at Pansy’s last weekend, I was made aware of additional
stipulations in my inheritance clause. Unless they are followed, I will lose the Malfoy
estate. These stipulations force me to marry a half-blood or greater magical-blooded
witch by my 25th birthday.

While I am not incredibly attached to the manor or my fortune, it is the only life my
mother has known. I am unwilling to add to her pain and discomfort with her tenuous
health.

Given these circumstances, I believed distancing myself from you was the only possible
course of action, as a courtship between us is legally impossible. I attempted to regain
my Occlumency skills to bury the affection I felt for you. I began courting Astoria
Greengrass to fulfil my obligations, but I do not have an emotional connection to her. I
 should have explained this to you directly, rather than letting you read about it in Lady
Bletherson’s column. I offer my deepest apologies.

And I find myself needing to apologize again for my actions tonight. I should have not
put you in a precarious position, first by asking for a private audience, and then with
my physical advances. You deserve to be treated as a proper witch in Society, and I have
sorely lacked in that area.

My only resolve is to henceforth behave more appropriately. As we’ve discussed, I have

organized a dinner next Friday at the Manor with eligible suitors for you. As far as I am
concerned, you have upheld your end of our bargain, and I free you from any further
obligation to me.

Moving forward, I plan to be the utmost champion of your happiness.

Yours,

Draco

Chapter End Notes

Ahhh my favorite chapter to date! Thank you all of those who read, leave kudos, and
comments. I'm so happy there are some people who get enjoyment from my writing.
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!