Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

((Art credit: alixfelicis))

Hermione Granger wrenched her arm away from Ron Weasley as soon as her feet hit the pavement. She opened her brolly in one fluid motion and marched off in the pouring rain. If Ron got soaked by the summer storm, it was less than he deserved. 

“Come on, ‘Mione.” 

“No, you come on. We’re going to be late.”

Ron sighed and caught up to her, shaking his head like a wet dog as soon as he found sanctuary under the brolly’s canopy. Cold raindrops splattered on Hermione’s face. She clutched the handle with a white fist. This wasn’t how she’d hoped to spend her Saturday.

“Here it is,” Ron said as they approached a row of brass revolving doors. “Serpenti.”

She couldn’t get a proper look at the exterior before Ron put his clammy hand on the small of her back and pushed her ahead of him. His timing was poor, and her wellies squeaked on the wet marble floor as she slid through the revolving door. She landed on her arse, and like Alice through the Looking Glass, Hermione found herself in an entirely different world. 

Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the onslaught of light and sound. Blinding, colourful lights flashed from slot machines featuring cartoonish witches in skimpy lingerie or brindled crups playing with brightly hued chew toys. People laughed and clapped around cherry wood tables upholstered with green felt. The air hung heavy with cigar smoke and cheap perfume, and the tiled ceiling rearranged itself to depict a blue sky dotted with gilded clouds. A golden sun drifted through the fluffy nebulae, dipping behind a horizon made of mirrored glass only to return moments later, soft-edged and rosy pink. Dawn shimmered across the ceiling’s mural, casting everything in a warm glow, distorting her sense of time and place.

The cavernous casino, famed for its magical games and substantial jackpots, seemed endless.

A witch in a silver sequined mini dress balancing a tray of recreational potions stepped over Hermione. “Pardon.” She said it like an afterthought, wrinkling her pert nose. 

“I’ll have a Pepper-Up,” Ron said, hovering over her. Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled herself up off the slick floor. 

“You playin’?” The witch smacked her gum as she gave Ron a once-over.

“Absolutely not. Come on, Ronald.”

Ron shrugged at the witch, as if to say it was Hermione’s fault he was being dragged away. That couldn’t be further from the truth. 

They wove between the craps tables, Ron’s shaggy head on a swivel following the sounds of clattering dice, but soon found themselves caught up in a family reunion. Someone handed Ron a neon pink t-shirt that read, “14TH ANNUAL BABBINGTON FAMILY BONANZA!” which he threw over his shoulders like a scarf.

Hermione scanned the room — really, just how big was this place? — for any signs they were close to the casino’s offices. “Are we going the right way?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you not know? You’ve spent every Friday and Saturday night here for the better part of a year.” She took a cleansing breath and blew it out slowly like her therapist instructed. As with every other time she’d attempted this strategy, her frustration only grew. 

“I didn’t think I needed to say it, but c’mon, I’m typically blitzed. After what I did last night, well, as a valued customer, I demanded to speak with the owner and the floor manager said to come back today around noon. And here we are.”

A valued customer. She snorted. A gambling addict, more like. 

After four months of expensive, time-consuming couples therapy, he still wouldn’t admit he had a problem. Hermione attended their appointments as well as Al-Anon in the evenings, teetering on the brink of calling off their five-year relationship. She kept their issues private — not even Harry and Theo knew the full extent of Ron’s problem, although during their last dinner out she suspected they sensed the tension. They’d excused themselves early and walked back to their flat, Hermione falling into fitful sleep on the pull-out couch in front of the telly. Every little creak of the floorboards or scratch of the tree at the window jolted her awake. But instead of worrying about snatchers, she worried her boyfriend was sneaking out to the casino.

Her mother fussed over her more than usual. “They work you too hard there! You’d think a magical government would run itself.” 

Hermione had been pulling more than her weight at the office lately. She went in early, and sometimes, if the flat was empty after her Al-Anon meetings, a half-eaten takeaway shepherd’s pie sitting under a stasis charm on the worktop, she walked right back out the door. It was all too easy to find herself at her desk again, rejecting hunting permits on centaur-inhabited lands and filing paperwork that McLaggen, a walking, talking masterclass in weaponised incompetence, pretended he didn’t notice.

One morning Pansy Parkinson found her asleep at her desk, red ink from an overturned pot dried in her matted hair like blood. The witch, Morgana bless her, transfigured Hermione a hairbrush and a fresh set of robes. When Hermione tried to thank her with some crisps from the vending machine, Pansy acted like she didn’t know what they were for and dismissed Hermione with the wave of a manicured hand. 

The overtime came in handy. She’d hoped for years that Ron would ask her to combine their finances, and eventually their names. They shared a flat, but it was more economical than a step towards the altar. When Penelope Clearwater came in with a giant rock on her finger from Dean Thomas, Hermione bent her quill so hard it splintered and she had to run to the supply closet for another. 

She’d locked herself in, ignoring her colleagues’ well-meaning knocks. Cleansing breaths. Cleansing breaths. 

Her facade cracked a little more every day. 

All the while Ron returned again and again to Serpenti, spending money he didn’t have. And now he’d gambled away something that definitely wasn’t his to risk. 

“That’s him over there,” Ron raised his voice. “Oi!”

The floor manager, clad in all black and sporting an earpiece, gave them a practised smile. 

“Mr. Weasley, welcome back to Serpenti.”

Hermione cut the pleasantries short. “Ron said you could help us. We need to speak with the owner.”

“Of course, let me flag someone down to take you to his office,” he raised an arm and signalled to a nearby employee. “Please escort Mr. Weasley and his guest to the owner’s offices. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

The employee, a short, balding man in a smart uniform — matching deep green trousers and vest, a white dress shirt, and a silver tie with snakes slithering in a north-south direction — led them to a lift bay. Ron tapped his foot, whistling a Celestina Warbeck tune while they waited for the lift. Hermione bristled at how relaxed he seemed. She bit the inside of her cheek. 

The lift arrived empty, and the man pressed the button for the top floor. They ascended quickly, passing floors labelled “SPA” and “DINING” and “GUEST ROOMS.” How many times had Ron spent his portion of the mortgage on a massage, or eschewed her cooking, claiming he wasn’t hungry, only to tuck into a grass-fed steak?

He worked long days, that much was true. After the war, all the Weasley siblings swooped in to help George keep the lights on at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Percy sourced materials, Ginny threw herself into research and development, and Ron stocked shelves and manned the till. Charlie returned from abroad to balance the books. Bill and Fleur stopped in whenever possible, their growing brood bringing a smile to George’s face when nothing else would. Even Arthur came out of retirement to test new products. They turned things around in no time, families flocking to the shop for a laugh after the months of terror. Now, by all accounts, business was booming. 

But no one seemed to have the fortitude to move on. If Ginny suggested she might like to pursue an open alchemy apprenticeship she’d been eyeing, one of her brothers talked her out of it. Bill longed for the arid dunes of Egypt, but Percy launched into a diatribe about the unimpeachable comforts of home. And if all else failed, all anyone had to whisper was, “But what if something happens with George?”

George, understandably, wasn’t quite the same, but he was no longer an ashen-faced shadow of himself. He’d been dating Angelina Johnson for six months, and recently announced his intent to expand the shop abroad. Molly shot the idea down over dinner, adjusting her napkin with a force that indicated the matter had been decided. She insisted on family dinner every Sunday, and if you begged off, she’d come over armed to the teeth with medicinal herbs and homemade soup, scared half to death you’d caught some deathly disease. 

The Weasleys’ codependency froze them all in time. And no one was more worse for the wear than Ron. 

He didn’t mind if Molly dropped by unannounced. If she happened to put on a load of laundry while she was there, that’d be just grand in his view. He never planned a holiday away, just he and Hermione. Week in and week out, they went through the motions. They were happy enough. Their routines provided stability and comfort that Hermione hadn’t had since she arrived at Hogwarts. They weren’t chasing anything, and more importantly, no one was chasing them. 

The lift dinged as they arrived at their destination. A long corridor stretched in front of them, a solitary door at its end. Hermione stepped out, and instead of looking for Ron to follow her, she pretended to be engrossed in the velvety carpet as she forged ahead. One foot in front of the other, she reminded herself. You’ll simply explain the circumstances and walk out like none of this ever happened. No one has to know.  

But there was something about being on the run, something she missed. The adrenaline, the pump of one’s heart, the widening of eyes as the person alongside you stumbled over a tree root or snapped a twig. Harry believed in flight until you were forced to fight. 

Hermione, on the other hand, preferred a good fight over anything else. Backing down, even when it was the most sensible course of action, held no appeal. There was nowhere else she’d rather be than on the front lines, voice hoarse and covered in a fine layer of dust. 

And when she’d run out of her own battles, she’d started fighting Ron’s. 

At first she thought she fought for them, who they were as a couple. Originally they’d been like the shiny matchbox cars she’d played with as a girl, side by side on a dual track. Starting at the same time, spiralling down to the finish line. All else being equal, it should amount to a photo finish. Hermione rooted for a draw — a life together. A marriage like her parents’, children, trips to the beach and the continent. But halfway through, Ron’s tires blew out while she sped ahead, and it seemed like no matter what she did, she couldn’t slow down. 

She reached the door and waited patiently for Ron to join her. When his trainers appeared on the carpet next to her, she looked back. The Serpenti employee had vanished without a word. A pit formed in her stomach.

“It’s going to be fine,” Ron said, puffing his chest out. Hermione wondered if the display of bravery was all for show. “After all, who could say no to the Golden Girl?”

She wasn’t so confident, but then again, what did he have to worry about? She’d gotten him out of worse scrapes. What he’d done was unconscionable in her book, but if Ron thought the consequences of his actions would never come back to bite him, perhaps he eliminated them from his decision-making equation.

Scratch that. He probably didn’t have a decision-making equation. 

Hermione rapped her knuckles against the frosted glass of the door. It swung open to reveal another Serpenti employee, this time a woman with limpid blue eyes. 

“May I help you?”

Ron gestured to himself, then to her. “We’re here to see the owner.”

“It’s your lucky day,” the woman, presumably some sort of executive assistant, said with an air of superiority. Hermione snorted — as if anything about this day could be filed under “lucky” — and the woman peered at her over thick-rimmed spectacles. “He’s in. Follow me, please.” 

Hermione and Ron followed her through a maze of filing cabinets and past a floor-to-ceiling steel vault. She supposed casinos required massive amounts of cash on hand, but this was much larger than any she’d seen at Gringotts. Hermione opened her mouth to ask about the particulars, but this wasn’t a field trip. She would soon need to negotiate with the kind of man who not only had no qualms profiting off people who didn’t know any better, but also facilitated their downfall. 

It was all a glamour, really. Everything down to the last chip was a carefully constructed illusion designed to lure unsuspecting guests in and keep them in a constant state of arousal. The metallic tang of new coins falling from machines that magicked the next result before you even pulled the lever. Beautiful people in glitzy outfits offering drinks, drugs, company. Hermione shivered at the thought of hundreds of eyes glazed with the shiny patina of new money, drifting over dice dipped in gold paint. Even the sky, impressive magic though it was, didn’t hold a candle to the real thing. 

And yet, it entranced so many. 

This man, whoever he was, was no better than a parasite. A bloodsucker. And she had to remove him before he swelled even further. Before he destroyed everything she tried so desperately to save.

The woman came to an abrupt halt, and Hermione stopped just shy of running into her, tipping forward despite the weight of her wellies. Ron’s hands met her waist in an attempt to keep her from falling, but she wriggled them off. She couldn’t see his face, but his sigh spoke volumes.

“Through there.” The woman tilted her head towards a black door carved with snakes. Instead of alerting the owner to their presence, she sped back the way she came, her practical pumps clacking against the tiles, as if something nipped at her heels.

Ron, who finally had the decency to look nervous, didn’t move. Hermione sighed and wiped her palms on her skirt. After shaking them out — she didn’t bother with another cleansing breath — she pushed inside. 

Draco Malfoy stood in front of her, one hand in his trouser pocket as he leaned back against a mahogany desk. His trademark smirk played across his face. 

“Ah, Granger and her pet Weasel. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s voice came out tinny, as if her larynx had turned into a child’s music box from the pound shop. “Malfoy?”

She couldn’t believe Draco Malfoy of all people was the proprietor of this den of iniquity. Well, she could, only she didn’t want to, because if memory served, he was a skilled negotiator who always got the better end of a deal.

There was no one else it could be; no one else so white-blonde and priggish. She hadn’t seen either hide or hair of him since they parted ways after their eighth year at Hogwarts. Soon after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione and Harry testified at his trial, and Malfoy had been grateful. He wrote them both letters expressing his immense regret, and upon their return to the castle that fall, he made sure all the other eighth years knew The Boy Who Lived and Head Girl Hermione Granger kept him out of Azkaban.

She never heard the word Mudblood again. 

“Don’t act so surprised.”

Before she could retort that it was not an act, and her surprise was genuine, thank you very much , Ron cut in. 

“You own Serpenti?”

“In full,” Malfoy confirmed. 

From what she could tell, he’d been the owner for quite some time. The decor was distinctly Malfoy, and it bothered her that she could identify it without so much as a second glance. 

A black leather chair sat behind a sturdy mahogany desk. A neat pile of creamy parchment occupied one side of the desk, weighed down with a large golden key. Carved snakes climbed the legs, the diamonds on their backs interspersed with hearts, clubs, and spades. 

Hermione let her eyes wander. Track lighting lined the edges of the room and extended down a dim hallway, lending it an imposing ambiance. Maybe it was a private entrance. 

The far wall consisted of one large pane of glass overlooking the bustling city. Dappled with rain, it resembled a mosaic more than a window. Candles lined espresso-coloured bookshelves, interspersed with old books. The top shelf bore framed newspaper clippings and awards featuring Malfoy’s name and likeness.

It was luxurious. Minimalistic. And effortlessly masculine. 

“I lost to you as a player, though. You were at the table,” Ron stammered.

Hermione spun around to glare at Ron. He’d failed to mention he lost to Malfoy of all people. 

“What can I say, Weasley? I like to play now and again. And the house always wins.” Malfoy rolled up the sleeves of his oxford, myriad tattoos on display. LOVE and LUCK graced his knuckles. A stack of roman numerals sat above his faded Dark Mark.

Hermione’s heart raced at the sight of it. Most people had their Mark removed as soon as Theo, now an accomplished Healer, perfected the removal spell. Why would Malfoy keep his? “So you’re cheating?”

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy’s gaze turned steely as he pushed off the desk and walked behind it. “We do not condone cheating in this establishment, whether by magical means or non-magical ones. We employ both cheating detection methods and professionals trained to identify suspicious behaviour. No one would spend their hard-earned coin here if Serpenti had a reputation for rigged games or card-counters. I simply play the odds, which since I own the place, I know better than anyone.”

“I know the odds,” Ron puffed out his chest. “I had one of the best hands possible.”

Malfoy pulled out a drawer and extracted a pair of silver reading glasses. He shut it gently, then leaned over his desk and scrawled something on a piece of parchment. “You did. It wasn’t a bad game you played, I’ll give you that. But I’ll wager you’re here because you bet something you weren’t willing to lose.”

Hermione nodded fiercely. “We need it back, Malfoy. It wasn’t his to gamble away. It’s in Arthur and Molly’s names.”

Malfoy placed both palms on the desk and looked up at her, a strange smile crawling across his countenance. “Did your charming beau here not tell you what happened?”

At first she wondered how he knew she and Ron were together. Maybe it was a lucky guess. They’d danced around their attraction while in school, only braving a chaste kiss or two. Eventually Hermione cornered him at her parents’ house the Christmas after eighth year and snogged him senseless under a sprig of mistletoe. 

When they announced they were moving in together, the consensus from the Weasleys and Grangers alike was overwhelmingly positive; the relief palpable. Finally. Whatever were they waiting for? We’ll have grandchildren in no time.

That was years ago now. 

From the corner of her eye, Ron shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Everyone has a tell, and this was his. “‘Course I told her.”

“Allow me to tell you the tale from my vantage point,” Malfoy said smoothly. “Around three, three-thirty this morning, I came downstairs to oversee the shift change. Fully awake by that point, I joined a Texas Hold ‘Em table. Hold ‘Em is one of our most popular card games, and it wasn’t too busy, so I thought I’d play a hand or two. As it happened, Weasley here sat at the other end of the table, and he was on a hot streak.”

“A hot streak that should’ve kept going,” Ron emphasised.

Malfoy waved a hand, like this was neither here nor there. “Lady Luck is fickle, isn’t she? Weasley here smacked his chips down in the middle of the table, and seconds later, we got the flop.”

He cleared his desk and withdrew a deck of cards from his chest pocket. Malfoy tipped them from their paper box and took a moment to locate five cards. He then set three of them face up.

Ron read them to her. “Ten of diamonds, seven of clubs, and two of hearts. Shit cards, really. A rainbow flop — cards of three different suits. The probability of a pair was low, and there was no possible flush or straight.”

Malfoy cut in. “Weasley here, though, his eyes lit up. He dropped loads of chips on the table. I called.”

“Seemed foolish to me unless he already had a pair. Beginner’s luck, I thought, since I never see Malfoy there, let alone anyone else I know. And I had two kings, ‘Mione.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me, Ronald,” she fired back.

Malfoy pressed on. “The turn came up, revealing the King of Hearts,” He flipped over the corresponding card from his deck. “So now your man’s got three of a kind. The best hand possible at that point, all things considered.”

Ron looked at her imploringly, as if she only needed this information to realise how right he’d been to gamble away his childhood home. “I mean, c’mon. Three kings. At that point I went all in. I pushed the deed to the Burrow to the dealer.”

“I challenged the wager straightaway, as we usually accept cash or chips only. But he’d given another gentleman at the table the rest of his chips as repayment for a loan, isn’t that what you told me?”

Ron swallowed, but made no attempt to correct Malfoy. 

Hermione shook with rage. “And you let him keep playing?”

“It’s a casino, Granger. We let anyone play for as long as they want, as long as they have the money to do so. And they can get off the ride at any time.”

He had her there. Everything was voluntary. No one was holding a wand to his head and forcing him to wander the serpentine gaming floor every night, find a table, place a bet, and repeat ad nauseum. But that didn’t make it right. 

“So as the owner, I made an exception. Clearly he was ready and willing to play.”

Hermione could see it now. Malfoy, shucking his suit jacket and loosening his tie. Ron’s careless candour, blathering on about his ability to go all in. Malfoy’s eyes flashing in the low light, holding up two slender fingers, signalling to his people that Ron could play on. Ron, a fine strategist but impulsive even on his best days, tapping his feet impatiently on the carpeted floor, oblivious to the fact that Malfoy held all the power. 

“You took advantage,” Hermione hissed through her teeth.

“I went all in as well, with a property of similar value. But then came the river.”

“An ace,” Ron muttered it like a swear word. 

“An ace,” Malfoy crowed, turning the final card over to reveal the Ace of Hearts. “And as it happened, I had two aces already.”

“The river came up the only card that could beat me. The odds of that card being an ace were around five percent,” Ron said, trying and failing in his appeal to Hermione. 

Malfoy gathered the cards and shuffled, his silver signet ring winking as if it held a wealth of secrets. “Not unheard of.”

“It was a sure thing!”

“Nothing’s sure in life, Weasley, and neither is it fair. Still, I’m a generous man. I’m not without a heart. How about this? You’re welcome to buy the decrepit cottage back from me. I’ll even underestimate the appraised value. What do you say, fifteen thousand galleons?”

He pushed the parchment he’d written on earlier towards Hermione and Ron. It was a bill of sale.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. Fifteen thousand galleons. Nearly four hundred thousand British pounds. “Ron, even if I gave you all my savings and we borrowed from my parents… we can’t come up with that kind of money. What were you thinking?”

Malfoy leaned back in the chair, placing his arms behind his head and plopping his boots on the desk in one languid motion. The dragonhide squeaked against the polished wood. “I think we’ve established he wasn’t thinking.”

She stomped her foot like an impatient toddler. “Shut up, Malfoy!”

He was no less infuriating than he had been in school. When he had the advantage, Malfoy dialled up his snide remarks and air of superiority. It surprised her that Ron hadn’t been able to tell the other man had held the winning hand. 

“Is that any way to talk to the person holding the deed to your future in-laws’ house?” He made a tutting sound that grated on her eardrums. “I should think you’d be bending over backwards to make me happy; suggesting things I might like in place of that fire hazard masquerading as a serviceable hovel. Money, for instance.”

“How about brute force?” Ron drew his wand, his blue eyes less watery than usual. It struck her that she hadn’t seen him this focused in a long time. 

Malfoy simply adjusted his reading glasses. “Magic doesn’t work up here. Got these handy little destabilisers from, where was it again? Ah yes, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Funny-looking shop at the end of Diagon Alley run by scraggly redheads. Can’t miss it.”

Hermione sighed. Of course he’d purchased magic destabilisers. They were one of Ginny’s ingenious inventions. Better than a bodyguard, many witches and wizards carried the black pucks the size of a good skipping stone. They’d have been massively useful during the war. These days they were used to protect from far lesser dangers — pickpockets and the like. 

They had to be massively valuable to a casino owner. Desperate gamblers were always scheming up new ways to win money — or as was more often the case, win it back. At Al-Anon she heard addicts speak of spells, potions, even a bastardised version of liquid luck, all designed to give the gambler an edge. 

Most of them tried Muggle methods, too; weighted dice, counting cards, coated coins for the slot machines. Nothing was off limits to someone that down on their luck. 

Ron had had a bad run these last few weeks. She saw all the tell tale signs. He was quicker to anger and slower to respond to her polite questions about his day. It was as if he was already breezing through the brass doors of the casino in his mind. Hermione was nothing but a distraction buzzing around him like a pesky gnat, keeping him from the next spin of the roulette wheel, the next whirl of the slot machine’s flickering reels, the next clink of chips as they hit green felt. 

Everyone at her meetings had a different reason their friend or family member loved to gamble. 

For some it was the adrenaline. The thrill of the hunt for the perfect hot table. The rush when they were up by thousands of pounds. The shouts of ecstasy when the dice came up just how you needed them to, and the ensuing chaos of more drinks and hard slaps on the back. 

Even more rare, and all the more desirable for some, was the comeback when an adrenaline junkie was thousands in the hole. Despite most possessing a credible knowledge of odds and basic maths in their regular lives, this type called it a win even when they walked away with much less than they came in with. They’d sit on the curb, bumming a cigarette from the valet, recounting the evening’s sordid tale from start to finish, embellishing their starring role and minimising their portion lost to the pot. 

Each had a common refrain: They’d win it all back — and more — tomorrow.

For other gamblers it was the exhilaration of the unknown. Where would the plinking white roulette ball land? Would the two-time champion thoroughbred stumble on the last leg of the track? They were attracted to games of pure chance, even though most would tell you, after another hard loss, that the fix had always been in. 

Ron’s reason, she knew from their circular arguments and tear-filled reconciliations, was the worst one you could have. 

It was a ritual. He needed it to soothe himself. It was where he could escape, dull his senses for the evening after a long day dealing with Molly’s squawking, Ginny’s grumbling, and of course, the swarms of customers.

There was little room for Hermione. She’d never been thrilling, maybe. Exhilarating? Not the word most would use to describe her. And she wasn’t part of his ritual, not anymore, really. 

She lived in their flat, but she was not home.

“Don’t bring my family into this,” Ron said. 

“I believe you’re the one that brought them into this by putting their home at risk. It could be in far worse hands, you know. I don’t care to evict good tenants.”

“My parents are not going to be tenants in their own home!”

“You’re terribly thick for someone with a Hogwarts education, but I suppose you’ve been dragging down the average — and the above average,” Malfoy's cool gaze flicked to Hermione — “for as long as you’ve been alive. Let me speak slowly so as not to rattle your overheated mustelid brain. It isn’t theirs anymore. I own it. It belongs to me. ”

Hermione approached the desk, much like a supplicant at the temple steps. The old Hermione would’ve detested lowering herself like this, but she’d made herself smaller before, and she could do it again, even though it frightened her that it happened more frequently these days.

“You’re right, Malfoy,” she said, her lips pinching with remorse. “Ron made a bet he had no business making, you called, and you won. The Burrow is yours.”

Ron gaped at her, but she shook her head at him and continued.

“But surely you know what it feels like to lose one’s ancestral home?”

Malfoy’s jaw flexed and he adjusted his left sleeve. “Make your point.”

“Couldn’t you just give it back?” It was worth asking. After all, she’d testified on his behalf for free, saving him from a lifetime in a frigid, crumbling cell surrounded by soulless Dementors. And she’d done a damn good job of it, too. Narcissa was the only one who took the stand for Lucius, and he’d gotten the Kiss.

He laughed, the sound mirthless and hollow. “I’m a businessman, Granger. Serpenti is as far from a charity as it gets.”

“You’re a miserable arsehole,” Hermione shot back at him. The sweetness in her voice curdled. “You’re still just a spoiled, beastly brat who thinks he’s above everyone else just because he was born a silver-spooned bigot.”

“Mmm. Tell me what you really think,” Malfoy said in a dangerously low tone.

“Surely there’s something you want that I’ve got,” Ron implored. She saw the fear she’d expected from him earlier as the reality of the situation finally sunk in. 

Good, she thought. Maybe he’ll finally see some consequences for his actions. Maybe it’ll shock him into attending meetings with her. Maybe his family will finally admit he has a problem.

Not that losing the Burrow wasn’t a concern, but Malfoy already said he didn’t care about it. Perhaps Ron could pay rent until he could get a loan? If he stopped gambling, it was doable.

And if he stopped that, maybe he’d finally get down on one knee, and she’d be able to accept without reservations. 

She tried to hide her smile. This whole ordeal might get Ron back on the right broom. Who ever thought she might be grateful to Malfoy?

The haughty blonde looked not at Ron, but at Hermione when he spoke again, his grey eyes assessing her like a jewel under a loupe. 

“I want a night with your girlfriend warming my bed.”

Chapter Text

She expected an explosion. A blur of ginger hair rocketing across the room, limbs launching over furniture, the guttural growl of a man defending the one he loved. 

But Ron remained quiet; motionless. 

Ron had never been a leader. Harry, by virtue of his fate, led them through hell and back over seven years. And then Ron looked to Hermione, who navigated the mire of eighth year for them, pulling him along by the sleeve of his clumsily-knitted jumpers. Not long after that she joined him on Christmas mornings, unboxing jumpers of her own. 

It’s made with love, Molly would repeat as she opened yet another one, a misshapen gold H emblazoned on crimson yarn.

A lump of them languished at the bottom of her closet.

And a lump formed now in her throat as she stared at her boyfriend, willing him to do something, say something, on her behalf. 

Over my dead body, you ferret-faced fuck.

In your dreams! (Followed by a swift punch to the face)

Hermione is the most precious person in the world to me. I’d never ask her to debase herself with you. I love her. 

He twisted the fingers on his right hand, a nervous habit, and one that also told her he was considering. 

It felt as if someone plucked a coal hot from the fire and pitched it into the depths of her stomach. It fizzled angrily in the acid there with no water to put it out. Instead, it burned and burned, like the truth she wasn’t ready to hear.

There were two truths, she acknowledged as her belly churned and roiled.

One, Ron wasn’t going to speak. 

Second, and the much, much harder truth to swallow — he wanted her to say yes.

She wasn’t his to give, and he knew that.

Just like the deed, however, he was willing to throw her on the table. He’d cast her into a pit occupied by one devious snake, venomous bite be damned. At least with the Burrow, Ron never thought it would end up in Malfoy’s clutches. 

But this was no gamble. This was a sure thing. 

Malfoy was patient. She’d give him that. He never looked away from her, never looked over at Ron. Hermione’s hands were clammy all of a sudden, like Ron wasn’t in the room at all and it was just her and Malfoy. Her lip trembled. It was as if she was nineteen again, Head Girl hiding behind a tapestry, listening to him make Pansy Parkinson gasp and moan. 

She’d merely been intellectually curious. That was all. 

And she needed the research, because Lavender hadn’t trained Ron very well. 

Pansy’s breathy mewls, the remote quality to them, the surrender of it all… It had been less than appealing then. But years on, she knew the feeling. Missed it, now.

But she couldn’t — no, wouldn’t — imagine Malfoy coaxing those sounds from her. 

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said firmly. 

Malfoy looked more disappointed than she thought he ought to. “The lady has spoken.”

Hermione glanced again at Ron. 

His body hunched forward, caving in on itself like a question mark, the posture hopeless, resigned. Scruff lined his jaw, and his eyes were dull. 

The shop was a grind. Throngs of customers breached the doors of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes each day, searching for cheap laughs, clearing shelves, and testing the portable swamps when they clearly stated right on the package, “Please ask for help from an associate.” Ron answered the same questions each day from angry parents about return policies and fielded countless arguments about the morality of selling so many things that involved unwitting victims passing gas.

And though his shift ended at five o'clock, sometimes he lingered past six, consoling his siblings, or more often, Molly. The grief of a mother is always fresh, and hers was no exception. But sometimes it was suspiciously inconvenient. 

Ron, though, saw nothing his family did as nefarious or manipulative. Every feeling was valid, and painful, and if it was raw because they’d peeled off the scab before it grafted new skin, well, that only reflected how deeply they’d been wounded by their loss. 

Hermione, sceptical by both nature and nurture, learned it was best to swallow any censure regarding her boyfriend’s family and their unbreakable cycle of grieving.

Well, she tried to, anyway. It had the annoying habit of clawing its way back up her oesophagus and announcing itself at the most inopportune moments. 

Despite this, Hermione loved each Weasley like the siblings she had never had. She often brunched with Ginny, and discovered an affinity for dramatic readings of old wizarding stories when Bill acted them out for his children. While she had no need of a surrogate mother, she allowed Molly to play the part with some reluctance. Arthur reminded her of her own father, who wisely stayed in the background, offering support when needed, but mostly focused on his many Muggle computers. 

Ron flitted seamlessly from one disaster to the next, never missing a birthday or an impromptu dinner of remembrance. He’d owl from the shop informing Hermione of last-minute plans at the Burrow, the expectation of her presence unwritten but always implied. 

The requests came more frequently these days. Twice now an urgent missive derailed her plans for after-work drinks with her former colleague Blaise Zabini, who was searching for his replacement at a non-profit focused on creating actual change for magical creatures. Hermione was desperate to be considered for the position. 

But she’d drop anything for Ron. Her love for him was more than sex or attraction. It was loyalty, something Ron hadn’t always had in spades. Yet as he matured, he became more devoted. She just wished some of that devotion would come out in actions rather than words.

Right now, he seemed to have neither.

“Wait,” she said. 

Something within her shattered as relief glimmered across Ron’s face. He straightened a little and she waited for him to speak. 

You don’t have to, Hermione. 

This is my mess. I’ll be the one to clean it up.

Thank you for offering your body for my sins, love, but surely there’s another solution here. 

Again, he said nothing. 

He let her take the fall. 

On some level, she knew this was their Rubicon. Once crossed, there would be no going back. But Ron’s family would be homeless if she didn’t do this. 

She racked her brain for a way out. The Weasleys were all in on Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, which sat on invaluable Diagon Alley real estate. They could sell the land and rent it back. But that was a terrible long-term play. Home prices skyrocketed post-war, and though the shop was profitable now, they had yet to see how it might perform amidst an economic downturn. How would they afford another home that could fit all of them, especially in George’s delicate condition? 

And how could they lose the Burrow, the last place that held happy memories of Fred?

That made up her mind more than anything else. 

“I’ll do it. One night.”

It was only one night. For crying out loud, she’d been tortured . What was one night with the man who stood by and watched?

He won’t be watching tonight, she thought with a gulp. What would Malfoy find stimulating in the bedroom? Who knows what he might subject her to?

And she hadn’t agreed to just one round of sex. No, she would be at his mercy for an entire night. 

She should negotiate boundaries at the very least.

And would Ron ever be able to look at her the same again? More importantly, would she ever be able to look at herself in the same way again? Would she feel marked by Malfoy?

Malfoy smirked like the cat who got the cream. He rubbed his hands together, his rings glinting in the light. 

“One night with Hermione — no tricks?” Ron asked in a steely tone that brooked no nonsense. Hermione withered a little at just how easily Ron came around to the idea.

She jutted her chin out and stepped towards her former nemesis. “If you mean it, you’ll make an Unbreakable Vow. One night, with you—”

“In my bed,” Malfoy clarified. 

“In your bed,” she confirmed. “And you give Ron the deed back. Fully relinquish any claim you have on it. But I want something else, too.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I’m open to negotiation.”

There was one thing she’d wanted for a long time. More than a ring, more than a new job. And here was her chance to get it. 

“I want you to ban Ron from ever gambling here again.”

Ron opened his mouth to protest, stuttering a litany of denial. 

You can’t. 

You wouldn’t.

And her personal favourite, Hermione, that’s unreasonable!

Hermione, in the past, would have yelled at him, spoiling for another one of their one-sided fights. 

Don’t you care about what I’m putting on the line here? Why shouldn’t you give up something too?

Why are you okay with letting women clean up your messes? Me in particular?

Don’t you love me?

She shook her head at that last question, curls bouncing off the tip of her nose. Of course, Ron loved her. That was unquestionable. 

Was it, though?

Hermione dismissed her inner voice’s persistence. It was an exercise in futility to explore that rabbit hole now, during the bargaining session for her evening’s bodily autonomy. She’d been parcelled into a deal with the devil, and she’d be damned if she didn’t get her due. 

She’d spent hours screaming, crying, even begging on her knees for him to stop. Not long ago, she’d thrown her arms around his legs as he pulled away, leaving her on the cold floor clutching air and false apologies. After she began attending meetings, she invited him to come along with her, to see the pain addiction caused families, friends, and communities. He refused, but agreed to go to therapy with her.

To his credit, he had opened up — still, he couldn’t stop. She’d recently considered spilling her guts to Molly about it, but it felt like a betrayal to involve her. 

But someone had to stop him. And if it couldn’t be her, or Ron himself, Hermione was fine with making Malfoy that person. He could play the villain. Godric knew he had a breadth of experience.

He sized her up now, both her captor and her saviour, with something like pity. However, his words didn’t match his expression. “I have a lot to lose if I ban him.” 

Of course. Malfoy must make stacks and stacks of Galleons from Ron and others like him. She’d rip away a steady stream of income — valued customer, she thought bitterly — worth much more than a date with a professional sex worker, let alone her. But surely a business owner like Malfoy knew someone would take Ron’s place at the table sooner rather than later. New gamblers were born every day. 

“And I don’t have a lot to lose?” She tried and failed to keep the heartbreak out of her voice.

Malfoy softened. “A six-month ban for your boyfriend here, final offer.”

Six months. It was an obstacle, and a temporary one at that. There were no other casinos in magical London, but he could go to an illegal backroom in Knockturn and gamble there, or to Muggle London, or abroad. And Malfoy must know that, too. 

The meeting had made it all too obvious that Ron had a problem, and banning him from every casino in existence wouldn’t stop him from gambling away everything he owned. Or in this case, everything he didn’t own. But this arrangement bought her time. 

And every shrewd negotiator knew that the most valuable thing in the world is time.

If gambling wasn’t so convenient, maybe Ron would consider getting some help beyond their couple's therapy sessions. If Malfoy forced him to take a break, maybe Ron would see all life had to offer again. And then this would be worth it. 

“Deal.”

“You can’t be serious,” Ron gaped. 

Malfoy held out a tattooed hand to her. LUCK danced across his knuckles. Ron stepped between them, swatting Malfoy’s hand away. Malfoy hissed, seemingly disgusted by the other man’s touch.

“If your mind’s made up, I won’t try to stop you from doing this. But before you agree, I just want you to know, I swear I’ll never put you in this position again.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

She didn’t say it to soothe him. She said it because she’d heard it all before.

He half-frowned, half-smiled, his freckles crinkling in on themselves. When he didn’t move, Hermione navigated around him, entering Malfoy’s magnetic field. 

Malfoy didn’t say a word. He offered his hand to her again, and she took it. It was warm and slightly calloused. 

“Weasley, make yourself useful and be our binder.”

Hermione pulled her hand from his grip. “I thought we couldn’t use magic up here?”

“Unbreakable Vows and other matters of business are exempt. No points for Gryffindor, I’m afraid,” he tutted. “Now be a good girl and give me your hand.”

Ron tapped their joined hands with his wand, and Malfoy spoke the words of their agreement aloud. 

“I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do solemnly swear that in exchange for Hermione—”

“Jean,” she supplied. 

“Jean Granger spending one night in my bed, I will relinquish the deed for the Burrow to Ronald —” Malfoy paused again. 

“Bilius,” Ron mumbled.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Sweet Salazar. Your real middle name, please.”

Ron groaned and gave Malfoy a pointed look. 

“I will relinquish the deed for the Burrow to Ronald Bilius Weasley and ban him from Serpenti for six months.”

Hermione trembled as she spoke. “And I, Hermione Jean Granger, do solemnly swear that I agree to the terms and will uphold my end of this vow.”

As soon as the last word passed her lips, the telltale purple sparks signalled the sealing of the Unbreakable Vow. It was done. Tears spilled over her cheeks, and she yanked her hand away to wipe them. Malfoy clapped his hands together and lunged at Ron, grabbing two fistfuls of the other man’s collar.

“I believe we’re finished here,” he snarled, reorienting Ron towards the door. “You can go. The minute you step foot off this property, the ban begins.”

“But you haven’t given me the deed,” Ron protested, throwing a dismayed look over his shoulder. 

“I’ll give it to Granger. Tomorrow.”

Unspoken words clouded Hermione’s thoughts. 

I’ll give it to Granger… 

After I’ve had my fun.

When I’m through with her.

Once she begs me to stop.

A chill rocketed down her spine. She’d made a huge mistake. There was so much more she should’ve specified. But she’d been thinking about Ron. 

He stared at her with his baby blue eyes, perhaps coming to the same realisation she was at this very moment. “Hermione, I’m so—”

Malfoy shoved Ron into the hallway and gripped the edge of the carved door. “Save it for the morning. The night is mine, and it starts now.”

“But—”

Malfoy slammed the door in Ron’s face before her beleaguered boyfriend could say another word. 

“Malfoy,” she began hesitantly. 

He crossed the room to her, stopping much less than a polite distance away. His scent surrounded her, trapping her in a dark forest. “I imagine you want some ground rules. Here are mine. You will not open that door until six a.m. tomorrow. If you do, then you can kiss this Burrow of Weasley’s goodbye. You can keep your wand, for as much good as it’ll do you with the magic blockers up. And you’ll at least consider doing as I say.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but he leaned in even closer, towering over her. A strand of blond hair fell in his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes trained solely on her, assessing her in a way that left her feeling disarmed. “Consider it.”

The audacity. 

She huffed and spun away from him, but he made no move to stop her. He sat down at his desk, busying himself with work. It puzzled her. Didn’t he say the night starts now? Why hadn’t he already dragged her underneath him, maybe on his desk?

Skin hot, Hermione laid her forehead on the cool glass of the window. The meagre rays of the setting sun faded, relinquishing their claim to the deepening sky. It would be a long night, perhaps the longest of her life. Why was she so eager to start early? It’s not like she could just get it over with. She couldn’t leave for hours. 

“You’re fogging the glass, Granger. Why don’t you take a seat? There’s a perfectly serviceable chair right there.” Malfoy gestured to the seat on the other side of his desk with his left hand.

The word LOVE was scrawled across the hand in cursive, one letter for each knuckle. 

Ron had left without telling her he loved her. Where was he now? Hermione hoped he was using the famed strategic part of his brain now. He should realise that he’s only banned from Serpenti once he leaves the building, and he has the day off tomorrow, so he could stay at the casino tonight and wait for her to leave the office. It broke her heart to think of him sleeping in the hallway, even though it would serve him right. It’d probably be better than Malfoy’s bed.

“Is there somewhere comfortable for Ron to stay?”

“What?” Malfoy’s quill stopped scratching. 

Hermione turned and put her back against the window. “I’m sure he’ll wait for me. He doesn’t have to leave tonight. It wasn’t in our agreement.”

Malfoy sighed, a disappointed sound, like that of an exhausted parent. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” 

What did he have to be disappointed about? He was getting everything he wanted. 

He picked the quill up again and wrote a note to his secretary, asking her to locate Ron and offer him suitable lodging for the evening. Malfoy held it up to Hermione, who nodded her approval. He then folded it into a bird, cracked the door, and sent it flying through the maze of hallways.

The door snicked gently shut and Malfoy pushed his sleeves up even higher, then rotated his wrist to get a good look at the substantial watch resting there. “So. Are you hungry?”

Chapter Text

Hermione clenched her fists at her sides. “You think I’m hungry at a time like this?”

Draco settled behind his desk, his eyes on his quill as he wrote. “It’s getting late, Granger,” he said with a hint of chastisement. She looked out the window to see he was right; the city slowed, draped in the purple-grey cloak of dusk. “I’ve still got some work to finish up here. I usually order dinner in.”

This was all too familiar, as Hermione used to cook dinner nightly but stopped about two years into dating Ron. She thrived in the kitchen, inventing new recipes and putting her own spin on his favourites. But she soon learned he either worked late at the shop or ate at the Burrow under Molly’s watchful eye. They invited her, of course, but sometimes it was too much for Hermione, an only child unused to the noise, the chaos, the unveiled emotions. The Weasleys loved openly, but they were also blunt and unapologetic about it. 

Molly’s constant hinting about the expectation that Ron would propose didn’t help matters. 

“You’re working late on a Saturday?”

“The casino doesn’t close. It’s a twenty-four seven business.”

Hermione knew all about long hours. 

When she was hired at the Ministry fresh out of Hogwarts, perfect scores on all her exams and eager to make a difference, she’d worked hard, coming in a little early each morning. She brewed tea in the community kitchen, set out biscuits, ducked her head out of her office to greet her coworkers. 

It was a comfortable rhythm, but it didn’t last long.

Eventually she started working later and later at the Ministry. McLaggen certainly couldn’t be trusted, and Pansy was perfectly capable, but she clocked in at nine and left at three. She referred to this as having healthy boundaries.

Hermione couldn’t relate.

It’s true, those were her scheduled hours as well, but without her, nothing would get done. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures ran like clockwork and she had a limitless budget, but everything going in or out of her department came across her desk right as the day ended, and Hermione’s perfectionistic tendencies kept her in her ergonomic chair until she was satisfied. There’d been more than a few occasions when she looked up to see the janitorial staff debating whether to disturb her so they could clean. Yet despite her best efforts, she hadn’t made the meaningful changes she’d dreamt of when she was a bright-eyed teenager. There was simply too much to do.

She plopped her beaded bag in one of Malfoy’s chairs. Now that she had nothing to occupy her shaking hands, Malfoy seemed to notice her trembling. A concerned look crossed his face, and he carded a hand through his hair. She followed the motion with her eyes as he gently pulled at the roots. He had a fashionable haircut; long on top and cropped close on the sides. It was a far cry from the slicked-back look of his youth. 

But never mind his hair. He won. Why did he look so stressed?

“I can’t work like this, so I’ll just tell you. I have no intention of touching you tonight.”

“What?” Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. But the Vow… 

“For fucks’ sake. Do you think I’m going to bend you over the desk and take you like some kind of animal?”

“I agreed.” She forced the words out, her hand gripping the chair for balance. Her legs locked up, and her mouth went dry.

“Hey, hey,” he said, setting the quill down slowly. He stood and rounded the desk, stopping somewhere between close and too close, like she was a spooked thestral in need of calming.. “I don’t take women against their will. I don’t coerce them into consenting. I said I wanted you to warm my bed, not ride my cock until dawn.”

Hermione felt herself blush at his language even as a sigh collapsed her chest. “Gods.”

Malfoy smirked. “Brightest witch of your age and you didn’t pay attention to the exact wording of the Vow? Good thing you didn’t become a solicitor.” 

“I’ve stood before the Wizengamot enough for two lifetimes,” she said, trying to insert a little levity into the conversation.

“Point taken. All you have to do is sleep in my bed tonight.”

“W-with you?”

“No, of course not. I’ll take the sofa.” There was that look again, downcast eyes that didn’t match his sneer. But as soon as she’d filed it away in her brain for later, it was gone. She hadn’t seen Malfoy in years, so she was surely mistaken. He might not think less of her because of her blood, but that didn’t mean he wanted to share a bed with her. It wasn’t like he was attracted to her. Of course he wasn’t attracted to her. This was all to get under Ron’s skin.

“That’s incredibly decent of you, Malfoy.”

“It’s not decent.” He brushed his hand down one tattooed arm, not meeting her eyes. 

He wasn’t wrong.

When she didn’t respond immediately, he went back to his work. Draco Malfoy seemed to be even more of a workaholic than she was. Or maybe he was just trying to wrap things up before going home. 

Home. Oh, fuck. He wouldn’t take her back to Malfoy Manor, would he?

She tried to keep her voice calm and even. “How long do you plan to be here?”

“All night. I live here — that corridor to your right leads to my suite. Loo is the second door on the right if you need it.”

Her shoulders, which had been up by her ears, relaxed. She didn’t have to brave a visit to the site of her torture. “Yes, actually, I think I’ll just freshen up.”

He waved a hand in the direction of the loo and refocused on the ledger in front of him. Hermione snuck a glance. The figures he worked with were massive, springing to life on the sheet and adjusting as he worked in real-time. She’d have to ask him about the spellwork needed for that; it’d be ever so useful for her job. 

She walked at a fast clip down the corridor. One side was a gaudy, museum-like display of wealth. Someone had installed floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass, and behind it lay stacks and stacks of gold bars. More money than anyone could spend in several lifetimes. She touched a hand to the glass for a moment, leaving faint smudges behind. Was it all his, or was this Serpenti’s? Hermione supposed it was typical of Malfoy, a Pureblood prince through and through, to worship money. 

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, and the feeling of being watched crawled across her shoulder blades. Hermione spun towards Malfoy, but he remained in the same position she left him. 

“Is it just you here?” She called back to him, peeking through the first door. Malfoy’s bedroom. The dark espresso-coloured walls lent the room an opulent ambiance. A giant square bed sat on an elevated platform surrounded by fifty or so white candles with various amounts of melted wax on their tapered bodies. The all-white bedding looked soft as a cloud. 

Hermione tilted her face up, expecting to find an overhead fan or a glass roof. Instead, she saw a reflection of the bed staring back at her. A wide, spotless mirror comprised the entire ceiling. She gulped thinking of what it might’ve witnessed. Did Malfoy watch himself when he was with other witches? Or maybe he was into wizards? Both?

She jumped when she heard him reply. “Just me and you tonight. Think about what you want for dinner. I’ll get you whatever you want, Granger. Name it.”

So Malfoy didn’t have anyone to go home to, anyone to Floo call and tell them he’ll be late because he’s pretending he’s fucking someone’s girlfriend in exchange for giving their parents’ house back to them. She snorted at the image in her mind. Instead, her former schoolmate lived where he worked, mere metres away from his desk. Hermione couldn’t imagine how much more she would work if her desk was in her flat with Ron.

Ron. It was all sinking in now. He’d let her do this, under the impression Malfoy would touch her. Enter her. Violate her. 

All to make up for his addiction. 

Hermione stumbled into the bathroom. More candles — lit, unlike the ones in Malfoy’s bedroom — lined the white marble floor and walls. A modern bathtub with a deep basin and golden taps gleamed next to a glass shower stall. The small door across from it led to the loo, but she stayed in front of the pedestal sink, frozen in front of the mirror. 

She reached for the soap and turned on the tap. Hermione lathered her hands, the woodsy scent permeating the space. She closed her eyes and focused on the foam of the suds, the feel of her fingers kneading each other, releasing the tension she’d felt under Malfoy’s grey gaze in the office.

Cleansing breaths. Cleansed hands.  

She wouldn’t cheat on Ron tonight. Malfoy wouldn’t touch her. She’d never step foot in Malfoy Manor again. 

When the soap had run down the drain and her hands felt soft and new, she dried them on the plush white towel and reexamined herself in the mirror. 

She wasn’t much to look at. Hermione found a thousand flaws in the span of a second. The humidity left her hair frizzy and spiralling in a thousand different directions. Bags hung under her eyes, deep and dark. She ran her tongue across her chapped lips. She hadn’t been taking care of herself, but then she hadn’t really been looking, continuing her childhood habit of avoiding mirrors. Her reflection was too loud. You’re falling apart, it said. 

She didn’t see any reason Malfoy would want a night with her, even just for company in the echoing penthouse.

Why did he make this deal, anyway? She was already humiliated. And he wasn’t getting laid. He wasn’t even getting pleasant company. 

A quick rap at the door jolted her from her reverie. “Are you alright in there?” 

Was there a thread of worry in his voice? Maybe he was just really, really lonely. There probably weren’t many people who wanted to rub elbows with a Malfoy, especially one who still wore his Mark. 

Was it a badge of honour, or a brand of shame?

“I’m okay,” she managed. “Be out in a sec.”

She felt more than heard his departure. She looked back in the mirror. 

Only a few more hours and she could go to bed. 

His bed. 

But he’d said he wouldn’t touch her, and she, for some reason, believed him. Just as she’d believed him when they’d spoken before his trial years ago. 

They’d held him in a small, dank cell in the processing centre. She and Harry went in one at a time. 

Malfoy had been barefoot, in ratty grey robes, hands in shackles. There was a greasy shine to his hair and dirt on his face. He didn’t beg for her testimony, which is what she’d expected. He didn’t grovel or snivel or make any snide remarks. Their time together was limited, anyway. 

I only wanted to protect my mother. The Dark Lord would’ve killed her, Granger. 

She hadn’t needed Veritaserum to know he was telling the truth. Voldemort would’ve stopped at nothing, wouldn’t have let anyone stand in his way of dominating first Wizarding Britain and then the entire Wizarding World. 

Most people thought Malfoy’s excuse was utter bollocks. But not Hermione Granger. 

Unbeknownst to Malfoy and everyone else save Ron and Harry, she’d Obliviated her parents the summer before the Golden Trio went on the run. She’d done it as quickly as possible, removing all traces of herself from their memories, pictures, and finally, their home. Fortunately, she’d been able to reverse the spell less than a year later. 

And fortunately for Malfoy, Hermione gave a hell of a passionate speech in his defence. She’d never forget how Malfoy nodded to her as the Aurors removed his handcuffs, something deeper than gratitude written across his tired face. 

Bile rose in her throat as she thought back to Ron’s actions, or lack thereof, earlier in the night. Maybe Ron didn’t fight for her because he thought he’d Obliviate her. Maybe he even thought she’d beg him to do it. But that still wouldn’t change what might have happened to her tonight if Malfoy was a different man. Anything could have happened. 

He’s okay with bad things happening to you, her heart whispered. He’s abandoned you before. Remember? In the forest, with Harry?

She pushed the thought away. That was years ago, and Ron regretted it deeply. He’d told her time and time again how much he regretted it. Now, in his desperation, he was making the same mistake. She could only hope he learned from it this time. 

In any case, it was already done. She’d agreed. She’d get through this, go home, and they’d fight, but they’d patch things up. They always did.

Hermione closed the bathroom door gently behind her and made her way back to the office. Malfoy was still behind his desk, but he’d pulled the chair she’d been sitting in earlier up to the other side. Two expensive-looking place settings graced the desk. A single white rose in a crystal vase sat in the middle. She arched an eyebrow. 

He got her meaning immediately. “Ambiance is important. Now, what would you like?”

Try as she might, she couldn’t think of anything ostentatious she wanted to eat. Comfort food appealed more than anything else. “I love Palak paneer.”

“Lovely. Think I’ll have the same. Wine? Cocktail?”

Despite the fact that Malfoy had so far held true to his word, her nerves jangled. Maybe a glass of wine would help. Just one. “Sauvignon Blanc, if you’ve got it.”

“Like I said,” he smiled smugly as he got up from the desk and walked with long, confident steps across the high-pile rug. Hermione eyed him warily, tracking his movements. "I have everything your heart desires. I’ll pop down to the kitchen and give our order to the chef. Be right back.”

The ornate door shut behind him with a soft click. 

Hermione sighed and dragged her hand across the desk, careful not to disturb Malfoy’s work. Her eyes flicked to the pages of the open ledger. His handwriting was neat, unlike her cramped chicken scratch. Each loop was precise; each connecting stroke bold and unhurried. 

Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head at the astronomical sums he’d spent the evening reconciling. Of course, casinos were profitable. That wasn’t what shocked her. But Serpenti raked in hundreds of thousands of Galleons night after night. 

She tried out his leather chair, gently bouncing on the seat until she found a comfortable position. It was the perfect blend of cushy and supportive. She closed her eyes and leaned back, the chair tilting with her. Yes, she wouldn’t mind working all day in this sort of chair. She turned her face into the leather, searching out a woodsy scent, tranquil and steadying, that enveloped her. 

This must be what Malfoy smells like , she thought idly. Leather and mahogany and cedar…

Hermione jerked forward, nearly launching herself out of the chair. Her foot brushed the left side of the desk as she regained her balance (and her wits, she hoped) and a metal drawer pull clattered back against the wood. 

What would Malfoy keep in his desk drawer? Probably innocuous office materials, she reasoned. Inkpots, paperweights, maybe an agenda. 

Her nose twitched. She really shouldn’t poke around in his affairs. 

She glanced at the door. How long would it take Malfoy to go to the kitchens and back? 

Hermione slid out of the chair and knelt in front of the drawer. Looped through the drawer pull was a combination padlock requiring a four-digit passcode. She pulled at it experimentally, but it stayed firmly locked. 

What would he use for a passcode? His birthday? She tried 6580, but it didn’t work. She didn’t know his parents’ birthdays, so she tried the date of the Battle of Hogwarts. No luck. 

But maybe… She decided to make a final attempt. She rolled the dials until they matched the month and day of his release from Azkaban. 0810.

It clicked open. Jackpot.  

She tucked the lock in her pocket and slowly opened the drawer. Whatever she expected, it wasn’t this. 

Inside the drawer lay a hefty stack of casino markers, all signed by Malfoy and the borrowers. Some were small lines of credit, only a hundred Galleons. But a few were for jaw-dropping amounts. Life-changing amounts. 

Ron’s name graced the top of two that were paid in full. Hermione’s whole body tensed up. She had no idea he was in this deep. It was cold comfort, but at least he didn’t owe more money on top of everything else. And there were two other names she recognised in the stack: Cho Chang and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Both of their markers bore a red stamp at the top: UNPAID. 

Hermione scanned Malfoy’s handwritten notes on her former classmates’ markers. Cho signed over her townhome, but it only covered seventy percent of her debt. Justin was a lot further behind in his repayment process. He owed more than Hermione made in a year at the Ministry. 

And they paid her well, no doubt about it. It was one of the many reasons she’d hesitated to explore roles in the non-profit sector, even though her heart told her that was where she could do the most good. That and the deep well of resources, her fully dedicated staff… Hermione had long felt she was too comfortable to take the leap. That and she often covered Ron’s half of the bills. 

At the very bottom of both their markers writhed a complex series of runes etched in a spiral. The haunting effect indicated powerful, ancient spellwork, and Hermione didn’t recognize all the symbols. She bit her lip, contemplating. Malfoy could be back at any moment. But she needed to know what the runes meant. 

Had he cursed his debtors? Unlikely, considering it would violate the terms of his release from Azkaban. But what was it, then?

Before she could debate the consequences or morality of such a move, she swiped the two markers, sprinted around the desk, and stuffed them in her beaded bag. Footsteps and the smooth glide of wheels from outside in the corridor had her diving back to close the drawer. She fumbled with the lock but successfully set everything to rights before collapsing in her chair. 

Seconds later, Malfoy knocked at the door. She leapt up to let him in, her heartbeat in her ears. “Thanks,” he said, gesturing to the white tablecloth-covered cart in front of him. “Step back a bit. Wouldn’t want to run over your toes.”

Hermione, without thinking, did as he asked and held the door open wider, eying the many silver-domed dishes on top of the cart. “Do you need help?”

“No, no. I’ll serve you,” he said as he parked the cart and lifted two of the domes to reveal plates of piping hot Palak paneer. “Here we are. Dinner for two.”

“Thank you,” she said, surprised to find her mouth already watering at the delicious aroma. She hadn’t realised she was starving. 

Pulling a book of matches from his pocket, he lit a few candles. Hermione suppressed a smile. Malfoy had always required a certain atmosphere. In eighth year, he threw a party in the Slytherin common room that put Narcissa’s galas to shame. She remembered the night like it was yesterday: Ron fuming about “unnatural” inter-house unity; Harry disappearing with Theo; Michael Corner whispering in Pansy’s ear while Malfoy downed two shots of Firewhisky in quick succession. 

Hermione snapped out of the memory when Malfoy pulled out her chair for her, and after she was seated, he filled her plate. Hermione stared down at the food. It looked like regular Palak paneer. And it certainly smelled like regular Palak paneer.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said, making a show of uncorking the wine. Malfoy twirled the bottle as he poured it into her glass like a practised sommelier. “And this is one of my favourite wines from the cellars.”

He poured himself a glass as well and took his seat. His hands hovered over his utensils, and he looked at her expectantly. Hermione froze like a doe in a hunter’s crosshairs. She made no move to pick up the fork in front of her.

Malfoy removed his napkin from his lap and set it to the side. His movements were slow, calculating. He rose and came to stand behind her chair, wrapping his arms around her to cut a piece and spear it with her fork. Hermione held her breath as he held it up to her mouth. His words fell hot and demanding in her ear. “Eat, please. You look like you haven’t had a hot meal in weeks.”

How would he know that? Besides, it wasn’t true. She’d reheated curry takeaway just last night. She opened her mouth to protest, but he took it as acquiescence. He slid the food in, placing it on her tongue in a more delicate manner than Hermione thought him capable of manoeuvring. 

She immediately relaxed as she chewed, the flavours dancing across her palate. A small noise of pleasure escaped her. 

Malfoy stiffened behind her and put the fork down on her plate, but not before selecting another bite for her. She picked up the cutlery and ate it immediately, chewing with enthusiasm. He hung around for a moment in her periphery, his eyes like molten metal. 

 “Good gi—” He brought the LUCK hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Good.”

When he sat down again, they both tucked into their meals with vigour. Rain pattered at the window, but otherwise they ate for a few minutes in silence.

“This is delicious,” she said. 

“Thank you. I’ll let the chef know.”

Her fork hovered above the plate. “Is this… elf-made?”

He smiled. “There’s the Granger I know. No, an extremely talented — and highly paid — Squib made this meal. You can enjoy yourself guilt-free.”

She admitted to herself that it did make the meal more palatable and took bigger bites. The wine pairing was perfect, cool, and refreshing. If she’d been anywhere else, with anyone else, she’d be letting her hair down and enjoying the evening. 

But she was with Draco Malfoy in his penthouse suite, his bed just a stone’s (or a gold bar’s) throw away. 

Malfoy cleared his plate and returned it to the cart. It surprised Hermione to look down and find her plate empty as well.

“Would you like more?”

She bit her lip. “If it’s not too much trouble…”

Malfoy seemed thrilled at this, and he opened another dome with an extra serving. He set it in front of her and refilled her glass as well. She stared at it. 

She really shouldn’t.

“So tell me why you aren’t Mrs. Hermione Weasley.”

“Tell me how you came to own a casino,” she parried.

He took a swig of wine. “Alright, a question for a question, then. I’ll start.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “A Slytherin offering information up first? My, how the mighty have fallen.” 

Malfoy shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Call it a gesture of good faith. I own Serpenti because my best friend died.”

Chapter Text

She choked on her wine. Malfoy said it so matter-of-factly, like he was reading it out of Hogwarts: A History.

My best friend died.

“Goyle?” If memory served, Gregory Goyle had burned to death in the Room of Requirement.

Malfoy pushed his glass around with his fingertips. “Goyle was a bit of a hanger-on. I was always closer to Vincent Crabbe. Good man, Vince. Dropped the Pureblood shite around the same time I did.”

“I had no idea.”

“Why would you? It’s not as if we ran in the same circles.” Malfoy paused, a wistful expression crossing his face. “He and I enjoyed a few good years bandying about London after eighth year, and then I watched helplessly as he began an irreversible descent into madness. The Healers said he had some kind of early onset dementia. They theorised the torture he received at the hands of his father was the true cause. Vince wasn’t the brightest, but people thought he was slower than ol’ Sluggy because of his continual exposure to the Cruciatus.”

“Gods.”

“He used to come stay with us, sometimes, during the summer. My father wasn’t a fan of the friendship, mostly because Crabbe Sr. was such a shite wizard, but he took pity on Vince.”

Malfoy sipped his wine and forged ahead. “And then as you know, we were close at Hogwarts. I took the Mark, and his father wanted him to follow suit. But Vince was a pacifist at heart, and he refused. It only made things worse for him. Though we survived the war and our eighth year, he and I both found ourselves with scarcely a Knut to our names. When his old man passed, he inherited this place. It wasn’t much, then; a tear-down on prime real estate. We built it together — somewhere everyone could have a good time, somewhere that didn’t make you feel like you were in the middle of sodding London. Somewhere… magical.”

“It is magical,” she admitted. “But wait, what happened to your inheritance money? I seem to recall you boasting in the Great Hall about everything your father had in store for you.”

“That was before I decided to become a businessman, give myself a bunch of tattoos, and break the long-standing marriage contract between myself and Astoria Greengrass. More wine?”

She held her glass out to him, and he poured the perfect amount as if he’d read her mind, not spilling a drop. He’d always had steady hands when he needed to. She remembered his deft movements during Potions class, his delicate charm work on the ‘Potter Stinks!’ buttons, and the way he mirrored every swish and flick when he duelled. Too often she’d peered over at his table in the Hogwarts library only to find Malfoy doodling on a scrap of spare parchment.

She eyed his tattoos. “You did these yourself.”

Malfoy pushed up his sleeves even further, perhaps so she could appreciate his line work. If she wasn’t mistaken, he flexed his corded muscles. Or did she imagine that? “First, I draw the art on parchment, and then I transfer it to the skin with a series of charms. I did all of them except the one the Dark Lord bestowed upon me. Apparently, it was fine when he permanently marred my flesh, but it was unacceptable to Lucius when I did it.”

“You’re very talented. Good with your hands,” she stammered, hiding her face by taking a rather large gulp of Sauvignon Blanc. The cool liquid tickled her throat, and she brought her napkin over her mouth to cough.

“I don’t know if you know this, Granger, but we have all night. There’s no need to rush,” he said with a smirk. “And thank you. I appreciate that very much.”

“Why didn’t you marry Astoria?” Hermione asked. “Sorry, I know that’s another question.”

“I’ll allow it since you complimented me so sincerely,” he laughed when she felt her face heat again. She’d always been quick to blush. “Multiple reasons, really, the most pressing being that she’s not into men. Also, we were so damn young. My father died in Azkaban — got an unauthorised Dementor’s Kiss. They never did find out who let the Dementor in — at least that’s what the Aurors told me. But he wasn’t around to force me into it anymore, and my mother moved on in a heartbeat with one of Zabini’s mum’s ex-husbands.”

“I thought she killed them all?”

“Nasty rumour, that.” Malfoy waved her off and refilled his own glass. He tilted the bottle towards her as well, but Hermione declined with a shake of her head. She liked to have enough to unwind, but not so much that she had a headache in the morning.

She wiggled uncomfortably in her seat at the thought of waking up hungover in the platform bed. It was at least a metre off the floor, and she was already prone to turning her ankle by simply walking up the stairs to her flat. She imagined limping home tomorrow in yesterday’s clothes and her shiny wellies. Now that would be even more of a nightmare.

As if she didn’t have enough nightmares.

Hermione scrunched her nose, willing the thoughts away. “So your mother cut you off?”

“She and my father thought I squandered my life. When he died, my mother suspected I had something to do with it. I’d moved into my own place and stopped going to visit them, you see. He changed the will to benefit her only, and when he died… well. I didn’t fight it. I went from living in a spacious flat overlooking the park, throwing parties and hosting fine dinners, and being followed by paparazzi to complete isolation. No one wanted to be seen with me. Soon I was helping cook the books at an apothecary in Knockturn Alley, living in a seedy part of the city taking care of Vince.”

“That’s quite a fall from grace, even for you.”

Malfoy tapped his fingers on the desk. “Touché. At first, I just thought he was only taking pity on me. Then I realised he wanted me around because he would eventually require more and more help, and he needed someone he could trust. No one knew he was sick. He wanted it kept quiet.”

“Why?”

“Questions, questions, Granger, and yet, not a single answer from you.” He took a long drink of wine. “Why aren’t you married and saddled with red-haired brats by now? Thought that’s what you always wanted.”

“Is it so wrong to want a family?”

“Not at all. I’m merely surprised it hasn’t happened for you yet. Purebloods marry young, unless there are special circumstances or, as in my case, broken contracts. And unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been with Weasley for much longer than the proper amount of time.”

Hermione leaned back in the chair and swirled the last swallow of wine in her glass. “You know Ron’s brother, Fred, died in the final battle. George’s twin. His passing left a hole in the entire family’s hearts. Molly — Ron’s mum — she was especially affected.”

“As any mother would be,” Malfoy concurred. His grey eyes held a surprising wealth of sympathy, but then Hermione supposed he knew loss as well as she did.

“Yes. But she pulled them all so close… They’re all on top of each other all the time, in each others’ personal lives and finances. All her remaining children, including Ron, work at Fred and George’s joke shop.”

“Ah, yes. I have to say, I’m a fan. Lots of useful little gadgets there.”

“You and everyone else in Wizarding Britain. The shop is doing better than ever, but in a way that’s worse, because no one can leave now, even if they wanted to. I don’t think Ron wants to, but Ginny does, and it’s caused the worst rows at Sunday night dinners.”

Malfoy leaned forward and made a steeple with his inked fingers. “I find it hard to believe that Molly Weasley hasn’t pushed matters. Doesn’t she want to see her son settled and happy with a smart, beautiful witch such as yourself?”

Gods, she must really be blushing now. From the wine, of course. It really was very good wine.

“She says she wants that more than anything. But she’s always around, you know? She has a key to our flat and stops by unannounced all the time. The woman stocks my cupboards, for Merlin’s sake, even the personal toiletries! It leaves no room for me to make the place our own. And Ron is fine with it, so why even mention it to him? It comforts him to have Molly around, even though it’s suffocating me.”

Hermione couldn’t believe she’d just told all that to Malfoy. Had he dosed her with Veritaserum? He couldn’t have, she reassured herself. She’d seen him uncork the bottle.

“But it’s more than mummy issues, isn’t it? It’s the fact that he comes here.”

“I hate it. He doesn’t know how to stop.” And I don’t know how to stop him, she wanted to add.

“He’ll have to stop now. He’s banned, at least temporarily.”

“But he’ll find somewhere else.”

Malfoy shrugged, as if this wasn’t news to him at all. “Of course he will. He’s an addict, Granger. I didn’t realise until you came in here and he shamelessly put you up for this.”

“This isn’t so bad,” she admitted.

“I’m happy to hear that, but that isn’t the point, is it? It’s just us; you don’t need to make excuses for his behaviour. You take care of everything that his mother doesn’t, don’t you?”

She cast her eyes down to her lap. Her silence spoke volumes, and she knew it.

“Doesn’t it disgust you? Parenting a grown man?”

What could she possibly say to that?

I’d never thought of it that way.

Until tonight, no.

Now that you mention it? Yes.

“I—”

Malfoy waved his hand to clear the air, putting his LOVE fingers to his temple. “Nevermind, don’t answer that. I was out of line with that one. I’m sorry.”

He cleared the rest of the tableware from the desk until only his near-empty wine glass remained. After accounting for everything, he moved the cart to the corner before returning to his seat.

“I can’t leave him.” The words were barely audible.

He lowered his voice to match hers. “I understand.”

“I don’t think you do. I’m all he has outside of his irreparably broken family. He works with them, eats with them, would die for them — and don’t you think that’s worth something? Ron let me in; he trusts me. And we’re going to therapy. I attend Al-Anon. There’s hope for us.”

“But he hasn’t proposed?”

Hermione scoffed. “Like I’m some great catch.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. Don’t talk about yourself that way,” he said as she raised an eyebrow. It almost sounded like a command until he softened it with, “Please.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was too fast after Fred. Or too close to Harry’s wedding, or the birth of Bill and Fleur’s second and third. And grief, you know, it makes the years pass by in this watercolour blur. You can’t tell where the days begin and end.”

Malfoy gripped his watch, fiddling with the underside of the titanium band. “Maybe that’s why he likes it here. At Serpenti, there’s no real sense of day or night or anything that exists outside of the next roll, the next flop. Even I get confused from time to time about where I should be and what I should be doing.”

“Yes, well, like you said, he won’t be coming here for a while. And I’m grateful for that, and for the chance to get the Burrow back. Thank you.”

It seemed the evening was wearing on him. His eyes glinted with contempt. “See, I fucking hate that. Thank you.”

She felt the flush of anger rise in her cheeks. “What? You hate that I have manners?”

“No. I hate that he’s changed you. You’re sitting here fucking thanking me for the opportunity to win back what he lost. The old Hermione Granger would never do that. The way I see it, Weasley’s practically set you out on the street corner. He thinks I’m in here wrapping your hair around my fist and pounding you into next week, without a care for what you want or need, just riding you hard and putting you up wet.”

Her breath caught in her chest. He was right.

“He didn’t ask about your comfort, how I would treat you, if I’d use protection, if I’d hurt you… I mean, what the fuck?” In his frustration, Malfoy spread his arms too wide, knocking his wineglass on the floor. It shattered into hundreds of tiny glittering shards.

She startled at the noise, but her mind was stuck on his words. Was she really so weak? And if so, did he have to throw it in her face like that? Had Ron changed her so much that Malfoy, who hadn’t seen her in years, picked up on it?

He swore again and ran both his hands through his hair, the undersides of his intricate tattoo sleeves on full display.

Her emotions flickered between anger and confusion. Malfoy had taken advantage of the situation, but he was clearly concerned for her well-being. He shouldn't have said any of that; he had no right. But she couldn’t deny the truth in his words.

“I’m sorry.” Her mouth moved mechanically, uttering the words she always used with Ron.

“No,” he put his head in his hands. “You shouldn’t be sorry. I’m sorry. Gods. That was an accident. I would never hurt you, Granger. I meant it when I said I won’t lay a hand on you.”

He moved slowly towards the floor, as if worried he might scare her, and cleaned up the mess on his hands and knees.

Between his anger on her behalf and the way his head hung as he disposed of the glass, her heart caught in her throat. In that moment, she trusted Malfoy with her well-being more than she trusted her boyfriend.

What a preposterous thought.

Hermione stood abruptly, smoothing her clothes. She searched for a subject change. “I work at the Ministry, you know, in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Years ago, I petitioned to change the name. Like most of my suggestions, they turned it down. I’m usually fretting over aconite shortages and vampire covens, and then there’s Ron… I don’t worry too much about me.”

“It sounds like challenging work.”

She sighed and walked over to his bookcases. “It’s not. To tell you the truth, I’ve wanted to do something else for a while now. Really get my hands dirty.”

“Herbology?”

“No, no. I wish to work directly with the creatures themselves. Give them resources to restore their lands, understand their rights, that sort of thing. I want to correct the mistakes I made with S.P.E.W. and really listen to what they desire in the long term.”

He’d finished cleaning and leaned against the end of one bookcase. If she wasn’t mistaken, another of his shirt buttons had come undone. “Noble of you. What’s stopping you?”

“Money,” Hermione sighed. She pulled a face as she trailed her fingertips over the selection of books. “Most of these are about Quidditch.”

Malfoy laughed. “It is an interest of mine. What, these jobs don’t pay?”

“They do, but nothing like what I make at the Ministry. And the salary is important. I need to rebuild our savings.”

He was gentleman enough not to take a shot at Ron, even though he must have known her boyfriend was the reason she was so focused on the money aspect of any potential career move.

“It would probably take a hefty sum to lure you away, then,” he said quietly. She caught his reflection in the window; statuesque and solemn, rippled by raindrops.

Hermione let her hand fall to her side. She was restless; fidgety. She regretted declining that last glass of wine. “What’s that saying? It’s not in the cards.”

He shifted closer to her, or maybe she to him. “Can’t get dealt a good hand if you never play.”

She licked her lips and changed topics. “I’m actually pretty tired. It’s been a long day. Do you have anything I can wear to bed?”

Malfoy jumped into action, shattering the moment with a loud clap of his hands. “Yes, I’ve got a few pyjama sets. They’ll be baggy on you, but comfortable.”

She followed him down the corridor, passing the glittering gold bars in their glass cage. “That’d be great. It’ll be nice to get out of these clothes.”

His steps faltered. Why had she said that?

She must be drunk. Maybe it was extra-strength wine; like a high gravity beer.

Yes, that was it.

Malfoy led the way past his gigantic bed to a lavish walk-in closet. Pressed white oxfords and slim-cut trousers hung on green velvet hangers, and a collection of watches and cufflinks glinted up at Hermione from a tray lined with brushed suede. Even though it was over-the-top, it was distinctly Malfoy, down to the reed diffuser tucked discreetly behind a pair of wingtips on his shoe rack. The scent matched his cologne, and she had to admit it suited both him and the space.

She tried not to hover as he opened a drawer with a neat stack of pyjamas inside. A black pair with white piping called out to her, and she reached out to stroke the collar. It was silk; impossibly smooth and cool to the touch. Malfoy chuckled and handed them to her.

“What, are these the most expensive? Ron always says I have champagne taste.”

“Actually, the exact opposite. They’re the least expensive pyjamas I own. They’re also my favourites.” He looked pleased.

“Oh, I could choose another—”

“I didn’t say that so you’d choose another pair. What you have, Granger, is a knack for always selecting the best. What else do you need? Name it, I’ll get it for you.”

The man really did aim to please.

“Well, I suppose since I can’t use magic, I’ll need more than a few things,” she rattled off a list, but he didn’t seem put off by her needs. “And most of all, I’d love a proper hairbrush and an elastic.”

“Elastic?”

She twisted her hair up and off the nape of her neck. His gaze focused there. “You know, to hold my hair up? I usually sleep with it in a bun.”

“Of course. I’ll return the cart and get those for you. Won’t be a moment.”

Hermione waited until she heard the office door close before slipping into the pyjamas. The silk fell like a whisper over her skin, soft and inviting. Between the decadent pyjamas and the downy bed, she might actually sleep well tonight.

She then retrieved her beaded bag and double-checked that the debt markers were still tucked inside. Malfoy had treated her with the utmost respect and care, and a sharp pang of guilt sliced through her chest. There was no need to steal from Malfoy. She’d bargained for Ron’s deed and his deed alone.

But he has plenty, she reasoned, biting her lip. And what if the runes he used are something more sinister than simply compelling repayment?

Hermione didn’t waver long. She kept the markers, and instead of going back to the bedroom, she took the opportunity to poke around the penthouse a bit more. There was a hall closet with a designer trench coat, brollies, and a black trilby that would look ridiculous on any other man, but on Malfoy was sure to look annoyingly handsome. She also found a den with a deep, L-shaped couch that looked perfect for napping or reading. The kitchen didn’t have much in the way of food, but it boasted a shiny double-door refrigerator — something magical people usually eschewed. Interesting.

A trio of silver-framed photos on the bookcase caught her eye as she wandered back to the office. The first was a photo of Crabbe and Malfoy. Crabbe’s skin hung off him in the way it does when someone is sick and dying. Next was a photo of Malfoy and his parents on Platform 9 ¾, waiting for his first ride on the Hogwarts Express.

Hermione picked up the last photo. It was one she recognised — a photo of their eighth year class. She’d forgotten Malfoy sat behind her in the Quidditch stands on the day McGonagall took the photo, and she furrowed her brow as she noticed, for the first time, that right as he smiled, he looked down at her.

Chapter Text

“Taking a trip down memory lane?”

Hermione dropped the photo, and the frame clattered against the bookshelf. She put her hand over her heart and whirled around. “Gods, Malfoy. I didn’t hear you come back in.”

Malfoy tossed a Serpenti-branded toiletry kit on the desk and approached her like a big cat stalking its prey. He reached over her shoulder and set the photo back to rights. His eyes held an uncharacteristic warmth. Or maybe she’d never thought of him as warm before. “Eighth year. This was a good year.”

“I know. No one died.”

He smirked and drew his hand away. “I was going to say I didn’t have to take Divination. But yes, no one died.”

She rubbed her forearm, her thumb brushing over the remnants of her scar. “It was the only year we were permitted to be children.”

He followed the motion with his eyes before examining his short, neat fingernails. “You always seem to cut right to the heart of the matter, don’t you?”

“I don’t see the point in dancing around it. Life is short,” she shrugged.

“Indeed.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, realising too late how that sounded after their conversation about Crabbe. Vince. “I’m sorry. I think I’m just tired.”

Malfoy’s eyes changed, less curious and more flinty now. “It’s fine. You didn’t say anything wrong. I think we’ve established that I’m the villain here, Granger.”

Before she could reply, he handed her the toiletry kit. “I believe this has everything you’ll need for the evening, including a few elastics. The pyjamas are alright?”

“Tell me you’re joking. It’s safe to say they’re the best I’ve ever had and I haven’t even slept in them yet.”

Malfoy tucked his hands in his pockets as he looked her up and down. “Keep them. They suit you.”

He walked down the corridor towards the loo and she scooped up her beaded bag, padding along behind him.

“I thought you said they were your favourites?”

“As you can see,” he said, gesturing towards the gold bars lining the glass. “I can always buy more. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take my turn in the loo first. I can’t imagine how long it’ll take you to wrangle your hair.”

Hermione breezed past him, heading for the kitchen. After drinking a glass of water, she was much refreshed, and by the time she reemerged in the corridor, the loo was free. Her skin care routine didn’t take up much time, and her hair was uncharacteristically compliant as she tamed it into a comfortable bun. Rather than delaying the inevitable, she took another deep, cleansing breath and made her way to the bedroom.

She froze in front of the giant bed. Should she simply get in? Was she supposed to say goodnight?

Malfoy knocked on the doorframe and leaned against it. A lock of wet hair clung to his forehead, and a few droplets from his shower remained on his neck. He’d changed into pyjamas — the inverse of hers, white silk with black piping — and wore quilted slippers on his feet.

“All you have to do is sleep in here,” he said, soft and low, reassuring her. “I’ll be in the office finishing up a few things. I’ve transfigured one of the chairs into a serviceable bed before, and that’ll be just fine for me tonight. Call out if you need anything, yeah?” He rapped twice more on the door and turned to go.

The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. “You don’t have to leave.”

He stared at her for a moment before taking a cautious step forward. “Inviting me to bed, Granger?”

“Obviously not, I mean, not like that.” She clutched her upper arms and took a step back, averting her eyes. “But you could just, I don’t know, stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.”

Malfoy laughed. “Which side of my bed is yours, exactly?”

Hermione’s cheeks heated. “Oh, you know what I mean. Mine for the night.”

“You’ve already laid claim to my favourite pyjamas. I’m ceding territory left and right.”

She was certain her ears were red. He grinned, and she considered picking up one of his fancy Egyptian cotton pillows and swatting him with it.

“I like this side,” she said, gesturing to the side closest to her. It was also closest to the door in case she needed the loo in the middle of the night. “The bed is huge. I won’t even know you’re here.”

Hermione said the last part for his benefit. She would definitely know he was there.

She usually slept on the side furthest from the door. Her reasoning used to be that she slept on that side so Ron could protect her if someone came in. For years after the war, she’d been worried a Death Eater would break out of Azkaban and come after her. She had nightmares about being chased by Snatchers.

These days, with Ron out all hours of the night, the nightmares found her more frequently. She typically fell asleep not in their bed, but in front of the telly in the living room.

Something told her she’d sleep much easier if she wasn’t alone.

He seemed to mull it over. “It would be more comfortable. You don’t snore or anything, do you?”

The fog of tension between them — which she’d clearly imagined — lifted. She scoffed. “Me? Snore?”

“It’s always the ones you least suspect. And also, I noticed you didn’t deny it,” he said with a charming half-smile.

“Ron says it’s cute.”

“Let’s not talk about Weasley anymore.”

Hermione fluffed a pillow and laid it vertically in the bed, creating a barrier between the two sides. “Fine by me.”

She didn’t want to talk about Ron, truly. All it did was make her anxious about facing him tomorrow. He’d need comfort and affirmations from her about their night apart, and gods knew what else. But right now, she could barely keep her eyes open, exhausted from the events of the day. Hermione yawned, and as she stretched, she relished the pleasant fullness in her belly from a good, hot dinner. Malfoy had been right — she really needed that.

After making sure her wand and bag were on the night table, she lifted the soft duvet and climbed into Malfoy’s bed. Her magic danced along her spine, happy she was on her way to fulfilling her end of the deal.

A sigh of pleasure escaped her as she pulled the fluffy white bedding up to her chin and curled onto her side, avoiding looking up at the ceiling mirror. Malfoy kept the room at her preferred temperature for sleeping — ice cold — and the weight of the duvet calmed her overactive nervous system. She nestled deeper into the pillow and closed her eyes.

“Turndown service,” Malfoy said in a low voice. She cracked one eye open to find him leaning over her. She’d been so distracted by the comfortable bed she forgot all about the man she’d volunteered — twice, now — to share it with. “Are you warm enough? Do you need more pillows?”

He tucked the duvet around her, his tattooed hands respectful; never wandering. Hermione fought to hold her eyes to the same standard. She cleared her throat. “Is this what it’s like to be a Pureblood lady? This is a lot of fuss.”

That earned her a chuckle. “Pureblood ladies have house elves do their bidding. This is how a man takes care of someone sharing his bed.” He pulled his hands away slowly, appraising his work.

It was impossible to deny how attractive Draco sodding Malfoy was right now, all long limbs and lean muscles. His half-buttoned pyjama top revealed a perfect vee of alabaster skin, scarred and inked in black. Tattooed shards of glass, if she wasn’t mistaken. But what unnerved her most was the way he focused solely on her; his attentiveness so mesmerising that she couldn’t look anywhere but him and his piercing grey eyes. It was like the air between them crackled.

She swallowed hard. “I would like another pillow, actually.”

He pulled one from a hidden linen drawer underneath the bed, fluffed it, and motioned for her to lean forward. When she did, he placed it behind her head and waited for her to adjust it to her liking. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He waited a beat, although she wasn’t sure why, before speaking again. “If it’s alright with you, I’m going to turn the lights out, and then I’ll join you under the covers.”

“I thought you had more work to do?”

“Yes, well, a wise witch once told me that life is short. And I’m more tired than I thought.”

She had to admit he had a sleepy look about him. Some people might say he had bedroom eyes.

“Oh, alright.”

“I won’t touch you, but if you’re uncomfortable at any point, just tell me to leave and I will. I’m a deep sleeper sometimes, so you may have to elbow me, but I’ll get your point.” His hand hovered over the light switch.

“Wait,” Hermione’s heart raced. “Would you mind… I don’t sleep in total darkness.”

She hated admitting this to him, showing him weakness after weakness.

“Neither do I. Let me flip this and I’ll show you.”

As soon as his finger brushed the switch, the overhead track lighting went dark, but the small lights lining the baseboards remained lit. The candles she’d seen earlier that covered the floor sparked to life as well, plastic flames flickering like the real thing. How did he learn about flameless candles? She had to admit this was far better than the weak nightlight she’d had as a child, and the soft glow was much more comforting than that of the telly back at the flat.

“Draco Malfoy using specialty electric lighting. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Malfoy, still mostly visible in the low light, gestured towards the floor. “Just follow the lights if you need to get up and use the loo or anything. And the kitchen’s the other way if you get hungry. It’s not well-stocked at the moment, but I keep some apples, that kind of thing.”

Hermione sent him a sleepy smile. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

His jaw twitched. “I hope this hasn’t been as bad as you expected.”

“No, no,” she said, and he nodded and rounded the bed to his side for the night. “I mean, I’d do anything for Ron, and on the giant list of things one can experience, this is on the lower end of the sacrifice scale.”

“I thought we’d stopped talking about your boyfriend.” The mattress dipped beneath Malfoy’s weight, and she felt a pull on the covers as he settled. Hermione watched as Malfoy’s reflection spoke to her in the mirror. “You’d really do anything for him, huh?”

Somehow it was easier to hold a conversation with Mirror Malfoy. “I mean, not anything. But close. He was my best friend.”

Mirror Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “And he’s not now?”

“He’s my boyfriend, Malfoy.”

“We’ve established that, thanks.”

“He’s both,” she scrambled for words, clutching more of the duvet. “My boyfriend and my best friend.”

“Right.” Irritation settled over his features, even as he yawned.

“I’m sure your girlfriend — or boyfriend — is your best friend, too.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment. In fact, the only thing I have right now is a cover hog.” He didn’t try to steal the covers back. Instead, he sat up and pulled a cream-coloured chenille blanket out from one of the drawers beneath the bed.

“Sorry.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Granger, I swear, if you apologise to me one more time, I’ll—”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “You’ll what?”

Malfoy swallowed hard, and she found herself unable to look away from the tattooed column of his throat. A phoenix flew from a gilded cage just above his collar, leaving a trail of feathers behind. She wanted to ask him a million questions.

What does this mean to you?

Is it your design?

And perhaps most concerningly… Can I touch it?

“Goodnight, Granger.” He rolled over, his back facing her.

Her eyes fluttered closed. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

***

Hermione didn’t know how long she’d slept, only that the nightmare found her just as fast as it would have at home.

She darted through the pitch black forest. The underbrush seemed to come alive, thorny vines reaching out to wrap around her ankles like barbed wire. A woman’s laughter rang out as violet sparks bounced off the trees, and Hermione picked up the pace. The acrid scent of dark magic stung her nostrils, mingling with the tang of blood on her lips. She kept running, desperate to avoid the back-arching chill of marble floors; the agony of splitting flesh; the miserable glittering of the chandelier.

Grey eyes, full of regret.

She shot up in bed only to see a man with his back to her. He sat at her feet, shirtless and slightly sweaty. Malfoy?

Where — oh, right. Hermione rubbed her eyes and propped herself up in Malfoy’s giant bed.

The covers on Malfoy’s side were even more twisted than hers, and the pillow separating them was gone. Hermione clocked the shirt at the end of the bed — when had he tugged it off? It occurred to her that he might only be wearing the pyjamas for her comfort. Maybe he usually took them off before slipping underneath the covers. Her thoughts skittered to a stop as she took in the expanse of his bare skin.

She was right before. Most of his upper body was covered in inky broken glass. She hadn’t realised before how many Sectumsempra scars he had, each one part of the edges of a jagged shard. The pieces scattered across his back in a sunburst, a monument to wounds of all different shapes and sizes.

Why would he highlight his scars? And why with this design?

“Hey,” she whispered. “Malfoy.”

He whipped around. “Hey. You okay?”

Oh, gods. He was absolutely ripped. His taut abs stood out in sharp relief despite the low light. The half-lit shadow of his hard body leaning towards her made her heart race.

Danger, her body seemed to warn her.

And Malfoy could probably be very dangerous. Her eyes caught on the veins running from his biceps to his hands; even more prominent with his fists knotted in the sheets. LOVE and LUCK flexed, and she tore her gaze away.

“Yeah, just a nightmare.”

“Same here.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re breathing pretty fast.”

“Yes, well, I was running. In the nightmare, I mean.” She was breathing harder now. “From the Snatchers.”

In the months after the war, after she’d retrieved her parents from Australia, Hermione would wake up to her mother shaking her shoulders, tears tracking down both of their faces. One time, when their usual tactics to wake her weren’t working, her father bent an ice tray over her head, hoping the little cubes raining down on her like hail would snap her out of it.

The nightmares abated when she moved in with Ron, but only for a time. And even though she was awake now, she couldn’t seem to escape terror’s clutches.

Her vision narrowed to a tunnel, and she tumbled back into the forest. An icy wind whistled through the trees. She fumbled in her pockets for her wand, but it was missing. A twig snapped.

“Granger?” Malfoy’s face was inches from hers. His eyes were wide, his expression concerned.

“I, I,” she couldn’t breathe. Malfoy was there. Was she back in the drawing room?

Bellatrix’s screeching echoed through her skull. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes as the pain ignited in her chest and burned outwards, snaking down her limbs and setting them on fire.

Hermione looked up at the ceiling. The chandelier shook, its crystals shivering against each other.

Malfoy was saying something in the background. Was he on the bed or standing next to his mother, face tense with horror?

“Breathe, Granger. Just breathe for me, okay?”

She sucked in air, nearly choking on the sudden influx of oxygen.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

The drawing room began collapsing in on itself. Walls crumbled and faces fell away with every breath she drew, until all she saw was Malfoy.

Malfoy.

“The chandelier,” she whimpered.

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

She didn’t think. Didn’t need to. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tucked her face into the crook where it met his shoulder. Tears spilled down her cheeks, running in rivulets down his collarbone.

“Fuck, Hermione.” He hugged her tightly to him, and she felt the rumble of his voice, the rise and fall of his chest. Her name was soft on his tongue.

Her heart rate couldn’t decide whether to slow down or speed up. The air, which moments ago had been heavy and thick, breezed into her lungs. It was a dizzying high. Her limbs were no longer sandbags weighing her down. In fact, she could feel everything now, including his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading her tightly wound muscles.

He seemed to notice it at the same time she did, and his arms slackened. Malfoy removed his hands, and she leaned back, immediately missing his warmth. Mouth dry, she licked her lips, and she could’ve sworn he tracked the movement.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, looking away as she wiped her face on her sleeve. “Try to keep your breathing nice and even. It helps.”

She took a few deep, restorative breaths before speaking again. “I should’ve warned you.”

There was a tightness to his words. “No, I should’ve expected it.”

“I didn’t have a nightmare because of you. It’s something I’ve been dealing with for a long time.”

“I’m sure it didn’t help that this whole thing’s been stressful. I wasn’t thinking. Trying to get one over on Weasley, I suppose, but then… I’ve been careless. I’m sorry.” Malfoy leaned forward and fished his shirt off the edge of the bed. “Let me get you some water.”

“No!” Her hand darted out and closed around his wrist before she could stop it. “Please. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

He eyed her fingers, locked around his LOVE hand. She marvelled at the bob of his throat; the subtle movement of the phoenix. “Even if it’s me keeping you company?”

Hermione tightened her hold and looked him directly in the eye. “Stop. I forgave you a long time ago.”

“For things I did a long time ago. But I never should have put you through this.”

“You’re right. And I never should have agreed,” she said, squeezing him again. His wrist was so big her fingers barely touched. Why didn’t she just let go? “But it’s only for a few more hours.”

He ran LUCK over his face. “Yeah. We should get some sleep.”

“Will you be alright? What about your nightmare?”

“Are you asking if it’ll come back?” Malfoy still didn’t break her grasp. “It always does. I doubt I’ll get back to sleep.”

She sighed. “Me either.”

“Are you sure about the water? It’s no trouble,” he said softly. “I’m feeling rather thirsty.”

A frisson of heat rippled through her lower abdomen, and she removed her hand. “Actually, I’d love one.”

He slid his arms through the pyjama top and pulled the buttons across his chest to fasten them. “Be right back.”

The second he disappeared, Hermione flopped back and dragged a pillow across her face. She’d touched Malfoy. Sure, she’d been distressed when she wiggled her way into his arms, but what about when she grabbed his wrist? It wasn’t as if she’d promised not to touch him, and he didn’t seem bothered by it at all. He didn’t pull away or wince or sneer at her.

Well, he did suddenly need a glass of water. Maybe he didn’t know how to get away without hurting her feelings. He was surprisingly in tune with them for having only reunited with her a few hours earlier.

But he’d called her Hermione.

He also called you a good girl.

Any further spiralling was interrupted by Malfoy’s return with two glasses of water.

“Thanks,” she said, gulping hers down.

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow. “Want another?”

“No. I’m good.”

He shrugged, palmed a pillow, and returned to his side of the bed, but he didn’t erect another wall between them. Instead, he fluffed the pillow against the footboard, climbed in bed and leaned against it. He smiled as he closed his eyes. “Got any Muggle tricks for falling asleep?”

“My dad used to say he’d count sheep.”

“I thought your parents were tooth Healers?”

She couldn’t help a laugh. “They are. Dentists. But it’s very common to picture a little wooden fence in your mind and have imaginary sheep jump over it, and you count them.”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

“I’m not!” Another giggle flew past her lips. “You could try counting things you own. Hair potions? Gold bars?”

He put his hand over his heart. “Am I so vain? You wound me.”

Hermione smiled to herself. “You know, I used to fall asleep if someone read to me.”

“Like a bedtime story?”

She twirled a stand of hair around her finger and examined his face in the mirror. “Yeah.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and something dark flickered in his eyes. “Well, as you saw, all my books are about quidditch,” he said.

She felt foolish for asking. I mean, really? Sure, he tucked her in and got her a glass of water, but it was a leap to expect a bedtime story from a posh Londoner in his mid-twenties who had plenty of choice in his bed partners. Yet somehow it wasn’t difficult to imagine Draco Malfoy, a bit older and more relaxed, as a doting daddy, doing the voices to Babbity Rabbity for a little blond boy or girl.

Why was she imagining their hair would be curly, too?

“Forget I—”

He tucked his arms behind his head and stretched. It took everything she had to remain concentrated on his face and not what she now knew lay beneath his shirt. “But I suppose I could make up a story.”

“I won’t tell a soul.”

“Everything that happens here, stays here, Granger.”

“Good. Agreed.”

“Close your eyes,” he said, and the stern words banished any thoughts of not complying. “Good girl.”

Good girl. Hermione knew Malfoy was only teasing, because he knew all the ways she hadn’t been what the Wizarding World would consider a good girl. She was Muggleborn, for one thing. And she was bold, went against the grain, knocked down barriers left and right. She took up space, nurtured her grudges, and razed her enemies to the ground. Most of all, she loved with her whole heart.

At least, she used to.

Still, the words, from his lips, did something funny to her tummy.

“Now, once upon a time, there was a kingdom in a faraway land. Every acre yielded fine fruits, vegetables, and rare flowers and herbs. And these were not the only riches. There was clean air, temperate weather, and the people lived happy lives under the rule of a king. The king governed well for a time. But though he was once a valiant knight of that fair realm, he was not a good steward of the land, and soon everything that once flourished began to rot in the fields under a blackened sky.

His advisors told him to wed, in hopes that forging an alliance with a neighbouring land might restore the magical properties of the soil. The king met a princess, the same age as he, and fell for her. It was impossible not to love her, for she was so beautiful and wise, and he promised her safety if she would come to his kingdom. Her land was foreign to her in many ways, and so she agreed.

But though the people adored her and wove her crowns of goldenrod and sage, the king did not wed her, because the land did not return to its original state. It grew more wild, more magical, and he did not like that he could not tame it. Most of all, he hated that only the princess seemed to be able to make things grow.

In a jealous rage, the king consulted his mages and cast an enchantment on her so that she could never cross the boundaries of the kingdom. For many years, she travelled the land in an attempt to restore it to the king’s liking. But it was an impossible task.

One day, the princess rode to the outskirts of the kingdom and spotted a sorcerer cloaked in black. His clothes were tattered, but he carried himself like royalty. He told her he was lost, and begged for her help at her feet. So pure was her heart, the princess took pity on him. But when she kneeled to touch him, he broke the enchantment, and whisked her away to be with him in a palace in the clouds.”

Hermione dared to peer at him out of one eye. “And then what happened?”

He twitched. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“Well, it’s just… I’m invested now. He takes her to the palace in the sky… And then what?”

“I don’t know, Granger. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Maybe you’ll dream up the next bit.”

“Maybe,” she said with a yawn. “You’re quite good at that.”

“I’m quite good at a lot of things.” Her eyes didn’t need to be open to know he smirked.

“Hush, lest I banish you to that transfigured office chair you mentioned earlier.”

He chuckled, and she heard him shift underneath the covers. “Alright. Good night, princess.”

Sleep welcomed her before she could parse out his meaning. Hermione dreamt of floating towards a palace in the clouds. She threw open the doors, and mystical music billowed through a grand ballroom. At its centre, standing upon a gilded dais, a mischievous blond sorcerer patted the velvet cushion of a throne.

Chapter Text

Hermione stirred, rustling the sheets. She kept her eyes closed. She’d been having a lovely dream, but like most dreams, it evaporated away at the first sign of semi-consciousness.

She was warm all over, almost too warm, and her left arm was numb, trapped under Ron’s solid weight. His arm was thrown around her waist, his hand radiating heat where it spanned her bum. She wiggled and his hand pushed them closer together.

She smiled to herself. He must’ve rolled over for a cuddle in the night. She burrowed in closer to his chest. Gods, he smelled so good. Not smoky like when he came home from late nights spent hunched over the card tables. Ron’s natural scent reminded her of coffee, nutty and strong, made in their kitchen as the sun rose over the Thames. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d woken up together and had coffee. Despite her nostalgia for those mornings, this new scent appealed much more. Cedar, maybe?

His hot breaths puffed over her ear in time with the rise and fall of his chest. She kissed his soft skin, nuzzling the space between his neck and collarbone, and he hummed with contentment. Hermione thought about pressing her luck for more, but first, she wanted to brush her teeth.

She stretched under the covers, throwing her free arm above her head, expecting to meet the familiar smoothness of her tufted velvet headboard. Instead, her knuckles knocked against cool wood.

Her eyes shot open.

She wasn’t home, and it wasn’t a sleepy Ron cuddling up to her. Draco Malfoy laid on his side, half-curled, peacefully sleeping as he clutched her tightly against the front of his hard body. And from what she should feel, he was certainly, um, hard, everywhere.

Her first instinct was to push him away immediately, disentangle herself, but she hesitated. His breaths were deep, restful. The skin where she’d kissed him was slightly wet and pink, and when he made a small noise in the back of his throat, she tilted her face up to his, expecting to find him staring at her. But he was still asleep.

Hermione let her eyes wander over Malfoy’s features, lax with sleep. How had she mistook him for Ron? The two men were polar opposites — physically, and in every other respect.

She’d never been this close to Malfoy, and she took a moment to appreciate the finer details of his face. His eyelashes were long and nearly translucent. She’d often lamented that men typically won the eyelash genetic lottery, and Malfoy was no exception. The barest beginning of stubble dusted his sharp jaw, and she resisted the temptation to see what it would feel like scraping against her cheek. And his lips…

Their interlude last night came rushing back to her. The nightmare, the bedtime story. The way her name had fallen from those lips of his like a long-held wish. If she was the princess, did that make him…

If she didn’t know magic was blocked up here, she’d think she’d fallen under his spell.

Hermione bit her lip as she puzzled over her predicament. She was comfortable; in Malfoy’s bed, Malfoy’s pyjamas, Malfoy’s arms… He’d made every effort to make her one night imprisonment more like a stay in a luxury hotel. But still, it made no sense to linger here, indulging her curiosity.

And yet, as much as she wanted to slip away quietly, there was no good way to extricate herself without waking him.

“Malfoy.” She gently stroked his bicep, tracing the outline of a tattoo. The Hanged Man, upright. Trials. Sacrifice. Metamorphosis. She curled her palm around his shoulder; another tarot card. The Magician, also upright, the infinity symbol forever suspended above him. Power. Dexterity. Potential.

“Mm,” he murmured. His eyes remained resolutely closed.

Then, to her horror, he readjusted his position.

Upward.

Malfoy tugged her even more closely against him, and now his length pressed against the soft apex of her thighs. His nose was buried in her hair, as if her bun was the softest, silkiest pillow in the world. He sighed and heat swept through her.

Heavy from the best sleep she’d had in a while, Hermione’s body lay woefully open to suggestion. His hands travelled the dips and curves of her back, and gods, it felt incredible. She leaned into his touch, her face tucked into the exposed hollow of his neck where his scent was strongest. Suddenly, he rocked up into her, a low groan vibrating from his chest into hers at the contact.

Hermione swallowed, a choked sound fighting its way past her lips.

She should move. Away. She should definitely move away. This was wrong on so many levels.

One, he didn’t know he was doing this. He’d warned her last night he could be difficult to wake. He had no idea he was doing… Well, whatever he was doing.

Two, if he woke up now and realised just whose body his hands were on, he’d probably be shocked. Worst case, disgusted. Her heart sank at the thought.

Three, she had a boyfriend.

Ron. The reason she was even in this situation. Yesterday she’d been ready to throw herself under the Knight Bus for him. But in the morning light, after a good night’s sleep, she wasn’t sure she felt the same way. Why should she always be the one making compromises — no, sacrifices?

Before she could go too far down that road, her lower half throbbed as if to say, stop thinking about him and do something about Malfoy.

When was the last time she’d woken up and wanted? She’d had sex a month ago, no, two. Perfunctory, you’re-home-and-so-am-I sex. She’d been into it by the time he finished on the small of her back, unspoken words and so much more lingering on her skin. But then he grabbed his keys, whistling as he went out the door, and all the air went out of the flat.

When was the last time Ron had teased her like this? Prepared her for him? Apparently Malfoy could do it in his sleep. She nearly gasped as her imagination ran wild with what he might do if he was awake.

Why did she suddenly want to know what he’d be like in bed? In this bed, even, mirror and all.

He had a mirror on the ceiling, for Godric’s sake. Surely he was an attentive lover.

A gossamer thread of her dream came back to her, and it sent a shower of sparks bursting across her flushed skin. She was pretty sure the sorcerer, who’d made the leap from Malfoy’s bedtime story into her dreamscape, was good. He’d knelt before her throne, strong hands marked with runes skimming up her calves, under her skirt, pinpointing the place she needed him most.

It was the same need she felt now, with Malfoy’s steady heartbeat drumming beneath her ear, his woodsy scent rich in every breath. He was everywhere, and the sensory overload made it hard to tell the difference between the two men, let alone the dream version of herself and the version who was supposed to go back to real life.

Serpenti was like a castle in the air, suspended in time and place. Somewhere impossible, where the improbable happened with shocking regularity. If you asked her yesterday, she would have laughed at the very idea of waking up entwined with Malfoy like this. Guilt washed over her for wishing they could stay in this liminal space, half-asleep, on the cusp of something she knew would be… well, good. Very good.

Hermione blew out a frustrated breath. She just needed to wake Malfoy up. It would be awkward, especially when he realised he had a raging hard-on, but it wouldn’t be any more awkward than last night. Men woke up like this all the time. It didn’t mean it had anything to do with her. Besides, their deal was done now. She’d spent the night in his bed.

It was time to come back to earth.

Malfoy adjusted again, increasing the pressure as he ground into her once, twice.

Merlin and Morgana.

“Malfoy,” she said louder. Her heart pounded, probably with nerves. She reached up and tapped the crown of his head, as if it might alert his brain to the danger he put them both in, his hair sliding like corn-silk beneath her fingers. In response, he dragged one hot palm up her spine and wrapped it firmly around the back of her neck. Her toes curled, and her tongue darted out to lick her lips.

“Five more minutes,” came his deep, rumbly reply. It delivered a shock to her core and reverberated through her body. Her breath caught in her chest, and she writhed helplessly as arousal melted and spread through her lower abdomen.

No. Lower than that.

She was wet. For Draco Malfoy.

“Fuck,” She hissed through her teeth. “Draco, wake up.”

Hermione pinched him as hard as she could, and suddenly Malfoy startled.

“Hermione? Er, Granger?” Malfoy sounded drugged as his eyes fluttered open. Those damned eyelashes.

His pupils blew wide as he took in where he was. Where she was.

He wasn’t shocked. And he definitely wasn’t disgusted.

He was the epitome of male interest.

His cock twitched against her most sensitive parts, and before she could explore that line of non-reasoning further, she scrambled out of his grasp and tumbled to the floor. Her backside smarted, she was breathless and hot all over, and it felt like in the space of one night, her entire world had been turned upside down.

He was by her side in an instant. “You alright?”

“I’ve fallen out of your bed and broken my tailbone. I’m suing for all you’re worth, Malfoy,” Hermione groused, wiping at her face as if she could scrub away the flush from her cheeks.

He eyed her curiously. “Come now, Granger,” he said in his sinfully throaty, just-woken-up voice. “Let’s keep our names out of the courts. They’ve seen enough of me, don’t you think?”

The easy smile on his face and the return of the light in his eyes did nothing to slow her galloping heart. Maybe he could pretend they didn’t wake up entangled in one another like touch-starved lovers, but she couldn’t. His hooded gaze sweeping up and down her body was already burned into her brain.

She looked away. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t attracted to him.

Okay, she was attracted to him. But sexual attraction could be explained by biology. And relationships were built on much more than urges that faded with time. It was everything after the lust died that mattered. The friendship, the memories, the… well, all the rest of it. She was with Ron, her friend, who she loved very much. Very, very much.

Ron was probably waiting for her right outside Malfoy’s office, not having slept a wink. He was the most loyal person she knew. He’d be worried sick about her, terrified of the condition she’d be in this morning.

A condition he’d have caused, if the wording of the Vow had been just a hair different. Or if Malfoy’s tastes had run to the extreme.

Ron must be wracked with guilt.

Good.

She shook her head. Nothing about this situation was good. The elastic holding her hair slipped out, her hair cascading around her shoulders.

Malfoy’s erection was still faintly visible through his pyjamas as he picked up the thin black band and held it out to her. “Breakfast?”

She grabbed it, careful to avoid touching his fingers, or looking where she shouldn’t. “No, no, I’m sure Ron’s anxious to see me.”

Was she hallucinating, or did his face fall a little?

“Can’t keep the man who traded away your dignity waiting,” Malfoy growled, the gentleness on his face the night before a distant memory. Still, he kept his hand held out to her as he stood.

Hermione stared at it. It was the LOVE hand.

She ignored it and pushed herself off the floor.

Malfoy frowned and stretched, and Hermione turned her back on him. “I’m just going to wash up.”

Moments later, she shut the door to the loo and pressed her back up against it, massaging the centre of her forehead. “Get it together, Hermione,” she implored, appealing to her better angels.

Cleansing breaths. Cleansing…

She considered a shower, but she figured she’d take one when she got home. Instead she shimmied out of the beautiful pyjamas and dressed in yesterday’s clothes. When she looked in the mirror to smooth out any wrinkles, she nearly gasped at her reflection.

She was glowing.

Gone was the exhausted, sallow-skinned Hermione of yesterday. Her face was cameo-like, years younger and smoothed to perfection. She glared at the toiletry bag perched on the sink. Maybe it had magical ingredients?

She didn’t consider herself a vain person, but she could stare at the Serpenti version of herself all day. It took effort to focus on brushing her teeth, washing her face, and putting on makeup. Her hair was halfway tamed when Malfoy knocked on the door. She didn’t jump, but her heart did.

Calm down, she thought. It’s only Malfoy. And it’s only a few more minutes.

“Come in,” she said, fingers flying down the last bit of her fishtail braid.

Malfoy opened the door and, in a fluid motion that she was beginning to think of as his signature move, leaned against the frame. He’d dressed for a day at the office. A charcoal grey suit, no tie, shoes polished to a blinding gleam. Her gaze locked onto the small triangle of skin peeking out from the unbuttoned collar of his white button-down. He smiled, and she wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

“You look well-rested.”

“Thanks, I slept quite well.”

He chuckled. “I mean you look… untouched.”

“We didn’t do anything.” Not that you’re aware of, anyway. I kissed your neck… Not that I knew it was you. Not that it meant anything.

He came to stand behind her and reached around her waist for his toothbrush. She tried to focus on packing up her things as he went through his routine. Malfoy even brushed his teeth elegantly. His ability to make anything and everything aesthetically pleasing was both irritating and captivating, just like him.

When he was done, he smoothed his hair once more in the mirror, blocking her exit. “Maybe it’s crass of me, but I want him to think we did all sorts of perverse things — at least when he first sees you. I want to see the look on his face when he thinks I’ve shagged his woman all night.”

“You’re a caveman.”

He shrugged and moved towards her, slowly, like she was a stray kitten he was afraid might shy away from his outstretched palm and scurry back into the bushes. “May I?”

“What?”

“Touch you. Make you look the part.”

She crossed her arms to hide the way she nearly jumped out of her skin at his words. “Is that strictly necessary?”

He looked wicked, like the devil if he’d gone undercover, masquerading as a devastatingly handsome mortal. “Come now, Granger. Where’s the fun in being strict?”

She shouldn’t let him. She really shouldn’t.

“If you must,” Hermione said with a hard swallow. She stepped towards him. Lifting her chin up, she braced for impact.

Her brief preparation was no match for his determined approach. Malfoy brushed his calloused thumb against her mouth, and her knees nearly buckled. His eyes darkened as he applied more pressure, opening her lips slightly, smearing her cherry-tinted balm past the border of her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut before she realised herself and snapped them back open.

When she didn’t pull away, a satisfied smirk twisted across his face.

His next movements were fast as lightning.

He fisted the neckline of her pearl-white blouse — one of her favourites, she thought mournfully — and stretched it out, fibres warping as they separated. A button surrendered, pinging across the floor.

Malfoy toyed with the end of her braid. She met his gaze and saw only fire. Heat, the same scorching tongue of fire that licked at her from the moment she woke up in his arms, unavoidable and as natural as the element itself, raced through her veins. Unthinkingly, she reached up and unravelled the braid she’d just finished.

“That’s it. Get into it. Come on, aren’t you just a little bit angry?”

Angry. She’d felt scared, sad, anxious… but angry?

Something more burned inside her now. He’d given her permission to call it anger, and she latched onto it, ready to put his feet to the fire.

How could he do this to her?

And then, an errant thought in the back of her brain: Do you mean Ron? How could he make you go to bed with Malfoy? Or do you mean how does the man standing in front of you now make you feel like you might combust at any moment?

She faced the mirror with a scowl and shook out her curls. Malfoy teased her hair with his fingers, silent praise in every touch. She wanted to say something, anything, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

It wouldn’t be healthy to talk to him about this. Her relationship, and its future, was private. Even though she very much wanted to tell him just how angry she was at Ron, and how something had ignited within her at some indefinable point between last night and now. She’d found her fire again. Malfoy gave it back to her. And she worried if she didn’t control the burn, it might consume everything.

Hermione was angry at Ron. Really angry at him. And she had every right to be.

She swiped at her eyes, interspersing inky dots of mascara amongst the freckles sprayed at her temples. Next, she pinched her cheeks for a bit more colour. Malfoy removed his hands from her hair and appraised her in the mirror.

“Now you look like I’ve ravished you the way you deserve,” he said in a dark tone.

Their eyes locked, and Hermione found herself powerless to look away. What did he think she deserved, exactly?

“It’s too bad magic doesn’t work up here. Could really use a love bite,” she mused, a hint of mischief in her voice.

He shook his head solemnly. “I’d never leave a mark on you.”

“He does it all the time.” The words rushed past her lips before she had a chance to mull them over.

“What?” Malfoy spun her away from the mirror and searched her eyes. One hand held her firmly at her hip; the other stroked her cheek. No, caressed her cheek. “Hermione, does he hurt you?”

Hermione, does he hurt you?

The words echoed in her ears. Malfoy was concerned; almost frantic. She’d never seen him like this.

How to assuage him? She couldn’t tell him the truth, that of course Ron hurt her, although not physically. She’d never stand for that. But as her anger smouldered to embers, she saw the charred remains of the fire for what they were: years and years of hurt. One night with Draco Malfoy showed her just how wounded she really was.

“Draco,” she said, his first name springing from her mouth unbidden. Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips. “Not like that. He’d never do that.”

His concern faded, but only slightly.

“If he did… would you come to me?” He brushed a loose curl away from her face. The motion was so tender, so familiar for former enemies. “After you went to the Aurors, of course. Would you come to me?”

It was like Draco — Malfoy — couldn’t stop touching her now that he’d started. And she wasn’t stopping him. No, she was insinuating terrible things about Ron. This was wrong. All wrong.

“I’d probably go to Harry and Theo.”

His jaw twitched and he dropped his hand. “As long as you go somewhere safe.”

“Ron’s a gambler, Malfoy,” she said, pushing past him and out of the room. She needed air; space to think. “He’s never raised a hand to me and never would.”

Malfoy followed her down the corridor. “Look what he gambled with, Granger. The most valuable thing he has.”

Hermione ignored the wall of glittering gold bars, making a beeline for the office. When she crossed the threshold, she rounded on Malfoy, her beaded bag twirling around her body. Just like that, the anger surged to life again. “And I got it back for him!”

She balled her fists and her nostrils flared. Who was he to lecture her about Ron? Why did Malfoy ask her to come to him, and why, for Salazar’s sake, did she consider it?

What sorcery was this?

He only glared at her. “If you think I’m talking about that ramshackle house, you’re not as smart as I thought you were.”

A tense silence stretched out between them. Hermione could hardly look at Malfoy. Ron was probably right outside the door, and she’d been closer than she wanted to admit to betraying his trust. She was only supposed to betray him with her body, by necessity. But it hadn’t been necessary. And Malfoy didn’t climb into bed with her uninvited.

Her stomach rolled as Malfoy pulled open his desk drawer — the same one she’d broken into. He shuffled through the remaining markers before finding the deed. He held it out to her, and she snatched it from his LUCK hand. She crushed it in her fist, then thought better of it, and shoved it in her bag.

“Look, I slept in your bed, I’m reasonably dishevelled-looking, and it’s half-past eight. Our deal is done and I have somewhere to be.”

“Run along then. I’m not keeping you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and assumed the stance she’d first seen him in less than twenty-four hours ago: leaning against the desk, effortlessly cool and unbothered.

“Fine. Thank you for your hospitality,” she ground out.

She started to adjust her blouse when she remembered she was supposed to look like she’d spent her night shagging. Her emotions roiled within her, a noxious brew of guilt, shame, anger, and loss.

There’d been something here, between her and Malfoy. Something glasslike; reflective, fragile. But that was the inherent tragedy of fragile things: they were all too easy to break.

She reached for the doorknob and rolled her shoulders, straightening her posture.

Ron was on the other side of the frosted glass, and he would be a mess. He'd need her to be strong, to comfort him. And then they could go home, hand in hand, and start moving on from this mistake. Everything would change for the better. There was an Al-Anon meeting tomorrow, and she’d make him go. He’d probably want to after stewing in his guilt all night and then seeing her like this.

Hermione allowed herself a glance back at Malfoy. He made a show of looking at his expensive watch.

What a prick.

She gripped the doorknob with more conviction, twisted, and pulled it open.

Marble tiled floors and gold-flecked walls stretched out before her.

“Ron?” His name echoed down the empty corridor.

She focused on her breathwork. She didn’t know why she’d expected him to be right there waiting for her. He was probably in one of the smaller offices lining the hall. Maybe he crashed out in a chair and got what little sleep he could. That made much more sense than laying like a dog at the door.

She regretted wearing her heavy wellies as she rushed from room to room calling his name. Malfoy trailed her silently, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up in irritated awareness. She passed the gleaming vault and looked in the last two rooms, both occupied by witches monitoring the casino’s cameras.

“Ron? Ron!”

There was no answer.

The same floor manager who’d led Ron and Hermione up yesterday poked his head around the corner. “Miss, are you looking for the man you came in here with yesterday?”

Hermione sighed with relief. The floor manager remembered Ron. He’d probably set him up in an actual guest room. The casino was also a hotel for those on holiday. Of course. Why would Ron sleep on the floor or an uncomfortable chair when there were likely a hundred suites available?

“Yes, what room is he in?”

The man frowned. “Oh, he’s not here. He left a message for you. He said he’d see you at your flat.”

“At the flat?”

Her shoulders drooped in disbelief. The floor manager nodded and backed away before she could ask him anything further.

Ron… left?

A shadow loomed in her peripheral vision. She blinked away hot tears and refused to acknowledge it even as it spoke. “Granger, let me escort you home.”

She didn’t spare Malfoy even a brief glance, pulling her bag close to her and heading for the exit. She would not fall apart now. Not in front of him.

“You can’t walk out of here like this,” he said. “At least let me get you a fresh blouse.”

“You wanted people to see me like this, didn’t you?” Her voice broke as she half-sprinted to the lifts.

“Fuck, no, not people,” he said, running a hand through his hair. His air of superiority was gone, replaced with desperation. “Hermione, please.”

She pressed the call button and a lift appeared in an instant. She marched in, spun around and held out a hand to stop him from following her in, then gestured to her ruined clothes and smeared makeup.

“Let them see. Let them see what Draco Malfoy does.”

The lift doors closed on his pained expression, and Hermione collapsed against the back wall. She would not cry. She leaned back, her head hitting cold green marble, and with a lurch, she started her descent back to earth.

Chapter Text

Hermione took the stairs up to her flat two at a time. Her stormy mood had only intensified since she left Serpenti half an hour ago. It didn’t help that the wind had turned her brolly inside out and carried it away when she’d tried to shield herself from the pouring rain.

Whatever enchantment Malfoy had her under broke the moment the lift doors closed, but her skin still burned where he'd touched her. He'd acted like he cared, and she'd almost convinced herself he really did.

She glanced down at her outfit. Her blouse was beyond saving, even before it got wet—Malfoy had made sure of that, she thought bitterly. She fixed her hair and makeup with a swish of her wand, considering what she would say when she saw Ron. With each step, she waffled back and forth.

Ron, are you alright?

No, she was too angry to ask about his night first.

Why didn’t you wait for me like you promised?

But he was hurt.

I’m sorry.

What did she have to be sorry about?

How could you do this to me?

Well, she’d chosen to accept the deal. Hadn’t she brought this upon herself?

Why did you let me?

Because he loved his mother more than her.

Do you still love me?

All too soon, the door to their flat appeared in front of her. Her hand trembled in mid air before she made a fist and rested it against the door, unsure if she should knock or not. Somehow, it didn’t feel like she was coming home. She’d been less nervous standing outside the Minister’s office, or staring down Nagini.

Gods, she hoped Ron was inside regretting his choices. And that Molly wasn’t there.

She decided against knocking and withdrew her hand, fishing her key out of her bag. It jammed in the lock, like always, but eventually gave way. Her wards shimmered as she walked in.

“Ron?”

She called his name again, louder to compensate for the steady hum of the shower. Her hand still clutched the doorknob. No response.

Her heart leapt. Had he heard the key in the door? Started a shower for her so she could wash the night off?

She heard the telltale skate of the metal rings of the shower curtain as he dragged them across the cheap aluminium rod. “Be there in a second! Just finishing up in here.”

Ah. He was in the shower. Hot shame prickled across her skin. He hadn’t prepared a shower for her – he wasn’t even thinking about her.

She let the door slam shut behind her and tossed her bag and key on the kitchen worktop.

The flat was just as they’d left it yesterday, except a new takeaway container rested on the worktop; open, half-full of oily pad see ew. A basket of clean laundry sat on the couch, still unfolded. Ron’s socks and shoes lay in a clumsy pile in front of the blaring telly, where a Muggle cricket match was in full swing.

Her stomach dropped as she recalled his first foray into gambling; the sportsbook. It was a bit of harmless fun, she’d thought back then. Plenty of people bet on Quidditch and other magical games. But those people weren’t prone to addiction.

Hermione switched off the telly and looked around for Crooks, who she eventually found napping in his cat tree by the window. As she administered a friendly scratch behind the half-kneazle’s ears, Ron padded in, naked except for the navy blue towel wrapped around his waist. His hair dripped water down his face and chest.

“Hey, you’re home. There’s still plenty of hot water if you want to freshen up. Mum’s making her famous chicken for Sunday dinner but she said if we wanted to pop over early and have brunch and visit with the kids, that’d be fine.”

For a moment, she just stared at him. Ron, mistaking her look for interest, puffed out his chest and sucked in his stomach. She grimaced, and he deflated like a cheap party balloon.

“You – You can’t be serious. Aren’t we going to talk about last night?”

“No offence, ‘Mione, but the last thing I want to do is hear a play-by-play of your night with Malfoy.”

She bit her lip. She wasn’t going to cry. Hermione Granger was not going to be that woman who cried while she gave a man a good dressing down.

“Maybe I need to talk about it.” Her voice broke.

Damn.

Ron wrapped his free arm around her in a wet hug, and her shoulders flew up by her ears. “I’m sorry, of course you do. Maybe I’ll skip the therapy session this week and you can have Healer Reddy all to yourself. It’d be good for you to process it with another woman.”

She pulled away with a disappointed sigh. Of course he wanted to kick the problem to the therapist. “Ron, we have to talk about this, too.”

“Alright, if it’s important to you that we talk about it, we’ll talk about it. But can it wait until after dinner tonight? Don’t want to get ourselves all worked up before we can enjoy the chicken.”

He shot her an expectant smile, his expression already relaxing as his mind wandered towards food. Her eyes stung, and she fought back tears. Is this what she’d been reduced to? Scheduling important discussions around minor Weasley family events? Coming in second to… chicken?

She wasn’t going to stand for it.

Hermione steeled her spine, summoning every authoritative bone in her body. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she began firmly, grabbing Ron by the arm. “You’re going to get some clothes on. While I take a shower, you’re going to tell your mother we won’t be by for brunch, maybe even dinner. Then we’re going to sit on that couch and discuss what happened because we’re adults in a relationship and I don’t know how much longer that’s going to be the case if you don’t listen to what I have to say.”

Ron jerked out of her grip, backing away from her with knotted brows. “Godric, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Acidic bile twisted its way up her throat like a typhoon. Why was he recoiling when he should be comforting her? Did he think she was tainted now?

Ron had never been a staunch feminist by any stretch of the imagination, but surely he didn’t think like most Pureblood men. Did he?

Her head spun, and the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes blurred her vision. Suddenly she was questioning his every move, every word. Everything inverted and sparkled, her attempt at parsing reality as fruitless as searching for the sky from the bottom of a Muggle swimming pool.

Tears poured down her face in earnest. So much for fixing her makeup.

“No, I am not okay, and no, he didn’t lay a finger on me,” Well, not like that. “But why weren’t those the first things you asked me?”

“I didn’t know when you were going to get home,” he spluttered. “You caught me off guard — I just got out of the shower!”

“Well, I just got out of Draco Malfoy’s bed!”

The heated words tore from her lungs, their ragged sound echoing through the flat. Ron said nothing, and the silence that followed was bottomless; endless, as if under an extension charm. Finally, Crookshanks bounded down from his perch with a thump. He ignored Ron, tail held high, and curled himself around Hermione’s legs.

“I’m sorry, I’m being a prize idiot. I’ll Floo call Mum, okay, and then we’ll talk. Promise.” Ron wiped his face and ran the same clammy palm down her arm, and she stepped back, arms crossed against her chest.

Ron sighed at her rejection. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. He was annoyed with her, hadn’t even thanked her for her sacrifice.

“I’ll be out in a few,” she said, brushing past him, unmissable resignation in her voice.

He didn’t try to follow her.

And when she shut their bedroom door, she realised that was what hurt most of all.

***

The shower was Hermione's thinking place; the rhythmic thrum of the water, the continuous pressure soothing her muscles. The water drowned out all the noise of life, allowing her to focus on solving her problems. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a leisurely soak in the tub, her mind blissfully free of distractions. She used to love a good long bath.

She slid a soapy hand up her chest, towards her neck, and massaged at the tender skin of her decolletage. Her mind was a million miles away from the messy flat, from the arms of her boyfriend; two places she now hesitated to call home.

Instead, her thoughts drifted to the glittering grandeur of Serpenti; the gilded corridor, the mirrored ceiling, the soft sheets and silk pyjamas that whispered across her skin. But it wasn’t Serpenti that spoke to her, not really. It was the man who made it his castle.

A crooked corner of her brain saw the opening and unleashed a thousand wicked thoughts – didn’t she enjoy the heat? Didn’t she enjoy waking up wrapped in Malfoy’s–

No.

Hermione slammed an unsteady palm onto the wet tile and gasped as the cold porcelain beneath her fingers snapped her back to reality. She turned the water’s temperature down, down, down to something resembling torture. She shivered and tilted her head under the spray.

Everything would be fine, she assured herself as she rinsed the last of the conditioner from her curls. She and Ron would stay in tonight and have a row. That was normal, a good sign. All couples fought. They'd been too tired, maybe, to get into it recently, but they knew each other’s moves; knew when to pull punches or go in for the kill. Years of ugly arguments at Hogwarts prepared them for this.

But the problem with their fights, or lack thereof, was that Ron consistently acted like she put him on the ropes. He was never good at working through the real conflict and she didn’t know why she expected him to be any better today. It was always her taking charge and stepping in – then and now – and the daring adventure that hallmarked their school days slowly morphed into the mundane monotony of adulthood.

When she sliced the tip of her finger in the kitchen, he handed her her own wand and waited for her to mend it. He didn’t jump in and help finish dinner, or ask her how it was the next day. Things happened, and Hermione fixed them, and then the problem was over with.

She was just as much to blame as he, really, because she let him get away with it. She didn’t call him out; she only worried for him. She didn’t make him learn the simple healing spell. She didn’t ask him to finish mincing the garlic. And he never offered.

With Malfoy she hadn’t lifted a finger. Somehow her time with him felt less like being held hostage and more like a holiday. He worried for her. He asked her what she wanted. He kept vigil at the end of the bed when she confessed she was scared.

And he held her. Not in a performative way, or the way Ron did only after she wrapped his arm around her. Malfoy held her like… like a man.

A tiny thrill shot through her core and she whipped around and shut the water off.

There would be none of that.

Hermione stepped onto the worn bath mat and reached for the towel rack, hardly aware of her surroundings. Her hand grabbed at empty air; Ron had taken the last towel with him.

“Ron?” she called out. Her voice was higher than normal, betraying her nerves. “Could you grab me a towel?”

No answer.

The linen closet was right outside. She’d just crack open the door — goodbye steam, she thought regretfully — and get one herself.

But when she opened the door, she heard Molly’s voice crackling through the Floo.

Hermione stilled.

“I don’t understand why you both can’t commit to being here? Everyone else is here. Is it Hermione again?”

“Mum, she’s under a lot of stress at work right now. She just needs some rest.” Exasperation wove through his words — at Molly, or herself, Hermione couldn’t tell.

“She can rest here! Ginny won’t mind if Hermione uses her room.”

“That’s not — we just might not be there Mum, I’m sorry. Hermione needs some space.”

Was he seriously putting it all on her right now?

“You know I love that girl to bits, and I support you, Ronald, but she never puts family first,” Molly lectured. “I see how untidy your flat is every time I call or stop by! If she took a little more pride in things it would be easier on everyone involved. You both would fight less, and you’d have babies by now, I just know it.”

“Mum!”

“Well, dear, I can’t help what I think. I’m your mum, and I know you better than anyone. You’ll make a wonderful husband and father, and you deserve a woman who will put hearth and home above a silly little Ministry job. I allow Arthur his eccentricities, but he’s a man and we’re done with our childbearing years. But of course we’re never done being parents.”

“I can assure you the last thing on our minds is starting a family.”

Hermione held her stomach protectively, the wind knocked out of her. It wasn't the last thing on her mind, and Ron knew that. He’d always said someday, but had he really meant never?

“If you want to come home, say the word. I’ll have your room ready before you can say Wingardium Leviosa.”

Hermione leaned out, snatched a towel from the linen closet and it shut with a bang. Ron bid his mother a hasty goodbye.

Moments later, he knocked at the bathroom door. “Hey. How much did you hear?”

“Enough,” she snorted as she waved her wand over her wet curls, drying them instantly. She tried to avoid checking her reflection in the mirrored cabinet hanging above the sink, but her eyes snagged on her sallow skin. She’d looked the picture of health this morning, but not even a hot shower could bring colour to her cheeks like she’d had at Serpenti. Almost unbidden, she smoothed a thumb over her lips.

Ron knocked again, startling her. “Can I come in?”

Hermione braced her arms on the sink. “I need a minute. Would you mind waiting for me on the couch?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

She opened the interior door that led to their bedroom. It was a touch messy, which wasn’t a bad thing. Ron always liked to say it showed that real people lived there, and she liked that. Being real with him.

She stepped over a pair of Ron’s pants and wrinkled her nose.

But on the other hand, all it took was a quick spell and most things were set to rights. And if she was being honest, she much preferred her space to be clean and tidy. She babied her things, particularly her clothes, and they lasted her much longer than they might otherwise.

Curse Molly Weasley for saying Hermione didn’t take care of her home.

She ignored the jumpers in the bottom of her closet and chose a white sundress with long, flowy sleeves. She’d picked it up on their trip to Capri two summers ago. Wait, no, three summers.

It had been the perfect holiday, all sparkling waves and bending light. They’d rented vespas and picnicked on the beach and drank the perfect amount of wine. Everyone thought she would come back engaged, including Hermione. But Ron was in no hurry, and the last thing she wanted was to force his hand, so she simply smiled during each cin-cin and salut, tippling away the sun-drenched afternoons.

They didn’t have money for those kinds of trips anymore.

Hermione set her bag on the bed and opened it. The debts of her former schoolmates sat on top of her vegan leather wallet and a pile of shrunken books. Each marker had multiple entries, and the Galleons owed rose and rose and rose.

She held Justin’s in her hands. Did he lose all this in one night? On one hand of cards, like Ron did? She’d never seen Justin or Cho, who she assumed still lived locally, at her Al-Anon meetings. Justin was Muggleborn—maybe she could convince him to go with her?

If she really wanted to, she could make these two go to counselling in exchange for getting their debts back. But she knew from her efforts with Ron that people have to want to quit. And quitting was just one part of the recovery. Quitting wasn’t even the most difficult part. The most difficult part was not starting up again.

No, she’d give these back without strings attached. A not-so-secret part of her hoped it would give them the chance to rethink their priorities if gambling had become a problem for them.

She tucked the markers back in her bag and finished getting ready. A swipe of mascara and one careful application of her signature cherry lip balm later, she met Ron in the living room.

He was on the couch, just as she asked. The cricket match was back on the telly, but on mute. He turned it off as soon as he saw her enter the room, contrition scrawled across his features.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she replied, leaving him enough room to hit the wicket.

“I’m so sorry. I really fucked up.”

“You did.”

Ron sighed and rubbed his temples, the motion both familiar and irritating. “For once, do you think you could say ‘That’s alright, Ron’ or, bloody hell, I’d settle for ‘Everyone makes mistakes, Ron.’”

Her hackles rose. “I’m not here to make you feel better about what you did to me! You need to take accountability for your actions!”

“You agreed to sleep with him. I didn’t say a word!”

“You’re right. You didn’t say a word,” she chuckled bitterly. “I volunteered myself. But you should’ve done something!”

“With what magic? He had blockers!”

“I don’t mean you needed to Avada Draco, but you could’ve done something, said something! Instead you just stood there, practically begging me with your eyes. How was I supposed to say no? I love your family-”

“What did you just call him?”

As she realised her mistake, her heart beat so loudly it may as well have been a national broadcast. “Who, Malfoy?”

“You said Draco,” he peered at her. “What exactly happened?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Just then, the Floo burst to life. Ginny Weasley’s face poked through, rubbing the centre of her forehead in irritation as Molly squawked in the background. Her red hair, kept at bay by a thick headband, flowed down to her waist.

“Hey guys, Mum just asked me to see when you’re coming round.”

“Er, I dunno Gin. We might need to stay in tonight.”

Ginny looked a bit green, even greener than the Floo’s flames. “Are you sure?”

Hermione sighed. “Let’s go. I think it’ll be worse if we don't.”

Ron looked relieved and nodded to Ginny. “We’ll be there at five.”

“Thank Merlin. She’s in a real mood. You alright, Hermione?”

“I’m fine.” She paused before uttering her next words. “You go ahead, Ron. I know she’ll worry if you skip brunch, too.”

He stepped towards his sister before catching himself and looking at her. “Are you sure?”

She willed tears not to gather in her eyes. There were so many things she wished he would say instead.

Let my mother worry.

I couldn’t possibly eat at a time like this. I’m here for you, Hermione.

The only place I need to be right now is with you.

But instead of picturing Ron saying those things, all she saw was a tall blond with tattoos offering her his hand. She shook her head a little too hard to send the image scattering.

“I’m sure.” Hermione ran her hands over her dress as she rose from the couch. It wasn’t a test, but it hurt her all the same when he left her in the flat alone.

This conversation wasn’t over. But she had to admit that maybe they were.

***

“Oh good, you’re here,” Molly said, shoving a still-warm serving dish into Hermione’s hands. Ron stood behind his mother, beer in hand and looking far more relaxed than he had when he left their flat hours ago. He moved as if to greet Hermione, but Molly was already giving her marching orders. “Put the potatoes on the table and then meet me back in the kitchen.”

Hermione hoped she kept the daggers out of her eyes as she nodded. “Thank you for having us, Molly.”

“It’s my pleasure, dear. I know you’re not feeling your best, but chin up. The chicken won’t take long,” her greying head whipped around as Ginny tiptoed by. “And where are you going, Ginevra?”

Ginny froze, one hand in the Floo powder pot, the other clutching a suspiciously full overnight bag. Was she really bailing? “I’ll be back before dinner. Just popping over to see the boys. Harry’s birthday’s in three weeks and Theo insists they have a party. I told them I’d let them use the new Confection Confetti.”

The youngest Weasley had been tinkering with Confection Confetti for the better part of a year now. Perfect for celebrations of any kind, guests had only to throw the colourful strips of paper in the air and customizable treats rained from the ceiling. During the last test at the Burrow, mini cauldron cakes had plummeted down and coated Hermione’s hair in decadent cream cheese frosting. Delicious as it was, it took her the better part of an hour to rinse it all out.

“Gin, you know it’s not ready,” Ron groaned. “You’re always doing this. People are going to be up in arms if they see it at Harry’s birthday party and it’s not on shelves straightaway.”

“I heard the new owner of Honeydukes will be there,” Ginny smirked.

Percy appeared soundlessly to Ginny’s right, tilting his head and spreading his arms, inviting them into his vision. “Think about it. The first Wizard Wheeze to be sold in our store and at Honeydukes locations nationwide. If it sells the way I think it will, the possibilities are endless.”

Hermione excelled at resolving disputes between the government and magical creatures, not marketing, but even she could see the massive potential for a windfall.

If only Ron hadn’t gambled the Burrow when he did. A few months from now, after Ginny launched Confection Confetti and one or two more of her fantastical ideas, maybe there’d have been plenty of money to borrow and pay Malfoy’s original price.

But then again, it was just as likely Ron would’ve gambled away that money and the home, too.

Molly cut in. “They can come by the shop and see it tomorrow. They know the rules about Sundays.”

“C’mon, Mum,” Ginny said, batting her eyes. She dipped one hand into the Floo powder; her other gripped the bag so hard it was nearly white. “It’s Harry.”

“I know Harry Potter. He and Theo have been keeping you for hours lately. It’s my turn. Send them an owl.”

For hours? That didn’t sound like Harry. He was nearly always getting called away for urgent Auror business. Hermione tilted her head at Ginny. Something was off.

“I’ll be back in two stirs of the cauldron,” Ginny promised, pushing up her ruby headband. She tossed the powder, stepped through the fireplace and was gone.

Before Molly could fly off the broomstick, Percy dangled some workplace gossip in front of her, and she took the bait. Hermione realised she might not get another opportunity to slip away and made her exit through the messy kitchen to the dining room. A hodgepodge of pots, dishes, and silverware covered the table, set atop a tablecloth crocheted by one of Arthur’s grandmothers and accented by mismatched chairs.

Hermione set the dish of potatoes down, ran her hand along the table’s edge and looked out the large, round window. Bill and Fleur’s children frolicked in the yard, laughing and screaming as they chased each other in circles. Iridescent bubbles floated out from the tip of Bill’s wand in the shape of magical creatures. A large unicorn whinnied as it galloped through the air, only to be popped by the jaws of a manticore. Fleur, as if sensing Hermione’s presence, tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder as she smiled and waved. Hermione returned both, her heart ripping a little more.

She thought she’d be like Fleur when she grew up. Beautiful, married, happy.

The mirror in her flat didn’t lie. Hermione was none of those things.

Chapter Text

Ron found her a few minutes before dinnertime.

“Hey. Pantry?”

He tilted his head towards Molly’s walk-in pantry, where they’d shared secrets and stolen kisses over their many years together. A nervous smile wavered on his lips. It tugged at something in her, and she transposed a younger Ron on top of the one in front of her; the one in hand-me-down robes with shaggy hair. She would’ve followed that Ron anywhere.

They crammed themselves in amongst bags of flour and towers of tinned vegetables. Hermione folded her arms across her chest, automatically hunching her shoulders. As her muscles settled into place, she realised this had become her default posture when it came to conversations with her boyfriend. Over time, she’d made herself smaller and smaller, letting him take up all the physical and emotional space. She’d been the one to start sleeping on the pull-out couch. She’d been the one to stay later and later at work.

The epiphany hit her like a blow to the kidneys. She hadn’t been fighting for them, not like she did before he started gambling. It’d been easier to tell herself she was still at the table, all her cards laid out for him to see. But they weren’t, were they? They were still in her hand, close to her chest, ready to fold.

She couldn’t keep bluffing her way through this. Maybe it was a mistake to reduce her relationship to a cotton-paper fan of white, black, and red, seeing all her effort pile up like stacks of chips. Ron wheedled her into anteing up and swept them into his arms, but yet, she continued to play. How did anyone know when to walk away?

She backed into a corner piled high with onions. “What is it?”

“We didn’t finish our conversation earlier, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Her words were bitter. “I already told you I’m not okay, but this isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”

“I know. Look, I really am sorry, okay? I should never have bet against Malfoy. I just got caught up in the moment,” he said, carding a hand through his hair. “When he sat down at the table, I thought, finally I can put this miserable ferret in his place. Finally he’s gonna pay. Remember everything he did? Madam Rosmerta? Katie Bell?”

“Of course I remember.”

Who could ever forget the sight of their schoolmate suspended in the air, body as rigid as a corpse, tangled hair whipping in the Scottish wind?

Hermione also hadn’t forgotten the way Malfoy kneeled in front of Katie after his trial. Without a care for the audience of reporters and Order members, he prostrated himself at her feet. Katie hesitated, but didn’t walk away. She stood motionless over him as a hush fell over the courtroom, waiting for the second judgement of the day. With one trembling hand, she reached out and touched Malfoy’s shoulder, squeezed, and then whirled away from the endless cascade of questions and flashbulbs.

Katie started over in America. Last Hermione heard, she was a professional Quidditch coach.

Ron continued his rant. “He didn’t even do time after the war. He strolled right back in the Great Hall like nothing happened. But there he was with a pile of chips and I just wanted to see the look on his face when I took it all away.”

She and Harry had talked to Ron until they were blue in the face about their reasons for testifying on Malfoy’s behalf, but he insisted on dredging it up every now and then. If Hermione nursed her grudges, Ron kept his on life support with no DNR. Eventually she just avoided discussing anything related to the war with him.

“You can’t deliver justice at the poker table, Ron.”

“Yeah. I don’t need a lecture about it. I’ve learned my lesson.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “Have you?”

“Bloody hell. I learned it the moment the door shut with you and Malfoy on the other side of it. You’re the most important person in my life, ‘Mione. I can’t stomach seeing you like this, knowing what you did…”

“I meant it when I said he didn’t lay a finger on me. I didn’t have sex with him.”

He stilled. “What about the Vow?”

“We fulfilled it,” she said, pulling the deed out of her beaded bag. “The Vow stipulated I had to spend the night in his bed; easy enough. All we did was sleep.”

She thought she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.

“Thank Merlin. I was so sick over it,” he said, and took the deed from her outstretched hand. “I went straight home, ordered takeaway, and didn’t sleep a wink. And suddenly you were home. And I can’t explain it, but you looked different.”

She’d definitely felt different. Had Ron picked up on it, or was he just projecting his guilt onto her?

Ron folded the deed and tucked it in his back pocket. Hermione waited for him to thank her, smile at her, but his attention was elsewhere, examining the floor.

“You need help, Ron. This can’t happen again.”

“You really think I would ever put you through something like this again?”

He still didn’t look at her, and it grated.

“That’s not the point.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You get in these situations where—”

“I’m banned for the next six months, right? There won’t be any situations. I promise.”

Ron’s whole body sagged against the shelf behind him, and her lips twitched at the strain around his eyes and mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d promised to stop. Only time would tell if he would, but she had to see if he could. Right?

“Okay.”

“I’ll figure out a way to return this to my parents. And we’ll move forward, yeah?”

One more hand, she thought.

“You have to quit. I’m serious.”

Whatever Ron might’ve said remained a mystery, because Percy swung the door open.

“Thought I might find you two in here,” he said, smug as ever. “Dinner’s ready.”

Hermione knew she shouldn’t compare, but dinner at the Burrow with Ron and his family was much different than dinner at Serpenti with Draco.

Malfoy, she corrected herself. Dinner with Malfoy.

The food was just as good, if not better. Molly’s succulent chicken fell off the bone; her vegetables were steamed, fried, and mashed to perfection; and the bread practically melted in Hermione’s mouth. Dessert was still in the oven, and the scent of apples, butter, and cinnamon permeated the room.

But the company at this dinner was jarringly different.

Ron didn’t serve her first. He didn’t notice if her glass of wine was empty. He didn’t pull out her chair or notice that she wasn’t eating. Worse, he barely looked at her for the duration of the meal, instead engaging with Molly. Fleur busied herself with helping the children eat, and the men talked shop. Ginny was back, as promised, but all the way at the other end of the table. She threw Hermione a sympathetic look. As the youngest, and only female Weasley child, she understood feeling like the odd one out.

As the meal came to a close, Fleur got up to help clear the table without being asked. Molly reached around the back of her chair to give her daughter-in-law’s hand an affectionate squeeze. Ron tracked the movement with his eyes before glancing down at his empty plate.

Molly, who was seated on the other side of Ron, noticed her son’s obvious dismay, and took it for hunger. “Are you still hungry, Ronnikins? Why didn’t you say anything? I’ll whip you up a little something extra—”

“No, er, I mean, no thank you, Mum. Dinner was fantastic. I’m stuffed.”

“Why the long face, then? I don’t like to see any of my sweet boys sad.”

Ginny rolled her eyes.

Hermione froze, her wineglass halfway to her mouth, at his next words. “I want to talk to you about something. Maybe we could go sit in the living room?”

Molly set her napkin on the table and leaned forward. “You know we don’t have secrets in this house. Go ahead, I’m all ears.”

Ron flushed as he shoved his hand into his back pocket. With a guilty glance in Hermione’s direction, he withdrew the deed to The Burrow. He pushed the weathered parchment, even more crumpled from its recent lodgings in his trousers, across the table to Molly.

Hermione watched as Molly’s eyes widened a fraction. Her smile, so warm just a moment ago, seemed to falter and sag. Bill, Charlie, and Percy stood from their seats and peered down at the deed. A tense silence fell over the room.

She kept her eyes downcast, and she could swear the pounding of her heart was audible to everyone. This was it. Ron was about to confess. He would break the family’s hearts, but the healing could start. They’d rally around him the way they’d done for George. If anyone could convince Ron to go to rehab, it was them.

And when he came back… She and Ron could begin again. They could be brand new.

Hope swelled in her chest, and she looked up at Ron. Sweat beaded at his temple. It must be hard for him, but she was so proud of the way he faced this head on. This bravery? It was like the Ron of old, the one who sacrificed himself in the human chess match. That Ron stood up for her, for them.

He seemed to find his mettle and cleared his throat to speak. But when he glanced at her again Hermione knew, sure as sunrise, he was going to lie.

“I was — I was trying to um — expand the family business,” he blurted out.

A ringing started in her ears. Several Weasleys spoke over one another all at once.

Ron brightened as the lie took hold in his family’s imaginations. “I took the deed to Gringotts and tried to haggle with the goblins, see if we could take out a mortgage on it to expand Wizard Wheezes.”

“Well, son, I wish you’d consulted us about this,” Arthur began, folding the deed and regarding his son with warranted scepticism.

Molly swatted the air in front of her husband. “Oh, Ron, you sweet boy! I’m so proud of you. Such initiative! This family, we’re all just so lucky to have you — Hermione especially. Goodness, you’re really stepping up and taking more responsibility recently. What did they say?”

“Er, they said that, um,” he faltered.

George piped up. “I’m sure they said it wasn’t a good idea right now. What with the economy and all.”

“Best to keep things the way they are,” Percy said, nodding sagely. He shot Ginny a pointed look. She was the only one to ever really try to go off and do her own thing, and Merlin forbid she ever forget it.

Ron was enthusiastic in his reply. “That’s exactly what they said. How did you know?”

“The point is that you tried,” Molly reassured him. “Besides, we could always extend our line of credit with Gringotts. No need for a mortgage, especially since one day this place will probably go to you. And we wouldn’t want you drowning in debt.”

Hermione almost laughed, but turned it into a cough at the last second. Ron whacked her on the back, and the cough almost became a retch. Hours ago, she wanted nothing more than his comfort. Now, she never wanted him to touch her again.

“Thanks Mum.”

Not one iota of guilt clouded his features. If anything, his blue eyes shone brighter at the unearned praise.

What had he said in the pantry, that he would find a way to return the deed to his parents? She thought he’d meant to slip it back in Arthur’s office, at worst, or at best, tell them the truth. But he hadn’t given her any indication of that sort of maturity, had he? He’d found a way alright; a way that made him come out smelling like a rose. No one looked beneath the bloom to see the flowerbed was full of shit.

“You know, you and Hermione can always move in. There’s plenty of room and our Floo has a direct connection to the Ministry. It’d be a much smoother commute for you, Hermione, which I can assure you will be a necessity if you insist on working through your pregnancies.”

The very thought of having Ron’s baby, which used to be the focus of many a daydream of hers, made her want to puke. He disgusted her, lying to his own family like this.

“I’ve actually been thinking of taking a job outside the Ministry,” Hermione said. She downed the rest of her pinot in one gulp.

“At the shop?” Bill asked.

“No, it’s a charity.”

Ron made a slicing motion across his throat. “Huge pay cut.”

“I’m negotiating.”

Fleur floated back in, gathering her children to prepare them for bed. “If anyone can do it, it is you, Hermione,” she said, in her delicate French accent. “You do such important work, and you deserve, how do you say, important compensation.”

Hermione smiled gratefully, and couldn’t help but notice the way Bill picked up their youngest, put her on his shoulders, and left the room to help his wife.

“All I hear is that I’d better be happy with the grandchildren I have,” Molly said woefully.

“I want children,” Hermione said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Very much.”

“Hermione wants to be married first,” Ron supplied.

It wasn’t a defence. He acted like her desire for marriage was some sort of excuse, when he knew very well that she’d like him to be the one to propose. Modern witch though she was, she was also a romantic. She wanted her future spouse to get down on one knee, take her hand, and maybe even say a few words before he popped the question.

It had all seemed so possible when she and Ron were in Capri. They’d walked on the wet sand at sunset, hand in hand, his white shirt billowing in the breeze. He’d stopped and looked at her, a soft smile on his face. He’d been so open to her, then. To love.

But the tide came in and washed it all away. They’d gone back to the flat, back to their jobs and their daily routines.

And now here she sat, on another Sunday night she’d never get back, listening to her would-be in-laws rake her dreams over the coals. Gods, she couldn’t wait to get out of there. It was taking all her self-control not to drag Ron to the Floo by his ear.

Percy snorted. “I wouldn’t hold my breath for either of those.”

Charlie hissed something at Percy, who didn’t have the decency to look chastened in the least. Arthur shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Can we stop pecking at Hermione?” Ginny asked. “Whether she and Ron get married and have children is a private matter between the two of them. Mum, I thought the gravy was even more delicious than usual tonight. Did you try something new?”

Ron wouldn’t allow the subject change. “I’d marry Hermione tomorrow. I’m ready for all of it - marriage, kids, the whole lot.”

Molly gasped and clutched the air until she found Arthur’s hand. “Ron! Are you proposing?” The woman looked far more concerned than elated.

Hermione pushed back from the table and stood on shaky legs. “No, he’s not. And even if he were, I’d say no.”

Nearly every mouth at the table hung agape, but no one was more shocked by her actions than she was. She hadn’t planned on getting up, on speaking her mind. But something had changed, though she wasn’t sure what it was yet. She had a bit of her old fire back, and she would hold onto it even if she had to turn everything in her path to ash.

She wasn’t folding. This was something different.

It was George who finally said something. “But you’ve been hinting for years!”

Gods, did everyone know how badly she wanted to be a Weasley?

“I hinted, that’s true.” She gripped the sides of her thighs and dug her fingertips into the soft flesh there. “But he’s not ready. I’m sorry, Ron, you’re not. Your mother does nearly everything for you and it’s not your fault you were raised that way, but come on. You’re not a baby anymore. You’re twenty-seven years old.”

“Your children never stop being your babies, Hermione,” Molly interjected.

Hermione grit her teeth. “It’s more than that. We keep burying our problems, talking past each other if we talk at all. And I own my part in it. I know I spend more time at work than I do at home these days. But I wanted to talk to you this morning, and you brushed me off. You were too preoccupied with making it to dinner to listen to me, even though I said I needed time after everything that happened last night. The least you could’ve done was listen. You didn’t even wait for me, not last night, and not this afternoon, either. You’re always leaving, Ron. It’s like even when you’re looking right at me, you’re not seeing me. You’re looking for an exit.”

Ron leaped up, his face reddening by the second. He thumped a fist on the table, and Ginny jumped.

“First of all, I see you. I see you every day, and I listen, too. We literally spoke right before dinner. But most of what you say to me these days is just a list of things you want from me. And you’re always adding to it. So I’m flying through hoops every day, thinking I’m getting closer to being this better version of myself you have in mind.”

“Ron, that’s not fair,” she said, but he kept talking.

“I work hard. At the shop, in therapy with you. But being home is starting to feel an awful lot like work,” He paused and wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth. “And last night? Is it so wrong if I don’t want to hear about it? We could talk for hours, but it’s probably a hell of a lot healthier to just put it out of your head. I thought being with family might help. Are you really blaming me for making sure you’re surrounded by people who love you?”

“That’s not what you were doing at all! You’re just trying to save face! If you wanted me to be with people who love me, why wouldn’t we go to my parents’?”

“Because… Because… I just want to come here and have a nice dinner and not have to think so hard! I have to think so hard to be with you, Hermione. You’re… I love you, but you’re a lot of work.”

No one said anything.

Hermione couldn’t look at Ron, or Molly, or any of the other Weasleys in the room.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a lot of work. I’ll always be an outsider. You might not call me a Mudblood—” Molly gasped theatrically at the slur. “But I’m not one of you. Not Weasley material. Even if I married you, Ron, I’d always be the one who wasn’t worthy, who led you on, who didn’t do enough for you or our home or our theoretical children.”

She took a deep breath. A true, cleansing breath. “When really it’s you who doesn’t do enough. It’s you who’s led me on. And it’s you who isn’t worthy of me.”

“‘Mione,” Ron reached for her, the motion rough, like he wanted to shake her.

She recoiled, just as he had that morning. She knew she’d embarrassed him, but she was starting to think he deserved it.

“I’m sorry, Ron. I think they need to know the truth; the real reason you took the deed,” she said, before addressing the room again. “Ron has a problem. He’s addicted to gambling. He goes out on the weekends and spends most of his pay cheque at the poker tables.”

Oh, she’d really gone and done it now.

Ron’s composure, the little that was left, evaporated. “You’ve no right to tell them that!”

Hermione, with nothing left to lose, pointed to the crumpled parchment. “The reason that deed is in your hands and not Draco Malfoy’s is because of me.”

Arthur looked puzzled. “Draco Malfoy? Does he work at Gringotts?”

“Ron never went to Gringotts. He went to a casino.”

“That can’t be right,” Charlie said.

Percy and George were equally in denial. Molly wrapped Arthur’s arm around her shoulders, her face looking like the stewed tomatoes she’d served at dinner.

Ginny stood on the other side of Ron, her hands on her hips. “So that’s where you’ve been running off to on the weekends.”

“He gambled your ancestral home in a game of cards, lost it, and then begged me to get it back for you. And I did, at great personal sacrifice.” Hermione couldn’t stop; the sordid confessions kept pouring out, like water pumped from a tainted well.

Ron threw his dinner chair to the ground. Hermione had never seen him so angry, not even when Slytherin’s locket showed him visions of her with Harry.

“Great personal sacrifice? I thought you said you didn’t fuck him?”

And then he drew his wand on her.

Everything happened in an instant. Molly screamed something about language and decency. Arthur froze in horror. Percy fainted. George bounded over the table, pulling Ron into the corner as Charlie cast Incarcerous, toppling a buffet filled with china. Ginny squeaked and scurried over to Hermione, ducking sparks from the spell. Bill burst in, wand out, bellowing about his kids trying to sleep.

Ron slumped against the wall, bound by Charlie’s magic. “How could you, ‘Mione?”

Every head of red hair in the room whipped around to look at Hermione, waiting for her to say something. She was oddly calm; standing in the eye of a hurricane.

She took a step towards Ron. Molly shrieked and ran to his side.

Hermione held up her empty hands, palms facing Ron in the universal sign of surrender. She didn’t acknowledge Molly or her dramatics.

“Ron, I’m going for a walk in the garden. If you want to come with me and talk about this — and actually listen to me — then you can. But you should know that no matter what you decide or what you say, we’re through. When I leave here, I’m changing the locks, the wards, the Floo access. This relationship is over.”

Charlie released his hold on his brother, and Molly covered Ron’s newly freed hands with hers. He looked around at his family and sniffled, face blotchy and wet. “I think I’ll stay here.”

“Alright then,” Hermione said, willing her voice not to break. “I’ll send your things over sometime this week.”

“Ron, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re going to regret this moment for the rest of your life,” Ginny hiccuped, tears running down her face. “Come on Hermione, I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

“Ginevra—” Molly started.

“Stop, Mum. Let her go.” Bill shook his head. To the rest of the family, he said, “We have a lot to talk about.”

Hermione needed to move, walk out the door, but her legs weren’t cooperating. For so long, she’d wanted the Weasleys to wake up and see what was happening with their youngest son. They stood around each other now in a tableau straight off the stage in the West End, cheating their bodies towards Hermione in the audience. Complex emotions; concern mixed with grief, anguish tinged with curiosity, flickered across their faces in the candlelight.

“I’m not going to sit here while you discuss me like I’m not even here,” Ron brushed off his trousers like he planned to stand, but Molly tugged him back down.

Molly pulled Ron’s head to her shoulder. “We’re not going to do that. We’re all going to go to bed. Your room is just how you left it; I just washed the sheets yesterday. And I’ll make your favourites for breakfast tomorrow.”

“What, and act like this never happened?” Ginny looked at her mother incredulously.

Hermione tugged at Ginny’s sleeve. “It’s alright, Gin.” She wasn’t sure whether she was reassuring Ginny or herself. She should’ve known Molly would shut the conversation down.

“It isn’t. It isn’t right at all.”

“Let’s just go.”

She left with her head held high, Ginny’s hand in hers, with the strange yet familiar pain of leaving a place that once meant so much to her, knowing she could never return again.

Chapter Text

“I’d Avada someone for a glass of wine right now,” Ginny whined as she sank into the couch. Hermione, who’d been thinking the same, opened the cabinet and grabbed the first bottle she saw — a Sauvignon Blanc, just like Malfoy had given her. She winced. Two generous pours later, she rounded the kitchen worktop to join her best friend in front of the telly.

“You know I could install one of these in your flat, right?”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” she insisted, accepting the wine and commandeering the remote control. “Plus, if I get one, Harry and Theo are going to come over and watch there. And I know you secretly like when we descend on you like vultures.”

Hermione smiled to herself as Ginny clicked through the channels. She was right, though she viewed her friends more like angels than carrion-eaters, coming to her rescue in her darkest hours.

After Ron began staying out later and later, Hermione’s post-war panic attacks reared their ugly heads.

They came on fast, triggered by the smallest things. A strange shadow, a shouting match in the alleyway below. It was a safe part of town, but Ron had become a security blanket for her, and when he was gone, she didn’t feel as safe as she did when he was beside her in bed.

Ginny Flooed over after the first panic attack, and then they had a standing date whenever Ron was out. Hermione didn’t tell her at first what was happening and where Ron was. Frankly, it was embarrassing, and she didn’t know if it was a good idea to talk to her potential sister-in-law about her marital problems.

But Ginny had actually been waiting for an opportunity to talk to Hermione, mainly about her issues with Molly. They soon had a standing date every Friday night to bitch and watch cheesy Muggle television. Ginny grew especially fond of the Summer Olympics and was rather put out when Hermione broke the news to her that they only happened every four years.

Hermione was more of a Winter Olympics girl herself; particularly the ice dancing. She loved how in sync the dancers had to be as partners as they glided across the ice. And the amount of trust they had in each other, not to let the other stumble or fall, with the backdrop of sensual music — well, it was one of the most romantic things she could think of.

“Sorry I missed this Friday, by the way.”

“Where were you?”

Ginny fiddled with her headband. It was a nervous habit, one that tipped Hermione off her friend was hiding something from her. “Just some things at the shop. You know how it is. But you know if you owl, I’ll make myself available, right?”

“Even now that…” Hermione couldn’t say it.

Even now that Ron and I aren’t together anymore?

Ginny shifted to face Hermione, propping her elbow on the back of the couch. “I was your friend before you and Ron made things official, and I’ll be your friend after. This doesn’t change that.”

“But don’t you have to, you know, take his side? Weasley solidarity and all that?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” Ginny said, turning her attention back to the telly.

Hermione took a sip of wine. “I wasn’t really worried.”

She’d never been a good liar. Before long, Ginny, Harry, and Theo had figured out there was something deeper going on with Ron’s absences. Ron bristled under even light questioning, and Hermione wouldn’t say a word about his whereabouts. He went from leaving Hermione alone on Fridays to Fridays and Saturdays, and eventually most of the weekend. Ginny already came over on Fridays, so Harry and Theo Flooed over every other Saturday and brought dinner with them.

Hermione thought having their friends around more often might show Ron what he was missing out on, but if anything he took their presence as permission to stay out later. If he came home and they were still there, he acted like he’d just been having fun with a more exclusive circle. Everyone knew that the people in this room were his closest friends, but no one called him out on it.

She struggled to picture Ron in his childhood bed at the Burrow tonight. Was he asleep? Was he staring at the ceiling? Had he given up on sleeping altogether and instead paced the room, trying to think of a way to win her back?

Hermione leaned into Ginny, brushing the long hair off her shoulder and resting her head there.

For a split second, she thought about telling Ginny everything. Letting it all hang out, doing an autopsy of the still-warm body of her relationship with Ron.

It was a bad idea for so many reasons, one of which was that she’d not had nearly enough wine. Another was that she might mention Malfoy.

What would Ginny think about her night with Malfoy?

Would she judge her for agreeing to the Vow in the first place? What if Hermione came off too warm towards Malfoy, too accepting of his kindness? Would that push Ginny to her brother’s side? Hermione couldn’t bear to lose her closest female friend’s support.

Ginny, like every good Gryffindor, loathed Malfoy while they were in school, and there was little reason for them to cross paths as adults. Even though he was supposedly a chum of Theo’s, they never saw Malfoy. Hermione hadn’t thought of him in ages. Why would she, when the focus of the entire wizarding world was moving on?

When Harry started dating Theo, they were all suspicious, but Theo made a big deal about atoning for his actions, and Hermione appreciated his candour. He’d initially insisted that his other Slytherin friends had changed, and Hermione wanted to believe him. But Ron was quick to point out that Theo was different because he hadn’t taken the Dark Mark. The others couldn't say that.

Ron's opinion meant a lot to Harry, and maybe that was why Theo dropped the subject and never brought any of his friends from their year around. Not even Pansy, who Hermione worked with on a daily basis.

Ron was bitter about Pansy’s high-ranking position at the Ministry, even though she made it no secret that she regretted her actions at the Battle of Hogwarts. She distanced herself from her father’s backwards campaigns for Pureblood rights and refused to appear at her mother’s soirees. Unlike Theo, Pansy didn’t try to smooth things over. Her prickly intelligence never sat well with Ron, so they’d never gotten close. If pressed, Hermione would admit to rather liking Pansy and her no-nonsense demeanour.

Aside from Pansy, Ginny Weasley was the most levelheaded witch she knew. Ginny never went so far as to hang out with Slytherins, but she didn’t talk about how awful they were, either. She might even be open minded about Malfoy. If Hermione needed her to hear about what happened, Ginny could certainly handle it. It probably wouldn’t send her into a tailspin or anything.

Probably.

Best not to chance it.

The credits of a cheesy made-for-television film rolled. Hermione kissed Ginny on the cheek. Crookshanks appeared from the bedroom, whiskers twitching, and signalled he wanted Hermione to come to bed.

“I’ll be okay, Ginny.”

“I know you will be. I’m happy to stay tonight, and the rest of the week, too. And I can take Ron’s things to him at work once we go through them.”

Hermione stretched and yawned. “No, I can do that. There’s a lot, and some of it will be personal.”

They lived together, she and Ron, but they’d never really combined their lives. Hermione brought her cookware and her couch; Ron brought his dishes and trunks. She silently thanked the gods they’d kept separate vaults. Surely that would make it easier to separate everything. His clothes and personal items should be simple enough to pack, and she wouldn’t insult him by returning any gifts he’d given her over the years. He didn’t have anywhere to put the scant furniture he brought, and it’s not like he cared about it, anyway. Yes, she could tackle this in the space of an afternoon, drop it off at the Burrow and be done.

Done with Ron. Done with her dream of marrying into the Weasley clan, done with her wish for red-haired boys and brown-eyed girls playing alongside their cousins, done with the only future she’d ever believed in.

“Not trying to coddle you, but all of this is way too fresh, and it hasn’t hit you yet. Let me stay with you. Do you want me to tell Harry and Theo for you?”

“No, I’ll tell them. We’re supposed to meet for lunch tomorrow. May as well drink the Skele-Gro and get it over with,” she winced. “Did you bring your overnight bag?”

Ginny flushed. “Goodness, I must’ve forgotten it at—at, um—”

“Harry and Theo’s?” Hermione arched a brow. Hadn’t Ginny just been there? How could she have forgotten?

“Harry and Theo’s. Right.”

“Clearly you’re exhausted.” Hermione pulled her wand out of her nest of curls and transfigured a set of pyjamas from the bedding she’d been using on the pull-out couch. “Here. I didn’t get any washing done this weekend.”

“I don’t care about the state of your laundry. C’mere love,” Ginny clucked, ignoring the pyjamas, and Hermione cuddled into her embrace. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I know,” Hermione said hurriedly.

“Stop. Let me tell you it’s going to be okay for once. Because you know it’s gonna be okay, I know you do, but you’re going to have to feel your way through this one. You’re used to making room for everyone else’s feelings, but you can’t keep shoving yours down.”

“Okay.”

“It’s gonna take time, and you’ve got to be patient. Not your strong suit, maybe, but you’ve got me, Theo, Harry, your parents... You can always go see your mum and dad for a bit, take a little holiday. You’re not alone.”

“Thanks Gin.”

“I’m sorry my stupid brother hurt you.”

If only Hermione felt she could tell Ginny just how deeply she was hurting right now; how her whole body ached like a bad bruise. Everything was spongy and tender. Add that to the whiplash from the last twenty-four hours…

Malfoy’s voice echoed through her mind. Hermione, does he hurt you? If he did… Would you come to me?

She shook her head. Gods, she was tired. “Let’s get to bed.”

Ten minutes later, Hermione switched off the light to the loo, only to find Ginny already slumbering peacefully on her side in the bed with Crooks curled in the space behind her knees.

She’d felt so tired before she brushed her teeth, but now she was wide awake.

She reached for her bag on the night table and pulled out the debt markers, examining the runes again before tucking them in the drawer. An idea formed, smoke rising from the embers of the last two days. Something good could come out of all this. She’d beg off work tomorrow, a rarity for her these days. Then she’d go to her Al-Anon meeting, have her usual lunch with Harry and Theo, and then set about freeing Justin and Cho from whatever devil’s bargain they’d made with Malfoy.

A fresh start sounded perfect.

Hermione laid next to Ginny and closed her eyes. She tossed and turned, sleep evading her. Crooks let out an exasperated meow and stretched before settling back down. She tried all the usual tricks, but her mind would not quiet.

She wandered back into the kitchen and looked at the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. It was a hell of a lot safer than Dreamless Sleep. She poured herself another glass and swirled the pale liquid inside, trying not to think about how one night had turned her whole life upside down.

***

Hermione woke up late. She patted the side of the bed for Ginny, but her hand found only the soft cotton top sheet. After completing a quick rendition of her morning routine, she fed Crooks and scarfed down a few bites of the hearty porridge Ginny had left under a warming charm. Hermione didn’t keep an owl, and therefore couldn’t fire off a letter notifying her team she’d be taking a personal day, so she Floo called Pansy at the office instead.

Pansy arched one eyebrow at Hermione’s unkempt hair and rumpled pyjamas, assumed she was hungover, and advised her to sleep it off.

Once that was done, Hermione eyed a nearly full cardboard box of Ron’s clothes, a sign that Ginny intended to help with the divvying up of their possessions, whether Hermione liked it or not. She smiled, relieved to have one less thing to do today. Thank Merlin for friends who understood that she was terrible at asking for help, but not at accepting it.

On a whim, she chose to wear another dress from the Capri trip. Red with tiny white polka dots, the cap-sleeved wrap dress hugged her curves and paired perfectly with her espadrilles. It was a talisman of a happier time, a happier Hermione. She wanted to recapture that feeling, but on her own this time. Her hair was down, tight curls bouncing against her back as she walked. Grabbing her beaded bag and double-checking her former classmates’ debts were inside, she locked her flat and hurried down the stairs.

Warm sun caressed her face as she made her way to Muggle London for her weekly Al-Anon meeting. Usually she legged it to work straight after, but not today. She slipped inside the side door of the old church and followed the signage down to the basement, where she was greeted with a nod by one of the dozen or so regulars. She poured herself a coffee and grabbed a free pastry, and it hit her that without Ron’s debts over her head, she could spare the money for little indulgences like fresh muffins from the little coffee shop just outside the Ministry.

Hermione found a seat in the back row, the folding chair squeaking as she tugged the hem of her dress past her knees. She nodded to the leader, a tall woman with electric blue hair and a long jade pendant. The woman offered a kind smile and called the meeting to order. A few stragglers wandered to their seats, styrofoam cups and croissants in hand.

“Do we have any visitors with us today?” the leader asked. “How about any first timers?”

A young man in a ratty t-shirt scrubbed the back of his head and looked around nervously before coming to the front of the room. “Welcome,” the leader said, offering him a chip and a hug. “Keep coming back.”

Hermione bowed her head for the serenity prayer. Even though she was non-religious, she found comfort in the familiar words.

The leader invited anyone present to speak. A few people Hermione recognised made their way to an off-kilter podium, shared their stories and struggles, and before she knew it, she found herself perched on the edge of her seat, leg jangling.

“Would you like to come up?” the leader asked gently.

Hermione shook her head, but she was already up and moving towards the front of the room. She’d never spoken at a meeting before.

“Hi, I’m Hermione,” she gave a little half-wave and gripped the podium. “My partner — well, my ex-partner now, I suppose — is an addict. He gambles, and…” Her head swam, and her mouth ran dry. The leader touched her jade pendant and nodded towards Hermione.

No one knew her here. They’d seen her before, of course, but they didn’t know her. Wouldn’t judge her. She could say anything; tell them the entire sordid tale.

“Last night we broke up. He bet big and lost his parents’ house, and he expected me to get it back. I didn’t have the money, and, um, the man he lost the house to…” She struggled to say the words and swallowed hard.

“I agreed to something I would never consider under normal circumstances,” she choked out. “And the worst part is that this man treated me kindly. He didn’t lay a finger on me, but my ex… I came home and he didn’t care what had happened, didn’t want to hear about it. He wanted to go on pretending like it never happened. His mother expected us for dinner and he didn’t even give me time to process; we had to go and finally I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Hermione scanned the faces of her fellow attendees, searching for encouragement, or, hell, even pity. “I slipped up and told his family about his problem in the heat of the moment. I shouldn’t have, I know that, but I was so hurt, you know? And then I had to get out, so I left him there. And now it’s over.”

“He was my best friend. We were in couples’ therapy. We were working on things; at least I was. But all along, deep down, he didn’t have a shred of remorse for his decisions. I mean, I stayed loyal to him even though he’s more loyal to a casino than he was to me. And now I look back and think… I think I haven’t loved him for a long time. I just feel sorry for him.”

“I don’t know what’s happened to me. I wore this dress three years ago when things were good, and I put it on this morning like I could capture that happiness again. But it’s gone, he’s gone… It’s over. And I don’t know if things are ever going to be good for me again.”

She startled at her own honesty, stepping away from the podium as if it’d burned her. The leader clapped, and scattered applause followed as she reclaimed her seat. The first-timer in the ratty t-shirt toasted her silently with his too-full cup of tea, sloshing a little over the edge.

All at once Hermione felt like she herself was too full — of sadness, regret, and fear for her future. Avoiding eye contact with the leader, she clutched her bag to her chest and leapt up from the chair, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor as she hastened towards the exit.

***

Hermione slid into the booth of their typical lunch spot, Farmer’s Daughter, and waited for Theo and Harry. The Leaky Cauldron’s sister location, part of owner Hannah Abbott’s expansion into Horizont Alley, featured high ceilings, modern decor, and delicious vegan fare. She glanced around, half-hoping to see Hannah’s kind smile amongst the chefs chopping fresh produce in the open concept kitchen. But she wasn’t there. In fact, she didn’t recognise anyone in the crowded restaurant today.

With no friendly face to stave off the inevitable, Hermione contemplated how to explain her breakup to Harry and Theo.

She could be mature. Ron and I have decided to end our relationship. It was a mutual decision and we hope to remain friends moving forward.

Being vague was an option. Harry and Theo knew more about Ron’s addiction than anyone, and didn’t need every gory detail. I broke up with Ron, and I’m in shock. I can’t really talk about it.

Or the third route, the one she least wanted to take: Vulnerability. Ron and I are done, for good. I’m worried this has been a long time coming. More than that, I’m scared. Scared I won’t remember the good times. Scared to lose his friendship. Scared to lose my second family. If you take his side, I’ll lose both my best friends. And then what if Ginny decides she owes it to her brother to help him, and then I’m all alone in this magical world all over again? What if I’m unlovable? What if I really am too much, trying too hard, and yet somehow never enough?

She still hadn’t decided how much she wanted to tell them. And she wasn’t looking forward to Theo’s reaction. Theo made no secret of the fact that he didn’t like Ron, and especially not as Hermione’s boyfriend. But he’d only ever known Ron as he was now, not as the brave, strategic, freckle-faced boy who’d wielded the sword of Gryffindor. Not as Harry Potter’s best friend. Not as the man Hermione had fallen in love with after winning a war.

She didn’t even know that man anymore.

Before she could assess her options, Harry scooted into the seat across from her. “Hey, sorry we’re late.”

Theo inspected the deep green vinyl before taking his place beside Harry. “We had an unexpected visitor. Red hair, mommy issues.”

“Theo,” Harry warned.

To the untrained eye, Harry and Theo appeared to be a standard case of like calls to like. Both men had dark hair and green eyes, and wore matching Ministry-standard robes. They shared the same favourite Quidditch team, an affinity for terrible jokes, and in the absence of family, a deep love for their friends. But where Harry was always slightly rumpled, Theo maintained his appearance with fastidious care. And where Theo was haughty, Harry took a laid back approach.

Hermione adored them together.

The server dropped menus on the table and greeted them. He was young; probably fresh out of Hogwarts, and wore an apron over a chambray button-up. Robes were a thing of the past for the new generation, and Hermione couldn’t help but be glad for it. Muggle clothing was far more comfortable and provided more freedom of movement. They placed their drink orders — water for Theo, tea for Hermione and Harry — and a sticky silence thickened the air.

“So you’ve spoken with Ron, then?”

Harry reached out to cover her hand with his. “We have. And Hermione, just so you know—”

Theo interrupted, shoving his menu away. “Did you really stay the night with Draco to get the Burrow back because Ron gambled it away?”

She looked away. “Yes.”

He swore, and Hermione winced.

“It’s none of my business, but did you…” Harry trailed off, but she caught his meaning. “Is that why?”

“We didn’t sleep together, if that’s what you’re asking. Did Ron tell you we did?”

“He said he doesn’t know what to believe.”

It was a knife to the gut. How could Ron possibly think she’d slept with Malfoy? She’d been nothing but honest with him. When he said he didn’t want to hear about it, she should’ve known he meant he wouldn’t hear about it. He wouldn’t hear her.

When she’d left the Burrow last night, her hand in Ginny’s and scorched by righteous anger, she’d thought the situation was well in hand. She had a plan, or at least an outline of one. Take the day off from work to recalibrate, start on packing up Ron’s belongings, and send an anonymous tip to the Prophet about the breakup. She’d even decided to take the high road and say they separated due to irreconcilable differences. Before last night, it wouldn’t have occurred to her that she might need to get out in front of whatever Ron (or heaven forbid, Molly) might say about their breakup, but after last night’s massive lie… Her stomach lurched. Ron might lie to his family, even the papers, but to Harry? It hadn’t even crossed her mind that he’d go running to Harry and fill his ears with revisionist history.

Ron didn’t believe her. It was still sinking in.

Hermione supposed she didn’t need him to believe her. It was true that only she and Malfoy knew what happened that night at Serpenti, but she’d never lied to Ron; not intentionally. If anything, she was the one person in his life who always told him the truth.

Maybe that was part of the problem.

Harry looked at her like she might fall apart at any moment, and he was ready for the fallout. She’d learned long ago her tears never translated to action; not on the wizarding world’s part, and certainly never on Ron’s part, and slowly she dedicated herself to the subtle art of self-reliance. Harry and Theo’s opinions mattered to her, as her friends, but their thoughts about her mental state in the aftermath of the end of her years-long romantic relationship had no bearing on how she chose to act. She was used to keeping it together. It was second nature.

“I told the git to believe you,” Theo said with a disaffected twist of his lips. “I know you love Ron, but you — both of you — are willfully blind when it comes to his proclivity for placing himself in the best possible light.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“What else did he tell you?”

Harry sighed. “He said you outed his gambling problem to his family and broke up with him at Sunday dinner. Ginny took your side and left with you. And he thinks Malfoy turned you against him.”

“Basically, your ex — Salazar’s tits, it feels good to say that — thinks the break up is Draco’s doing,” Theo said.

The server came by and set their drinks on the table, and Hermione, suddenly parched, grabbed Theo’s glass and downed the entire thing in one gulp.

Harry lowered his voice. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, instantly hating the way her voice wavered. “Ron’s wrong, Harry. You know that, right? We’re not done because of Malfoy.”

“I know.”

“But my time with him gave me a little perspective. We ate dinner, chatted a bit, and went to sleep. That’s it.” Well, that wasn’t exactly it. “In fact, up until right before I left, we had a nice time together, which isn’t something I thought I’d ever say, but, you know, he’s not so bad.”

“He’s come a long way,” Harry admitted. “We haven’t seen him in ages, but he’s probably Theo’s largest donor. The research he published this year wouldn’t happen without Malfoy’s contributions.”

“Draco,” Theo emphasised his friend, and apparent donor’s, name. “Is the only reason we’ve made huge strides this year. I may have figured out how to remove Dark Marks, but I’m not resting on my laurels. There’s still work to be done for victims of dark magic everywhere.”

He cast Aguamenti and deftly refilled his glass, his trademark exactitude ensuring not a drop escaped his notice.

Malfoy was the anonymous donor funding Theo’s experimental neurology research? Her brain pulled in the information, tugging her attention towards it as if it was important, but she picked up a menu and the niggling feeling dissipated.

“What happened right before you left?”

Hermione hardly heard Harry as she focused on the menu in her hand. “Hmm?”

“You always order the market salad,” he said, tapping the back of the menu. “I asked you what happened in the morning before you left. You said you were having a good time until then.”

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t meant to divulge any details of her time with Malfoy. What happened at Serpenti was supposed to stay at Serpenti.

“It’s nothing. I was just anxious to see Ron, and then he wasn’t there waiting for me, and I—”

It suddenly occurred to her that she’d taken out most of her anger on Malfoy. He’d tried to apologise. She recalled the genuine anguish in his words, and her heart caught in her throat. Ron couldn’t muster an apology unless he needed to save face, and even then, it wasn’t said with half the feeling hiding in the depths of Malfoy’s eyes as the lift doors slid shut.

The server hovered in Hermione’s periphery, so she waved him over. They placed their orders, and the young wizard, perhaps sensing the sombre mood, scurried to the kitchens without a word.

“Couldn’t even do the bare minimum,” Theo snorted as the server made his hasty retreat. “It’s the wedding all over again.”

“Theo,” Harry said, an edge in his voice.

“He wouldn’t have made it at all if I hadn’t dragged him away from the tables. I had to go all the way into the city, on my own wedding day, to fetch my groom’s best man, and he didn’t even have the decency to thank me.”

Hermione grimaced at the memory. Ron, bleary-eyed and snappish, claiming he would have made it on time, that they’d all overreacted. She’d clutched her maid of honour bouquet with a vice grip, squeezing until stems of daisies exploded out onto the floor. But she didn’t make a scene. She handed him some Sober Up, smiled, and when he was himself again, Ron seemed wrecked with regret. Hand over his heart, he’d promised it wouldn’t happen again.

It was a meaningless promise. Harry Potter would have only one wedding day. And she’d forever remember spending that morning worried, restless, and half-sick.

“Wait,” Hermione said, eying Theo. “I thought you said you got Ron from the flat the day of the wedding?”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, love. I didn’t want to upset you even further. I checked the flat first, when I saw some chips on the worktop, I had a feeling I knew where he was. And where he’d been running off to on the weekends.”

“So you knew? This whole time, you knew?”

“Not the whole time,” Theo said, eyes downcast. “It’s only been a few months. In my defence, I didn’t tell Harry that day either. Saved that for after the honeymoon.”

“And I thank you for doing that,” Harry inclined his head towards Theo. “For going to get him, and considering my feelings. All I remember is how happy I was to finally be married to the love of my life.”

Theo’s features softened, and he cupped Harry’s stubbly cheek and kissed him.

Hermione drew her beaded bag into her lap and sifted through it. It wasn’t that she felt uncomfortable watching the two men kiss; not at all. It was the way they were together — a little fussy, sure, but so very aware of the other. Theo, abrasive on even his best days, smoothed his edges for Harry. And Harry — lovely, loyal Harry — toned down his thrill-seeking ways so his beloved husband wouldn’t worry so much.

“That’s what mattered at the end of the day, yes,” Theo said as he pulled away. “But you can’t deny that Ron’s had a pattern of inappropriate behaviour for a long time now. I mean, come on, Harry. We have to draw the line somewhere, and I think this is clearly over it.”

Harry nodded. “It’s so far over it. And we told him as much, Hermione.”

“But you’re trying to still be a friend to him,” Hermione said plainly.

“We can’t abandon him. It’s Ron. I mean, what if he…”

She swallowed, images of Ron in various life-ending scenarios bubbling darkly in her brain.

“I know. I’ve worried about it, too. But I’ve tried everything. We were going to couples’ therapy, and I went to Al-Anon right before I came here. It’s not abandonment if…”

She stopped herself from saying: It’s not abandonment if he abandoned me first.

“I saw it a lot during my old shifts in the Janus Thickey ward,” Theo interjected. “Somebody feels like the carpet got ripped out from under them and, well, you know. But I think we’ve been enabling Ron for far too long. Obviously we’re glad he went to therapy with you, but you’ve been doing Al-Anon on your own, right? He won’t go?”

“No, he won’t,” she confirmed. “I think it’s helped me, though. Maybe I’ll try individual therapy, too.”

“Therapy’s always a good idea. Let me know if you want a referral.”

“I will.”

Harry shifted in his seat. “Not that it needs to be said — or I don’t know, maybe it does, but I agree. It’s gone on too long. But we can’t force him into getting help. If you say you’ve tried everything, then I don’t know if Theo and I talking to him will do much good.”

“Is it too much to hope for Molly to see the light, now that she knows what he’s been up to? Maybe she can get through to him,” Theo suggested.

Hermione’s mouth twitched. “I doubt it. She’ll probably just load him up with more work at the shop to try and keep him from going out. Fence him in.”

“He’ll conjure a ladder,” Harry sighed.

Their food appeared in front of them, but for a moment, no one touched their plate. The friends exchanged helpless glances. Finally, Hermione speared a tomato in her salad, bright juice and seeds bursting across leafy greens, and they tucked in.

Acid soured her palate as she summoned the nerve to speak again. She hated asking for help; hated it even more when it made her look small and weak. Where was last night’s fire? Why couldn’t she summon it now?

The words came out in a squeak. “Harry, I know you need to be there for Ron, but I need you to be there for me, too.”

Harry looked as if she’d slapped him. “I’m here for you right now. I’ll always be here for you.”

“This was already on the books. We always get lunch on Mondays,” she said. “Look, I don’t know, sometimes it feels like… Like Ron can do no wrong. I hear you saying you told him he crossed the line. But I need you to believe it. Really believe it. Ron is an addict. He used me to try and solve a problem he created. And it really could’ve hurt me.”

Her heart tattooed an anxious beat in her chest, fast and frantic. Was she really saying this? Now? Out loud?

Harry went silent for a long moment before speaking again. His voice was a rough scrape. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, Hermione. I’ve tried to pretend everything’s fine, and that what’s going on with Ron is just temporary.”

“I know. I’ve been doing the same thing. But after Mal— Al-Anon today,” she corrected herself quickly, but Theo furrowed his brow. Nothing escaped that man. “I’ve realised it’s hurt me deeply, the pretending. I’m sad and I’m angry and most of all, I’m hurt. It’s taken everything I have to keep fighting. But I’m tired.”

“Of course you are,” Harry said. He knew a lot about being tired of fighting.

She took another bite and chewed thoroughly before speaking again. “His problem isn’t something I have any control over. Ron has to want to change. And I can’t be romantically available to him until he changes. Maybe… maybe not even after he does, if he does. I can’t see myself ever loving him that way again.”

The truth of it shocked her, and she nearly dropped her fork.

“Hermione, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m really proud of you,” Theo said. “I never thought you’d break it off. You deserve someone who puts you first.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, and looked down at her lap.

Harry laid his hands on the table. “What can we do to support you? Obviously, we won’t speak to anyone about what’s happened.”

“I appreciate that more than you know. Maybe… Maybe we could stop talking about it? Ron, and helping Ron, it’s been such a huge part of the last few years, and I think I’ve forgotten some of the things that make me, well, me. And I need some space to rediscover who I am. And I want to be a better friend; maybe recapture my love for my job as well. Who knows?”

The more she said it, the better it sounded. It was time to find out who Hermione Granger was, and who she could be, without her ex holding her back.

“Good for you, Hermione,” Harry said, a world-wise grin cracking across his face.

“Don’t forget to have a little fun,” Theo sipped at his water. “If you need something discreet, I’d be happy to set you up with someone.”

She stiffened. It almost sounded like he already had someone in mind.

“Who says she needs to date? Hermione’s always been an independent woman.”

Hermione swirled the dregs of her salad through a puddle of dressing. Harry had been far too busy waging war with Voldemort to notice her less-than-independent moments while they were at school. Sure, he picked up on the tension with Ron during the whole Lavender debacle, but he easily dismissed her tears and other compassionate feminine sensitivities. They hadn’t even registered her as female before the Yule Ball, and after that, when her makeup was wiped away and the periwinkle dress lay crumpled on the floor of Gryffindor Tower, it was like Cinderella, when the carriage reverted to a pumpkin, and the horses to mice.

She was Hermione again.

One of the boys. A scholar. Not a pretty girl they’d chase after.

After the war, Ron came to his senses and realised she’d been under his nose the whole time. He didn’t need to go door to door with a glass slipper. He’d simply asked her to walk to Hogsmeade with him at the start of eighth year. They’d window shopped and laughed and shared Butterbeers with whipped cream. She knew he didn’t have much money, but it didn’t matter, not when he reached over the rickety wooden table for her hand and didn’t let go, even when they had to go back to the castle.

She’d loved him beyond measure. Her first love, and it was over, for good.

She was Hermione again.

Brightest witch of her age. A hard worker. Not a woman with a tender heart.

Was it so hard to believe that she had goals beyond a desk loaded with Orders of Merlin? That she wanted love, and children of her own?

“No, I think I’ve been co-dependent, actually,” she said, flagging their server down. “Check, please.”

“We’re all a little bit co-dependent,” Theo offered.

“True. War will do that to you.” Harry took the check from the server and threw down enough money to cover the entire bill.

“Thank you.”

“No trouble. Oh, hey, are you still free for my birthday trip? August will be here before you know it, and I know how your schedule gets.”

“Harry James Potter, as if I would ever miss your birthday trip. Of course I’ll be there.”

At least, as long as Ron wasn't coming. But they could talk about that later.

They rose together from the table and walked out into a dismal London drizzle. Theo popped a brolly over his dark curls, pulling Harry underneath the nylon canopy and slinging an arm over his shoulders. Hermione struggled with her own brolly, a translucent bubble with painted cats batting yarn in various stages of entanglement.

“See you next week, Hermione?”

She nodded and waved as they strode down the darkening pavement together. She wasn’t sure why she lingered, her hair frizzing to impossible heights in the damp air, watching the two wizards walk away. Maybe she needed reassurance that her friends were happy, like it was a transferable emotion that might rub off on her after continued exposure, or seep into her nervous system by osmosis. Maybe, with enough study, she could understand the feeling that seared through her when Theo’s arm slipped from Harry’s shoulder to his lower back, then finally to his fingers, entwining them with his own.

***

Guildhall welcomed her with open arms.

She smiled at the librarian behind the main desk as she walked past and slipped into the adult fantasy section. There were few patrons on Monday afternoon, so it was easy to slide her wand out of her bag, tap the back wall three times, and whisper the password (Alexandria). A glowing archway rippled onto the wall, and Hermione stepped through into the magical library.

She colonised the first open table she saw, summoning books from multiple sections as she re-examined the debt markers under the soft glow of torchlight. The familiarity of the ritual took her back to studying at Hogwarts, and a contented sigh fell from her lips. If she closed her eyes, she could feel the brisk Scottish air caressing her face from the open window by her favourite study spot among the centuries-old tomes.

Instinct told her ancient runes texts might help her translate some of the more complicated markings. She pored over those for at least an hour, searching for the obscure runes seared into the parchment. A few of them she found quickly, relating to security and magical bonds. But most of them were either archaic or perhaps Malfoy’s own creation.

Curse-breaking books were next. She cross-referenced the runes she couldn’t identify with the wand movements for common and rare curses. Binding, entrapment, and mental or physical connection, even dissolution or severance, in case the movements were reversed. Nothing matched.

“Maybe I could destroy them,” Hermione mused to herself. “Like a horcrux. They’re only paper.”

She pulled a cauldron from her bag and placed it on top of the table, adding the markers.

“Incendio,” she whispered. No luck.

Where was a Basilisk fang when you needed one?

She tried a few other spells. Evanesco. Expulso. Diffindo.

Hermione’s wand sliced the air a little wide, her typical precision falling prey to her frustration, and she cut her finger. It was nothing a quick Episkey couldn’t fix, but she chided herself for it. The last thing she needed was to get sloppy. She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose, willing herself to think.

Would he use a spell personal to him? Hermione shuddered, unable to imagine Malfoy performing Sectumsempra anytime he needed to sever an agreement. And the code to access the debts was already sentimental, even for someone with myriad tattoos.

Maybe she wasn’t working with complete information. Maybe there was a cipher in Malfoy’s desk. That seemed likely. Although, knowing him, he’d memorised the runes he used most often.

She went searching for books on contracts and found that all contracts are required to list the terms and conditions. Malfoy’s markers seemed to be perfectly legal, so where were they? He couldn’t very well hide them — or could he?

“Aparecium.”

Hermione tamped down a shout of victory as the formerly invisible ink revealed itself. The mysterious runes weren’t runes at all. They were missing chunks of letters. The stems of Ts, the legs of Rs, the necessary typography that allows the brain to interpret text — all missing. Until now, when Malfoy’s bold strokes in deep green ink revealed not only the required legalese but also the way to destroy the marker.

Segmentum Filum. A shredding spell. Of course. And a drop of blood from the person who paid or erased the debt. A green circle indicated where to smear the blood. Hermione wasn’t sure whether her blood would work, being that she wasn’t Malfoy, nor one of the borrowers. But she could at least try.

Before she could think better of performing blood magic in a public library, she tapped her wand to her fingertip, producing a single drop of crimson blood. As she aimed for the circle, a few words leapt off the page at her. Continues to refuse proposed aid. Six-month ban from Serpenti. Offer does not expire.

But just as she questioned the rashness of her actions, her blood stained the marker, and like a slate, it wiped itself clean. There was nothing else to do but shred it and send the remains to the bin.

The aftermath was anticlimactic. Hermione healed her finger, packed up her bag, and returned the books to their proper shelves. She had thought she’d feel happier about freeing two former schoolmates from the shackles of debt, particularly gambling debt that was sure to have an outrageous interest rate attached. But she hadn’t looked that closely at that, either. The entire operation had been rash from start to finish.

As she retraced her steps through Muggle Guildhall and out the brown double doors, she chided herself for her actions. She’d succumbed to her habit of shutting out everything else in pursuit of a problem, more often than not a self-created problem, and hadn’t considered what it meant to really solve it.

Her mobile vibrated from her bag, and she fished it out and answered without looking. Only two people had her number: Richard and Helen Granger. Her parents. And she never missed an opportunity to speak with them, not after she’d almost lost them forever.

“Hello darling!” Her mum’s cheery voice came through loud and clear, even with the background noise of a clattering lid meeting a copper pot.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Hermione asked with a laugh. Since she retired, her mum was always experimenting in the kitchen. Her dad supported her culinary adventures with gusto. He devoured plate after plate of pad thai, cacio e pepe, mămăligă, and more.

“Well, if this dough doesn’t come out right, takeaway,” her mum said with a laugh. “But in an ideal world, pierogi.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner?”

Her mouth watered a little at the prospect of her mum’s cooking. It’d been a long day - she’d stayed far later than she’d intended at the library, and she was just now realising how hungry and thirsty she was. Her dad would have made lemonade, she was sure of it, in the crystal pitcher he and Helen had received on their wedding day nearly thirty years ago. She could pour them all a glass full, entertain her parents with stories from work, and maybe end the night with a friendly game of Cluedo.

But the scene in her head promptly fell apart as her mum continued. “We haven’t seen you and Ron for ages. Tell him to bring his appetite, because I’ve got enough filling here to make a double batch…”

Oh, God. Ron. The break up. She hadn’t told her mother yet.

Hermione stopped right in the middle of the footpath. Static filled her head, crunchy and gristly and loud, so damn loud. Someone cursed and jostled her shoulder, and she snapped back into motion, walking faster towards the nearest Apparition point.

“Mum, is Daddy there?”

“He’s right here. Did you want to speak to him?”

“Um, could you actually put me on speakerphone? I have something to tell you both.” Her voice cracked on the words.

She heard the change in volume, then her dad’s voice. “Something wrong, darling?”

“Ron won’t be coming round anymore. We… We’ve broken up.”

“Oh, Hermione,” her mum said. “When did this happen?”

“Last night. I meant to ring you, but I’ve just been dealing with all of it and I—”

“He’s a prize idiot,” her dad exclaimed. “No one in their right mind would break up with my daughter. To think I invited him to squash with me and the lads. Never took me up on it, of course, but it was a standing invitation.”

“I thought you two were talking marriage.”

Hermione sighed. “I thought we were moving towards marriage, or I told myself that, but I wasn’t fully honest with myself. And I wasn’t honest with you, either, because things weren’t all sunshine and rainbows like I told you they were.”

“Oh, we knew that,” her mum said.

“What?”

“Darling, we’re your parents. You think we don’t know when you’re not happy? When something’s rotten in Denmark? But it’s none of our business to pry into your romantic life. You’re an adult and perfectly capable of making your own decisions. We support you and your choices.”

“Ron’s not all bad,” her dad chimed in. She heard her mum open and close the oven. “I’m not trying to criticise your choice of beau, particularly now that he’s an ex-beau. He was a great friend to you during your school years. There was a genuine connection between you two.”

“Pisces and Virgo. A good match astrologically,” her mum hummed.

“Astrology isn’t everything, Helen.”

“I’m not saying it is! We’re making the same point. Ron had potential. But I don’t know, something seemed a bit off. You spent plenty of time at his parents’ place, and yet he was always itching to leave when it was time to come see us.”

“First of all,” Hermione interjected. “I don’t subscribe to astrology or divination or any of that rubbish, and neither should you. Aren’t you and dad Aries and Virgo? One of the supposedly worst matches? And yet you’re the happiest couple I know. Ron… I suppose I should just tell you. Ron has a gambling problem.”

Her dad gave a low whistle. “Been pissing away your savings, has he? Is this why you two didn’t come to Greece with us? I didn’t buy that Black Cat Flu bollocks.”

She nodded, even though they couldn’t see her. “He never had it, though that is a real magical disease. Ron’s gambled excessively for quite some time now, and we’d gone to couples’ therapy, but it just wasn’t helping.”

“Do Molly and Arthur know?”

“They didn’t, but last night I blew up at him at Sunday dinner and now they do,” she said with a sigh. “We should’ve broken up a while ago, but I loved him, you know?”

“Of course you did. But he’s never fought for you, darling. Not like you fought for him,” her mum said, gently. “You’ve carried his secret, this burden, for what sounds like a long time. No one had any idea?”

“Harry and Theo, and Ginny knew. But not the full story.”

“I wish you would’ve told us.”

“I wish I had, too. But I was afraid you’d rush me along into breaking up with him before I was ready.”

“Maybe we would’ve,” her dad said. “What gave you the strength to finally do it?”

Hermione reached the Apparition point; A secluded red phone booth, long out of service, tucked away at the end of a lane. More than a little breathless, she pushed inside and leaned her head back on the glass. A light flickered on, and she closed her eyes. She hadn’t considered that it was strength that made her tear into Ron. The way she saw it, she’d been pushed past her breaking point. Crushed. Trampled on. Brittle and frail and weak.

A series of images floated to the forefront of her mind: Malfoy feeding her a bite of dinner as he listened to every word she said. The concern on his face when she woke in the night, and his efforts to soothe her back to sleep. Her reflection, rosy and glowing, after she woke in his arms.

Finally, she said, “I don’t know. I guess I finally looked at myself in the mirror.”

Her dad’s voice was warm with approval. “You’re very wise, Hermione.”

“I don’t know about that, Daddy.”

“Will you come by for dinner?”

She thought about it. Her parents would fuss over her, coax her into staying the night. She wasn’t sure if she could face her old bedroom tonight, not when the last time she’d visited, she’d been there with Ron. They’d been giddy with good food and drinks and dreams of the future, when they might have their own home and their own crystal.

At least, that’s what she’d been thinking.

“No, I’ve got to get back. Crooks will be starving.”

“Maybe this weekend then? Or we could come by your place and I could stock your fridge? You have to eat.”

Hermione banded an arm across her growling stomach. “Yeah, maybe this weekend. I’ll text you?”

“Sounds good. We’re so sorry you’re going through this, darling,” her mum said. “Daddy and I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” she said, barely maintaining her composure. She ended the call, and let her arm holding the phone dangle at her side. The sky loomed purple-grey now, deepening by the minute. A storm was coming. But she still had one more errand before she went home.

She Apparated into Knockturn Alley. The formerly seedy street underwent a makeover in the post-war era, like much of London, and it was now the destination for late-night entertainment. It also happened to be home to a twenty-four-hour owlery.

Hermione kept her head down as she traversed the uneven cobblestones. The last thing she needed was to run into anyone from work. She’d taken a personal day, not a sick day, so even if they saw her, it’s not like they could pry into the reason for her unusual absence. She could rely on Pansy to keep her “hangover” quiet. Still, Hermione didn’t want to end up spilling her guts about what had happened with Ron, or have well-meaning colleagues drag her into a nightclub — or Merlin forbid, both. She didn’t need a pity party.

The owlery was nearly empty when she ducked inside. A spindly man took her money and didn’t bat an eye when she asked to send her letters anonymously; he merely pointed a shaky finger towards a shadowy back room. Hermione thanked him and scurried down the corridor.

After clearing out a cobweb and selecting a friendly one-eyed owl, she scribbled out two missives. She employed different wording for each, in case Justin or Cho ever compared notes. Or, worse, if the letters ever got back to Malfoy.

She set her quill down as her stomach gurgled again, though this time it was less from hunger and more from guilt.

Cho and Justin had gambled money they didn’t have at Malfoy’s establishment, just like Ron. They shouldn’t have done it, of course, but Serpenti lured them in, and who was she not to help them get out of such an unfair mess, when she’d had the opportunity?

She tied the letters to the owl’s legs and sent it off into the night. But instead of feeling the anticipated thrill of freeing two former classmates from the shackles of unjust debt, a deep sense of wrong unfurled in her belly.

How would she have reacted to the news that someone had cleared Ron’s debts? She’d have been furious. Embarrassed.

You cleared his debts too; she reminded herself. And look how that turned out. He blames you for the end of your relationship. You put yourself on the line, and now you're alone.

No matter how she felt, it was a moot point. The debt markers were no more, erased and shredded in the bowels of magical Guildhall. She’d posted the letters. There was no going back.

Hermione hurried out of the owlery back to the Apparition point and focused on the cosy building she called home. She’d never intended to get back so late. Her feet ached, and Crooks probably really was starving by now.

She’d always hated getting home after dark. It wasn’t like she lived in a bad area — her neighbourhood was clean and safe. But logic warred with fear inside her mind. Logically, there were no Snatchers waiting outside her flat to drag her off somewhere. Still, she might not sleep tonight.

She flirted with the idea of brewing a large pot of coffee and pulling an all-nighter. After all, she’d missed an entire day’s worth of work, and Merlin knew Cormac probably hadn’t done a damn thing in her absence. He treated her deadlines like suggestions even when the entire department was breathing down his neck. Hermione wouldn’t be half as stressed at work if she were allowed to sack him, but Cormac had friends in high places, so she was forever saddled with his lazy arse. Maybe after the centaur deal went through she could think about leaving her job — it was actually an option now that she was on her own again.

The thought of drinking coffee while the sun came up, all alone in the kitchen without Ron by her side, made her feel like someone turned her whole body inside out. Or perhaps it was just the familiar-yet-unpleasant tug behind her navel whisking her away.

She landed on the footpath, more than a little off-kilter, and a zip of adrenaline raced down her spine. Not a Snatcher, but someone was here. Someone not altogether unexpected.

Draco Malfoy stood beneath the light illuminating the front veranda of her building, one boot up on the wall behind him, tongue poking at his cheek. His hair was artfully tousled, and he was dressed more casually than she’d ever seen before, in a fitted white t-shirt and black trousers. His hands busied themselves by twirling his wand back and forth.

She tried to sound indignant even as her heart thumped wildly in her chest. “How do you know where I live?”

His eyes snapped to hers in an instant. Cool. Unaffected.

“Your boyfriend put this address on all his debts.”

She crossed her arms, not bothering to correct him. “He’s not home.”

“I wasn’t waiting for him.”

Hermione shifted on the balls of her sore feet. It hadn’t even been forty-eight hours since she’d left Serpenti. He certainly didn’t look like he was there to issue an apology for his actions the morning after; not that her actions had been so great, looking back. No, his coolness was a facade — she knew him well enough now to see through it.

She tracked the movements of his hands, a language in which she had recently achieved fluency. They spoke to her now — irritated, impatient, wary. Did Malfoy already know she’d stolen from him?

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

He kicked off the wall. “What I always want, Granger. Only what I’m owed.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” she said, trying for confident.

But she trembled a little, especially when he narrowed his eyes at her.

“Don’t play dumb. You’re the furthest thing from it.”

She stood firm on the stone pathway, looking up at him. He had the high ground, both literally and figuratively. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Suppose I should call the Aurors then. Must have been mistaken. Your pal Potter’s still on the squad, right?”

Hermione blanched. Harry would be lenient with her and keep her from being hauled in, sure, but nothing, nothing was worse than his disappointment. She pictured him shaking his shaggy head at her while Malfoy counted off her crimes on those long fingers of his.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

He did not wait. He crept closer.

“Serpenti’s debt markers are magical. They’re spelled to record every loan; every payment. Imagine my surprise when I opened my ledger today and saw two markers, both returned to the debtors, who just so happen to be former classmates of ours, and yet no new gold appeared to line my coffers? And then, I thought, who is the only other living being who had both access to my desk and time alone to crack the code, filch them from the drawer, and smuggle them out? At first I thought I’d gone mad,” he said, lowering his voice to a frightening tone as he took a step down towards her. “Hermione Granger? Stealing?”

“I can explain—”

“I’m sure you can. But I’m not interested in your explanation. I know why you did it.”

She jutted her chin in the air. “You think you know everything about me because we spent one night together?”

“I know quite a bit, and can infer the rest. You don’t like gambling, in any shape or form. And you’ve always had a nose for recklessness and lost causes. You want to know what I think? I think you went snooping, saw familiar names, and took the markers with vague plans of clearing the debt. You thought you were doing a good deed, and getting one over on me was just a bonus.”

It irked her how easily he read her.

“If I did it, it was a good deed. I don’t care for gambling, but I can accept that it exists and people are going to do it. What I can’t accept is letting chronic gamblers keep playing, and making special deals on the side so they can continue to feed their addiction. You’re ruining lives, Malfoy.”

“If I didn’t give them those special deals, they’d go elsewhere, and trust me, other casinos offer something much different than I do. Or didn’t you read the fine print?”

She’d never before wished she wasn’t such a Gryffindor. Had she simply slowed down this afternoon in the library, she’d know all about Malfoy’s methods. But no, she’d been too wrapped up in getting the markers off her hands as quickly as possible.

He raised his eyebrows, awaiting her reply. She groaned, caught out.

“It took me longer than I thought it would to figure out how to destroy them. So no, I didn’t read the fine print. Although it wasn’t fine so much as it was invisible.”

“So you admit it.”

“I admit it!” she yelled, throwing her hands up. “Did you need to hear me say it? Why didn’t you just call the Aurors?”

He carded LUCK through his hair, displaying the underneath of his tattoo sleeve.

“I’m not big on punishment, particularly the variety the Ministry seems to have no trouble doling out,” he said defensively. “And I’m not worried about recouping my losses. There’s a saying in my line of work. ‘The house always wins.’”

“I’m familiar,” she said, flinching. “Muggles say the same thing.”

“So then you know that money will find its way back to me. You think you’re helping Finch-Fletchley and Chang, but they’ll be back. Did you ever stop to consider I might’ve had my reasons for keeping those markers where I did? You think they’re the only people in the world who owe Serpenti?”

“Of course not. But why were they in a locked drawer? Did you loan them the money personally?”

Malfoy sighed. “You’re too soft-hearted.”

Hermione had nothing to say to that.

His mouth twitched, as if her lack of response both surprised and intrigued him. “We’re square, yeah? I’m sorry for whisking you away to my palace of sin and debauchery for a night, and if this was your little way of getting back at me for the way I fucked it all up at the end, then you got me. You stole from right under my nose and lived to tell the tale.”

“You’re… Sorry?”

He leapt down the rest of the stairs and offered her LOVE with resignation in his eyes. Was the presented handshake for propriety's sake or merely a definitive parting gesture? She couldn’t say. Some part of her thought it looked like disappointed hope; as if whatever this was, he wanted it to be something else. Though what Malfoy wanted had never been less clear to her.

“I’m sorry. I hope the next time I see you, it’s on the front page of the Prophet with a sparkler from the Weasel,” He swallowed hard, like it cost him something to say it. “A diamond, if he has any sense at all.”

She stared at his outstretched hand as his words sunk in; imagined taking it, shaking firmly, and watching him Apparate into the humid summer night.

The first raindrops fell, dark speckles on light pavement.

Thanks for not turning me in.

Thanks for saying I’m soft-hearted; that something about me is tender and sweet.

Thanks for wanting me to be happy.

The last thought broke her. Hot, fat tears spilled from her eyes before she could say or do anything, blurring her vision.

Of course her tears wouldn’t come when she snuggled with Ginny, or broke bread with her best friend and his husband, or when her parents rang. That would make too much sense. It didn’t have the distinct sting of humiliation that pierced her lungs now, when anyone could walk by and bear witness to her pain.

Of course the first time she cried had to be here. In front of him. She showed him weakness after weakness; the man who’d made her feel so small all those years ago.

The full weight of the last two night’s decisions hit her like a ton of bricks. Gold bricks. Ron should be here right now, comforting her. He should be picking up the pieces. Everything was tarnished now; their friendship, their love, their dreams. Or maybe it had always been that way, and like a fool, she’d mistaken pyrite for the genuine article.

She didn’t know. All she knew was she had to carry on, and the man in front of her was making it feel impossible.

At some point Malfoy had dropped his hand, and now he approached her like the wounded animal she was, with quiet caution.

“You’re not crying because of me, are you, princess?”

Hermione shook her head no, pulling her bag to her chest as another sob wracked her body. The rain picked up. They’d be soaked in no time.

Malfoy stepped towards her again, his anger back thrice as fierce as before, boiling to fury. His jaw set in a hard line as he clenched his fists. He gripped his wand hard enough for thick veins to pop to the surface, and she cowered when hot red sparks erupted from the tip, sizzling in the downpour.

The next thing she knew were his hands, warm and sturdy, on her hips. Malfoy didn’t hesitate; in one fluid motion, he threw her over his shoulder and marched back up the steps, pausing only to kick in the front door. It bounced off the cinderblock interior with a sickening smack.

“Malfoy,” she hiccuped, face wet with tears and rain. And when that didn’t get his attention, “Draco! Where do you think you’re going?”

He kept climbing, hitched her higher and growled, “I’m going to kill him.”

Chapter Text

“He’s not here,” Hermione gasped as the first layer of wards surrounding her front door collapsed under Malfoy’s wand. He ripped through the rest of them like wet paper, and Hermione shuddered. Perhaps her fears about her security weren’t as overblown as she’d thought.

Malfoy tightened his hold on her.

“Accio key. Don’t cover for him,” he growled. “You’re better than that.”

Her traitorous key flew out of her bag and into his LUCK hand.

“I’m not covering for him! He really isn’t here.”

Malfoy twisted the key in the lock, and the door creaked open. He stepped neatly over the threshold, and she slipped from his shoulder down the length of his body, fingers skating across the hard plane of his chest. Her breath caught as the memory of Malfoy, protectively curled around her in his bed, flashed before her eyes. Here he was, in the flesh, ready to fight off her demons again.

Just as her toes touched the floor, he hiked her back up with just one arm. Her face was inches from his as he strode into the dark living room, hawthorn wand at the ready.

“Malfoy,” she tried. “I’m serious.”

He was quiet, scanning the cramped space like a hunter, waiting for his prey to jump out from under the sofa or behind the telly. She’d left it on, like always. Even on mute, the familiar baking show was a source of comfort.

Hermione studied his face in the artificial glow — his long eyelashes, the dangerous arch of his snarl, the pink scoring his cheeks. A rivulet of water ran from his hair down his temple and along his sharp jawline, and she balled her hands into fists to refrain from reaching up and swiping her finger through it. She saw the moment he registered the open trunk stuffed with Ron’s personal effects; blatant relief shone in Malfoy’s eyes.

“We broke up,” she whispered.

All at once, his shoulders relaxed, and her first instinct was that Malfoy, who'd always come across as more of a flight than fight kind of wizard, was thankful not to have to hex Ron into next week. But on second thought, he'd seemed more than ready to let Ron feel the pointy end of his wand.

Maybe Malfoy was relieved because she was out of a relationship that hadn’t been right for her; that he didn’t think much of, either.

“That’s why you’re crying,” he half-asked, half-stated, grip firm as ever. “Because he’s leaving.”

Before she could answer, Crooks bounded around the corner, mewling pitifully at the top of his little half-kneazle lungs, and his distress jolted Hermione out of Malfoy’s hold. She landed awkwardly, but Malfoy steadied her with one hand.

“Thanks,” she said, expecting his touch to fall away. It stayed. His fingers seared her through her damp dress, and Hermione tugged at the hem, which had ridden up around her thighs. She shivered. Exhausted and hungry as she was, a drying charm seemed like too much work. What she needed now was a hot shower. She once again lamented her lack of a proper bathtub.

Somewhat set to rights, she glanced up at Malfoy. His white t-shirt had been rendered translucent; soaked through from the sudden storm. The thick black borders of his tattoos stood out even through the waterlogged cotton.

She’d only seen them in the dim light of his bedroom, and not this close up.

Her eyes caught on the phoenix. The hanged man tarot card. The ace of spades. They all lay amongst the shattered glass.

Shattered glass. Why shattered glass?

He caught her staring and smirked.

Crooks yowled, and Hermione crouched and held out her hand to him. But instead of bumping his head up into her palm like he usually did when she returned home, Crooks padded over to Malfoy and rubbed against him, curling his tail around Malfoy’s sizable calf.

Traitor, she thought uncharitably.

“Hello, old chap,” Malfoy said with a fondness that bordered on familiarity. He leaned down and scratched the orange half-kneazle under his chin, and Crooks rattled out a purr. “Bit bonier than I remember. Is she feeding you enough?”

His answering meow had Hermione crossing her arms. “Of course I feed him!”

Malfoy hummed. “Thought you worked in creature’s rights.”

“I do, but I also have rights, one of which is the right to privacy, and you’ve gone and trampled that one. Add breaking and entering while you’re at it, and if you think for one second that you can get away with this sort of thing, this, this—”

“Where are your lights?” He asked. “Lumos.” He waved his wand around, ostensibly looking for a light switch. Crooks dutifully chased the shadows Malfoy cast on the wall, and Malfoy grinned like a loon.

“Are you listening to me? You hauled me up the stairs like… like a sack of potatoes, and now what? You plan to make yourself at home?”

Malfoy flinched. Instead of feeling pleased that she’d rattled him, an uneasiness gathered at the base of her throat. She didn’t feel as righteously angry as she had at the Burrow last night. But she had every right to be irritated with Malfoy, didn’t she? Of course, she didn’t intend to be so harsh; but she was dead on her feet. Couldn’t he see the last thing she needed was another obstacle between herself and her bed?

“Why don’t you call the Aurors?” He threw her earlier question back at her before she could get herself even more worked up.

There was no way she’d do that. If Harry showed up and found her alone in the flat with Malfoy after their conversation at lunch that afternoon, he and Theo would never believe her over Ron again.

“Just go,” she seethed, wrenching her shoes off. “You want a truce? You’ve got it.”

Before he could reply, a petite owl rapped at the window, a sopping wet red envelope clutched in its talons. The missive was a shade of red that could only mean one thing. A Howler.

Hermione took a useless cleansing breath and crossed the room to grant the owl entry, tracking water across the floor. It was the Weasley’s bird, Delilah. She dropped the envelope like it’d burned her, not accepting even a stroke of her feathers before taking off, back into the hard rain. The Howler rattled menacingly in Hermione’s limp grasp.

She closed her eyes and slipped a finger under the seal, bracing herself to hear Ron’s tirade. “Malfoy, please, this won’t be pretty.”

But no sooner had the words left her mouth than she applied too much force, and Molly Weasley’s shrieks filled the flat.

“HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER, I NEVER EXPECTED THIS BEHAVIOUR FROM YOU, OF ALL PEOPLE. I TREATED YOU LIKE A MEMBER OF THIS FAMILY FOR YEARS, WHEN OTHERS WOULD LOOK DOWN ON YOU FOR YOUR BLOOD STATUS — Oh be quiet, Arthur, it’s true — OR YOUR LACK OF PROPRIETY OR YOUR INABILITY TO STAND BY RON’S SIDE IN HIS TIME OF NEED.

I DON’T KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I’VE TOLD HIM THAT WHERE YOU GO, TROUBLE FOLLOWS. AND THE TROUBLE NEVER SEEMS TO FIND YOU, DOES IT? NO, IT FINDS MY SON! A HERO, A BULWARK FOR HIS FAMILY, KEEPING THE RISING TIDE OF GRIEF AT BAY. YOU CONVINCED HIM TO LIVE IN THAT FILTHY CITY IN A FLAT YOU DON’T EVEN TAKE CARE OF, TO PUT OFF MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN, TO SUPPORT YOUR MEANINGLESS CAREER AND NOW HE’S HEARTBROKEN!

Hermione fumbled for her wand. It shook in her clammy hand as she tried to cast her bluebell flames. Malfoy had moved behind her, but said nothing as she struggled with the spell. The shrieking continued.

I TOLD HIM IT WOULD END THIS WAY, YEARS AGO I TOLD HIM, RON, THAT GIRL WILL BADGER YOU AND BELITTLE YOU AND PLACE ALL HER PROBLEMS AT YOUR FEET. AND I WOULD NEVER SAY I TOLD HIM SO, BUT HERE WE ARE. AND WHAT DOES HE HAVE TO SHOW FOR IT?

YOU WASTED HIS BEST YEARS. BUT I’LL DO WHAT ANY GOOD MOTHER DOES FOR HER CHILD. I’LL PICK UP THE PIECES. I’LL FIX WHAT YOU BROKE. AND IF YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND I WOULD EVER, EVER LET HIM COME CRAWLING BACK, WELL THINK AGAIN, MISSY. I HOPE YOU CAN LIVE WITH YOURSELF. MY RON HAS A BRIGHT FUTURE AND A MOTHER WHO LOVES HIM. WHAT DO YOU HAVE?

I’VE CHANGED THE WARDS. STAY AWAY FROM MY SON.”

As the vile words faded, she finally got her flourish right, and Hermione shielded her eyes as the Howler exploded in a burst of blue fire, leaving behind nothing but the scent of burnt parchment and a ringing in her ears.

She glanced at Malfoy, who, to her surprise, didn’t look angry anymore. He stood by the window in the darkness, looking… tired. And she was tired, too. Tired of being yelled at, and criticised, and being out all day explaining the entire ordeal.

Lightning flashed behind him, illuminating the large tree outside. Thunder rattled the windows.

Her wards. He’d shredded them.

What would happen when Malfoy went back to Serpenti and she was alone again?

Panic swelled in her chest, inflating like a party balloon caught on the helium tank, far past the point of the latex’s stretch. Molly’s cruel words beat against her skull.

What do you have?

What do you have?

What do you have?

Hermione’s knees buckled, giving way like a crumbling hillside. Her world went hazy, and her body pitched forward. The magic had been too much, tipping her across the fine line of exhaustion to utter depletion, and her hands couldn’t move quick enough to brace for impact.

Strong arms caught her. That was good, she thought, and then the darkness swallowed her whole.

***

The first sense that returned was her hearing. There were footsteps in the loo, heavier than her own, and yet lighter than Ron’s. Somewhere, water was running.

Hermione stirred, but kept her eyes closed, testing her fingers and toes against the soft surface beneath her. She blew out a relieved sigh as she realised she was safely tucked in bed. A familiar weight pressed on her hips. She pushed upward, and it moved slightly with a disgruntled meow, and she smiled. It was only Crooks.

She’d had the strangest dream…

Her eyes flew open as the evening came rushing back.

Malfoy outside her building. Angrily hauling her up the stairs. Bearing witness to the most awful Howler she’d ever received, from a woman who’d been like a mother to her in her youth.

But Malfoy had also shown her concern and tenderness. He hadn’t wanted to punish her, despite having every right to. Instead, he got angry on her behalf, and caught her when she fainted.

And now… What was Malfoy doing now?

Hermione sat up slowly, having learned from experience to take it easy after fainting. She was warm with the dull, familiar heat only drying charms produce, but not too warm, since her hair was still damp. Apparently Malfoy had found the lights as well, because both her bedside lamp and the overhead light bathed her bedroom in a soft glow. The room didn’t spin as she looked around. Everything was the same as she’d left it that morning, except a glass of water and a potion had appeared on her night table beside her wand.

She sipped gingerly at the water as she examined the potion. It was light blue and smelled of mint. A basic calming draught, she deduced, made more palatable with the added herb. But she didn’t need anything. She was perfectly fine, just embarrassed.

“Hey,” Malfoy ducked his head in her room, and an easy smile flitted across his face before he zeroed in on the phial of undrunk potion. “That’s for you.”

He was dry now, too, his hair and clothing set back to rights. Crooks leapt from the bed and padded over to him, tail held high. Malfoy bent down and scooped the cat into his arms, hooking a finger and rubbing the knuckle against Crooks's scruffy ears.

Hermione reminded herself that she was still angry with him, and scowled. “Thank you, but I’m perfectly fine.”

She gestured to herself with both hands to reassure him.

He adjusted Crooks in his arms, and suddenly his biceps looked much larger than they had only two nights ago when she’d seen him shirtless. Maybe it was the way the sleeve hugged the muscle, the soft white cotton stretching across his tattooed skin. She remembered the way she’d seen him earlier tonight, his ink on full display, water dripping down a thick vein in his neck… She blinked the thoughts away.

“You fainted.”

“I’m aware.”

His mouth twisted, disappointed. “And I’ll bet the contents of my vaults that you haven’t eaten dinner.”

She hadn’t, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “Maybe I wouldn’t have fainted at that Howler — which was, frankly, a pathetic attempt to make me feel bad, I’ve had worse from a Boggart — if you hadn’t been waiting for me outside like some sort of loan shark!”

The Howler had hurt her; it was obvious, but he didn’t call her out on the lie.

“So you haven’t eaten.”

“Malfoy,” she huffed, crossing her arms to mirror him. “I don’t need nannying.”

His face grew serious. He let Crooks down before leaning against the doorframe. “I wouldn’t call it nannying.”

“Oh really? What exactly would you call this?”

Malfoy opened his mouth, but shut it, poking his tongue in his cheek before answering her. “I’ve run you a bath.”

Maybe she’d hit her head after all, because she knew for a fact she didn’t have a working bathtub. She must’ve heard him incorrectly. Not that she was going to let him in on that little worry. He’d nanny her half to death if she didn’t put a stop to it.

“For Merlin’s sake! Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not your responsibility, alright?” She shoved the sheets back with a huff. “If you must know, Ron and I broke up only yesterday. I told his family about his problem after he didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t sleep with you. It’s been…”

“Tell me,” he said, and the encouragement soothed something wild inside her, something that wanted, maybe just a little, to be tamed.

And so she was honest with him.

“I’m sad, but I’m not devastated, you know?”

“Did you think you would be?”

What kind of question was that?

She struggled with her breath. “I don’t know. I probably ought to be. Maybe Molly’s right; maybe it says something about me that I didn’t spend my day here with a box of tissues watching tearjerkers and scarfing down every flavour of ice cream Fortescue’s offers.”

“Please,” he said, the word dripping with sarcasm. “Why do you care what she thinks?”

“She’s done a lot for me.”

That was true, too. Molly had been there for Hermione, in a lot of ways. But only when Hermione had no one else to turn to and desperately needed help. That was the way of things with Molly, she realised. She had to be needed. She liked to know she was your only option, and later, remind you of it.

“Alright. But clearly, she doesn’t know you or respect you as the person you are today. Don’t give what she said another moment of your time and energy.”

“It’s not that simple. Ron and I are still friends, or, we will be, and I’m sure I’ll see her again, and I need to—”

He cut her off. “Don’t.”

He said it so firmly, like a command, but gentler. And Hermione found she wanted to do what he said. After all, he was right. It really didn’t matter what Molly thought. It mattered what she thought about herself. Hadn’t she just been telling Harry and Theo that she wanted to rediscover what she loved? Shouldn’t she extend herself some grace; show herself love, too?

She put her hand over her empty stomach. She definitely hadn’t done that today.

“Okay,” she said with a swallow.

“Good girl,” he rumbled, and even though she’d heard him say it to her before, this time was different. It was cautious; exploratory, but warm. It made her toes curl a little, and she shoved them back under the sheets, hoping he didn’t notice.

She couldn’t blame this on forced proximity anymore. No, Malfoy was undeniably attractive, especially like this; standing in her flat — in her bedroom — dry now but still a little undone, trying to take care of her. Asking her questions. Listening to her.

But also telling her what to do. Praising her. She didn’t know what to do with that.

Hermione looked down at her lap, then back up at him. “Nobody ever calls me good. They call me golden.”

“You’re almost too good,” he said, drumming his fingers on the doorframe. “Bordering on self-sacrificial. Tell me, princess, did you spend your entire day cleaning up the mess he left behind?”

There was no use lying to him. “Yes.”

He made a tsking sound and took a step towards the bed. “And who’s taking care of you?”

“Ginny stayed over last night.”

“And today?”

Another step.

"I saw Harry and Theo, and my mum and dad rang,” she said without thinking. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

Malfoy hummed. His eyes were dark, but shining. “And yet you are.”

She jumped out of the bed, as if burned. It was too fast, but she didn’t let him see, covering her unsteadiness by placing her hands on her hips. “The point is, you can go. I’m fine. And I’ll be fine.”

She was starving, but she’d be fine. As soon as he left.

“I have no doubts,” he said, clearly full of them. He made no move to leave.

“Malfoy, I’m serious. I appreciate that you caught me when I fainted, but I’m alright now. I’m— This isn’t your problem. You didn’t make me break up with Ron; it was a long time coming. And I can decide when I need a calming draught or a shower. I’m quite capable of taking either of them myself.”

“I see. Clearly I’ve read the situation incorrectly.”

“You have,” Hermione nodded with satisfaction.

“Well, the bath’s already run, and it would be a waste not to have a soak, so I hope you will. Then order some takeaway, yeah? You have to eat.”

As he turned and walked out of her bedroom, he looked a bit crumpled despite his firm composure, and it dawned on Hermione that she might be wounding him by rejecting his kindness. He had been a caretaker to Crabbe for so long that it probably came naturally to him to be observant and helpful. Maybe he even missed getting to care for someone, even someone who’d stolen from him.

It broke her heart to think that she was, unintentionally, of course, making things even worse for Malfoy. Despite his fiery anger at her actions earlier, he'd been even angrier when he thought Ron had hurt her.

He’d caught her before she hurt herself on the hard, wet floor. Charmed her dry. Put her in bed and tried to make himself useful.

Malfoy had worried for her; cared for her well-being more in the past few days than her supposedly loving ex-boyfriend.

And they had a truce, didn’t they?

Good Godric.

She sprinted to the front door, where Malfoy’s hand was already on the doorknob.

“Draco,” she started, and her hand flew to her mouth.

He turned and looked at her, curiosity lighting his eyes.

What should she say?

Thank you for trying to help. Really. Maybe I’ll see you around.

I promise I’ll order dinner. Not Palak Paneer, of course — Serpenti’s ruined me.

I’m glad we made up. I didn’t like the way we left things.

In the end, she said something foolish.

“I owe you one.”

His grin was one part impish, one part predatory, and her heart sped up. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I have no doubt,” she mumbled.

His smile only grew wider. It was a nice smile; straight white teeth, not too large or too small, and lips that looked soft. She briefly wondered what her mum might think of Malfoy and his smile. Strictly from the view of a professional dentist, of course.

While her own thoughts ran away from her, Malfoy performed some sort of convoluted Pureblood bow as he walked out. She might’ve seen it at the Yule Ball, maybe.

“Goodnight, princess.”

Hermione braced her hands on the doorframe, leaning into the corridor.

“I don’t know how I feel about that nickname!” she called after him.

She glimpsed a flash of blond as he rounded the first flight of stairs.

“Moving in the right direction, then,” he shouted back. “Feel free to keep calling me Draco.”

With a sigh, Hermione headed inside, triple-checking her lock. Malfoy had already restored the warding. Tomorrow she’d find Harry at the office and see if he knew how she might reinforce her defences. Malfoy’d made getting around them look far too easy.

She flicked off the living room lights and padded back down the shadowy corridor. Rain still battered the windows, and a chill nipped at her bare legs. It would be a shame if the bath went to waste, she told herself as she plucked her fuzzy robe from its hook in the bedroom.

She slipped out of her dress and knickers, sending them to the hamper with a wave of her wand, pulled on her robe, and opened the door to her loo. What she saw nearly knocked her arse over teakettle.

He’d completely transformed the space. Her tile floor was gone, replaced with long planks of red cedar, and he’d transfigured her broken tub and flimsy shower curtain into a matching cedar soaking tub filled with steaming water. White fluffy towels and fresh shampoo and body wash sat on a small nearby bench. The scent of eucalyptus filled the air, and birdsong filtered in, gentle and unobtrusive.

She closed the door to discover a new robe, also white, dangling from a hanger, along with a sachet of rose petals. She brushed her fingers against the robe, and immediately drew them back towards her chest, clutching them with her other hand.

The fabric reminded her of his sheets.

Malfoy was a wizard.

Well, of course he’s a wizard, she chided herself. But she’d never really seen him as such. He was a bully, first; then a Death Eater, then a boy who needed help, then someone who she didn’t think about at all. She was having trouble categorising this new Malfoy. He ran London’s most famous magical casino, which was bad enough, but then he also bargained with her ex for a night of her company and let them both think he would use her for sex. And yet when they were alone together, she saw someone else. A man who listened and cared about people. And not just people; Malfoy cared about her.

Her knees went a bit wobbly. She braced herself on the edge of the tub and took a deep breath.

Whatever box he fit in, she didn’t need to figure it out right now, especially not when she was thoroughly exhausted and her ideal method of relaxation was readily available to her. She unbelted her old robe and let it fall to the floor, tossing in the rose petals before stepping gingerly into the water.

It was searing hot, just how she liked it.

She sank into the tub, her curls dancing just below the water’s surface, and her eyes fluttered shut. The birdsong calmed her weary mind. Her foot bumped up against an exfoliating loofah, and after a time, she summoned the body wash and scrubbed the remains of the day from her skin.

Then she washed her hair, taking extra time to massage her scalp. Her worries trickled in, as they usually did this time of night, but they were quieter now, and so she thought about what she planned to accomplish tomorrow.

Tomorrow, she’d return to work. Tomorrow, she would ask Ginny to take the rest of Ron’s things. Tomorrow, she would submit a tasteful break up statement to all the major press outlets.

But tonight, all she had to do was relax. And that was thanks to Draco Malfoy.

Draco, she thought dimly. This bath is so good, he deserves to be called Draco.

When her limbs slackened, and her skin was supple and perfumed with eucalyptus, Hermione rose from the bath. Her mind and body were free from stress for the first time in ages. She towelled off and stared briefly at both robes before summoning the one Malfoy had provided. Guilt twinged in her belly, but it was just too heavenly to pass up. She wrapped it around her body, admiring the way the fabric clung to her curves, soft as sin.

Crooks greeted her at the door with a yowl.

“Shite, sorry Crooks,” she said, stepping over him as she wrapped her hair in her towel. She’d completely forgotten to feed him. The twinge of guilt became a sharp pang. “I’ll get you something right now. Hold on, boy.”

The kitchen held another surprise, and it stopped her dead in her tracks. The rain had stopped, and the window hung slightly ajar. Her heart sped up, but when she waved her wand, her wards shimmered against the night sky. But as she peered closer, Hermione realised they’d been fortified with protective spells she’d never seen before.

Two porcelain plates lay on the worktop. One held Palak Paneer from Serpenti, hot under a Stasis charm. In the other rested a half-eaten fancy pâté. The food could only have come from one person. One tall, blond, tattooed person who had a chef on staff and knew exactly what she wanted after a stressful day.

“You sly thing, started without me?”

Crooks leapt up onto the worktop, where he definitely wasn’t supposed to be, with a self-important purr. He licked at the pâté, then paused, fixing his yellow gaze on her.

“Alright, I’m eating, I’m eating,” she said with a laugh. “Did your new best friend Draco bring this by?”

She devoured the delicious meal more quickly than she cared to admit. And since she was in the privacy of her own home, she ran her finger around the edge of the plate and licked up every last bit of sauce. When Crooks, too, had finished, she sent their dishes to the sink with a flick of her wand. It was then that she noticed the creamy white cardstock hidden beneath her plate.

She bit her lip as she flipped it over to reveal seven words in deep green ink. The note had no signature, but she’d know that handwriting anywhere.

Don’t be cross. Your cat was hungry.

She covered her mouth, smothering a laugh. Draco Malfoy, cat person. Who’d have thought? He really was full of surprises, and the biggest of all was that she liked them. Sure, he could be pushy, but his attention to detail was staggering. Somehow he’d divined that she wouldn’t order anything, and sent over her ideal dinner. And to have his undivided focus squarely on her? Her cheeks heated. It was, well, it was —

Crooks meowed from the bedroom door, pacing back and forth impatiently. Hermione glanced at the clock, rubbing her eyes in disbelief. It was way past her usual bedtime.

Hermione followed Crooks into her bedroom, where she laid out her clothes for work the next day, a sensible black pencil skirt and a gauzy blouse. She set her slingback pumps by the door, and her watch in the jewellery tray on her nightstand, where she laid her wand.

Her loo had reverted to its usual form, which was a good thing, because while she liked the new setup, she also liked the practicality of her tile. But a spark of delight ignited in her chest when the new robe didn’t disappear when she hung it up. Another pleasant surprise. She caught her smile in the mirror and tucked a curl behind her ear.

Hermione considered her next move for only a moment before succumbing to the siren song of silk. She summoned Draco’s favourite pyjamas, the ones she’d worn before, and if she was being completely honest, smelled a bit like something uniquely him. She tried not to think too hard about it. The fabric settled cool against her skin, and she was halfway to dreamland when she slid under her covers and extinguished the lights.

She’d only just closed her eyes when she remembered the sorcerer from Draco’s bedtime story. That’s what he fancied himself. Not a wealthy wizard, but a poor, lonely sorcerer.

His deep voice echoed in her mind.

…A sorcerer cloaked in black. His robes were tattered, but he carried himself like royalty.

Hermione stroked the smooth sleeve of the black pyjama top. It was far from tattered. But maybe he saw himself as frayed; damaged.

He told her she was lost, and begged for help at her feet.

She bit her lip, recalling the crumpled look when she’d refused his offer of food and a hot bath. He’d seemed lost, in a manner of speaking; had practically begged to take care of her.

She thought of him alone in his enormous bed.

The gilded casino, the penthouse suite, the mirrored walls… Was it all just an illusion?

Or maybe she was falling for his tricks. It wouldn’t be the first time Draco had fooled her.

She was too tired to untangle it now. Perhaps even a little bit under his spell. It was silly, really. It wasn’t like she was a real life princess.

Instead of turning it over further, Hermione sat up and switched the lamp on. She withdrew a self-inking quill and a sheet of parchment from her night table and scrawled a note to send him in the morning. It was only five words, but they held several meanings. She hoped he’d understand.

Draco,

I’m sorry.

Thank you.

Chapter Text

Cormac hadn’t done a damn thing in her absence.

Hermione spent her first day back at the office in back-to-back meetings while the pile of parchment on her desk turned into a veritable tower, most of it marked urgent. Around four o’clock, she finally got a moment to sift through the stack, kicking much of it back to her useless colleague. Since he rarely checked his inbox, she assumed it would buy her a few days of relative peace.

Her current struggle had nothing at all to do with work. She was finding it impossible to compose a classy, bland break up announcement to place in the various wizarding media outlets. A sheet of strike-throughs and ink blots stretched out before her, mocking the meagre progress she’d made since lunch.

“Granger, what are you doing here?”

Pansy, sporting a deep green dress as sharp as her mind, eyed her coolly from the doorway.

“This is my office,” Hermione grumbled, stuffing her quill back in the inkpot.

“You look half-dead.”

She didn’t keep a mirror in her office, but Hermione was certain Pansy was telling the truth. Ministry offices were notoriously damp, creating the perfect conditions for Hermione’s hair to achieve sentience. The recent summer storms weren’t helping matters. And she’d rushed out the door this morning without a lick of makeup on her face. At least her outfit was on point.

“Thanks. Is that all?”

Pansy sighed. “This emotion I’m showing right now,” she gestured to her face. “It’s called concern. Rare for me, I know.”

“I’m fine,” Hermione sighed and rose from her desk. “Cormac give you any guff while I was out?”

“I think about McLaggen as little as possible, and acknowledge him even less. What are you working on?”

Pansy’s heels clicked across the floor as she approached. Hermione shielded her pitiful progress with a hefty contract she hadn’t read yet.

“The usual.”

“If you’re waiting to file before you go, I’m headed to the owlery later. Seriously, you should go home and get some rest.”

“I actually slept great last night,” she said, putting herself between Pansy and her desk. It was true. After her bath and the delectable dinner, both courtesy of Draco Malfoy, she drifted off to dreamland with ease. But while she could draft new legislation in her sleep, she struggled to get more than a few words of the press release out. So far, all she had was a simple statement that she and Ron agreed to mutually part ways.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. Hey–-”

Quick as a jinx, Pansy reached around her, grabbed the parchment with one manicured hand, and scanned it. “Salazar’s tits. It’s really over, then?”

Hermione snatched it back and flicked her wand to shut her door. “We broke up over the weekend. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“It’s about to be everyone’s business. And this does you no favours. It’s dry as my mother’s cunt. This isn’t intra-office mail, Granger.”

“Yes, well, I don’t have much experience in the public break up arena. Or with break ups in general.”

Pansy’s face turned thoughtful. “Do you trust me?”

Hermione didn’t need to think about her answer. “No.”

She liked Pansy, but trust was something Hermione extended to very few people.

“Would you at least trust me with this? If you search that magnificent brain of yours, I think you’ll recall my broken engagement with Marcus Flint. Front page of Witch Weekly. Ring any bells?”

“I remember. You read him for filth.”

It shocked the Sacred Twenty-Eight when a reporter caught Marcus, a famous Chaser for the Chudley Cannons, stepping out on Pansy. The incriminating photos would’ve sent a lesser witch into a tailspin, but Pansy wasn’t one to be trifled with. She learned all his dirty secrets and spilled them in every tabloid from London to the continent, which led to a doping investigation. Eventually, after a trial and multiple appeals, Marcus was suspended from the league.

She smirked and pretended to observe her flawless cuticles. “That I did. I had a little help from… A rather inventive friend.”

“I don’t think I want to do that to Ron. I mean, he messed up, but he was my best friend before he was my boyfriend. I don’t want to hurt him,” she said earnestly.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”

“Even if I did, he knows everything about me. And I don’t want to think he’d retaliate, but he can be protective when it comes to public life.”

For all Ron’s whinging about the loss of his youth, she remembered the way he soaked up the limelight when their friendship with Harry thrust it upon them. If Ron was already begging Harry to take his side, who knew what he might say to anyone else?

“Fair. So you ended things? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” she admitted. “But Pansy, I’m serious. Ron’s unpredictable these days. I need to keep this as cordial as possible.”

There was no need for the rest of the world to know about Ron’s gambling problem. Hermione already felt guilty enough about announcing it to his entire family. Worse, it hadn’t seemed to do any good. If Molly’s Howler was anything to go by, she planned to glamour the problem away, letting it rot her son from within.

Hermione didn’t blame her for wanting Ron to be okay, especially after everything the Weasleys had been through. Fred’s death, George’s subsequent flirtations with the veil — any mother would be desperate to keep her family together. But constant surveillance and weekly gatherings weren’t antidotes to pain. Ron’s pain was eating him alive, but no one could get through to him. Maybe his brothers could, now that they knew the full extent of the problem.

It was hard not to feel like she’d abandoned him. But she knew from her many Al-Anon meetings that it had been long past time to go. Ron wasn’t willing to change, and she couldn’t wait around for the hypothetical day when he would wake up, ready to be the man she needed.

She repeated the three C’s in her mind.

I did not cause his addiction.

I cannot control his addiction.

I cannot cure his addiction.

Pansy picked up on her unease. “Absolutely, we’ll keep it cordial. But if you send that in, they’ll only come sniffing around for more details. You have to throw them something.”

Hermione considered this bit of wisdom. “I could say that I wanted to marry and start a family, but he wasn’t ready. That’s true, and it doesn’t make him look too bad. Plenty of people break up because they have different visions for their future.”

“He doesn’t want to make babies with you? He’s even more of an idiot than I imagined.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione stammered. She tugged at her collar. The sweep of her fingers at her collarbone made her think of Draco’s hands, stretching out the neckline of her favourite blouse. She shivered.

“I’m sorry for what you’re going through.” Pansy’s lips twisted with sympathy. “Marcus treated me terribly, and I was itching to get out of our arrangement. Our parents are good friends; old school chums, but there was no love lost between him and me. This is a different cauldron of grindylows. I think we all thought Weasley would eventually get off his arse and propose to you.”

“Please tell me there wasn’t a betting pool.”

“Fine, I won’t tell you.”

Hermione groaned as a flock of bird-shaped parchment soared through her mail slot. So much for hoping to keep her inbox manageable.

“Why didn’t you leave Marcus?” She asked as the litany of swans and songbirds unfolded themselves on her desk. “Or, if you didn’t like him from the start, why did you agree to the match at all?”

“I was afraid,” Pansy said, and Hermione met her dark gaze.

Pansy, afraid?

“Of your parents? Surely they would’ve let you—”

“It doesn’t matter. Are you going to let me help you with this? Or are you going to do the thing you usually do where you take on way too much, burn the candle at both ends, but somehow get it done, making the rest of us look bad?”

Hermione ignored the jab at her work life-balance, or lack thereof. “Why would you do me a favour?”

“Maybe I like you, Granger. Maybe if your nose wasn’t to the grindstone all the time, you’d see you have a lot of friends around here. And,” Pansy added. “Last I checked, friends do each other favours. I might ask one of you someday.”

She stood there gobsmacked. Pansy Parkinson, notorious ice queen, considered herself her friend? Only two seconds elapsed before Hermione caved.

“Okay.”

“Okay…?”

She heaved a sigh. “I’d love it if you helped me draft a statement that somehow threads the needle of keeping Ron’s dignity intact but also makes it clear I’m the injured party. And I’ll owe you a favour.”

“Lovely. I’ll have it on your desk first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“Keep your chin up,” Pansy said. “Oh, I almost forgot. I came to tell you Blaise stopped by yesterday.”

“Oh, did he?” Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, though she tried to play it off like Blaise’s visit meant nothing.

She didn’t think Pansy would say anything if she knew why Hermione met with Blaise every few months, but his clandestine visits weren’t exactly above board. He’d been trying to lure her to his non-profit organisation for over a year now. It needed a leader who understood the struggles of magical creatures and sought to preserve their heritage while paving the way for them to be as involved in modern magical society as they so wished.

“You’d be COO,” Blaise had said. “Chief Outreach Officer. And as CEO, I’ll make sure you have room to run. No busy work. No red tape.”

It was the perfect role for her, really. She’d finally be more than a cog in the machine at the Ministry — Blaise wanted to break the entire apparatus. And she wanted justice, true justice, more than anything. But the thing was, Blaise couldn’t offer much money. He didn’t draw a salary, instead paying himself out of the profit of the apothecary business he’d inherited, and insinuated that it would be helpful if she didn’t need one for a few years.

Hermione was well off, even before she came to Hogwarts. Her parents were professionals with the NHS, so they didn’t make as much as they could’ve if they’d gone private, but her dad felt it was immoral to charge more for the same care. But they owned their home, enjoyed their hobbies, and took vacations to the seaside every year. She never went without as a child, though her vault was a tenth of the size of Harry’s.

Still, she needed to work and make a living. There was no world in which she could go years without pay, and the Ministry paid her handsomely to sit in her ancient office and play mail tag with vampires (and werewolves and centaurs, etc.). As long as they could parade her about every so often, and drop her name to assuage the public’s guilt over the abysmal treatment of other magical beings, they were happy to shell out the Galleons.

So Hermione turned Blaise down gently, every time, before they ever broached genuine negotiations. But now that Ron and his spending habits were no longer part of the picture, maybe she could reconsider. She couldn’t go years, of course, especially now that she had to pay for the flat on her own, but maybe with a small loan from her parents or Harry and Theo…

Pansy interrupted her thoughts. “He was looking for you.”

“Was he?”

“Don’t play dumb. I told him if he kept showing up here, even the Hufflepuffs would realise he’s trying to poach you. I looked in your file and gave him a fake mailing address that forwards to your flat. I know how you are about your privacy.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hermione mumbled. “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble. But listen, maybe think about putting in a good word for me? I heard there’s an American outpost.”

Pansy wanted to move to America? Now that was interesting. But it made a certain amount of sense, especially if her parents tried to force her into marrying Marcus. If they were anything like other Pureblood parents, they’d probably try to find another husband for her — one that would be harder to disengage from. American magical people didn’t go in for that sort of thing. Society there, for all its faults, was vehemently against arranged marriages.

“I’d be happy to,” Hermione let a slow smile spread across her face. “Can you imagine Cormac trying to keep his head above water without us?”

Pansy returned the smile with one of her own, toothy and all-knowing. “He’ll get sacked faster than you can say ‘utter bellend.’”

She turned to go, and Hermione remembered Pansy mentioned she would stop by the owlery later.

“Will you wait just a moment? Sorry,” she said, pulling last night’s letter from her beaded bag.

Draco,

I’m sorry. Thank you.

She turned it over in her hand, smoothing the parchment with her thumb. It was just a thank you note, five words in black ink. Draco would read it in his gilded office, smile, and toss it aside. Not a big deal.

“Will you post this for me?”

Pansy held the letter up to the light, as if she didn’t trust her vision. “This says it’s for Draco. Not Mr. Malfoy, or even Malfoy. Just… Draco.”

The familiar heat of a deep flush crept up Hermione’s neck to settle on her cheeks. “It does. And I expect that, as my friend, you’ll keep that information to yourself. Especially if you’d like me to extol your many virtues to Blaise when next we meet.”

“You would’ve made a fair Slytherin, Granger.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As well you should,” Pansy said over her shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

Maybe, just maybe, Pansy Parkinson was someone Hermione could learn to trust.

***

Hermione left the office at a respectable hour. It was still storming, but nothing her trusty cartoon cat-covered brolly and a few charms couldn’t protect her from. She dropped by the grocer’s and picked up ingredients for dinner, realising only as she pushed her trolley toward the checkout that she was buying enough for two. Too embarrassed to turn back, she abandoned the whole lot and scuttled back into the rain.

She was thoroughly frazzled by the time she got back to the flat. Flipping the telly on, Hermione summoned all the food in her kitchen to make herself a semblance of dinner. One turkey sandwich and a handful of mini gherkins later, she finally spotted the stack of post on the worktop.

There were the typical junk letters; adverts and newsletters she’d never subscribed to, and a flyer with coupons for unwanted ghost eradication. But at the bottom of the pile were two letters that made her heart skip a beat.

The first was from Blaise.

Ms. Hermione Granger,

Would you do me the great honour of joining me for tea tomorrow? I would love to continue our discussion and learn more about your plans for the future. If tomorrow doesn’t suit, name the date and time and I will make myself available.

Best,

Blaise Zabini

P.S. Parks gave me your address; hope you don’t mind.

She bit her thumbnail and grinned. It would be easy to consider an offer if there was even a small salary. Maybe Blaise found some more funding since they last spoke, and she wouldn’t have to worry so much about the money involved in making such a big life change. Taking a new job would be a far better decision than getting a tragic post-breakup fringe.

The second letter was written in green ink.

Apology accepted, princess.

Dinner on Friday? I’ll consider it partial repayment for the gold missing from my account.

Think about it. Anywhere you like. My treat.

He didn’t sign it, but then again, he didn’t need to.

Hermione waffled. She had told Draco that she owed him, and this was a relatively painless way to pay him back. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Draco would probably show her the time of her life if she allowed it; no pain involved whatsoever. And he was paying.

She shivered. There was no denying her burgeoning curiosity about him, and she had a feeling he was just as curious about her. Why else would he want to see her again? Draco could have asked her for anything, but he wanted the pleasure of her company.

The problem was that she might like it. She already felt way too comfortable with him. Safe, even. And what if someone saw her out with him, especially when the news of her breakup hadn’t hit the papers yet? She could see the headlines now: Death Eater Tarnishes the Golden Girl.

But Draco was smart. He’d already thought of their reputations; he was letting her choose the setting for their rendezvous. She could choose somewhere they’d be seen, or somewhere they wouldn’t. Hadn’t he shown her multiple times now that he wouldn’t expose or embarrass her? He’d been well within his rights to call the Aurors on her. Instead, he’d dealt with the matter privately. Would it be so wrong to have dinner — dinner, and nothing more — somewhere far from prying eyes? They’d done it before, and it wasn’t like they were in any danger of falling into bed together.

Although, if you did, who would ever know? You’re two consenting adults. Imagine the things he can do with those hands…

But that should be as far as it went. Dinner. Maybe drinks afterwards. Definitely nothing beyond that. Curiosity was fine, but she was too fragile to see where it led. For Godric’s sake, she’d just gotten out of a near decade-long relationship with the only man she’d ever been intimate with. She couldn’t be expected to make good decisions right now.

But she was getting ahead of herself. She grabbed a quill and wrote back:

Anywhere?

Before she could change her mind, she ran down the stairs and handed her missive to the building’s owl. The bird took off into the night, and Hermione took a cleansing breath that actually felt, well, cleansing for once.

When she woke the next morning, she had his reply:

Anywhere, princess.

Hermione considered the offer for a moment. Anywhere in the world? The world was vast, and her list of places to see was long. She’d had her fill of Australia, and as far as she knew, there were no restaurants in Antarctica. That left five other continents.

She absolutely loved West African food, but she wanted to take her mum and dad there someday, and would feel guilty going without them. There’d been a program on the BBC last year about night markets in Taiwan that had piqued her interest. It would be costly to go somewhere across the world for dinner, and she’d have to leave work early due to the seven hour time difference. Did she really want to owe Pansy another favour?

But she thought of the shui jian bao, the succulent mee sua, and of course, bubble tea.

Had Draco had bubble tea? It was hard to imagine him poking a thick straw through the seal of a plastic cup and slurping up the sweet tapioca pearls. She suddenly realised she very much wanted to see that.

Let’s go to Taiwan, she wrote. Roahe Street Night Market in Taipei. No reservations needed.

They sent several messages to each other throughout the day. Draco acted like it was their third date, insisting on gifting her a new outfit to wear (she eventually relented — it would be nice to wear something without a memory of her ex attached to it) and picking her up at her flat. She promised to brush up on her Mandarin, and his impressed response had her smiling all the way to work. Yes, there were translation spells they could use, but as a lover of knowledge, she was also a believer in the power of languages. She loved exploring the history behind words and phrases and stories, all the messy ways people adapted straightforward linguistics for their own uses. She intimated as much to Draco without even thinking about how much truth she was telling him; how much she was revealing about herself.

Hermione opened another message at her desk.

Is there anything you’re not brilliant at?

She tucked the feathered end of her quill under the bow of her silky blouse and stroked it along her collarbone, nestling it in the sensitive hollow of her throat, considering.

Flirting, she sent back.

His response was instantaneous. Come now, princess.

She knew what he meant, but a thrill shot through her, lighting up her veins before settling between her legs. An ache blossomed there, and she shifted her legs to press against it.

Pansy, apparently a graduate of the Harry Potter School of Opening Doors Without Knocking, flounced in carrying two scrolls of parchment. Hermione hastily shoved Draco’s note in a drawer, thrust her quill in the inkwell, and folded her hands on her blotter.

“It’s none of my business what you get up to with your writing implements in the privacy of your own home, but try to keep it professional at the office, will you?”

“I—”

“I don’t care. I have two versions of the release for you,” Pansy said, unrolling both on Hermione’s desk. “If one of these is a winner, we can get them to the editor of the Prophet before end of day. We’ll include a note that as part of the exclusive scoop, they cannot change a single word, even the headline. This is the only piece you’ll have this much control over, so let’s make certain you’re completely happy with it.”

Hermione nodded. “I’ll read them now, if you have time?”

“I’ve cleared my morning.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Pansy huffed, and Hermione suspected she was fighting a pleased smile. “Just read.”

Exclusive: Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley Split After Eight Years of Dating

Two-thirds of the famous Golden Trio have parted ways.

In an exclusive statement, Ms Granger wished nothing but the best for her former flame. “Ron and I have mutually decided to end our romantic relationship, but we’ll always remain close.”

Sources close to the couple indicate the Golden Girl and the youngest Weasley boy hoped to take the relationship in different directions. After finding their footing as a couple during the war, the two made it official at the 1998 Victory Ball. While rumours of an engagement swirled in recent years, Weasley was quick to shut them down.

The pair were last spotted at the wedding of Mr Harry Potter and Mr Theodore Nott last spring, where they were guests of honour. When asked about their plans for marriage, Mr Weasley said, “Hermione’s wonderful, but we’re still quite young for all that.”

Ms Granger concluded her statement by asking for privacy. 'Please show us the courtesy of allowing us to close this chapter of our lives free of speculation and negativity. While we’ve lived very public lives, this is a private matter, and neither Ron nor I, nor our families, will comment on it going forward. ”

“Pansy, this is perfect.”

Pansy pretended to examine her nails. “Please. It was child’s play.”

“I come across as classy and, without saying anything rude about him, Ron looks daft. You even eliminated the possibility of his family selling their version of the story,” Hermione said gratefully. “This is it. I don’t even need to read the other one.”

“Oh, I think you should. I had a lot of fun with it.”

Hermione opened it and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

Exclusive: Toxic Arsehole Kicked to the Curb by Woman Who Has Finally Come to Her Senses

Marriage-minded wix rejoice: Hermione Granger is officially single. After dating the least attractive Weasley for the better part of her twenties, she’s ready to shag someone who can actually make her come.

In a statement that should surprise no one, Ms Granger’s friends and colleagues cheered her decision, describing Mr Weasley as “Bloody worthless,” “Looked good in a Quidditch kit, but other than that, nothing to write home about,” and, perhaps most damningly, “Manky fucking wanker.”

Underneath the last part, a different, loopier handwriting added:

Her esteemed colleague, known sexual bombshell Ms Pansy Parkinson, encourages Ms Granger to get over the lout and get under someone new who will appreciate her properly.

Hermione flashed the parchment at Pansy. “Did you work on this with someone?”

Pansy eyed the last paragraph, a faint blush diffusing across her cheeks. “Merlin. Sorry. I must’ve left it out where my, um,” she struggled.

Hermione put her out of her misery with an educated guess. “Lover?”

“Quite. It’s charmed to secrecy, so they can’t leak anything. Not that they would.”

“It’s alright. Sounds like the sex is good?”

“Life-ruining,” Pansy sighed.

Ordinarily Hermione would ask who, but she got the sense that Pansy appreciated sharing personal information in her own time. She binned the less-than-professional release and reduced it to ash with her bluebell flames for good measure. The other release found its way into her beaded bag.

She felt buoyant, almost euphoric. For the first time since the breakup, she thought she would actually come out the other side of this okay. Better than okay. She glanced at the clock.

“Shite, I have to go. I’m skiving off to meet with Blaise. I’ll stop by the owlery on my way out and send this. Thanks again, Pansy. I’ll sing your praises, I promise. What was it again? Esteemed colleague, known sexual bombshell?”

“Oh, fuck off, will you?” There was no venom in Pansy’s words at all; rather, they held something like admiration.

Hermione stood and swung her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go for drinks sometime. I have a standing thing with Ginny Weasley on Fridays, but other than that, I’m free in the evenings,” Hermione froze as she realised she was supposed to see Draco on Friday. She’d have to figure out an excuse for Ginny. “Actually, I have a thing this Friday and I have to cancel with her but… The point is, no Fridays.”

Pansy perked up. “A thing? This Friday?”

“Don’t read too much into it.”

Pansy followed her out of the office, steps confident even in her dainty stilettos. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

***

For someone supposedly low on funding, Blaise Zabini pulled out all the stops.

When Hermione walked into the private tea room overlooking the poshest addresses in the city, she found him sprawled on a rose-coloured velvet sofa, tie loosened and suit jacket long since forgotten, munching on a variety of pastel macarons. He was handsome in repose; even though he was keenly aware of it. He straightened up immediately, in that boyish way that charmed the skirt off any bird in a five kilometre radius, brushed the crumbs off his shirt, and offered her a handshake and a devastating smile.

“Hermione,” he said as she shook his hand. “So glad you could make it.”

“Me too. Glad to continue the conversation.”

Blaise, ever the gentleman, offered his arm, escorting her to a table covered with decadent treats and a gilded tea service. He pulled out her chair, and poured her tea before pouring his own. His impeccable manners made her think of Draco, and she refocused herself with selecting one of the many delicacies on the tiered serving tray. Hermione wavered between a miniature watercress sandwich and one of the macarons for only a moment before staking her claim on the last dulce de leche.

Blaise’s smile widened. “You’re a busy woman, so I won’t keep you waiting. I’ve got funding.”

She nearly spilled her tea in disbelief, clattering the cup against the saucer as she set it down with unsteady hands. “What? How?”

He leaned forward, self-satisfied. “Networking. I finally got in the room with the right investor.”

“That’s incredible.”

“I might’ve thrown your name around.”

“Blaise,” she protested around another macaron. “You didn’t.”

“I know, I know. You haven’t said yes yet. But they didn’t need to know that. And you’re on board now, right? Chief Outreach Officer Hermione Granger. You know it sounds good.”

“It’s always sounded good. I just have to make sure I’m doing good.”

“Of that I have no doubt. I’m in talks with a few other key players, but with our new backer, I don’t think there’ll be any issues bringing them on. Together we can work some real magic,” Blaise said, rubbing his palms together.

She fiddled with the corner of her napkin. She wouldn’t get a better segue.

“Speaking of key players, have you considered Pansy?”

“Parks? She puts up with me enough.”

“For an American outpost,” Hermione hastily added. “No one would be putting up with anyone, really. Her position could roll up under mine, if needed. She’s really talented. Gets things done quickly and flawlessly, and with a little panache. The Americans will like her, and they’ll get us access to the rest of the world. Imagine what we could do for the ice giants in Canada, for example. This is why we’re starting this, isn’t it? Real, accessible help for creatures everywhere?”

“If anyone knows about world domination, it’s Parks,” he admitted. “Did she put you up to this? Do you owe her a favour?”

She was so damningly transparent sometimes. Stupid Slytherins and their stupid favours. “Even if I did owe her a favour, and I’m not saying I do, she’s perfect for this. I’ve worked with her for years in Magical Creatures and she’s just as painfully underutilised as I am. We spend our days pushing paper and avoiding McLaggen.”

“Salazar’s tits, it’s much worse than I thought. You and Parks are pals.”

She couldn’t deny it. Moreover, she didn’t want to.

“Be that as it may, she’s the woman for the job.”

Blaise’s dark eyes were jolly as he took another sip of tea. “Are Gryffindors embracing nepotism now?”

“Do you want me to be your COO or not,” she said with as stern a look as she could muster. Blaise laughed good-naturedly.

“Yes, yes. I brought the paperwork, just a moment,” he said, summoning his briefcase from behind the sofa. “I secured us office space, too. Hip little spot in Diagon. You’ll love it. Ah, here they are.” He pulled a miniature stack of parchment from the briefcase and tapped it with his wand to return it to its usual size. “Got that trick from you,” he said with a wink.

She bit her lip as she pulled the contract towards her. “Don’t make me look at this without warning.”

“Warning?” Blaise seemed genuinely perplexed.

“We’ve talked about my need for a salary, so I know there’s some sort of number in here reflecting that. There’s funding, sure, but you haven’t said how much. And now I’ve asked for a job for Pansy on top of it all. So, don’t beat around the pitch. How much of a pay cut are we talking?”

Hermione braced for impact. She wanted this more than anything, but she was prepared to walk away if they couldn’t come to terms. Just a short while ago, she wouldn’t have been able to ask for everything she needed, let alone everything she wanted, but her life had changed so much in the past few days that anything felt possible. Only yesterday she’d been miserably food shopping, missing her parents’ cooking and Ginny’s hugs. She’d browsed the aisles aimlessly, wondering if her apology to Draco had meant as much to him as it had to her, worrying that Pansy might not come through, fretting that Blaise wouldn’t be able to offer her anything.

But somehow, as her relationship with Ron had finally, irrevocably fallen apart, the rest of her life began to come together, and Hermione had hardly lifted a finger. She couldn’t explain it. It felt like she had somehow become… Lucky.

Except Hermione wasn’t much of a believer in luck, or fate, or anything that couldn’t be explained sufficiently and to her liking. Luck, if there was such a thing, eventually ran out. Hard work had always won the day when it came to her personal achievements. And that was realistically what this was — for years she’d laid the groundwork for this recent spate of success.

Still, it felt damn good to feel like something more was on her side.

“That’s the best part.” Blaise’s smile turned into a full on grin. “You’re actually getting a raise.”

***

The next day, after sharing the good news with Pansy, Hermione turned in her two weeks notice. It was far easier to compose than the announcement that would run in the Prophet tomorrow. She wasn’t sure what would shock her colleagues more; leaving Ron or her cushy job.

Either way, she’d only have to deal with their reactions in the morning. At noon, she’d leave to get ready for dinner with Draco. She hadn’t mentioned her Friday plans to anyone, not even to her friends when she owled them and asked them to come over and celebrate her new beginning. Ginny, Harry and Theo were probably already at her flat, rummaging around in her cupboards for the accoutrements of a charcuterie board and feeding Crooks far too many treats.

Pansy checked in once more before she left. Her fringe had a faint curl to it, framing her angular face with an uncharacteristic feminine softness. “Sure you don’t want to take the whole day tomorrow?”

Hermione crammed a few files into a cabinet and shook her head. “I feel guilty enough taking the half day when I’ve only two weeks yet. I’m leaving you a terrible mess.”

“I won’t have to deal with it for too long.”

“True,” she said. While it would take a few months for Pansy’s role to come to fruition, the plan was in motion, and soon enough they’d be coworkers again. “You know, Pansy, I’m sorry we didn’t do this sooner.”

“Jump ship?”

Hermione laughed. “Yes, that, but I meant… you know, talking. Becoming friends. Ron hated you. If he could see us now, his head would explode.”

“Add it to the pile of reasons I’m glad you ditched the wanker,” Pansy said. “It’s not a bad idea, though.”

“What?”

“Maybe he should see us. See you, out there having fun. We could stop by The Vintage Vixen for a drink.”

Hermione shut the cabinet with a decisive click. The Vintage Vixen was a queer-friendly, upscale pub in the heart of magical London known for its Thursday night trivia and weekend drag brunch. She’d never been, though she’d long wanted to go. She’d heard from Theo they had an incredible mixologist who could predict your perfect drink based on where you wanted the night to take you.

It was too bad she already had plans. Or maybe it was for the best, considering she had no idea where she might end up if she had a few of those magical drinks.

She bit her lip. She had some idea. One idea, a foolish one, that began and ended with her looking into steel grey eyes.

No, she couldn’t go out tonight, but a counter-proposal danced on the tip of Hermione’s tongue. Pansy would fit seamlessly into the friend group now that they wouldn’t be hanging out with Ron all together anymore. She knew Theo well, and came to the wedding. Harry’d kissed her on the cheek and that seemed to be that, as far as amends went. Ginny seemed open to Slytherins, or at least didn’t seem like she’d send a flurry of Bat-Bogey Hexes Pansy’s way. If she gave Pansy half a chance, Hermione thought they’d get along swimmingly. Both witches were clever, adventurous, and kind, even though Pansy wasn’t the type to wear her heart on her sleeve like Ginny.

But maybe it would be too weird, inviting Pansy to her flat with her closest friends. Not to mention the fact that they’d probably talk about Ron, and Hermione hadn’t revealed to Pansy the main reason she’d broken up with him: the gambling. Nerves simmered in the pit of her stomach. Pansy could be judgmental — Hermione could, too, to be sure, and often judged right along with her — and might reconsider their friendship when it was still so new.

Here she was, keeping secrets again. Just when she thought she’d stopped.

Pansy took an awkward step back, and Hermione held up a hand. “So sorry, I was just thinking if I could make it work, but I can’t. I’ve got a few friends coming over to my place. Actually, they might already be there. Theo and Harry, and um, Ginny, too. You remember her, right? A year below us.”

“Scrawny little redhead back then,” Pansy said with an odd look on her face. “She got a hold of the diary, right? I remember.”

“Not that you wouldn’t get along with them, it’s just that we already had plans, and…”

“Don’t worry about it. I get it. You Gryffindors need to get together with your friends and bash your exes before you can move on properly.”

Hermione couldn’t help herself. “What do broken-hearted Slytherins do?”

Pansy’s smile turned sad. Her fingers traced the worn edge of the velvet sofa reserved for the rare guest speaker or foreign dignitary. “We’re a pathetic lot. We lick our wounds in private; engage in a little self-loathing. Then when we’re ready to be seen out and about again, we act like the heartbreak never happened. While we’re at it, we somehow sabotage the next relationship because we’re afraid of never being loved for who we truly are.”

“Merlin.”

She shrugged. “You asked. I’m glad you’ve got people.”

“I do, and now you’re one of them,” Hermione said, her tone brooking no argument. “Rain cheque for drinks. Please. I mean it,” she added quickly, so Pansy would know she was sincere.

“I’ll hold you to it. And, look, if you change your mind about coming in tomorrow, it’s no big deal.”

They travelled down to the lobby together and parted ways just before the exits. Hermione spun into her neighbourhood, drenched in late-afternoon summer sun, and checked her post before heading up to her flat. There was nothing new from Draco, and her lips thinned in disappointment. She decided not to examine the feeling too closely, instead bounding up the stairs to see her friends.

“I’m home,” she called as she twisted the key from the lock. “I hope you’ve saved me some cheese this time, Theo.”

Theo grinned and pressed a glass of red wine into her hand. “I might’ve done.”

Harry and Ginny were in the living room, glued to the telly. Crooks perched on one of the sofa’s armrests, accepting idle scratches from Ginny.

“Something about closing ceremonies,” Theo muttered, waving his hand in their direction.

“It’s once every four years, love,” Harry protested before shoving another stack of cheese and crackers in his mouth. “This is history. And we won a fair few golds this year.”

“We have plenty of gold; I’ve told you this!”

Hermione smiled as she kicked off her shoes and hung up her bag. There was no better feeling than coming home to a flat full of friends and food. Harry was practically family, and his constant presence in her life since she was eleven years old was a great source of comfort. He sat close to Ginny, as if they’d never broken each other’s hearts, both of them whispering excitedly when the camera zoomed in on the British athletes.

She couldn’t see herself ever doing the same with Ron. But it was much too soon to be thinking about that.

Theo busied himself in the kitchen, rustling up something much more substantial than charcuterie. He wore an apron Ron had given her from the shop; on first glance it said “Kiss the Cook,” but the more wine the wearer consumed, the more the magic suggested other explicit acts that the cook might like to engage in.

“You might not want to wear that one,” she said as she pulled out a cutting board and got to work on slicing a bunch of carrots.

“So sorry, is it Ron’s?”

“It’s not that,” Ginny said as she bounded up to the worktop. “It’s one of mine. Inventions, I mean. It’s an Amorous Apron. It’ll give you lots of kitchen-related sex fantasies.”

“Ginevra, I feel I’ve known you long enough now to ask you this,” Theo said, balling up the apron and tossing it aside. “Why the fuck would you invent a sex apron?”

She shrugged. “I’m limited to things we can sell at Wheezes. I get bored with the same old, same old, and so do our customers. Unless you’re a firstie, there are only so many pranks you can pull with belches and farts and temporarily disfiguring boils. We have an entire adult section now full of stuff like this. It’s better than a joke; it makes you laugh and gets you laid. Win-win.”

Hermione opened her mouth, about to gently suggest, not for the first time, that Ginny branch out on her own. But Theo read the room and elbowed her in the ribs before she could say anything. She gave him a small nod in thanks. If she said something tonight, after getting her dream job offer, it would come off cruel and insensitive.

Harry switched off the telly and brought back the now-bare charcuterie board. “How long until dinner?”

“Thirty minutes, give or take,” Theo said, glancing at his watch.

While they waited, Harry regaled them with a tale of his current crop of Auror trainees. They’d gotten on the wrong side (literally) of an illegally trafficked case of blast-ended skrewts and the ensuing required paperwork would keep them busy until the end of next week. Hermione had never been happier to have put in her notice. Let Cormac McLaggen deal with the fallout when it finally reached Magical Creatures.

Dinner was delicious. Theo’s shepherd’s pie melted in Hermione’s mouth, savoury and satisfying. Harry opened a second bottle of wine and gave everyone a generous pour, nudging Ginny with a friendly elbow when she gulped the rest of her glass so he could top her up once more.

Glancing around the table, Hermione couldn’t help but lean forward, tuck her fist under her chin and smile. This is what she’d pictured when her friends started coming around on those lonely weekend nights; everyone laughing, indulging, buoyant. She just hadn’t been in a place mentally where she could engage like this. The tedium of her work had drained her, left her muted and lifeless by the time she hit the door, half-hoping to see Ron, and half-dreading his presence. By the time her friends arrived, she was typically already in her pyjamas and bathrobe, past the point of hunger and looking down the barrel of another sleepless night.

A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. The last time she’d slept well was when Draco had transfigured her a bath. Since then, she’d been back to tossing and turning, finally passing out when the first brushstrokes of dawn painted her curtains.

Maybe she should ask him where he bought his sheets.

After they cleared the table and killed the last of the wine, Ginny put on an alt-rock record and the friends scoured the flat for anything Ron-related. If an item belonged to him, Ginny packed it into a trunk. Harry knew what sort of things Hermione would find sentimental, and he put anything that fell into that category — photos, mainly, including those of the trio — in a crate under her bed, spelled with a one year timer.

“It’ll be too raw to look before then,” he said, eyes filled with concern. He sat down on the bed next to her and wrapped one arm around her shoulder. Hermione laid her head against his, careful not to crush his glasses to his face.

“I feel a lot better already. When you saw me Monday it was too fresh.”

“I’m not trying to tell you how to feel, but Hermione, it’s still fresh. You’re allowed to grieve this. Be as sad as you want, cry as much as you like. I’ll always be here for you.”

She gathered a layer of bedding in her fists and twisted. “And what if I don’t want to grieve anymore? I’ve been grieving for ages now.”

“Maybe you think that, but there’s no such thing as pre-grieving.”

It stung to hear those words from Harry. She’d told him the same thing after his split with Ginny, hadn’t she? But she’d never imagined being in Harry’s shoes, not then. She’d been so sure she and Ron would go the distance.

It had been easy to see, at least for Hermione, that Harry and Ginny weren’t a good fit. They were both too feisty; no one could put a stop to their arguments once they started. Ginny wanted to create. She was always trying to improve upon her last invention. Harry, on the other hand, wanted to dismantle things. It was understandable, because he’d been tasked with taking down the greatest evil their world had ever seen. But once he had the hammer, everything looked like a nail.

The thing about having conversations with someone who was like a brother to you was that sometimes you could say things that were a little too cutting. Too mean for anyone else. If it had been Theo sitting with her, Hermione thought, she might’ve been able to rein herself in and consider his position.

Because Harry wasn’t wrong. It was fresh. Ron’s laundry was still mixed up with hers in the hamper. But she’d had a good week — the best in who knew how long. Ron had gambled her away, for Godric’s sake, and then tried to pretend it never happened. He’d finally pushed her to her breaking point and she’d shoved back from the table and walked away.

And she hadn’t come crawling back, which was, in her mind, the real achievement, because unlike Harry and Ginny, she and Ron hadn’t fought, though in hindsight they should’ve. Everyone thought they made sense together. When she was younger, Hermione thought she could bring equality to wizarding society without truly understanding it, and Ron had helped her learn the ins and outs of their magical world. Maybe he’d mocked her efforts at first, but he’d always found her in the library, cauldron cakes in hand, ready to offer guidance and company.

The memory made tears spring to her eyes.

At his best, Ron had been deeply loyal, clever, and more accepting than any other Pureblood she knew.

But he’d changed. She’d changed, too.

And now Harry, who as a young girl she’d worshipped and bossed around in the same breath, was here, suggesting he knew how she needed to go about the grieving process. Ron, the Ron she knew, was gone, and had been gone. She’d cried over it — to Draco Malfoy, of all people — and now the only thing to do was get on with her life. She didn’t owe anyone a front seat to her heartbreak.

And she needed to keep moving. It was all she knew how to do.

Snatchers on your trail? Keep moving.

Arm cursed? Keep moving.

Dreams of a life with the only man you’ve ever loved completely shattered? Keep moving.

Restlessness was part of her DNA. She had a new job awaiting her and a dinner date tomorrow. Maybe she’d find a new flat, too. She was unfettered for the first time in years. And so even though somewhere deep down, Hermione knew Harry was right, and that he loved her and only wanted to help, she snapped back at him.

“Don’t tell me how to grieve.”

“I’m only trying to help,” he said, leaning away and riffling his dark hair.

She sighed. “Don’t give me that. It’s over and done with. It’s been over.”

“It hasn’t even been a week. That’s it? You’re just moving on? He’s our best friend. You were together eight years.”

“Harry —”

“You can’t just cast him to the side. I’m not saying you have to get back together, not right away, anyway —”

Hermione leapt up from the bed. “It’s like you’re not even listening to me!”

“I’m listening to you, okay? I am. And I’m listening to Ron, too.”

“Sounds like it,” she scoffed.

Harry nearly growled with frustration. “You said I didn’t have to choose sides, and I’m not. All I’m saying is Ron, when he’s done being angry and embarrassed, will come back to you. He always does. And maybe it might be smart to wait until he sorts himself out. You know, see if you like what he has to say. You’ve known him half your life and loved him for eight years. When the dust settles, you might want him back.”

“That’s never going to happen,” she spluttered. “Not in a million years. Were you or were you not across the table from me on Monday listening to me tell you that Ron traded me like a horse last weekend? Your own husband confessed he had to drag Ron to your wedding. Oh, and didn’t even tell you this next bit,” Hermione choked out an angry laugh, hackles rising. “Molly sent me a Howler! She’s a huge part of the problem; maybe the origin of it, if we’re all being honest. I didn’t even realise until I got some distance how far she was breathing down our necks. If Ron could just escape her clutches for two seconds, he’d probably come to the same conclusion.”

“I didn’t understand the depth of his issues,” Harry said, his tone far above the rocking beat emanating from the record player. “Of your issues as a couple. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Several answers made themselves available to her:

Because it’s embarrassing.

Because we were supposed to be together forever.

Because I was in denial.

But Hermione was boiling mad, and thus vulnerability was completely off the table. Funny how she couldn’t be vulnerable with the people who were closest to her; they were too close to Ron, and all she wanted was a clean break. She couldn’t handle mess or complications of any kind. She’d been living the lie for too long.

“Why are you victim blaming?”

“I’m not!”

They were yelling now.

“I tried everything I could think of!”

“I’m not saying you didn’t!”

“Nothing was working. Nothing. I had to end it. And don’t try to tell me he’s sad, or he’s hurting, or anything he says because I don’t want to — I can’t be involved anymore.”

Despite the fact that she was shouting at him, Harry didn’t seem to hear her. “Okay, maybe for now, but we can’t just abandon him. Think for a second.”

“I am thinking! He’s where he wanted to be all along, at home with his mother who takes care of him and never wanted a career and a family. She doesn’t ask him for anything and that’s fine by him; he was so tired of catering to my absolutely massive needs like, I don’t know, splitting the chores and making a plan for our future. Now he can squander his money and theirs and who knows, maybe he’ll find a rich Pureblood girlfriend and he’ll bankrupt her too, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by and watch!”

“Hey,” Theo said softly from the doorway. He stepped into the room like it was an active hostage situation. “Harry, why don’t you go see if I forgot any of Ron’s furniture?”

Harry looked confused. “Ron said he didn’t want any of the — oh, yeah, sure,” he said as it clicked into place. He stood and shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean for this to go this way.”

Hermione was still burning with anger, but she grit out an apology, and Harry brushed past Theo towards the kitchen. She glared at her friend’s husband as he lingered, silent, hands in his pockets.

“Don’t tell me you’re here to continue his misguided attempt to get me to feel bad for Ron.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” she said, eyes tracking his movements as he picked up a photo of Harry and Hermione from the Yule Ball. They looked happy and ridiculous and young.

Theo considered the photo for a long moment. “You and Harry have been friends a long time. When this was taken, in our fourth year, I hated his guts. He ruined everything; for Slytherin, for Pureblood society. The more I heard his name, the harder and more often my father beat me. Every holiday, every summer. I could blame it all on Harry Potter.”

“Theo,” Hermione breathed. “I had no idea.”

“You couldn’t have. I don’t go around telling people.” He set the photo back down. “It took a long time for me to understand it wasn’t really Harry I hated, and I saw the light quicker than most. I never took the Mark. I still get chills, you know, when I get to remove it for someone. It’s a privilege to see the way they’ve changed.”

“Draco still has his,” Hermione said unthinkingly.

“I know. He’s changed, but it’s important to him to remember what he did.”

“He could remember without it.”

Theo cocked an eyebrow. “Worried about Draco’s immortal soul?”

“No,” she said, crossing her arms. “Why did you stop hating Harry?”

“Besides the fact that I figured out I liked men, and one man in particular? I’d say it was the way he cared about his friends. He didn’t have any family, and yet he understood the value of loyalty and love better than anyone I’d ever known.”

Hermione shifted on the balls of her feet. “He loves hard.”

“He does. And he loves you, Hermione. He’s struggling. Normally you fix everything, and he can’t fix this for you, when you really need him.”

“I know. It’s just that… You weren’t there, not when we took that picture and not for all the other times Ron snubbed me before he figured out that I was more than an annoyingly swotty sidekick. Harry took Ron’s side a lot.”

“I’m sure he did. He’s terrible at balance,” Theo admitted. “Maybe he thought Ron needed him more in those moments. And that’s not fair, no one would ever think that’s fair. Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you don’t need your friends. But maybe Harry is looking at the two of you on paper right now, and you have to admit, things aren’t looking good for Ron. We went to see him yesterday and, this is not to guilt you in any way, but he’s in a bad way.”

She swallowed hard. She’d assumed Ron would be far happier back at the Burrow, but now that she really thought about it, it was all too easy to think of him miserably going through the motions. And he was banned from the casino, so maybe he was going through withdrawals as well…

Merlin.

“How bad?”

“I’ve been talking to Bill about staging a muggle-style intervention. He’s on board, and so are Charlie and Ginevra. Harry’s… He’s emotional about it.”

“Do you need me?”

Theo shook his head. “No. I don’t think it’d be good for either of you to involve you at this point. And obviously we’re keeping it from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.”

Hermione had told them all about the awful Howler, but not about the events leading up to it. She could still feel Draco’s strong arms around her, picking her up off the floor after she collapsed.

“When?”

Ginny ducked her head into the room with a solemn frown. “Soon, I hope.”

“Soon,” Theo confirmed. He held up his arm for Ginny to tuck into his side, and she did. “In my professional opinion, he might become a danger to himself. But again, I’m not sharing this with you to make you feel bad. I’m glad you left.”

“Me too,” Ginny said.

“Harry’s expressing himself poorly, but he’s scared. He’s scared for Ron, he’s scared to lose you or him, or maybe even both of you if he fails at balancing whatever friendship you all have going forward.”

“And Harry hates being scared,” Hermione whispered.

“Hates it,” Ginny agreed. “And he doesn’t want us to be scared or worried, either. The man’s an Auror for a reason.”

“He reads me too well,” Hermione said in acknowledgement.

Theo cracked a smile. He had that same sort of effortless charm Blaise had been blessed with, only Theo was more fastidious and had to hone it to improve his bedside manner. “Imagine living with him. Did he go home, Ginevra?”

“Yeah. And I promised him I’d get you out of here at a reasonable hour. Which probably means now?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Theo said, unwinding his arm from Ginny’s shoulders. He hugged Hermione, and she thanked him for cooking, promising to return the favour. Crookshanks escorted him to the door, and then it was just Ginny and Hermione, silently walking into the living room and assessing the last trunk to go back to the Burrow.

“I can’t thank you all enough,” Hermione said.

Ginny waved her off, her sparkly headband catching the light. “This is what friends are for.”

Hermione squinted at the jewelled headband, then let her eyes trail down the rest of Ginny’s outfit. Underneath her black cardigan was a lacy dress, which she’d matched with open-toed heels with beaded straps. Why would Ginny show up to clear out the flat in an ensemble better suited for a date?

She twisted her lips in thought. There was no way Ginny was seeing someone — she would’ve told her. She and Ginny told each other everything, didn’t they? Well, Hermione hadn’t told her just what Ron had been up to with the whole gambling thing, and she definitely hadn’t told her that Draco had come over, and she would probably take it to her grave that she was planning on going halfway across the world with him tomorrow for something that she increasingly allowed herself to acknowledge was a date.

Not that anything was going to happen. She could barely call herself single; the announcement hadn’t even run yet. And she was in no way ready to emotionally connect with someone new, let alone sexually connect with them, no matter what she felt when he put those tattooed hands of his on her.

Her heart skipped a beat. She and Draco already had an emotional connection…

Ginny was saying something. “Anyway, we’re still on for next Friday, right? What are you doing tomorrow night, again?”

She hadn’t said, and she was unprepared. The only convenient lie quickly presented itself, and Hermione grabbed for it like a life raft. “Oh, uh, dinner with my parents. It’s been a while, and I haven’t really filled them in on everything. They phoned and I gave them the quick-and-dirty version, but you know my mum, she’s going to want all the details.”

Ginny looked a bit put out. “Gods, and your parents always host the best dinners! You could’ve let me tag along.”

The conversation fizzled for a moment before Hermione asked, “Where are you off to? Fancy dress.”

Ginny glanced down and smoothed her bodice. “This? I’ve had this for ages.”

She wasn’t answering the question. Interesting. Hermione tried again. “I don’t remember ever seeing this one on you. Looks new.”

“I’m sure I’ve worn it to Sunday dinner before. You probably just forgot. Most of those dinners we’re all just trying to keep my mum placated until she decides we can go. You know how it is; it takes all our undivided attention to make her feel like the perfect example of motherhood. I bet you’re glad you never have to sit through another one.”

No more Sunday dinners. She hadn’t even thought of that.

What a relief.

“Yeah. Well, it’s doing incredible things for your legs. Would be a good one to wear if you were looking to turn a bloke’s head.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be,” Ginny said noncommittally. She produced her wand and levitated the trunk towards Hermione’s fireplace. “So, I’ll see you next week?”

“Definitely,” Hermione confirmed, hugging Ginny’s neck for good measure. “Thanks, Gin. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I’m still going to whinge about my mum and the shop; the usual. And now the Olympics are over, too, so we have to find something else to watch.”

“Footy?”

Ginny scrunched her nose at the suggestion. “Ugh. It’s like a worse Quidditch.”

***

Hermione arrived at work to a swirl of whispers and judgemental stares. It could’ve been much worse. She remembered what it was like to speed walk down Hogwarts’s hallowed halls, older students openly taunting the swot, the Muggleborn girl, the Mudblood bitch.

Her skin wasn’t thick back then. It wasn’t much thicker now, if she was being honest. She’d barely grown accustomed to the insults when they finally defeated Voldemort for good, and then she had a litany of new monikers, all associated with saving the world. ‘Golden Girl’ stuck around the longest, and while she didn’t love it, it was easy to let it roll off her shoulders.

Would she still be golden, now that she and Ron were over? Whether she liked it or not, Hermione accepted that favourable public opinion was a necessary evil, especially in her line of work. Moreover, it was an unfortunate hallmark of history that women’s legacies were often defined by the men in their lives. When it came to her personal legacy, she was determined to buck the trend. No one would define Hermione Granger but Hermione Granger. And so as she strolled to her office, she pasted a winning smile on her face and held her head high.

She stopped short in the doorway. Of course her office couldn’t just be empty. Cormac McLaggen leaned back in her chair, arms behind his head, with his poncy penny loafers up on her desk. He trailed his eyes down her body with pure, unadulterated smarminess.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t have time for this, Cormac.”

Instead of getting up, he sank further into her chair, steepling his fingers. “A little bird told me you put in your notice. And a much larger bird — I’m referring to my owl, in case that wasn’t clear — delivered my post this morning and what did I see on the front page of the Prophet? Miss Hermione Granger, the most eligible witch in all of Britain, is back on the market.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Finally, our two biggest obstacles, swept aside.”

Before she could say anything, someone cleared their throat. A wix from the secretarial pool, Addison, stood in the doorway, holding a massive bouquet of dainty white flowers secured with a lavender ribbon.

“These are for you,” they said, extending the flowers to Hermione.

Cormac kicked off the desk and strode over, snatching up the bouquet. He combed wide, searching fingers through the flowers, casting petals on the floor. “Who are these from?”

Addison shrugged, one moonstone earring brushing their shoulder. “I didn’t see a card, but I checked for curses. You’ve already got a pile of Howlers. There’s a package for you, too. Parkinson said she’d give it to you in your one-on-one.”

“Thanks Addison,” Hermione said, tugging the flowers back from Cormac. Addison gave a little wave and made a swift exit.

“Now, where were we?”

Ugh. She had to shut this down.

“Going nowhere fast,” Hermione said firmly. “Let me make myself perfectly clear: I’m not interested in anything beyond our professional relationship. And I may have put in my notice, but I still have plenty to do around here. So, if you wouldn’t mind —”

He crossed his arms, obstinate. “Don’t tell me some cheap white heather won you over. I’d buy you a greenhouse full of orchids.”

Hermione ignored him, busying herself with locating a vase in her supply closet. She found only one that would hold such a giant bouquet. She marched back to her desk, untied the ribbon, and arranged the heather slowly, hoping he might take the hint and leave.

“Come on, Hermione. We both know you can’t do much better than a bloke like me. I’ve got the Galleons, the real estate portfolio, the connections you need to be Minister someday… Obviously the looks,” he smirked. “I’m a hell of an upgrade.”

Pansy strolled in, a parcel tucked under one arm and murder in her eyes. “Merlin, how many times did you rehearse that sorry little speech?”

Cormac, visibly rattled, went on the defensive. “This is none of your business, Parks.”

“Ten times? Fifteen? It’s too bad you didn’t prepare yourself for the inevitable. She’s not interested.”

“Got another player on the pitch, is that it?” He drew himself up to his full height with a sneer. “Or maybe you’re just like all the other girls, interested in fielding a full team. Bet you think I’ll just wait patiently on the bench until the match is almost through.”

Hermione froze in shock. Was McLaggen really implying, to her face, that she was fast?

Pansy, however, did not freeze. She sent a nasty stinging jinx right at McLaggen’s face, and followed up with a leg-locker curse for good measure. He howled in pain as he hit the floor.

“Addison,” she called, and the wix appeared in an instant, eyebrows raised at the scene in Hermione’s office. “Be a love and take Mr McLaggen here to HR. Tell Longbottom I’ll be by later to give a full report.”

Visibly relieved, Addison levitated McLaggen’s immobilised form with a quick flick of their wand. He continued to moan and whinge all the way to the lifts.

“That’ll give them something else to talk about,” Pansy said cheerfully, whipping her wand through the air in an uncharacteristic display of eagerness. “I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

Hermione shut the door, slightly jealous she hadn’t been the one to knock McLaggen down a few pegs. Very jealous, actually.

“Aren’t you worried about what Neville will say?”

“Please. He’ll play his part and act concerned if McLaggen Sr. comes calling, but you and I both know Longbottom hates McLaggen as much as the rest of us. What’s this?” she asked, levelling her wand at the flowers. “White heather? Well, well.”

Hermione approached her desk, adjusted the bouquet and inhaled the light floral scent. “They’re unusual.”

“They’re a declaration,” Pansy murmured. “Interesting.”

“How so?” And declaring what, exactly?

“Considering I’ve always known you to have your nose in a book, I’m surprised you’ve never come across anything regarding the language of flowers. Though, it’s mostly a Pureblood thing.”

Hermione took a cautious step back from the flowers. Sure, Addison said they’d checked for curses, but most Purebloods who would send her something anonymously were probably not her biggest fans. Maybe they were upset at the breakup news and wanted to send a message.

“It’s nothing bad,” Pansy laughed. “White heather symbolises two things, usually: protection and the promise that all your wishes will come true.”

Her heart thudded to a halt. With all Cormac’s blustering, Hermione hadn’t landed on the most obvious mystery gift-giver. She’d been too preoccupied with the announcement and the news of her resignation to think about her date tonight.

“Or maybe he just likes these? Or saw them and thought of me?”

She loved white flowers. Had she told him that? She didn’t think she had.

Draco hadn’t mentioned sending flowers. The bouquet alone was a clear signal he thought their trip would be a date, too, but add the meaning on top of it? Pansy was right. These were definitely a declaration.

Draco Malfoy felt protective of her. He wanted to grant her every wish.

Her stomach flip-flopped with nerves.

“Come on now, you’re a clever girl. Draco doesn’t do anything without meaning.”

It was true. She thought of the way he worded the Unbreakable Vow; the code to his drawer; his symbolic tattoos. All of it told a story.

Pansy held out the package to her. Wrapped in plain brown paper, it bore a lavender bow that matched the one wrapped around the flowers. Attached was a sealed note with her name on it, written in deep green ink. To anyone else, it would just look like a regular gift, maybe from one of the Ministry’s many external vendors. Draco did himself credit by keeping the box nondescript, protecting her privacy. Maybe he’d thought she’d like receiving something from him right under everyone else’s nose, especially during such a difficult day.

She decided it was sweet of him, but it would have been more satisfying if Pansy wasn’t such a super-sleuth.

Hermione swallowed and took in her hands, hiding her face behind her curls. She didn’t say anything for a moment.

“It’s a good guess,” she bluffed. “But can you really see me with someone like him?”

Pansy twirled her wand, her manicured hand dancing up and down the polished wood. “He’s not a bad choice for a rebound. We never quite got the quaffle through the final hoop — he ended up not being my type. I suit witches and they suit me — but he always aimed to please. Your main problem is he won’t see this as a rebound. He’s… Intense.”

“I know,” Hermione squeaked.

It was as good an admission as any. Pansy’s eyes sparkled with delight.

“Hermione Granger. You really should’ve been a Slytherin.” She slid onto the sofa and looked at Hermione expectantly.

“Nothing’s happened,” Hermione said, sitting opposite her. “There’s no overlap.”

She didn’t want Pansy thinking she’d cheated on Ron. She really didn’t want Pansy to think she’d cheated on Ron with Draco.

“I never said there was.”

“And you can’t say anything to anyone.”

“I never would,” Pansy said, crossing her heart with her wand.

“Tonight is just a dinner. A dinner date,” she amended.

Pansy was practically on the edge of her seat. “He never goes on dinner dates. He never goes anywhere, really. Blaise and Daphne and I’ve stopped inviting him to anything anymore; he always says he’s so busy. So you must’ve made quite the impression.”

“Something like that.”

She was not going to expand further. Pansy let it slide, her gaze sweeping up and down Hermione’s signature office look — a blouse, tied in a bow at the neck; a simple skirt; nude stockings and heels. It wasn’t groundbreaking, but it was a far cry from the less fashionable outfits of her youth.

“What are you wearing tonight? And don’t say ‘this.’”

Hermione groaned, knowing her cheeks were turning scarlet. “Whatever’s in that box.”

***

It took her a full hour and a half to shower, style her curls, and apply her makeup. Another five minutes elapsed while she stared at the unopened box on her bed.

What had Draco sent?

Most men, if they were picking their date’s outfit, would probably pick something slinky. If Draco had put something like that in the box, she wouldn’t wear it. Surely he knew they needed to blend in with the Muggles at the night market. It wasn’t a cocktail dress sort of place. And the weather would be hot and humid, temps reaching up to thirty-two degrees. There was only so much cooling charms could do in that kind of environment.

But Draco wasn’t most men.

Hermione toyed with the silky end of the lavender ribbon for a second longer before tugging it loose and opening the box. What lay inside, underneath a fine layer of tissue paper, took her breath away.

The dress inside was made of the softest, gauziest black cotton. Cut in a loose silhouette with slits on either side, it featured a high neckline and a non-existent back. Beneath the dress and a few layers of tissue paper sat a pair of golden strappy sandals and the tiniest crossbody bag she’d ever seen. She lifted it to her nose to smell the sumptuous leather, which was hand woven into a beautiful intrecciato pattern.

She couldn’t have picked a better outfit herself. Well, she might’ve picked something she could wear a bra with, but it was nothing to quibble over.

Next she picked up his note, gently lifting the seal.

I hope I’ve chosen correctly. I can’t wait to see you.

P.S. The handbag features several useful charms. It’s weatherproof, only opens for you in case of theft or pickpocketing, and yes, you can fit your wand — and anything else you want — inside.

Hermione bit back a grin as she slid the dress over her head. It, too, was apparently charmed, because the fabric expanded around her curves and shortened at her hemline to account for her petite figure. She tried the sandals next. They fit perfectly, straps coiling around her ankles and tying themselves with a tiny gilt bow.

“These must’ve cost a fortune,” she said to Crookshanks, who eyed her sleepily from the bed. He’d stolen some of the tissue paper to make a crinkly sort of nest. “Should I add earrings?”

A puff of green smoke made a loud pop from the empty box, and both Hermione and Crooks jumped.

Hermione approached slowly and peered into the smoking cardboard to find a velvet jewellery box inside. Inside were tasteful gold hoop earrings, small enough to hug her earlobe and not overwhelm the casual outfit. She weighed them in her palm; they were real gold.

“How did he know?” She wondered aloud. Ever the experimenter, Hermione decided to test the limits of the box. “If only I had a necklace as well. And a ring?”

Another pop of green smoke. Crooks gave up his nest with a hiss and quit the room entirely.

Instead of another velvet box, there was a note.

Nice try.

I’ll pick you up in five.

For the next five minutes, Hermione did a circuit around the flat. She made sure, for the thousandth time, that her dishes were done, her floors were shining, and her reflection in the mirror was really her.

It’d been a long time since she felt this pretty. She’d swept smoky eyeshadow over her eyelids; curled her eyelashes and coated them with a new mascara. She never needed more than her natural blush, but she dotted some at the high points of her cheeks anyway, since it made her freckles stand out. A smidge of lip oil completed the look. It was a simple process, but the effect was devastating. She practised a version of the come hither stare she’d seen Fleur deploy with great success, but had to admit defeat when she looked less Veela temptress and more Professor McGonagall when she caught a handful of Gryffindors out past curfew.

Hermione tugged at one of her curls and let it bounce. She was being silly. Draco hadn’t asked her for this dinner because he wanted to go out with some sort of sex kitten. He asked her because she owed him, and he enjoyed her company the other night. He could pay for a different witch to join him in bed every day of the week. Some of them probably wouldn’t even need to be paid; if Pansy was right and he aimed to please.

Merlin, why was she thinking about sex?

Because she hadn’t had great sex in a long time? Because she was a woman in her prime? Because she’d waxed everything from the waist down, which she hadn’t done in a while, and made her wonder why she hadn’t done it sooner because rubbing her legs together while they were this smooth ranked up there with book shopping and orgasms?

She needed to stop thinking about sex. Sex with Draco, sex in general. Maybe if she allowed herself to think about it now, it wouldn’t distract her during the date.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her mind transporting her back to the morning she’d woken up in his bed. She remembered the heat of his body, the sound of his breaths while he slept. It wasn’t hard to imagine nuzzling her face into his shoulder, sliding her lips and tongue across his tattoos to wake him. If he’d let her, she’d kiss every rune, every phoenix feather, every shard of broken glass while he mapped the terrain of her body with his strong hands.

But when Hermione thought of the actual act, she struggled to imagine what it would be like. She’d only been with one person. She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders, a pit forming in her stomach.

Maybe she wasn’t experienced enough for him. Actually, she definitely wasn’t experienced enough for him, or for dating in general, because she was already assuming that dinner, which she’d quickly mentally snowballed into a dinner date and now a full-fledged date, was going to end with them both impossibly randy, racing back to his penthouse, tearing each other’s clothes off and throwing them on the floor like they were the main characters in one of her mum’s erotic beach reads.

Why was she inventing problems for herself? Maybe she was ovulating. That would explain a lot.

Her thoughts screeched to a halt at the sound of three quick raps on her door.

Hermione didn’t stop to take a cleansing breath. In fact, she thought she might be done with those altogether. She bounded over to the door, stood on her tiptoes, and looked through the peephole to see Draco waiting for her.

He looked edible in all black. His linen shirt was half undone, showing off the tattoos on his sculpted chest, and a white gold chain hung around his neck. He ran a hand through his hair, unaware she was watching him. Was he nervous too?

She waved her wards away, unlocked the door, and let him in.

“Hey princess,” he said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips.

A lock of blond hair fell in his face as he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. He smiled at her and dropped their hands, but he didn’t let go. The feel of his fingers intertwined with hers made her heart gallop in her chest.

Draco regarded her with tenderness. “Okay?”

Affection surged through her at the way he asked for permission to keep touching her. She hadn’t been ready when he smeared her lip balm after their night at Serpenti; and the last time he’d been in her flat, he’d hauled her up there in a fireman’s carry. Being manhandled — literally — was great in theory, and she wouldn’t mind it with some rules, but this kinder, gentler approach? It was doing something to her. She wanted to tell him he didn’t need to ask anymore; that she wanted him to touch her anywhere he wanted. But it was like she’d become tongue tied ever since she’d opened her door to him.

“Yeah,” she said, instead of Are you real? or Is this real? or Do you feel this, too? There’s something more here, isn’t there?

His reply was a low rumble. “Good.”

Hermione leaned forward on her toes, anticipating the second half of that sentence — Good girl, he was going to call her a good girl, wasn’t he? — only to shift right back onto her heels.

What was he doing to her? Had her brain left the building?

Was this what Ginny had meant when she described her blissful mental state after a hookup? No thoughts, head empty?

Whatever this was, and it was something, it wasn’t a race, yet it felt like they were moving at breakneck speed. It wasn’t exactly a fair comparison, but it had taken years for Ron to notice her as more than a frizzy-haired know-it-all, while Draco had spent less than twenty-four hours total alone with her then pursued her with an intensity she’d never experienced before. It should frighten her, or at least give her pause. But if they were a runaway train, she couldn’t bring herself to slow it down.

Hermione tried for a flirty smile. “Good.”

“Nervous?”

“No,” she lied, only out of habit. She was almost always nervous.

He stroked the underside of her wrist with the pad of his thumb. “I can feel your pulse.”

Gods, he hadn’t even done anything, they weren’t even in the sweltering streets of Taipei yet, and she was melting.

“Maybe I’m a little nervous.”

Draco didn’t stop stroking. “You’re safe with me.”

“You’ll protect me,” Hermione whispered, meeting his gaze. Their bodies were somehow much closer than they’d been a moment ago. Had he moved closer, or had she? The scent of his skin, made her mouth water, tantalising even under a light application of cologne.

“I’m glad you got the message. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah. Thank you for the gifts.”

He squeezed her hand. “Thank you for accepting them.”

“What did Ernie’s office give you for a Portkey?” Hermione asked, trying to sound cool, casual, and not as flustered as a schoolgirl who just got her first invitation to Hogsmeade. “They’re getting more and more outlandish lately. Theo said last time they gave him a half-full jumbo popcorn bucket from a Muggle movie theatre. When he and Harry got to Tahiti they were absolutely covered in liquid butter.”

“Portkey?” His eyebrows knit together for a moment, but then he laughed. “Ah, no. I don’t do Portkeys. But we’ll get there in plenty of time. Side-along?”

One walk down the stairs (Draco did not let go of her hand) and an Apparition later, Hermione found herself in a clean, well-lit, private hangar, looking up at a sleek, silver jet. The now-familiar Serpenti branding, a black snake with diamonds on its back, coiled around the jet’s tail.

“Are we…”

“It’s a modified Gulfstream G650,” he said with obvious pride. “My palace in the clouds. This beauty’s charmed to travel five times faster than Muggle jets and get us wherever we’d like to go without the Ministry tracking us like they could with a Portkey — and trust me, they like to keep tabs. It’ll only be a twenty minute flight to Taipei.”

“It’s yours?”

Draco tugged her towards a carpeted set of passenger boarding stairs and a flight attendant in a smart suit holding a tray of champagne.

“It’s Serpenti’s, technically. We mostly use it to fly out our high rollers and their deep-pocketed friends when they want to really splash out. The flight, a suite, food and drink, the first twenty-thousand in credits; it’s all on us. Primes the pump, so to speak.”

Hermione pursed her lips as she reached the top of the stairs and accepted the proffered drink. “You lure them in.”

“It’s just good business. They’re going to play anyway. Why not with me?”

Suddenly she felt foolish standing there in clothes he bought, on a private jet he’d bought. How could she have forgotten how he made his money? And did he think that her morals could be bought, too?

“This was a mistake,” she said hurriedly.

Hermione pulled her fingers from his grasp, but he grabbed them back with both hands this time. LOVE and LUCK. His eyes, stern and sincere, met hers.

“It’s not a mistake. It’s a risk.”

Her voice cracked. “How can you tell?”

“Because I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, Hermione. This isn’t one of them.” He gripped her hands tighter. “Would it be fair to say there are some things I don’t know about you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Draco guided her into the plane and towards a seat covered in luxurious taupe leather. “There are things you don’t know about me, too. I want to tell you, but I need to get to know you first. That’s what tonight is about.”

Hermione sank down in the chair and looked up at him. His posture was confident, but his hands — his hands weren’t as sure. She hooked a finger beneath his wrists and found his pulse. It jumped at the slightest hint of pressure, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise.

He was nervous, too. What did he have to be nervous about? He was a handsome, rich wizard taking a witch out on a date. He probably did it all the time.

Unless he didn’t. Unless, maybe, like Pansy said, Hermione had done something to make an impression. She worried it was an incomplete one, that he might be disappointed by the reality.

“You won’t like everything you hear,” she said tartly.

“And you’ll have to keep an open mind about some things,” he shrugged. “Fair enough?”

Hermione cocked her head to the side as she slid her hands out from under his. Every relationship — not that this was a relationship — required compromise between the parties, but it seemed to her that Draco had something specific in mind.

“I’m not changing my hair, so if that’s on your list, you may as well let me off the plane now.” She crossed her arms to show him she was serious.

The cabin door closed, and the pilot’s muffled voice came over the intercom, advising them of the weather in Taipei. A heat wave, he said. Passengers, please take your seats, fasten your seatbelts, and prepare for departure.

“Don’t ever lose that fire,” Draco said as he took the seat next to her.

He leaned over and tugged one of her curls, smoothing the strands with his thumb and forefinger all the way to the ends, like he wanted to make every second of the touch count. Without breaking eye contact, his hands slid to her seat buckle, leaving Hermione near breathless as proceeded to fasten it securely across her lap. He grinned as he tugged the belt taut.

“You’re strapped in, princess. Let me show you a good time.”

Chapter Text

“More champagne, Miss Granger?”

Hermione waved off the friendly flight attendant. “No, thank you.”

She smiled and inclined her head towards Draco, who was looking out the window as the plane levelled off at altitude. “Anything else I can get you? Mr Malfoy?”

Draco declined, and she made her way back to the front of the cabin. A wand poked out of the top of her blonde beehive.

Hermione started in her seat.

“Draco,” she began. “Is she…”

“Yes, Margot and the rest of the flight crew are magical. Not to worry; everyone in my employ has an airtight NDA, and we’ll be in Muggle territory from the moment we land. No one will know we were here.”

The corners of her mouth turned up as she relaxed back into the cushy seat. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“That’s the idea,” he said.

“I’m not used to that,” she said, and when she saw his smirk, she punched him in the shoulder. “You look like you’re going to say something smug, and I actually like you right now. Don’t spoil it.”

He shot her a wide grin, then mimed buttoning his lips shut before returning his attention to the window.

“I want to see,” Hermione pouted. The ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign was off, so she unbuckled and scooted closer to Draco’s seat, leaning over the armrest and encroaching on his territory.

Draco, maintaining his promised silence, looked back at her and took her hand, pulling her up out of her seat and around in front of him, like the carpeted floors were ballroom marble and she was his waltz partner. Before she could protest, he had her in his lap, LOVE wrapped around her hip.

Together, they watched the sky fade from azure to periwinkle; from periwinkle to navy blue.

***

Hermione descended the stairs while Draco stayed behind to thank the crew and make sure the jet would be fueled and ready for their return flight in a few hours. As she smoothed her dress, she spied a gorgeous red-and-black motorbike at the hangar entrance. She stopped in her tracks when she realised two helmets rested on the seat.

“He can’t be serious,” she said under her breath.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” Draco said from behind her. “Can’t take a broom into the market.”

“Afraid?” She said with a laugh and turned to him, unable to hide her excitement. “I love riding. It’s on the ground.”

“So it is. And we’re in the motorbike capital of the world.”

“When in Taipei,” Hermione beamed.

He gestured to the bike, letting her lead the way. “Do as the Taipeians do.”

Hermione nearly sprinted to it, anxious to get her hands on the chassis. “This is gorgeous. My daddy would die.”

Draco made a choked sound. “Who?”

“My daddy, you know, my father,” she said. “He’s always wanted a Ducati. This is an 848, right?”

He caught up to her just as she picked up one of the helmets. “How did you know that?”

Hermione was flooded with warm memories of fixing up old bikes with her daddy over her summer breaks. Well, she mostly read her books in a fold-out chair on the pavement and brought him lemonade. But they’d joke about it, and she’d hand him tools while he waxed poetic about the Kawasaki Ninja, the Suzuki Intruder, and of course, every Ducati model. And when the sun began to set over 8 Heathgate, he packed up his wrenches and took her on a ride.

“I grew up around bikes,” she shrugged, enjoying Draco’s look of surprise.

He couldn’t seem to shake his shock. “I should’ve reserved two.”

“No, this is great. I’m a far better passenger,” Hermione said reassuringly. “It’s got magical safety enhancements, right?”

Draco nodded. “Only the best.”

“How far is it into the city?”

“Forty kilometres, give or take.”

A nice long ride, then. Plenty of time to take in the sights and sounds of the city. And an eternity to spend pressed against his back, arms wrapped around him, hands clutching at his abs. Hermione’s fingers flexed around her helmet, nerves jangling with the first rush of adrenaline.

She grabbed the other helmet and pressed it into his chest. “Let’s go.”

“Your wish is my command.”

His grin was all sharpness and intrigue, his gaze drifting to her lips before his head disappeared into the helmet. He flicked up the visor like he’d done it a million times and she knew she’d be replaying that moment for the rest of the night; the smooth motion of his fingers, the heat in his eyes burning even hotter when framed by black carbon fibre. He slid on gloves, the leather so soft it was soundless, without ever looking away.

Danger, a voice in her head warned, with all the efficacy of a distant siren. Draco drew his wand from a holster tucked underneath his shirt, and the blare of the imaginary klaxon turned wobbly, like she’d submerged herself in deep water. A moment later, her lungs kicked in, and she realised she’d only forgotten to breathe.

She pulled the helmet on while he cast protective spells over them both. Each movement was precise, and as his magic washed over her bare skin, goosebumps rippled in its wake. The wand bent to his will, and so did the bike, which started with a roar when he pushed the kickstand back and straddled the seat. He revved the engine and patted the seat behind him.

Hermione gripped his shoulders and dropped down onto the padded leather seat.

“Okay?” Draco shouted over the noise.

“All good,” she confirmed. Her heart galloped with anticipation, eager to be out on the road. Outside the hangar, the orange sun hung low in the sky, ready to trade places with the moon.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, adjusting his visor and jerking his head towards her hands. They still rested on his shoulders. Hermione swallowed hard and dragged them down his back — gods, she could feel the hard ridges of his muscles through his shirt — grazing his hips, finding a temporary home wrapped around his midsection.

She squeezed twice, indicating she was ready to go, and Draco leaned into the bike, and suddenly they were peeling out of the hangar and hitting the streets.

He was, predictably, a speed demon. Despite the dense traffic, he accelerated through a wide turn onto the main drag, and Hermione swallowed a whoop of delight, tightening her grip as the wind whipped through the ends of her hair. The scenery flashed by in a blur, but she got the briefest impressions of lush green trees, directly at odds with the industrial scents of ozone and petrol. Draco was dialled in, completely silent as he zoomed around the other bikes and cars, splitting lanes through green light after green light like he’d been born to ride. They followed the signs for the freeway into the city, and Draco placed one of his hands over hers, just briefly, as they merged.

It didn’t feel real. How was she here, zipping down the freeway in Taiwan on one of the world’s most expensive motorbikes with Draco Malfoy, when just a week ago she’d stayed late at the office, skipped dinner, and crashed with Ginny in front of the telly hoping Ron might stumble in before dawn?

When Ron woke her up Saturday morning and calmly delivered the news of what he’d done, it changed everything. She hadn’t known it then. But now, as the city skyline burst into view, Hermione could only feel grateful for what he’d put her through, because who could say if she’d ever have made it here? The world was so much bigger than magical Britain. There was far, far more to life than hiding behind her workaholic tendencies, letting her fear dictate her destiny, and hoping her dreams would come true. She needed to grab life by the handlebars.

Maybe she would ask Draco to drive on the way back.

For now, the road before her unfurled into the heart of Taipei. Hermione could barely make out the mountains as twilight fell, but the skyscrapers lit up in a dazzling display of blue, red, and even purple. Soon they were navigating densely packed streets, crowded with locals and tourists alike in search of dinner at the famous Raohe Street Night Market.

Draco parked, paid (Hermione noticed he had a wallet stuffed with local currency as well as Muggle credit cards), and secured their helmets on the bike with a special lock so they wouldn’t need to walk around with them all night. He’d really thought of everything.

“Same code as my drawer you broke into,” he said with a teasing smile. “In case you need to make a clean getaway.”

“I’m a witch,” she reminded him. “I don’t need a bike for that.”

He shrugged, the movement lazy and cat-like. “Maybe you want one.”

“And you’d just let me have it?”

“You’ll find I’m the giving type.”

Draco offered her his LOVE hand. She took it without a second glance, and the satisfaction — more like victory, really — on Draco’s face had her blushing. He looked both ways before guiding them across the busy road, past the gilded Ciyou Temple, and into the market.

Hermione stopped just beyond the gate to take it all in. Neon signs flickered and danced over stalls adorned with colourful banners advertising food, clothing, and other trinkets. The air hung thick with steam from sizzling meats and aromatic spices. Groups of friends and even young families chattered and laughed as they walked by, adding to the friendly atmosphere.

“Where to first?” Draco asked, handing her his wallet. She stared at it even as her hand curled around it, the leather buttery smooth under her fingertips. He noticed her wide-eyed goggling and pushed her wrist closer to her chest. “Whatever you want.”

Finally she said, “Thank you,” and pulled him through the busy entrance.

She’d planned an ideal route so as not to get swept along in the sea of hungry Muggles, and steered them towards their first stop, a cheery and inviting stall known for their braised foods. Draco was happy to have whatever she was having, so Hermione ordered duck wings, baby sweetcorn, and radish cakes. The stall’s operators, impressed with her Mandarin, threw in extra wings and unique sauces.

Everything smelled delicious, and was served piping hot. Draco lifted a wing to his mouth to have a bite, but Hermione gently pushed his arm down.

“It’s impolite to eat in front of the stall. Come on, we have a few more stops and then we can find a place to sit and eat.”

Draco took one longing look at the wing and tucked it back into its paper bowl, following her dutifully through the market, staying in the right hand lane as instructed.

“You speak the language beautifully,” he said as they approached a xiao long bao stall with a seemingly endless queue. Hermione stood on her tiptoes to read the menu, her back brushing Draco’s chest.

“You said you don’t speak Mandarin.”

“True. But I can tell. I’ve been thinking about what you said in your note about the ways we interact with language. The ways we shape it.”

She threw him a curious glance over her shoulder. He’d been thinking about that? “Oh?”

"What do you think about Derrida’s ideas on untranslatability? For instance, as far as I know, there is no direct translation for ‘yes’ in Mandarin.”

“That’s true.”

Draco nodded. “There are affirmative replies based on the verb used in the question. But in some contexts, ‘yes’ is in response to certain stimuli. What then?”

“Certain stimuli?” She echoed. What did he mean?

He ran the edge of his tongue along the seam of his lips, dragging it back under his teeth with a soft suck as he reached one hand between them and brushed the back of it against her spine. Hermione gasped, just a little, when instead of tracing his fingers up her exposed skin towards her neck, where she’d fantasised about feeling the weight of his palm, Draco dipped lower, under the fabric of her dress that draped over her bum. She grabbed his wrist just as he skimmed the lace-trimmed waist of her knickers, a no forming in her mouth even as the language of her body became very much interpretable; rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, an emptiness in her head and between her legs.

All from just his touch.

Draco leaned in, breath ghosting over her ear. “And if we were alone again?”

She released him wordlessly, and he stroked his thumb over one of her lower vertebrae before removing his touch altogether. There was no direct translation for what she wanted to say.

If I was the type who could throw caution to the wind…

If you weren’t such a scoundrel…

If I were alone with you, away from all the things that make this complicated and maybe even a little messed up…

I couldn’t be held responsible for what I’d do.

“There’s a poem,” Hermione said, voice shaky as she grasped for control. “Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den. When read aloud in modern Mandarin, it is entirely incomprehensible, since every word is pronounced ‘shi’, but when you study the Classical Chinese characters, the story becomes clear. Yuen Ren Chao wrote it as an objection to the government modernising the language; so much nuance is lost.”

“What happens in the poem?”

The queue inched forward. They were nearly at the front now.

“A poet goes to the market and purchases ten lions to eat.”

“That’s a lot for one bloke,” Draco interrupted. “Although perhaps he was as hungry as I am right now.”

Hermione didn’t miss the lascivious way he emphasised hungry. He really was a scoundrel. She crossed her arms and tried to make her tone stern. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

He held his hands up in mock surrender, and she continued.

“He kills them with arrows and brings them to his stone den, but when he arrives, the den is damp, so he instructs his servants to wipe the floors. When they finish, the poet realises the ten lion corpses are not flesh, but actually made of stone. It ends with the narrator asking the reader to explain what happened.”

Draco seemed to consider her words for a moment, then said, “Perhaps some things can’t be explained.”

“Everything has an explanation. Even magic.” Hermione tightened her arms across her chest, but it only served to push her breasts forward, advertising her cleavage and drawing out Draco’s smirk again.

“Whatever you say, princess.”

They continued to wind their way through the market. Hermione stacked his arms with container after container of crispy tofu skin, black pepper buns, mee sua, oyster balls, pickled spicy vegetables, mochi, and more. When he could barely see over the tower of food, she bought two cups of pink guava juice and led them over to a small seating area with a view of Lover’s Bridge. The bridge’s dazzling rainbow lights lit the other diners in an ever-changing array of technicolour hues as they wolfed down their food. Despite nearby music and chatter, it was quiet enough for conversation.

Hermione helped Draco set everything on one of the few remaining tables with two chairs. He insisted on pulling her chair out for her, exactly as he’d done when they ate together before, attracting knowing looks and giggles from a group of girls. Hermione hid a smile as Draco sat down across from her. Once he was settled, they both immediately dug into the food. A good few minutes passed before they spoke.

“Incredible,” Draco said, barely hanging onto his manners as he tore through another bun.

She licked tangy sauce from her fingers. “Right?”

“We’re definitely coming back.”

Hermione paused, her ring finger a scant inch from her mouth. She hadn’t thought beyond tonight. Even in her pre-dinner, possibly ovulation-fueled daydream, she’d thought they’d have a great meal, a steamy makeout (she didn’t think she’d really shag him, even if the opportunity presented itself — it just wasn’t like her to jump into things), and then she’d see him once in a while at one of Theo’s fundraisers or perhaps in passing whilst shopping in the city. They’d be cordial with one another and no one would ever have to know the part Draco played in helping her move on.

She changed the subject.

“It hasn’t cooled off much since the sun’s gone down, has it? I must be a sweaty mess.” She lifted her mass of hair up off her neck and fanned herself.

“You’re glowing.”

The simple compliment made her toes curl.

“It’s been a good week. I took a job with Blaise Zabini’s new outfit: Chief Outreach Officer. I’ll be solving colony collapse and deescalating existing territorial disputes, that sort of thing. It’s a bit of a risk, but,” She drew an excited breath and her shoulders edged up by her ears. “I think it’s the right move.”

“Risk looks good on you,” he said.

His voice sent another wave of liquid heat through her abdomen. She clutched at the bag in her lap like it was a life preserver, like without it she might be swept away.

“It’s not as much of a risk as it was before. Remember when I told you I was paid too much at the Ministry to leave?”

“Golden handcuffs,” Draco murmured, rotating his empty cup in his hand.

“Well,” she said, stretching out the last syllables. “Blaise found backers. I’ll actually make more money after I join. Even with salaried employees, there’s a road to profitability within five years. I kind of can’t believe it. I’m finally going to make a real difference.”

“Sounds like a dream come true.”

“It is,” Hermione said with a smile. She tried to meet his eyes, but he’d looked out over the river towards the bridge. “It’s beautiful here. Thank you for taking me.”

His attention was back on her, and it was disconcerting how much she’d missed it when he’d shifted it elsewhere for a few seconds.

He leaned in, a mischievous look on his face. “We should celebrate.”

She laughed. “Isn’t this celebrating?”

“This is nothing,” he said, as if it really was nothing. As if he did this all the time. Maybe he did.

“Well, it feels celebratory to me. Did you read the Prophet today?”

“I did,” he said. He leaned back in his seat and put his arms behind his head, a cheeky sparkle in his eye. “Interesting trades between the Falcons and Puddlemere, don’t you think?”

Hermione sipped her juice to hide her annoyance. “I know you read the society section.”

“Only because it’s good business. If you want me to congratulate you, just say so. Splendid breakup announcement,” he said, waving one hand in the air.

She was surprised at how much his reaction stung. All night he’d been treating her like she walked on water. “I thought you might be pleased that it's public knowledge.”

“Pleased?” He scoffed. ‘It’s terrible you had to say anything in the first place. It’s your love life; it’s no one’s business what two consenting adults decide to do regarding their romantic future. And furthermore,” Draco said, visibly irritated, “That quote from Weasley was…”

“Was what?”

He brought his arms in front of his midsection and cracked his knuckles. Combined with his dark scowl, the overall effect was downright menacing. “I hated it. He belittled your goals. Marriage. A family of your own.”

Hermione dropped her last oyster ball. “You remember that?”

She recalled saying something about it, but not exactly what. Somehow he had more of her secrets than anyone else in her life.

Draco leaned forward over the table and pinned her with a heated stare. “I remember everything you said that night.”

She ran one hand along her bare shoulder and looked away. Draco silently gathered their empty containers and disposed of everything at the nearest bin. When he returned, he sighed heavily.

“I shouldn’t have said that. About the announcement.”

“It’s fine,” she said, tone clipped. "I put it in there on purpose. I want people to know Ron wasn't the injured party."

“It worked. I don’t like being reminded that you were treated so poorly.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

He sighed again. “You didn’t see yourself. When you walked into my office…” A pause. “The casino gave him multiple chances.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“Those debt markers that you destroyed? Each one was imbued with a non-retractable offer of rehab and a ban from gambling. And not only at Serpenti; anyone who agrees to get help is banned from gambling in any magical establishment worldwide. If they want to quit for good, and they complete a stint in rehab, I clear their debts. That night on your doorstep, you accused me of giving them special deals, and I am; just not the ones you think.”

If she’d been standing she would’ve keeled over. “What? What are you saying?”

She’d never seen Draco so reluctant to speak. “If he wanted to quit, he would’ve.”

“So the markers I burned, the ones for Justin and Cho… I just made it worse. You weren’t angry about the money. You wanted them to get help.”

He nodded.

A horrible chill made its way through her veins, turning her blood to ice. She’d erased her former classmates’ debts only to lead them right back to the casino, right back to the card tables and the roulette wheels and all the things that had come between her and Ron. Did Justin and Cho have families, too? Had she ruined their chance at recovery?

“They’d declined my offer,” he said quietly. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. The only thing that changed is now they can borrow more from us.”

Borrow more? Fury, frigid and unforgiving, prickled in her chest.

“Do you realise how entirely fucked up this is?”

“I—”

Hermione cut him off. “Not only do you own the casino where people go and ruin their lives, and their families’ lives, but you also loan them the money to keep playing? And send a private jet to get them and their friends so you can take them for all they’re worth, too?”

“If I didn’t do it, someone else would.”

“That’s your defence? I can’t believe you,” She knew she’d crossed the line into shrillness, but she was so incensed that she couldn’t care less that the Muggles at the surrounding tables were pretending, rather uncomfortably, not to hear the conversation. “How do you sleep at night? Do you tell yourself it’s fine because you make anonymous donations to Theo’s research? You look in the mirror and, what, see an ethical billionaire? I have news for you, Draco, there are no ethical billionaires.”

He shrugged. “It’s not a perfect solution. But people are going to gamble. And not everyone has a problem. Most of them come to Serpenti once, maybe twice, for a birthday or a hen do, that sort of thing. Maybe they win a little, maybe they lose. They go home and all’s well that ends well. Every magical community could ban it, and there would still be underground establishments that would deal in much darker magic than I do. Or they’d go to the Muggle world and get their fix; I’ve seen enough of it now to know Muggles can never agree on banning anything, let alone something that makes this much money. There will always be vice. We can’t all be virtuous.”

“There will always be vice, I’m not saying there won’t be. But there could be less of it,” she insisted.

“I don’t disagree. I’m going about it the way I know best.”

Hermione folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. “And that way happens to make you money.”

“Are we pretending money doesn’t matter?” He snorted. “Because I think it matters very much, even to you. You said it yourself; you couldn’t have taken that job with Blaise if he didn’t provide a salary.”

“That’s entirely different. I have to afford to live,” she said, bristling at the allegation.

“So did I,” he said calmly. “When Vince and I started this, I had nothing. No money, no prospects, no ability to heal my best friend in the whole world. Do you know what it’s like to not be able to save someone you love?”

“I did, once,” Hermione admitted, her ire subsiding as she thought of the time she spent agonising over how to keep her parents out of Voldemort’s sights. If she hadn’t been able to bring their memories back, that would have been as good as losing them forever; almost worse, really, to imagine them in Australia, blissfully unaware of their only daughter for the rest of their days.

She wasn’t about to change her mind about what he did for a living, but she knew from years of working with skittish, finicky creatures that sometimes, after you made your point, it was better to back off. “Walk with me?”

Draco stood and came around to her side of the table. He gently pulled out her chair, but didn’t take her hand and help her up like before. She didn’t realise until that moment how much she wanted him to; how every second spent without his touch felt like wasted time. It was impossible to stay angry with him; for some reason, it always had been. Even during their sixth year at Hogwarts, she’d looked past his sneers and seen the wretchedness in his haunted eyes. When she’d spoken up for him before eighth year, it’d seemed the right thing to do, but mostly, she remembered a miserable boy with malinformed ideas borne of fear, not true malice.

In some ways, maybe Draco was still that boy, except instead of Pureblood supremacy, he believed that enough money would take away the feeling of powerlessness.

They exited the market in silence. Hermione hoped he’d open up further, but she suspected she’d pushed him too far, especially for a first date. The gap between them suddenly seemed more of a chasm.

When they were almost back to where they’d parked, he spoke without looking at her.

“You asked how I sleep.”

“I did,” Hermione said. “But Draco, I was angry, I—”

“Please,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Let me talk before I lose my nerve.”

Cool, confident Draco Malfoy, in danger of losing his nerve? She stopped right there on the pavement, the temple’s golden light casting both their shadows underneath her feet. A gaggle of tourists registered their displeasure, unsubtly bumping into her as they pushed past.

“Okay.”

Draco scanned their periphery before ducking his head under an awning, motioning for her to follow him. He guided her into a niche on the side of the temple inlaid with centuries-old stone carvings. They were still visible from the street, but it was quieter, and offered some sense of privacy. Hermione leaned against a dragon, the engraving no less fierce than the real thing; scales cool and smooth. Draco, half-cast in shadow, paced back and forth. She waited.

He carded LUCK through his hair, pale strands still sleek despite the relentless humidity. “I don’t. Sleep, I mean. I have nightmares. I don’t normally have anyone stay the night.”

Was she going mad, or was he blushing?

He stopped in his tracks, caging her into the niche, tugging his collar down even further to reveal more of his pale skin. “These shards of glass? Do you know where they’re from?”

She shook her head. "No."

"You should."

All her breath stole out of her lungs. She’d never noticed before, but the tattooed glass was far too faceted to be from, say, an apothecary jar, or a window. It was more like… cut crystal. From a chandelier.

Hermione slowly lifted her hand and set it on his chest, over a fragment shaped like a diamond. Over his heart.

“Am I there?”

“You’re always there,” he whispered.

They stood like that, tucked away together, for an indefinite amount of time.

Hermione stepped closer to him. She didn’t remove her hand. “You did your best. I know you knew it was Harry. Your lie helped us get out of there alive.”

“It wasn’t enough. I’ve seen your scar,” he said, grimacing. “I could’ve changed everything. That was my chance. I could’ve taken the risk; I wanted to. But I let opportunity pass me by. I won’t do it again.”

“I know.”

It struck her how much she meant it, how much she wasn’t just saying it to reassure him.

Draco’s jaw tensed. “Before you turned up at my door last week, I’d drawn up an agreement for Weasley. I planned to give him the deed back if he would sign onto a repayment plan for the rest of his debt. He’d been offered rehab before and I thought this was a deal he’d take. I was finishing the contract right as he walked in, but then I saw he’d brought you with him and I… I couldn’t give him the out. The minute I realised he was using you to fight his battles, I don’t know, I snapped. I couldn’t handle it.”

Everything came back to her in a rush. Draco, imperious behind his stately desk, pulling his quill up from a length of parchment. Draco, wrenching his reading glasses off his face with a dark scowl. Draco, seeing the situation for what it was; seeing her.

As she glanced up at him, tears pricked at her eyes. His fingers slid around her elbow and pulled her closer, eliminating the distance between them, surrounding her in his warm cedar scent. The world narrowed to just the two of them, the busy street fading to the background.

With his other hand, Draco grasped the nape of her neck, and tilted her head back, running his thumb over the soft spot right beneath her ear. Up close, he was all hard angles; cut by his fall from grace, honed sharper still by the arduous climb back to the top. But there was something delicate that lingered there, in the grey. Something she was slowly realising that only she got to see.

“Don’t, princess,” he said, his voice a low rumble, words just for her. “You know I can’t bear to see you cry.”

A quiver wracked her frame, like her body knew what would happen before she did.

Hermione anticipated gentleness, but his mouth took hers with clear, masculine possession. He let her feel how much bigger he was; how much stronger, cradling her head as she gave into him and let herself be conquered. His lips were commanding, yet entreating at the same time, sliding against hers with a hunger she’d never experienced.

She felt hot all over, lost in the scorch of his tongue as he set his thumb to her chin and made her open for him. He offered her no reprieve; he simply persisted in consuming her, stroking his tongue along hers. A needy sound emerged from somewhere in his throat, and her knees buckled. He hauled her closer; kissed her more deeply. He tasted like sin and spices and triumph.

Just like that, wildfire blazed through her brain, incinerating any remaining ability to think, process, do anything but submit to the uncontrollable burn. Her senses were completely overrun, and it was all she could do to throw her arms around his neck and hang onto him. Draco rewarded her for the surrender, lavishing her with unspoken praise with every lick, every nip, every suck.

A passerby whistled in their direction, and with great reluctance, and not as much embarrassment as she probably ought to feel, Hermione broke away. Her eyes fluttered open, and she nearly gasped. Draco looked as wrecked as she felt, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving, lips wet and stained red from the intensity of their kisses. He brought both his hands to her hips and squeezed. It grounded her, kept her from feeling like she might float off.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. In truth, she was waiting for him to continue the seduction. Maybe tuck a curl behind her ear, say something smooth, entice her back to the bike, back to the jet, back to his bed. But his gaze was raw, searching. Did he think he’d scared her off, being rough like that? Or was he too shy to ask her to come home with him? Draco wasn’t shy; never had been. Any moment now, he’d extend the invitation. After a kiss like that, all he had to do was ask. Hint, even.

But he didn’t.

“It’s still early. Back in London,” Draco said. “We could keep exploring.”

She wasn’t expecting that. “Um, sure. Unless you need to be back?”

He wanted to stay out?

It dawned on her that she had no idea how rare it might be for him to take a night off, let alone how much it might be costing him to miss a Friday night at Serpenti. Surely the weekends were the busiest times, when he should be mixing with high rollers and helping his floor managers keep an eye on things. And it was summertime; tourist season. Hadn’t Pansy said Draco constantly turned down his friends’ requests to hang out?

He waved it off. “No, I have it covered. Our clients can make do for one evening.”

Draco offered her his arm. Hermione accepted it without pause, even though it felt rather formal after the passion he poured into their kiss, and let him guide her back to the main thoroughfare. Maybe he wanted to take things slow? It didn’t seem like his style — especially not after she’d held on for dear life as he tore through the streets on the Ducati — but he’d been respectful of her since she reentered his orbit. Mostly respectful, if she didn’t count smearing her lip balm and hauling her up her stairs.

In the past, she’d bristled at the first sign of caveman-like behaviour from a man. It reminded her of Ron demanding an instantaneous shower of attention every time he recapped his decade-old Quidditch highlights; or McLaggen propping his wet boots up on her desk. The only way to deal with that sort of buffoonery was to shut it down, and quickly. But the dynamic with Draco was different, in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

He was possessive, but his version made her feel safe. Demanding, too, which should bother her. If anyone got to be bossy, it was usually her, but that had faded under the crushing weight of her failing relationship and dismal work life. Now that she’d jettisoned both her ex and her job, it stood to reason that she’d revert back to her old ways. But with Draco, she didn’t feel the urge to take complete control over every situation. She wasn’t powerless by any means; that wouldn’t suit. But she didn’t need to derive her power from excessive preparedness or perfect knowledge or any of the things someone who knew her on a surface level would associate with Hermione Granger.

With Draco, she could be herself.

The epiphany made her unsteady on her feet, and she leaned into the support of his arm. He paused and looked down at her, his face etched with concern.

“I’m okay,” Hermione said. When he didn’t resume walking, she added, “It’s been a big day.”

“Quite,” he acknowledged. “I’d like to apologise, again, for earlier. You’re right to celebrate the announcement. Selfish of me to make it about my feelings.”

“Thank you. A lot of people are making it about them, and I… I don’t know. When I’m with you, I don’t have to think about how difficult things were. Instead I can think about the things I ignored for too long, like the future. Or I can just not think at all,” she said, biting her lip.

He hummed, clearly pleased by her flirty admission. “Happy to help.”

Hermione was about to say something a little more naughty when she noticed a bright red sign flickering above Draco’s head. “Look, a tattoo parlour.”

He turned to look. “Nice place.”

“I doubt those artists tattoo themselves like you have. They’d be so impressed with your work.”

“I’m more impressed with theirs. They don’t have wands.” Draco approached the clean, brightly-lit shop window. Inside, a man lay very still on a long black bench while an artist leaned over him, carefully guiding their needle along his bicep. “You couldn’t pay me to get a tattoo the Muggle way.”

“Must be really painful,” she said in agreement.

“Have you ever thought about getting one?”

“A Muggle tattoo? Absolutely not.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How about a magical one?”

Merlin, this man. He noticed everything, always reading between the lines.

Hermione pretended to consider it, cocking her head to the side. He wasn’t daring her, but something about the unveiled interest in his tone awakened her competitive side. “I think I could handle it."

"Yeah? What if I tattooed you?"

She felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. "I might be into that."

“Are you joking? If you’re not, I’ll draw up something on the flight home.”

“If I like it, you can put it on me,” she promised. 

He had already turned them away from the window and back towards where he’d parked the bike, eagerness in his steps. “Where do you want it?”

That part she didn’t have to think about.

“Here,” she said, running her fingers along her forearm, over her scar. “Something small. Tasteful.”

“Black and white? Colour?”

“Colour, I think.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I think I know just the thing.”

Hermione peppered him with questions about the design all the way back to the bike, fizzing with so much anticipation that she completely forgot about asking to drive back to the hangar. Draco insisted he wanted to surprise her with the sketch and wouldn’t give her a single hint. She couldn’t decide whether it was sweet or torturous or both.

She was still pleading her case, even pushing her lips into a fetching pout, when Draco fit the helmet over her head and made sure it was secure. When she slid behind him, she didn’t hesitate before wrapping her arms around him and squeezing to let him know she was ready to go. Draco took it slower on the ride back, keeping one gloved hand on the handlebars, the other bare, solely occupied with interlacing his fingers with hers.

All too soon, they boarded the jet and bid Taiwan farewell. Hermione lamented that they’d missed out on bubble tea, and Draco chuckled, insisting they could always come back.

He’d said it earlier. We’re definitely coming back.

After takeoff, Draco slid his glasses on — the sight of him in simple, steel-framed eyewear made her insides go as wobbly as a bowl of jelly slugs — and set himself to sketching. Hermione tried to peek, but he cast a glamour over the parchment that made it look like he was drawing a crude, stick-figure version of Crookshanks. Cute, but not something she wanted to get tattooed on herself.

As they said goodnight to the flight crew, Hermione grew nervous. When they Apparated into their second sunset of the day, she thought she might combust with anxiety. Her hands shook when she inserted her key in the lock and opened the door to her flat.

Draco followed her into her living room. Ever-attuned to her mood, his tone was kind and reassuring. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I’ll show you the design, and if you don’t like it, no hard feelings. Though,” he grinned as he joined her on the sofa, “I bet you will.”

He withdrew his wand and a folded piece of parchment. He handed her the parchment, and when Hermione opened it, he tapped the centre, removing the glamour and revealing his sketch.

“Oh, Draco,” she murmured. “This is… I love it.”

He’d drawn a miniature version of her bluebell flames. Three blue fireballs hovered inside an ornate lantern encrusted with sapphires. The flames pulsed and glowed behind the glass, and she wondered what it might feel like to have them dance across her skin.

Draco leaned over and admired his design. “It’s your spell, right? Not just for Howlers. Unless my memory deceives me, you also set Snape’s robes on fire with this one.”

“I did,” she said with a wistful laugh. Did he have any idea how much this spell; and his art, meant to her? “I also put them in a jar, when Harry, Ron and I were in the Forest of Dean seventh year. Some nights I couldn’t sleep, I was so afraid the Snatchers might find us. I’d lay on my cot in the tent and cast my flames, make them spin above my head like stars. Even now, if I’ve had a bad dream and I can’t cast, I turn on the telly because the blue light makes me feel safe.”

“They’re your power,” Draco whispered, stroking her forearm gently. His fingers smoothed over the ridges of her scar; the ugly, unfinished word.

This time, she captured his lips in a brief, tender kiss.

“Do it,” she said, then added, “Please.”

“If you’re sure…” He trailed off.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

Draco waved his wand over her arm, muttering unfamiliar incantations. Ink in every shade of blue — cerulean, cornflower, ultramarine — unfurled across her skin as if painted with elegant brushstrokes, Draco’s illustration coming to life in a burst of magic. She felt a sharp pinch as the tattoo sealed itself to her body, and she gripped her thigh with her free hand to keep from crying out. Then, almost as quickly as it began, it was over.

Neither of them said a word as Hermione lifted her arm and examined her new tattoo. The fresh ink extended from the crook of her elbow to the top of her wrist, the body of the lantern completely eclipsing the scar. It sparkled faintly in the lamplight, flames swirling merrily inside.

Her heart caught in her throat. There was a certain symmetry to the moment, she realised. Draco was there when she was scarred; and he was here now, helping to cover it, since it could never be undone.

He shifted beside her. “What do you think?”

The glow of the flames intensified, as if responding to his voice. “It’s gorgeous. I’m a bit speechless, really.”

“I added a charm,” he said.

His voice was soothing, but a jolt of alarm spiked through her anyway.

“One I invented. And before you panic, I can remove it. But I’d like it if you gave it a trial run.”

“What does it do?”

“It’s simple. Whenever your body needs something, the flames will burn brighter. You’ll feel a gentle buzzing sensation, too. It’s designed to get your attention so you’ll get up and get a drink of water, eat dinner, that sort of thing.”

“For when you’re not around to nanny me?” she asked tartly.

“Something like that,” he conceded. “I worry about you.”

“I’m doing fine. Well, even.”

Draco swept a finger across her cheekbone, just under her eye, making her shudder. “I bet you’ve got dark circles under this makeup. I’ll double down and say there’s hardly anything in your kitchen. I’d even be willing to go all in and say you still haven’t refilled those potion prescriptions in your medicine cabinet.”

What could she say? He was right. She’d made some changes in her life, but they hadn’t resulted in any gains just yet. Still, he’d gone through her medicine cabinet? She supposed he didn’t get the Dreamless Sleep he’d given her out of thin air, and he’d probably had to move everything when he redid the loo. But it bothered her all the same. It was embarrassing to think he’d seen her face creams and feminine products.

She decided to embarrass him right back. “They’re for birth control, if you must know. I haven’t refilled them because I haven't needed it. And there's always the charm.”

But unlike most men, Draco wasn’t mortified at the mere mention of contraceptives. He shrugged and stood to face her. “The reason doesn’t matter; the win conditions were met. If this were a real bet I’d be walking away tonight a richer man.”

She huffed, but he continued.

“Wager aside, I’m saying you’re going to run yourself into the ground. You’ve ditched the dead weight; the bad job and the shit boyfriend. But you’re going to end up right back where you started if you don’t take care of the basics.”

“What about you?”

His brow furrowed. “What about me?”

Hermione pushed off the couch and stepped towards him, lifting her chin to its most imperious position. “Are you taking care of all your needs? Sleeping well? Seeing friends? I don’t think so.”

Draco didn’t take the bait. “My needs are a touch more complicated. Yours, however, are quite easily met.”

“And so you’re going to meet them?” She asked, regretting the words as soon as they flew out of her mouth. “I mean, your charm is? You’re so sure you can predict me?”

His answer was immediate and firm. “Yes.”

Draco yanked her into him by her hips and kissed her, smothering any further protest. Hermione melted into his warmth. There was less urgency, now that they were alone in her quiet flat, and Draco took advantage of the slower pace. He ran his hands over the bare skin of her back, skimming up and over her shoulders, sliding the thin strap of her dress through his fingers like he was contemplating slipping it off.

She let her shoulder drop; just enough to encourage him.

Maybe she was predictable.

Draco didn’t press his advantage, though. He stayed in bounds, sticking to the skin she already had on display. She wanted him to pull her under like a riptide, until he tired her out and made her surrender, and she gripped the back of his neck, urging him to drown everything out and force her to simply feel. But the more she tried to lose herself in him, the more Draco’s intensity ebbed away.

Gods, it was frustrating. He wanted her, didn’t he? He was hard; she could feel him thick against her thigh, even through two layers of fabric. They had their differences, yes, but their chemistry was undeniable, elemental, and it seemed only sensible that they experiment. With his body pressed against hers, it was the most sensible thing in the world. A whine escaped her lips as she chased his tongue with hers, and Draco retreated even further.

“Test it out,” he said softly, between featherlight kisses. “Would it help if I said please?”

Hermione hummed. “It might.”

“Please test it out. It’d make me very happy.”

“Alright,” she said. How he got her to cave so easily, she’d never understand. “I’ll give it a week.”

His eyes darkened, but he released her. “Let me know how you get on.”

“That’s it?”

“What more do you want?” His roguish grin implied he was up to something, but he wasn’t quite ready to reveal his hand.

Hermione rubbed her arm as her heart sank. She considered asking him to stay, but she didn’t want to come off desperate. In that moment, she felt a strange kinship with the lion-eating poet. She thought she’d brought back a lion, only to find him made of stone.

He wasn't cold; that wasn't it. More like impenetrable. But he'd confessed a vulnerability outside the temple, and it brought them closer. Maybe there were fissures in his facade, and she only needed to take a chisel to them. She hadn't intended on anything more than an unforgettable shag, yet here she was, wondering how she might carve him to fit into her life. The very notion made her head spin. 

Instead of answering Draco, she walked him to the door. “Thank you again. Tonight was…” She barely stopped herself from spilling her unfiltered thoughts.

Wonderful, but also terrible, because you kiss me like you want nothing more than to make love to me all night and never let me leave your bed, but won't just do it and let me get you out of my system.

“Illuminating,” Draco supplied when she didn’t continue. 

"Something like that."

He smirked. “We'll do it again soon. Get some rest, princess. Keep that clean and moisturised,” he said, trailing his fingers along the edge of her tattoo. “Remember, it’ll alert you if you need tending to.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Hermione felt the magic flare across her arm, warm and tingly. She was suddenly acutely aware of her sore feet, aching from walking all night, and the heaviness of her eyelids. The evening’s many surprises had kept her on her toes, but now she wanted nothing more than to burrow into her bed and surrender to sleep. She could process in the morning.

As soon as she admitted to herself that she was knackered, a sense of calm washed over her. Her muscles relaxed, and her breathing deepened. She marvelled at the way the charm quieted her mind to help meet her body's demands.  

Hermione leaned into him, burying her face against his chest. “I am pretty tired.”

“There’s a good girl,” Draco murmured, a thread of pride in his voice. He kissed her forehead as he opened the door. “You’re getting the hang of it already.”

Chapter Text

Hermione and Ginny, each carrying a linen tote full of summer vegetables, wound their way through the busy South Kensington farmers market in search of the perfect cheese. Hermione smoothed one sleeve of her cardigan, careful not to rub the fresh tattoo underneath. The morning was clear, if a bit chilly; the perfect chaser to her steamy Friday night.

“Brie goes with everything,” Ginny insisted. She looked right at home in Muggle London in a seafoam green blouse, faded jeans and trainers. “And it won’t get waxy.”

“Yes, but you always get brie. I’m in the mood to try something different.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?”

Hermione pretended to consider a carton of farm fresh eggs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“First of all, you never come to the farmers market with us. You always complain it’s too early on a Saturday. Secondly, and this is related to my first point — you’re predictable in the extreme.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Harry and Theo, who were sampling strawberries at an adjacent booth. “It is too early, but Harry owled me an apology. He thought this might be a good opportunity to mend fences. And I’m not that predictable.”

She frowned. Hadn’t Draco said something similar last night? When she’d woken up that morning, groggy but sated, and with pillow lines creasing her face, she was almost certain she’d dreamed it all; the date, the kiss, the tattoo. But Harry’s owl persisted at her window, and by the time she read her friend’s heartfelt words, she was nearly late to meet up with them.

“Oh really? You don’t have lunch with Harry and Theo every Monday? You don’t get the same salad every time? You don’t make me watch that ridiculous Muggle film where Leonardo da Vinci helps the poor girl and the prince get together whenever it comes on?”

“Ever After is a classic.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here. Doubly glad that he apologised,” Ginny said, eying a hunk of halloumi as they approached the cheesemonger’s stall. “It’s just unusual. Normally you stew a bit before gracing us with your presence again.”

“And usually you don’t look this chic on a weekend. I love it, but what happened to your baggy jumpers? Did you get a stylist or something? Between this and that fancy dress Thursday night, I might think someone’s been taking my best friend shopping without me.”

“Are we best friends?” Ginny said, ignoring the comment and poking Hermione in her ribs. “I was thinking I might promote Marietta. Though I have it on good authority she’s a bit of a sneak.”

“Sod off, you witch,” Hermione laughed.

Ginny tutted as she pulled a coin purse from her pocket. “All those fancy N.E.W.T.s and you’re forgetting the International Statute of Secrecy. So, before Harry and his merry band of Auror trainees haul you away, what about this cheddar?”

“Cheddar’s good. No brie. We’re switching it up around here.”

“Alright, alright,” Ginny said. She paid for the cheese and took Hermione’s hand as they rejoined the crowd. “Ron asked me to tell you something. Don’t worry, nothing bad.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Okay.”

“A few reporters have reached out asking for a statement. He’s not going to say anything, and he’s made all of us promise — the family, including my mum — not to say anything, either.”

“That’s good of him,” Hermione said, and Ginny nodded. “Is he… He’s not gambling anywhere, is he?”

She hadn’t thought she’d ask. Ron wasn’t her responsibility anymore, and frankly, it was a relief not to worry about him in the incessant way she had when they were together. But as her anger faded, and she felt more and more like herself, she found she could appreciate that Ron seemed to be taking the high road.

She would never forget the weak way he handed her over to Draco, or his casual cruelty that night at the Burrow. It would be fine by her if she and Ron never saw each other again. They probably would though, being who they were; who the wizarding world would always remember them as. There would someday be a fundraiser, or a gala, or perhaps even a wedding, and they would be forced to cross paths.

On that day, Hermione would be prepared. She’d contemplated revenge, of course, but as good as it might feel in the moment to throw a glass of wine in Ron’s face or transfigure his dinner into a writhing mass of caterpillars, Hermione wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Those were the kinds of dramatics her younger self might’ve pulled before storming back to Gryffindor Tower and bawling her eyes out, but she was long past her teenage rage. Besides, she’d regret any childish actions later, not because they would make the papers, but because any display of pettiness would give the public the idea she hadn’t moved on. No, the next time she saw Ron, she would be cordial but aloof; and with any luck, escorted by her new boyfriend, dressed to kill.

Her stomach fluttered at the thought of that boyfriend being Draco. But that would never happen. Her friends would eventually accept a Slytherin, but they would never understand if she started seriously seeing a Marked Death Eater, even if he’d changed completely.

A flicker of heat raced along the length of her tattoo, and Hermione fought the urge to scratch it.

“Gambling? As far as I can tell, he isn’t. It seems like it’s the furthest thing from his mind. He’s taken more shifts at the shop, which isn’t sustainable but seems to help his mood, and when he’s not there, Harry’s with him. We’re all worried.”

“Are you still thinking about having an intervention?”

“Next weekend.”

Hermione avoided Ginny’s gaze. “I’d help but… You understand.”

“I’d never ask you to.” Ginny squeezed her hand, and Hermione squeezed back. “Between my brothers and Harry, we’ve got it covered. Bill found a reputable rehab facility in Brighton and Harry offered to pay for ninety days of treatment. Ron just has to say yes.”

“I should’ve said something earlier,” Hermione said remorsefully. “Not that it would’ve made a difference for our relationship — that was bound to end, I see that now — but he might’ve gotten the right help, and sooner.”

Ginny stopped short. “Nope, not letting you go there. I didn’t let Harry go there with Theo, either. You were ashamed, though you needn’t have been, and trying to fix things without wounding Ron’s ego or giving up on your future together. Theo was only trying to keep their wedding day from being tarnished. And it’s not like I didn’t know something was up. I didn’t know what it was, but I could’ve asked. I could’ve cornered him after work and made him tell me what was wrong.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, throwing her arms around Ginny’s neck. “I don’t want to hide anything from you anymore.”

“Me either.”

Hermione dropped her hands to Ginny’s shoulders. She could say something to Ginny about Draco, couldn’t she? Ginny had never judged her. If she could just explain that she didn’t know if things would go anywhere between them, but Draco was helping her, and he made her feel pretty and smart and desirable, yes, but also like she’d been struck by lightning, and all her critical thinking skills instantly evaporated any time he put his hands on her… Maybe Ginny could understand.

It didn’t seem like Ginny had ever had that with Harry. Hermione could honestly say she’d never felt it with Ron. But Ginny was the most inventive, imaginative person she knew. If anyone would take Hermione at her word, it was her.

They spoke at the same time.

“Which is why I want to —”

“Hermione, you should know —”

“There they are!”

They whipped their heads towards the sound of Theo’s voice. Theo waved, then turned to make sure Harry saw. The two men approached, wheeling a basket behind them.

“Hey,” Ginny said. “Get anything good?”

“Loads of greens,” Theo announced proudly. “And Harry found honeycomb. We bought strawberries, too. If we hadn’t I think they might’ve banned us from coming back.”

Harry tugged at Ginny’s tote, mouth stained red from eating so many strawberries. “What’s this? No brie? But I love brie.”

Hermione laughed and threw her hands up in exasperation. “For the love of Mer— I mean, God. Go back and get the brie. I need some cherries.”

“Talk later?” Ginny asked, as Harry pulled her eagerly back towards the cheesemonger.

“Yeah,” Hermione said, though she had a sinking feeling. “For sure.”

Instead of following Harry, Theo walked alongside Hermione. He didn’t say anything, even as they approached a booth boasting container after container of glossy black cherries, and he remained quiet as she made her selection, paid, and guided it into her tote. She was so used to the companionable silence that when he finally spoke, she nearly jumped.

“How long?”

“What?” She spluttered.

Theo dropped his chin towards her arm, and Hermione stopped breathing. Her sleeve had ridden up, and the bottom half of the lantern was peeking out. The bluebell flames glinted in the early morning sun.

Hermione felt the world tilt on its axis. She hadn’t had time to think about what she’d say if someone besides Pansy or Ginny found out about whatever was rapidly unfolding between her and Draco. Pansy could keep a secret; Ginny, too. They were girls’ girls, through and through. But would Theo keep a secret for her? If Theo told Harry then Harry would hate her, and Ron would find out, and maybe then he’d talk to the papers, and if the press was bad enough it might cost her the job with Blaise, and, and, and…

“Hermione?”

Theo’s voice snapped her back to reality. She swallowed the urge to tell the whole truth, putting forward a half-truth instead. “It’s not what you think.”

“It’s not a new tattoo?”

The tightness in her chest dissipated, and the buoyancy of relief filled her lungs. She’d assumed he would recognise Draco’s handiwork, but how would Theo know that? Of course he was only curious about the tattoo.

“Oh, um, yes. How did you know?”

Theo quirked an eyebrow. “The skin around the ink is still a bit red. Healers tend to notice these things. And even if I wasn’t a Healer, I didn’t see this Thursday night. How long have you had it?”

“Maybe twelve hours or so.”

He motioned for her to show him, and she reluctantly rolled up the rest of her sleeve. He took her wrist and rotated it twice, keen eyes honing in on the glimmering blue fireballs. “It looks good, but needs more moisture. What salve are you using?”

Hermione felt herself blush. “I didn’t exactly plan ahead, so I’ve been using some murtlap I had on hand.”

“That won’t do,” he tsked. “Do yourself a favour and stop by the apothecary. Get something dittany-based. Should lock in the charm as well.” Theo tilted his head forward to examine the tattoo more closely. “Fancy spellwork; can’t say I’m familiar.”

“I’m not sure if I’m keeping the charm yet,” she said hurriedly.

“I can’t whip out my wand here but whatever it is, it’s strong magic. I could feel the protection elements before I even saw the tattoo. And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a layer of…” His voice trailed off. “This is over your scar.”

She’d never hidden it away; not in Eighth Year, and not after. Everyone had seen it, though few knew the story behind it, and most people assumed she wore it like a badge of honour. Theo, being married to Harry, knew its dark origin.

“Yeah. I mean, yeah, I realised I didn’t want to be reminded of that day anymore. It’s in the past, and you know, we’re all moving forward.”

“It’s natural to want to separate yourself from the trauma you experienced,” he said contemplatively, dropping her wrist. “A symbolic act like this might help you process. Timing’s interesting, of course.”

Hermione pulled her sleeve back down and clutched her arm to her chest. “What do you mean?”

Theo stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and shrugged. “You split with Ron after nearly a decade of dating, and all of a sudden you’re getting a magical tattoo and leaving your stable, well-paid government post to work with one of Slytherin’s finest. You’ve kept it squeaky clean for a long time. It makes sense you might like a taste of the forbidden.”

She rubbed her lips together, smudging the remains of her lip balm. Theo’s theory made sense on paper; after all, hadn’t she thought she just needed to get Draco out of her system? But it was like Draco had sensed it and smoked her out, leaving without giving her what he knew she wanted. It stung, at first. She’d felt exposed and somewhat raw, stripped bare by the intensity of his kisses and the purposefulness of his touch.

But that was just it. Draco never did anything without reason, even when he was young. He played a long game.

A taste was nothing but an initial wager for him, a starting bid. He would wait to see if she would ante up. Then, and only then, would he decide if he wanted to play.

Her pulse raced, and her tattoo seemed to throb.

“You’re a Slytherin. Pansy’s a Slytherin. You’re not all bad.”

“Draco’s a Slytherin,” Theo said casually.

A thorough defence leapt to the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back down. “Yes, and so are Daphne Greengrass, Astoria Lovegood… Just because I was with Ron and he hates Slytherins doesn’t mean that I do. I’m full of surprises, actually.”

“I don’t doubt it. I never took you for someone who would wear someone else’s charmwork on your body, not after what Bellatrix did.”

“They didn’t exactly ask.”

“Pressed their luck, did they?”

“Theo,” Hermione said, lowering her voice.

Theo wheeled his basket to the neighbouring booth, piled high with several varieties of apples. He picked up a pink lady, examining the skin for any soft spots.

“You haven’t asked me about my research lately,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’ve been so wrapped up with everything with Ron and work. Have you had any recent breakthroughs?”

Theo weighed a few apples before adding them to a paper sack. “We’re getting closer to a new treatment for the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. The French developed a diagnostic charm that highlights the parts of the brain injured during and after the curse, and that led to the creation of a spell that acts on these areas separately to promote a faster, near-total recovery.”

“That’s incredible.”

“It is. We want to roll it out worldwide, teach it to every Healer, but there’s a hangup.”

Her ears perked up. Perhaps she could help. “What is it? Are the wand motions complex? You could consider a diagram —”

“It has a familial preference,” Theo said, his lips drawn in a thin line. “For the perpetrator. The spell is only successful if the Healer is related to the original caster.”

Hermione didn’t mean to, but she looked down at her arm.

Bellatrix Black Lestrange. Narcissa Black Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy.

Theo’s gaze was calculating. “I don’t suppose you’re feeling more energised this morning? Less anxious?”

“I went to bed early,” she said, mind whirling. “Theo, a random tattoo artist would have no idea how to cast a spell like that. I mean, at this stage, I’m sure it’s proprietary.”

“Oh, it’s not my spell. You’re buzzing with old family magic,” he said. “And I’m developing a theory.”

“What sort of old family magic?”

“Maybe ask the random artist,” Theo shrugged. He scanned the table of apples before selecting a shiny green granny smith and tossing it to her. She barely caught it.

Hermione thought back to the bowl of green apples in Draco’s kitchen and swiftly returned it to the pile. It was obvious Theo had figured out it was Draco that gave her the tattoo. But he wasn’t saying it outright. It was his way of showing support, she realised; Theo was affording her privacy, but making it plain that he was available, should she want to open up to him.

She hesitated, teetering on the edge of telling him everything. Maybe Theo could translate some of Draco’s tentativeness the night before. She really thought he’d stay the night, or at least make plans to see her again. As glad as she was to have heard from Harry, Hermione had hoped she’d find an owl from Draco this morning, too.

Was there something holding him back? Had she come on too strong? She felt out of her depth, and that was somewhere she’d never been comfortable.

Rather than convey that insecurity to Theo, she said, “We should find Harry and Ginny.”

“If that’s what you want.”

They walked in uneasy silence back to the cheesemonger, where Harry was paying for the largest wheel of brie Hermione had ever seen. While Theo and Ginny attempted to fit it into either his basket or her tote bag, both of which were groaning with fresh fruits and vegetables, Harry pulled Hermione aside.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, ruffling the hair at the back of his head. “I really am sorry, Hermione. I was a complete wanker. Ron set me straight.”

She was stunned. “He did?”

“Yeah. He said there was no way in hell you two would give it another go. Said not even goblin silver could fuse you back together. He knows he messed up.”

Hermione shuffled her feet awkwardly. “That’s good, I guess.”

“I don’t know how you were handling everything on your own.”

“I wasn’t handling it,” she admitted. “He wasn’t, either. But maybe now he will.”

“We’ll see. It’s touch and go. One minute I think he’ll get it together and the next… Never mind. Let me worry about that. You’ve done your bit.” Harry said. “What about you? I’m here for you, you know that, right? And since he’s my husband and marriage means you can speak for the other person, Theo is here for you too.”

Theo and Ginny, who’d finally wrestled the cheese into the basket, seemingly at the expense of most of the strawberries, joined them. Ginny slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulders.

“Same,” Ginny said. “Don’t hold back.”

Hermione met Theo’s dark, curious eyes and smiled weakly. “I’m feeling much better. Promise.”

Harry planted a brotherly kiss on the top of her head. “I’m glad. I have to go finish up some paperwork — don’t look at me like that,” he said to Theo. “We’ve got six new Auror trainees and this year’s crop doesn’t know their arses from their elbows.”

“I’ve got work, too,” Ginny said. “But this was lovely. Probably pointless to ask, but will there be enough brie left to make something Friday night?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “There’s an entire wheel, Ginevra.”

They all looked at Harry expectantly.

“Why are you always — It was one time! One time!”

***

Tidy the flat? Check.

Eat a healthy lunch? Check.

Hot yoga class at the gym around the corner followed by a luxurious twenty minute shower? Check.

Hermione had done everything she could think of and her bluebell flames continued to bother her. She’d even gone to the apothecary, filled her prescriptions, and bought the dittany cream Theo recommended. It took away some of the itch, but it only made the underlying throbbing more intense.

She pushed up the sleeve of her bathrobe and examined her arm. The tattoo was far less angry looking, but the magic gnawed at her like she was forgetting something.

“What is it?” She asked aloud.

Crookshanks hopped up on the kitchen worktop, where he definitely wasn’t supposed to be, and headbutted her hand for pets. Hermione obliged with a sigh.

This was getting ridiculous. She loved a good puzzle, but not when the puzzle was on her person and preventing her from going about the rest of her day. Not that she had plans beyond the surprise trip to the farmers market and her workout, but she didn’t want to spend the rest of her Saturday trying out new methods of self-care.

She poured herself a glass of water and drank it down. Still itchy.

“This is absurd,” she said, and summoned a quill and parchment.

Something’s wrong with your charm. Please advise.

One trip up and down the stairs, and Hermione already had a reply. A regal owl dropped the letter in her hands and flew away without waiting for her to read it.

On beautiful ivory letterhead: Greetings from Serpenti, London’s finest magical casino!

Ms. Granger,

Mr. Malfoy is currently unavailable. I’ll make sure he gets this note when he returns.

Best,

Lavinia Smith

Executive Secretary to Mr. Malfoy

Please do not reply directly to this letter, as it has been automatically sent from an unmonitored postbox. For room reservations, dining, and all other inquiries, please contact our main office at 52 Casino Ln, Empire Square, London WC2H 7JH, United Kingdom.

She crumpled the note in her hands. Was he really unavailable, or was he avoiding her? Usually he responded right away. Then again, he’d taken a rare night off last night and spent it with her. He was probably getting caught up on work.

“Why does he make me feel so, so… Ugh, I don’t know, insecure? But when he’s here, I feel so safe. It doesn’t make any sense. Am I mad?” She asked her smushed-faced cat. “I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I’ve hardly even dated. Not that I know he wants to date, but if he wanted to shag, we could’ve done that thrice over by now. There’s something else, I can feel it. Literally, Crooks, I can feel it. What am I missing here?”

Crooks didn’t even give her the decency of a meow in response. After fiddling with her mobile, Hermione decided to ring the one person who always wanted to talk to her.

“Hermione!”

“Hello Mum.”

Hearing her mum’s voice always cheered her up. Hermione twirled a curl around her finger and smiled. “How are you?”

“Oh, grand. Your dad’s out at the shops. I ran out of tahini, can you believe it? I’ve had the same jar for ages. We suddenly had a craving for hummus and lo and behold, we were out.”

“A hummus emergency? How dire.”

“Quite,” her mum laughed. “How are you, darling?”

Hermione filled her in on her new job and the minimal fallout from the breakup announcement. Her mum didn’t interrupt, but she made approving and sympathetic noises in all the right places.

“I’ve been thinking about getting back out there. I know it’s soon, but, I don’t know, I don’t want to be alone forever. I want what you and Daddy have.”

“Oh, darling. You’ll have that and more. But there’s no rush, yeah?”

In Hermione’s mind, there was very much a rush. As a magical person, she would, barring an unforeseen tragedy, live a long time. She could have children well into her sixties if she felt like it. But her parents weren’t magical. She wanted them to know her husband, and spend their golden years chasing after merrily shrieking grandchildren.

And more than that, Hermione wanted to be settled. She wanted a terraced house in the heart of the city with a garden and a reliable Floo connection so she could continue her work and be home to her family by dinnertime. No matter what came up at the office, she’d always put them first. On wintry weekends they’d all button up their coats and go to museums, and when school let out, they’d summer abroad. Maybe her friends and their hypothetical children could tag along.

Her husband could work, or stay at home if he liked. Hermione would support him in anything he chose to pursue. He’d at least have a passion project, and they’d swap stories and ideas before falling into bed together every night. They’d have their ups and downs like anyone else, but they’d always go to sleep knowing they were safe and loved.

Yes, a modern, bustling life suited her best.

Ron had never really bought into that dream, no matter how hard she’d tried to make it appeal to him. He liked his job, and children. But he’d wanted the Burrow or something like it, out in the countryside, and planned on going fishing or flying on the weekends. Over the past year, they’d hardly slept in the same bed, and Hermione had started to feel much less loved than she had before she’d voiced her opinions on his gambling and his mother.

She wasn’t without fault. With the benefit of hindsight, it was clear that she’d stopped seeing Ron as a person. Instead, she focused all her energy on fixing him, and in a way that would allow her to save face.

How much of loving someone should be changing them? How much of someone can you change before they’re someone else entirely? Because Hermione had changed Ron, and he’d changed her, too.

But instead of fitting together seamlessly, at every turn they’d been brute forcing it, like a square peg trying to fill a round hole.

Not that Draco fit any better, based on what she knew of him. He didn’t seem to be prioritising anything but his business.

She bit her thumbnail. That wasn’t fair to him. Draco had made it his mission to take care of her, or at least help her take care of herself. He’d also gifted her an unforgettable evening. She’d spend the rest of her life thinking about the way he kissed her against the side of the temple, hot and wicked and like she was more essential to him than air.

“Yeah, sure, no rush,” Hermione said. “It’s only…”

“Is there someone you had in mind? It wouldn’t be unusual, you know, to suddenly see someone in a different light.”

A vision of Draco flashed before her eyes, sharp-eyed with his chin propped on his LUCK hand, bathed in the technicolour lights of Taipei. He both fascinated and unnerved her, as he had in their youth. Now he did it in a way that made her lose her breath.

“Maybe,” she admitted. “He definitely likes me. But I don’t know if we’re compatible.”

“Would it hurt to find out?”

“He’s a Gemini.”

Her mum sucked in air through her teeth. “So he’s a handsome devil? Good luck with that.”

By the conversation’s end, Hermione had promised to come over for dinner next week. After twice-attempting to say goodbye, it was the only thing that finally got her mum to hang up.

“I should probably make a habit of going over there,” she confessed to Crooks. His tail was practically vibrating as he wound around her legs, begging for treats. She gave him a few — well, more than a few, but he was a growing boy — and busied herself with prepping dinner.

She didn’t get far. The tattoo burned even brighter now, and pain radiated all the way up to her shoulder.

She sent another letter to Draco.

Draco, I’m worried. It’s starting to hurt.

Once again, she received the canned response.

Hermione grit her teeth and screamed in frustration. She wasn’t about to stand around all night and wait for a man to fix his mistake.

She stomped to her bedroom, shed the luxurious bathrobe Draco had given her, and shimmied into a tight white dress with long sleeves and a saucy hem. Makeup came next; her deadliest winged eyeliner and red lipstick that matched her heels. If she was going to dress him down, she was going to look bloody good doing it.

It killed her to put it on, but she completed the look with the handbag he bought her. It was just too beautiful to leave behind.

Uncertain as to how long it would take Draco to reverse the charm, Hermione fed Crooks an early dinner with extra tuna and turned on the telly to keep him company.

“I’ll be back,” she promised, blowing the cat a kiss.

And then she was off.

She clawed at her tattoo all the way to Serpenti, the searing pain distracting her from formulating a plan. Night fell like a cloak around her shoulders. Rather than approach with stealth or decorum, she pushed through the revolving door, marching determinedly through the smoky maze of slot machines and ignoring the drunken laughter of the craps players and the wallowing wizards slumped at the sportsbook. Hermione was so incensed that she made a beeline for the nearest employee before she even had a chance to think about how she’d talk her way up to Draco’s suite.

The employee, the same short, balding wizard who’d helped her and Ron, took a step back as she approached.

“G-good evening,” he stammered. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Hermione, realising she wouldn’t get anywhere if she frightened the man half to death, tried for a harmless smile. It probably came off a bit unhinged. “I need to see Draco Malfoy.”

Either the man saw the determination in her eyes and decided he didn’t want to go toe to toe with her, or he figured Draco’s executive secretary dealt better with unannounced guests, because one awkward lift ride later, Hermione stood in front of the desk of the woman with the limpid blue eyes and thick-rimmed spectacles. The office was quiet, save for a few security guards and a few other Serpenti employees in their spotless green uniforms.

“Lavinia, right?”

The executive secretary cleared her throat. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” Hermione said, clutching at her arm in sheer agony. “But I didn’t last time, and he saw me then. It’s an urgent matter.”

“Mr. Malfoy deals with many urgent matters.”

She hated to name drop; really, she did. But she was desperate, so she tried it anyway. “I’m Hermione Granger. Harry Potter’s best friend.”

“I’m perfectly aware of who you are,” Lavinia snorted. “Do you think you’re the most important person who’s ever tried to get past me? I used to work for MACUSA.”

Hermione sniffed. “I hardly think there’s anyone more important than the Chosen One—”

“Miss Granger, I have both your previous owls, and I assure you, Mr. Malfoy will receive them once he’s out of his meeting.”

“He’s here?”

Lavinia clearly regretted revealing the tidbit of information. “I didn’t say the meeting was here. Are you quite alright?”

Hermione fought back tears as the tattoo continued to sear and throb. The bluebell flames were visible through her white sleeve, burning bright. She was about to respond when she heard laughter coming from a conference room down the corridor.

She knew that laugh.

Suddenly, she remembered one very important detail from her night in Draco’s suite. “There’s no magic up here, right?”

Before Lavinia could respond, Hermione made a break for it.

Lavinia got to her feet. “Security!”

Two men in suits chased after Hermione as she ran towards the sound of Draco’s voice. Serpenti’s security guards were fast, but not as fast as a witch who’d been chased by Snatchers. She had her hand on the conference room’s frosted glass door when the bigger of the two men grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to drag her back down the corridor. Desperate, she kicked once, twice, and then on the third try, the heel of her shoe made contact with the door and broke the glass. It collapsed inward and shattered into hundreds of pieces, revealing a group of smartly-dressed witches and wizards gathered around a glossy table with a gilt Serpenti logo in the middle, all wide-eyed at the sudden intrusion. Draco stood at the head, clad in all black, LUCK and LOVE pressed into the lacquered wood.

When his eyes met hers, and he saw her tears, his entire demeanour darkened like storm clouds. Draco practically jumped the table to get to her, pushing a wizard, presumably a client, to the side before yanking open the door, sending any remaining glass scattering to the floor.

“What the fuck is this? Get your hands off her,” he demanded. “Hermione, what’s wrong?”

The guard let go of her instantly. “Mr. Malfoy —”

Draco had no patience for whatever explanation was forthcoming. He tucked Hermione into his side, slid a finger under her chin and looked her over. “Did anyone else touch you? Are you hurt?”

The instant his skin made contact with hers, the ache in her arm dimmed.

On instinct, Hermione curled into him as her adrenaline fizzled away. Most of the pain was still there, but even this small reprieve felt heavenly. She rested her head against his chest, and Draco pulled her more tightly against him. He was warm, and solid, and he smelled so good, like leather and cedar…

Then she remembered he did this to her, and her head snapped back up.

“It’s your charm, you arsehole.” She scowled at him as she tugged up her sleeve to show him the irritated skin around the blazing tattoo. “I sent you two owls.”

Draco paled. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “I’ve been in meetings all day. I’m so sorry, let Da— let me make it better.”

Before she could offer a retort, he laid a hand over her tattoo and Hermione couldn’t help the gasp of relief that slipped from her lips. It was obscene even to her own ears. Her eyes fluttered shut as he stroked her skin with LOVE.

Oh.

Oh.

He seemed to realise it the same time she did; that his touch was the answer to her troubles.

“You need me?” He asked, rumbling the question into her ear. Her knees nearly buckled, but she stayed upright enough to nod. “Fuck. My good girl. Go to my office. I’ll handle this and be right there, okay?”

Hermione readily obeyed, her head spinning from the events of the last five minutes.

“And Lavinia,” Draco said, back in business mode. His tone was scathing. “If Hermione Granger needs me for any reason, night or day, no matter who I am with or what I am doing, you are to make sure I am available to her. You don’t deny her anything, and you especially don’t deploy security officers to keep her from me. What she wants, she gets. Is that understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

He clapped his hands together, dismissing his guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. My team will follow up with additional details including a term sheet…”

She turned a corner and didn’t hear the rest.

Hermione didn’t know why she thought Draco’s office would look different than it had a week ago. The same ornate desk loomed in the middle of the room, reflected back at her by the window overlooking London. She set her bag in a chair, stepped out of her heels, and crossed the room, pressing a palm to the cool glass. The city stretched out below her, a bustling tangle of light and sound.

She heard the door close behind her. Before she could turn around, Draco’s arms were wrapped around her waist.

“Everyone’s gone,” he murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head. “It’s just us now.”

For some reason, his words made tears spring to her eyes again. She tried to summon the anger she’d felt when she walked in. “Why would you do this to me? You said you didn’t want to see me hurt.”

Draco sounded anguished. “I don’t. I’ll never hurt you.”

“My arm...”

“Let me see.”

She sighed as he guided her down into his desk chair. “I thought it was supposed to help me tend to my basic needs.”

“That’s what I intended.”

“I did everything I could think of — drank more water, exercised, saw friends — and it still burns.”

“I didn’t mean to include physical touch as a need,” Draco said as he put on his glasses and examined the tattoo. “But it’s more than physical touch, isn’t it? It’s my touch.”

“It’s either your touch, specifically, or maybe...” Hermione looked away. She wasn’t about to let him in on her theory — that it was something more than touch she needed from him. It jangled her nerves, imagining how he’d react. “Theo suggested an ointment, but obviously that didn’t work.”

“You showed Theo?”

“We were at the farmers market this morning, and my sleeve got pushed up somehow. He didn’t say it explicitly, but he knows you did the work. And he told me your family magic is on me. Is that true?”

“For your protection,” Draco said, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “You have every right to be angry. I should have been upfront with you. I’ve never… I’ve never given a witch access to my family magic. I didn’t think the charm would consider me a need. Please believe me, princess. I only wanted to take care of you.”

“Wait, what?”

Access? To the Malfoy family magic? What did that entail?

Draco was on his feet, pacing.

“I can remove it. Not here, obviously, without access to magic. We could go to Theo, in case there are complications… Fuck. I’ve ruined this, haven’t I? Here I thought the rest of it would scare you away, but I’ve managed to cock it up before we even got to —”

It unmoored her to see him like this. Less sure of himself, on the backfoot. He was so obviously repentant. Another man might’ve blown off her concerns, but Draco had cancelled everything to try and make this right for her.

So he flew a little too close to the sun with the charm. Who hadn’t tried something new in pursuit of something they wanted? Hermione had been there. Maybe she shouldn’t feel so flattered, but it gave her butterflies that he’d wanted to impress her that much. And all because he wanted to protect her and take care of her… It made her want to run her fingers through his silky blond hair and pull his lips to hers.

Hermione’s bluebell flames burned once more, and she tuned out the rest of the world so she could think. As far as she understood it, she had two options. She could either tell Draco she wanted to leave right now, go to Theo, and be done with this madness, or…

Or she could ask him to take care of her needs.

“Draco, stop.”

He froze.

“The charm doesn’t make me need you, right? It just knows what I need?”

“Right,” he said, frowning slightly.

“When you touched me, the pain subsided.” She peeled herself out of the chair without taking her eyes off him. She clasped her hands behind her back in faux-innocence. “But it isn’t gone.”

“No?”

“No.”

Draco’s gaze darkened. “Are you tired, princess?”

She crept closer. “No.”

“Hungry?”

Closer still.

“That’s not quite it.”

He gathered her in his arms, and she shivered. “Cold?”

“Draco,” she breathed. “I need you.”

His kiss was a revelation. Draco was gentler than he’d been at the temple, coaxing her mouth open and massaging her tongue with his. He buried his hands in her curls, pulling her to him like a swimmer caught in a riptide. She had no choice but to let him drag her under. She wobbled on her tiptoes, and he looped one arm around her middle, anchoring her to his hard body.

“How are you here?” He murmured reverently. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

Hermione knew it wasn’t luck. Whatever was between them was elemental; it’d been there the minute they first laid eyes on each other. It was a thin line, people said, between love and hate. Not that this was love (Gods, she was forever getting ahead of herself), but what once drove them apart had morphed into a powerful, magnetising attraction. The more she had, the more she wanted. Kisses were nowhere near enough. She’d never felt this before, the rush of careening into something so utterly inadvisable. But for once, she didn’t think of the consequences. She didn’t ponder her goals, neither in the short term or the long term. And she wasn’t thinking about what would happen when it was over.

There was only the here and now. There was only Hermione and Draco.

She smiled against his lips, spellbound by the feel of him, the way his breath mingled with hers every time he pulled back just to look at her, as if to make sure she was still there.

“Take care of me,” she pleaded, clinging to his forearms.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Don’t I?”

He shook his head, but kissed her again anyway. His thumb skimmed the dip at the base of her throat, the barest hint of pressure scattering her thoughts to the wind.

Draco looked her in the eye, his voice dropping into a lower register. “I’m going to be in charge of your pleasure tonight, Hermione.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

He swore and hauled her up against his chest, eliminating any remaining space between them. “You really have no idea.”

And then he crushed his mouth to hers.

Hermione never imagined it could be like this. Draco singed her with his touch, kissed her in ways she never thought she’d be kissed. She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this heady, this hot, this needy. Draco drew it out of her, encouraged her body to give in, to follow him into this state of utter overwhelm. And she couldn’t get enough.

She missed his hands as they made quick work of his shirt buttons. He eased out of the first sleeve and the Dark Mark stared back at her, but she found she wasn’t shocked by it anymore. He wanted to remember his mistakes; didn’t want to whitewash what happened. As much as she wished he’d forgive himself, she understood. He viewed his life as a body of work, something that needed to be viewed whole in order to be appreciated properly.

Draco tossed his shirt across the desk. He tugged gently at the zip of her dress, and Hermione let him push the garment off her shoulders and down to her waist. She’d gone braless, and now she wished she had something, anything at all, to cover herself because her breasts, already heavy and aching, were bare to him. He drank her in, a dazed, lusty expression on his face, before backing her up into his chair. Her mouth fell open as she sank into the leather, but she had no words for the intoxicating sight of Draco Malfoy dropping to his knees.

Draco’s eyes were nearly black as he sat before her. In one fluid motion, he pulled her thighs around his torso, tipping her slightly forward so he could reach up and stroke the sides of her breasts. After learning their shape, he cupped them in his warm hands, and gently plucked at her nipples, pinching and rolling until they were a deep rose colour.

“So soft,” he said, applying his tongue to the underside of one breast, laving at the skin there. He moved up at a devastatingly slow pace, closing his mouth around her nipple and sucking, flicking, teasing. “So sweet.”

He moved to the other breast, repeating the same motion, and Hermione squirmed, the damp gusset of her knickers providing not nearly enough friction. She was so wet, and he hadn’t even touched her there.

“Please,” she panted, squirming again.

Draco hooked two fingers at each side of her dress and tugged it over her hips and then down her legs, leaving her in just her knickers.

His LOVE hand came up and stroked her through the white cotton in one long, smooth motion. “Oh, princess,” he tutted. “This is for me?”

She gave a jerky nod. “Yes, yes.”

He continued to rub torturous circles over her aching pussy, and she closed her eyes as desperate warmth muddled her thoughts. Her head lolled to the side, and she clutched the armrests of the chair like a lifeline. She felt his eyes on her, but could hardly bear to look. How could he be this controlled when she was already frantic? And how did he know this was everything she’d ever longed for?

Somewhere secret, deep down, she wanted to give in; to let someone else lead, if only when they were alone. Draco must have sensed it, and he was only too happy to oblige.

He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her core, and she felt herself soak through the cotton. Setting a tantalising pace that indicated he was in no hurry at all, he kissed and licked his way down her inner thigh, her knees, her calves, her ankles, taking the knickers with him as he traversed her skin. Finally, he reached her feet, and with one final supplication, he removed the knickers and tucked them in his trouser pocket.

Tucking his hands under her bum, Draco massaged her with clever fingers as he pulled her to the edge of the chair. She was off-kilter, her toes barely grazing the floor, but Hermione couldn’t resist reaching for him, letting her fingers slide over his muscled chest. She traced the outlines of his scars, the black ink of his tattoos. He was just as warm as she was, maybe warmer, and she pressed her palm flat over his heart, thrilled at the way it raced, just like hers.

They weren’t so different from one another. And the things that were different, well, they were the good kind; the kind that would make them fit together just right. She didn’t know when she’d decided exactly, but she didn’t just need this. She wanted Draco Malfoy.

Finally meeting his eyes, she walked her fingers lower, lower, lower until she met his belt buckle. She paused, unsure if she could manage unbuckling it from this angle, and made a snap decision to press her advantage. Biting her lip, she dragged her hand even lower and cupped him through his trousers.

Draco hissed at the contact, and Hermione rubbed the hard length of him. He was big, that much she gleaned from this bold expedition, but what would she find when she pulled him out of his pants? Her mouth watered at the thought of taking him in her hand; in her mouth, hitting her soft palate with the broad head of him. She licked her lips, thinking about tasting him; letting him hold her head with both hands while he fucked her throat.

Maybe it was a remnant from years of sneaking off for a quick shag, but she liked to be taken hard and fast. Or at least she thought she did.

Draco seemed to like taking things slow. And Hermione could go slow, she could, but this was so intimate. She hadn’t been truly connected during sex in… She couldn’t remember. And so the idea that Draco wasn’t here to fuck her, but prioritise her; make love to her, unnerved her. It made her want to launch out of the chair, grab her clothes and make a beeline for the nearest Apparition point.

She upped her pace, rubbing him harder. If they sped things up, it might be easier for her to avoid thinking about the intensity of their attraction and what it meant. Of course if they went fast like this, she might not come, but she could always get herself off later, alone and in the privacy of her own home. They’d work their way up to getting her off.

Unless…

Unless she gave in.

Did she dare? Could she come here, like this, for him?

Hermione realised she’d gone still, silent, retreated into her mind. When she looked up, Draco’s gaze was stern, as if there was something he wanted to tell her, but she would have to learn for herself. Before she could question it further, she reached for his buckle. Draco caught her hands in his, shook his head, and set them back on the armrests.

“Not tonight. You asked me to take care of you,” he said, ducking his head at her knee and nipping at the sensitive skin there. “Let me.”

Draco charted a path with his lips, teeth, and tongue up the insides of her thighs, working higher and higher. The closer he got to her centre, the wider he spread her legs, LUCK and LOVE forcing her knees apart no matter how badly she wanted to close them. He left her no quarter with his relentless approach, biting her sensitive skin when she whimpered, then soothing with swipes of his hot tongue.

At last he reached the tender place where her thigh met her lips. Her legs were glossy with his saliva, marked by his teeth. She held her breath, anticipating the moment he finally touched her where she needed him most.

But Draco didn’t touch her. No, it could never be that easy with him. He looked up at her, puckered his lips, and blew warm air right over her core.

Suddenly Hermione didn’t care that she was naked, didn’t care that she was the source of the slippery wetness pooling on his fine leather chair. She clenched and bucked her hips, overstimulated and unspeakably hot all over. But the worst of it was she’d never felt such emptiness in her life.

Draco sat back on his knees and admired her.

“Such a beautiful girl,” he said, a tinge of awe in his voice. “Tell me, princess, is your pretty cunt feeling lucky —” He slid LUCK up one thigh, LOVE up the other. “Or lovely tonight?”

Fire raced through her veins. Both, she wanted both. She told him so.

“Greedy, aren’t you?” He rose up to kiss her, and she met him open-mouthed. “Both, then. Need see you come. First one on my fingers.”

“First?” She gulped. Her blush spread from her collarbone to her navel.

“Fuck me. You know you can have more than one, don’t you?”

“Yes, but…” Hermione didn’t want to tell him she usually didn’t achieve partnered orgasm. She got close, very, very close, but usually had to finish herself off with a little solo play.

Draco brushed his fingers against her centre, and she jolted involuntarily.

“We’ll take it slow,” he assured her. “I’ll be gentle.”

She wanted to scream. Slow? She couldn’t…

“Oh gods,” she moaned as he dipped between her folds. It took him no time at all to find the delicate bundle of nerves at the apex of her cleft, but instead of stroking her there, he traced the tip of a finger around it, never quite pressing where she needed him. Draco seemed content to spread her arousal over everywhere she ached, through every peak and valley.

“Can’t wait to taste you here,” he said, picking up speed as he circled her entrance. She let her head fall backward, even as her hips lifted in search of more.

He took the opportunity to slide one finger inside her, down to the first knuckle. Hermione clenched around him, and he sunk all the way in, curling it against the upper wall of her cunt. More, yes, she needed more. It wasn’t enough.

She must’ve said something to him, because Draco snuck another finger in, stretching her with devastating, determined dexterity. It felt so good to be this full. She could hear how turned on she was as he pumped his fingers in and out, each time focusing on the slightly spongy spot that drove her wild when she touched herself. It felt ten times better when Draco did it, and she was already close.

He seemed to sense it, and kept his rhythm steady, even as she jerked erratically against his palm. When she started to clench around him, searching for that cliff’s edge, his other hand splayed across her belly, and he finally brushed his thumb against her clit.

“Like this?” Draco hummed, massaging in delicate circles.

It was perfect, but all Hermione could manage was a broken whine. She looked down the length of her overheated body, and a streak of arousal raced through her at the sight of Draco, shirtless and kneeling before her, eye-level with her glistening cunt. His forearms flexed as he returned her gaze, never stopping fucking her with his long fingers.

“Going to come for me? Going to be my good girl?” The praise washed over her like sun parting clouds. “I feel you squeezing me. Fuck.”

“I don’t know if I can— oh,” she broke off as he came up on one knee so he could take one of her nipples in his mouth. “Oh my gods. I—”

He sucked hard, and she felt herself gush, heard the indecent slick motion of his fingers as he worked her higher and higher and then…

“I’m… I’m…”

Draco trailed his hot mouth across her breasts, pressed a kiss to her tattoo; to the scar underneath. His words were confident, but his voice was shaky. “Come, princess, come for me. I’ve got you.”

He had her, she knew he had her, and on a shaky exhale, she tumbled over the edge for him. For a split second she was in freefall, buffeted by sharp gusts of wind, swept away by pleasure. She cried out and spasmed, the tension in her body giving way to limitless bliss, like she’d always had wings and only now were they unfurling. She became featherlight. She floated back down to earth, running trembling fingers through Draco’s silky hair, and when she landed, she opened her eyes.

His eyes were on her, and his cheeks were in high colour. He was still petting her clit like he was in her thrall, and only when she slid back, her arse slippery with her juices pooling on his expensive leather chair, did he draw his hand away. She caught it in her own and brought it to her lips, sinking each finger into her mouth one at a time, savouring the taste of herself on his skin.

“So good,” he crooned, pushing her hair away from her face. “You were so good.”

Hermione didn’t do the thing she usually did after sex. She didn’t shimmy away, eager to clean up, cover herself, and move on with the evening. Instead she leaned into Draco when he picked her up in his arms and walked them to his bedroom. With one ear pressed against his chest, she could hear the impatient thrum of his heartbeat, the perfect backdrop for the encouragement pouring forth from his lips.

“Knew you could do it,” he said as he laid her on his bed.

“Never seen anything so beautiful,” he murmured, spreading her hair out over a pillow before climbing between her legs and bending them at the knees. “Have to see it again.”

And before he set his mouth on her: “Give you anything. Everything. Look up and watch.”

The mirror. He wanted her to look at them in the mirror, see herself as he drove her to the edge again. A surge of newfound heat swelled, crested, and broke within her, and Draco lapped it up, the slick muscle of his tongue gliding over her entrance.

Hermione sank back into the pillows and obeyed. It was a relief when he told her what to do, she realised hazily, if a little paternalistic. She rolled her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, already searching for another release.

It was almost laughable that twenty-four hours ago she thought they could have a quick, intense shag fueled by a night of excess, and that would clear him from her system. Here he was, taking her by slow siege, surrounding all her expectations about what it would be like between them like enemy troops and laying waste to every single one.

The mirrored ceiling shimmered above them in the low light, reflecting an image so erotic Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her back was arched, her eyes dark and wild. Draco lay on his stomach, his back muscles rippling as he lifted her soaked cunt to his mouth like she was a honeyed delicacy. His phoenix tattoo went through several cycles of rebirth, feathers fluttering across the back of his neck, slipping between tarot cards, runes, and shards of glass.

He pushed her thigh back, opening her wider, pressing his advantage. Hermione reached down with one hand to press his face deeper, but he caught the movement. Intercepting her, Draco entwined her fingers possessively in his and moaned into her pussy. The vibration briefly emptied her head of anything except the urge to have him make that sound while he was inside her. She started to shake as he blazed a trail towards her aching clit. He sucked gently at the bud and then —

Flying… again… from dizzying heights back down to the soft white sheets. It’d been so much easier to let go that time, and she stretched her arms above her head, admiring her rosy glow in the mirror.

Draco was flushed too. He’d come up for air, his smile shiny and satisfied. “Can tell you liked that.”

“Mmm,” she hummed.

“Still hurting?”

Hurting? It took her a moment to wrap her mind around the fact that he was talking about her arm. Hermione shook her head. No.

“Can I give you more?”

She didn’t even need to think about her answer.

“Please,” she begged, letting her legs fall all the way apart.

“Good girl. I’ll go easy, I know that was a lot.”

“Do I…” She was already panting as he kissed the top of her mound. “Do I need some kind of safe word?”

Draco slid up between her legs, strumming the cords in her neck, delicate, but sure. His eyes flashed with something deeper than desire. “I’ll try not to push you that far tonight. But yes, you should have one. I never want you to feel uncomfortable, but we’re still learning what you like.”

She shivered. He’d try not to push her that far tonight.

There was something more he wanted from her, then. He’d been cagey about what it might be, careful and measured with his words.

“What about you?”

“I said just you tonight, princess.”

“Why?”

“Maybe there is a bit of brat in you after all,” he muttered. “Because you’re not ready for that.”

“I feel ready,” she challenged, heat suffusing her cheeks.

“Ready here, maybe,” Draco said, gathering a swipe of her wetness on two fingers and smearing it on her inner thigh with a lopsided grin. “Damn near killed me to leave you last night. Wanted to be doing this with you until the sun came up.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

A few strands of hair fell over his face as he stroked her jaw. He seemed to consider his next words before he lifted his gaze, drinking her in. “You’re the only witch who’s ever made me want… More.”

A whoosh of air left her lungs. “More?”

“My life is a series of transactions. I broker deals, I pile up gold. Simple, clean. It looks like I’m winning, except it’s really sleight of hand. I walk in a boardroom and everyone defers to me, wants what I have to offer, but if they see me on the street, they avert their eyes. Theo, Pansy, Blaise…They think enough time’s passed and I can show my face anywhere in London. I can’t. And I deserve it, don’t I? That’s the thing. And I could live with it, until, against all odds, you walked through my door.”

Hermione reached up and cupped his cheek with her palm. He leaned into her touch and continued.

“You saw me. In sixth year. And when I saw you again, I recognised the look in your eyes. It was the same one looking back at me in the mirror when I was young and lost. All I wanted to do was save you. Like you saved me, when you got up in front of the world and told them to give me another chance. And before I could tell you, I let my dick do the thinking and made you run. I’d be a fucking idiot to ruin another chance to show you I’ve changed,” he said, his voice ragged and raw. “So, yes, I want more. Will you give me more, Hermione?”

She was stunned. It was so much, so soon. His fondness for her went further back than she anticipated, and his new feelings ran deeper than she thought she was ready to face. But the more she thought about it, the more she welcomed them. Welcomed him.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll give you more.”

Hermione sighed contentedly as Draco rearranged her on the bed, tucking a pillow underneath her hips.

“There’s a good girl,” he crooned sometime later, when he brought her to climax again with gentle swipes of his tongue.

And again. “Fuck, you’re so pretty when you come.”

“Tired, princess?” The affection in his words roused her from near-sleep. She wasn’t sure how long her eyes had been closed. She was curled on her side, Draco’s arms around her, holding her close against his chest.

“Mm,” she said, burrowing her face into his neck.

“Stay right here.”

He was gone, but then he was back, cleaning her up with a warm washcloth before propping up her head and raising a glass of water to her lips. Hermione drank, Draco praising her between sips. When she was done, he set it next to another glass, full for her in case she needed it during the night. He’d kept the track lighting on, too, driving the dark away.

“You remembered,” she said as he pulled her close and covered them both with the duvet. He’d ditched the trousers for pants, but she was too sleepy and sated to investigate further.

“No bad dreams tonight. I forbid it,” Draco murmured, tucking her under his chin. “Just rest.”

“Story? The one about the sorcerer and his princess?”

He hummed contentedly as he massaged the base of her spine with his thumb. “Once upon a time…”

She drifted off, safe and warm in his embrace.

***

Hermione woke refreshed.

It was early. A kiss of fog moistened the portrait window, and the soft sound of rain dotting glass made her want to grab a book and stay in bed all day. Draco lay next to her on his stomach, still asleep, sheets rucked around his hips. The shattered glass on his back rose and fell with his breathing. His hair was rumpled, boyish in a way that tugged at her heartstrings. He looked perfectly at peace.

Was it mad to think that maybe she’d driven his nightmares away? He’d certainly kept hers at bay.

She stretched her arms above her head and looked up at herself in the mirror. Her face was glowing, haloed by her curls. She resisted the urge to squeak with happiness. Gods, last night had been incredible.

He’d asked for more.

He wanted more. Of this. Of her.

Every other quibble she had — the family magic embedded in her now-sated tattoo, the speed at which they were moving, the Draco Malfoy of it all — faded to the background. She wanted more, too, and she wasn’t going to apologise for reaching out and taking it, especially when he offered so freely of himself. He’d proven over and over again that he really was the giving type, and she was through with refusing.

Hermione slipped silently from the bed. After freshening up in the loo and helping herself to the luxurious Serpenti toiletries, she retrieved her dress from behind Draco’s desk. Her knickers were nowhere to be found, and without magic, she couldn’t transfigure the dress into something more appropriate for waking up with a fit wizard on a drizzly London morning. The fluffy towel she’d wrapped herself in just wasn’t cutting it.

She padded back to the bedroom and set her sights on Draco’s closet. She’d borrowed his sleepwear last time, so why not one of his shirts? Maybe he’d wake up and find her toying with the buttons on one of his oxfords, which was sure to be too big on her in that suggestive way men seemed to salivate over, and he’d drag her back to bed and finish what they’d started last night.

He wasn’t the only one who wanted more.

Hermione double checked that Draco was still asleep before tiptoeing into his closet. His scent was everywhere, clinging to the rows of dress shirts and cashmere jumpers. She leaned in to sniff a sleeve and nuzzle it with her cheek before jumping back. Was she insane?

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together at the memory of his low voice rumbling her name in her ear while she writhed with pleasure. Hermione, princess, you’re so good.

Did she have a praise kink? Maybe. Probably. Okay, yes. Draco was showing her all kinds of new things. That thing he did where he pointed his tongue and barely skimmed her clit… The memory of him following it up with light suction, his eyes smouldering as she shook, his hands massaging her trembling thighs, sent a shiver down her spine. He’d been so tender with her. Apparently she liked things a lot more gentle than she thought. Gentle, but intense. It seemed partnered orgasm wasn’t a problem with the right partner.

Her brain was protesting that it was way too soon to get caught up with someone new, but her body was more than warming up to the idea. In fact, she was warm right now. She experimentally dipped a finger between her legs and found more than a little wetness. As she lifted her hand, she applied just a little pressure — nothing major — to her clit and sighed.

“Fuck,” she breathed, dropping her towel. She dragged her fingers up her stomach and trailed them across her breasts, lightly scraping the flushed skin with her nails. Her nipples stiffened, and she gathered some of her essence on her fingertips before reaching up to gently pluck at them. Her hands weren’t as rough as Draco’s, but it was easy to imagine they were his hands making her feel good. She leaned her head against the wall, arching her back at the sensation, thinking of Draco. She didn’t want to wake him up.

Maybe she could get herself off right here.

No. That would be ridiculous. She shouldn’t…

But she was so turned on. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time her body had been this responsive, especially after she’d had multiple orgasms the night before. Honestly, she couldn’t remember a time she’d come that hard, that easily. Had Draco unlocked something inside her that made the floodgates open? Was she going to want to touch herself every time she got a whiff of cedar and warm, musky leather?

She pushed off the wall and straightened her shoulders.

Focus, Hermione. Put some clothes on.

Her eyes drifted towards a black wicker laundry basket tucked in the corner. A white oxford lay on top, slightly wrinkled. Before she could think too much about it, she snatched it up and put her arms through the sleeves, buttoning it as quickly as she could and trying her best not to melt at the way his scent was even stronger near the collar. She wanted it to cling to her skin, the way it did to his; wear it all day until it had nearly faded and he came to her and touched her again, covering her with his body, making her his.

Before their date in Taipei, Hermione had never thought she’d be attracted to a possessive man, let alone want to be possessed. The realisation both thrilled and frightened her at the same time. She supposed it made a certain amount of sense — the idea of belonging with someone wasn’t a foreign concept, especially considering how much she wanted to be married.

But belonging to someone was different. With anyone else, it might feel controlling, or even patriarchal, but with Draco it was almost paternal. The thought made her go warm all over in a way her overheated brain couldn’t sort out while it tried to redirect her awareness away from desire and towards finding something to cover her arse. It would have been nice if the Serpenti toiletry kit included a fresh pair of knickers.

She’d found something beyond belonging last night when Draco held her close and whispered the tale of the sorcerer and the princess as she fell asleep. She’d been soothed and worshipped and pampered, and it wasn’t nannying, it was… Perfect. It was everything she never knew how to ask for, because she hadn’t known how badly she needed it.

She thought she’d feel embarrassed at the way she’d drowsily asked him for the story, like she was a little girl in need of comforting. But she couldn’t be ashamed, not when Draco so carefully tended to her needs. He found her predictable, but unlike her friends who teased her about her clockwork schedule and her habitual lunch orders, Draco used the information to take care of her.

She wanted to take care of him, too, if he’d let her. She hadn’t minded being the sole recipient of orgasms last night — it was a lovely change of pace — but especially after he’d spoiled her so thoroughly, things felt a little one-sided.

And, well, she wanted to feel him inside her.

She should’ve taken that birth control potion.

Maybe he liked something weird in bed. That was a reasonable explanation, right? Draco might be ostracised, but he was a billionaire. Surely a flexible witch could get past a niche kink or two in exchange for piles of gold. Unless maybe there was a problem with his cock?

No, she was sure he had an annoyingly perfect cock. It had been so hard and hot when she’d run her fingers over it, straining against the placket of his trousers.

Hermione crossed her legs and clenched. She really needed to stop thinking about his cock. And his kink, which she was now certain he had.

She bunched her sleeve and looked down at her tattoo, the bluebell flames pirouetting inside their lantern. An itch began to form. As she rubbed her forearm, she decided it would all depend on what he asked from her. Draco had already given her so much; it must be something important, even touchy, for him to think she might baulk at his request.

But what if she liked it?

What if she really, really liked it?

She was getting sidetracked.

Underwear, she thought. I need underwear. Maybe some of his pants?

But it was too late. Her hands were flirting with disaster, sliding the hem of the shirt between her fingers, then ghosting along her inner thigh, finding her centre again. She felt the blush of desire sear her skin, the bruise-like ache blossoming in her belly.

She thought of Draco pulling her close, whispering all the naughty things he wanted to do with her. Telling her she was his good girl while pressing kisses through the starched cotton, sucking at her nipples until the fabric was wet and translucent. He moved down her body, this imaginary Draco, until his hot breath warmed her needy cunt.

Hermione whimpered, then clapped her free hand over her mouth. She stroked herself a little harder, a little faster, the nearness of him and the fear of being caught like this, touching herself in his day-old shirt, driving her wild. She couldn’t find a rhythm, but she couldn’t stop, either.

She squeezed her eyes shut and panted into her palm.

What would he say if he walked in right then?

“Hermione, is that y– Oh, fuck.”

She slipped deeper into the daydream, allowing herself to become fully immersed.

“I’d join you but you’re doing so well all by yourself.” She imagined him saying, voice raspy from sleep.

A new rush of heat suffused her body as she pictured him standing there watching her. Maybe he’d slip a hand into his pants and pull himself out, stroke his cock in time with her jerky, desperate motions. She groaned against her damp palm.

“Drop that hand, princess. Let me hear you.”

Gods, he would say that.

Hermione played along. She moved her hand down to join the other and spread herself open, granting her better access. She didn’t open her eyes; didn’t want to dissolve the fantasy.

“Draco,” she whispered. He was still asleep, after all. “Draco.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, a stifled moan.

His words were thick with lust. “Fuck. My good little girl. Touching herself with my shirt on her back and my name on her tongue. So fucking sexy.”

Good little girl. That was new. She was too many things to too many people. In some ways she’d become larger than life; never got to be small, never got to feel safe… Except here, with him. She’d been so against his caretaking tendencies, railing against them at every opportunity, but the more she gave in, the better she felt.

The kindling of her desire began to catch fire, and she reached for release with her entire being. A mewl escaped her lips; her back arched. It wasn’t enough. If only he could touch her…

Suddenly his scent surrounded her, and a broad hand covered hers, adjusting the speed and rhythm of her desperate motions.

Hermione gasped as she opened her eyes and saw a very real Draco in front of her, grey eyes smoked over with longing.

“Let me,” he said, and she was so overcome she thought she might cry. His LOVE hand came up to cup her jaw, and Hermione caught his lips with hers, moaning into the lush heat of his mouth.

Draco took over. He applied more pressure to her centre, kissed her harder. She dripped around their fingers, the obscene sound of them gliding through her arousal driving her higher and higher. Draco ran his tongue up the column of her neck, nibbled at her ear, thumbed her clit with precision. She cried out, pleaded with garbled words. Begged him to make her come.

“Be mine. Be my good little girl and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Good. Little. Girl.

Yes.

Everything in her pulled taut and her orgasm rocketed through her. She bucked her hips into their joined hands, powerless to do anything but try to extend her release. When her knees gave way beneath her, Draco caught her and held her to his chest.

He was always catching her.

“Do you really want to?” He asked, words a little mumbled.

“Hmm?” Hermione was busy nuzzling her face into his skin; inhaling his scent.

“Be mine. Like that.”

Her mind was still fuzzy from pleasure. “I…”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have… It’s unfair to ask you now, like that.” The knuckles emblazoned with LUCK brushed gently across her cheek. "We can take our time. I don’t want to scare you off.”

“What do you mean? Why do you think you’d scare me off?”

“You know how much I like to take care of you.”

She nodded. It was evident in everything he did.

“I want to do it all the time. In public, in private, in bed. But it’s more than that. I like to be in charge. I need… I need someone who wants to let me take control. In a way that might sometimes be…”

Draco trailed off again, struggling to articulate his needs.

Hermione stroked his shoulder encouragingly. “So you’re dominant?”

That’s what he was so worried about? She hadn’t dipped her toes into BDSM, but she knew it wasn’t so unusual.

His breath came out in a whoosh. “Yeah, that’s part of it.”

“I think I’ll like that.”

She smiled as he barked a laugh.

“Yeah, I think you will too. But… I’m serious about you, Hermione.”

Her heart skipped several beats. She popped up on her toes, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. His response was tentative and sweet, and it melted away her minor reservations.

And then it clicked.

She wanted this. She wanted this, with him.

More.

She pulled away slightly, leaning her forehead against his cheek. “I want to be yours, Draco. I’ll be so good for you.”

A groan escaped his lips. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Maybe I do.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Draco, please. I want to.” She bit her lip and looked up at him, searching his eyes before she took the leap. “Please, Daddy.”

Chapter Text

She’d gone and said it.

Daddy.

Draco’s pupils were blown wide, staring at her like she’d just performed accidental magic.

Maybe she had.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You want me to spoil me like a princess; take care of me when I can’t do it myself. You want me to call you Daddy.”

He swallowed hard. “Hearing you say it is…”

Hermione tilted her head to the side playfully. She’d been eating out of the palm of his hand for hours, and it thrilled her to turn the tables on him. “You like it, Daddy?”

In a flash, Draco gathered all her hair in his fist and pulled her head back, forcing her to look up at him. It didn’t hurt; quite the opposite, in fact. It excited her.

“I fucking love it. Feel how much I love it.”

Still shirtless, he took her hand in his and guided her down the muscled wall of his chest to the bulge in his pants. He was hard as a rock. When she pressed the flat of her palm against his erection and tried to fit her fingers around him, he sucked air through his teeth, as if the sensation bordered on too much. Hermione made to drop to her knees — he’d waited long enough, and her curiosity was getting the better of her — but Draco caught her by the forearms.

“As much as I want to stay in this closet and show you exactly what you deserve after being so, so good,” He punctuated each so with a kiss, and her legs went slightly wobbly. “I came to find you and tell you I ordered breakfast.”

She perked up at the mention of food. Her tattoo felt tight on her skin, a signal she’d begun to associate with hunger and thirst. She was probably still dehydrated from last night’s activities.

“What did you get us?”

He smirked and stroked the corner of her lips with his thumb. “One of everything. I don’t know everything you like. Yet.”

“I want to learn what you like, too.”

“I’ll tell you.”

Hermione nodded, tracing the roman numerals above his Dark Mark with her fingertips. She wanted to know what they meant, and all the rest of his tattoos, too. “I meant to come back to bed. I was looking for something to wear and got, um, distracted.”

His laugh was a low rumble. “I saw that.”

“I thought I might find my knickers in here,” she said, shooting him a flirty smile.

Another wicked smirk. “No. Those are for me.”

“A souvenir? I suppose you earned it. That’s the most I’ve ever, you know…”

“Come?” He asked rakishly. “I’m happy to set the new standard.”

A chime sounded.

“That’ll be breakfast,” Draco said, dropping her hands with more than a little reluctance. “I’ll set up in the kitchen and we’ll talk, alright?”

She pushed her lips into a pout, hoping a petulant look and some doe eyes would sway him. “If I can’t have my knickers, can I at least borrow some of your pants?”

“On one condition.” He was clearly trying to suppress a grin. “You sit in my lap for the duration of the meal and I get to feed you every bite.”

“That’s two conditions.”

“I’m going to have to be explicit with you, aren’t I? How’s this? The number of conditions doesn’t matter. You have to meet them to get in my pants.”

She crossed her arms at the double entendre, but kept her tone playful. “Fine.”

Draco opened a drawer and tossed a fresh pair of pants at her, which she just barely caught, and pulled on trousers. “See how easy that was?”

“I won’t always take it so easy on you,” she said, eying the way his back muscles flexed as he combed through his shirt collection.

“Good,” he said, settling on a light blue oxford. “I like a challenge.”

Five minutes later, perched in Draco’s lap, Hermione indulged in decadent eggs benedict, stacks of fluffy pancakes smothered in real maple syrup and topped with whipped honey-butter, croque madames with gooey gruyere, lip-smackingly sweet strawberry jam on toast dusted with powdered sugar, roasted asparagus, figs and ricotta, and mimosas with fresh squeezed grapefruit juice and elderflower liqueur. Draco fed her every morsel, returning time and time again to the pancakes, which had proved to be her favourite.

For once, Hermione savoured the lesson in extravagance.

Draco was a pleasure dom, he told her. He sought control over the pleasure of his partner (singular, he never did like sharing or splitting his attention), and enjoyed caretaking before, during, and after sex. Unlike other dominant types, he loathed doling out harsh punishments or inflicting pain for the sake of pain.

“I’ve caused enough pain in this life,” he said, his face a portrait of regret. “If I ever hurt you in a way that harms you rather than excites you, tell me immediately.”

“Use my safe word,” Hermione said with a nod.

“Or we could use the colour system. Swotty little girls like you can’t resist a good system.”

She opened her mouth to fire off a witty retort, but he was right. Her interest was piqued. When she didn’t say anything, Draco brought the last syrupy bite of pancakes to her lips, and she obediently took it into her mouth.

When she finished the morsel, flicking her tongue out to retrieve a stray drop of syrup, she asked, “What’s the colour system?”

“Works like a Muggle traffic light. I’ll check in with you during play and ask you what colour you’re feeling. If you respond green, that means you’re loving it, and you’d like to keep going. You might say yellow if I need to ease up, but you’d prefer to continue. If you say red, I’ll stop immediately and move into aftercare. And you can say these at any time, not just when I’m asking. Your safety and comfort are crucial.”

“Aftercare is just what it sounds like? When we’re done, we take care of each other?”

Feeling vulnerable, she tucked her face into the side of Draco’s neck to hide her blush. It was one thing to think about their potential dynamic; quite another to talk about it openly, whilst in his lap, wearing nothing but his shirt and pants.

He stroked the top of her thigh with the back of his hand, knuckles grazing tender flesh. “Exactly, though as your dom, I’ll mostly be taking care of you. I’ll help your body and mind adjust after we play. There’s physical care; clean up, like last night, or massage. And emotional care. There’s a high level of trust involved for both of us.”

“And you trust me? I stole from you.”

Draco shifted underneath her. “You were hurting. If there’s anyone who needs to earn trust, it’s me, especially after my charmwork.”

Hermione’s fingers fluttered over her tattoo. “You said it gave me access to your family magic? Why?”

“It’s said that Malfoy men are notoriously devoted to their women.”

Unbidden, a shiver danced along her spine. “And are they? Devoted?”

“Our family magic extends the highest protective charms and defences magic can offer to any woman in our care. When I tattooed you, I suppose I took the opportunity in front of me; I wanted to prove to you that I would take care of you,” he said, his LOVE hand covering hers. “Keep you safe, make you happy. I only wanted to help.”

Somehow she doubted he only wanted to help. She wiggled in his lap — testing a theory, that was all — and internally preened with victory when he drew her back to him, her shoulder fitting snugly in the space under his arm.

Possessive.

“And I suppose I erased those debts because I only wanted to help,” Hermione said, and he looked down at her with exaggerated disbelief. She smiled and bit her lip, caught out. “Okay, I also wanted to get one over on you.”

“I like that you stand firm in what you believe.”

“Thank you,” she said primly.

But then he followed it up with: “Even if it’s misguided.”

She raised an eyebrow at his cheeky grin. “Because it gives you an opportunity to correct me?”

“I think you’ll like being corrected.” The way Draco said corrected made her shiver anew. “You manage everything and everyone as you see fit, and most people, if they even realise what you’re up to, are perfectly delighted to let you keep right on doing it.”

“But not you,” she said, a little breathless.

“No, princess. Not me.”

Draco tucked a finger under her chin to lift her face to his before claiming her lips with a soft, maple-sweet kiss. Hermione looped her arms around his neck, riding the high of a sugar rush laced with oxytocin that lit up every pleasure receptor in her body. Shameless, she brought one leg over his and shifted to straddle him. When her bum settled over his thighs, she rocked into him experimentally, seeking friction, and Draco groaned, his hands roving her hips, her waist, the swell of her breasts.

“Do you know what I’m up to?” She whispered between kisses.

“Yes.” Another groan fell hot against her lips. “And it kills me to interrupt such a compelling diversion, but we have more to discuss.”

His self control was maddening. It made her want to rile him up even more, just to see what he might do to keep from breaking.

She suspected Draco knew exactly how much she wanted to see him fall apart.

Hermione leaned back and twirled a curl around her fingers, lips twisting in satisfaction when his eyes tracked the movement. She’d never felt this desirable, and it was surprisingly addicting. She suddenly felt like she might’ve misjudged Lavender Brown all those years ago when she insisted on traipsing about Hogwarts in her too-small uniform. “I like the colours. What else?”

“Nothing you don’t consent to, and you can withdraw consent at any time. Nothing degrading. I don’t deal in humiliation.”

“I don’t think I’d like that either.”

They went through a list of easy yeses.

Edging? Yes.

Praise? Please.

Dirty talk? Abso-fucking-lutely. Hermione was obsessed with the way he said fuck; his lips curling inwards on the f, jaw snapping forward to finish the hard syllable, eyes hot and sharp and completely focused on her. Her nipples tightened into hard darts just thinking about it.

“Do you want to feel little? It doesn’t have to be all the time. It’s not a requirement for me,” Draco said gently. He explained the dynamic in brief, and some parts she wasn’t interested in, but others that he’d already introduced, like picking out her clothes and telling her a bedtime story, made her stomach flip and flutter.

“If I ever change my mind…” She felt like retreating into being little right now, having such a vulnerable conversation whilst sitting in his lap, his arm slung possessively across her back.

“Then we’ll change our play. What about ropes?” He asked, encircling her wrist with LUCK. “Ribbon?”

Another nervy feeling in her stomach. “Both.”

He brought up a few other things she hadn’t thought of, and Hermione surprised herself by agreeing to explore further afield than she ever thought she’d venture. But as Draco explained each aspect of a kink, his knowledge, as well as his respect for her and for their new dynamic, made her feel utterly at ease. Impact play was on the table, as were blushworthy acts she hadn’t ever considered.

“The contraceptive charm won’t work up here, so you’ll need birth control. I’m on the potion, too, but it’s good to be covered on both sides. We shouldn’t have any mishaps,” Draco said as he helped her to her feet. He began loading their dishes on the breakfast cart, largest to smallest. Methodical.

“And if we do?” Hermione asked, fiddling with her shirtsleeve.

“Then I’ll respect whatever choice you make.”

She swallowed and met his eyes. “You know I want a family.”

“I do.”

So he understood her, then; what she would do if she found herself pregnant by him. But what would Draco do when the chips were down?

“And marriage,” she said, leading.

“I know, princess. I told you, I remember everything you’ve said to me. But…”

With that one word, the bubble she and Draco had been in for the last twelve hours burst.

She finished the sentence for him. “But you can’t say you want that too.”

Draco sighed and leaned against the marble worktop, his figure backlit by the pale fog swirling against the window. He cut a dark shadow down the middle of the glass, creating a crack in the cloudy veneer.

“I don’t really do… Relationships. I’ve never had as much time as women seem to want, and marriage, a family, they require a massive investment — not only time, but energy, focus. Right now my business gets the lion’s share of my attention, and it will for the foreseeable future. It isn’t easy to run a multibillion Galleon corporation, and a casino’s certainly no place for a child,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll be honest; I should be on the floor right now. I play hard and work harder. I can’t make you any promises. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

A waver distorted her voice. “And Serpenti is… A forever thing?”

“I imagine I’ll retire at some point, but I won’t be handing over the keys to the kingdom any time soon. Not everyone can do this job. It takes a lot more than luck, I can tell you that.”

“I’m sure it does,” she said mulishly.

He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I know you and I don’t see eye to eye on this. Despite the hundreds of jobs I’ve created and the massive donations I’ve made, you don’t agree with how I make my living. Makes things a touch complicated.”

Hermione’s face fell. Even though she had the same reservations — at least, she did when she wasn’t blissed out by his attentions — the words stung. “Just a touch.”

He blew out an agitated breath and reached up to thread LOVE through his hair. “Yet I can’t stay away from you.”

“And I, you,” she murmured.

It had scared her before, how much she was drawn to Draco. It should scare her now. But instead of fear, or even anger, all she felt was hurt.

Draco’s jaw tensed, and he poked his tongue against his cheek before speaking again. “Couldn’t we… Couldn’t we just see what happens? You know as well as I do that relationships don’t always conclude with marriage and babies. Sometimes things simply come to a close, one way or another. No one can know at the start how the story ends,” he said delicately. “Only fairy tales come with guaranteed happy endings.”

Hermione knew that; of course she knew that. So why did it hurt so bad to hear him say it?

“But you’re seeing me, and only me? Right?”

The question came out more emotional than she’d intended. He’d previously said he didn’t have a girlfriend, and this morning’s discussion revealed he didn’t have more than one partner at a time, and she believed him, but in this moment of vulnerability, she needed some sort of reassurance.

“Unequivocally,” he said, and when he noticed the tears brimming in her eyes, he pushed off the worktop and gathered her in his arms. His voice shifted lower, soothing her. “I’m sorry this isn’t exactly what you wanted to hear, princess. I want to make you happy, but I also want to give us a real chance. That means I need you making choices with your eyes all the way open. I’ll be honest about what I can give you, alright?”

She clung to him, pressing her face into his shoulder to suppress a sniffle. “But if you can’t ever —”

Draco held her for a long second before speaking again. “I’m not saying never; only let’s wait and see.”

It made sense, she supposed as she sank into the warmth of his embrace. Ron had promised her the world on a string, and she’d ended up with even less than she started with, slowly losing him as both a boyfriend and a best friend. Draco was being honest, and she couldn’t fault him for it. What had she expected, exactly?

She’d told him she abhorred the whole casino operation, and he’d listened. He recognised, as she did, that they had a mismatch in values, and as such, they might not be compatible long term. Maybe he thought she would change, or maybe he was open to the possibility of change himself. Either way, Draco had assessed his personal actuarial tables and decided the risk was worth it.

Could she do the same?

It was a gamble, to be sure. But those had been working out for her lately.

But a nagging voice in the back of her head, a manifestation of her anxiety that dealt in nothing but catastrophisation and negative self-talk, insisted:

You’ll waste your time, again, with someone who has no plans to settle down.

“I thought when you pursued me, it meant…” Hermione moved away and covered her face with both hands. Embarrassment raked through her. She’d taken some mental leaps before, but she’d never felt as foolish as she did standing in front of Draco, coming this close to admitting she’d assumed he’d align his goals with hers after, what, one night together? “Can I — can I think about all this?”

He stiffened, frowned, and then let a foreign, indifferent coolness wash over his features as he created more space between them. “Of course. You’ll want to consult Theo about your options with regards to the tattoo as well.”

Merlin, she hated this. She felt like a prize idiot for assuming all their glaring differences would vanish into thin air once they’d slept together. Only magic worked like that.

“It’s helped. The tattoo, I mean. I want to keep it, if that’s alright with you.”

It was a lot to ask, she knew, after essentially pressing pause on whatever was developing between them.

“It’s fine. I have no plans to revoke the protections. Consider it a gift.”

His tone and posture were formal; neutral.

She hated it.

Mere minutes ago, Draco was feeding her delicious pastries and telling her he’d love to have his wicked way with her, and now he couldn’t be more remote. She told herself it made sense; Slytherins were all about self-preservation. Her chest tightened, and acid churned in her stomach.

Had he thought he’d tell her she had choices and she’d just make the one he wanted right away?

But Draco, even wearing his mask of formality; even when he, like her, warred with the explosiveness of their chemistry versus the empire he’d built with his own two hands, was still, suddenly, someone she couldn’t imagine her life without.

And she was unspeakably angry about it.

“Don’t be like this,” she said, gesturing to him with a wild wave of her arms. “You’re better than this.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“This, you know, pretending I have a choice and when I make the ‘wrong’ one, you withdraw. All I said was that I need time, Draco. I mean, I can’t exactly see how this works either, but I’m here, aren’t I? I came to you.” Hermione stepped closer to him, entering his gravitational pull. “I’ve never felt this way about someone before and I’m not used to it. I’m constantly trying to decode what you mean and decide how I feel; it’s exhausting. I say exactly what I think, and tell you precisely what I feel in the moment, if I can identify the emotions. I don’t know why you don’t do the same.”

Glowering, Draco closed the distance between them in two quick strides. “If I was a regular man, a nice guy at the Ministry, maybe, the earnest type who keeps his nose clean and expresses his every idle pondering, you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

Rather than admit he might be right, she bit back. “I don’t go for arseholes, either.”

“Maybe you like a project, and I’m not enough of one anymore.”

She snorted. “The last thing I need is a project. If I wanted one of those, I would’ve said yes when McLaggen made a move on me yesterday at work.”

Draco’s expression darkened. “Who?”

“Cormac McLaggen.” She made a face. “He has the manners of a toad, he’s thick as a castle wall, and I cannot wait to never see his face ever again.”

“What did he say?”

“He said now that Ron was out of the way and we wouldn’t be colleagues anymore, he and I could be together. When I declined, he concluded I must be a slag, because who wouldn’t want to date a specimen of a man like him?”

“McLaggen’s always been a colossal pillock. Suppose some things never change,” he muttered grimly. “You’ll be rid of him soon, though perhaps not soon enough.”

“Two more weeks,” Hermione confirmed. “But he won’t cause me any more trouble. Pansy’s got him on a short lead.”

“Can always count on Pansy.”

“True,” she said. Draco didn’t reply or return her smile, a faraway look in his eyes. Behind him, the sun began to slice through the haze. “Business?”

“Hm? No. Well, of a kind. Though, I should get to work.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice. Hermione gave a curt nod, did an about face, and made her way down the corridor. To her right, endless stacks of gaudy gold bars glittered behind their glass case. “I’ll just get dressed, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said, following her, though he made no move to persuade her with anything more than his words. She thought he’d reach for her; touch her.

She stopped and turned around. “Get dressed? Or leave?”

He didn’t take the bait. His piercing grey eyes assessed her, flinty and cautious. “You said you’d never felt this way about anyone before. Is that true?”

Backing down had never been in her nature. “It’s true,” she said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze.

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s the same for me?”

Hermione didn’t look away. She held firm, even though his question threatened to make her melt. “I would.”

Of course she believed him. He’d given her more care and consideration in a week than any man had ever dreamed of giving her. Not that most men dreamed of lavishing their partner with praise and tenderness.

Draco was right. He wasn’t a regular man. He’d never be described as a nice guy. He would always have an edge to him, a penumbral portion of his soul.

But she had one, too. She could be haughty and vengeful and had the tendency to put her finger on the scales when it suited her. Most of all, she was quick to anger, especially in the face of inequality. She’d rediscovered that side as of late, thanks to him.

Those qualities didn’t sound particularly flattering on paper, but they’d come in useful when the world needed saving. And Draco didn’t scold her for who she was. In fact, he seemed to like her most when she was so comfortable she’d forgotten to try and be anyone but her truest self.

How close had she been to settling for what Ron had made her feel, something the old Hermione would have never mistaken for love? She’d made herself so small. How close had she been to folding?

An icy chill swept through her. Too close.

I need you making choices with your eyes all the way open, Draco had said.

No one had ever understood her like him.

Hermione shifted towards him, and Draco read her mind, because she was suddenly up against the glass, his lips moving firmly against hers.

“This is mad,” she stressed, fisting his shirt collar with both hands. “We’re both mad.”

“Fine by me,” Draco purred, lowering his head to mouth at her neck.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re beautiful and clever and I want you back in my bed.”

“Draco,” she sighed with pleasure as he swept two fingers through the dip of her collarbone. She’d been about to march out of there in nothing but his shirt and pants.

Mad, indeed.

His breathing had become ragged. “Can’t keep my hands off you.”

“What happened to working?”

“Don’t care,” he mumbled, palming her arse with both hands.

“Yes, you do,” Hermione cajoled. “Don’t you have a term sheet to get to? London’s finest magical casino to manage?”

Draco pulled back, wiping a hand down his face.

“Fuck me,” he groaned. His hair was even more dishevelled than it had been when he’d caught her in the closet.

“If only we had the time,” Hermione said sweetly. She patted his cheek and trotted into the loo. She grinned at herself in the mirror. Her lips were kiss-stung, and her hair was wild, but she didn’t care, because her heart raced with the twin thrills of desire and victory as she zipped up her dress and stepped into her heels.

She’d succumbed to madness, and it felt amazing.

She didn’t even think twice before tucking Draco’s shirt into her handbag. He’d really outdone himself with the extension charms.

When she emerged, she found Draco at his desk, hovering over his ledger. She put her palms on the wood, and his attention immediately shifted there, his eyes travelling up the length of her arms, dropping to her chest, and moving up again before resting on her face.

“Where’s my shirt?” He asked, raising a playful eyebrow.

Hermione threw him a coy smile and adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“Little thief,” Draco teased. “I’ve got your knickers, so I suppose it’s only fair.”

“You love it,” she fired back, dragging her fingers over his important papers as she rounded the desk.

His voice shifted, becoming stern. Correcting her. “You love it, Daddy.”

She gave in. How could she not, when he looked at her like that?

“You love it, Daddy.” It rolled off her tongue easily, as sugary and indulgent as the pancakes he’d fed her, and twice as tempting. There was power in it, too; in the way Draco’s eyes hungered as he reached for her, desperate for a taste.

“Mm,” he hummed, and placed his hands at the bend of her knees, coaxing her even closer.

She teetered in her heels before capitulating, toppling into his lap, and he rewarded her with a kiss.

“Can I see you tonight? I’ll be in Brazil the rest of the week. Scoping out a competitor; seeing what we could be doing better. And then off to Mumbai for a few days.”

Everything inside her said yes. But if she wanted to avoid another round of emotional whiplash, she needed to step back, consider what they’d discussed, and then decide if she was truly prepared to move forward. Though she knew, deep down, it wasn’t a matter of if, but when. Calling him Daddy just felt too damn good.

“I need a little time,” Hermione said, stroking his face with her hands. There was a suggestion of stubble there, just a bit of roughness, that she wanted to feel scrape up her inner thighs. “It’s new for me, remember?”

“I know. I’m not a patient man, princess. But I’ll try to be.”

“Thank you.”

She reluctantly set herself to rights and headed for the door. When her hand met the handle, Draco’s stern voice called out to her, and she turned to meet his gaze. He’d put his glasses on. All business.

“Oh, and Hermione? If I’m going to be patient, so should you. Don’t touch yourself while you’re thinking about what you want.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“We’ll talk when I get back, and if it’s me you want, I’ll give you what you need. And if it’s not, well…” He shrugged.

“You can’t — How would you even know if I did? And what if I, you know…” She gestured to her arm. “Need to?”

“Then you’ll tell me and I’ll take the jet.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, then opened it again. Draco’s smirk was back, fanning the flames of her anger as well as her desire.

She threw open the door and tossed her hair over her shoulder, stomping a little in her heels so she got her point across. She’d play his game, but she wanted him to think she wasn’t happy about it, even though just the idea of him making her come again spiked her pulse.

The last thing she heard was his wicked laugh. “I look forward to our negotiations.”

***

Hermione had overestimated her own patience.

All she could think about was Draco. His laugh, his kiss, the way he looked up at her with feverish eyes while he licked a wide stripe through her centre…

Fuck. She hadn’t known it was possible to stay this worked up for this long. It had only been six or seven hours since she’d left Serpenti, and she was going insane.

She needed a distraction.

Ginny was at work, and Hermione didn’t fancy dropping by the joke shop on the off-chance that Ron was there, too. In fact, she didn’t know if any of the other Weasleys would welcome her presence. For all she knew, they all agreed with Molly, though something told her at least Bill and Charlie saw through Ron’s act.

No doubt Harry was still at the office. Theo was an option, but Hermione didn’t want to face his scrutiny. His assessment of her tattoo had been too astute by half.

Suddenly it occurred to her that there was someone who’d not only want to hang out, but would also be the perfect person to listen to her boy problems; someone who could keep a secret. Hermione leapt to her feet, dodging a sunbathing Crooks, and scribbled out an invitation. Ten minutes later, affirmative response in hand, she grabbed her handbag and bid her confused cat farewell.

She Apparated into Diagon, right across from The Vintage Vixen. The pub’s whitewashed brick exterior lent it a shabby chic sort of appeal, as did the calligraphy signage. Outside double doors propped open with potted plants, a chalkboard easel announced the daily specials. Hermione picked up two menus from a friendly hostess and found a seat at the bar.

Pansy strolled in a moment later, and Hermione waved her over. Pansy arched an eyebrow in acknowledgement, elegant as always in a sheer black lace top over a silk bandeau, a matching leather skirt, and heels with red bottoms.

“You got here quickly,” Hermione mused. “Were you just lying about your flat dressed like that?”

“Like any good Pureblood girl, I was on my fainting couch, dripping in emeralds and counting my pile of gold, just waiting for a social invitation,” Pansy quipped, sliding onto the only open barstool. The pub bustled with patrons, even though the lively drag brunch had just ended and it was an eternity until dinner time.

Hermione laughed. “Sounds terrible. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I assumed you’d buy all of them. I’m a heroine too, you know. Saved your pretty arse from McLaggen.”

“Too true.”

“Though I’ll remind you, I’m seeing someone, so keep your hands where I can see them.”

Pansy’s teasing made Hermione blush. She pretended to consult the cocktail menu. “You could’ve brought her.”

“Another time, perhaps.” Pansy flagged down the mixologist. “We’ll start with some shots, please.”

“Pansy!”

“They’re medicinal,” she insisted. “I’ll have a redheaded slut. Hermione?”

Hermione studied the menu. “Um, a screaming orgasm?”

Maybe the right blend of top shelf alcohol and blabbermouth brew would make it easy to tell Pansy that she’d nearly agreed to a no strings attached, kink-forward, sexual-interlude-slash-rebound with Draco.

Also, he’d whisked her halfway across the world for dinner and given her a tattoo that protected her with the Black and Malfoy family magic before making her come. Several times.

And he would give her more, if she wanted it.

Oh gods. Of course she wanted it. She squeezed her legs together, the pressure doing nothing to soothe the dull ache of need. Why wasn’t she just falling into his arms? His big, strong arms…

She knew why. Wanting wasn’t the issue.

“Excellent,” Pansy said encouragingly before turning back to the nonplussed mixologist, a man with more ear piercings than Charlie Weasley and apparently quite used to making drinks with sexually suggestive names. “And we’ll split a basket of chips.”

The mixologist left to prepare their order, and Pansy surreptitiously cast a privacy charm.

“Listen, I’m glad you owled, but I can’t help but think you didn’t invite me out for just drinks. I’ve seen this look of yours before, mainly in budget meetings. Something’s wrong, and it isn’t increased quill expenditures.”

Hermione groaned. Where to start?

Like a miracle, the shots appeared, though their arrival didn’t buy much time. Pansy downed hers in an instant and eyed Hermione until she knocked hers back, too. It went down easy, the coffee and sweet cream flavour masking the astringent vodka.

She raised her hand for another round, and summoned all her courage. “It’s about Draco.”

Pansy listened intently as Hermione told her everything — from the very beginning. Hermione explained her misgivings about Draco’s business, and her worry that her strong sense of ethics would fall by the wayside if she continued to enjoy the benefits of his ill-gotten gains.

“Look, I don’t love what he does, either. None of us do. Less so because of the gambling part, though, and more because he doesn’t see us often. Crabbe was never one for good ideas, but,” Pansy shrugged. “Serpenti was more like a fever dream that somehow came to life. Draco and Crabbe were broke, and estranged from their families. Goyle was part of their little trio, you know, and, well, he died quite horribly. They needed to do something, show the world that they weren’t empty-headed bigots anymore. And then, just as they were about to succeed, Crabbe had to go and die, too.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to ask yourself if you can live with it. I don’t think he’d ever give it up.”

Hermione sighed. “I try to tell myself that he does a lot of good, too. And people choose to gamble, like we choose to sit at this bar and have a drink. I’m not angry with the owner for serving alcohol, so why am I angry with Draco for running a casino?”

“Because it’s personal,” Pansy said, insightful as usual. “Addiction ruined your last relationship. And there’s an argument to be made that there’s no safe way to gamble.”

When Hermione finally reached the morning’s events, explaining how Draco suddenly retreated at the mention of possible babies and marriage, Pansy nearly fell off her barstool.

“You told him you would keep a baby? And he baulked, sure, but ultimately said that was fine? Is he insane?”

Hermione bristled at the accusation. “I’m certain he supports the right to choose, it’s just for me —”

“Oh, you precious angel. That’s not what I mean,” Pansy laughed. “I cannot believe this. It’s too good.”

“What?”

Pansy twirled her wand contemplatively. “Don’t you think that Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater turned businessman extraordinaire, knows a little something about contracts?”

She failed to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Of course he does. And?”

“And he didn’t ask you to sign anything? Promise not to tell the entire world about his kink? Prove to him you’re on birth control?”

“No?” Hermione drew out the ‘o’ for several beats, pitch climbing higher and higher until it petered out.

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Pansy chuckled. “Do you realise what you have here?”

She shook her head.

“You’ve got the upper hand. You could destroy him, Hermione. Baby trap him.”

“What?” Hermione screeched, clawing at the bar.

She quickly reeled herself back in. She had to get a grip. Were it not for the privacy charm, that little outburst would’ve made the papers, and the last thing she needed right now was an overzealous reporter looking into her post-Ron life.

“It never crossed your mind to baby trap a billionaire? Have you, in your vast literary experience, never stumbled upon humanity’s highest form of art, the erotic novel?”

“I’m more of a Pride and Prejudice girl, myself.”

“Gods, this explains so much. We need to broaden your horizons. It’s never too late to find yourself in a limerence-fueled fugue state over a fictional man. Or woman, wix, monster, alien… I’m not here to judge.” Pansy said. “You know, if you are at all interested in exploring your kinks on your own, that’s a safe way to do it.”

“Read about it?”

“Muggle books, especially. It’s how I learned to eat pussy like it’s my last meal. Turns out you need more than a modicum of enthusiasm to please a witch.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot to the top of her forehead. “You learned from books?”

“And I thought you had a reputation for being a voracious reader,” Pansy smirked. “Like I said. You’re really missing out.”

The second round of shots arrived, along with the chips, and Hermione popped one in her mouth, chewing and swallowing before attempting to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “I didn’t think about what he might be risking.”

“I’m sure it’s part of why he likes you so much. You’re innocent in a way that reduces men’s brains to primordial soup; the kind of girl who insists she’s not innocent and turns scarlet when someone says pussy,” Pansy said, looking pointedly at Hermione’s overheated cheeks. “Like that. It’s endearing. Charming, even. A siren song for an unlucky-in-love daddy looking for his princess.”

“I’ve always hated how much I blush.”

Pansy’s smile took on a devious curl. “Perhaps it’s time to reconsider your position. Clearly, he’s into you. Blush away.”

“For the record, I have no intentions of baby trapping him.”

“And he knows that. Hermione, think about this like a Slytherin,” Pansy said. She ran a manicured nail around the edge of her shot glass. “Draco said he doesn’t want a relationship. He also says he doesn’t want marriage and a family in the foreseeable future. And yet…”

A Lumos lit up a dark corner of her brain.

“And yet he’s relying on both of us to take our birth control potions perfectly every time. He didn’t make me sign anything binding regarding the terms of the relationship. He didn’t litigate the form of contraception or what would happen to a child if we conceived… He hasn’t dictated any of my actions. Not one.”

“So he says it’s just casual sex, but that’s not casual — it’s downright cavalier,” Pansy led. “And he also says he doesn’t want children, but…”

“But to him, I’m worth putting it all on the line. And if something happened, and I fell pregnant, he’d be okay with it,” Hermione said breathlessly.

“He wouldn’t do all this if he was merely okay with it. Do you know what I think? I think he secretly wants it, but is afraid to let himself have it.”

Hermione tried, and failed, to ignore the way her heart pounded against her ribcage. “You really think so?”

“I doubt either of you are going to be able to keep this casual for very long. In fact, I’d bet my last Galleon on it. It’s great, Hermione,” Pansy said, nibbling on a chip before lifting her glass to her lips. She tossed it back just as easily as the first, but there was a sourness to her expression, a pinched look that couldn’t be attributed to the bright acidity of cranberry juice or the dark aniseed of Jägermeister.

“Something’s bothering you, now.”

“I’m fine. Dusty in here, is all,” Pansy sniffed.

Hermione wasn’t buying it.

“Oh, come on. You can talk about Muggle erotica and not your own feelings? Feel it like a Gryffindor,” Hermione teased, careful not to let her tone dip. She didn’t want Pansy to think she was shaming her.

Pansy looked around the room, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “My lover, as you call her, wants things to stay casual. And secret.”

“Whatever for?”

“She’s… She’s a private person. Always has been. Never one to let other people know what she’s struggling with, not even her own family. They’ve been unkind to her in the past about her dreams and ambitions.”

“Her own family? That’s terrible.” Hermione would’ve rested her hand on Pansy’s, then, but Pansy was still plucking at her skirt, as if she needed to find a loose thread and undo the entire stitch.

“I know. She’s still closeted, even from her friends, who I know would be supportive because they’re a bunch of bleeding — And at first I didn’t mind, you know? I was just happy to be with her. She’s saucy and sweet and a fucking fireball in the sack. I figured when she was ready, I’d help her come out. But she insists she likes things the way they are, and I don’t know where to go from here.”

“Oh, Pansy.”

“I’m tired of sneaking around. I’d be proud to be seen with her, propose to her, start a family with her. She’s special.” Pansy’s dark eyes glittered with emotion. “I thought I could wait for her to come around, but then I saw the opportunity in America.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “You’re not giving her an ultimatum, are you? Be with you publicly or you’ll move to the States?”

She couldn’t imagine a woman like Pansy, endlessly proud and statuesque, tolerating someone who wasn’t eager to be seen with her. But then again… What had she said about broken-hearted Slytherins?

“We’re a pathetic lot. We lick our wounds in private; engage in a little self-loathing. Then when we’re ready to be seen out and about again, we act like the heartbreak never happened. While we’re at it, we somehow sabotage the next relationship because we’re afraid of never being loved for who we truly are.”

Pansy struck her as a witch who’d do anything to avoid another heartbreak. Maybe she saw the American outpost as more of an escape hatch.

She waved her hand in dismissal. “No, no, nothing like that. Ultimatums never work. I’m going to ask her to move with me. No one knows me there. If she’s embarrassed to be seen with me, it solves that problem.”

“I’m sure that isn’t the case,” Hermione said, attempting to be reassuring. But Pansy didn’t seem to want reassurance. She forged ahead, as if stemming the flow of conversation now would be more painful than letting the tide of her feelings finally come in.

“And if she never wants to tell her family, she doesn’t have to; I doubt with everything they’ve got going on they’d come visit. And all those dreams she never talks with them about… Well, she’s told me about them, and I think they’re brilliant, and the magical people across the pond would, too.”

The sentiment, so full of tenderness that the true emotion underneath her words was unmistakable, made Hermione’s stomach lurch. She fumbled for a response, and her drinks threatened to make an unpleasant reappearance. Pansy, for her part, looked like she wanted to grab her bag and bolt out of her seat.

Hermione clutched her sides. The realisation that no one had ever truly felt that way about her, and worse, she’d never been receptive to it, manifested itself as a twist in her belly and an ache in her throat.

Finally, Hermione stammered, “That’s beautiful.”

Pansy looked at her two drained shot glasses and sighed, as if their emptiness offended her. She blinked rapidly and tried unsuccessfully to hide a small sniffle. “Yes, well. It’s awful. I’d tell you not to fall in love, but you’re not going to listen, are you?”

Of course she wasn’t going to listen. She still wanted love more than anything. That hadn’t changed just because she was considering dabbling in casual sex with a generous helping of kink.

With one partner. Who was also monogamous. And might want more than he was letting on.

Hermione, all too aware that a hug might be a bridge too far for her friend, settled for laying a hand on Pansy’s shoulder. “Probably not.”

“Gryffindors,” Pansy groaned, shrugging away from the affectionate touch. “How many orgasms was it?”

Hermione sheepishly held up five fingers.

“Fair enough, if a man gave me five orgasms, I’d probably fall in love with him, too.”

“I didn’t say I was already in love. That would be ridiculous —”

And it would be ridiculous. She hadn’t even seen his penis. Not that full nudity was a requirement for love; Elizabeth Bennett had fallen in love with Mr. Darcy without seeing much uncovered skin at all. In fact, Hermione recalled her waxing poetic not about his body, but his character. At first, Mr. Darcy was set against her, but, so, too, had Elizabeth been prejudiced against him.

She missed Draco. She imagined him in his office, feet up on the desk as he entertained a proposal, shuffling a deck of cards in his hands as he considered his next move.

A frisson of need shot through her arm, and Hermione smoothed her sleeve over her tattoo.

Pansy ignored her crisis, scanning behind the bar for the mixologist. “Mhmm. Sure. Listen, let’s get some more food, since you’re buying, and you can tell me what sort of cake you want for your farewell party. I’m thinking something with marzipan.”

“We never get marzipan. McLaggen’s allergic to almonds.” Hermione said, puzzled. She tended to be slower on the uptake when she was tipsy. Suddenly, it clicked. “Oh yes, I do love a Battenburg, positively slathered with marzipan.”

They collapsed into a fit of laughter.

***

Monday dawned in a cascade of soft pastels, painting Hermione’s bedroom in hues of orange sherbet and cherry cream.

Her dreams had been kind to her, even though she’d slept alone. Maybe it was the Malfoy family magic, or maybe she was growing accustomed to having the flat to herself; either way, she was happy to greet the day smiling and refreshed.

At her tattoo’s gentle prodding, she stretched on her yoga mat — Crookshanks stretched alongside her, offering tempting glimpses of his furry belly — ate a hearty serving of Greek yoghurt topped with berries and granola, and even enjoyed a coffee while she searched through her closet for something work appropriate that wouldn’t require a cooling charm every five seconds. The sun had already warmed the flat beyond her personal comfort level.

As if someone had read her mind, an owl bearing a twine-wrapped parcel tapped at her window. Her feathery guest swept in, dropped the parcel, and despite Crooks’s protest, sunk its talons into the window frame, awaiting Hermione’s response.

“You poor thing, you look exhausted,” she said, petting the owl. It leaned into her gentle touch. “Hold on. I’ll get you some food and water.”

Once the owl was settled — as settled as it could be, anyway, as the sole recipient of the cat’s attention — Hermione examined the unexpected mail. It had to be from Draco, hadn’t it? The wrapping wasn’t Serpenti-branded like her last gift, but this parcel came with a note tucked under the twine, alongside a fresh cutting of azalea. A flower. That was a familiar touch.

Hermione admired the azalea’s pink petals before slipping a finger beneath the seal of the tiny envelope. When it gave way, a flurry of the same petals fluttered to the floor. Instead of vanishing them, she picked one up and stroked it between her fingers, wondering what they might represent.

The note was short and sweet. Green ink; bold lettering.

Saw these on a mannequin in Rio and thought I’d make up for the pair I pilfered. Next time I see them, I’d like them to be on you.

I can’t stop thinking about you, princess. Hope you’re being good for me.

She should be irritated with him. She said she needed time. But as usual, her curiosity shouted down everything else, and Hermione tore into the parcel, the thrill of surprise lighting up her nervous system.

Inside a gift box, buried beneath patterned tissue paper scented with coconut and spiced vanilla, lay the skimpiest pair of knickers Hermione had ever laid eyes on.

She hooked the delicate lace band with one finger, clapped her other hand over her mouth and giggled. A periwinkle g-string. And all the way from Brazil. Was he still there? What time was it? Had he strolled the streets alone after a business dinner that ran late, still in his suit, looking for something that would make her smile?

The knickers were gorgeous. But the poor owl…There were better, not to mention faster, ways to correspond than sending an owl back across the ocean.

She doubted she could get Draco to use a mobile. Not because he couldn’t get the hang of it, but because most magical people didn’t own one. It was yet another thing to keep track of after wands and wallets and books with teeth, and any gizmo requiring batteries or electricity didn’t work half the time since magic interfered with the wiring. But he’d surely be open to two-way parchment; Theo and his team of Healers used it all the time to keep patients’ files up to date.

Hermione dug around until she found two fresh sheets of parchment, charming them both accordingly. She tapped her quill against her lips.

How to play this?

She could challenge him. That felt most natural. She knew, deep down, she would see where things went with Draco. But he didn’t have to know that yet.

Thank you. I love the knickers. Though I’m not sure why you’re so certain you’ll see them again.

Hermione pictured him receiving the message, nursing a tumbler of whiskey alone in some fancy hotel room. Tearing it open with his teeth, biting his fist as he read to hide his smile.

I’ve spelled this parchment so we can write each other without the need to exchange owls or go through Lavinia. It’s a twist on the Protean charm. Whatever you write on this parchment will appear on mine as well, albeit with a slight delay.

You’re still in Rio? How’s your Portuguese?

By the time she folded the note and got dressed, the owl was gone, and she was running late for Al-Anon. She arrived just as the meeting kicked off and found a seat in the back.

She hadn’t thought she’d come back after last week. Baring her soul in front of a room of Muggle strangers had been an unfathomable thing to do. But she’d done it, and although she wasn’t completely unburdened by the experience, she didn’t regret it, either.

Hermione tried to pay attention to people as they shared their stories, but she found it hard to focus. The man next to her noticed her tapping her heel on the floor, and she mouthed an apology, only to find herself toying with the ends of her hair moments later. When a young woman stood up to share, Hermione was trying desperately to stay present and not think about the note burning a hole in her pocket.

“Hi, my name is Aya,” the woman began. She couldn’t be older than twenty, with a button nose and a nervous stammer. “I have a gambling problem.”

Hermione didn’t have any trouble paying attention after that.

Later, traversing the labyrinthian halls of the Ministry whilst levitating a stack of paperwork to send back to McLaggen — conveniently absent, hopefully ashamed of how he’d acted Friday — she reconsidered replying to Draco.

As she often did when making difficult decisions, she made an outline in her head:

They couldn’t have more as long as he ran Serpenti.

Counterpoint: Draco wasn’t asking for more. In fact, he wanted to keep things casual. No promises.

Casual wasn’t what she really wanted.

Counterpoint: Was she really up for anything beyond a few trysts right now? She couldn’t see putting herself out on the dating scene anytime soon, and… gods be damned, she liked him. She liked that he wasn’t a sycophant, or a doormat, or insufferably pious. Draco set his opinions in permanent ink, and the world could take it or leave it.

In conclusion: As long as neither of them expected the other to change, they could have… Whatever this was.

She mailed the note.

At lunch, Harry didn’t bring up Ron, and neither did Theo. True to his word, Harry acted only as her best friend, inquiring after her health and well-being, and asking thoughtful questions about Hermione’s transition to her new job. In turn, Hermione asked about his weekend at the office, and the plans for his birthday in a few weeks. They’d agreed to push the celebrations to late August, when everyone was on holiday. Ginny was in charge of most of it. She’d bandied about various exotic locales, like Tahiti or the Maldives, but there were no firm plans as of yet.

“What do you want this year? We’ve been friends so long I’m running out of gift ideas.”

Harry waved his hand dismissively. “Your presence is gift enough.”

“Speaking of gifts,” Hermione said, stirring her water with her straw before taking a small sip. “Theo, if I received azaleas as a gift, what would the sender be trying to tell me?”

Theo set his fork down and hit her with his knowing stare. “Take care of yourself for me.”

Hermione nearly spit out her water. Take care of yourself for me? Draco explicitly asked her not to take care of herself!

“Who’s sending you flowers?” Harry asked, bemused.

“Probably half the magical world. But this one’s apparently got an odd sense of humour,” Theo said, putting his arm around Harry.

“Or a death wish,” Hermione grumbled, eyeing Theo. “What exactly do you know?”

“Oh, lots of things.”

Her curiosity was piqued. She put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Has he said something to you?”

Harry paused, a spoonful of soup centimetres from his lips. “Is this something I should know about?”

“No,” Theo and Hermione said in unison. Harry shrugged and continued eating.

It struck her for the first time that the Slytherins in her life knew more than her closest friends. She wasn’t sure what Theo knew — or thought he knew, more likely — but Pansy knew everything.

Hermione missed Ginny terribly, and resolved to invite her to her farewell party at work. She had a feeling she and Pansy would be fast friends, and then maybe, eventually, they’d bring in Pansy’s lover as a fourth. One could never have too many girlfriends, and the States weren’t so far away.

Especially if you took a jet.

That night, as she was getting ready for bed, she received a reply from Draco.

Good to hear from you. Brilliant bit of magic, this.

Yes, still in Rio. My Portuguese is passable. Don’t tell me you know Portuguese, too?

She wrote back: Mine’s passable.

Seconds later, she had a reply.

Then translate this, princess.

I find myself staring at the ceiling, overcome with saudade.

Hermione recognised the word immediately.

Saudade is untranslatable, she wrote. In English, the best way to describe it is a feeling of nostalgia; a longing for something or someone that is absent.

Draco’s reply came quickly.

I’m saying I miss you, you swotty, bratty thing.

She grinned.

Good night, Draco.

He didn’t correct her. Maybe he realised how late it was.

Sweet dreams, princess.

***

The rest of the week flew by, mostly due to the fact that without McLaggen, who was supposedly out sick, Hermione was able to power through a mountain of work. Pansy was a bit deflated with no one to hex, but otherwise herself. It was only Hermione who felt out of sorts.

She still hadn’t touched herself, no matter how badly she’d wanted to, especially after the salacious notes Draco had sent. Not to mention the gifts, which ranged from perfume to an intricate book stand carved out of rare Patagonian rosewood.

Draco wrote to her often. He’d flown from Rio to Las Vegas, the gambling capital of the world, and he described magical Americans with a strange mixture of awe and confusion.

They’ve no tea, he groused. Plenty of that coffee you like, though.

On Friday it was announced that effective immediately, Cormac McLaggen had been transferred to Magical Transportation.

“Serves him right,” Pansy said as they walked out of the conference room. “Transportation’s a dead end.”

Addison from the secretarial pool joined them, shaking their head. “It doesn’t make any sense. His father still holds sway over some of the more old fashioned higher-ups. Why wouldn’t he step in? He could’ve at least got him a post in Games and Sports.”

“Maybe he knows his son’s a sex pest and thought to teach him a lesson?” Hermione asked, though she shared Addison’s disbelief. It was rather convenient that after years of McLaggen’s boorishness and ineptitude, someone had finally done something about it.

Ginny was missing in action, too. She’d owled Hermione at work and begged off tonight’s dinner, claiming a nasty bout of Black Cat Flu. One Floo call later, Harry and Theo voted to reschedule, due in part to the lack of Ginny but also due to their lack of brie, which Harry had demolished sometime in the wee hours of Tuesday morning after a particularly difficult raid. No Auror trainees had been lost, thankfully, but it had been a near thing.

“Theo, are you going to check in on her?”

“It’s not that serious, Hermione. It’s like a Muggle flu your parents would get. I’m sure she’s getting lots of rest and fluids.”

Hermione twisted her fingers. “Do you think she’s avoiding me? You know, because of the break up?”

Harry’s voice was reassuring. “No, no. Ginny wouldn’t do that.”

“She tried to tell me something on Saturday, but we didn’t finish our conversation. Maybe Ron needs her more right now, or Molly’s convinced her he needs her more. This isn’t like her.”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check on her,” Theo said gently.

“Thank you.”

That night, after hearty pasta takeaway and a hot shower, Hermione lay in bed, trying and failing to read a book Blaise sent her on the history of centaurs in Britain. He thought they might have their first case soon, representing a herd of centaurs who wished to migrate from their home in the Forbidden Forest to new territory further away from Hogwarts. Hermione immediately agreed to do some research. She just hadn’t realised how much she didn’t know about the creatures, or that the available reading material would be so dry.

She glanced down at her two-way parchment every so often, willing a message to appear. After thirty minutes of waiting, she finally scribbled something to Draco.

Where are you tonight?

Just got home, he wrote. Exhausted. Going to bed soon, but need to eat first. Thinking something sweet. Can you recommend anything?

She licked her lips.

Yes. Come over.

His response was instant: Be there in ten.

Hermione sprang from her bed. She had ten minutes to prepare, and she would need every one of them.

First she slipped into the knickers he gave her. Then she pulled on a wisp of a nightgown, running her hands over the silk as she looked at herself in the mirror. Mascara, some cherry lip balm, and a baby pink ribbon to tie back her poof of curls completed her look. He’d given her that, too.

For my good little girl, Draco’s note had said.

It felt good to want to look nice for him; to wear clothes he’d picked out just for her, knowing he’d appreciate her effort. She could picture a closet adjoining his, decked out in shades of pink and cream, full to bursting with lacy underthings and tweed skirts and shoes for every occasion.

She surveyed her flat. It wasn’t bad, but it lacked personality. Perhaps it was time to spruce things up.

In the kitchen, she gathered everything she needed.

Flour. Salt. Milk. Eggs. Butter. Powdered Sugar.

And syrup.

A splash of batter threatened to stain her nightgown as she poured it into the hot pan, so she threw on the Amorous Apron from the joke shop. She was sure it said something ridiculous, but she didn’t look, focusing on making the perfect pancakes. When the kitchen began to smell rich and buttery, she flipped her pancakes one by one with a twist of her wand, pleased to discover they were golden brown.

He knocked just as she was plating.

“Well isn’t this domestic?”

Draco leaned in the doorway, deliciously dishevelled in a softspun cotton t-shirt, hair damp from a shower. She loved the way he leaned and the way his hair fell in his face, like he wanted her to push it out of his eyes.

“I made pancakes,” Hermione said, opening the door further.

“With powdered sugar, I see.” He swiped a finger down her nose and put it between his lips. “And this apron is… Something.”

Oh, gods. She’d forgotten about the apron. It was supposed to give you sex fantasies, but she hadn’t noticed, considering she was always having sex fantasies lately.

A slow smile crept across his face as he read the apron’s message aloud. “‘Let the Cook Ride Your Face.’ Tempting.”

Before she could react, Crookshanks strolled in, tail practically vibrating when he saw that their late night guest was Draco. He wove between Draco’s legs, meowing at full volume.

“He always acts like he’s familiar with you.”

“We’re old pals. He used to come by the dungeons and beg for treats, didn’t you, old chap?” Draco crouched down and lovingly scratched under the cat’s chin, earning himself a contented rumble in return.

“Here, I have some you can give him.” Hermione summoned a box of treats and handed them to Draco. “So, you two go way back, then?”

Draco spilled a few treats into his palm and offered them to Crooks. “He’s a good listener. Not much of a mouser, though.”

Hermione laughed. “You have no idea.”

After another stroke down Crooks’s knobbly spine, Draco stood. “Shall we?”

He devoured the pancakes with gusto as Hermione tidied the kitchen. She shoved the apron in the back of a drawer, blushing anew as she imagined climbing atop Draco’s face and holding onto her headboard for dear life as she took her pleasure from him.

When she was finished, she caught his eyes tracing the slit of her nightgown. A surge of adrenaline pushed through her veins, and it made her brave.

“Still hungry?”

Draco straightened, unsubtly adjusting the bulge in his trousers. His chest heaved when they locked eyes.

“Starved.”

Hermione took a deep breath.

“Green.”

She’d barely gotten the word out and Draco was halfway across the room. He hauled her into his arms and kept walking until her back met the living room wall with a hard thud. Her ribbon came undone, one silky end grazing her shoulder, and her feet dangled precariously above the floor. She was solidly pinned, but she didn’t try to squirm away. This was exactly what she wanted.

“You’ll be the death of me. Do you know that?”

Hermione didn’t bother answering. She didn’t want to talk anymore. All she wanted was to feel him, taste him, be surrounded by the heat of his body and the crush of his hand as it wrapped around her throat — oh, gods, his hand was on her throat and it was —

Draco’s thumb stroked just under her jawline, applying light pressure to her carotid. His voice was low and breathy, shot through with lust. “Yeah?”

“Please,” she keened, closing her eyes and giving into the way her mind went blissfully blank. He didn’t press harder; only held her firm. She surrendered.

“There you go,” he praised. “Fuck. Look at me.”

She snapped her eyes open at the soft command. His gaze was smouldering.

“Don’t take those eyes off me, princess.”

He set her down, releasing his hold on her throat, but didn’t move away.

“You didn’t touch yourself, did you? Not even a little?”

She shook her head frantically.

“My good girl.”

“I was so good,” she whined.

“You were. You are,” he crooned. “And now you’re all mine, yes?”

She knew what he wanted to hear.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Draco’s hands were everywhere. In her hair, around her waist; between her legs, where he groaned when he found her wet and wanting. He felt around for the thin band of her g-string, yanking it roughly down her thighs, nostrils flaring when he recognised the periwinkle lace. “Want to bend you over right now, give you what you need with my cock buried deep in your sweet cunt. But we’ll need to work up to that, won’t we?”

Her brain wasn’t keeping up. “Hmm?”

He guided her hand inside his trousers and through the opening in his pants, suppressing a chuckle when she made a choked sound, eyes going wide at the sheer width of him. “Don’t worry, princess. We’ll make it fit.”

Hermione tried — and failed — to get a proper grip on his cock, settling for rubbing the length of him with the flat of her palm. He was smooth and hot and hard, and she wanted to feel him push into her, watch him feed himself into her slowly. She wanted Draco to give her almost more than she could take as he slid in one blinding centimetre at a time, stretching her until she thought she might combust from the ecstasy of it all.

Draco ground into her hand as he rocked their hips together, finally capturing her lips with his. Lightheaded and strung out from days of neglecting her need for him, for this, Hermione welcomed the rush, her knees buckling as his tongue found the pulse point in her neck.

Wordlessly, he scooped her up and wrapped her legs around his waist before carrying her to the bedroom. He didn’t even bother to peel off her nightgown; he just spread her out on the bed, sitting beside her at the edge so he could keep kissing her while he hiked the silk over her hips and roughly thumbed her clit. She arched into the touch, the tightness in her belly unfurling southwards, metamorphosing into flutters in her cunt.

“Close,” she cried, lips sliding against his, slick with saliva as their kisses became sloppier, more frantic. “More.”

Draco pulled away to tug off his shirt, then returned to angle two fingers into her cunt. His hair fell forward into his face again. This time, she gave into temptation, and pushed it back, allowing her touch to linger and become a caress. His hair was one of the only soft things about him, and something about it made her feel even more undone.

Myriad emotions flickered in his eyes. Surprise, then awe, then hard-nosed determination.

“Missed this tight little pussy,” he said, his filthy words barely audible over the obscene sound of his fingers fucking her. He pumped them harder. “Missed making you come.”

She mumbled something, her hand falling to his chest, then to his trousers, where a dark spot had appeared. He added another finger. She could smell sex and leather and —

“Draco!”

Her orgasm hit like a freight train, demolishing every thought; every feeling that wasn’t pure, unadulterated pleasure. She heard Draco swear at her side, then the rustle of fabric, and their hands brushed as he took himself in hand. The rush of realising what he was up to brought the rest of her senses flooding back to her in a wave of heat and lust. He’d found his rhythm, and she forced her eyes open so she could watch.

His head had fallen back, and he worried his bottom lip with his teeth as he stroked his cock. It was glossy at the tip, pink and proud and absolutely massive. Hermione ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth, imagining taking him into the silken heat of her mouth, relaxing her jaw until she could accommodate his thick length.

She pushed herself up slowly until her chin rested on his shoulder. Draco’s breath was ragged as he picked up the pace.

“Come for me, Daddy,” she said, trailing a finger down his arm. His muscles jumped.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck!’ He shouted, hips jerking forward as hot spurts of cum spilled over his fist where it gripped his cock.

Hermione couldn’t help her satisfied smile as she lifted her head and kissed the spot where her chin had been.

“Fucking hell,” Draco said, mopping his brow with his clean hand. LUCK. “Fucking — Wait right here, okay? Don’t move.”

He staggered to the loo and turned on the tap, washing himself before bringing back a soft washcloth for her. Hermione didn’t feel like she needed it as much as last time, but Draco seemed to enjoy this part, so she laid back on the pillow and enjoyed his gentle thoroughness. By the time he finished, her eyelids were heavy. She’d had so much she wanted to say tonight, the first time they saw each other since they’d confessed their mutual interest. But she was too blissed out and boneless to remember the specifics, and he was turning her towards him, drawing her close.

He was so warm; so vital.

“Draco,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair. It had suddenly become second nature to touch him like this. “What if I need more?”

His nose bumped against her neck as he nestled in further, and his breath fanned the slope of her shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s late, princess. I’m tired, and we both have work in the morning. I should go soon. Early flight.”

Her face heated. “No, no. That’s not what I mean. What I’m trying to say is… I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll push you too far. What happens when I ask for too much?”

“Then we’ll talk about it. Fight about it.”

Crooks jumped up on the bed and settled in his usual spot.

“Fighting’s normal,” she said, as much to him as to herself. Reminding herself it was a healthy thing.

“I’ll be better at it than you, I suspect. At least at first. How about this,” he said, shifting up to one forearm. “I promise I’ll never leave without a fight.”

“You said you couldn’t make promises.”

Draco smoothed a rogue curl from her forehead. “Your rule breaking ways are rubbing off on me. You really are a terrible influence.”

Her heart beat harder against her ribcage.

“Will you stay the night?”

He sat up and checked his watch. Even from her awkward vantage point, she could see it was nearly midnight. He blew out a long breath. “Wake me up at five?”

She grinned. “If Crooks doesn’t get to you first.”

“He’ll do well to leave my feet alone, if he knows what’s good for him.”

The cat’s ears perked up. He stood from his nest at the end of the bed and stretched before flopping back down, swishing his tail before tucking it around his hind paws.

Draco unfastened his watch and tossed it on her night table, then summoned his clothes. His magic smoothed them before hanging them over a chair, ensuring he would depart for Mumbai wrinkle-free and ready to face the oppressive heat in and out of the boardroom. He set his wand next to hers, then shimmied under the duvet, avoiding the cat and drawing her back up against his chest. Hermione surrendered her pillow and laid her head on his arm instead, relishing his proximity and warmth. The richness of his scent soothed her, and she burrowed in closer, sleep a much more urgent need than it was a scant few minutes ago.

With a whispered Nox, the bedroom fell dark and quiet.

“Promise you’ll fight me, too,” Draco said softly, nipping tenderly at her ear. “Fight for what we have, whatever we make of it.”

Hermione found his hand and entwined their fingers together. She placed them over her heart. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

As it turned out, Ginny really did have the Black Cat Flu, and unfortunately, it lived up to its reputation for being the most highly contagious magical illness. Despite a well-cast Bubble-Head charm, Theo caught it when he checked on her, and within hours passed it to Harry. By the time Hermione went to Grimmauld on Saturday morning to drop off her mum’s famous cure-all — extra spicy Tom Kha — they were so contagious that despite leaving the soup on the doorstep, she came down with it, too.

Draco was still in Mumbai, so she wrote him about her predicament and banned him from any impromptu visits. In return, he had his assistant Lavinia owl over food for every meal, as well as snacks, herbal tea, and a pair of the softest socks she’d ever worn. On Sunday, he sent a bouquet of cheery sunflowers.

Get well soon, princess.

When Monday rolled around, Hermione was still ill. So far she’d had a much more mild course than her friends, and she suspected it was thanks to the Malfoy family magic embedded in her skin. She wasn’t nearly as achy, and her stomach was tolerating more than toast and little sips of tea.

Still, there would be no Al-Anon or work for her today. She wrapped herself in a quilt and braved the walk to the living room to Floo call Pansy at the office and let her know she wouldn’t be in. Addison answered instead, their moonstone earring glittering in the green flames.

“Sorry to hear it, Hermione. Pansy’s got it, too, and Quincy; half the Department of Mysteries. It’s practically an epidemic.”

She shuffled back to bed. Crookshanks was waiting for her, hot as a furnace. He allowed her to settle under the sheets with her book before flopping against her side, configuring himself into a fluffy orange spiral.

Hermione brushed her fingertips across his ears as she read, turning pages more and more slowly until she fell asleep once more.

When she woke, it was dark, and Crooks was meowing. A tree branch scratched at the window. She shot straight up in bed, mouth dry with terror as she patted the duvet for her wand. Seconds felt like minutes. Finally, her hand met vinewood, and her fingers shook as she cast Lumos.

Hermione flattened a palm over where her heart raced in her chest. She wasn’t in the tent in the woods. She was home, in her flat.

There was no one there. No Snatchers.

She hadn’t had a nightmare in what felt like ages, but the underlying fear remained. Her tattoo buzzed lightly against her skin, gently alerting her to the fact that she was too stressed; her heart rate too high. It seemed to ask her something, and Hermione couldn’t explain it for the life of her, but she somehow understood that the magic wanted to help.

His family magic. She knew there was more it could do, more that Draco needed to tell her when they could keep their hands off each other long enough to have a real conversation about it. Maybe it was stronger, now that she and Draco were growing closer?

The magic beckoned to her again.

She took a deep breath, exhaled, and welcomed it with open arms. Immediately, as if it had been waiting for her recognition, the magic swept through her like a cool breeze. Her skin felt less feverish, her headache cleared, and she had more energy than she’d had in days.

Unfortunately, her nose was still runny. Apparently there was only so much the Malfoy family magic could do. Still, she was grateful for any small reprieve.

“What’s this, then?” She asked Crooks, eyeing him where he sat on the rug. He meowed again. “You’re hungry? Do you know, I bet if you really wanted to you’d knock your kibble bag out of the cupboard and have a feast fit for a king. You’ve done it before. Ginny told me after she catsit you last time.” She held her wand to her lips, contemplating the proper past tense of catsit. “Catsat? Catsitted? In any case, I know you’re capable. You might consider letting me sleep next time.”

Crooks didn’t dignify her statement with a response.

After she fed her grumpy cat, Hermione turned her attention to her two-way parchment. Draco had checked in throughout the day.

How are you feeling?

Can I do anything? Say the word.

I can be there, if you’ll let me. I’ll leave right now.

Hermione smiled through her sniffles and reached for the tissue box. It was far past dinnertime. Draco should be getting some sleep, and yet he was willing to be at her side in a moment’s notice, even at the risk of becoming ill.

I’m okay, I promise. And I don’t want to give it to you! The meals have helped a lot.

Draco wrote back: I’m glad. I’d love to see you when you’re feeling better. I should wrap up here tomorrow or Wednesday.

She nibbled the end of her quill.

That sounds lovely. Maybe Saturday night? I’m trying to leave Magical Creatures in a good spot and I’ve already lost today, and likely tomorrow.

His response made her frown.

Fridays and Saturdays are our busiest nights, and I haven’t spent enough time on the floor lately. The managers can handle it but I’ve been gone more than I intended. I’ll likely need the whole weekend to get caught up, and you deserve my undivided attention.

He’d been honest about his workload, but it still stung that he didn’t think he could step away for a few hours to spend time with her. Uneasiness churned in her stomach. She would always have weekends off, and he would need to work them. No wonder he didn’t have much experience with relationships. How would they find time for each other?

More green ink appeared on the page.

How can Daddy make it up to you?

She paused to consider. There’d been an idea in the back of her head for days now, one she wasn’t sure he’d like. But if they were going to make it past the casual phase and fight for what they had, this was the first step.

How busy are you next Monday morning, say, around eight?

***

With one last swish of her wand, the rest of Hermione’s personal effects sailed into her handbag. Her now-bare desk looked exactly like it had when she’d joined Magical Creatures nearly a decade ago, bright-eyed and idealistic, ready to make a difference.

Her tenure here had been quite the learning experience. She’d adjusted her expectations, trying to find contentment in juggling edits on multiple drafts of key legislation; always dealing with overlapping deadlines and a staff uninterested in reform both inside and outside the Ministry. And even though she hadn’t made as much of a difference as she’d hoped, she was still proud of her work, and grateful for the friends she’d made along the way.

Now she was onto bigger and better things. Blaise had given every indication that he was ready to take the mooncalf by the horns and shake up the magical world order, helping creatures everywhere get the rights and respect they were owed. Hermione couldn’t wait to be part of it. And she wouldn’t have to wait long. Blaise owled her last night and confirmed they’d be taking on the centaurs’ case.

The mandatory trip into the Forbidden Forest would have frightened her had she not discovered the soothing properties of her tattoo. After she’d allowed the magic to both heal and calm her a few days earlier, she hadn’t been scared of trees at all. It was as if it had sensed the fear, determined it wasn’t a threat, and eliminated it from her life entirely.

In any case, she had some time. Blaise had wanted to start work on Monday, but an unexpected hiccup with the business’s Gringotts vault had set them back a week. Hermione worried that maybe he didn’t have the gold he thought he did, and regretted not asking for proof of funds.

But Blaise insisted everything would be fine, and despite his Hogwarts house affiliation, she trusted him. She’d brushed him off when he first approached her, but he’d persisted, and eventually won her over with his encyclopaedic knowledge of magical creatures all over the world, and his passion for preserving migration routes from both climate change and sceptical landowners and businesspeople wanting to protect their investments. He understood, unlike anyone at the Ministry, that magic of any kind, whether that of a creature or of a Muggleborn, was precious.

Time was precious, too. As much as Hermione couldn’t wait to begin her new career as Chief Outreach Officer of an up and coming non-profit, a week break between jobs was probably needed after her bout of illness. And as a bonus, she could spend some time with Draco. Maybe they could take the jet somewhere.

The office Floo glowed green.

Ginny appeared in the fireplace, wearing her favourite headband and a smart denim jumpsuit. The workshop behind her was busy with ongoing projects.

“Happy last day, Hermione. I’m sorry we won’t be there tonight. Friday’s always been our night.”

Hermione gave her a compassionate look. “It’s okay. I know you need to be there for him. I want him to get better.”

Tonight was the night: Ron’s intervention. It was supposed to be last weekend, but with everyone down with Black Cat Flu, they’d had to reschedule. And every week was precious — Ginny said Ron was a wreck. He was back at the Burrow in his childhood bedroom, and, according to Harry, off-the-clock Ron was either picking fights or apologising for his recent behaviour. And while he was banned from Serpenti, no one knew if he was seeking gambling opportunities elsewhere. He’d broken his family’s trust, lost Hermione, and now he was rudderless.

The old Hermione would be frantically trying to get him back on the straight and narrow. But that was the old Hermione. Now, she could offer his siblings sympathy, but nothing more.

Ginny rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know if Harry’s going to be able to read his letter. He’s a sodding mess.”

“Theo will be there,” Hermione reassured her. “He’ll get through it. You’ll get through it.”

“I’m sorry to keep talking about him and this intervention thing, it’s just… This whole situation really blows my mind, you know? I never thought Ron would be so stupid. A gambling problem is one thing, but I mean, Merlin — he sold you, and to Malfoy of all people! It doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real.”

Her stomach flip-flopped. Malfoy. Her friends still thought of him as Malfoy. It felt like she’d always thought of him as Draco, or Daddy. But it had only been a few weeks.

Ginny was more right than she knew. Nothing felt real to Hermione lately; not the break up, not her new job, not her connection with Draco. The last few weeks had been like waking up from an especially terrible nightmare and finding herself in a fairy tale.

Ron had done a real number on her.

During their last conversation, he’d said cruel, awful things that were so unlike the Ron she’d adored. He’d implied Hermione was too complicated. She was a human being, of course she was complicated. Even at his best, Ron wanted everything simple to a fault, and while he’d been in active addiction, he tried to fit everything in his life into tidy little boxes so he could gamble without guilt.

Guilt was a funny thing. Hermione didn’t feel an ounce of it for skipping the intervention, or about being with Draco now. The only guilt she felt stemmed from the fact that she hadn’t said anything about it to Ginny yet.

Ginny pulled her hair to one side and ran her fingers through it. All the Weasleys fussed with their hair when they were stressed or nervous, but something about seeing Ginny do it made Hermione’s heart clench.

“He was my hero. You and Harry were, too, of course, but Ron was my hero my whole life. He always included me when my other brothers didn’t. One time, a few summers before I got my Hogwarts letter, I went a bit batty and tried to fly a broom on my own so I could play quidditch with everyone. And I got in the air, but I hadn’t thought about how I’d get down. All my brothers either laughed at me or gave me terrible advice that would’ve had me missing half my teeth, but not Ron. He just calmly talked me through getting down. And when I landed, it was on my arse and I was crying and when I got up my legs were shaking, but he just ruffled my hair and hugged me. He hugged me so hard, Hermione…” Ginny’s voice broke and she couldn’t go on.

Hermione wished she could hug her. “I know, Gin. I know.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just Harry’s terrible at talking about feelings, and Theo’s great, but he doesn’t get it like you do —”

“And I’m your best friend. I’ll always be your best friend. Okay? You can talk to me about anything. Anything at all.”

“I want to,” Ginny said hoarsely. “It just never feels like the right time.”

Pansy appeared in the doorway, her pink-tipped nose the only remaining indicator that she’d been ill. “Ready for your send-off?” She spotted Ginny and went rigid. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were on a call.”

“That’s alright,” Hermione said. “Pansy, this is Ginny Weasley. I mentioned her the other day, remember? We’ve been best friends since our school days. Ginny, this is Pansy Parkinson, my friend, work colleague, and guide to all things Pureblood.”

Ginny blinked rapidly. “Um, it’s nice to meet you, Pansy.”

Pansy remained stiff, but spoke evenly. “How do you do?”

Hermione looked between the two of them. Ginny seemed focused on an unevenness in the floorboards, and Pansy’s face was as placid as an Occlumens. Hermione frowned. She’d thought they would hit it off, but neither of them seemed inclined to say more.

“Maybe we can get drinks sometime? I think you’d get along famously.”

“I’d love that,” Pansy said, sliding her eyes towards Ginny.

“Yeah,” Ginny mumbled, still ensnared by the floorboards. “I’ve gotta run.”

Hermione hugged Ginny again, and without so much as a goodbye, Ginny stumbled back into the Floo and was gone.

“Well,” Hermione took one last look at her office before hitching her bag on her shoulder and flashing Pansy a small smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Don’t worry,” Pansy said as they stepped into the corridor. Her sly smile was back, though a little weaker than before. “I’m sure I’ll be back with you before you know it.”

“Thanks, Pansy,” Hermione laughed at Pansy’s attempt at levity. “Did you talk to her about it? Your lover?”

“No, but I think we’re getting closer to going public.”

“That’s amazing!”

“Yes, yes, keep your knickers on. We’ll see if it happens. I have to figure out how to introduce her to my friends, too. Though it appears there may be some overlap.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. She’d assumed Pansy’s mystery woman was one of her friends, or at least a Slytherin. Before she could think of it more, she spied McLaggen coming out of the owlery. She reached out and gripped Pansy’s arm.

“Oh, McLaggen,” Pansy called, her voice dripping with faux-sweetness. “Did you want some cake? I’m sure Hermione would let you have a slice.”

“Pansy,” Hermione chided. She hated the man, but didn’t actually want him to have a life-threatening allergic reaction.

McLaggen froze, paled, and opened his mouth to say something, but didn't. He backed away, waving his hands as if begging them not to come closer.

“So scared of another hex you had to go hide in Transportation? Really? Or maybe you needed new witches to harass?” McLaggen said nothing, and Pansy made the most of that, too. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

His eyes were wild as he looked from Pansy to Hermione, then back to Pansy. Then he turned and ran away.

“Fucking coward,” Pansy crowed.

Hermione’s nose twitched. Something was off. McLaggen loved a good workplace row. He never walked away without getting at least a few snide comments in.

Addison poked their head out from the conference room. “Is the guest of honour ready?”

“Coming!” Pansy said, dragging Hermione with her.

Two hours, a handful of teary goodbyes, and a generous slice of Battenburg cake later, Hermione spotted Robards on the way to the lifts.

“We’ll miss having you here with us, Miss Granger,” he said, extending a hand to her. He’d changed during his time as Minister. Robards was greyer now, portlier than he’d been as Head Auror. Something inside her crumpled as she thought Harry might be in his position someday. He’d make an excellent Minister for Magic, but to Hermione, Harry would always be the green-eyed boy with the odd scar who’d won her eternal friendship with a selfless act of bravery in a girls’ toilet.

Ron had been there, too. She missed that version of him.

Hermione accepted Robards’s hand and shook it. “It’s been a pleasure, Minister. Thank you for the opportunities you’ve given me.”

“I regret we couldn’t keep you here. Mr Zabini must have deep pockets.”

The accusation pricked her ego. “Respectfully, sir, it was never about money for me.”

“Of course, of course,” Robards said with a chuckle, dismissing her ire as he stepped into the lift. “But it helps, doesn’t it?”

He held the door for her, but Hermione crossed her arms, resolved to wait for the next one. How dare he accuse her of leaving because of money? Her departure was absolutely not about money; it was about equality, something the Ministry had been willfully blind to ever since its founding. Her hair crackled with magic as she steamed.

“Very well then.” Robards shrugged as he released the button. “Oh, and I heard you’re taking on the centaur relocation. Won’t be easy. Best of luck to you, Miss Granger.”

***

After a cloudy weekend, Monday morning dawned sunny and clear. Draco was waiting for her on the church steps. He leaned against a weathered stone pillar in a white oxford and grey trousers, a suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He smiled when he caught sight of her.

“Hey,” Hermione said, wrapping her arms around his waist and going up on her tiptoes for a kiss.

“Hey yourself,” Draco smirked, burnishing her mood with another kiss. “Can I ask why you wanted to meet here? Does this Muggle church have some sort of historical significance?”

She explained the idea behind Al-Anon as she led him down into the church basement, her hand curled around his. The family magic blazed a path down her arm, the contact satisfying something deep within her, something both nervous and desirous of his approval.

“It’s to help people struggling with addiction and their families. It was originally for alcoholics completing the twelve step program, but anyone is welcome.”

“And you’ve been attending meetings…” Draco trailed off.

“For a while now. He didn’t want to come, so I came on my own. R—” She stopped short at the end of the stairs. Suddenly, she didn’t want to say Ron’s name, even though Draco knew who she was referring to. “I’m sorry, it’s silly, I just can’t seem to—”

Draco spun her into him and held her close against his chest. “You don’t have to speak his name ever again if you don’t want to. He put you through hell, Hermione.”

Hell. It had been hell.

And he’d reached down into the darkness and offered her his hand.

LOVE.

Seconds passed. The stairwell was silent except for the sound of their breathing and the hum of a lightbulb on its way out, her throat clogged with words unsaid. Finally it was too much, and not enough, and she spoke into the safety of Draco’s embrace.

“Thank you.”

He smoothed his hand down her back, over the buttons of her sage green sundress. “These meetings are important to you.”

“They are; they help. I’ve learned a lot.”

“Tell me something you’ve learned,” he said, still stroking along her spine. She let out a long, gusty breath.

“You can’t cause someone else’s addiction, you can’t control it, and you can’t cure it. They call it the three Cs. I just needed to accept them, which I didn’t really, until recently. I didn’t think I was the cause, and I’m not so narcissistic to think I could cure it, but control…”

“It’s hard to give up control. Even the idea of it,” Draco murmured, smugness creeping into his voice. “That’s why I don’t.”

“Prat.” She poked a finger in his sternum, laughing despite her best attempts.

He mimed being hard of hearing, cupping a hand around his ear. “What’s that? Brat?”

“That’s princess, to you.”

A sly grin unravelled across his face. How was he so handsome, even under fluorescent lights?

“Very well. Are you ready to go in, princess?”

Hermione wasn’t dumb. Obviously he’d manoeuvered her out of the sticky mire of discussing her previous relationship and onto dry-ish land with a little teasing. But he’d listened to her first, got her steady enough to exit the stairwell and confront the sea of beige folding chairs.

And he was going in with her, knowing that what he was about to hear would paint his profession in a less-than-flattering light. It was only an hour, but his time was valuable, and he made it hers.

It made her feel like she’d swallowed a cauldronful of Felix Felicis.

They were early. Hermione considered the refreshment table, finally settling on a few Jammie Dodgers, while Draco stared at an array of pamphlets featuring detox resources, cutting-edge treatments, and specialised support groups.

She gestured towards one advertising a rehabilitation centre in Florida. “Harry’s trying to get him to go to a facility like that, in Brighton. I don’t think it’s the right place, but I don’t want to get involved.”

“Why don’t you like it?”

“I’m worried someone will leak it to the press that he’s there. Imagine getting all the way through a programme, coming out the other side ready to change, and your good name’s been dragged through the mud. Wouldn’t you think about relapsing?”

“His name shouldn’t be good anymore.”

She brushed a few crumbs from her dress. “Maybe not, but I told the Prophet our split was amicable, and he didn’t fight me on it. He and his mother could’ve sold them a fake story, or spun the truth and painted me as some sort of harlot for staying the night with you. It was easier to let it lie. I never want to see his face again if I can help it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to get better.”

Draco picked up the pamphlet, setting his critical gaze on the photo of a sunset over a white-sand beach. “I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Before Hermione could reply, the leader, who today wore her electric blue hair tied up in a silk scarf, called the meeting to order. Hermione recognised a few people and nodded to them as she and Draco found their seats. The girl Hermione heard speak two weeks ago — Aya, she remembered — sat directly across from them.

Throughout the meeting, Hermione looked at Draco from the corner of her eye. He didn’t seem too bothered by the various personal stories, which mostly revolved around alcohol abuse, but he listened intently, awarding each speaker his undivided attention.

There was a young man whose family cut him off, and despite entering recovery, they wouldn’t reopen the lines of communication. An older woman with a cane who’d lost a foot due to long-term intravenous drug use. A single dad with four kids whose ex-wife, still deep in addiction, refused help and lost her visitation.

Draco showed the appropriate amount of concern for each of them, nodding encouragingly and frowning in sympathy as they unpacked their traumas in front of a room of strangers.

Then Aya stood and walked to the podium. Hermione braced herself against the cold metal chair.

“Hi, my name is Aya. I have a gambling problem.”

The room murmured their hellos. For the first time since the meeting began, Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Growing up, my mum was a gambler. Smoker, too. Wasn’t as bad when I was little, but then my dad left, and me and my mum moved to a council house. She couldn’t keep a job, had odd men come around at all hours. They’d give her money to go down to the casino and she’d sit there all day, cig between her fingers and a bucket of coins at her feet, and play pound slots until the bucket was empty and no one would give her any more. Saddest sodding thing you’ve ever seen, a woman in her prime watchin’ little numbers on reels, hopin’ they’d line up; playin’ again whether they did or not.

“Eventually I found a good job, but she started taking my cheques ‘cause she’d spend all the food money on slots. Told me I should be thankful she didn’t do worse. Said she could be the kind of mum that hits, or drinks, or does drugs. And I was young so I decided she was right, it could be worse; I had friends down the way who had it worse.

“And one day on the way home from work, I passed by the casino. There was a woman going in with a posh coat on, the kind with real fur lining, and everyone was trippin’ over themselves to open the door for her and take her coat and I thought, maybe that could be me. Maybe I could go in there and win, win big like you see on the telly, and then get me and my mum posh coats, and when we walked by they’d be beggin’ us to come in but we’d just keep walkin’ because we’d got our money.

“It sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? Why didn’t I see what my mum was doin’? Why didn’t I hide my cheques and get out of there? Why didn’t I get angry or try to get her some help instead of goin’ down the same road? All I can tell you is I was young, and I loved my mum, and sometimes love makes you stupid.

“So I went in the casino. I gave them my cheque directly, instead of letting my mum give it to them. And my mum wasn’t thrilled that she had less money to gamble herself, that was obviously a loss, but she was happy she had someone to sit by while she fed the slot machine, someone to light her cigs and hold her seat when she went to the loo. I was just happy to spend time with her between shifts. We mostly lost, but sometimes we’d win enough to treat ourselves to the local chippy. We’d lick the grease off our fingers and laugh and think ourselves luckier than the queen. And it went on and on like that for years, until she got lung cancer. They said four months, but she was gone in a week.

“I didn’t have anything saved for a burial, so we had a public health funeral. Didn’t know where my dad went, still don’t, and I haven’t got siblings so… Not one person from the casino showed up. They saw her every day for twenty-plus years, and no one even sent flowers.”

Hermione caught Draco wiping his LOVE hand down his face. She silently set her hand on his knee, though it continued to bounce, the toes of his dragonside boots glued to the linoleum floor.

Aya continued. “And I still went back. I couldn’t stay away, I’d been going every day for so long I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I didn’t want to be alone in the house. I thought when I came in alone they’d ask about her, but they didn’t. And I was about to put a pound in the machine but when I took it out, I don’t know, something stopped me. I can’t remember, but I think I was thinkin’ about my mum, and how she at least had a daughter. I didn’t have a soul. And when I died, same as her, there’d be a sorry public health funeral with no flowers, just a pile of dirt and a chaplain with nothin’ to say.”

A few people were openly weeping, including Hermione. She used the back of her free hand to mop the tears from her cheeks, but mostly ended up smearing her mascara.

“I left that day. I haven’t gambled in two years. And God willing, I won’t gamble ever again.”

The leader continued the meeting, handing out medallions to those with sobriety milestones, and concluded with the serenity prayer. After the final amen, Hermione squeezed Draco’s knee and stood. He stood, too, but brushed past her.

“Excuse me,” he said tersely, making a beeline for the door.

“Draco,” Hermione cried. “Draco, wait, please.”

He was already through the door, headed up the stairwell. Determinedly, she followed him, taking the stairs two at a time; no small feat since she’d worn espadrille wedges. She was gaining on him.

“Draco,” she said again, close enough she could smell his familiar leather and cedar scent. Her feet ached. Her arm burned, hand clutching the bannister.

He whirled around on the landing, his hands clenched in tight fists. His eyes had a haunted look. “Why?”

She didn’t know exactly what he was asking, but she knew the potency of the question. She understood him, in the most secret places of herself, the way she’d always understood him. In sixth year, she’d been drawn to the woundedness lurking beyond the sharp edges and cutting remarks. After the war, she took the stand for him, telling herself it was the right thing to do, but knowing deep down that it was another force driving her to his defence. When he’d volunteered the deed to the Burrow in exchange for her, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t just the smallest bit intrigued by the offer.

And just as he’d seen her at her lowest, she saw him, now.

Over the years, he’d built a house of cards and locked himself inside its highest tower, isolating himself from the emotional consequences of his decisions. He’d turned people into numbers, spun straw into gold. He deferred necessary maintenance on his heart, and in the span of an hour, it shattered, like a crystal chandelier. Everything he knew had come crashing down.

Again.

In the face of his obvious pain, she felt her heart swell with affection.

Hermione gentled her voice, as she would for any frightened creature. “I don’t know.”

“Why?” He croaked. “You always have an answer. Just tell me why.”

She took one step, and when he didn’t back away, she took another. Then another. And then she wrapped her arms around him, and he let his forehead drop onto hers, and they stood, just like that, in the empty stairwell of an old Muggle church, listening to the bells chime a new hour.

***

Hermione waved to Hannah Abbott before sliding into the booth at Farmer’s Daughter. Harry and Theo were already there, heads together as they whispered about something, Harry’s glasses slightly askew. He spotted Hermione and colour blossomed across his cheeks. Theo smirked, and then following his husband’s line of sight, bit his lip in an attempt to stifle a laugh.

“You’re early,” Theo remarked as he sat back in the booth. He was completely unruffled, casually cool as he sipped his water.

Hermione flicked her gaze to Harry, who’d buried his face in the menu. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting,” Harry stammered, and Theo’s dark eyes sparkled with amusement.

The two of them were utterly, ridiculously in love, and for once, Hermione didn’t feel that sad sting of longing as she watched them find each other’s hands under the table. She thought of Draco, of the way he’d crumpled against her, the hopefulness in his baritone when he’d asked her to come over tonight. The way he kissed her when she said yes, the promise in it.

She tried to be subtle as she touched her cheeks, willing herself not to blush.

“Nice ink,” Harry said, eyebrows raised. Hermione froze, glancing at her tattoo.

“Oh, um, thanks. They’re my bluebell flames, in like an antique silver lantern,” she blathered, as if it weren’t obvious. She’d totally forgotten to keep it covered, but then again, why was she still hiding it? It wasn’t like Draco had signed his artwork. “It’s not a break-up thing.”

Harry nodded, not buying it. “Sure. Most people get a fringe, you know.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” she sniffed. “And it’s like I said, I’m rediscovering myself.”

“I think it’s lush,” Theo said approvingly. “Get a full sleeve, I say.”

They ordered, and made an attempt at small talk, circling the topic of the intervention like it was Ravenclaw’s diadem. Someone would have to put it on, but none of them wanted to.

“Theo, how’s your cure coming along?” Hermione asked as the food arrived.

“It isn’t a cure,” Theo corrected, ever a stickler for proper terminology. “It’s a treatment. You can’t cure aftereffects, they aren’t a disease.”

Harry rolled his eyes, and Hermione suppressed a smile.

“Right. How’s the treatment?”

“We haven’t been able to duplicate the familial preference element using anything other than direct contact with someone closely related to the original caster of the curse. Makes it impossible to scale, especially when most of the potential relatives are still fiddling around with dark magic and unwilling to come in and help.”

“Doesn’t help that his husband’s put most of them in Azkaban at one point or another,” Harry sighed.

Hermione drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “And Voldemort was the main perpetrator of most of these, wasn’t he? But he was the last of the Gaunts. The heir of Slytherin.”

“It might be the end of the road,” Theo admitted. “It’s a shame we couldn’t make it into a potion, or some kind of injection, because I think it would have applications in the field of Muggle medicine as well. Migraines, epilepsy, tremors.”

Harry looked meaningfully at Hermione. He’d seen her parents many times after their memories had been restored; he knew how her mum’s hands shook every time she tried to core an apple, or dice vegetables. These days her dad did all the knife work, if he wasn’t lying in a dark room, waiting for his headache to pass.

She’d never regret protecting them, but there had been trade-offs.

“Don’t give up,” Hermione said, spearing salad onto her fork, fighting to keep the waver out of her voice. “There’s always a way. You’ll think of something.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the busy restaurant fading to the background.

Finally, Hermione finished her meal and cleared her throat. She was ready to know. It was time to put on the damn diadem. “Just tell me. Is he going?”

“He said he’ll have to think about it,” Harry said solemnly. Theo laid his hand over Harry’s. It was plain as magic that Theo had no great love for Ron, but the way he comforted his husband regardless pinched at her heart.

“Did he say why?”

“No,” Theo said. “But after we read our letters, he seemed more ashamed than I’ve ever seen him before. So at the very least we’re getting somewhere.”

Harry sat up a little straighter. “I think he’ll come around.”

He was always such an optimist; so loyal and loving, and she loved that about him. But she was a realist, and she needed to hear from another realist.

Hermione eyed Theo. “What do you think?”

“As a Healer, or as a friend?”

His response told her all she needed to know. Before she could think about what she was doing; who she sounded like, she said, “Maybe he needs an incentive.”

Theo tilted his head slightly to one side, as if seeing her in a new light.

Harry grit his teeth. “The incentive is to get his shit together. Also, we’re footing the bill. What more incentive would he need?”

“Hermione makes a good point,” Theo murmured, rising from his seat. “I need to get to the lab.”

“It’s my turn to pay,” Hermione said, before Harry could take out any money. “And I don’t have a job to hurry back to until next week. You two go ahead.”

Theo was already halfway out the door, muttering to himself, his body present but his brain already elsewhere. Hermione stood to hug Harry.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Harry said, returning her affectionate squeeze.

“Don’t be. In no time at all we’ll be celebrating your birthday on a beach somewhere, and we’ll be able to celebrate him getting help, too, okay?”

“He won’t like missing the trip.”

Hermione ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth. Harry was only worried for his other best friend; she knew that. But didn’t he think about the fact that if Ron was there, she wouldn’t be? Was it really so hard for Harry to put her feelings first?

She swallowed her hurt and nodded. “He won’t. But he’ll get help.”

“You gave him every opportunity to get help. I’m giving him every opportunity. What’s it going to take?”

Hermione shot him a sad smile. “Who knows?”

“What’s the magical equivalent of divine intervention?” Harry asked. “You know, only real.”

“Harry, you literally rose from the dead.”

“Fair enough.”

***

Serpenti was busy for a Monday night. It was as humid inside as it was outside, the full weight of summer bearing down upon the city, unrelenting even under the watchful eye of the moon. The indoor humidity could be attributed to the heat of bodies crowded around the craps table, the perfumed air, the sweaty thrill of action and the singe of flashing lights.

Hermione's heart was in her throat.

She’d wanted him to see what happened after gamblers left the casino. Even if they took his deals, got their debts cleared and got help, they didn’t walk away unscathed. But she hadn’t meant to hurt him. That was her mistake, to think that he wouldn’t take it to heart once he was confronted with the icy cold of reality. But he felt things deeply, more deeply than anyone gave him credit for.

Merlin, they were so alike.

Despite the moment they’d shared at the church, Hermione had worried he’d asked her here so he could let her down easy. Draco didn’t need her. He had an empire, one he explicitly told her was his top priority, and even if he was moved by what he’d seen and heard at the meeting, he’d never topple it; only a fool would think otherwise.

She breezed past a chastened Lavinia, thanking her for all the meals she’d sent. Lavinia simply nodded, and let her know that Draco was in his suite.

She found him stretched out on the sofa in nothing but his white gold chain and a pair of low-slung grey joggers, slippered feet propped up on the armrest. His glasses clung to the slope of his nose, which was buried in his ledger, and his right hand was occupied with a glass of white wine. He was slightly scruffy, his features softened by the glow of lamplight, and the knot in her chest that had tightened and tightened since they’d said goodbye that morning eased somewhat when he looked up at her and smiled.

“You’re here.”

“Hi,” Hermione said, toeing off her shoes and placing her bag on the table. “You look cosy.”

He set his wine on a coaster and let the ledger fall into his lap. “I’d be cosier with you. Come here.”

Hermione looked down at her sundress, wrinkled from a full day of running around the city. Her brain had funnelled all her energy to worrying about what she’d say when she saw him, and she hadn’t changed. “Can I borrow something of yours? I promise not to steal it.”

“No need. Look on the bed,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

“Is it more knickers?” she asked saucily.

“I included knickers, but if you skip them I won’t complain.”

She trotted over to the sofa, leaned over the back, and ran her hand along his jawline, lifting his chin so she could kiss him. When their lips met, he hooked an arm behind her back and dragged her down on top of him. He shifted her so they were face to face, and she squeaked her surprise into his eager mouth, knocking the ledger to the carpet with a thud. Neither of them paid it any mind.

“Shouldn’t let you change,” Draco teased, grazing a fingertip up her inner thigh. She shivered, and he switched sides, coming dangerously close to her centre. He dropped his mouth to her ear. “Dresses have easier access.”

Relief burst through her lungs, like coming up for air after diving too deep underwater. She’d overplayed her hand this morning, taking him to Al-Anon after he’d told her he didn’t want anything serious. It wasn’t like he didn’t know she wanted more. Draco was too smart for his own good; of course he knew. To know Hermione Granger was to know that she would always push the envelope.

Now that he knew she would keep challenging him, it might be better for him to simply place his cards on the table and walk away. He wanted her, she felt it in his kiss, but he didn’t need her, especially if she continued to tell him how she felt about his line of work.

A wave of desire rolled through her as Draco dragged two playful fingers along the dip between her thigh and arse, toying with the edge of her knickers. She spread her legs a little wider, dangling one off the edge of the sofa, encouraging him to dip beneath the innocent cotton and feel the wetness gathering there. But he ignored her wanton movement, torturing her with broad strokes of his fingertips everywhere but the one place she wanted to feel them. When she succumbed to the ferocity of his kiss, he lingered, pressing hard enough so if she angled herself just right, he might...

And then he was gone again, and she writhed helplessly against the growing hardness in his joggers, whining when there wasn’t enough friction. Every time she tried to direct his movements, he shifted away.

Edging. He planned on edging her, and this was the warm up. And if this was the warm up…

Her eyes landed on a wide, bed-like swing hanging from the ceiling by four black chains. What else did Draco have in store?

Her bluebell flames flared to life. It was a shame he only wanted her, because she both wanted and needed him, so much it hurt. She unwrapped an arm from Draco’s neck and rubbed at the tattoo.

He noticed, because of course he noticed, and kicked off his slippers before he eased them into a sitting position, with Hermione facing him in his lap. “I wrote Theo about that.”

“You did?” She must have looked confused, because he laid his thumb over the space between her brows and smoothed over the delicate skin there.

“I thought he might know how to make the more unpleasant side effects go away.”

“What did he say?”

“The good news is, he helped. The wand movements are tricky, but I think I’ve got them down.” Draco sighed and carded a hand through his hair. “The bad news is, he implied that he knew I was asking for you, and I know how important it is for you to keep this discreet.”

“It’s alright. I might have said something to Pansy. About us,” she said, pretending to pick at an imaginary hangnail.

“You did?”

“I needed someone to talk to, and obviously I wasn’t going to tell Harry or Ginny. I mean, in a perfect world I’d tell Ginny, because she’s my best friend, but she’s keeping something from me and I don’t know what it is, and you and I are casual, so, you know.”

“Right… Casual.” His mouth twitched downward, then returned to neutral.

“But Pansy’s your friend and I thought maybe… I’m sorry, I probably should have run this by you first.”

Draco was silent for a moment. “Pansy won’t say anything.”

“She’s a steel trap,” Hermione agreed.

“I didn’t confirm Theo’s suspicions, for what it’s worth.”

“If you had, I wouldn’t have minded. He’s in the Gryffindor circle of trust.”

“And I don’t mind that you told Pansy,” he said, encircling her wrists. Her pulse fluttered. “We’re good friends. What did you say?”

“I told her everything. The whole story,” Hermione winced.

Draco laughed, and she felt the rumble of his chest as it rose beneath her. “I bet she loved that.”

Hermione grinned and picked up his wine glass, swallowing a healthy amount. “She did. She told me I could baby trap you like a leading lady in a romance novel and take half your money, except that would never occur to me, because I’m such an innocent.”

She hadn’t meant to reveal that part, but something about the way he looked at her made all her thoughts jangle loose and come tumbling out her mouth. But Draco only laughed again, a little lower, a little darker.

“Sounds like her. And have you now hatched such a plan? Going to baby trap me, are you?”

She was midway through another sip of wine, and nearly spit it out. “Gods, Draco, no. I would never —”

“Maybe we should pretend you will,” he said, all wickedness and wiles. He took the wine glass from her with LUCK. “Want to know a secret?”

“Always.”

“I’ve never cum… inside,” he said, ensnaring her with a look of unadulterated desire. “I’ve heard it’s an incredible rush.”

Her breath hitched. “Never?”

“Too risky. I pull out. The potion’s just in case.”

“But you’d want to… With me?”

“You have no idea,” Draco groaned, biting into his bottom lip. His hands gripped her waist and he rolled his hips up into her, his erection sliding along her centre. His voice was a rough scrape. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to help myself. Now that you’ve put the image in my head, all I can think about is pushing your knickers aside and mounting you on my dick, watching you struggle to take it all, make it disappear into you again and again while you moan my name.”

“Draco,” she groaned.

“Daddy for this, princess.”

“Daddy.”

She tugged at the waistband of his joggers, and he arched up for her so she could slide them down enough to free his cock. Gods, it really was huge. Draco wasted no time, spitting into his palm and beginning to pump himself in languid, confident strokes.

“Just want to feel you. I won’t go in. Won’t fuck you for the first time on a sofa. My girl deserves better.” The gleam in his eye turned feral. “Besides, think of the mess you’d make on the chenille.”

She glanced over at the swing again. The fabric looked much hardier.

Draco didn’t miss her hopeful stare, and a predatory smile spread across his face. “Curious?”

When she nodded, Draco wasted no time at all. He scooped her up with one arm and carried her to the swing, setting her down and divesting himself of his joggers in a flash. It was the first time she’d ever seen him naked, but Hermione didn’t have time to drink him in like she wanted; his strong thighs, his taut abs, his thick, veiny cock all on display for only a moment before he found a comfortable position on the swing, the chains anchoring it to the ceiling creaking as he arranged her on top of him. She wiggled, searching for a new centre of gravity, and he made a strained sound.

“I’ll start slow. Colours are there if you need them. Now, move those knickers out of the way and let Daddy feel you.”

Hermione shakily lifted the hem of her dress and did as he asked. He slotted his dick between her folds, and she gasped as he grabbed her waist to guide her over him. She was so ready, so turned on that there was no resistance, just the slick sound of skin on skin as he glided against her.

“So wet for me.”

“Yes.” She nodded jerkily. The swing rocked in time with his efforts, spinning her up into a dizzying frenzy.

His face was pure concentration, working up to a speed that had them both gasping for air. “Just like that. When I fuck you, you’ll feel so good, so wet and tight, I’ll just be hoping I get you off before I fill you up. Won’t be able to wait.”

“Oh, shit.” She closed her eyes and ground against him, his words heating her entire body with heady lust.

“And I’ll keep it in. I’ll pet your pretty pussy while I’m still inside you, make you come again while you’re stuffed with me.”

Distracted and desperate, Hermione’s fingers slipped, her knickers getting in the way, and Draco growled as he reached beneath her dress and ripped them off, flinging them somewhere behind them. He flipped the dress up and shoved the excess fabric behind her hips.

“My clit,” she begged. “Touch me, please.”

He spread his palm across her belly, possessive even in this, his thumb applying the perfect amount of pressure. He pressed himself into her harder, moved faster. Too fast; the broad head of his cock bobbed up and stalled at her entrance, and he sucked in air through his teeth as he scrambled to reset his frantic pace. “And we’re just pretending, right? Green?”

“Right,” she panted. She was so close. “Yes. Green.”

If he was asking, he must be about to say something obscene. Something that would drive her wild.

The inside of her head struck up an unrelenting chorus of Green Green Green Green, drowning out any other thought. The swing creaked, picking up speed.

“If I were inside you right now,” Draco pulled her down to him, clutched her against her chest while he whispered fiercely in her ear, still working her over his cock. “Your walls would be painted with my cum. But It wouldn’t be enough, would it, princess? You want a baby, you need everything I can give you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes!”

“So I’d stay in that snug little cunt of yours, fuck you again. Keep your legs up while I do it. Make it take.”

A bolt of white hot need zipped through her as she pictured him folding her knees over his shoulders, eyes locked on hers as he moved inside her, their combined juices easing his way as he fucked a baby into her.

“Oh, gods, I want you to fuck me. Want it so bad.”

“Yeah?”

The swing rocked back and forth, back and forth, and she spiralled into a brain-bending vertigo of ecstacy.

“Please,” she whined, on the precipice of release. Closer, closer now that his breath was hot and ragged against her neck. “But not pretend. Not that part. Fucking me.”

“You can have whatever you want from me tonight, princess. Come now and I’ll give you what you want. Fuck you in my bed, make you scream.”

He kept pace under her, brushing her clit just how she liked it, and his cockhead bumped against her entrance again, practically begging to come inside. To make a home in her.

“Oh, I —”

“Be a good girl, let me hear you.”

He said more, but she’d been washed away by a tsunami of exquisite pleasure, barrelling into the surf with a force she’d never felt before, leaving a string of expletives in her wake. She was vaguely aware of his release, mostly smeared on his thigh but slightly sticky on her backside, but his arms were thrown around her, and he was pressing kisses into her temple, and the only thing to do was close her eyes and melt into him.

How many minutes passed, Hermione couldn’t say. But eventually, Draco shifted underneath her, murmuring how perfect she was, how pretty, and that if she got up, he would draw her a bath. A bath sounded heavenly, so she gripped his bicep and one of the swing’s chains and staggered to her feet. Her brain was still waterlogged, and so she said the first thing that came to mind.

“I like the swing.”

“I’m glad.”

“And I think I have a breeding kink.”

Draco laughed as he stood and yanked his joggers back up over his hips. “So do I, apparently.” He paused, hand still gripping his waistband. “Sorry, I just realised I may have crossed the line, involving that in our play.”

She squeezed his arm reassuringly. “No, I liked it.”

“I respect your desire for a family. It’s admirable, really. You’ll be an amazing mum —”

Hermione cut off his nervous chatter. “I know what this is, Draco. And I said ‘green’ multiple times. I liked that you checked. It was fun. I’d do it again.”

His mouth twitched at the corners, but then he switched into aftercare mode. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“I had dinner, but I’d love a drink.”

“1974 Chateau Montelena Chardonnay. Napa Valley, excellent vintage,” he said, tipping his head towards his empty wine glass. “The rest of the bottle’s in the kitchen, but if you’d rather have something else, I can have something brought up from the cellars.”

“No, that sounds lovely.”

“Bubbles for your bath? Rose petals?”

She giggled. “Draco.”

“Let me spoil you,” he implored, tugging one of her curls. His face grew serious. “I let you down today.”

“No, no,” Hermione insisted, reaching for his wrist. His pulse hammered against her fingertips. “I pushed you too far. You do a good thing, helping people when they can’t help themselves.”

He dropped his hand. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it out like I’m the hero. I know who I am.”

“Draco.”

“Don’t forget how we got here, that I was the one who made you stay.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “You weren’t responsible for what happened to that girl, Draco. The three Cs, remember? You didn’t cause it.”

Draco shrugged and turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets as he moved towards the loo. “I’ll shower, then start your water. When you’re done, your gifts are on the bed, if you still want them.”

“Of course I do. And when you’re done, we’re going to talk about this.”

He stopped and sighed. “I don’t want you to change your mind just because it’s me. Because of this. You’re better than all this. You know it, I know it. We can enjoy it for what it is. That’s what we agreed to.”

“Then let’s enjoy it.”

She wanted to say more, but held her tongue. If Draco wanted to fight her on this, he could try, but she’d got her fire back, and now she had his magic, too. So he could argue with her all he wanted about his personal failures, but when it came down to it, she would win. She would make him see the man he was; the man he could be. And a funny, tight feeling in her ribcage told her that if he would cede control on this one thing, if he could envision himself a year from now, building something with her, he would be a whole lot happier.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione was fully submerged in Draco’s glorious tub, surrounded by scores of flickering candles. Her wand, otherwise useless, held her curls in a makeshift chignon. He’d added copious amounts of red rose petals, enough for a bouquet, and shimmering vanilla-scented oil. She ran her fingers over her softened skin, luxuriating in the way her tension had melted away to leave her body supple, pliant.

Her thoughts were just as malleable.

She’d meant what she’d said to him, that he did a lot of good. He funded Theo’s research, he provided a path for gamblers to walk away from their debts and get help. Sure, she’d wanted him to see the error of his ways, but she thought that, at most, he’d throw some gold around, purchase a treatment centre and make it more expansive, maybe make Serpenti a pillar in the community and fund wizarding welfare programmes.

Her lips pressed firmly together to quell a sob. She hadn’t meant for him to feel this bad.

Draco had been good to her. More than good. Still, she didn’t understand her feelings for him, because how could they be this strong, this fast? She’d always felt protective of him, in her own way. Asking after him in Sixth Year, making sure his trial was a fair one. But now she was euphoric, restless; achy in places she didn’t even know she could ache.

It wasn’t lust. Not just lust. If it was, she’d have fucked him already and moved on. Casual didn’t seem right, either.

Hermione mentally cursed Pansy for being right. This wasn’t casual, and maybe it never had been, not for her, anyway.

What were they to each other? Lovers, maybe? She made a face and stood, reaching for a fluffy white towel. She found a hair brush under the sink and tended to her curls, then, as she was wont to do lately, examined herself in the mirror.

She wasn’t perfect. A smattering of freckles hid stretch marks on her hips and arse, her nose had a slight bump, and her eyebrows were closer to sisters than twins. And, despite magic, not that she was willing to acknowledge it, her teeth were still not perfectly straight.

Her inside wasn’t perfect either. She had no right to expect perfection from Draco, on the outside or on the inside. He certainly never sought perfection from her.

She found her gifts on the bed, just where he said they would be.

First was a long silk dressing gown, similar to the one she’d seen hanging in his closet, except in a hue akin to rose quartz. It was accompanied by a white balconette bra and knickers, also silk, both trimmed with a little bow at the centre.

She stepped into the knickers and fastened the bra. They were the softest things she’d ever put on her body, and somehow fit perfectly, without any magic at all. Then she slipped into the dressing gown, and it was a whole new level of luxury. She couldn’t help a sigh as she relished the feel of it against her skin.

“Lotus silk,” Draco said from behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see him in a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms, sans glasses, holding two full wine glasses. Her heart fluttered, hopeful. “Delicate, exceedingly rare. Cruelty-free. Thought you would appreciate it.”

She did. She wanted to thank him on her knees. Later, maybe, when she wasn’t so upside down in her emotions. Right now, more than anything, she needed to apologise.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a breathless rush, turning fully towards him and wrapping her arms around herself.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, princess.”

“I feel like I do. I saw your face in the meeting, and then afterwards, and I —”

He set the wine on the closest surface and crossed the room in two passionate strides. “No. You don’t owe me anything, least of all an apology. Let me worry about my soul this time.” He gathered her face in both hands. “It’s not worth saving, black as it is; not when you have so many others who need you, others much more deserving than myself.”

No, this wasn’t right. His soul wasn’t pure, but it wasn’t black, either.

“I’m afraid I can’t help it,” she whispered, reaching up and smoothing his hair out of his eyes. Some of the storm drained out of them, fading into the misty grey of a light rain.

“Try,” he pleaded.

She shook her head. “Won’t.”

“Why?”

That question again. The one he always wanted her to answer, and the one she didn’t have words for.

“Because,” she started, then stopped, realisation blooming as fragile as a lotus flower. “Because I — Sod it all.”

Hermione yanked his head down to hers and kissed him, licking inside his mouth to find his wine-soaked tongue, encouraging him to kiss her back. At first, he did, but then he retreated, holding the nape of her neck, thumb caressing the curve of her jaw.

“Hermione.” He didn’t speak her name so much as whimper it. It emboldened her.

“Earlier, you said I could have whatever I want.”

“Anything you want. If I have it, or I can get it, it’s yours.”

“I want you.”

He shuddered. “You have me. You know you have me.”

“You have me, too. In fact, I think,” she reached up and stroked the inky shards of glass that covered his heart, and then reached down, taking LOVE and bringing it to her chest, mirroring the motion he’d made in the shadow of the temple in Taipei. “You’re here.”

Draco stared at his hand and swallowed hard.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, but despite her nerves, her words were clear. “Make me yours.”

He stepped into her, nudging his thigh between her legs so every part of their bodies touched. It set her on fire.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

She arched a brow. “Good thing I’m not asking.”

“It won’t be a scene. This is for real. I’m not playing around, Hermione,” he growled.

“Right,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly. “I’m not either.”

“Don’t tell me to stop,” he said, gripping her face with both hands again, forcing her to look at his eyes, the tiny sliver of grey about to be consumed by his black pupils, a near-total eclipse. He roughly pressed his lips to hers. “Don’t you dare tell me to stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he slanted his mouth over hers again, surprisingly soft as he coaxed his tongue past her lips. One kiss bled into another, blurring space and time, until she wasn’t sure either of them was leading the other anywhere. They were both lost to the sound of their breaths, their untried, shaky fingers conducting exploratory research.

This was different. Reverent; gentle. She hadn’t expected it, and it knocked her world right off its axis.

Unhurried, he unwrapped her like a present. He pulled her wand from her hair. The dressing gown rippled to the floor. A flick of his wrist and he unhooked the bra with a practised ease, then trailed hot, wet kisses down her body until he knelt before her, mouthing her through her new knickers with a tenderness that made her tummy ache and her toes curl.

She sifted her fingers through his hair as he pushed the damp silk against her with his tongue, tugging on the blond strands when the teasing became too much.

He rocked back on his heels, silently questioning. Hermione’s heart beat faster as she took in his dishevelled state, his erection straining against his pyjama bottoms, hard just from tasting a morsel of her essence.

“Take them off, please,” she said quietly.

Draco didn’t say anything, just reached up and hooked his fingers under the lace band, exerting only enough effort to drop them to the floor with the rest of her clothes. Then he rose and walked her back until her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she collapsed into his white sheets. He settled himself to the task of widening the space between her knees, not in any rush, as if he simply wanted to see how far apart she could go for him.

“Talk to me,” she implored, fisting the sheets. His gentleness unnerved her with its intimacy.

This is casual, she scolded herself. He’s just trying to make you comfortable.

He ran both hands up her inner thighs. “What would you have me say?”

“Whatever comes to mind, I suppose. It’s only… I like it when you talk.” She turned her head to the side in a poor attempt to hide her blush.

“‘Whatever comes to mind,’” he hummed. “I’ve no thoughts, only ideas of how I might lick your pretty cunt.” He punctuated the word cunt with a hard t, then blew on her hot centre. “Dreams of the last time I tasted you. Designs of how I might make you come for me tonight.”

Hermione shivered, gripping the sheets so tightly she thought she might pull them untucked and tumble out of the bed onto the floor.

“I want to do them all,” Draco said, finally applying the flat of his tongue to her pussy. She made a little choked sound and crossed her legs behind his back, caging him in. Everything in her cried out to keep him and his masterful tongue right where she needed him.

“Tell me.”

“I want to make you come like this,” he whispered seductively, inserting two fingers into her and wasting no time in curling them against the spot she loved. “Gods, you’re dripping.”

“Keep talking,” she gasped, lifting her hips restlessly, searching for more stimulation. He’d primed her for this earlier on the swing, and now, pliant from her bath, she was beyond eager to come again.

He slung his free arm across the top of her thighs, locking her in place. His fingers worked her higher, higher. He found her clit and sucked hard before speaking into her with a husky laugh. “I’m busy. Getting you nice and ready for my cock.”

The vibration made her legs quake. Heat suffused every part of her body, her skin burning up with need. She wanted to feel him inside her. Pure, raw, animal.

She wanted to be fucked. Senseless, stupid, silly. Ravaged. Torn asunder and made new.

They’d started slow and sweet, and she wanted that, with him, she did. But he knew her so well already, she could tell by the way he ate her cunt. He knew she couldn’t hold back. And neither could he, not yet.

Someday, maybe.

But right now all she could think about was getting filled with his cum. She’d be the first.

Something inside her, something feral and ungoverned, said it would be good to be the first. The only.

“And then you’re gonna — oh,” Hermione writhed as his fingers picked up the pace. His tongue lapped at her clit, every so often delving deeper, delivering more pressure. “Don’t stop. Gods, don’t stop.”

Draco stayed right where he was. He didn’t change a thing.

And magic didn’t exist up there, but she swore she felt it when she came.

Her orgasm burned through her. It was fast, rocketing down her spine with the speed and intensity of a roman candle, fading into the night just as quickly. Hermione’s legs tightened around him, holding him in place as she cried out, then loosened, hanging limply at his side.

Draco stroked her trembling thighs, then joined her on the bed, turning her towards him for a kiss. His mouth was sticky-sweet with her arousal, and boldness surged through her. She broke the kiss.

“Can I…” Hermione flicked her gaze meaningfully towards the raging erection tenting his pyjama bottoms.

He looked up at her, hunger in his eyes. “If you want to.”

She licked her lips. “I want to.”

She’d thought of it before, when he’d instructed her not to touch herself. What it would be like to touch him, lick him, put him in her mouth. It wouldn’t be easy — an image of his intimidating size was burned on her brain — but she wanted to see his face when he realised she didn’t have much of a gag reflex; when she hollowed out her cheeks and applied as much suction as she was capable of; made him shake, made him melt.

She’d always been a pro at giving head, and she wasn’t above showing off.

Draco shucked the pyjamas and the pants underneath, then laid himself on the bed, one arm bent supportively behind his head, the other stroking his cock. Precum beaded at the tip, beckoning to her.

She crawled to him, settling between his legs, as he’d done for her. She ran her fingers through the thatch of blond curls at his base, then gathered some of the moisture from between her legs and slid both hands over him, pumping his shaft with a firm grip, the way she’d seen him do it on the swing, triumph coursing through her veins when he let out a low hiss.

“Spit on it,” he pleaded.

Hermione leaned over him, looked him dead in the eye, and spit. The saliva hit his cockhead, dripping down the smooth shaft and dribbling over her hands.

Draco groaned, his head falling back. “Oh, fuck.”

Her approach was simple and direct. She swept her hair to the side and licked him, root to tip, swirling her tongue around the head. He was salty, and slightly musky, and as she breathed him in, her muscles relaxed, and she went for it.

If he looked huge, then he felt enormous. The minute she took him in her mouth, she paused. Her jaw was stretched so far, so taut, it was like she was frozen in an eternal yawn. But he tasted so good, and when he moaned her name, she slid as much of Draco’s cock down her throat as she humanly could.

She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the hot glide, bobbing up and down on him, sucking until she felt his hips twitch and jerk. She felt Draco’s hand cradle her aching jaw, petting her cheek, moving her hair out of the way as it fell like a curtain in front of her face. She wanted to tell him that she loved it, that she was pressing her thighs together and letting her own pleasure build with his. But her mouth was entirely too full.

Draco, for his part, let her lead. He didn’t try to wrest control from her; a massive display of trust that made Hermione hum with satisfaction. However, he was incapable of being quiet.

He swore, showered her with praise, made strained little sounds. They only fueled her fire. She was on a mission. Solely focused on working her way down his shaft, taking more of him. She wanted it all, and she was getting damn near close.

Suddenly, when she had taken nearly all of him, he pawed at her shoulders.

Her eyes fluttered open. He was wrecked. Chest heaving, hair tousled, mouth ajar. And she’d made him like that.

She felt electric.

Hermione released him with a wet pop and ran a hand over his abs as she climbed up to kiss him. She moved her lips over his, sloppy, insistent, and he matched her tempo, licking into her greedily.

“Too good,” Draco mumbled. “Still need to fuck you tonight. Promised I would.” He reached down and felt for her opening, but she was so drenched his fingers slipped right out. “Fucking — Did you come from sucking me off?”

“No. Need you,” she managed, holding tight to the tension she’d been stoking inside herself.

Draco shuffled down the bed, turned her on her back and found her clit. Even light rubbing was too much, so he tapped it, once, twice, and that was all it took. She came for him. This time she floated more than flew, melted more than burned.

“You’re getting there,” he encouraged as she came down, her body liquid in his arms. He circled her opening with one lazy finger, collecting the moisture there. “Almost ready to take me.”

“I can take you.”

Hermione, still hazy from her orgasm, let her knees fall to her sides, and Draco took advantage, moving over her and lining himself up. He pressed the tip against her, and she wiggled desperately. She wanted this, needed it, more than anything in her whole life.

“You’re sure?”

“Please, I’m ready. I’m so ready.”

She yelped as he pushed his cockhead past her entrance.

“If you keep clenching like that I’ll —”

“I can’t help it,” she said, gasping for air, as if he’d driven in so far he’d punctured a lung. It was impossible, he was only barely inside her, he’d prepared her for this. And yet it was so much more of a stretch than she’d anticipated.

He swept a soothing hand across the swell of her belly, but it did hardly anything to calm the burn between her legs. “Relax. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

“It’s — Oh, gods.”

“Just listen to my voice, okay?”

She squirmed, and he brought the same hand, LUCK, up to caress her breasts, pulling first at one nipple, then the other, the gentle tugs heating her skin and sending fresh waves of desire through her abdomen. He rolled the peaks exactly as he had in his office the other day; how he’d learned she liked it, and her mouth fell open on a quiet, grateful moan. She tensed briefly, thinking he might press his advantage and push in further, but Draco was patient, praising her between drugging kisses as she became a puddle under him once more.

“Relax. Breathe in through your nose, there’s a good girl,” he said as she inhaled. “Now breathe out through your mouth. Breathe it all out.”

As she exhaled, he found her clit and rubbed softly with the pad of his thumb. She whimpered, still trying to get used to him — not even all of him, just the head — the way he pressed so tightly against her walls that even if they could flutter around him, they’d have nowhere to go.

The thought made her dizzy with want, and she clenched around him again. To her surprise, this time it felt fucking incredible, almost like his dick was made for her, a woman who never backed down from a challenge.

A few more breaths, and propped herself up on her elbows, bit her lip and looked him square in the eye.

“Okay. Okay. I can do it. I’m ready for more.”

Draco spread more of her wetness on his shaft and gripped himself tight as he leaned over her, white gold chain glinting in the low light. Hermione let her head fall back on the pillows, struggling to keep her breaths deep and even.

He guided her knees wider, pressed them up closer to her shoulders. “It’s gonna feel so good, I promise you. I’ll make it so good for you.”

“Kiss me,” she begged. “Hold me down so I don’t —”

Draco pinned her arms above her head and crashed his lips to hers, his hips stuttering forward, eager to give her more of his cock. And she wanted it, she wanted it more than anything, if he could only just —

She arched her back and bucked beneath him as he sank deeper into her, past the point of no return, until he was fully sheathed inside her. If she thought the stretch was obscene before, that was nothing. This, this fullness, was what she’d been looking for all her adult life. And she hadn’t even known it existed.

Draco was in a holding pattern above her, seemingly both drunk on the feeling of being inside her — his cheeks were scored with pink, eyes dark and glazed — and anxious, waiting to see if she was up for more.

Hermione nipped at his bottom lip, attempting to reassure him. “Tell me I’m good.”

“You’re so good,” he groaned, breaths shallow, at the edge of his restraint. He let her wrists go, brought each of them to his mouth to kiss as he rocked into her experimentally. Once, twice, making sure he didn’t cause her any pain. “You’re so good. This okay?”

“I fucking love it,” she said, gyrating her hips. “Now that you’re nice and deep.”

He groaned again. “You can’t say shit like that. Too fucking —” He eased back, and then thrust into her properly.

“Please,” she trembled with need, desperate to come for him again, come on his cock. She searched for words that would drive him wild. “Break me in.”

“Bloody fucking hell. Who taught you how to —” Another thrust, then another. “Who taught you how to talk like that?”

“You did.”

Feeling powerful, and a little bratty, she almost tacked on Daddy, but somehow managed to hold back. Draco hooked his arms under hers and pulled her up and over him, no longer content with missionary. His cock remained nestled snugly inside her.

“And thank the gods for that. Dirty words from such a pretty mouth,” he said, grinding up into her, angling her pelvis so her clit got the brunt of the friction building between them. “Such a pretty girl. Beautiful.”

His hands encircled her waist, pushing her down so he could lick and suck at her breasts while he fucked her. Hermione cried out, a groundswell of hot, liquid desire building inside her, building toward an orgasm like none she’d ever felt before. Her head lolled back with pleasure, her eyes screwed shut, preliminary gushes of wetness trickling out of her centre and coating his cock.

Suddenly, when she thought the dam might break, Draco’s firm hand gripped her chin and directed her face towards his. “Look at me.”

His eyes were dark, jaw tensed with exertion. Every cell in his body focused on her, every muscle attuned to her pleasure. He was devotion personified, and even if she wanted to, Hermione couldn’t look away.

He kept his pace leisurely, agonising, like he knew she liked. “Look at you. So fucking beautiful. Know what you are?”

“I’m— I’m a—” she babbled. She wanted to say good girl, but she was so close, so close.

Draco rolled them to the side, arm snaking around to tease her clit again. She rubbed the side of her face in the sheets, buzzing with overstimulation. He kept the pace, forced her to accept all of it, bent her to his will.

“Say it,” he growled. “What are you?”

“I’m your good girl,” she keened the last part, desperate. His cock was so deep in her now, so thick it strained her limits. It felt like she was being split open, and she fucking loved it.

“Oh, gods. Fuck yes,” he groaned, burning a path with his lips up to her ear. “You’re such a good girl, princess. You’re gonna make me cum right in your hot little cunt. Gonna make you all mine.” He accentuated his words with staccato thrusts, his breaths coming in pants now.

The thought of being pumped full of his cum, being the only one he'd ever given it to, sent her long-delayed orgasm rumbling through her like an avalanche. It destroyed her, devastating everything she thought she knew about pleasure and sex and intimacy and leaving only sensation. Her nails dug into his back, clawing him closer, deeper. She gasped for breath as she shuddered and sobbed, overcome with the intensity of it all.

Hermione melted into the sheets, completely spent, yet excruciatingly aware that Draco had held off and hadn’t come yet. She clung to him as his movements sped up, licking and sucking at his neck.

“Feels so good,” she encouraged. “You’re so good to me.”

His pants turned to grunts, and she continued, goading him, whispering the dirtiest things she could think of. How she wanted his cum shooting into her in hot, thick ropes, needed him to fill her up with it, didn’t want a drop on his pristine white sheets. How it all had to go in her cunt where it belonged.

It was all true. She wanted it all.

“I’m gonna come,” he said, sounding vaguely panicked.

She found his eyes. Wide open, strained, searching. Draco wasn't afraid of what he was about to do; he was teetering, agonisingly on the edge, looking to her to see if she would stop him.

“Gods, yes. Do it, Draco. Give me everything.”

“You’re sure?” His voice broke, with emotion, or the effort of control.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Come in me, Daddy. Make me yours.”

He fucked her harder, faster, until he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Hermione, oh, fuuuuuck,” Draco groaned, hips coming flush with hers, cock pulsing as he spilled into her.

Hermione crossed her ankles behind his back, holding him in, and pushed his sweat-damp hair from his face so she could see him fall apart. He was handsome even in this, with his eyes screwed shut and her name on his lips, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen him before.

It was unfamiliar, almost frightening, this overwhelming urge to be with him all the time, touch him, taste him… It had never been like this with anyone else. Only Draco. She wished she could stay here, like this, always; let time and space fall away. She would have been happy to step forward through minutes and hours and years so long as she had a time-turner that could keep her coming back to him forever. He felt like home; a refuge.

But time was a thief, and there were no more time-turners. She loosened her hold on him as his hips slowed. He buried his head in her shoulder, and she felt the pounding of his heart where his chest met hers.

Draco clutched her tightly. Neither of them were ready to let go. She watched his phoenix tattoo go through several cycles of death and rebirth. He softened slowly inside her, the stretch of him easing breath by breath. On his shoulder, she watched the grim reaper on his Death tarot card rode his horse into the sunset, while the glass shards over his scars shook with the rise and fall of his chest.

He pushed up to look at her, grey eyes dazed, and cradled her face with one hand.

LOVE. He touched her with LOVE.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, voice breathy. “Yeah, I’m okay. Better than okay. You?”

“Yeah. Better than.” He looked almost shaken.

Finally, he slid out of her. She thought to say more, but winced, soreness creeping in as the first hot slide of their combined spend leaked out. Draco leaned up for a moment to watch, stroking her gently with a mix of hunger and awe. She pulled him back, and he kissed her tenderly, pressing his forehead to hers.

Silence fell around them. The old Hermione would worry that maybe this was all he wanted, that she’d lose this safe, warm feeling, but Draco had entrusted her with one of his remaining firsts. She didn’t need to worry. She could just be.

Eventually Draco got his legs under him and, assuring her he’d be right back, returned with damp washcloths and glasses of water for both of them. He cleaned her up while she drank hers down, and then he enrobed her in her new silk dressing gown and transferred her to the velvet lounge chair to drink another while he put on fresh pants and changed the sheets.

Hermione dozed off, and when she woke, the room was dark except for the track lighting. Draco must’ve tucked her back in bed, because when she wiggled her toes, they were met with cool cotton. She rolled over and he was next to her, sleeping on his stomach with his arms tucked underneath the pillow, features lax and peaceful.

She scooted over to him, huddling against him for warmth, and moments later, he slung one arm over her.

His voice was rough from sleep. “C’mere, princess.”

She shushed him. “Go back to sleep, I’m right here.”

Half-awake already, Draco ignored her and tucked her further into the crook of his shoulder. “You said you don’t have work this week. Come away with me.”

“Where?” She asked drowsily.

“I have a yacht in the French Riviera. It’s the perfect time of year to be out on the water, and we’ll have complete privacy.”

“What about Serpenti?”

The arm he’d belted around her tightened. “A few more days won’t hurt. I can conduct most business from the bridge deck. Lavinia can be my intermediary, if needed.”

Thrilled as she was at the idea of escaping magical London to sail the Mediterranean Sea, Hermione was also puzzled. Hadn’t he told her that he played hard and worked harder? That he’d make time for her when he could, but it wouldn’t be as often as she wanted?

It didn’t make sense, but she wasn’t about to complain.

“Just us?”

“The captain and his crew will be there, but as far as guests, yes, just us.”

“When do we leave?”

Draco lifted his head so he could see her face. His grin was soft around the edges. He looked lighter. “Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes,” she laughed. “I only ask so I know when I should go home and pack.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. “Not now. You feel too good in my arms.”

She kissed him then, humming with something warm and golden. Her tattoo simmered pleasantly against her skin.

“I’ll go in the morning and come right back. I don’t need much.”

Draco’s breathing grew deeper, words coming slower as sleep beckoned to them both. “I’ll be waiting.”

***

The next morning, despite her body’s gratifying soreness, Hermione floated up the steps to her flat. All she needed to do was make sure Ginny could catsit Crooks, pack a few things, and then she and Draco would be on their way to the French Riviera for six days of sun and sea. She hoped she might be able to talk him into an excursion or two, perhaps into Cannes, or Monaco.

She was so busy fishing her key out of her bag that she didn’t notice the red haired man leaning up against the door until his familiar, sleep-rumpled voice shook her out of her reverie.

“Hey, ‘Mione.”

Chapter Text

Hermione nearly dropped her keys.

Ron Weasley, shaggy-haired and wearing one of his old quidditch jerseys, stood in the dimly lit corridor outside the door to her flat. A lit cigarette shook in one of his hands, and he looked at her with eyes so earnest they sliced right through her.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m so sorry. I just… I hoped we could talk.”

“What,” she began,then cleared her throat. “What makes you think I would want to talk to you?”

“Didn’t say I thought you wanted to. Just hoped you would.” He ashed his cigarette onto the floor, sheepish. “I’m leaving, ‘Mione. Portkey’s scheduled for ten minutes from now.”

Her breath caught.

“Rehab?”

“Yeah. I decided to go. It’s all paid for and the place looks alright. Never been so far from home but, yeah. I’m going.”

Hermione was dumbfounded. The logical part of her brain knew that this was good news, of course, but news she’d been expecting to be delivered by Harry or Ginny. It was one thing to listen to addicts’ stories at Al-Anon; another for the addict in her life to ambush her at the flat they’d once shared.

Did he expect her to hug him, congratulate him for finally doing something about the addiction that was tearing everyone in his orbit apart?

Her fingers tightened around her keys as blistering anger surged in her gut.

She should just hex him. He deserved it, didn’t he? If she really wanted to, she could whip her wand out of her braid and have it trained on him in two seconds flat. She’d never been a creative duellist, but what she lacked in ingenuity she more than made up for in speed and ferocity.

Hermione tallied his sins. Gambling away the Burrow, giving her to Draco in exchange, and then lying about it to his family; a family she’d once considered an extension of her own. He’d had the audacity to tell her she was too much work, when all she’d done was work to keep their relationship alive. Most egregiously, he’d wasted her time.

She’d tried to put all that aside and take the high road. She’d even spared him in the papers, for Merlin’s sake. But now Ron was in front of her, as sorry looking as ever, and it was a lot harder to ignore the rage pulsing through her veins.

Circe, she could Avada him right now. Her bluebell flames flared red, magic seething underneath her skin. Hermione clapped her hand over her tattoo.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing. I got a tattoo.”

He raised both eyebrows. “Right. Can I come in?”

“No,” she said, so quickly that Ron was visibly offended. Good. It was his turn to feel off-balance.

“Is there someone in there? The wards feel different.”

“It’s none of your business,” she bristled.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Sure, sure.”

Before she knew what she was doing, she crossed her arms and let her emotions do the talking. “I don’t owe you anything, and I certainly don’t have to tell you anything about my life or justify my choices, but for your information, I’m seeing someone. It’s new, and he’s wonderful; he treats me like a princess, actually likes going down on me, I’m probably in love with him, and we’re about to go on holiday together so if this is your last-ditch attempt to get back together with me, it isn’t going to work and you should just… I don’t know, go outside and wait for your Portkey because I deserve better, and I’ve finally got it, and I am not about to let you fuck this up for me!”

Her shrill voice echoed in the stairwell, and magic crackled off her skin. She was breathing heavily.

Ron’s eyes went wide. “Uh, okay. Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow,” Hermione said, hoping she looked more proud than embarrassed for spilling intimate details about her casual… Whatever they were. Draco kept saying they were casual, and she parroted it back, but their usage was quickly approaching semantic satiation: the more the word was repeated, the less meaning it actually held.

Not that she could think too much about that right now with Ron standing in front of her, waiting for her to say more.

“So…” He prompted.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Feels a bit fucked to wish you good luck.”

He dropped his cigarette and squashed it beneath one shabby trainer. “Look, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’ve just come to say goodbye and, I don’t know, apologise. You deserve that. I mean I really… Merlin’s beard, ‘Mione, you were my best friend, probably the love of my life, and I know I’m nothing to you now, nor should I be, but I thought maybe we could at least get, I don’t know, closure? I don’t know how long I’ll be gone and…”

She deflated a bit, seeing how pathetic he was. How had she ever fancied this man?

Ron didn’t deserve closure, but she wouldn’t mind receiving an apology. He was already here, and maybe someday she’d been glad she’d at least tried to be the bigger person.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, cursing her bleeding heart. “So, you smoke now?”

“Can’t say I love it, but it helps keep me away from the tables,” Ron admitted. He ran his trainer over the smushed cigarette again, smearing it across her welcome mat in a dirty grey streak. “I cocked this up so bad. Us.”

“Yeah, you did,” Hermione nodded, remembering all the nights she spent alone, at work or at home, always avoiding having the real conversation they needed to have. She hadn’t respected herself enough to do what needed to be done. “But I let you. I stopped fighting you, started sleeping on the sofa. I think I lectured you more than your mother.”

“Don’t say that. You gave me every opportunity, every opening… When you tried coming home early, when you booked the couples’ counsellor, when you planned that weekend away —”

More memories reared their ugly heads. Hermione thought of all the times Ron would admit to the problem and express enough doubt that it triggered her reflex to soothe, wipe the slate clean for the night, the week, however long their armistice lasted. She’d research solutions, make the initial calls, set up appointments, do whatever it took to nudge Ron forward. Hermione could see herself failing at taking on his addiction but couldn’t resist doing it anyway, flinching when she felt the wrongness of it all crawl underneath her skin, travelling up her spine to peer around her neck. She’d roll her shoulders back, push it back down from whence it came, but it would only settle in her sacrum, lie in wait for the next time Ron was vulnerable enough to slide underneath the thin sheets of the rickety pull-out sofa at 3 a.m. and whisper that he had a problem.

Day after day, he made it her problem all over again.

“Which weekend away?” Hermione laughed bitterly. “I tried so many times.”

“I know. And I saw those opportunities for what they were; I’m not stupid. I just ignored them. I thought you’d always be there, so, I dunno… There would be time later for everything else.”

“We’re young, but we’re not that young. And I’ve known what I want for ages. I’ve told you, Ron. I want a family.”

She felt a pang in her womb. She was deferring her dream again, and for what? Something casual?

Casual. Casual casual casual…

Maybe if she said it enough times, she could pretend it didn’t hurt. After all she and Draco had said and done last night, it could never go back to being casual for her, if it ever really had been in the first place.

Ron reached into his back pocket and retrieved a half-empty pack of cigarettes. “Well, I do too, eventually. But you brought it up after we’d only been dating for a year, and that was way too soon for me, and you kept bringing it up, and I didn’t know what else to tell you. I wasn’t ready, and fuck if I’m ready now.”

Hermione decided to deepen the wound. “Did you not love me enough?”

“No, no. I loved you, okay? But our youth; my youth was stolen from me, ‘Mione. I don’t need to tell you that there was a war and my brother died.”

“You’re right,” she said coolly. “You don’t need to tell me, because I was by your side. Before, during, after. I’ve been here.”

“It’s not you,” he whispered, letting his head fall back against the wall. “It was never your fault, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry I’m like this. I just want it back. Not you, I know that broom’s flown. The rest of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A real seventh year. No weird eighth year, no rebuilding. A final year of quidditch. We sacrificed so much, and for what? An Order of Merlin? I’m glad we saved the world, don’t get me wrong. But we were children. They put far too much pressure on us. And my family… I mean, you got your parents back, and I’m so glad, even though they probably hate me now — but we’ll never get Fred back. He died in an explosion. How lacklustre, in a magical fucking war; how anticlimactic, to die in an explosion. I couldn’t even kill the bastard that cut him down; I’d just be blowing a bunch of rocks to bits.” He laughed, but it was hollow. “I have nowhere to put this, this, this feeling. It’s worse than grief and going to some mind Healer or whatever wasn’t going to do anything but I couldn’t say that to you. And George won’t talk, and Ginny’s never around anymore. And then I found the casino. Card games. I knew it was wrong then and I just didn’t want to face it. But I’d take it back. I’d have never set one foot inside those doors if I knew how things would end up.”

His words were so raw, so honest, that Hermione barely resisted the urge to cross the corridor and stand beside him. Even after weeks of separation, it was foreign, the idea that they could no longer rely on each other. “I know. But we can’t change what happened. None of us can.”

“I just don’t know why it had to happen to us.”

She knew he meant more than just the war. Why did they have to fall apart when so many of their friends had built happy lives together? Harry, who’d been through more pain and danger in his early years than anyone ever should in their whole life, found marital bliss with Theo by his side. Maybe it was because they’d had to move past everything that happened, having been on opposite sides of the war.

Ron hadn’t moved on, obviously, but neither had Hermione, not until recently, when Draco gave her his family magic, and she let it in. The nightmares had faded away. No more Snatchers, no more woods full of gnarled trees reaching their spindly branches to grasp at her throat.

She’d moved on, but she’d never forget.

“Do you remember the forest? When you left us?”

Hermione had clung to Harry, wind howling, rippling the canvas tent. Every time a twig snapped, she feared for their lives. Ron had made her feel safe, shared the burden of Slytherin’s hissing locket, kept watch as Harry listlessly twisted the dials of the radio. And then he’d left them, left her.

She’d called his name for hours. Cried herself to sleep.

Ron was always running away.

“Yeah. I remember,” he said, and she saw him brace for the blow.

“I should’ve known then. I should’ve seen it coming.”

He flipped open the pack of cigarettes, took one out, and mumbled the spell to light it. “Don’t blame yourself. Merlin, you always do this.”

“What?”

Ron shrugged and took a drag of the cigarette. “You turn into this, this… martyr! It’s bloody stupid and you’ve never been stupid. You’re the smartest witch I know, and it kills me to see you beat yourself up. I’m the fuckup, okay? It’s never been you.”

Really? After everything she’d done for him and his family while they nurtured their grief like a living thing, he was calling her the martyr?

She frowned, realisation dawning. Maybe she had been. After all, hadn’t she victimised herself for his benefit? For his family’s benefit? Even at her old job, she was always putting everyone else’s needs above her own.

Hermione had hardly known how to act when Draco prioritised her that very first night at Serpenti. Sure, he’d held his cards close to his chest, but it was only because he wanted her to play. More than that, he wanted her to fight.

Before she could reply, Ron said, “If you could’ve done this for me, you would’ve. It’s who you are. You’re a good person, and I’m sorry I didn’t get help before. But I get it now. I have to do it for myself.”

“What changed?”

“I want a fresh start. It’s like you said, I can’t go back. And this rehab place looks really good. It’s right on the beach, and no one there’ll know me or judge me. And the money’s handled, for as long as I need it.”

“Really?” Hermione had a hard time believing Harry and Theo were willing to fund Ron’s treatment indefinitely.

“Maybe with a little space I’ll come back a new man. Might even get a tan.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a small half-smile. “You say that every time you go anywhere remotely sunny. And every time, you burn.”

“We’ll see. I’ve heard the sun’s different there. Oh, and I, uh, made sure Mum won’t give you any trouble. Everyone else gave me an earful about how awful I was, and at first I wasn’t having it and just let her coddle me. Was nice for a bit. I mean, you know how she is. Chicken for every meal, that sort of thing.”

“Right,” Hermione said. In her opinion, Molly’s chicken had never been that great. Bit dry, really.

“But then I started to feel smothered, realised my siblings were the only ones who loved me enough to tell me what a wanker I was to my face. Anyway, yeah, I heard about the Howler and I told her if she harassed you further I wouldn’t come back for Christmas. Figured that’d do it.”

“Thanks,” Hermione said, fiddling with her handbag strap. There wasn’t much else to say, really. He’d finally stood up for her, but it was too little, too late.

The skylight above the stairwell darkened. A cloud blocked the morning sun, casting Ron’s pale face in shadow, lending him a ghostly quality. It was if he was fading from her life in both the emotional and the physical sense.

A faint buzzing droned from Ron’s trouser pocket, and he dropped his cigarette. The Portkey.

“That’s me,” he said, as if it weren’t obvious. “I’d say I’ll see you soon, but… Godric, I’m rubbish at this. I really do have to go so I’ll just ask. Is there any chance at all that we might part as, I don’t know, sort of… Friends?”

Hermione had a heartbeat to consider his request. She thought of Harry; of Draco. Of handshakes that might’ve been.

She held out her hand, and Ron shook it. His grip was limp, like he knew his hold on her was nonexistent now. The Portkey, a dark green poker chip wrapped in a handkerchief, glowed as it activated.

“Goodbye, Ron.”

***

Hermione conjured a shaky Patronus as soon as she entered the flat.

“Draco, I’m at home… I— I need you.”

Gods, what was she going to say to him? She’d said she never wanted to hear Ron’s name again, and yet she hadn’t turned him away. How would Draco react when he found out she’d been alone with her ex? Would he consider it a major breach of trust, especially the morning after he was so vulnerable and gave her one of her firsts?

She settled a palm over her stomach, where a horrible fear twisted through her insides. She couldn’t lose Draco. Not now. But she had to be honest with him.

Her otter whisked away, and Crookshanks rubbed against her legs, tail curling around her calves, as if he could keep her upright until Draco got there. The bluebell flames on her arm had reverted to their usual cornflower hue, but she trembled with anxiety. She paced in her kitchen.

Her thoughts whipsawed through her mind.

If Ron wasn’t gambling anymore, why did he have a poker chip? She’d only caught a glimpse, but it looked like it was from Serpenti. That would be impossible, of course — he was banned. Maybe he’d found one in his belongings? She hadn’t sorted through everything herself; maybe Ginny or Harry had found it and, wanting to save her the pain of another reminder of Ron’s addiction, gave it to him without mentioning it to her. Maybe it was symbolic; his last chip sending him to rehab.

Ron had a second chance now, and it was up to him to make the most of it. And while she didn't think they'd ever be close again, she was glad they’d parted on good terms, if only for the sake of her friendships with Ginny and Harry.

Harry was his usual self, but Ginny had been acting especially strange lately. Maybe with Ron away, they could reconnect properly.

Her head was swirling when Draco burst in through the smouldering ruins of what was once her front door, wearing a half-buttoned white oxford and radiating magic, the gossamer shreds of her wards glimmering as they floated to the floor and vanished in ear-splitting puffs of smoke. Hermione shrieked; Crooks yowled and bounded off into the bedroom.

“Good fucking Godric, Draco, what the fuck?”

Draco’s chest heaved, and his eyes traversed her body from head to toe, twice, checking for injuries, before he put his wand away.

“You sent me a Patronus. It made me think of —” He stopped himself, but she knew what he was going to say. The war. She’d been so anxious to see him and explain herself, she hadn’t thought of that. “Your voice was so — I thought you were in trouble.”

“You utterly ridiculous man,” she said, and burst into tears.

He wasn’t ridiculous; that wasn’t it at all. She was overwhelmed. Seeing Ron, always so passive when it came to her, and then Draco, who rushed to her defence as if the three-headed hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, drew such a stark contrast between the two men.

Draco crossed the room to her and swept her into his arms, making soothing sounds as he rubbed her back, subtly pressing his magic into her skin. He didn’t like it when she cried, but not because he found it too girlish or emotional. He didn’t like it because he cared about her, because he would do anything in his power to solve all her problems, even if it meant breaking down her door.

It hit her like a bludger to the gut: Draco never ran, not unless it was towards her.

“A door for a door, I suppose? You shattered mine, I kicked down yours?”

His attempt at playfulness only made her sob harder.

“Hermione,” Draco whispered, fear creeping into his voice. “Hermione, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t be cross,” she cried, clutching his shirt.

“I’m not. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Ron was just here. I came home and he was waiting for me.”

Draco was silent at first, but she heard his heart galloping in his chest. When he spoke, it was a snarl, deadly quiet. “Then he’s signed his own death warrant.”

“He had a Portkey, a poker chip, and he said it would activate in ten minutes and he just wanted to talk. He said he was going to rehab.”

“Did he give you the name of the place?”

She shook her head, smearing mascara across his front pocket. “He mentioned the beach, so I guess the one Harry and Theo found. I don’t know the name and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you, because I’m not about to be one of those Azkaban wives who only get bimonthly conjugal visits.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions, princess,” he chuckled, and she blushed through her tears. “Who says I’d get caught?”

To Hermione’s relief, neither of them touched the fact that she’d implied she’d be his wife in that scenario.

“It was just so jarring to see him. He smokes now,” she continued, scrunching her nose with disgust. “I didn’t expect that I would feel so… I was furious, at first. My tattoo glowed red, which I didn’t know it could do.”

Draco cast a Reparo, and the door reassembled itself, though it didn’t look as sturdy as before. He raised an eyebrow. “Neither did I.”

“I felt like I could murder him.”

“I believe we’ve established that I’ll be the one doing the murdering. And, chin up: If I greased the right palms on the Wizengamot, I bet we could get those conjugal visits up to twice a week.”

“You’d have to sell the yacht. Pity,” she said dryly.

“First, as you’ve reminded me several times, I’m a billionaire, so I wouldn’t have to sell anything. Second, you haven’t seen it yet, but trust me, you’d sooner sell the jet than the Sea Serpent. You’ll fall in love,” Draco said, pausing to clear his throat. “I’m sorry. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Should’ve been saying goodbye to Potter or something, not darkening my witch’s door.”

“I was livid. But then…”

His arms were like iron bands around her. “Then?”

“Then we talked. That’s all. And I realised some things about him, and the person I was when I was with him. I realised that I’ve changed. I would never go back, Draco, you have to know that. Just don’t be angry with me.”

Draco kissed the top of her head and spoke into her curls. “Why would I be angry with you, princess?”

“Because… Because I was alone with him.”

“And I’m supposed to be, what, threatened by that?” He scoffed. “You called me for comfort. You told me exactly what happened to you, right after it happened, and how you felt about it. Do you know what that tells me? That tells me that you trust me. Why would I be angry when I get to be the one you run to?”

She leaned back so she could peer at him. “You — What?”

“In fact, I think you deserve a reward,” Draco crooned, cradling her jaw.

Hermione was gobsmacked. “I do?”

“Good girls get rewarded, don’t they? Think about it,” he murmured before claiming her lips with his. He kissed her like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours kissing her; like it was the only thing he wanted to do for the rest of his life, like even breathing was a waste of time if he could be kissing her instead.

If Draco expected her to be thinking about anything while his mouth moved over hers, he didn’t know her at all. She was far too busy melting into his embrace, tasting the masculine spice that was purely him, feeling his magic light up her veins.

“Do you feel it,” she gasped, coming up for air. “The magic?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t seem surprised.

“Is that part of your charmwork?”

“No. The charm is focused on what you need. Basic physical needs, but also protection. And it gives you access to my properties, my vaults. Any other assets.”

Her head jerked back in shock. “Your vaults? Like at Gringotts?”

“Internationally.”

“But I could take everything you own. I could spend it on, on… I don’t know. A new flat. A Ducati for my Dadd—” She faltered with an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, I really have to start calling him Dad. But, seriously, Draco, I’ve already shown you I can act rather… Rashly, to say the least. Why give me this?”

He shrugged and tucked LOVE in his pocket. “You took a big risk, being with me. It’s my way of exposing myself to a similar amount of risk. My way of anteing up, so to speak. When it comes to me, there’s nothing you can’t have. There’s nothing you don’t deserve.”

Draco was completely unguarded, his eyes the most clear grey she’d ever seen. He meant material things, of course, but that look… It made that part of her that wanted more stand up and sing.

“I wish I had more to give you,” Hermione said, forlorn. “I don’t even have family magic.”

Draco’s brows knit together. “But you do. Since you’re muggleborn, it doesn’t go back as far as mine — it starts with you — but you have Granger family magic.”

He tapped his wand to the inside of her wrist and spoke a complicated incantation. A seemingly endless, thick ribbon of crimson magic spiralled forth, shimmering as it wrapped around her, greeting her like an old friend.

Breathless, Hermione spun around and around, following the arc of her magic. She hadn’t felt this sense of awe since the day she’d arrived at Hogwarts as a first year. No one had ever spoken to her about her magic as a living thing. Before she’d received her letter, she’d thought it was a curse. In school, she’d realised the enormity of her gift, but was forced to wield it like a weapon. But here, in her sunlit kitchen, her magic was simply her, in her purest form.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, still taking it in. “I don’t remember seeing yours when you tattooed me.”

Draco seemed just as awestruck as she was. “That’s because your magic is much more powerful than mine.” He cast the spell on himself, and a wisp of blue emerged from his wrist, more akin to yarn than ribbon. “I have the Pureblood pedigree, and the knowledge instilled in me by my parents about the old ways, but your power… This is incredible.”

“How can you tell it’s powerful?”

“The thickness, along with the opacity. The deep red colour.”

“Deep red means something?”

“Passion. When you feel something intensely, your magic will respond in kind.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “And powder blue?”

“Calm. I’m strongest when I’m calm. I didn’t have the ability to access it when I was young,” he said, weaving his magic through his fingers. It dove beneath the L, above the U, under the C and back above the K. “And I didn’t see the value in calmness, not when my father expected me to be fueled by the same hate that brought him fame, even though as I grew, I saw that hatred keep him in simpering servitude. But eventually I embraced it, and it gave me a talent for Occluding, and a head for business. Now, I do everything I can to curate spaces and experiences that help me remain calm.”

Hermione put her hand over her heart, as if she could ease the ache blossoming there. She couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for Draco to connect with his magic, especially with everything he’d been through with his family, and then with Vince. Now that she knew he craved calm, so much about him made more sense to her: his minimalist penthouse, his stoic gentleness, his need for control as a pleasure dom.

“You know,” she said softly. “Calm doesn’t always mean controlled.”

With a snap, Draco’s magic retreated back into his wrist. “I’m well aware.”

She frowned, but didn’t press him. “Do you think my magic was the red I saw in my tattoo?”

“Could be. Perhaps accepting my family magic created a conduit for you to get more in touch with yours. You said it yourself that you were feeling rather murderous. If that’s not passion, I don’t know what is.”

“And I’ve been feeling less fearful lately. That’s your calm.” She brightened and withdrew her wand. “Show me how you summoned it, and how to call it back?”

It only took her a few minutes to get the hang of it.

“So the Malfoy magic and the Black magic combined and gave you calm,” Hermione thought aloud as she recaptured her magic. “I wonder what the Granger magic would do, combined with someone else’s.”

“No telling,” Draco said lightly.

“Is red the most powerful colour?”

“By far.”

“What’s the rarest?”

Crookshanks interrupted, his tail looking much less like a bottle brush as he announced his presence by jumping up on the worktop with a loud meow and presenting his head for pets. Draco obliged, a gratified smile on his face when the cat began to purr.

“Shall I remove that pesky part of the charm that drives you mad when you need my, um,” He stalled for a moment.

“Dick?”

“I was going to say attentions, but, yes, as you put it so bluntly, my dick.”

Hermione laughed even as she stretched out her arm to him. “Attentions. So posh. Is that how you described it to Theo?”

“Hush,” he teased. “The less powerful among us need to concentrate when we cast.”

Draco’s wand movements were precise. He isolated the strand of magic responsible, then wrapped it around his hawthorn wand and pulled it towards him, reeling it in. She thought of him sitting at his desk, dipping his quill in the inkpot, pressing it to parchment, guiding the tip through one elegant loop after another. A shiver of desire made her tremble, and Draco slowed down, coaxing the light blue thread from her wrist and back to his.

“Relax for me,” Draco encouraged, and as she let oxygen into her lungs, a gentle wave of calm washed over her. “And, done.”

Hermione squinted at her arm. “I don’t feel any different.”

The feelings she’d been trying to avoid, if not outright ignore, remained stubbornly entrenched in her ribcage. Of course they did; he’d only removed the magical manifestation of her need for him, not the need itself.

Draco, unaware of her internal turmoil, flicked a heated gaze her way as he ran his fingers along her tattoo. “Perhaps we should run a test. Find your limits. Just to make sure it’s truly gone.”

Hermione pounced on the offered diversion. “Oh, you’d love that.”

“And you wouldn’t?” He smirked.

Crookshanks, having established that he would not be receiving any treats, performed the half-kneazle version of an eye roll and made a swift exit.

Hermione playfully unbuttoned his shirt and slid her arms around him. She relished the feel of his bare skin under her hands, rubbing the tight muscles of his back. “As nice as that sounds, I’m pretty sure I get to choose my reward, thank you very much.”

“But I have so many ideas,” Draco purred. “And you’ve already started undressing me.”

“I planned on fixing your shirt. I got distracted.” Hermione sighed and pressed her cheek to his chest, and Draco held her fast. She imagined his magic swirling through his veins. Why wasn’t his as strong as hers? Draco came from a long line of powerful wizards. He was an accomplished wizard himself, having mastered Occlusion, and from what she could remember, a fair duellist. She didn’t mind the idea of being more powerful than most, but for some reason, in this one thing, she wanted to be on equal footing with Draco. “Ugh. I really don’t feel like packing.”

His laugh was pure sunlight, and she basked in it. “Then don’t. I’ll take you shopping; get you everything you need. As few clothes as possible, if I have my way.”

“You don’t hold the purse strings anymore, Daddy,” she teased as she stroked the ace of spades tattoo on his right pectoral. “I’ll get whatever I like.”

She heard all the air whoosh out of his lungs and smiled to herself. He was far too easy to rile up, and she was loving every minute of it, even if the idea of having access to billions of Galleons made her feel a bit woozy.

“I think you like it when I’m a little bratty,” she mused. “In fact, I think I’ll wait to tell you what I want for my reward. Leave you in suspense.”

Hermione slipped from his grip and flashed him her most brilliant grin. Draco carded both hands through his hair and left his arms up by his head as he blew out another long breath. “What am I going to do with you?”

She shrugged, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Tell a pretty witch she’s incredibly powerful and watch her think she’s in charge,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“Guess you’ll have to set me straight.”

“You’re new to this, so let Daddy help you, princess,” Draco said, grabbing her by the hips and whirling her around so her back was crushed against his chest. She squeaked in surprise. He was so warm, so vital, and his smoky leather and cedar scent had her unconsciously pressing her thighs together. “I won’t be setting you straight. I’ll be bending you over my lap.”

“Oh,” she gasped. “But I thought —”

“You won’t be thinking anything,” he slid one hand from her hip down to her hemline, rucking it up so he could skate his fingers up her outer thigh and around the curve of her arse. He made a tsking sound as he petted the silk of her knickers, kneading each of her arse cheeks in turn. “I hope you enjoyed wearing knickers this morning, because you won’t be wearing any for the rest of the week.”

“But —”

“Keep talking, please,” Draco smirked. “I’d love to add more spankings. Or maybe…”

He dragged his thumb over the tight ring of muscle between her cleft, sending a hot spike of pleasure through her. Hermione arched into his touch with a soft moan.

“Such a sweet sound. Does that get you wet?”

“Yes,” she whined. It was pointless to lie to him, not when he could easily venture south and feel it for himself.

Another drag of his thumb, the silk bunching. “Yes, who?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That’s right. I’m the dom, sweet girl. You get as mouthy as you like, and I’ll correct you how I like. Understood?” Then, in a tender voice, “Green?”

“Green,” she whispered, and craned her neck up and backwards, searching for a kiss.

Draco leaned over her and nipped at her bottom lip, and Hermione opened for him, whimpering at the hot slide of his tongue as it moved in time with his thumb. He kept circling, the lack of direct touch or friction akin to torture. She reached down to slip her hand inside her knickers and stroke her clit, but Draco let go of her hip and batted her hand away.

“Patience,” he scolded. He pulled her hair away from her neck, blowing cool air across the sensitive skin there. “Are you sore anywhere?”

Hermione shook her head no, and he licked her earlobe before drawing it into his mouth and giving it a sharp suck.

“Words, please.”

“I’m good. Not sore, just —” She helplessly ground her arse against his growing hardness. Did she really have to say it?

“Insatiable little thing. Didn’t I just shag you rotten?” Draco groaned as she pressed back into him more urgently. “Love how much you need it. Need it almost as much as I do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, remembering her words through the haze of lust.

“Good girl. Now, I want you to go into your bedroom. Take off everything but your knickers, lie down on your tummy, and wait for me. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“No touching,” he reminded her as she walked away.

She slipped into the bedroom. Her excited hands made quick work of her dress before it occurred to her that she should’ve gone slowly; taken her time, because Draco would definitely take his. Everything felt fuzzy. She was nervous, but turned on. Frightened, but electrified by the unknown.

Hermione stretched out on the bed, face down in nothing but her knickers, exactly how he asked. Her nipples hardened against the fabric of her duvet, and as desperate as she was for friction, she held still, focusing on her breath. But with every second that passed, the tension ratcheted higher. How long would Draco make her wait?

It seemed like forever until she heard his deep baritone.

“How easily you acquiesce to my demands when it’s something you want, too.”

Molten hot desire blazed through her, liquifying when Draco levitated her off the bed to face him, suspending her in midair. Stern grey eyes raked over her body, greedy in their assessment of her, and she made no move to cover herself. She might not be the dominant in their dynamic, but she was still powerful.

He’d left his shirt behind, and Hermione could only try not to drool as he took his time sliding out of his shoes, removing his belt, and making himself comfortable in the centre of her bed. When he was satisfied, he twirled his wand in one lazy motion and draped her across his lap, face down.

“Hands on the bed,” Draco commanded. “Keep them there.”

He dragged his belt down each of her arsecheeks, the folded leather cool and smooth even through her knickers. Hermione clenched in anticipation. She hadn’t quite expected the helpless feeling washing over her now, or the intoxicating way it heightened both her fear and her desire.

“You’re going to use your belt?”

“Hand first, and then if you want more, yes, I’ll use the belt. Let’s start with ten. Count for me.”

The first smack came down hard, and without warning. Hermione yelped in surprise.

Draco’s tone was firm. “Count.”

“One,” she gasped. Circe, he wasn’t holding back.

“The initial sting fades,” he assured her. “And then I think you might like the burn.”

She tried to relax her fingers where they clutched at the duvet. Just as he said, the pain turned pleasant. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as one of his softer touches, but, she reminded herself, this was a first impression, and she was taut as a bow string.

When she was ready, he spanked her again, a little harder. Her knickers did nothing to cushion the blow, and she shifted her knees in a useless effort to escape.

“T-two.”

“You can get out of this if you need to.”

Hermione shook her head back and forth. A delicious ache began to bloom between her legs. She wanted to chase the feeling with her fingers, but there was nothing for it. She would have to wait until Draco allowed it. The thought sent another rush of heat to her centre, and she clamped her thighs shut and squeezed. Was this actually… Amazing?

“No. I think I like it.”

“Good. This isn’t meant to be a punishment. It’s only to remind you who’s in charge here. Have you learned your lesson?”

“No,” she said defiantly. “Teach me again, Daddy.”

“Bloody hell,” he said, and brought down his hand again. Three. Again. Four.

Her breath came in short pants, and the burn spread through her entire body. Draco yanked her knickers down her legs, and a spike of arousal made her head swim.

“Let’s see how much you like it when I spank you bare, hmm?”

Two more swift smacks. Hot skin on skin.

“Five,” she cried. “Six.”

It hurt, but the hurt was good. She didn’t think she could come from this alone, but she was powerfully close. Her thighs were slick where she’d been pressing them together, and her cunt throbbed with need. A little bit of friction, or direct stimulation to her clit, and she’d burst at the seams. She widened her legs to give him a view of her neglected little pussy, in case Draco was feeling generous.

Underneath her pelvis, Draco’s cock jumped. “Fuck. You’re dripping.”

She lifted her arse in the air, desperate for his touch, and he spanked her again, curving his hand for maximum impact.

“Seven,” she choked. “I— I need to come. Please, I need it so badly.”

He nearly purred with satisfaction, but he didn’t give her what she wanted. “Give me three more. Then I’ll make you come, I promise.”

Hermione licked her upper lip. She could do it. She could hold on. “Three more.”

The eighth one hit hard enough to make her bones rattle, and she moaned.

“Count it,” Draco demanded. His voice was thin; breathy. He was just as affected as she was.

“Eight, fuck, eight!”

“Almost done, princess. Two more. You want the belt?”

“Yes,” she cried, trembling as an inferno of need consumed her. If she didn’t come soon she was going to scream.

Hermione couldn’t brace herself for the next two smacks even if she tried. Draco delivered them with lightning speed, and the sound of the leather hitting her arse rang in her ears even as he slid out from under her, yanked her by the ankles to the edge of the bed, and buried his face in her cunt.

“Oh gods, oh, fuck, oh fuck —” She gasped, writhing against his mouth.

He ate her greedily, licking up everything she had to offer, curling his tongue into her tight heat, and when he brought his hand beneath her and dug the heel of his hand against her clit, she instantly came apart.

Hermione wasn’t usually a screamer.

The snap of tension let loose a torrent of dazzling ecstacy, and she lost herself in it. Everything was sparkly, but muted, as if she’d looked too long at the sun.

She was vaguely aware of Draco wiping his mouth across her upper thigh, kissing the tender skin there. He stood, then hunched over her, planting LUCK right by her head to support his weight. A groan escaped his throat, and seconds later she heard the now-familiar, telltale sound of Draco Malfoy jerking off.

“Gonna paint you with it,” he grunted.

She whined in protest. “No. In me.”

“Not about me,” Draco huffed, and the schickschickschick sound of his palm moving up and down his cock sped up. “Besides. Too close—”

His arm shook when he seized, and his forehead dropped to her shoulder as his cum splattered across her arse in wet, hot spurts. Hermione wished he would collapse into her and worry about the mess later, but he was too quick for her, already reaching for his wand and casting a series of cleansing charms. He even gave her knickers a good Scourgify.

She made to push herself up off the bed, but winced. The soreness was more acute than she’d expected. Draco splayed a hand on her lower back. “Wait.”

He smoothed the hand over her arsecheeks, gently massaging. His calming magic cooled the inflamed skin and soothed her aching muscles, and Hermione sighed into his touch.

“This is incredibly useful magic,” she said, melting into the duvet as he kneaded a particularly sore spot. “I suppose magic is useful for sex in general. But yours is quite nice.”

“Thank you. I don’t get many opportunities to use it when I’m home. When I’m at your place, we can get creative. And on the Sea Serpent, as long as we’re away from prying eyes.” He laid down next to her and pushed her hair from her eyes. “How are you?”

She couldn’t hide her smile. “Very well, thank you.”

“Good,” he smiled back.

“Do you ever feel weird, not having magic there? Like in the middle of the night, isn’t it odd not to be able to Accio a glass and fill it with water?”

Draco turned onto his back and shrugged. “It’s inconvenient, but best for everyone’s safety. You’ve forgotten; I am a deeply unpopular wizard. I won’t have my employees targeted, or Merlin forbid, harmed, because I prioritised my own comfort; though I prioritise my comfort in other ways.”

“Let’s see, posh clothes, a private jet, a luxury yacht…”

His eyes flashed meaningfully. “A pretty witch in my bed.”

“As of now, you’re in my bed,” she teased. “I do like a pretty wizard.”

“Pretty, am I?”

“So pretty,” she hummed, and propped herself up to kiss him. One kiss bled into two, and Hermione had to pull herself away before she got worked up all over again.

“Forget what I said about the magic,” Draco said, adjusting again. “My bed is far more comfortable. We can shag there.”

“I thought I might refurnish this place. But I don’t know.”

“No? This mattress is a disgrace. An affront to all mankind, magical and muggle alike.”

“I mean I might move.” She clocked his surprise and swiftly backpedalled. “Not out of London. But I’d like a fresh start. New job, new flat, new me.”

Draco nodded, catching her drift like always. “New you.”

“I’m liking all the… Newness,” she said, cheeks heating.

“Are you now?” His voice turned smoky, but kept that playful edge she’d come to crave. Despite her best efforts — well, that wasn’t exactly true, now was it? She hadn’t really tried at all — she was, indeed, worked up again.

Hermione bit her lip and batted her lashes. “Do we have to go right now?”

Draco’s head fell back with a throaty laugh, and she marvelled at the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, pulling his neck muscles taut as it descended and ascended, scattering phoenix feathers across his skin. He’d been so serious when they’d met again, all brooding with his serrated wit, danger personified against the backdrop of a rainy London night. But here, half-dressed and fully relaxed, he looked at home. Or perhaps like he was home. Her home.

“Like I said. Insatiable,” he smirked, fixing her in place with a heated gaze.

Hermione returned the look.

“And gorgeous,” Draco murmured, dragging the tip of his wand along the cleft of her shoulder blade, down her spine. He dipped into the divots above her waist, then moved back up to trace the outline of her breasts. The wood was deceptively cool, an undercurrent of magic hidden within that made her writhe. “I really am proud of you, princess. You’ve made me very happy.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“You’ve taken to this so well. A natural,” he continued. The praise warmed her even further, his happiness flowing into hers, and she felt like she might dissolve into a fine mist. “Submissive only to me.”

The wand left her skin, and Draco went quiet for a moment. “Let’s try something.”

Gently, he guided her hands behind her back and crossed her wrists, whispering a binding spell. Rope wound itself around her delicate skin, all the way up to her elbows, and when she felt it settle into a series of knots, Hermione gasped. Shibari had been on the list of kinks she was open to exploring, but she hadn’t expected to start now.

“Too tight?” Draco asked.

“No, it’s alright.”

“These are basic double-column ties. Very easy to get out of, either with magic — use your safeword — or without, if your mouth is occupied,” Draco said, curling her fingers up so she could feel the bristly end of the rope. “Pull here, and the whole thing will loosen so you can wriggle out. I’ll always leave you enough give to escape if need be. Do you want to try it a few times, both ways?”

He helped her up to a sitting position, and she tested the bindings with her trademark curiosity, trying out both means of escape multiple times. Draco was patient, casting the spell again and again with placid forbearance, but the outline of his cock straining against his trousers belied his true ambition. When she was finally satisfied, he knotted her up again and hooked one arm around her waist, lifting her up to her knees as he dragged her to him, and slanted his lips over hers in a languid kiss.

When his mouth migrated down the side of her throat, sucking at her pulse point, Hermione sagged into him. Granting him better access, she rested her head on his broad shoulder. A light buzzing filled her ears. She groaned, nuzzling his neck where his scent was strongest.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, pushing aside the gusset of her knickers and running a finger along her sensitive slit, already dripping with desire. His voice dropped to a low, wicked whisper. “Oh, you love it, don’t you?”

“Love it,” she confirmed with a weak shake of her head. This was different; good different. Draco was holding her fast, and the tension of his muscles combined with the rope suppressed her ever-present fight-or-flight reflex. She sank into the foreign feeling, and it welcomed her with open arms.

“This is what you need, isn’t it? Fuck, I can tell. Daddy knows best.”

He pet her pussy with the utmost care; slowly, gently, with the broad strokes and barely-there circles across her clit that made her shake and shiver. Within moments she surrendered to his ministrations, and her orgasm built to become one of the most intense, emotionally and physically, that she’d ever experienced. Maybe it was the connection with her own magic, or the way it licked underneath her skin like her bluebell flames, but it fed the fire Draco stoked within her every time he touched her, and now pleasure burned through her with no hope of containment.

Hermione shuddered, crying her pleasure into the crook of his shoulder as she came with a gush. When she was almost through riding the wave, Draco plunged two fingers inside her while he roughly thumbed her clit, triggering a second, more aggressive series of tremors. Everything fluttered — her walls, her eyelashes, her heart.

Draco had mercy on her then, removing both his hand and her soaked knickers, praising her the entire time. She heard the words, but she couldn’t genuinely listen. Her head lolled on his shoulder, a floaty numbness cushioning her from reality. The light in her room seemed to reach her through a soft filter. Draco’s body radiated warmth, and she wanted to wrap herself in his arms as she would her favourite blanket.

Suddenly, she heard her name. Draco’s palm caressed her cheek, and she leaned into his touch. She opened her eyes — When had she closed them? — and found him staring back at her, pupils blown wide.

“Hi,” she hummed. His eyes were so pretty. Had they always been so pretty? She wanted them on her all the time.

“Hey, princess. You’re alright, sweet girl.”

“Mhmm.”

“You’ve found subspace. Gods, it looks good on you,” he swallowed, and she liked the sound. Every sound he made for her thrummed through her like a love song. “We’re gonna slow down to yellow, at the very least, and only if you feel good. I don’t want to push you.”

Hermione didn’t like the idea of slowing down. Everything was plenty slow. Glacial, even. But she wanted to stop even less, because she’d never felt so euphoric, and she never wanted the feeling to end.

She smiled up at him. “Yellow’s good.”

“Fuck, okay,” Draco said, and then he said some more lovely things, something like he would get to know everything she wanted, give her everything she needed, and take care of her forever and always. He released her from her bonds, and a rush of affection coursed through her when he laid her down on the pillows, covered her with a quilt, and then snuggled in with her. He lifted one arm to his lips, then the other, pressing kisses into the indentations left behind by the rope.

But he’d stopped there.

“More, please,” she begged, rolling towards him. “Everything feels amazing.”

He seemed unsure. “Princess. I know it feels good. You’re new to this, though. I would have prepared you but I didn’t think… That’s my fault. I should’ve realised that nothing’s ever typical when it comes to what we have. It’s better to be safe so you have a good experience.” He cradled her jaw with LOVE.

“So… No?”

“You’re vulnerable right now.”

“You make me vulnerable,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah,” Draco said, mouth twitching. He did that a lot lately. “I know the feeling.”

“You were supposed to fuck me.”

That earned her a chuckle. A small victory. “There’ll be time for all that.”

The world seemed to be coming back into focus. Hermione peeled Draco’s hand from her face and held it in one of hers, humming to herself as she traced the letters on his fingers. L-O-V-E.

“I should probably feel embarrassed,” she said with a shy smile.

His reply was raspy. “No. You honour me.”

They fell silent, but it wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful, like the moments between sleep and waking. If a truth was momentarily unveiled, it was as fleeting as a dream, and shimmered back into her subconscious.

She waited for shame or uncertainty to set in. But Draco kept holding her, and perhaps for that reason alone, they never did.

***

The flight to Cannes was brief, thanks to Draco’s magical private jet. Hermione didn’t even bother with champagne. There would be plenty on the Sea Serpent.

She’d freshened up before they left, and wore a pale yellow, body-skimming halter dress with her espadrille wedges. Her hair was up in a low bun, with a few flirty curls framing her face. The only things she’d brought from her flat were a beloved sunhat and her handbag, which she’d charmed from black to white in order to match her outfit. Draco hadn’t changed, but he looked much more relaxed now that his white shirt was properly buttoned. His light blue trousers and beige suede boat shoes were the most casual items she’d ever seen him wear, though they were offset somewhat by his white gold chain and giant watch.

He spent the flight with one hand laced with hers, the other busy writing a note to Lavinia concerning a multitude of meetings. Most of them could be pushed, he insisted; some he cancelled entirely. Hermione tried not to be nosy, but when she glanced over, she noticed he requested that one meeting not be moved, but instead held on the yacht in just a few hours.

The die is likely cast, he wrote, but we should play the percentages. Invite all those interested. Violet Crown, Venice North, Belle Ville all very much in play.

Were all those witch’s names? She swallowed her uneasiness and looked away.

Surely they were only business associates. Why wouldn’t there be women Draco worked with professionally? Hermione worked with plenty of men, and most of her friends were men. Draco didn’t seem threatened by that. He’d encouraged her to pursue the opening with Blaise, and he’d reacted in the most non-toxic way possible when she informed him about Ron’s visit.

Why did she have to be so insecure? Yes, he kept reaffirming his desire for a casual relationship, but after everything she and Draco had done together, and their promises to remain monogamous with each other, was she mad to think it could ever be more than that for him? He’d told her how hard it had been to find someone he could trust, who didn’t like him for his money, who didn’t mind his past. That alone was a huge bar to clear. Then there was attraction, and sexual compatibility, and everything else that went hand in hand when you searched for your soulmate.

If you believed in soulmates, anyway. Hermione had never subscribed to the idea herself, and odds were good that Draco didn’t buy into soulmate theory, or divination, or anything involving predestined outcomes, either. But sometimes, when Draco looked at her a certain way, or touched her with LOVE, she wanted very badly to be the kind of person who believed in such things.

Draco had been nothing but honest with her. He’d told her he wanted to keep things casual, yes, but he didn’t want to be with anyone else, even though it was best for her to keep things quiet, and he eventually wanted to be back in British wizarding society. Clearly he adored her. If she hurt her own feelings by reading his correspondence, that was her own fault.

She tried to shake the uneasy feelings, but the landing was turbulent. Draco squeezed her hand reassuringly and set his work aside, and she did her best to focus on the way his calming magic called to hers, but her own magic revolted inside her veins. It wanted more than reassurances; it wanted to stake its claim.

On arrival, they were met with a black town car and not one, but two Ducatis. One was matte black, the other cherry red. Hermione nearly tripped over herself in her haste to get to them. Draco’s long legs caught up with her easily, and he grinned at her shocked reaction when she read the plate on the back of the red bike.

In bold, black lettering, it read: PRNCSS

She screwed her eyes shut, pinched herself, then looked again. The Ducati was still there.

“His and hers,” Draco said, tossing her the helmet from the seat of her new bike.

Hermione caught the helmet — also cherry red — and clutched it with eager fingers. “To keep? Or just for the week?”

“To keep. The first of many gifts. Charm it however you like.”

Giddy with excitement, she sprang up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. She’d never thought to purchase a motorbike of her own. First of all, they were expensive, particularly if you wanted to keep it maintained. Second, they didn’t really match the sedate Ministry worker aesthetic she’d worked hard to exude when she’d still wanted to climb the ladder. Third, there was nowhere to keep one at her flat.

None of those were obstacles anymore. But once her feet were back on the ground, Hermione’s mouth twitched with guilt. The only reason she didn’t have those obstacles anymore? Money.

Draco’s gold bought these bikes. Blaise’s capital allowed her to switch jobs. Since she didn’t need to worry about paying for Ron’s debts, she could sell her flat and find a new one. And all of this didn’t even account for the fact that she had unlimited access to Draco’s money.

Did this effectively make her a billionaire as well?

Hermione pushed the thought away. This was such a thoughtful surprise, and she didn’t want to taint it by thinking about how it was also more than a little bit complicated. Everything was so bloody complicated lately, and she just wanted to enjoy her impromptu holiday with Draco in the beautiful French Riviera. Was that so much to ask?

Besides, this gift wasn’t about the money. Draco knew she loved motorbikes; knew they featured prominently in core memories from her youth. Sure, he’d picked the flashiest, most expensive model, but he only wanted to give her the best.

She hiked up her dress, threw one leg over her bike and leaned over the instrument panel. The speedometer topped out around 300 kilometres. Fast, but not as fast as some of the newer Kawasaki Ninjas.

“What if I charm mine to be faster than yours?”

“You don’t want to race me, princess.”

She arched a brow. “Is that a challenge?”

“Tell you what,” Draco said, amused. He ran his tongue over his perfect teeth, then smirked. “I’ll race you back here at the end of our trip, once you’re used to your new big girl toy.”

She put the helmet on and flicked up the visor. “And when I win?”

Draco held up two gloved fingers, signalling to the flight crew that his trunks should go in the boot of the town car, then turned his attention back to her. “When?”

Hermione shrugged as she altered her dress so it wouldn’t get caught up in the tyres. She’d win. It was in her nature, and riding was her element. “When.”

“You’re so fucking fun, do you know that? When you’re being yourself. It’s one of things I lo— like — it’s something I look forward to. When we’re together, I mean.” He tugged his helmet on with both hands, but kept his eyes hidden. “Let’s make a bet.”

“Sure.” That kind of bet was harmless enough.

“I win, and I get to collar you.”

Instinct had her sliding her own slender fingers up her decolletage and around the base of her throat. They’d talked about this, however briefly; Draco’s desire to be her dom not just in bed, but in public. It was something he’d always wanted to try, and Hermione couldn’t deceive herself — she wanted to be his all the time, wanted everyone to know.

“And I’d wear it… until?”

The secrecy they’d enrobed themselves in like an invisibility cloak for the past few weeks had been necessary, but it had also been hot. She’d never had the chance to duck into a broom cupboard with anyone at Hogwarts, or play Seven Minutes in Heaven at one of Slytherin’s raucous parties. By the time she’d returned for eighth year, she and Ron were already together, and it was all over the papers, so she’d never been approached by anyone else.

In another world, a fit blond with Seeker reflexes snatched her behind a tapestry and clapped one broad hand over her mouth and told her if she was good, she would be quiet…

She almost laughed at the thought. Nineteen year old Hermione Granger would’ve had no idea what to do with eighteen year old Draco Malfoy. If he’d pulled that back then she’d probably have slapped him. Again.

And she wouldn’t have been caught dead with him in public.

But now? Ron was in treatment, so she didn’t need to worry about his reaction, and he said she didn’t need to worry about Molly and the rest of the Weasleys, either. Harry definitely wouldn’t like it, and Ginny would probably question her decision-making abilities, but if Theo’s reaction was any indication, her friends would come around. Plus Draco’s closest friends had recently become her friends, so… What was holding them back, really?

Draco’s next words completely derailed her train of thought. “Until I tell you to take it off.”

It’s casual. So casual. Just a casual collaring.

“Okay,” she agreed.

Since when was she this eager to do what he asked?

The idea of a collar had made her baulk at first. Hermione was nobody’s pet. She was domestic; she didn’t require domesticating. She’d never be treated like property, and Draco didn’t want to own her like that. That much he’d made clear when the situation with Ron played out. But she was open to it as a symbol of care and protection.

Plus it would be pretty.

If anything, the tattoo was more intimate than the collar, to her anyway. And that gave her an idea… She tucked it away for later. That sort of request required finding the right moment, and that wasn’t the time.

She revved the engine, feeling her magic roar to life with the chassis beneath her.

“And if I win,” she shouted. “You wear the helmet next time we…”

Behind the helmet, her blush flamed across her face. She’d never had that fantasy until the night in Taipei, and couldn’t have asked for it then. Now, though, she felt free to pursue her own pleasure, knowing it brought her dom pleasure, too.

On a shaky exhale, she told herself she was definitely going to win. Gods, she really needed to win.

“Kinky,” he shouted back, starting his bike. “You’re on.”

Hermione followed him out of the hangar and onto sun-soaked, well-paved roads. The sky was cloudless, and even though she wore a helmet, the sea breeze carried the briny scent of salt and hot sand beneath it, welcoming her to the world famous French Riviera.

It was easy to see why so much ink had been spilled describing its beauty. She caught brief glimpses of the beach as they wove through traffic, and even without the benefit of panoramic views, they stole her breath. The sapphire waters of the Mediterranean simply sparkled.

Palm trees guided their way along the Boulevard de la Croisette, luxury hotels dotting the coastline. Blue and white striped brollies punctuated the dunes, and sunbathers curled around each other like semicolons. Ellipses of buckets of champagne, volleyballs, and discarded wide-brim hats told the story of an endless string of perfect days; days without any aim other than to appreciate, and be appreciated.

Draco checked his mirror for her as they leaned into a bend. A cluster of megayachts floated in her periphery, safely moored, and she realised that one of them must be the Sea Serpent. He slowed, signalling his intent to turn onto the dock. Hermione matched his speed. Behind them, the town car pulled off into a private lot to park.

They passed yacht after yacht until they reached the end of the dock, and as they cut their engines, Hermione found herself staring up at one of the most worthy seacraft she’d ever seen. Not that she knew anything about what made something seaworthy, but she had the feeling seaworthiness was like a particularly spectacular display of magic — you knew it when you saw it.

The Sea Serpent had to be at least 75 metres long, all-white except for an iconic French navy hull with a white boot stripe. Four massive decks were at the stern. One dedicated to dining had a massive glass table, and another seemed perfect for lounging with chaises, cushiony daybeds, and deep blue bench seats. The mast was so tall it looked like it could pierce the sky.

“This is us,” Draco said, approaching her bike with his helmet tucked beneath his arm. His shirt hung half-open, the breeze ruffling his hair, and it struck her how relaxed he looked. Holiday suited him.

“When you said ‘yacht’,” she gaped, jaw slack.

“I meant yacht,” he grinned. “All aboard, princess.”

Draco assured her that their bikes would be seen to, though Hermione was reluctant to leave her shiny new toy behind. She bit her lip as he laced his fingers through hers and guided her up the ramp, suddenly intimidated by the sheer size and scale of the yacht. It wasn’t just the Sea Serpent that rattled her, though. This was a true test of what she and Draco had. Could they spend more than just a night together here and there and still want more?

She couldn’t dwell on those thoughts.

Two dozen men and women filed out from one of the cabins, all in smart white uniforms bearing silver name tags. Leading them was a man in his late fifties or early sixties, swarthy with sparkly, dark eyes. He cut a handsome figure in his pristine captain’s uniform.

Draco stepped forward to introduce him.

“Hermione, this is Baptiste, the captain of the Sea Serpent. Baptiste, this is Hermione, my guest for the next few days.”

“Enchante,” Baptiste said with a polite nod.

“Likewise.” Uncertain of how to greet a Frenchman, let alone a seasoned yacht captain, Hermione gave a little half-curtsy. Baptiste chuckled and flashed a professional yet charming smile.

Draco ran LUCK along her forearm. “I’ve got to handle a few things. Baptiste will give you a tour and show you to your quarters. See you at dinner?”

Dinner was only a few hours away, and she knew he must have work to do considering this excursion was so last minute, but she still had to conceal her disappointment from him. It was even more difficult to hide her frown when she realised they’d have separate cabins. He seemed to sleep much better with her around. Why would he want a separate space?

She tried to shake away the thoughts as she nodded, and he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before striding off, four crew members following dutifully in his wake.

Baptiste introduced the remaining crew. Among them were the first officer, the chief engineer, the bosun and his deckhands, the head chef, the sous chef, the crew chef, the purser, the chief stewardess and her staff, and two massage therapists. Everyone was friendly and polite as they explained their role. All were Muggles, and most of them had been with the Sea Serpent since her maiden voyage three years ago.

“Follow me, Mademoiselle,” Baptiste said as the crew disbanded and returned to their work. “Typically I would not give the tour, but Mr. Malfoy told me you are the curious type with many questions, and I am the most familiar with the inner workings of the yacht. Please, ask anything you like, and if myself and my crew can do anything at all for you, we will be most happy to do so.”

The ship was a marvel, and Baptiste an excellent tour guide. He escorted her below deck, and she peeked inside the engine room at the aft end of the vessel, fascinated by the machinery within. There were two galleys; one for the crew, and one on the main deck. Both were fully equipped with the latest appliances, and in each one, she was offered an array of delicate, sweet and savoury indulgences. Rich pain au chocolat, squares of crispy pissaladière, fresh cut fruits, creamy goat cheese and meaty Picholine olives — there was nothing she didn’t enjoy, her eyes fluttering shut in bliss as she dipped strawberry after strawberry in Swiss cream.

After she couldn’t possibly eat another bite, Baptiste showed her the berths on the main deck, including a game room complete with pool table, three of ten lavatories, and the spa, hot tub, and sauna. Then he took her up to the dining deck, where a light wind teased her curls, and finally the captain’s deck, where he patiently and succinctly explained the many dials and knobs that composed the navigation system, giving her a crash course in docking, steering, and more. By the end of it, Hermione felt confident that she could captain the yacht if need ever arose. She told Baptiste he would’ve made an excellent professor, which was one of the highest compliments Hermione Granger could give, and the man’s eyes twinkled with mutual appreciation.

The swim deck hosted a plethora of equipment for all manner of water activities. Hermione guessed she’d spend most of her time on the paddleboard, but maybe Draco could coax her out on the jet ski. It probably wasn’t all that different from the Ducati, just on the water.

Their final stop was the guest quarters. There were several cabins dedicated to guests, but Hermione’s was starboard side, across from Draco’s master suite. Whereas Draco’s rooms were furnished in his traditional minimalist style, Hermione’s were much cosier and full of feminine details.

A long window captured a spectacular view of the sea. To the left, a cherry wood bed topped with a satin damask canopy anchored the sleeping area. The bedding was the palest shade of pink, with a ruffled skirt and a pile of fluffy pillows. Across from the bed was a sturdy wardrobe with mirrored doors. She smiled. Very Draco.

The rest of the suite was just as thoughtfully furnished. Through one doorway was a seating area with two smaller windows, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a matching desk. Fresh, fragrant irises burst out of a crystal vase. Through the other doorway was a private loo with a shower and separate soaking tub, stocked with luxury bath products. It was, in a word, lush.

Hermione thanked Baptiste for the tour and closed the door behind him. It was late afternoon, and they would set sail within the next thirty minutes. That left her with plenty of time to kill until dinner.

She explored the bookshelves, but her mind was too restless to read. And if she was too restless to read, there was no use lying down for a nap. Without anything in the way of clothing or toiletries, she had nothing to unpack, and so she decided to go up to the main deck and enjoy the sights.

As she retraced her steps, she heard voices coming from one of the rooms. Draco’s study. Baptiste hadn’t shown her the inside, just gestured to it along their route, though it had a small, round window about eye level. Hermione paused, the temptation to spy irresistible once she recognised, despite the cries of gulls and the low hum of the ship, one of the voices.

Lavinia.

“Are you sure about this?”

Draco’s tone was gruff. “No. But don’t worry, you and the others will be taken care of no matter what.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Hermione heard high heels click-clacking down the corridor, and ducked around the corner. The door swung open, and she peeked from her hiding position to see Lavinia welcome three glamorous witches and Blaise Zabini into the study.

Her eyebrows shot up. Those must be Violet Crown, Venice North, and Belle Ville. What was Blaise Zabini doing with them?

He was a notorious playboy, that much was true, but rumour had it that his antics were mostly for show because he’d never gotten over his Hogwarts sweetheart, Daphne Greengrass. Hermione didn’t know much about Daphne, only that she was an Unspeakable, had perfect auburn hair, and her trademark elusiveness had made her one of Witch Weekly’s obsessions. She was also in the tight-lipped Slytherin friend group with Draco, Blaise, Pansy, and Theo.

The door closed, and Hermione felt a silencing charm fall like a curtain, effectively ending her impromptu reconnaissance.

She could just ask Draco about the meeting. He’d probably tell her. But she wanted to see for herself that this was truly just business.

She walked down the corridor again, slowing as she passed the door so she could look through its window. Relief washed over her as she saw Draco, standing in front of an overhead projector, Serpenti’s current revenues displayed behind him in stark black and white. His eyes held nothing besides cold, reptilian focus. He wasn’t looking at those women.

Circe. Of course this was just business. What had gotten into her?

As she reached the main deck, a crew member with her dreads in a cute high ponytail greeted Hermione with a silver tray. Inside it was a letter. She didn’t recognise the handwriting at first — it had been so long since she’d had an owl from Ginny, an avid fan of the surprise Floo call — but when she did, she wasted no time in tearing it open.

Hermione,

I’m with Crooks now, and all is well, though he’s in quite the strop over your absence. I hope you have a wonderful time. Who invited you on a yacht? Zabini was fine with pushing your start date? Honestly, how did you get so lucky?

Don’t know if you’ve heard, but Ron left for rehab this morning. My mum’s a mess. I thought I’d feel relieved, but the stakes feel higher now, if anything. Now it’s well and truly out of our hands. Supposedly we can’t write or visit him for the first thirty days. No way he’ll be back for Harry’s birthday celebrations, which is probably for the best. Wasn’t sure how we would’ve handled that.

I’m really, really glad you’ll be there. I’ve reserved these amazing little bungalows in Tahiti. They sit right over the water. They’re meant for two, so if you decide you’d like to bring a date — someone who will appreciate you properly! — you should. We can let loose, away from all the stress of the last few months. You’re going to love it.

Speaking of which, Harry wants to commemorate his tenth year as an Auror while we’re there, so we’ve invited the Prophet to come take a few photos. Better to invite them, I think, than spend the whole trip wondering if someone’s going to recognise Harry and sell pictures anyway. More control this way. I think we’ll just say Ron’s got food poisoning or something, which if you know him and food, seems perfectly plausible.

This is getting long, and you know how I feel about essays. Sorry things have been so mad lately. It’s been good to spend time with my brothers outside of work, even if it’s revolved around helping Ron, and I’ve seen Harry more than I have in years, which has been lovely, but I miss you. I feel like I have no idea what’s going on with you. It’s weird.

Promise we’ll get a cuppa when you get back?

Love, Gin

Hermione leaned over the railing and read the letter again, wind whipping at the parchment. Her chest tightened with fondness.

“Miss you too, Gin,” she whispered, the words swiftly carried away by a gust of warm air over the water towards the horizon.

She changed course and went back to her cabin. When she finally found a quill and ink and sat down at the desk, her eyes snagged on a phrase in Ginny’s letter. It felt so familiar.

Someone who will appreciate you properly

She’d seen that before, and in the same, loopy handwriting.

It struck her, harsh and unexpected, like a hex to the back. She’d seen that phrase before, alright, as an addition to Pansy’s second version of the break up announcement.

Pansy.

Ginny was Pansy’s lover.

Hermione shoved back from the desk and unpinned her bun, scraping her scalp gently with her nails as she shook out her curls.

How had she not seen this before? Ginny had almost always been emotionally forthcoming, especially after everything that had happened to her during her first year at Hogwarts with Tom Riddle’s diary. Since then, Ginny had almost shared too much with Harry and Hermione. But lately she’d been hesitant to share, and Hermione had been so wrapped up with Draco that she had hardly noticed.

It all made sense, looking back. Ginny came over every Friday like clockwork, but always declined Saturday night invitations even though she didn’t have work. The night of the break up, Ginny said she was dropping off Confection Confetti at Harry and Theo’s, but she carried an overnight bag. Molly had pouted, saying Harry had been keeping Ginny out at all hours. Ginny must’ve been taking a few things over to keep at Pansy’s. Her improved wardrobe was right out of Pansy’s closet.

Pansy had been just as obvious, looking back, ordering a redheaded slut at The Vintage Vixen. Really?

Gods, poor Pansy. Hermione’s heart broke for her. Ginny had stood in her office just last Friday and acted as if she hadn’t seen Pansy since their school days, even though Pansy had given her the opportunity to come out to Hermione, their mutual friend. Hermione could see why she hadn’t, of course — she’d been put on the spot, and it was an emotional time — but Ginny was one of the bravest Gryffindors Hermione had ever known. Or she had been, until the war ended and Fred’s death became all too real.

In the aftermath, Ron had been babied by the Weasley clan, but Ginny was expected to play the dutiful daughter.

Molly was about as progressive as the tax code, which was to say, not at all. In Hermione’s opinion, the odds of Ginny coming out to her mum and the rest of the family were slim to none. No wonder Pansy was so excited about the potential post in America — maybe, instead of being open in Wizarding Britain, Ginny would be willing to put an ocean between herself and her toxic mother and live her truth stateside.

Hermione abandoned her writing and flopped on a convenient loveseat.

Why hadn’t Ginny trusted her enough to tell her? That hurt. Ginny’s sexuality didn’t matter one Knut, and it wasn’t anyone’s business. But Hermione would’ve liked to know Ginny was seeing Pansy, if only so she could be a supportive best friend. And if anyone had anything negative to say about Ginny’s choice of lover, Hermione would gladly jinx them into next week.

Was Ginny too busy worrying about everyone else to live her truth?

Oh, no.

Were they the same witch?

Hermione’s stomach lurched. The Sea Serpent was moving into open water.

She glanced at the letter, still open on the desk. She could write back that she’d figured out that Ginny was seeing Pansy, and not only was she over the moon for her, but she was seeing a Slytherin herself, and writing from his megayacht.

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. Draco wasn’t just some Slytherin they’d run into now and then on their way to Potions. Pansy might’ve called for Harry’s head, but Draco had actually harmed other students. He still bore the Dark Mark. She couldn’t drop his name and expect Ginny to immediately accept him with open arms.

And anyway, Hermione wasn’t certain their casual status extended to telling non-Slytherins.

This was what she told herself, as first the dock, and then the shoreline disappeared into the distance.

***

“The yacht lifestyle agrees with you,” Draco said over a dinner of Moules à la Marinière. The chefs paired it with succulent Lobster Thermidor, salad with a zesty lemon vinaigrette, and freshly baked crusty bread — the perfect meal to indulge in whilst sailing.

Hermione smiled and sipped her Chardonnay, looking out over the water. The sun retreated behind stratiform clouds as it sank into the sea, slicing the sunset into layers of ripe fruit compôte; apricot, melon and papaya.

Everything was more beautiful than she could’ve ever imagined, and of the finest quality. From the crew to the cabins to the furnishings, Draco curated only the highest calibre of anything and everything available, and his meticulousness paid off in spades. Hermione had enjoyed a deep tissue massage, a solo game of billiards, and a soak in the hot tub. She’d easily transfigured herself a cheeky bikini, but it wasn’t her best work. It’d do for another day, but she’d have to take Draco up on his offer to go shopping.

Not the worst thing in the world, shopping with an unlimited budget. Though she did feel a bit guilty.

By the time Draco had come to fetch her for dinner, she was back in her yellow dress, and mostly relaxed. She still didn’t know what, if anything, she should say to Ginny concerning Pansy, so she’d left the letter unanswered for the time being. All Draco's guests had apparated away, disembarking before the yacht left the dock, and now, it was just them.

Dessert arrived — passionfruit crème brûlée — and they broke through the hard caramelised sugar in companionable silence. Waves lapped at the hull, drinking down the rest of the sunlight.

“Something’s wrong,” Draco said, He set down his spoon, laced his fingers together, and rested his chin atop LOVE and LUCK. “Tell me.”

Damn him. Always so perceptive, especially when it came to her.

“It’s nothing.”

He eyed her half-eaten crème brûlée.

Hermione sighed. “I have a lot on my mind.”

“So, not nothing, then.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighed again. “I don’t want to ruin our holiday, I just…”

Draco tossed his napkin on the table and came to kneel at her side. “The only thing that could ruin it is if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

The wind blew a curl in front of her face, and her eyes glittered with the first sign of tears.

“How do you live like this?”

His expression was unreadable. “Come with me.”

He helped her out of her chair and walked her to the glass balcony. High above them, stars twinkled around a distant moon.

“I’ve asked myself the same thing. More times than you know,” Draco said, looking not at her, but out at the night sky. “But what else would I be doing? My father passed. My mother couldn’t look at me without seeing his ghost, so she left. I’ve told you before, but when I started this business, I had maybe a few Knuts to my name, and the only person who’d been by my side through it all and was still there, my best friend, was dying. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. I was never an upstanding wizard — the Ministry would never have hired me — and I used my bad reputation to my advantage. At first we only attracted degenerates, the type who haunted Knockturn, waiting for any sign of the Dark Lord’s faithful planning an uprising. I was only too happy to take their money. Vince…”

Draco gripped the railing, and Hermione placed her hands over his.

“He wanted more?”

“He said it should feel like a dream. An escape. That everyone needed that. Post-war, everything was drab, dull. He wanted Serpenti to be a worthy establishment where magical people from around the world could come and feel alive again. And so we made it happen. He did all the design work. The mural on the ceiling? All Vince. He wasn’t much for arithmancy, though, so I —”

“You did the numbers,” she finished for him.

“He didn’t even see it the way it is now. When it got so bad that I couldn’t care for him on my own anymore, and I had to take him to St. Mungo’s, every morning I’d visit and all he wanted to know was if patrons were enjoying themselves, and if I’d thought of adding another bar behind the craps tables, and when he might be able to go back to the sad little flat we shared. The Healers told me his mind was mostly gelatinous from the dark magic at that point, but he remembered me. And the casino.”

“The day he died,” Draco swallowed hard. “He asked for Greg. He was so out of it; thought we were in the common room getting ready to go to Hogsmeade. I remember… He wanted sherbet lemons. We used to split a package, the three of us, and sit on the wall by Gladrags, talking about all the stupid shite boys talk about. I told him we were just waiting on Greg, like usual, and then he closed his eyes…”

“Draco. I’m so sorry.”

“I went completely, stark raving mad, Hermione. I threatened to burn the place down, hexed the Healers. Theo was there, fresh off his residency — had to put me in a full body bind. He convinced them not to call the Aurors and just ban me from the premises instead. And then I had to handle the burial. It was like that woman from Al-Anon’s funeral for her mother; hardly anyone was there, and his estate had been claimed by the Ministry, so he had to be buried in some tragic fucking garden plot. I stood over his grave and promised him that I would make Serpenti the greatest casino on earth, muggle or magical, and told him I loved him and I’d always remember him.”

Draco rolled up his sleeve and showed her the stacked roman numerals above his Dark Mark. “They’re dates. The first is Greg’s birthday. The second is Vince’s. I donate those amounts, in millions, to Theo’s research every year.” He tugged the fabric back down. “Your question shouldn’t be how I live like this. Maybe I’m alone, but I know how to be alone, after all these years. I know how to play the villain. People need one, and I’m good at it. Even when I’m giving them an out, clearing their debt and sending them to rehab, all they see is the last Death Eater initiated by the Dark Lord himself, and then they can think to themselves, ‘Well. at least I’m not Draco Malfoy.’ No, the question isn’t how; what you really want to know is why. Why keep going, if I’ve got enough to fund the research, buy whatever I want.”

Her mouth was dry, and the word crumbled out like ash. “Why?”

“Because if I stop,” Draco cleared his throat. She’d never seen him cry, but he was damn close. Her heart felt like it was breaking into a thousand pieces.

“If you stop, he’s really gone.”

He shook his head. “Earlier today, I thought I could…”

“You thought what?”

Draco didn’t answer.

“You thought…” She prompted him again.

“You deserved better than Weasley, and you deserve better than this.”

“Look at me,” Hermione pleaded, running her hand along his arm. “Let me decide what I deserve. You wanted me to get my power back, right? Part of that is putting the choice in my hands. And I choose you, Draco. I want to keep choosing you.”

He leaned into her touch as she reached up and smoothed his hair. “Thank you. I can’t say what it means — You lost people, too, and my friends were terrible to you. I was terrible to you. It means a lot that you’re listening.”

“It means a lot that you’re talking. Ron and I never talked about this sort of thing,” she paused, scrunching her nose when she realised how her words might sound. “Not that I’m comparing you two. I’m only saying, if we’d been able to turn to each other and admit our struggles without worrying about offending the other, maybe things wouldn’t have ended so badly. I think we’d have broken up for reasons far more commonplace. Instead we’re spending our late twenties unpacking our trauma. All of us are, I think.”

“Finally looking in the mirror,” Draco said, wiping at his eyes.

She stepped closer to him, playfully jostling him with her shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood. “You’re very handsome when you’re vulnerable.”

He huffed a laugh. “That so?”

“Fishing for compliments?”

“Maybe.”

“I have something better,” she said, dipping beneath his arm to face him, pulling his shirt loose from his trousers. “I want to give you something. You can count it as my reward.”

“Colour me intrigued.”

He settled his hands at her waist and Hermione could hardly focus on unbuttoning his shirt. “There’s a space here,” she said, circling a blank expanse of skin on his chest, a little to the left of his sternum. Nerves finagled their way into her voice, making it shaky, even though she had never been more sure of anything in her life. “I’d like to fill it.”

“You want to give me a tattoo?” Draco blinked in surprise.

She swayed on her feet; whether it was due to the movement of the water or the enormity of the moment, she couldn’t say. “Yes. And I want to give you the Granger family magic. My magic.”

“Hermione,” he whispered, taking her face in his hands.

“I don’t know what it’ll do for you. But I want you to have it.”

He kissed her then, not to quiet her, she realised, but to accept her gift. To accept her, as she was, in a wrinkled dress with no makeup and hair tousled by seabreeze.

Reluctantly, Hermione broke the kiss. She withdrew her wand from a hidden pocket and pointed it at his chest. She knew the spellwork for summoning her magic now, and the tattoo itself should come easily enough. Just as she was about to begin, Draco grabbed her wrist with LUCK.

“Do I get a say in the design?”

“It’s not a doodle of Crookshanks,” she laughed, recalling his rough sketch of the cat. “If that’s what you’re worried about. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

He dropped his hand, and Hermione took a deep breath, touched her wand to his chest, and felt her magic flow from her chest into his.

The Chinese character appeared in broad, red brushstrokes of ink.

狮

“What’s this?” Draco asked, tracing the lines emblazoned across his chest.

“I thought you needed some colour,” she said cryptically. “Red, for passion and red magic.”

“I can see that. But what does it say?”

Hermione fought a smile. “I’ll give you a hint. It is actually Crookshanks-adjacent.”

He held still for a moment, hair falling in his face when his eyes found hers again. “Lion?”

Hermione’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She’d never forget their night together in Taipei, the way he’d swept her off her feet. He listened to her the way no one else did, made her feel brilliant and light. When she’d told him about the poem, Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den, she’d seen the way his entire body attuned itself to her words. Genuine curiosity like that was so hard to find, and to be on the receiving end of it? It made all the magic inside her come to life.

Draco made her come to life.

Whatever the poem meant to Yuen Ren Chow, it meant something entirely different to Hermione. Something she struggled to articulate, even though she felt it, bone-deep.

“I suppose you could say it’s untranslatable.”

“A lion for a lioness,” Draco said, providing his own interpretation. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

A tremor ran through her as he spoke, as if she’d been storing potential energy and it had suddenly been unleashed. She glanced down at her tattoo. The bluebell flames blazed brighter than she’d ever seen them burn before. When she looked back at Draco, the red ink on his chest glowed bright as a star, and he seemed as shaken as she did.

“I feel it,” he said, and then he was kissing her again, with more urgency than before.

She wanted to ask him a thousand questions that neither of them knew the answer to, like what does this mean and does this change everything and can you handle it if I say what I’m feeling? Will you run from me, if those words leave my lips? Don’t you think this means something? Something more?

“What is it,” Draco whispered against her lips. She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts she’d stopped kissing him back.

Hermione blinked once, twice. “Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” he said coaxingly. “Your magic’s telling on you.”

She searched for his; it felt perfectly calm.

“It’s only… It’s only that I don’t like that we have separate cabins,” she said, popping up on her tiptoes and throwing her arms around his neck to distract him from her disappointment.

So now her magic was going to give her away? Not for the first time, she lamented never learning Occlumency. She didn’t really want to hide from Draco, though; it was just that he’d made it abundantly clear what he could and couldn't offer her.

It hadn’t been enough then, and it wasn’t enough now. It would never be enough, not until she had all of him, she realised. Not until she felt his passion outweigh his calm.

“I didn’t want to smother you. And this way you’ll have an entire wardrobe to fill. You don’t have to share mine.”

“Maybe I want to share.”

His lips dropped to her ear. “Then share my bed.”

His bed. What he’d offered her in the very beginning. For now, it would have to do. Eventually, she’d have to be brave and tell him the truth, the truth she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. But hadn’t they had enough honesty for one day?

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione mumbled, fighting a yawn. She was suddenly exhausted.

“Tired?” He chuckled. “You had a long day, princess. Come on, let me tuck you in.”

“Mmm. Did you ever come up with an ending to my bedtime story?”

“Not yet.” Draco swept an arm under her knees and hauled her into his arms. “But I’m working on it.”

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke to the gentle rocking of the Mediterranean and a close-up view of Draco’s left bicep. The Magician tarot card, upright, rippled across his pale skin. She watched the tattooed magician raise his double-ended wand and swish it around, perhaps calling forth good fortune, or summoning strength.

How much did Draco believe in divination?

He’d stayed the night in her room, kissed her under the gauzy canopy. They’d slept facing each other, bodies mirroring relaxation, as if their magic had conferred upon them a sense of safety they’d only felt as young children. Neither had set an alarm, and now the sun blazed through the window, having long since begun its ascent into the cloud-dotted sky.

She traced the outline of The Magician, and Draco stirred, long eyelashes fluttering.

You’re my sorcerer, Hermione thought. You’ve kidnapped me, and I never want you to let me go.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He stretched, body long and lean and cat-like. “Hey princess. How was your sleep?”

“Amazing. Yours?”

“Incredible.” Draco glanced at his watch. “Shops open soon. We should eat breakfast and get a move on.”

She leapt off the bed, taking the top sheet with her. “We’re really going shopping?”

Hermione had always secretly loved shopping. Sure, she used to pout at Hogwarts when her fellow Gryffindors would drag her into Hogsmeade, but it was only because she preferred to set her own agenda. There was nothing like a good browse through her local high street shops followed by coffee and a trip to Flourish & Blotts. These days, if she managed to drag her mum along with her, they went to Waterstones and pored over cookbooks, discussing what might make for a good Sunday supper.

Guilt grabbed at her insides. She really needed to go see her parents soon.

Draco, wearing nothing but tight black pants, headed across the corridor to his suite. “Can’t have you wearing the same thing to dinner two nights in a row, now can we?”

Hermione beamed as she leaned out of her doorway, drinking in the sight of his back muscles strewn with the tattoos of broken glass. She would never get tired of seeing him like this, well-rested and happy. So different from the night they’d reentered each other’s lives.

“Can we Apparate from here?”

He grinned over his shoulder. “We can do anything we like.”

An hour and a half later, Hermione found herself strolling the Rue d’Antibes in Cannes, her small hand tucked securely in Draco’s. They didn’t exactly blend in with the locals, but Draco didn’t seem to mind the heads turning their way. He’d always attracted attention with his white-blond hair. Even at a young age, he’d been basically minor royalty and enjoyed the attention as his due.

Here, fully grown and amongst Muggles, he was noticed for being tall and tattooed, but that wasn’t the case back home. If they went out for a day of shopping in Diagon Alley, they’d be instantly clocked as the Golden Girl and the Youngest Death Eater, one famous and beloved, the other infamous and scorned. And if they held hands? The backlash would be furious and swift. She could imagine the hateful screeds the Daily Prophet would be only too happy to print, if only for the sake of lifting recently sagging sales.

But what did those opinions mean, really? She’d never set out to be their heroine. She was a child, as much as Draco had been a child when he was fed Pureblood ideology and coerced to take the Mark.

It was probably nice for Draco to feel like he could go out in the open. After everything he’d said about Vince, she knew his loneliness ran deeper than he let on. The appreciative glances from people of all genders probably didn’t hurt, either.

Hermione, on the other hand, blushed every time a handsome stranger gave her a once-over.

“They can look,” Draco whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand. “But they can’t touch.”

She spotted a leggy woman ogling him and scowled in her direction. “Same goes for you.”

He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “I know. Your magic’s getting your point across quite effectively.”

“Burning?”

“Boiling, I should think. Doesn’t hurt, only, I feel the turmoil,” Draco said, pulling her into one of the many luxury ateliers. “Do you feel this passionate about everything?”

“Only the important things,” she mumbled, fighting her blush.

Since she’d given him her magic last night, she found that she could read him more easily; feel his mood through his magic. It was the same for Draco. It didn’t exactly puzzle her, per say, that a mutual exchange of an inherent part of themselves led them to being psychically linked. But it sparked a memory from school that made her heart race.

She licked her lips before she spoke. “Do you remember that lesson we had with Snape, the one about sourcing ingredients? He said sometimes, rarely, if you have the right elements, magic itself can work much like a potion. It can blend with someone else’s, seamlessly.”

Draco covered his new tattoo with his palm. “Compatible magic.”

“Compatible magic,” she echoed. “I felt your magic before, and then I was able to access its soothing properties, but then when you accepted mine…”

“I felt it too.”

“We’re not magically bound together, though,” she clarified.

“No. Either one of us could take back our magic at any time.”

So… Still casual, then. She tried not to make her disappointment palpable.

She was saved from saying something embarrassing by a demure sales associate with a camellia brooch. Draco, speaking immaculate French, rattled off a list of things Hermione might like — a tweed jacket, a quilted leather bag with a double flap, ballet flats in black, navy and nude — and the woman’s eyes widened as she nodded. Within moments, Hermione’s measurements were taken, and she and Draco were seated in a private back room, sipping champagne as they were presented with the best of everything.

Hermione, overwhelmed by the attention and the options, looked to Draco for his opinion on most items. He said yes to almost everything, including a silk dress straight from the Parisian runway, and refused to let her look for the price tags.

“This is too much,” she insisted as the pile of boxes next to Draco grew and grew. She’d fallen in love with two different jackets, several pairs of trousers, every shoe she tried on, including a pair of slingback heels so comfortable they required no cushioning charms, and a miniature handbag in the softest lambskin. When she waffled between gold or silver hardware on the double flap, Draco told them she’d have both.

“Au contraire, mon chérie. This is but a start. All of these are well-suited for the office and business dinners, but you still need eveningwear, daywear, resort wear, jewellery…” He joined her in front of a tri-fold mirror, trailing fingers up her arm as he admired her from every direction. “Lingerie.”

“All these clothes… They make me feel gorgeous,” she murmured, swishing her hips in an a-line skirt.

“You were made for high fashion.”

“But shouldn’t everyone have clothes that make them feel this good?”

“It’s luxury,” Draco said, glancing in the mirror again. “You can’t have luxury without extravagance and exclusivity.”

“I know, but…Don’t get me wrong, I love all of this. I mean, look at this skirt. It’s art. But I’m going to be in the field advocating for creature equality wearing something attainable to only the exorbitantly wealthy. How’s that going to come off? And don’t get me started on the environmental impact of the clothing industry, or the labour practices.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “So in this scenario, the only ethical path forward would be to hand weave and dye our own clothes from natural fibres we grow on our own land using non-potable water. And grow our own food. Build our own homes. I seem to recall you telling me that there are no ethical billionaires, and I’m willing to engage with you on the topic. But I would say to you that there is no ethical consumption under capitalism. The entire system is built on the exploitation of others; their land, their labour, even their children’s labour. We should strive for harm reduction, and in this case, I believe that means buying fewer, higher-quality items that will last a lifetime. Like this skirt. Makes your arse look fucking fantastic, by the way.”

Hermione’s jaw hung open. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I think you’ve made me an arse man.”

“No, no, the part about capitalism,” she said, swatting his chest playfully.

“Ah, that,” he smirked. “Does it do it for you when I discuss philosophical dilemmas? I did some reading after our trip to Taipei. You caught me flat-footed, and we can’t have that, now can we? Don’t feel guilty about this, princess. Wear it all, love it, enjoy it. It’ll make me happy.”

“And I suppose your happiness is priceless?”

“Smart girl,” he praised, pinching her chin and kissing her softly.

“I suppose I could only purchase things that are subtly branded, or without recognisable logos. Construct a timeless wardrobe. I’ll take care of everything so it all lasts.”

Draco wrapped his arms around her. “And I’ll take care of you.”

Just then, a wail rose up from the other end of the dressing rooms. Hermione whirled around to see a pram with a crying baby inside, and no guardian in sight.

“Did you see a mum? A dad?” She asked Draco, who didn’t follow her as she approached the pram. At any moment, she thought she might be intercepted by a concerned parent, or even the sales associate, but alas, they seemed to be the only ones who noticed the unattended infant.

“I didn’t even see the baby.”

“Shh, hush now. We’ll find your parents.” Hermione cooed as she leaned over the pram. The fussy baby, grey-eyed and wearing a blue knit cap, couldn’t be more than a month old. The wailing grew louder. She winced. “Draco, will you go look?”

Without another thought, she picked up the baby and held him — she assumed it was a him — upright against her heart, supporting his tiny head and gently patting his tiny back.

“It’s alright, darling. It’s alright,” she said in her most soothing tones. Not knowing what to do, she began to sway, like she’d seen mothers in the park sway, and as she turned in a wide circle, she saw that Draco hadn’t moved.

He stood right where she’d left him, the mirror at his back, reflecting three Hermiones holding three sweet little babies. His eyes were trained on her, the real Hermione, a mystified expression on his face.

“Draco,” she said, not-so-subtly shifting her eyes from him to the doorway, hoping he would get the hint.

He was still staring.

She sighed. Men so often needed explicit instructions.

“Draco, can you find the mum?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he stammered, and then quit the room in a rush.

Moments later he returned with a frazzled Muggle couple in tow. Hermione knew immediately these were indeed the baby’s parents, and handed him to one of the women, who broke down in sobs. Their story was simple and understandable; both women had thought their son was with the other. They were sleep-deprived and stir-crazy, and had come out shopping for the first time as a family of three to get some fresh air.

Draco, ever the gentleman, offered to pay for their shopping, and although they tried to decline, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He took their things with Hermione’s up to the till while Hermione comforted the new parents. She told them a story about how her parents had made a similar mistake when she was small, and that things would get easier.

“Are you a mother?” They asked her in dulcet French. “You are a natural.”

Hermione’s smile faded, and she shook her head. “No. Maybe someday.”

“You’re so young,” one of the mothers assured her. “Plenty of time.”

She nodded politely. It wasn’t like she could tell these well-meaning Muggle women that she’d lost a lot of time with her parents because she had to wipe their memories and change their identities to save their lives, because there’d been a war, and they still suffered from side effects, so she wanted to start a family sooner rather than later.

It was a harsh reminder that she might have achieved some of her dreams, but some of them, arguably the most important ones, remained stubbornly out of reach.

After thanking Draco and Hermione for perhaps the third or fourth time, the family left. Draco took her hand in his, and she drew on his magic, letting the calm override her troubled thoughts.

“Shall we?”

They wandered into several other stores. Draco had no problem carrying her shopping, and holding her beloved intrecciato handbag for her while she tried on all manner of clothes and belts and hats. It was ridiculous how he made her mouth water, completely confident wearing her bag over one muscled shoulder, politely requesting different silhouettes and sizes. She fell in love with a store with an equestrian theme, and walked out with a tower of bright orange boxes full of silks and one very, very expensive tote bag.

After she’d checked off everything on her wishlist, Draco took her to look at timepieces. She selected a low-profile bracelet style in gold with a mother of pearl face. As she tried it on to determine how many links she’d need to have removed, Draco stepped into a back room with one of the jewellers who mentioned they had something rare and exclusive he might like.

When they returned, Draco was beaming, holding a small red box. The jeweller gave a little bow. “Congratulations, monsieur. A wonderful selection.”

“The watch as well, please,” Draco said, turning his smile on Hermione. “Anything else?”

“What did you get?” She gestured towards the red box.

“Cufflinks. For my collection.”

Hermione grinned and shook her head. She’d never seen anyone so excited about cufflinks. “Whatever happened to buying fewer things, hmm, Mr. I Do My Own Research?”

He laughed, though she thought it sounded a little shaky. “Allow me this one indulgence, will you?”

Next they ducked inside a patisserie for flaky croissants, an artist’s palette of pastel macarons, and frothy, piping hot cappuccinos. Draco’s town car picked up the mountain of boxes and bags while they ate, and then they were free to explore the streets of Cannes. They walked along the promenade, full of good food and a bit high from their shopping spree.

“Thank you, Daddy, for everything.”

“You’re more than welcome. Thank you for letting me spoil you.”

“I hope you didn’t miss too much work,” she said tentatively.

He shrugged. “I’d much rather be here.”

“It’s nice that we can just be here. I’d forgotten what it was like to be anonymous.”

“It’s why I come here every chance I get. The crew doesn’t know who I am. The French Muggles think I’m some fashionable bloke who loves film festivals. It’s easier.”

“I’ve missed travelling. I didn’t really know how much until we got here.”

He lifted their entwined hands and kissed the back of hers. “It’s nicer when you’re with someone.”

“Have you ever taken your friends on the yacht?”

“Of course. But as the business grows, it becomes more and more difficult to take time away. It’s funny, really,” Draco mused. “You spend much of your youth hoping for the sorts of responsibilities that will grant you wealth and social cachet, thinking you’ll be different from everyone else who achieved their dreams. You won’t work yourself to death. You’ll prioritise health and wellness. You’ll meet the love of your life between meetings and fundraisers and business development dinners and facilities management. Everyone else who came before you frittered away their time, but you’d never be so foolish.”

“And then you’re almost thirty,” Hermione said sadly. She knew thirty wasn’t old, especially not for magical people, but the years had already begun to fly by much faster than she’d ever thought they would. “And most of your friends are settling down, and talking to you about moving to the country and having children and you remember always wanting that, before they ever wanted it. And you still don’t have it.”

“You want to move to the country?”

She laughed. “Not that part. I don’t know if the country would agree with me. London, for all its faults, feels like home.”

“I agree. Everyone’s there. I can’t see anyone I know ever leaving, except, perhaps, Pansy. She’s quite the globetrotter.”

Hermione’s steps faltered. Should she say something to Draco about her suspicions regarding Pansy and Ginny? It wasn’t like he would tell anyone. If she could trust him with her magic, surely she could trust him with this.

“I think Pansy’s seeing Ginny Weasley.”

Draco looked surprised, then confused. “How do you know?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’m at about a ninety-nine percent confidence interval.”

She offered up each piece of evidence for his appraisal as they turned the corner. Draco stopped at a flower cart and selected a cheerful bouquet of white daisies, mouth tight as he listened.

As he paid, he said, “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“From what I understand, Ginny’s the one who wants to keep things quiet. She’s not out.”

“The woman who first loved Potter with the woman who wanted his head — that’s something,” Draco said. “And another Slytherin-Gryffindor relationship.”

“Something about you Slytherins, I suppose,” Hermione teased.

“Like moths to a flame,” Draco said, a touch darkly, handing her the daisies.

She closed her eyes and inhaled, relishing their mild scent. Irises, now daisies? She really needed to find a book about flowers and their many meanings. Right after she found some material about compatible magic.

As luck would have it, she spotted a quaint bookshop up ahead, carts of books spilling out onto the pavement.

“Can we go in there?”

He smiled down at her. “Ah, here’s where you’ll finally make a dent in my vaults.”

They ducked inside the shop, and Hermione made a beeline for the rare book section. She oohed and aahed over the available titles, including an early edition of Les Trois Mousquetaires, but nothing tempted her enough to make a purchase.

Draco flipped through a book detailing the history of modern fashion. “Pansy used to tell me everything. She knows I can keep a secret.”

“Maybe she hasn’t found the right time to tell you. She said you’ve been dodging invitations.”

He snapped the book shut. “Be that as it may, she could’ve sent an owl.”

“I don’t think one sends an owl for that sort of thing,” Hermione said delicately. “I thought Ginny would’ve told me, too, so, you’re not the only one out of the loop.”

“Does she know about…” Draco cleared his throat. “About us?”

Us.

The word reverberated through her like a rung bell.

“No.” She picked apart a curl, feeling guilty. She had her reasons for not telling Ginny, though. What could Ginny’s be for not telling Hermione? Didn’t she know Hermione would accept whoever Ginny loved?

“But Pansy does. And Theo,” Draco counted on his fingers.

“Do you think Blaise will figure it out?”

“If he hasn’t already,” he snorted, browsing a shelf of non-fiction. “Blaise is far more intelligent than people give him credit for. If I didn’t know he was hung up on Daphne I’d say he’s also seeing some bloody Gryffindor we don’t know about, though for all I know, maybe he is. I don’t know. I should get together with everyone, it’s just that I need time for you, and work — I have a million things coming up. But I’ve been neglectful.”

“Since they already know…” Hermione hedged. “Perhaps we could spend time with them. Together.”

He turned away from the bookshelf and pierced her with his grey gaze. Had she pushed him too far this time? First Al-Anon, now his friends. Both were good for him, in the long run. But businessmen lived and died by quarters; by gains, both real and unrealised. Maybe Draco wasn’t ready to forecast for the future.

But she wished he would be.

It was easy to imagine them all hanging out at Grimmauld, which was large enough for everyone to gather in one place. They’d chat, and play drinking games from their Hogwarts days, irritating Kreacher to no end. Except, that would mean Harry was there. And Harry, despite his insistence on forgiveness, probably wouldn’t take kindly to seeing Hermione with Draco, especially so soon after dumping Ron.

Her spirit sank. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

What was she supposed to tell them Draco was, anyway? Her casual fuck?

Ginny’s letter had said she could bring a date to Harry’s birthday, but she couldn’t imagine showing up with Draco if things were merely casual. She couldn’t risk her longest, strongest friendships like that. And if Draco wasn’t willing to have her around his friends, well, there was really no hope for getting out of the bubble he kept them in, was there?

“Daphne’s got an estate in Croatia,” Draco said slowly. “I haven’t been there in quite some time. Perhaps I could prevail upon her to host a get-together. Invite Blaise, Pansy, Theo. They’ll assume it’s Slytherins only.”

She slid her arms around his neck, brushing his new tattoo along the way. “But?”

“But I’ll bring you.” For a brief instant, Hermione felt his calm waver. “I’d do anything to see you happy.”

She wanted to ask him if he really wanted to; if that would make him happy, too, but she worried that might come off excessively needy.

Instead, she said, “Your happiness matters, too, Draco.”

“Oh, don’t think I wouldn’t be getting something out of taking you.” He dodged her implicit question, walking mischievous fingers up the contour of her waist. “Whenever we go to Daph’s, we play night croquet.”

“What’s night croquet?”

“I’ve already said too much,” Draco said coyly. He leaned closer so he could whisper, lips grazing the soft shell of her ear. “I can’t give all my secrets away.”

***

The rest of the trip passed in a blur. After six days of relaxing and swimming and eating decadent meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner, Hermione had never been more satiated in her life.

She and Draco couldn’t keep their hands off each other. He worked here and there, and took a few more mysterious meetings, but otherwise he was with her; napping with her on one of the oversized daybeds, fucking her in the sauna, playing with her curls while she read a book.

He’d asked about her work, and she found it easy to fill him in on the upcoming meeting with the centaurs. She explained that she’d been worried about going to the Forbidden Forest, but his magic had soothed her fears. Her nightmares were gone, and she felt ready to negotiate terms between the landowners and the herd.

“Aren’t they dangerous, centaurs?” Draco asked.

“They can be,” Hermione conceded. “But that’s why I’m reading up on their customs; learning what to do as well as what not to do. I even consulted Hagrid on this specific herd so I’d know what to expect. I’m fully prepared. The Ministry won’t know what hit them, and it’ll establish Blaise’s firm as the premier option for magical creature representation and resolution.”

“Blaise could take the lead, though, surely.”

She squinted over her shoulder at him. “I’m the Chief Outreach Officer. I might be a bit nervous, but this is what I signed up for. I can handle it.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” He said quickly, returning to playing with her hair. “But I’m sure it would be easier if you didn’t have to wade into unfamiliar, potentially frightening territory on your very first assignment. Alone.”

“That’s true. We’re still such a small outfit. But I’ll be careful.”

She was worried, and maybe he could feel it in her magic, but he didn’t bring it up again. Instead they spoke of other things — philosophy, art, food, history. She didn’t think about the centaurs, not even while they made their slow return to the shore.

“I don’t want to go back to real life,” Hermione protested after they docked. She tried her best to smile as they bid farewell to Baptiste and his crew, but she almost couldn’t bear to leave the Sea Serpent behind.

Draco took her hand and guided her down the ramp, where their things were being loaded into the town car. Their motorbikes, freshly washed and serviced, gleamed in the summer sun. “Neither do I, princess. But we’ll come back next summer. Maybe see more of the sights, hmm? Not that I minded the views this time.”

He winked at her, and heat scorched her cheeks. They’d been thoroughly occupied; so much so that their shopping excursion was the only time they’d ventured onto dry land. But that wasn’t the sentence that had her heart thumping.

He’d said they’d come back next summer. Surely he wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it.

“Are we still racing back?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said. “Think you can ride in that?”

She wore a strapless black mini dress with one of her new scarves tied beneath her chin, protecting her hair from the salty air. Her tanned legs seemed to go on forever in a pair of heels they’d picked up in Cannes. It was a chic look, and one meant to thoroughly disarm him, because more than anything, Hermione wanted to win.

They geared up; helmets first, then gloves. Hermione cast a few last-minute protective charms over them both. She trusted their combined magic to keep them safe, but a little extra cushioning never hurt anyone.

Heat rose off the road in a squiggly haze as they revved their engines. Draco shouted something that sounded like go and they were off, tyres squealing, motor purring.

Riding was everything. The whipping wind, the smoky-sweet scent of petrol, the way high-contrast scenery smudged to mere impressions of colour. It was a symphony for the senses that only she could play, here, as she wove through traffic, caught up in the thrilling balancing act of control versus wild abandon.

She caught a glimpse of Draco in her mirror and twisted the throttle, allowing more air and fuel into the engine before she accelerated, just like her dad taught her. It ended up being the difference maker in the race: Hermione beat a red light by a fraction of a second. He’d never had a chance, not really. But it’d come so easy that it made her suspicious.

Hermione reached the hangar a solid minute before he did. Instead of coasting inside and waiting for him by the jet, she looped back around and pulled off to the side of the rocky cliff overlooking the ocean. Swearing, she cut the engine and leapt off the bike. She unfastened her helmet strap, fingers fast and sure, and pulled it off her head. The frontmost strands of her hair were plastered to her forehead with sweat, and she tried unsuccessfully to peel them from her skin, too furious to put in more than a modicum of effort.

As Draco merged onto the shoulder, Hermione leaned up against the bike, her arms tightly crossed. He took his time parking. When he finally approached, helmet still secured to his head in defeat, she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Did you let me win?”

“Fuck no,” he growled, flicking up his visor. “What kind of fucking charms did you use?”

Convinced he wasn’t lying, a smile curved her lips. “Only the best ones. And I know my way around a bike.”

Draco stepped forward, and Hermione leaned even further away, taunting him as she reached behind herself to press her palms into the bike’s warm seat. He raised his hands and made them into a necklace around her throat. Her cunt clenched.

“You would’ve been so pretty with a collar.”

“Pity. Guess you’ll just have to make me come instead,” she shrugged slyly.

“Brat.” Draco didn’t let his hands drop. He swept his thumb along the hollow of her throat, chasing away a bead of sweat. “You want it now?”

“I’ll even let you come, too.”

It was as much of a concession as she could make, this high on victory. She wanted him inside her, fucking her on her bike on a secluded cliffside, to the soundtrack of the sea.

He relinquished her neck, and she almost wished she’d let him win.

Almost.

“Careful, unless you want a spanking.” Draco patted the seat. “Now be a good girl and get up here for me.”

Hermione obliged, hopping into the seat and widening her legs for him to stand between them.

“Visor down,” she reminded him eagerly.

He obeyed, then slid both hands up her thighs and under the taut mini dress, vanishing her knickers.

“I’m gonna make you scream.”

It was more of a long-held fantasy than she dared to admit, being at the mercy of a hot biker still wearing his helmet. A taste of danger, as Draco liked to put it. But even though he stroked her the way she liked, ground the heel of his palm into her clit the way he knew would make her come hard and fast for him, being unable to see his grey gaze felt somehow… Wrong, and not in a fun way.

Her lip began to tremble.

Hermione didn’t want some hot biker. She didn’t want anyone else but Draco. Her Draco, the one she’d marked with her magic. She couldn’t even see his tattoo — with his shirt buttoned up and the jet black helmet on, he could’ve been anyone.

A panic rose within her as pleasure bloomed in her abdomen, a jarring mix.

She was Draco’s. His. And he was hers. They had compatible magic, for Godric’s sake.

She should’ve asked for a collar and then made him hang the key from his white gold chain.

It was only a helmet. She knew he was there. But even that small barrier between them made the sex feel impersonal; disconnected and cold. The visor reflected her own face back at her, and something about that made it feel even more like she was all alone.

The last thing she wanted was to be alone in the arms of some faceless man who didn’t know her; didn’t care about her like Draco did. It didn’t matter that the fingers inside her felt good. It was the person attached to those fingers who mattered.

Hermione’s orgasm snuck up on her. Her mind wasn’t ready for it, even if her body was, and she couldn’t claw it back even if she’d had time to try. She shuddered, broke, and suddenly, she was full-on sobbing.

“Red! Red, red,” she cried.

“Shit.”

Draco yanked off his helmet with one hand, the buckle leaving a wide pink splotch under his chin, while LOVE stayed inside her. Her walls still fluttered around his fingers while tears tracked down her face in thick rivulets.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Draco whispered urgently. He rubbed her lower back, and she felt his fingers ease out of her. He set her dress back to rights, and then both his arms were around her, squeezing her tight. All she knew was his warm leather and cedar scent, and she kept crying, curled against him as much as she could be while balancing on the bike.

“I’m here,” he continued reassuring her. “I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe, sweet girl, you’re safe.”

She tried to talk, to beg him to promise her to never go anywhere, but it was too much.

“This happens sometimes. Physical release leads to emotional release. It’s okay, just let it out.”

He poured more tender words into her ear, as he always did; blowing cool air on her chest, kissing away her tears. At first it only made her sob harder, but eventually, her tears subsided, and she was left a hiccuping mess in his arms.

She pressed her nose to his chest, breathing as deep as she could, searching for his magic, his calm.

What the fuck?

Draco said it happened sometimes, but this had never, ever happened to her.

“This has — hic — happened to you?” She sniffled.

He tightened his hold on her. “No, but every good dom knows it can happen.”

“But it wasn’t a scene.”

She felt his sharp intake of breath, the long pause before he responded. “It wasn’t.”

“Then what’s wrong with — hic — me?”

“Nothing. You’re —” He sounded choked. “You’re perfect.”

“Maybe it was from earlier?” She kept her face hidden, burrowing deeper into the crook of his shoulder. She knew it wasn’t from earlier.

The truth lingered on the edges of her awareness, where it’d laid in wait for a week now, and she tried to shove it back.

Oh, gods. She was such an idiot.

“Yeah,” he agreed, clutching her tighter. “The adrenaline, maybe.”

One last tear dislodged itself from her eye and fell on Draco’s shirt. This wasn’t adrenaline. It couldn’t be blamed on the ride or the wind or the sharpness of her orgasm.

How was she supposed to tell him that she’d gone and fallen in love with him? Head over heels, deliciously, stupidly in love?

I love him, she thought, pressing her ear against his chest to hear the sound of his heart. I love Draco Malfoy.

She’d tried so hard not to let it happen. Forced herself to keep saying it was casual. Told herself it was impossible to fall so hard, so soon.

Hermione didn’t want to hide the truth. But more than that, she didn’t want to lose him. He’d started opening up to her, and she wanted him to see this thing through with his friends, and it was still possible that in time, he’d come to feel the same way about her, because he was the one who showed her she was worth it; that she deserved more.

And there had been signs, hadn’t there? The spoiling was part of the dynamic, sure, but it wasn’t spoiling to read up on ethics. Though, on the flip side, he’d panicked when he saw her with a baby.

But babies could come later; he’d only said Serpenti was no place for a child, not that he didn’t want children entirely. He’d stayed relatively mum about marriage, too, come to think of it.

Maybe the deck was stacked against them, but Hermione would take any odds, if it ended with winning Draco’s heart. But she would have to play her cards carefully; keep her feelings close to her chest. If she wanted any chance at all, she couldn’t speed-run this.

Reluctantly, she slid out of his arms, climbed back on the bike, and followed him back to the hangar. And when they boarded the jet and the flight attendant offered them the customary flutes of champagne, she downed hers in one gulp.

***

Hermione had maintained one consistent coping mechanism throughout her life, and that was throwing herself headfirst into her work. But for the first time ever, that was proving difficult.

Working with Blaise was a dream; that wasn’t the problem. The other witches, wizards and wix he’d hired were smart, driven, resourceful, and kind. What Hermione appreciated most was the fact that not one of them acted like she was famous, or better than anyone else there. Blaise insisted upon a flat organisational structure, where everyone was an expert at what they did, and had an equal hand in the day-to-day operations.

The work was wonderful. Even though her project with the centaurs evaporated overnight when a deal was struck out of nowhere that paid the landowners off — and made the Ministry furious, which was a bonus — she engaged in planning plenty of future fieldwork, both at home and abroad.

The real problem was that Draco wanted more of her time, and she was finding it impossible to deny him.

Lunch in Florence?

I’ve a meeting in Vancouver. Dinner after?

Buying an island in Fiji. Let’s take a few days and make sure it’s to your liking.

Ever since she’d used her safeword, Draco had been extra gentle with her, to the point of caution. On the yacht, they’d dipped their toes into shibari — she’d particularly enjoyed having her wrists cuffed to her thighs while he fucked her from behind — and while he’d checked in with her along the way since it was so new, that was nothing compared to how much he checked in with her now. Sometimes he paused mid-stroke, dick twitching inside her, and she’d dig her nails into his back to urge him on.

“You won’t hurt me,” she’d said, knowing full well that it was only half-true. The longer this went on, the more she wondered how she could ever move past him. She loved him, with her whole heart, but the possibility of confessing her feelings and having it all fall apart was too much to even contemplate.

Something about the way they came together now was more fragile. Deep down, Hermione worried that one of them would break. She suspected Draco worried, too, because invitations kept piling up, more deep green ink dashed across their two-way parchment. There was no way he was keeping up with Serpenti if he was seeing her this much, but she supposed that was his problem, not hers.

She accepted every summons; wore her most complicated lingerie under her beautiful new dresses just so he would have to touch her longer and she could sink into the hungry grasp of his hands and the vital deftness of his fingers.

When she asked Blaise for permission to skive off early, or take a long lunch, or use one of her days off with hardly any notice, she felt horribly guilty. But he barely looked up from this mountain of paperwork. He simply waved her on.

“It’s no trouble, Hermione.”

Finally, after she asked for the rest of the day off, a Friday, to go on another date with Draco — who insisted that their destination remain a surprise until he came over that evening — she confronted him.

“Isn’t this terribly inconvenient?”

“Hmm?” Blaise’s tie hung loosely around his neck. It was sweltering in their beautiful new offices.

“I said,” Hermione placed her palms on his desk and leaned forward, garnering his attention at last. “Isn’t it inconvenient for you that I’ve been asking for so much time off?”

“It’s August,” he shrugged. “Plenty of people take time off in August.”

“Not this much time. I looked at the contract,” she heaved a copy onto the desk, scattering a pile of documents awaiting his signature. “I’ve already burned through half my allotted hours and I’ve only been here, what, a month?”

It had been a mad month. She’d hardly seen her friends, using her new job as an excuse. It was why she hadn’t brought up the subject of the potential Slytherin get-together again — Hermione was just as bad as Draco when it came to her work ethic.

Blaise’s gaze flicked to the contract and then back to her. “Look, Hermione. You’re a special case. I need you to make this whole thing work. Do you really want me to be less lenient with you?”

She chewed her lip. “I suppose not.”

“Then what are you doing in my office? We’ve got a massive backlog of requests to get through. Creatures that have been ignored, abused, or near-eradicated by the Ministry’s decades of self-centred actions are suffering, and each minute is precious. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“I did.”

“Quite,” Blaise said irritably. “I assumed my Chief Outreach Officer was at least doing some outreach on these little sojourns. Schmooze, use your fame for good. And where you’re not well-known, get in touch with the magical embassies and creature communities. Just because this thing with the centaurs was handled by a third party doesn’t mean someone’s going to swoop in and save the day every time.”

Chastened, Hermione sunk down into a convenient chair.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that this is how I’ve started, and I know it looks bad, but it isn’t how I intend to go on.”

He sighed. “It’s new. For all of us. I’m trying to be understanding.”

She eyed him curiously. Had Draco said something to him about their relationship? They were supposed to tell everyone together. Of course, they hadn’t revisited that conversation since they left the French Riviera.

“I really want this, Blaise. I’ll take this trip and then that’ll be it for a while. Except, oh —” She winced. “Harry’s birthday party at the end of the month. It’s Tahiti. We’ve had to move it a few times because everyone’s schedules are crazy but we’re doing this photo shoot for the Prophet, sort of a where-are-they-now, and if we push to September it interferes with the Hogwarts schedule, which would mean Hagrid couldn’t come, and he’s really looking forward to it, and, well.” Hermione sighed, realising she was spilling her guts about something her colleague really didn’t need all the details about.

“Can’t have anyone miss Tahiti,” Blaise said in a mocking tone. He gave a small smile all the same.

She shrugged and smiled back. No one could argue with a trip to Tahiti. That was one of the main reasons Ginny had chosen it, besides the fact that it was remote and the exchange rate was good. Hermione wasn’t sure if there were many magical creatures there, and it occurred to her that she should research her destinations to see if there was any good that could come out of her travels.

With her time off squared away, she was back to thinking about the centaurs. It’d been so strange to prepare for weeks, burning the midnight oil to get a better handle on centaur culture, and miraculously, without ever having to step foot into the Forbidden Forest, the case was settled. It wasn’t like she’d wanted to go into the forest, but she hadn’t been afraid of it anymore, and Hermione had been looking forward to finally helping out in the field, something she hadn’t been able to do yet in her first month.

And she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t wanted to stick it to Robards a little, too, especially after his rude words to her after her farewell party.

“Who was the third party that intervened on our behalf?” She asked Blaise.

“Doesn’t matter. It won’t happen again.”

“Why?”

“They were overstepping. No experience in creature relations whatsoever; negative relations, really, if we’re operating based on historical norms. But it worked out for the best. The wizards agreed to relocate in exchange for the mineral rights to the new area,” He paused, switching topics as smoothly as a practised politician. There was more than one reason the Ministry disliked Blaise Zabini. He was a threat to their systematic oppression, yes, but he was so smart and well-connected that working with him anyway was a powerful temptation, even for Robards. Blaise turned him down time and time again, in the name of restorative justice. “Where are you off to this time?”

“I’m not sure. My, um, date didn’t say. He told me to pack for mild weather, and a classy party, and that’s it.”

“Sounds lovely. I have a social engagement this weekend myself. In Groznjan. We Italians call it Grisignana. Little mediaeval jewel in Croatia.”

“Croatia?” Hermione shook her head, not trusting that she heard him correctly.

“I have an old friend with an estate there.”

“Daphne Greengrass,” she blurted out.

Blaise cocked his head to the side. “The very same.”

A ridiculous grin broke out across her face, and she didn’t bother to try to hide it. Surely this was Draco’s surprise. He felt ready to introduce her to his friends. He wanted to spend time with her and them, together.

A thrilling kind of panic raced through her. Gods, she needed to wash her hair, and paint her nails, and figure out the perfect thing to wear. She had so much to do, and it was already noon.

“Sorry, um, I need to get back to my desk. I just realised I really need to finish that troll proposal before I leave. Wouldn’t want to delay things.”

Blaise nodded approvingly. “Thank you. I won’t be able to turn it around until Tuesday, though,” he said, dipping his quill in the ink pot. As she left she heard him chuckle to himself. “Should be quite the party.”

***

Crookshanks sat in the middle of Hermione’s closet, tail swishing as she sorted through her overflowing closet. Before she’d only wanted to move flats, but at the rate she was accumulating things, it would soon be a necessity.

“What am I going to wear?” She asked her cat. “Something he bought for me, obviously.”

She grasped at hangers, pulling out outfit after outfit, discarding them haphazardly on a round tufted ottoman. Nothing seemed right.

With a sigh, Hermione flopped down next to Crooks. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

The ancient orange beast meowed and headbutted her hand for pets.

A mad thought came to her. “But do you know who would have an idea?”

Moments later, Pansy emerged from Hermione’s Floo and slipped out of her red-bottomed heels. She wore her usual Friday uniform: an oxblood mini dress, sheer stockings, and a fresh manicure. Without so much as a hello, she marched to Hermione’s closet and assessed the damage. “And you’re saying you did this, not the cat?”

“Crookshanks would never.”

“I love cats, don’t get me wrong,” Pansy said, leaning down to rub behind Crooks’s ears. He purred appreciatively in response. “But you have to admit, they’re crafty. And their claws are terrible for silks.” She eyed a pile of shopping bags in the corner, yet to be unpacked. “Salazar, look at all this. Draco must’ve spent a hundred thousand Galleons on you in Cannes, easy.”

Hermione felt her blush bloom across her cheeks. “He bought me a motorbike, too. A Ducati.”

“Never heard of it,” Pansy said primly. “Are you sure you’re against baby trapping him?”

“Definitely. Actually, now that you mention it, we found a baby in one of the ateliers — it’s a long story, but we found his parents — and when Draco saw me hold him, he basically panicked,” Hermione sighed, dropping her head to her hands. “Not basically. He panicked. Full stop.”

Pansy’s mouth twisted to one side in disappointment. “Sorry, Hermione. I know you really want children.”

“Does it have to be a dealbreaker?” Hermione asked softly. “I think he’ll come around on the whole marriage thing. It’s not like I’m not asking him to marry me tomorrow. Like I said, I’m fairly sure he’s introducing me to everyone this weekend. That’s huge, isn’t it?”

“For Draco? He might as well have changed his stars. It’s massive.”

Hermione’s heart beat double time.

“But?”

“But you’ll regret it if you don’t have the family you wanted. There’s a lot I like about you — oh, don’t look at me like that — and one thing I admire is that you always seem to know what you want. Maybe you don’t always know how to go about getting it, and you’re about as unsubtle as a boggart so everyone knows exactly what you’re trying to get at even when you think you’re being cunning, but you go for it.” Pansy paused, then sighed. “You might think you can tamp down that part of yourself to make it work with Draco, but I suspect that you both know you can’t, and eventually, you’ll leave him for someone who can give you more than bespoke fashion and an island or two.”

Hermione scoffed in disbelief. Pansy had read her like one of her erotic novels. She understood her almost as well as Ginny did. And without running the thought past quality inspection in her brain, she said, “Gods, Ginny’s really rubbing off on you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, shit.” Hermione clapped her hand over her big mouth, then removed it, gesturing to Pansy. “Sorry, but you didn’t exactly make it difficult to figure out. I got a letter from Ginny while we were on the Sea Serpent, and you know she rarely writes. That’s probably the reason I didn’t uncover it earlier. But her handwriting matched the handwriting on that second press release you gave me.”

“Salazar,” Pansy swore under her breath.

“There were other things, too, but that’s when it clicked for me. What I don’t understand is, I know she doesn’t want anyone to know, but why not me? I adore you both,” Hermione said emphatically. “I’m beyond thrilled my best friend found someone like you. I just wish I’d known about it.”

Pansy kept her face blank, rolling her shoulders back and smoothing her satin dress.

“Do you have any wine?”

A short while later, standing in the kitchen over a bottle of Merlot and a slapdash charcuterie mostly consisting of a block of cheddar, gorgonzola, and a handful of mini gherkins, Pansy finally told Hermione everything. How she’d seen Ginny out at a club, dancing under the spotlights in a slinky dress, and before she knew who Ginny was, Pansy got her in her bed.

Once they’d realised who they were and what they’d done, Ginny tried to bow out, and Pansy let her go. She could live with just the night, or so she told herself. But it must’ve been just as electric for Ginny, because not even a week passed before Ginny owled asking if they could do it again.

“Looking back, we both thought it was just sex. She wasn’t sure if she was into witches, and I made it my life’s mission to convince her that she didn’t need to be into witches, she just needed to be into me. We didn’t worry about who to tell or not because obviously we weren’t together, we were just, you know, shagging. A lot. And then she started coming over every Saturday night, and then we were going off on long weekends and… I thought eventually she’d be ready to say, ‘This is who I am,’ to her family and friends, and my friends, but every time I thought she’d be ready, and we talked about it, there’d be some hold up. Work, or all this stuff with your ex. And it was always valid, so I never pressed. But now you’ve been with Draco, what, not even the whole summer, and he’s taking you to Daphne’s?”

Hermione swallowed her last bite of cheese and looked down at her feet. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Now that I’m saying it aloud, maybe it’s just not as serious as I thought,” Pansy snorted, though it was a half-hearted attempt at self-preservation. “I mean, I told her I love her. She said it back. So you would think that’s pretty serious.”

“It sounds serious to me. I haven’t told Draco I love him. Actually, I accidentally told Ron I was maybe in love with Draco before I realised exactly what I was saying, but that's neither here nor there. My point is that there’s no perfect signifier for seriousness. Have you asked her what she wants? If she sees a future with you?”

“She says she does. But when I ask her what she wants it always matches up a little too perfectly with what I want, you know what I mean? Like if I said I wanted to adopt a grindylow in the future she’d say the same thing, even if I know she hates grindylows.”

“Just so you know,” Hermione said, tipping her glass towards Pansy scoldingly. “You can’t adopt grindylows. It’s against the law practically everywhere, and even if it was legal it would be ill-advised. They’re water demons. They have rights like all other creatures, and we should respect that, but they are demons.”

“Anything else, Professor Swot?”

“No, I’m done.”

In apology, Hermione refilled Pansy’s wine glass.

Pansy tapped her stiletto-shaped nails on the kitchen worktop and sighed. “The whole reason I considered this American outpost thing with Blaise was to see if she might come to New York with me. I don’t have anything keeping me here but her. I know she doesn’t want to leave her family, but —”

“But the Weasleys have been in a grief spiral for years,” Hermione finished for her. “Molly liked me until I talked Ron into moving out of the Burrow. I wanted us to be our own family. Still connected to my parents and his, but our own unit. Ginny probably knows that if she leaves with you, Molly will view it as the ultimate betrayal. She’s the only daughter. Imagine the guilt.”

“She performs all the emotional labour,” Pansy agreed. “And then she works at the joke shop, too, when what she truly wants is to branch out with her inventions; have her own business. New York would be perfect for that. Americans love capitalism and they love entertainment even more.”

“They’ve certainly got the money to spend. I wish I had more of a fundraising background. It would make my job a lot easier. Blaise is such a natural.”

“It’s easier if you’re cut from the same cloth. You weren’t raised in wealthy Pureblood circles, so it’ll be more difficult for you at first. You could ask Draco for pointers.”

Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste. “I don’t want him to feel like I’m using him. He’s already spoiling me rotten. I mean, the clothes alone.”

“Please, rub it in more. I’d do terrible things for some of those handbags. I have money but not that kind of money.”

“Sorry, sorry. I told him that at a certain point excess wealth tips from luxurious and fun into gauche and obnoxiously out of touch. I think he’s getting it?”

Pansy arched one eyebrow, considering. “He's shown himself to be capable of growth. I’m serious though, you should ask him to leverage his connections. I know you want to work directly with the creatures, but you should consider where the real value lies in your hire. Whether you like it or not, your name carries weight, even abroad.”

Hermione mulled it over. She hadn’t lifted a finger with the centaur negotiations, and yet it was settled quite efficiently without her. Maybe swaying influential locals, or hiring creature-specific experts from within was the better move.

“It’s true,” she admitted.

If she really thought about it, Blaise had said that throwing her name around had given him the clout he needed to obtain financing… And if she leaned into that, perhaps she could rehab Draco’s image, too. Maybe starting with a photo in The Daily Prophet with a group of Gryffindors celebrating the one and only Harry Potter.

“There’s no reason that you can’t fly around on Draco’s swanky private jet and raise money at galas and banquets while still engaging in field work once in a while. It’s more than you got to do under Robards.”

“Gods. You might be right.”

“Might?” Pansy swept back a few dark strands of hair, preening. “So you love him, but you haven’t told him?”

“What am I supposed to say?” Hermione shot back, defensive. “He wants it to be casual.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pansy said, tone dripping with sarcasm. “This whole thing screams casual. He bought you a new wardrobe, a luxury motorbike, and regularly ignores his multibillion dollar business to frolic about with you all over the world. And taking you to Daphne’s? Meeting his friends is as good as meeting his family.”

Hermione swirled her wine, watching it form a miniature whirlpool inside the glass. “He never talks about his mother. Says she ran off after his father passed.”

“Well, there’s why he can’t commit. If he doesn’t commit, then when you end things, you can’t really have left him.”

“But I’m not planning on ending things. I don’t want to, anyway,” Hermione said, pleading her case.

“You will, though, if he doesn’t want children,” Pansy insisted, then gentled her voice. “It’s not as if I like being right about this.”

“I know.” Hermione folded her arms and hunched over the worktop, burying her face in them. “But don’t you think, if I told him I loved him, and gave him time, he’d come around?”

Pansy placed a comforting palm between Hermione’s shoulder blades. “You’ll always wonder if he did it because he really wanted to, or because he just wasn’t prepared to lose you, and so he hid his unhappiness. It’s the same thing with Ginny: If I force her hand and say I’ll move with or without her, and she comes, I’ll always wonder.”

“Why don’t you ask her to come to Daphne’s? Maybe that’s less high-stakes?”

“I don’t know,” Pansy hesitated.

“You could tell her I’ll be there.”

“Shouldn’t you tell her that?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to tell her I’ll be there with Draco. We could sort of, I don’t know, get it all out in the open once we see each other.”

Pansy huffed, shifting on her feet. “It could work, but won’t she be upset that you kept this from her? I’ve seen her angry. It’s not something I’m keen to see again.”

Hermione had been on the receiving end of Ginny’s anger once or twice herself, but that had been when they were teenagers. It was hard to even remember what their previous tiffs had been about.

“Maybe, but Ginny would be happy to see me happy, I think. And she can’t really be upset when she hasn’t said a word to me about you,” Hermione shrugged. “And she loves you, and Theo, so it shouldn’t be a hard sell to meet more reformed Slytherins. Harry’s away on some Auror thing again, so odds are he won’t be there, which is fortunate for me, I suppose, since I don’t want him to know about Draco and me yet, but Harry’s attendance would’ve probably made it an easier yes for Gin.”

“Eventually everyone will know, if you want a future with him,” Pansy said wisely, finishing her wine.

“Same for you two.”

“Indeed.” Pansy pursed her lips, deep in thought. “I still think you two should speak about this directly.”

Hermione drank the last of her wine. She took Pansy’s glass and set it with hers, cast a washing charm, then turned back to Pansy. “Ginny and I don’t really talk like that. I mean, we’ve told each other we can talk to each other about the big important stuff, but mostly, we watch telly and take a break from all the talking and emotional management we do in every other aspect of our lives. That’s why we’re best friends. We just get one another like that.”

That was true, although Hermione had tried to tell Ginny about Draco at the farmers market before being interrupted. That felt like an eternity ago now.

“I see it,” Pansy nodded. “She’s… Safe. Like I can have a shit day and instead of unloading it on her like I would with anyone else, I can just lay my head in her lap and all the stress melts away. I never have to say a word.”

“That’s lovely, Pansy. I’m so happy you’ve found each other. Genuinely. I hope I get to dance at your wedding someday.”

She imagined Draco twirling her across the dance floor, whispering in her ear that they’d be next; his eyes tracking the bouquet as she caught it and turned to him with a broad smile, their friends cheering. Since they’d traded magic, she’d ceased trying to stop herself from picturing what their future might look like, and started hoping with all her heart that they had one. She didn’t care that they’d established intimacy faster than any reasonable people would ever dream of doing. She loved him, and that was that.

“Yes, well, if you ever tell anyone I said something that soft, I’ll deny it. Draco taught me to Occlude, and I could probably do it well enough to bypass a dose of Veritaserum. So.” Pansy tossed her hair and looked over her shoulder at the Floo. “Listen, you could show up in anything from your closet and wow everyone in attendance, but I like the heeled sandals; the white ones, with any of the linen dresses. Bring the cashmere cardigan in case it gets chilly. Oh, and wear some jewellery he got you, but not more than three pieces. More than three and you look flashy.”

“Hair?” Hermione inquired. “Makeup?”

“I recommend doing both.”

“Ha.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Pansy chided. “I’ll be there in case of disaster.”

Hermione flicked her eyes to Pansy’s. “And Gin?”

“We’ll see.”

***

They took the jet, but not the bikes. Hermione didn’t mind Apparating directly from the hangar, especially in her delicate linen dress. Pansy had been right. The ecru linen paired nicely with the white sandals. Draco had unknowingly dressed to match her in an all-white walking suit.

“The lady of the house insisted I give you the grand tour before the party begins,” Draco said as they landed neatly before a massive wrought-iron gate engraved with gilt runes. Shimmering wards obfuscated whatever lay within. The tell-tale hum of magic seemed to emanate from the earth itself.

Whatever magic protected this place, it was old.

Draco spoke the password (something Italian, she thought) and the gate swung open, taking Hermione’s breath away as it revealed its secret.

Daphne Greengrass’s estate sat on a hundred acres in the beautiful Croatian countryside. This late in the summer, fruit hung heavy from the fig trees that lined their path, and the air smelled fresh and sweet. The burgeoning sunset lent everything a golden glow, and Hermione felt as if she were walking into an impressionist painting.

The main home, a masterpiece of a stone mansion covered in ivy, looked out over an apple orchard, a giant fountain full of lily pads, and a hedge maze. Marble sculptures lined a wide lawn set up for a game of croquet. Everything was green and lush, as far as the eye could see.

Behind the main home were the stables, situated in a well-tended pasture. Daphne had been labelled a “horse girl” at school, and it made Hermione smile to think she’d been able to further her love of the noble creatures after everything she’d been through with the Carrows. Astoria and Luna had alluded to Hermione that Amycus made an offer for Daphne the summer before the war broke out, which Castor Greengrass had soundly rejected, and thus the Carrows tormented poor Daphne far more than the other older students.

She didn’t return for Eighth Year.

Perhaps the most impressive buildings on the estate were a trio of greenhouses. Everything within looked healthy and hale. Daphne seemed to favour a mix of domestic and difficult-to-care-for specimens, as well as an abundance of florals.

“I can see why Neville tried to court Daphne,” Hermione whispered to Draco conspiratorially.

“Everyone wanted to court Daphne. Out of all of us, she’s the most sensible. And she bakes.”

She jostled his elbow with hers. “Blaise is sensible.”

Draco jabbed her back. “Trying to play matchmaker this weekend?”

“I – actually, we — owe him one. He’s been the one giving me time off to see you, remember?”

“How could I forget?”

As they made their way back to the main house, Hermione looked at Draco out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t seem nervous at all, and when he took her hand to escort her up the stone steps to a set of dark green double doors, she told him as much.

“That’s because I’m not nervous. Most of them already adore you. Daphne’s a tough nut to crack, but give her time. She’ll warm up.”

At that moment, the doors swung open, and a full-figured witch in a navy wrap dress and pearls stepped out.

Daphne Greengrass was a portrait of magical old money. Her pin-straight honey-blond hair, three shades lighter than her sister’s, fell to her waist like a silky curtain. She had twinkly eyes and a wide smile, rather like a forest sprite.

Hermione was entirely unprepared for her to be a hugger.

“Hermione Granger!” Daphne squealed as she crushed Hermione to her soft curves. “What an unexpected surprise!”

Draco shifted awkwardly. “Uh, I told her you knew she was coming.”

Hermione looked at Draco over Daphne’s shoulder and mouthed: Tough nut to crack?

He shrugged helplessly, mouthing back: She’s never hugged me in my life.

Daphne huffed, checking to see if she’d gotten any makeup on Hermione’s blouse. “Must you ruin everything, Draco? I was going to ask her why she was here, ply her with drinks, and make her tell me how you two got together — since you never tell me anything.”

“Don’t pout,” Draco said, greeting her with air kisses to both cheeks. “You look lovely, Daph.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s not a very interesting story anyway,” Hermione offered. It was a lie, of course; it was a very interesting story. A story she definitely wouldn’t be telling the Prophet if she decided to take Draco to Harry’s party.

She steeled herself. One party at a time.

“Now I’m even more intrigued. Sounds like code for not for polite company, and I know we didn’t know each other well at Hogwarts, Hermione, but I assure you, despite appearances to the contrary, I am not polite company. Though I wouldn’t be much of a hostess if I didn’t invite you in. Please, follow me.”

Daphne led them into a beautiful foyer with a black and white chequerboard floor, resplendent with hanging pots of ferns and floating candles. The warm, exotic scents of vanilla and cinnamon filled the air.

“Are we the first to arrive?” Draco asked.

She nodded. “We’ll spend the first part of the evening on the terrace, where we’ll have dinner, and then we’ll gather on the lawn for a game of night croquet.”

A charmed plate of canapes appeared at Hermione’s side, and she helped herself to a blini topped with caviar. “Oh yes, Draco mentioned night croquet. Though he hasn’t told me how to play.”

“Same as regular croquet,” Daphne chirped. “With a few exceptions. Once you take a wicket, you can’t use Lumos. Evens the playing field a bit. And if you go out of bounds, you have to take a shot. Usually ends in utter disaster. Last time we played Adrian got piss drunk and made out with Milly, and Gemma got all jealous, and, well, it doesn’t really matter. It’s a much smaller party tonight. And I won’t let Parks mix the drinks.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “Thank the gods for that.”

Eager to add to the conversation, Hermione jumped in with a Pansy story of her own. “Pansy drank me under the table a few weeks ago. I was telling her things I’d never tell anyone else —”

Pansy’s smooth alto cut in from behind the group. “To be fair, they were rather strong drinks.”

Hermione whirled around to see Pansy, framed in the doorway with an open bottle of wine dangling from her right hand. She wore a rumpled black mesh dress, and her eyeliner was a bit smudged on one side. She held her head high as she looked at Hermione, as if daring her to say something about her lack of date.

Daphne didn’t even blink, taking Pansy by the elbow. “Darling, did I tell you I remodelled the powder room? You really must see it. I sourced the wallpaper from Sweden.” She paused and looked at Hermione meaningfully. “It’s handpainted.”

Draco took an apologetic step backward. “It’d be wasted on me, I’m afraid. I’ll man the door.”

After a glance at Draco, Hermione followed Daphne and Pansy up a grand staircase, passing stained glass windows and more potted ferns. They were completely silent until Daphne ushered them all into the (huge and beautifully wallpapered) powder room and closed the door.

Pansy, eyes downcast, slid down the wall and crumpled on the tile floor. Daphne knelt at her feet and took her hands in hers. Unsure of what her role was, Hermione leaned against the porcelain washbasin, trying to show the proper amount of concern. Worried, to be sure, but not so worried that Pansy shut down.

“We broke up,” Pansy said in a clipped tone.

Daphne stroked Pansy’s fingers. “I’m so sorry, darling. That’s awful.”

Pansy looked away and sniffled. “Yes, well. I knew it would end eventually.”

“What did she say?” Hermione asked. “Did she give you a reason?”

“She came over and I told her that I wanted her to come with me this weekend. I was seeing Ginny Weasley, by the way,” Pansy clarified, for Daphne’s sake. “I pitched it to her as an intimate gathering of open-minded Slytherins, and that it might be a good first step to being out. Together. I told her Theo would be here, and you, Hermione…”

Both Pansy and Daphne looked at Hermione, who fidgeted uncomfortably under their assessing gazes, before Pansy continued.

“And she asked me why you would be here, and I didn’t want to lie. I told her you would be here with Draco.”

Hermione felt her knees wobble and braced herself against the washbasin. “What?”

Shit. Shit shit shit.

“I didn’t want to lie,” Pansy repeated miserably.

“Of course not,” Daphne soothed, motioning for Hermione to hand her a tissue from a gilded box. Hermione scrambled to oblige.

“So stupid. I’m so stupid.”

Hermione came down to crouch beside Daphne and pressed the tissue into Pansy’s palm. “You’re not stupid.”

Pansy dabbed at her eyes gingerly, years of private etiquette classes preventing her from dissolving into hysterics. “She didn’t believe me, not at first. Then she started interrogating me. How long had I known, and if I approved, and I’m such a love-drunk idiot that I told her the truth, that I’ve known for quite some time now… Salazar, why am I telling you all of this when I can show you?” She patted her dress for her wand and put it to her temple, withdrawing a silvery wisp of memory.

“Hold that thought,” Daphne said, and summoned a worn but functional pensieve.

Pansy poured her memory in, and Daphne and Hermione exchanged a solemn look, silently agreeing to go in together.

The memory was fresh, so vivid it bordered on harsh.

Ginny, still wearing her work clothes, stood in an unfamiliar parlour decorated in shades of forest green. Pansy’s flat. Her flame-red hair crackled with agitated magic, rebelling against her headband, and her expression was a mix of fury and disbelief.

“Hermione would never do that,” Ginny fumed. “She would never be with Malfoy.”

“Draco’s not who he used to be, love. None of us are.”

“Don’t, don’t — I know that’s the line she gave when she and Harry saved him from Azkaban, and I agreed he didn't quite deserve it, but come on.” Ginny stepped forward as Pansy took a halting step backward. “He watched her get tortured. Or didn’t he tell you? Maybe he kept that little piece of information from you.”

“He told me,” Pansy murmured. “And he’s more ashamed than you could ever imagine.”

“You’re right, I can’t imagine.”

Hermione’s heart caught in her throat as Pansy shifted uncomfortably in the memory. “Can’t you, though? Don’t you love someone with her fair share of regrets?”

“I—” Ginny faltered. Her hair wilted as some of the magic drained from the air.

“He’s a good man. You don’t know the half of it.”

Ginny's magic flared back to life, pulsating with anger. “A good man? Oh yes, he’s such a good man. A good man who stood by while my brother gambled everything away. A good man who tricked my best friend into staying the night with him, and did who knows what to her. Ron says she told him nothing happened, but how am I supposed to believe her when now you tell me that she’s seeing him? He might still be manipulating her!”

“It’s not like that. I swear it.”

“How can you think—” Ginny pulled away sharply as Pansy reached for her. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me! I… I knew this wouldn’t work. I should never have thought…”

“Don’t say that, love, please," Pansy begged. "What Hermione and Draco do has no bearing on us.”

Hermione had never seen Pansy beg. She’d also never seen Ginny so upset. It felt wrong, unnatural, watching this; like looking into a funhouse mirror.

Ginny’s expression was raw, even as she tried to modulate her voice. “Gryffindors — any sort of good, upstanding wix — cut these kinds of people out from our lives. We don’t wait; we excise them like tumours. We don’t let them cannibalise our friends.”

“Draco —”

“Malfoy isn’t some Slytherin who wasn’t really involved with the war, I don’t care what anyone says. You and I, we dealt with the Carrows in our own way, and I know you just wanted things to end at the battle. But Malfoy went to the Astronomy Tower to kill Dumbledore. He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He took the Mark and last I heard, he still has it. You can’t just wave that away. Fuck’s sake, you know Hermione is my best friend, and you didn’t say anything to me. I don’t care if she asked you not to tell me. If you really loved me you would’ve told me as soon as you knew, because if this was really such a good thing and she was so happy, she would’ve just told me. I know she would’ve,” Ginny finished, gulping down air as tears spilled onto her freckled cheeks.

“I do love you, Ginny. I swear it,” Pansy cried, reaching for her again. This time Ginny allowed it, tucking her face into Pansy’s shoulder. But only a few seconds ticked by before she pushed Pansy away. Pansy grabbed for her hand and traced Ginny’s knuckles with desperate urgency. “All I want is to be with you. I want the whole world to know that I’m yours. And I’m sorry if I haven’t paid enough penance to earn it, or I’m moving too fast for you; and obviously I wish I‘d said something about all this earlier but… I’m asking you, please, come with me tonight. Meet my friends. Talk to Hermione. I’ll tell Draco to give you space.”

Ginny’s mouth collapsed into a firm line. “I don’t think I can.”

“Ginny. Trust me, please.”

“I can’t do that, either.” She slid her hand from Pansy’s grasp. “I think… I think this is over.”

Deep inside the memory, Hermione sensed Pansy’s mood shift. An angry mix of hurt and betrayal tinged the edges of the world with darkness.

“Fine. I should’ve known, I suppose. I was always good enough to shag, good enough to be a convenient escape from your mum and your brothers, but never good enough to be seen with. Never good enough to really love.”

“Pansy don’t do that. Stop,” Ginny said, lip trembling.

Hermione held her breath. Come on, Gin, she thought. You love her. Tell her you love her.

Pansy looked away, and in a manner befitting only the creme de la creme of wizarding aristocracy, she stuck her nose in the air. “Like you said, this is over. Your opinion has no bearing on me anymore. Get out, if you please.”

“Pansy —”

“I said get out!” Pansy screamed, and the memory ended there, in a haze of black smoke.

Daphne and Hermione withdrew from the pensieve with shuddering breaths.

“Gods, Pansy, this is all my fault,” Hermione said, floundering and teary-eyed.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Pansy snorted, somewhat recovered from her emotional outburst. Occluding. “She was never going to come around. She just used your relationship as an excuse.”

Daphne, wearing a pinched expression, said nothing.

“She came around on Theo,” Hermione persisted. “And you know how Ginny feels about Harry, so that’s saying a lot. She was just surprised, that’s all. I’ll go and talk to her, and —”

Like a newborn thestral getting its legs under itself, Pansy awkwardly rose from the floor. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Guilt swarmed Hermione, and she twisted her fingers in a tight grip. This was her fault, no matter what Pansy said. She’d hidden Ron’s addiction, which was bad enough, but she’d done worse by leaving them out of her recent happiness. If she’d only had the guts to talk to Ginny after things became more serious, or, bloody hell, even before, and confided in her as her relationship with Draco blossomed… Ginny might have disapproved at first, but then maybe she might’ve told Hermione about Pansy, and they wouldn’t be in this mess.

Gods, it was such a mess. And for what?

Hermione had promised herself she’d stop keeping things from her friends and family. She hadn’t meant to go back on that promise, it had just been easier to do what she always did and keep things to herself until some external problem forced her hand. But now her inaction had hurt both Ginny and Pansy, and she was desperate to atone. More than that, she wanted to fix this.

“Let me talk to her,” she cajoled. “I’ll go right now.”

“If you care for me at all,” Pansy began icily. “Do not dissect my former relationship with my ex. Not tonight; not ever. If you want to talk to her about you and Draco, that’s your business, but now’s not the time. No one wants to hear about someone’s happy relationship fresh off a break up. And now she knows you’ve been lying to her.”

“I haven’t been lying,” Hermione said, feeling the weight of Pansy’s disapproval like an anchor. “I’ve been avoidant. I’m sure she’ll understand once I explain.”

Pansy didn’t look at her.

“Hermione,” Daphne said. Her tone was gentle yet firm. “Two doors down you’ll find my study. Fresh parchment, quill and ink are all on the desk. Rather than ambushing your friend at the dinner hour, I suggest you compose a letter, and if you simply can’t wait, post it with my owl.”

Seeing the sense in it, Hermione nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Daphne.”

Daphne ushered Pansy out of the powder room, then looked back at Hermione, who grimaced. It hadn’t been a great reintroduction. Gone was the warm hostess who greeted Hermione with open arms, and in her place was a witch as intimidating as Morgana herself.

“Draco has been looking forward to introducing you to all of us for some weeks now.” Daphne said, as if this information was neither here nor there. “He writes to me more. He’s Occluding less. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more nervous than he is tonight.”

“He’s nervous?”

“We’ve spent a lot of time together. He was supposed to marry my sister, you know. He’s tapping into his magic, but I know his tells.” She paused, a hard glint in her eye. “If you hurt him, I won’t Avada you, but you’ll wish I had.”

“I won’t. I love him,” Hermione confessed. Gods, she was telling everyone but the man himself.

“I know,” Daphne said, eyeing Hermione’s tattoo. “I can sense family magic. Compatible magic, too? That’s something.” She sighed and adjusted the shoulders of her dress. “I need to see to my other guests. Leave Parks to me. And don’t ruin tonight for Draco, okay? That means don't spend the evening self-flagellating. Write to your friend, and then try to have a good time. I saw how much they care for each other; they’ll sort it out.”

Hermione couldn’t get to Daphne’s study fast enough.

Ginny,

I’m so sorry you have an idiot like me for a best friend, that is, if you still consider me to be your best friend. I know you must be furious with me. I would be, too, if I were you.

I meant to tell you about Draco and me before tonight. I could give you a million excuses and none of them would be worth your time but suffice it to say I deeply regret not sharing everything with you. I promised to be more open with you and I let you down.

And it was my stupid idea for Pansy to ask you to come to the Slytherin party tonight. She and I have become rather close, and I guessed you two were together, and I got it in my head that since Draco and I are here it would be lovely if you and Pansy were, too. I thought if you became reacquainted with him and both our secrets were out in the open… I see now how misguided I was.

Pansy loves you. She didn’t want to push you by inviting you if you weren’t ready. Please don’t blame her. Put all of this mess at my feet, where it belongs.

I’m so sorry. Please let me make this right. Please.

Yours,

Hermione

After delivering the letter to a tawny owl, Hermione rejoined the party.

More guests had arrived in her absence. A few of Daphne’s friends from the Beauxbatons Herbology department and a neighbour with beehives who brought samples of honey; thankfully no one who would recognise her. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Interestingly, almost everyone was dressed in white.

She soon spotted Draco on the terrace, leaning against the balcony and holding a glass of firewhisky. Beside him, Theo looked out over the twilit gardens, his white shirt setting off his dark features. Partially obscured from view by a potted topiary, neither of them saw her. They were deep in conversation.

“I can’t believe it,” Theo was saying, brows raised in shock. “You’re sure?”

“I’m actually surprised at how smoothly it’s gone.”

“If you’re worried about —” Someone behind Hermione erupted into raucous laughter, and a wizard asked her if she knew where Daphne was, so she lost the thread of conversation.

When she tuned back in, Draco was mid-sentence. “ — facilities, fundraising, all of it. It doesn’t have to have my name attached.”

“I wouldn’t turn you down even if it did, mate. This is… Wow.”

“Yeah,” Draco said, rattling the ice in his drink.

Hermione’s stomach did a happy flip-flop. It sounded like Draco told Theo he planned on increasing his donations to Theo’s research. That alone was huge, but also, it showed her that Draco listened to her. The origin of his money would never be squeaky clean, but at least it would go towards noble causes.

And of course, on occasion, rare cufflinks, though she still hadn’t seen the new ones he picked up in Cannes.

A witch wearing a giant feather fascinator bumped into Hermione, immediately apologising in a thick French accent. Hermione stumbled forward, finally attracting Draco and Theo’s attention.

“Well, well. Who do we have here?” Theo smirked, looking first at Draco, then Hermione, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I knew it.”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed. “You knew it,” she conceded.

Theo raised his glass to them. “Never been more happy to be right. Cheers.”

As far as secret relationship reveals went, that hadn’t been so bad.

“Hey princess,” Draco said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. She saw Theo clock the nickname, and her blush deepened. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes, please. G&T?”

Draco made his way back inside, and Theo grinned at her. He didn’t drink often, but it brought out the boyish side of him that reminded her of a younger Harry. Hermione recalled Harry falling in love with Theo; how at first, she didn’t understand how they could possibly work. Harry was a loveable mess, and Theo was all about order. Harry loved quidditch and beer, while Theo held season tickets to the opera and drank fine wine.

She could see someone thinking similarly about her and Draco. And yet, they belonged together, just like Harry and Theo belonged together. She and Draco didn’t have to be exactly like each other to go the distance. They just had to share the same values. And given enough time, Hermione had faith they would.

“Your idea about incentives worked beautifully, by the way,” Theo said. “We’ve started offering prisoners in Azkaban and other magical prisons a year or two off their sentences if they’re willing to cast our countercurse on those they or their family lines have harmed. Victims have been hesitant, and the Wizengamot isn’t too pleased with the amount of requests we’ve submitted, but the results have been exactly what we’d hoped.”

“Theo, that’s amazing.”

“I know. It got me thinking, too. What if the foundations of our spell could be used to heal more than just the effects of dark magic? What about legal magic performed with ill intent? Or even questionable magic with good intent? And so I’ve been looking into it.” He paused and looked at her meaningfully. “Harry told me, you know. What you did for your parents before the war kicked off.”

For her parents, he’d said. Not to her parents. She appreciated the way he framed it, like a sacrifice instead of a sin.

Theo took another drink. “If you’re open to it, I’ve written down a spell for you. If it doesn’t work, it won’t have any ill effects on them. But if it does, it should relieve symptoms associated with near-total Obliviation; the headaches, the occasional forgetfulness.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment, then held it out to her. “Here.”

“Are you… Is this for real?” Hermione asked, overcome with emotion as she took the parchment from him and unfolded it. She scanned the instructions. “This is…”

“It’s nothing. You’ve helped so many people, Hermione. It’s nice to finally help you in return.” Theo looked at something beyond her shoulder. “Here comes your boyfriend.”

“Oh, we’re together, but he’s not, we haven’t put a label on it… I don’t really know,” she stammered, scrambling for words.

“Sure, princess,” Theo winked. “We’ll see both of you at Harry’s birthday, won’t we?”

“No!” Hermione nearly shouted, and Theo blinked rapidly. “I mean, let me talk to Harry first. I didn’t tell Gin and now she knows and it’s a whole thing. I actually just owled her to apologise.”

“You didn’t tell her? I can understand Harry, but Gin’s your best friend.”

“Yes, well, I’m an idiot.”

An idiot when it came to friendships, and an idiot when it came to love.

“You’re brilliant when you allow yourself to be,” Theo said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, Daph’s summoning me, but it’ll be alright, okay? I’ll see you at dinner.”

Hermione gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as he slipped into the crowd. As she slid the spell Theo gave her into her handbag, Draco reappeared with her G&T and a fresh firewhisky. Gods, he looked edible in his white walking suit. Like a fallen angel, all he was missing was a halo.

“Sorry about the wait,” Draco said as he tucked her beneath his arm. “Where’d Theo run off to?”

“Daphne needed him,” she explained. “Draco, he gave me a spell for my parents. I think with my family magic, I might be able to alleviate their symptoms from when I Obliviated them.”

“That’s excellent news. He's doing absolutely critical work.”

“I agree. I wish there was more I could do to support him.”

Draco didn’t take the opening for him to talk about what he and Theo were discussing. Hermione frowned as she took a sip of her drink.

“Not right?” Draco asked.

“No, no, it’s perfect. Listen, the reason I was up there so long with Pansy and Daphne is…”

She briefly filled him in on what had happened, without getting too specific.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Poor Pans. You sent Ginny an owl?”

“I didn’t want to leave you here. And the consensus was my presence might make it worse.”

“Sure, but if you need to go, I’d understand,” he said, running LUCK through his hair. “You know her best.”

Hermione’s heart sank. “You know, I’m not really sure I do.”

The epitome of timeliness, Daphne’s owl alit on the balcony, hooting softly in Hermione’s direction. She opened Ginny’s reply — thankfully, not a Howler — and read it as fast as she could.

Draco waited patiently. “What’s it say?”

Hermione sighed before folding the letter and placing it in her handbag alongside Theo’s spell. “She needs time to think. She doesn’t want to see me or Pansy, and asks that I don’t send her any more owls. Probably the best response I could’ve hoped for, considering.”

Just then, Blaise walked by, debonair in a midnight blue suit. Nearly everyone in attendance tracked his movements. Even Hermione couldn’t look away. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest, and his hair was freshly faded. His eyes swept the room, and when Daphne turned to meet his gaze, they both stilled as if twin bolts of lightning had struck them at the exact same time. And just like lightning, the moment passed in an instant. Blaise found himself bombarded by giggling ladies from Beauxbatons, and Daphne turned her attention back to Theo.

“Let’s go say hello,” Draco suggested

Hermione reached for his LOVE hand, savouring the feel of his warm skin against hers. “Let’s.”

As they approached, Blaise flashed his winningest smile. Flocked as he was by half the room, everyone was well aware he was schmoozing, but they ate it up anyway.

“Draco, Hermione,” he said in greeting. “Fancy seeing you two here.”

Hermione shot him a look. Once again, she wondered just how much Blaise knew about her and Draco, and when he’d come to know it.

“Hermione, I was just telling Giselle here about our new venture,” Blaise continued, gesturing toward the same witch who’d bumped into Hermione earlier. “Giselle, Hermione is our Chief Outreach Officer. She’s been instrumental in getting us off the ground.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Hermione said. When Blaise didn’t pick the thread of conversation back up, she faltered a little, but felt Draco push his magic her way. She straightened her spine. “Are you interested in creature rights?”

As it turned out, Giselle was more than interested in creature rights; she’d grown up on a vast estate in France that had for centuries been a breeding ground for unicorns. She talked animatedly about the need for stronger regulations to protect wild unicorns, and the lack of funding for existing unicorn sanctuaries.

Hermione’s own magic jetted through her veins, passion obliterating her earlier hesitancy. Though she was nowhere near as smooth as Blaise, and her French vocabulary wasn’t as rich as Draco’s, she surprised herself at how easily she spoke with Giselle.

“As you can see, Hermione is a natural advocate,” Blaise cut in when there was a lull in conversation. “We’d be happy to draw up a proposal to petition parliament on behalf of France’s unicorns.”

“Intriguing,” Giselle mused.

“Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that we’re a non-profit. We’re primarily funded by private equity and generous donors who believe in our work. I think you will agree there is deep value in what we do, and no other existing firm that can deliver the type of results you’re looking for.”

Giselle briefly considered, then accepted his card.

“Thank you, monsieur. I will be in touch.”

As the witch wandered off, fascinator bobbing with every step, Blaise winked at Hermione. “See? That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

“Not at all,” Hermione agreed, buzzing from the conversation as much as the alcohol.

If Blaise could teach her how to make a pitch like that every time, they’d definitely have more business, and do more good. Perhaps she’d been applying her passion in the wrong places.

Draco feathered a kiss to her temple. “You’re a marvel.”

Like Theo, Blaise didn’t appear at all surprised to see the display of affection. He didn’t even acknowledge it.

“I’ll see you both at dinner,” Blaise promised before strolling away.

“That was lucky,” Draco commented. “Running into someone with a need for what you and Blaise do. And at such a small party.”

“Very lucky, though it’s a shame the unicorns have to rely on luck to get adequate representation. I’m not against a little serendipity, but I wish the world was more equitable.”

“Noble of you. But the world isn’t built that way, is it? We have to use what we’re given. Create our own luck. Sometimes even create luck for others.”

“In the grand scheme, though, individuals can only do so much,” she sighed.

Draco shifted, putting one hand in his trouser pocket. “That much you’ve taught me. But with the right resources and incentives, perhaps those individuals can effect change in ways you’ve only dreamt of.”

She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“Draco,” Hermione said tentatively. “Do you think you might put me in touch with some of your contacts? Perhaps they’d like to contribute to a cause more worthy than Serpenti’s coffers?”

Daphne rang the dinner gong and he offered her his arm. The tattoo she gave him gleamed red with her magic, and it occurred to her that she’d never seen him so pleased.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Dinner was a delicious affair. A long table boasted platters of tender roasted lamb seasoned with herbs from the greenhouses, sumptuous Dagnje na Buzaru with local mussels, summer vegetables, earthy Crni Rižoto, and a vibrant salad bursting with tomatoes, cucumbers, and meaty green olives.

Hermione craned her neck searching for Pansy, but she was nowhere to be seen. Was it too much to hope that she’d left to make up with Ginny?

After a light dessert of fig and ricotta tart, Daphne announced that it was time for everyone’s favourite game: night croquet.

“Same rules as always,” she said gleefully, eyes never quite landing on Blaise. “You can only wear white, and you can’t change what you’re wearing with magic. So if the only white you’re wearing is your knickers, you’ll have to play in your knickers. And if you’ve no white at all, well…”

So that was why most of the guests wore white. Hermione whipped her head around and huffed at Draco’s all-white ensemble. “You’ve played before. You knew and didn’t warn me!”

In response, Draco smothered a laugh with his fist.

“Cheeky.” She called Daphne’s name to get her attention. “Is this dress white enough?”

“It’s beige,” Theo cried out, the menace.

“It’s ecru. It’s white-adjacent,” Hermione protested.

She needed this. Although her sandals were white, her lingerie was pink, and she was not about to play in nothing but her shoes.

Daphne pretended to think about it. “It’s your first time, so I’ll let it go. As for the rest of you, I’ll see you on the lawn.”

Hermione, on the sweeter side of tipsy now that she’d had some food, clung to Draco’s arm as they descended the stone stairs with the rest of the party. The night air was warm, and not too humid. Blaise, who was down to his shirt and white pants, chatted amiably with Theo by the fountain.

“On the whole, this has been rather civilised,” Hermione commented as they approached the two men.

“What did you expect? We’re a long way from our dungeon days,” Theo laughed.

“Has Harry been to one of these?”

Theo nodded. “Played starkers.”

She scrunched her nose. “I did not need to know that.”

“Suppose it was a good thing work’s kept me so busy,” Draco agreed. “I can’t say I’ve ever had the slightest desire to see Potter’s arse.”

“You’re missing out, Draco. He’s got a nice arse,” Blaise shrugged, all nonchalance.

Daphne, who was herding guests within earshot of the conversation, shouted, “I heard that, Zabini.”

“Not as nice as yours,” Blaise yelled back.

“You’ve never seen my arse!”

“No, but I’d like to!”

Daphne’s eyes widened briefly, but then she played it off. “Sure. And I’m Rowena Ravenclaw.”

She moved on, and Blaise turned back to the group. His face was a perfect mask.

Theo clapped him on the back. “Chin up, mate. The night is young.”

“Yes, well.”

“Talk to her,” Hermione suggested, looking up at Draco for support. “The way you look at each other, it’s clear there’s something there.”

Blaise shrugged again. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt building a business these past few years, it’s that sometimes the deal looks good, but when it comes time to sign, there’s nothing you can do to bring the other party to the table. You can only alter the terms so much. There are some gaps you can never fill in.”

Hermione swallowed hard, clinging to Draco more tightly. She felt his gaze on her, but didn’t meet it.

There was a beat of silence before Theo cleared his throat.

“And on that cheerful note,” he said, gesturing to the lawn with his wand. “Let’s go play. Lumos.”

It was a good thing Theo lit the way, because darkness had settled around the estate like a well-loved cloak. Hermione took her own wand out as well, and as they walked across the perfectly manicured grass, she took note of the placement of the wooden wickets so she could develop a loose strategy.

Daphne handed out balls and mallets as she went over the rules again. Hardly anyone was listening, as more than half of the guests were clearly in their cups. Theo and Blaise had paired off, leaving Draco and Hermione to their own devices.

“How seriously am I meant to take this,” Hermione asked Draco when they’d received their equipment. “Is there some sort of prize for winning?”

He laughed. “I’d say bragging rights, but no one really cares. It’s just dumb fun.”

“Stumbling around in the dark whacking balls with mallets is supposed to be fun?”

“It can be,” he murmured in her ear, and she shivered. “If you lose your ball close to the maze.”

“Draco Malfoy,” she said in a faux-scolding tone. “Are you suggesting that I throw this very important game of night croquet so you can have your way with me in a hedge maze?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I’m suggesting.”

She bit her lip to hide her smile. “This could cost us the championship, you know. What will your friends think if they see us sneaking away?”

Draco tucked a curl behind her ear and ran his fingers across the soft skin of her jaw. “It’s so dark they won’t miss us. Even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. They’re happy for us.”

“And are you happy?”

His happiness meant everything. He meant everything.

“Deliriously so.”

Daphne waved her wand, Vanishing her wrap dress and revealing the white lacy slip underneath. “And now for the rest of you,” she said, waving it again. “If you’ve left anything on that isn’t white, it’ll be waiting for you inside.”

Hermione’s bra and knickers disappeared into the ether, and judging by the protests of a few of the other guests, they’d lost a few items of clothing as well. Wands everywhere were lit, illuminating the playing field, and with that, the game was on.

Draco whacked the ball, and it sped through the grass at a solid clip, missing the wicket by a wide margin. He extinguished his wand with a flourish.

Hermione took her turn next, loudly bemoaning her fate after she deliberately hit the ball far too hard. “Blast. How am I ever going to find where that went with no wandlight?”

“I’ll help you,” Draco volunteered, his deep voice carrying across the lawn. “I think it went this way.”

Quietly sniggering, they sprinted across the grass. Hermione lost a shoe, but rather than retrace her steps, she kicked the other one off. She would find it in the morning. If not, Draco could always buy her another pair.

Soon they found the entrance to the hedge maze and slipped inside. Draco tried to take her hand, but Hermione ducked behind a sculpture.

His words were smoky, seductive as he cast Lumos. He was intrigued. “What game is this, princess?”

She calmed her breathing and cast a Lumos of her own, assessing her surroundings. She made sure to act as if she would simply come out from her hiding place once she recovered from their run, but in reality, she had other plans. Once she decided which way she wanted to go, she cancelled the spell.

“Catch me, Daddy,” she cried as she took off into the maze.

Draco barked a laugh, and she heard his footfalls as he gave chase. Hermione’s eyes adjusted to the dark and she dodged numerous statues and tall trees. She would’ve been scared of this before; unfamiliar trees in an unfamiliar place. But not anymore.

His legs were longer than hers, and he’d been in the maze before, so Draco had several advantages.Their little game wouldn’t last long, but it wasn’t as if Hermione didn’t want to be caught.

When they reached the heart of the maze, she let him capture her, stomach swooping as he hauled her into his arms and pinned her to an ancient tree

“Got you,” he whispered.

By the light of the stars, Draco traced her face with his fingertips before dropping his hand to her calf, trailing it up her thigh as he kissed and sucked her neck. Heat rolled off him. He was hard, breath short, and he smelled like leather and cedar as he ground against her, bark gently scraping between her shoulder blades.

Hermione unbuckled his belt; pushed his trousers and pants down enough to let his heavy cock spring free.

“Need to be inside you,” he gasped against her shoulder.

She had full use of her magic here, but couldn’t be arsed to fumble for her wand. Instead she brought her hand up, spit in it, and made a tight fist around him, coating him with her saliva as she stroked. He throbbed in her hand, and she swiped her thumb across the tip to add his precum for an even smoother glide up and down his thick shaft.

Hermione thought about dropping to her knees; earning grass stains on her pretty dress. But Draco was rucking it up to settle around her hips, groaning when he found her cunt bare and dripping for him.

He notched himself at her entrance, lifted her up, then stretched her down over his cock with a tantalising slowness that had her digging her nails into his back. She accommodated his size much more easily now that they’d had practice, but it was still a whimper-worthy exercise in patience.

And Draco put on a masterclass. He gave her his cock a little at a time, attuned to her every little twitch and moan.

“Daddy. Daddy, Daddy,” she babbled, squirming. It was so, so good; that feeling of being so full of him she could hardly breathe.

“Shh. I know you can take it.”

When he was fully seated inside her, he began to move in earnest. His thrusts were firm and sure. Maybe it was the freedom of darkness, or the high of revealing their secret to the Slytherins, or even the scintillating but unlikely risk of being caught. It didn’t matter; she didn’t care what the reason was, because for the first time in weeks, Draco was fucking her hard. Hard, and fast, and everything she’d been needing since the incident on the bike in France.

“Gods, I’ve fucking missed this,” she panted as he drove into her. “I love it when you’re rough.”

“You want Daddy to give it to you hard?”

“Yes, I’ve been trying to show you — oh,” she gasped.

“I’ve missed you too,” he growled into her ear, hitching her higher against the tree. “So bad. Miss you all the time. Need you always.”

“Yes.”

Always. He’d said always.

Her breath caught, distracting her from her thoughts as the head of his cock slid against the sweetest spot deep inside her. She thought he’d perfected making her orgasm, but she was so keyed up and he was going so fast, so hard that she might come just like that, by penetration alone.

Draco’s hips stuttered, pace faltering. “Is this too —”

“If you fucking ask me if it’s okay I’m going to kill you,” Hermione snapped, so close it was sheer agony. “Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me however you want, whenever you want.”

“Maybe I will,” he challenged, kneading her waist with the palm of one hand and finding his rhythm again. The sound of arousal gushing around him made her cheeks heat. “That’s right. I can hear how much you like it. How much your cunt likes it.”

“Oh,” she keened.

“Come on, don’t be shy, princess. Make a mess of me.”

“Oh,” she cried again, walls beginning to squeeze his cock as her head fell back against the tree trunk. “Shit.”

“Got you. I’ve got you.” Draco made the adjustment quick as a flash, wrapping LUCK around the nape of her neck and pressing her face to his shoulder. “Here.” She relaxed into him, even as his raspy words drove her wild. “You take me so well, sweet girl. Need to feel you come.”

She nuzzled his shoulder. “Say my name, please. Say Hermione.”

“Hermione. My beautiful love–ly girl.” His heart hammered under her palm, under the tattoo she gave him. “Please. Hermione, gods. Hermione.”

It was the second time Draco said her name that unleashed her orgasm. Trembling, his name on her lips, she gave into sensation as it peaked, sharp and blissful. As it slowly tapered off, she melted into his embrace, the clenching of her cunt matching the timing of his thrusts.

“Fuck. I’m gonna come too soon to do everything I want to do to you right now. You were so bloody brilliant tonight. You feel too good.”

“Then take me up to our room after this. Fuck me all night. Fuck me forever.”

There went her big mouth getting her in trouble again, but Draco probably hadn’t heard her, too busy flooding her cunt with his release.

Her forearm thrown around his neck, she watched her bluebell flames glitter as he groaned and slumped into her embrace. They stayed like that for a moment, hearts racing together in time.

He’d said always. She’d said forever.

When he straightened, Hermione found Draco’s eyes with hers. She tenderly wiped exertion from his brow.

“Draco, I —” She stumbled on her words, arrested by his wide, dark pupils. Instead of confessing her feelings, what came out was, “Do you want to meet my parents?”

He stared back at her quizzically.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed, biting her lip. “Not the sexiest thing to say when you’re still inside me. It’s just, I was thinking about Theo’s spell, and I want to try it as soon as possible. Plus I owe them a visit. And if you still need persuasion, my mum’s an amazing cook.”

A grin spread across his features. Gods, he was so handsome when he was freshly fucked. “I’d love to.”

“You would?”

“Seems like the logical next step.”

“Okay,” she nodded, bursting with happiness. “Yeah.”

They cast a few cleansing charms before retracing their steps through the maze. The game of night croquet was long over with, though a few guests chattered drunkenly by the fountain, shoes and jackets abandoned. There was no sign of Theo, or Daphne or Blaise.

“Let’s go upstairs so you can persuade me further,” Draco rumbled in her ear, his warm hand finding the small of her back. “All night, isn’t that what you said, princess?”

“I did say that,” Hermione said, yawning as they entered the main house and weaved through the floating candles. She’d almost said even more than that.

“Sleepy?”

“Mm. You might have to go on without me.” She thought of waking up to him inside her, his firm muscles at her back, his fingers plucking at her nipples through her nightgown, and desire coursed through her. “In fact, I think you should.”

He pushed open the door to their room and helped her out of her dress. Her yawns proved contagious, and soon Draco’s eyes hung heavy-lidded. They went through the quickest of bedtime routines before collapsing into the crisp, cool sheets, nestling against each other, snug and secure.

When he surprised her in the night with his wicked tongue, and again in the morning with tender kisses and his cock slowly working its way into her, she wrapped him in her magic so he could feel how much she wanted it. How much she wanted him.

Hermione felt safe with Draco. She didn’t need to hide pieces of herself, encoding her innermost dreams and showing him only a reflection of what she thought he wanted to see. It was pointless, because not only did he have her magic; he had the cipher for her heart.

What she’d thought was untranslatable was simply the genesis of a new language. There were bound to be errors; gaps in knowledge as they attained fluency. But the root of what they spoke, with or without words, was love.

Chapter Text

The following day, Hermione and Draco rode into the quiet suburb of Hampstead Garden on their matching Ducatis.

Theo’s spell was practically burning a hole in her handbag, but Hermione kept to the posted speed limits. She couldn’t rush this, as much as she hoped to convince her parents to let her perform the spell today. They might not remember when she Obliviated them, but they’d felt the aftereffects for years now. Migraines, missing memories, time skips… If they were reticent about more magic, Hermione would understand. She’d been lucky to get them back at all.

She flashed her indicator and pulled over in front of her well-kept childhood home, resplendent in the late afternoon sun. While it wasn’t as impressive as the manor Draco grew up in, it was far less imposing. The Granger home sat on a spacious corner lot, stately and all-brick, sporting white shutters and a private back garden overlooking Hampstead Golf Course. She had fond memories of sitting in a golf cart, aged nine or ten, reading a book in her lap while her mum played nine holes and caught up on all the neighbourhood gossip.

It had been a rather posh upbringing, by Muggle standards. As dentists, her parents were the definition of well-to-do. But after weeks of magical opulence, Hermione worried Draco might see their cosy home full of squashy furniture, well-loved dinnerware and far too many board games as altogether too pedestrian.

Draco parked behind her, then helped Hermione off her bike and squeezed her hand.

“Ready?”

She laughed nervously as she pulled her helmet off and shook out her curls. “Shouldn’t I be asking you?”

“You said they’d love me,” Draco insisted. “I’m sure I’ll love them. And I bet they’ll take you up on the spell.”

His tender reassurance meant the world; his confidence steadied her.

He’d certainly come prepared, dressing the part of a boyfriend meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time. Draco wore pale blue trousers with a white oxford, and kept the sleeves rolled down so as not to display the majority of his tattoos. He still wore his watch and white gold chain, but his loafers were understated, and his hair was artfully styled with a healthy amount of pomade. Hermione missed the strands that usually hung down in front of his eyes; mostly because she liked to be the one to sweep them aside before he snogged her senseless.

Hermione checked her own outfit for wrinkles. She’d typically wear jeans and a t-shirt, but today’s luncheon was less about comfort and more about making a good first impression. She hadn’t felt nervous at all about introducing her parents to Ron, but her palms were sweaty as they smoothed her candy pink blouse and flowy ivory midi skirt.

She wanted them to like Draco. Really like him; enough to invite him for Christmas and Easter, enough to make them forget she’d ever brought someone lesser home. It was one reason she hadn’t told them exactly what he did for a living, or what side he’d been on during the war. Fortunately, the Grangers didn’t like discussing that time in their lives. Half the time, they couldn’t even remember it.

For whatever reason, she wasn’t worried about Draco liking her parents, which wasn’t something she’d ever thought she’d say. Maybe it was his soothing familial magic reaching out to her, or the sparkle of her own magic as she sent it his way. They’d been completely in sync since they’d snuck away at Daphne’s party, sleeping through breakfast and skipping a ride through the countryside, opting instead for a walk through the maze to retrieve Hermione’s shoes.

The situation with Ginny and Pansy was troublesome to say the least. As much fun as she’d had with Draco, it didn’t take her mind off the fact that her closest girlfriends were suffering. When she’d finished at her parents’ place, figuring out how to make things right with Ginny was at the top of her priority list.

“You look beautiful, princess,” Draco said reassuringly as they walked up to the front door, skimming LOVE along the curve of her waist before settling it at the small of her back. In his other hand was a bouquet of daylilies.

Before she could reply, Richard Granger flung open the door. “Well, well, what do we have here? Could that be my darling daughter?”

“Hi Dad,” Hermione said, throwing her arms around his neck for a hug. His beard was scratchy, and he smelled of cinnamon and motor oil. He’d been in his garage. “It’s been a minute.”

“What happened to Daddy?” He asked jokingly.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Draco said, extending his hand.

Her father gave Draco a once over before putting his broad hand in Draco’s and giving it a firm shake. “Draco, isn’t it? Welcome to our home. Please, come in. My wife’s in the kitchen.”

Hermione set her handbag on a low bench in the foyer and took off her shoes. Draco followed suit. His eyes were everywhere, taking in the shabby chic decor and the gallery wall of family pictures. Most featured a chubby baby Hermione, boasting two large front teeth. Draco seemed particularly taken with one where she held her first book — upside down, of course.

“In here, darling,” her mum called.

“It smells delicious, Mrs. Granger,” Draco said courteously as he followed Hermione into the open-concept kitchen. A collection of copper pots hung from the ceiling, and beneath them stood Hermione’s mum. She looked perfectly at ease, her salt and pepper curls tamed into a loose French braid and a sage green apron wrapped around her waist. She stirred something on the hob, rich spices filling the air.

“I hope you like Indian,” her mum said, raising one arm for Hermione to slip under for a hug. “Hermione said you didn’t have any allergies, and Murgh Kari is my speciality.”

“Sounds lovely. You have such a beautiful home. Thank you for welcoming me.”

“Of course.” Her mum’s warmth faded from her face, replaced by confusion. “My apologies, tell me your name again?”

Draco stepped forward, more cautiously than Hermione had ever seen him move. It tugged at her heartstrings. “It’s Draco. Might I help with anything?”

“Such manners, Draco,” Hermione’s mum said, recovering quickly. She cast a twinkly-eyed look at Hermione. “Are those flowers for me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I love daylilies,” she said. Draco handed her the flowers, and she buried her nose in the blooms, inhaling deeply before handing them to Hermione, who conjured a vase. “Thank you. You may set the table if you’re so inclined. We’re dining on the patio; Richard can show you the way. Dishes are in the top-left cabinet there.”

Draco nodded and began gathering plates. Hermione’s mum lowered her voice so only she and Hermione could hear.

“I know my memory’s not the best, but I don’t recall Ronald ever bringing flowers, let alone offering to help me.”

Her father led Draco out the back door. Hermione felt heat wash over her cheeks, and it wasn’t from the delicious meal simmering on the hob. “Draco’s a gentleman.”

Her mum chuckled. “Bit of a rogue, too, with those hand tattoos. He’s your Gemini you told me about, isn’t he? The one you saw in a new light.”

“He is.”

“See? I remember things.”

Hermione winced at the slight defensiveness in her mum’s voice. “I know.”

“Your father and I sparred a bit, back in the day. Did I ever tell you we met at chess club? He was always beating me, every game. I read every book about chess I could get my paws on, and yet he kept winning. Other boys would let me win, but not Richard. I suppose that’s how he got my attention in the first place. We were very different people, with very different upbringings, but ultimately we wanted the same thing.”

“To be dentists?” Hermione joked, a little too quickly.

She bit her lip. Why was vulnerability so damn difficult?

“No, to get married and raise a family; to be happy,” her mum said, reaching for a worn pair of oven mitts. “Does your Gemini want what you want?”

“It’s early days, Mum.”

Her mum clucked her tongue as she checked the rice. “Very early. But you brought him ‘round anyway. What am I supposed to make of that, hmm? You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Glass shattered across the kitchen tile, and Hermione whipped around to see Draco, two shades paler than usual, standing amidst the wreckage.

Hermione waved her wand and repaired the glasses, levitating them back into Draco’s grasp. She looked at him and didn’t blink as she said, with utmost calm, “I’m not pregnant.”

“Er,” Draco said, tugging at his collar. “Right. You’d tell me if you — If we —” There was a long pause, and Hermione wished the floor would swallow her whole. “I would make you my wife, surely you know that. But you’re not, so it’s — It’s a moot point, I suppose, but if you were, Hermione, I’d, I’d —”

She frowned. It wasn’t like she didn’t expect that Draco would do the honourable thing, but she didn’t want him to marry her because she was pregnant — which she definitely wasn’t. She would never force his hand.

Hermione’s eyes flitted to her father, who was standing behind Draco shaking with silent laughter. “Calm down, Draco. Helen’s only teasing.”

“Everything’s ready,” Hermione’s mum said, breaking the tension. “You boys go sit. Hermione, why don’t you help me get everything outside? Use that wingy leviosa thing, you know. Dead useful.”

“Mum,” Hermione hissed under her breath once Draco and her father disappeared once again. “Did you really have to go there?”

“Come on now, darling. Is it really so strange for me to wonder? This is all moving rather quickly.”

“You didn’t have to wonder aloud. Draco wasn’t raised in our world. Magical people would never discuss such things in polite company. He panicked.”

Her mum snorted. “Panic? That wasn’t panic I saw on that young man’s face. Now, wave your wand and let’s get this on plates before it gets cold.”

Moments later, they were seated in the back garden. Draco spelled her parents’ beloved crystal pitcher to pour everyone ice cold lemonade, and after an appropriate amount of compliments on the beauty of the meal, he dug in. Hermione smiled as he chewed, eyes fluttering shut with clear appreciation of her mum’s famous cooking.

“So, you were in the Slithering house,” Hermione’s father began.

“Slytherin,” Hermione corrected gently.

“That’s what I said.”

“I was,” Draco said. “I don’t know how much Hermione’s told you about our houses, sir, but we had quite the rivalry.”

“Did you play quidditch?” Her mum asked.

“Yes ma’am. Seeker.”

“Like Harry,” Hermione said. “Seekers find the Snitch. Whoever finds it first usually wins.”

“Important position,” Hermione’s father said, taking another bite of the savoury Murgh Kari. “And you’re a businessman now? Hermione told us you travel frequently for work.”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ll actually be in Amsterdam this Friday. I’m hoping to convince your daughter to join me. I’ve got an important meeting.” Draco looked at her meaningfully. “It’s at a casino, which I know is less than comfortable for you, but I can’t stress enough how much your support would mean to me.”

Her reply was instant. “I’d love to.”

Hermione didn’t want to normalise what Draco did for a living; she was still vehemently against it. But he’d gone to Al-Anon; she could handle a foray into a casino for him. Besides, if she listened to her heart, which she was trying to do more often these days, it told her that if she played the long game, she’d win out. Love would always win.

She reached for his hand under the table, only to find it pressed into his bouncing knee.

Had he thought she’d decline? Or was he still thinking about the pregnancy thing?

“Ah, Amsterdam. The Venice of the North,” Mr. Granger said, leaning back in his seat. “Remember when we took you there? I remember, at least I think I do. Hard to separate my memories from the ones you gave us, sometimes.”

Alarm bells went off in her head. She swallowed a gulp of lemonade. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I could get the photo albums out,” her mum offered. “We could check.”

Her father waved a hand and continued. “No, no, don’t get up. I’m sure we went. Bit of trivia for you: Amsterdam is often referred to as the Venice of the North because of the city’s extensive network of canals. Lots of cities have nicknames like that. Although in my opinion, as lovely as it is, it doesn’t hold a candle to the real Venice…”

Hermione tuned him out. Venice of the North. Venice North.

She’d thought it was the name of one of the witches that had come to meet with Draco and Blaise on the Sea Serpent. But no, he’d been speaking in code. Each of those names in his note to Lavinia must have represented a city, and one witch had come from Amsterdam.

What was Draco planning?

After a lively discussion about travel, and a generous invitation from Draco to visit his new island in Fiji, they cleared the table.

“Can we interest you in a friendly game of Cluedo?” Hermione’s mum asked.

“I was rather hoping I might show Mr. Granger the motorbikes. We could take them for a ride,” Draco raised a questioning eyebrow at Hermione’s father, who wisely deferred to his wife.

“As long as you two don’t go too fast. Remember, there are bold riders, and there are old riders. Make sure you’re the latter.”

The men hightailed it out of the house, and within two minutes they were roaring down the road. Hermione waved from the front door with a sigh.

“I’ve charmed both bikes with the best safety spells I know, but I still worry.”

“That’s what wives do,” her mum said. “And before you give me some spiel about how you’ve never even thought about marrying that man —”

“I’ve thought about it,” Hermione interrupted. “A lot. Is it… completely mad?”

“No. When you know, you know.”

“What if he doesn’t know?”

Her mum laughed and took Hermione’s hands in hers. “He knows, Hermione Jean. And he knows he’s not worthy of you.”

“But he is.”

“No one could be worthy of you, darling. Come in here and play backgammon with me until they get back.”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed. “Actually, do you still have my old encyclopaedias?”

Moments later, she sat cross-legged on the carpet in her childhood bedroom, participating in one of her favourite pastimes: research. It didn’t take long for her to decode the other city names.

Venice North became Venice of the North, which was Amsterdam, just as her father said. Belle Ville was actually La Belle Ville, also known as Montréal, and Violet Crown referred to the City of the Violet Crown; Athens, Greece.

What had his note to Lavinia said? That those cities were all very much in play? In play for what?

Hermione reshelved the heavy tomes, then returned to the living room and let her mother absolutely wallop her at backgammon. Her mother, notorious for rolling doubles, had a grand time, and Hermione didn’t mind losing. She was too busy sitting on the edge of the toile-patterned loveseat, puzzling over what business Draco had in Amsterdam.

Maybe he was considering moving Serpenti’s main operations out of London? When Draco had gone to Rio and Vegas, both cheaper locales, maybe he was searching for cost savings. Not only was London expensive, it was difficult for him to do business there, being as infamous as he was.

Could that really be it? He’d asked how she felt about London on their shopping spree in Cannes, and she’d told him honestly that she couldn’t imagine leaving her friends and family behind. She tried to remember if he’d given anything away in his facial expressions, but she didn’t think he had.

In her wildest dreams, he sold Serpenti, but after his heartfelt confession about Vince, she couldn’t imagine him ever selling. It was too much to ask of him, to say goodbye to the last bit of his best friend that remained in the world and start something new all over again. But maybe there was some middle path, where he kept the casino but didn’t operate it?

After Hermione’s fifth straight loss, Draco and her father returned, both a bit windblown with wide grins on their faces.

“Helen,” her father beamed, twirling a key ring on one finger. “You’ll never guess what Draco here gave me.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione’s mum groaned. Hermione smothered a smile. She’d thought Draco might’ve had something up his sleeve, bringing both Ducatis.

“There’s plenty of room in the garage. I’ll sell my project bikes,” he begged.

Draco came to his aid. “I realise flowers and a Ducati are not nearly equivalent gifts, but Hermione told me how much her father loved motorbikes, and I thought… She hasn’t told me as much about you, yet. But I’d be happy to —”

Hermione’s mum held up a hand to stop him. “It’s a thoughtful, if extravagant, gift, Draco. We wouldn’t be so crass as to turn it down.”

He gave a tight nod.

“If you’re serious about a gift for me, there’s only one thing I want.” Her mum continued. “It’s what every mother wants; more time with my daughter.”

“Mum.” Hermione said softly.

“How about this: You and Hermione come ‘round at least twice a month for a meal and a game or two.”

Draco didn’t even blink.

“I’d love nothing more,” he said. “You have my word.”

Hermione’s magic nearly burst out of her, weightless from sheer joy. Draco must have felt it, because his smile was happiness incarnate. Not only was he taking more time for her, but also for her family, and it meant the world.

“A ride around the neighbourhood, too,” Hermione’s father nudged Draco.

Her mum wagged a finger at her father and rose from the sofa. “You already got your present, Richard. Now, let’s see this bike.”

“Hold on,” Hermione said quickly, sensing her window of opportunity. “Um, I wanted to talk to you both about something. Everything is fine, it’s good news, just, would you sit for a moment?”

Her father joined her mother on the sofa. Draco, bathed in light from a bay window, tilted his head as if to ask, Do you want me to stay? From her seated position on the loveseat, Hermione reached up for his hand, and he crossed the room in two quick strides to sit down beside her and give her LUCK.

She explained Theo’s latest research, and the theory behind the spell.

“In the past, I used my magic on you without your knowledge or permission, and I don’t think words can express how deeply I regret it. I had no idea that the side effects would be lifelong. I’ll always be sorry I didn’t come up with a different plan. This time, it’s your choice. I would never, ever try this if I didn’t think it would help. But it’s up to you.”

Her parents looked at each other, communicating without words. Within moments, it seemed they’d come to a decision.

“Okay,” her mum said, resolute. “Let’s try it.”

Hermione took a deep breath, extended her wand, and performed the spell. A flick, a twist, a flourish, and then…

For a second, she’d thought it hadn’t worked. It was like nothing had happened at all. But then her parents both developed a gentle red glow along the outline of their bodies, which pulsed three times and then disappeared.

“My god,” her father said as the magic dissipated. “All the memories. They feel real now. These are the real ones.”

Her mum looked at her in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve felt this good… Since before.”

Hermione stumbled to the sofa, tears already gathering, and fell into her parents’ warm embrace.

Her father smoothed her hair and kissed her cheek. “Brilliant. My brilliant girl.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione sniffled as she cried. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, darling,” her mum soothed. “We forgave you a long time ago. Now you must forgive yourself. Don’t let this hang over you a second longer.”

“We’re alright. Go out there and be the witch you were meant to be,” her father said.

“And then come home and tell us all about it.” Her mum looked meaningfully at Draco, her mouth tipping up at the corner. “You, too, Draco. Come home any time.”

***

After a long Monday at the office, mostly spent untangling a poorly-defined trade dispute between Welsh trolls and Scottish ogres, Hermione sank into her sofa, her hands curled around a mug of coffee. She tapped her nails against the ceramic, producing anxious pinging sounds. Crookshanks dozed in the window, fuzzy orange ears twitching whenever her rhythm faltered.

She stood on the precipice of doing something she hadn’t done with Harry Potter in a very long time: having an honest chat.

According to Theo, Ginny had come to Grimmauld the same day Hermione had taken Draco to meet her parents. She’d spilled the beans about her relationship with Pansy, and asked Harry if he’d known about Hermione and Draco. Of course he said no.

Hermione wasn’t sure how Ginny felt about the fact that Harry, too, had been kept in the dark, because she and Ginny still weren’t talking.

It was the worst feeling, not talking on purpose.

Pansy had closed her Floo. Ginny had asked for space.

Hermione felt like the world’s shittiest friend. But Harry, being Harry, wasn’t one to cast judgement without hearing all sides of the story. Usually Hermione found that quality irritating, but usually, she felt she was in the right.

A whoosh of green flame and he stood on her hearth, a concerned, tentative smile on his face.

“Hey,” he said. He scrunched his nose in disgust. “Is that coffee?”

“Don’t worry, I made you tea,” Hermione said, gesturing to the other mug in front of her.

He sat down next to her on the sofa, sinking into the cushions. “Thanks. Never understood how you and Ron drank that stuff.”

“How is he?”

At the beginning of the summer, she’d never thought Ron would feel like the safer topic of conversation, but there they were.

“You’re certain you want to hear?” Harry took a sip of tea. It fogged his spectacles. “Well, I’ve only had one letter from him so far, but he’s in good spirits. Says the therapists are caring, and he loves Florida.”

“Florida?” she echoed. “What happened to Brighton?”

He put on his stern but gentle Auror voice, the one he used when interviewing victims. “You’re not responsible for this, Hermione. Remember?”

She nodded and blew out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”

“Ginny misses you.”

“I miss her too.”

“She’s proper put out with you over this whole Malfoy thing.”

Hermione turned her attention back to her coffee. It was hard to look at Harry; that open expression on his face, when she’d been so closed off to him. She’d been closed off to everyone, really, for longer than she wanted to admit.

Harry nudged her knee with his.

“It just happened,” Hermione groaned. “After Ron and I broke up, of course. Nothing happened the night I stayed with Draco.”

“It is so weird to hear you call him that.”

She huffed. “I thought I’d get through that night, which actually ended up being nice, considering the circumstances, and then never see him again. He went to get us dinner, so I had a moment alone, and I went through this secret drawer in his desk and found these debt markers.”

“Debt markers?”

“They’re like special parchment that keeps a running tally of money owed, and it’s tied to each debtor’s magic. I saw some names I recognised and I thought I’d stick it to Draco and his stupid casino, take the markers home and destroy them. And I did. But unfortunately he figured out what I’d done. And he knew where Ron and I lived, so he tracked me down — this was after the break up — and we argued. I think one or perhaps both of us threatened to summon the Aurors, but eventually, we came up here, and I got the terrible Howler from Molly, and I was so worn out I passed out, and he just, I don’t know, started taking care of me. And he hasn’t stopped.”

Harry considered her, green eyes sharp, cutting through her. “And I suppose it doesn’t hurt that he’s rich and handsome.”

“It doesn’t,” she conceded. “But you know me. I wouldn’t be with him if it wasn’t so much more than that.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I do know you, and that’s why it doesn’t make sense. Hermione, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve wanted to save the world, marry a nice bloke and have three kids. Preferably in that order.”

She felt the blush heat her cheeks. She’d used to say exactly that — and she’d specifically wanted a boy and two girls.

“And Malfoy is not a nice bloke,” Harry continued. “He’s the exact opposite of a nice bloke. I thought maybe you’d go for Neville, or Anthony. Solid types who’d treat you right. But Malfoy?”

“I wouldn’t be with him if he didn’t treat me like a princess.”

“But don’t you have, I dunno, your usual ethical problems with billionaires? How do you talk yourself into dating one? This is the same billionaire that gave Ron a place to gamble away the better part of his twenties? He might donate to good causes, and, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for his support of Theo’s work, but what other evidence is there to show Malfoy’s changed? Throwing money around doesn’t make you exempt from doing the work.”

“But I’m telling you, he is,” Hermione protested. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

“It does,” he conceded. “But what if you’re just under his spell? Not Imperio; you know what I mean.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her coffee had gone cold. “What if I said he came to my parents’ house and sat by my side while I cast Theo’s healing spell on them?”

Harry went still. “Did he?”

“He’s gone to Al-Anon with me. He’s supported me even though it argues against everything that got him where he is today.”

“Good of him,” Harry acknowledged.

“He gave me his family magic.”

Her heart raced at the confession; it beat double-time when Harry looked at her in shocked disbelief.

“He did what?”

Hermione rolled up her sleeve to reveal her tattoo. “My bluebell flames are lit with Malfoy family magic.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “I can draw on Nott family magic if I need to, but we’re married. That’s… He must trust you a lot. You know that would let you past the goblins at Gringotts, right?”

“He gave it to me because he cares about me.”

“That’s more than care, don’t you think?”

His words hit a little too close to home. She made it a point not to look at him, instead focusing on rolling her sleeve back down. “The magic ensures I’m protected and my needs are met. It stopped my nightmares, and helped when I was sick... I don’t know what you want me to say, Harry. Yes, Draco has money, but he doesn’t try to buy my affection. It’s not like that; he’s not like that. I know you’re worried about me, because things have changed really quickly, and I get that, okay? But it’s not all about Draco. I’ve grown a lot these last few months. I mean, I’ve really pulled it together.”

“You have,” Harry acknowledged.

“I made a clean break from a toxic situation. I’ve gotten my feet under myself professionally — that isn't about him. I’ve continued practising the skills I learned in therapy. I’ve accomplished a lot. I'm not dating Draco instead of taking care of myself or using him as a convenient escape from my problems. I’m dating him because there are real feelings here.”

He sighed, took off his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes briefly before putting them back on. Another deep sigh. “Are you saying I need to get used to having Malfoy around?”

Hermione put her hand over Harry’s rough one. “Would you try? For me?”

“How am I supposed to say no to one of my best friends in the world?” Harry said, placing his other hand atop hers. “If you see a future with him, I guess you should bring him to Tahiti. Can’t believe that’s next week. Where did the summer go?”

“Yeah?” she asked, bubbling with hope.

“Yeah,” he said, shooting her his trademark confident grin. “Hey, it’d take the focus off me for that Prophet article.”

“So really I’d be doing you a favour.”

He rolled his eyes, but it was done with fondness, and they both quieted for a moment.

“What am I going to do about Gin?” Hermione asked, rubbing circles into her temples.

“Sometimes we forget that Ginny’s the youngest child. More than anything, she hates being shut out of things. She’s hurt you kept this from her, even if you had your reasons. I think we all wish you’d talk to us more.”

Guilt washed over her. She wished Harry had asked for more tea, if only for something to busy her hands with. “The situation with Ron… I didn’t want to burden anyone, and with Draco, well, I didn’t think it would really go anywhere at first, but then it did, and I really did want to tell Ginny; I almost said something the day we went to the farmers market, and I kind of think she planned to tell me about Pansy, too. But then we just… Didn’t. And it was easier, but harder at the same time.”

“Theo said something to Ginny, and I think it applies here, too: When you deny your friend the opportunity to shoulder a burden with you — whether it’s grief or injustice or any other of life’s troubles — you are robbing them of a gift. How would you have felt if I’d turned down your offer to help me and tried to vanquish Voldemort all on my own?”

“Awful.”

“I’ve dealt with coming out, and it wasn’t easy. There were a lot of people who preferred I’d stayed in the closet. Still are. Theo and I didn’t have any family supporting us, but we also didn’t have any parents against us. Think of what you know about Molly. Do you really think she’s going to take this news lying down? Ginny needs us to rally around her, and while I understand her reasoning, just as I understand your reasoning for keeping us all in the dark about Malfoy, and just as I understand why Theo didn’t tell me he suspected you were seeing Malfoy…” Harry paused, deep in thought. “Come to think of it, this applies to Ron hiding his gambling problem, too. It robbed me of the gift of supporting you all; the way you’ve supported me.”

He was right.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Hermione whispered.

Harry opened his arms to her, and Hermione scooted closer so she could wrap her arms around him, too. He rested his cheek on top of her head. “I’m sorry, too. I haven’t… I don’t balance things well. Life was a lot easier when my only job was saving the world.”

“Turns out being an adult is hard,” she agreed.

Harry let go first. “Bring Malfoy to the party. Let’s all talk to Ginny together. It’ll all work out. Oh, but since he’s loaded, bring me something expensive, yeah? I don’t care what it is, but it’d be nice to think I’m doing my part at chipping away his billionaire status.”

“We’ll bring you the finest Brie France has to offer,” Hermione promised. “Oh, and, I’ve been meaning to ask: Did you really play night croquet at Daphne Greengrass’s estate completely starkers?”

“Would you look at the time,” Harry said, looking down at his blank wrist. He was at the Floo in a flash. “I’d best be off. See you in a week!”

***

The last time Hermione had been to Amsterdam, she was a young girl lugging around her stuffed cat, clinging to her mum’s hand as they walked along the canals. She didn’t remember much from that holiday, only that it was autumn, her father snuck her extra stroopwafels, and there were a lot of people riding bicycles.

All these years later, on a warmer-than-usual morning in August, there were still loads of cyclists — and just as many tourists trying not to get run over. The sun beat down on the rows of canal houses. Most were brick, but some were painted cheerful hues of blue and green. Sweet shops and cafés lined the canals, advertising licorice, crêpe-esque pannenkoeken and lighter-than-air poffertjes topped with powdered sugar.

Hermione’s stomach rumbled. She looked up at Draco. “Do we have time for a quick nibble?”

He pushed up the sleeve of his charcoal suit jacket, glanced at his watch, and nodded.

“If we hurry.”

They found a table right on the water, and Hermione scarfed down pannenkoeken smothered in melted dark chocolate. She was careful to avoid smearing any of it on her new tweed skirt suit. She didn’t regret the choice of outfit, knowing that her attendance at the meeting signified something important, but she was glad to be a witch with a talent for cooling charms.

Draco didn’t order anything. His posture was tense. His steely grey eyes, normally focused on her, darted around, as if he was unable to direct his attention to any one thing in particular. When she subtly reached for his magic with hers, the feedback felt jerky and erratic.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“Fine.” The word came out terse, and he winced. “Sorry. Are you finished?”

He threw some money on the table and reached for her hand with LUCK. Hermione frowned, but laced her fingers with his, and within minutes they crossed from Muggle Amsterdam into the magical part of the city. Cyclists still ruled the road, speeding through their morning commutes, but they wore pointy hats with velvet trim and kept toads in their front baskets.

“Suppose they’ve never heard of brooms?” Hermione said, attempting to inject some levity into the situation.

Draco only threw her a half-smile and urged her on, his pace brisk; legs impatient.

“It’s this way,” Draco said, turning the corner onto a wide cobblestone road.

Perched on the corner, taller and gaudier than every other building, stood a casino.

Betoverd, the casino’s neon sign announced in aubergine script. Bewitched. Underneath the sign, a marquee advertised two-for-one blackjack, cheap craps, and drink specials. A hideous purple carpet stretched out from the main doors like a swollen tongue, licking the cobblestones.

In terms of grandeur, it was no Serpenti, but the owner clearly cared about the property. The paint was fresh, upbeat music set the tone for a promising day (or night) of fun, and for all its ugliness, when Hermione stepped on the purple carpet, she found it surprisingly plush.

Before they crossed the threshold, Draco stopped and turned around to face her on a shaky exhale. He squeezed her hand with LUCK, grip so tight he practically crushed her metacarpals.

“Thank you for being here.”

“Of course,” she said, unable to conceal the worry slipping into her voice. “Are you sure everything’s okay? You can talk to me, you know. About this. About anything.”

“I would but —” He shook his head. “The stress is getting to me, that’s all. I may have controlled for too many variables.”

Hermione stroked the ridge of his thumb with hers. “Like what?”

Draco shook his head again, declining to answer.

“Draco.”

He sighed. “I’m trying to correct course, but it’s a moonshot.”

Could he be more vague? She typically found his protective streak gratifying, not only in bed, but especially when it came to his business. If they spoke of Serpenti and its inner workings, it was in the most ambiguous terms, to respect her feelings about it. And the boundary benefited them both, as it led to a healthy respect for their separate lives and skill sets. She didn’t feel the need to have a muck around in his ledger, and he didn’t tell her how to advocate for creatures. Draco didn’t even start introducing her to his vast network until she asked. But in this case, the lack of clarity only served to frustrate her.

A week ago, she’d have been fine with his non-answer; more than fine. But her falling out with Ginny and Pansy had eradicated her appetite for evasiveness and secrets.

Her magic surged, churning through her bloodstream, and she felt as if her rib cage might splinter at her sternum and expose her heart to the whole world. It was the good sort of hurt, where she knew she was about to do the right thing, even if it made her infinitely more susceptible to disappointment.

“You don’t have to hide things from me. You can’t architect a perfect world where I know nothing about what you do and you know everything about what I do. That may have worked with some other witch —”

“I don’t want some other witch,” Draco growled.

Her vulnerable heart beat harder. “Then let me share your burdens, Draco. Please.”

He’d gifted her everything she asked for, granted every wish, so when he paused, it twisted the knife.

“Can it wait?” Immediately after he said the words, she crumpled, but he clocked it; the disappointed fall of her smile, the sag of her shoulders. He scrambled to say more. “Until after the meeting, at least.”

“Alright,” she agreed. Her logical side told her this wasn’t the time or place to have such a big conversation. They were probably running pretty late at this point. Still, she hated the unsettled feeling that holed up in her chest; fear, perhaps, that he was dodging some larger dialogue.

Ever in tune with her emotions, Draco settled his magic over her, a soothing balm that seemed as much a plea as it was an apology.

Why was she always, always wanting more?

He still held her hand, and didn’t let go when he strode inside, pulling her with him onto the bustling casino floor. A manager quickly spotted them, and led the way to the back of the building, away from the velvet card tables and the lingering scent of cannabis and cheap perfume. Draco’s magic shielded her from it all, blurring the surroundings and clinging to her like a second skin. After navigating a maze of corridors, they stopped in front of an unassuming door.

As if sentient, the door swung open, and Lavinia popped her head out.

“Ms. Granger, lovely to see you again.” Her smile was cheerful, easy. She nodded to Draco. “They’re ready for you.”

Draco took a deep breath and let go of Hermione’s hand to adjust his suit. Then, almost as an afterthought, he cracked his knuckles. He marched through the door, smile guarded, but projecting strength. She clutched her handbag and followed him in.

The conference room was packed with people. A long table sat in the middle, all the seats full with young professional types, save for two empty purple chairs clearly meant for her and Draco.

Hermione spied Blaise Zabini, in the same midnight blue suit he’d worn to Daphne’s party, near the head of the table. He shot her a grin. At the centre of it all, an elegant witch stood, shifting her microbraids over her shoulder as she rounded the table. Hermione recognised her. She was one of the witches from Draco’s big meeting on the Sea Serpent.

“Mr. Malfoy, a pleasure as always,” the witch said, offering her hand in greeting. “And am I correct to assume this is your Ms. Granger? Veronika Visser.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hermione murmured, still reeling from the sheer amount of people in the room. There must’ve been forty wix, their eyes all trained on Veronika and Draco.

Veronika gestured to the empty chairs. “Please, sit. This shouldn’t take long. Mr. Zabini, Mr. Jansen?”

Blaise and Mr. Jansen rose, acknowledging Veronika and the rest of the attendees with deferential nods. Mr. Jansen signalled that Blaise should speak first.

“The Betoverd and Serpenti internal teams have reviewed all the associated documents relating to the sale, and Mr. Jansen and myself, as independent third parties to the transaction, have also done our due diligence in digesting all related material. We have agreed on all terms, and recommend the addition of subsection C, clause 1B, which you can find on page 120. This allows Mr. Malfoy thirty days to back out of the sale for any reason, reverting Serpenti to his ownership, and the return of Mrs. Visser’s earnest money plus ten percent interest. We also recommend that the gold transfer…”

Blaise continued talking, but Hermione’s insides had turned to jelly. Her hand flew up to stifle her sob as the enormity of the moment washed over her.

Draco was selling Serpenti.

Gods above, he was selling Serpenti, and she knew, like she knew the feel of her own magic, that he was selling it because of her. For her. Hermione willed herself not to cry as her lips trembled against her palm, jaw wobbly with emotion. Unbeknownst to her, weeks ago, on a yacht in the Mediterranean, Draco had made plans to relinquish his empire, and now he wanted her there, by his side, to bear witness.

No wonder he’d been gruff earlier. This was possibly one of the biggest days of his life. How long had he been thinking about this moment? When had he decided this was the right course of action? Why now?

He could have told her his plans. Did he not know how much it would mean to her if Draco told her he needed her? But loving Draco meant loving his grand gestures, appreciating action more than words. He might not have said it, but here he was showing her. He needed her to help him fold, take his winnings, and walk away. He needed her, so he’d never look back.

Mr. Jansen was talking now, but Hermione’s sense of hearing seemed to have abandoned her. A stack of parchment and a self-inking quill appeared on the table in front of Draco. An identical stack appeared in front of Veronika, who seemed just as awestruck as Hermione.

“The tabs indicate pages requiring your signatures. If all parties are satisfied, go ahead and sign or initial on the corresponding lines. Upon receipt of all signatures, these documents will magically combine into one signed, binding contract for the sale of Serpenti by Mr. Malfoy to Mrs. Visser and Betoverd Casino.”

“Draco,” Hermione whispered, finally daring to look at him. He’d slid his glasses on, but his quill remained untouched. “Are you sure?”

She told herself she had to ask. If she was dreaming, she’d rather be pinched now. But she knew, deep down, she wasn’t dreaming. He’d brought her all the way here, and he was going to let the casino go, once and for all. It was all real, the kind of real that tilts everything on its axis and spins you off in a completely new direction.

The kind of real she’d only ever felt with him.

In front of everyone, Draco tucked a curl behind her ear and held his hand there, throat working as he swallowed hard. Underneath the businesslike bravado, it was clear he was all nerves. He searched her eyes, making a half-successful effort to execute his charming smirk.

“Well, if I want things to work with the woman I love,” he said slowly, so only she could hear. “And if I want to build something new with her, which I find myself wanting, very, very much… Then I can’t carry on as I have, can I?”

His confession sent a shockwave through her, decimating any reply she might’ve summoned from the depths of her hindbrain.

The woman I love.

He loved her. Draco loved her.

He smiled fondly at her, dropped his hand and began leafing through his stack of parchment, signing away his life’s work while she sat there, open-mouthed and overwhelmed. She shook her head in a weak attempt to clear it, but it was useless; her magic was celebratory, streaking through her veins and lighting her up from the inside. What’s more, she knew he could feel it, and that sent her into another tizzy.

How long had he known he loved her? Did he know she felt the same?

Surely he did. She’d shown him all her cards from the start; told him in her own language: The blushes that blossomed across her cheeks, the little hitches in her breath, the gingerness in her fingers when she swept his hair from his eyes. They all spoke of desire, of fondness. Of love.

Hermione wanted to leap up from the table and Apparate them away from here so she could throw her arms around his neck and ask him a million questions like when did this happen and how did you know and can we never say the word casual again, then kiss him again and again, until either they tired of it or they succumbed to the heat death of the universe, whichever came first.

The room fell quiet as Draco and Veronika completed the paperwork. Within minutes. two signed stacks merged into one, and a bright green light indicated the agreement was sealed with magic.

Suddenly everyone was standing, and laughter and applause filled the room. Draco went to congratulate Veronika, but Hermione remained frozen until Blaise helped her up, pressing a flute of champagne into her hand.

“Congratulations,” Blaise said, tipping his glass against hers.

“Blaise,” she said in disbelief.

“Yes?”

“How did you, I mean, when…”

He chuckled. “It was a lot of work. I owed Draco a favour, but I was all too happy to do it.”

Hermione looked at him dazedly. “You knew we were together.”

“I’ve known for a while,” Blaise conceded. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You don’t know it, maybe, but you brought him back to life.”

“He did the same for me,” she said quietly.

Draco and Veronika made their way over, deep in conversation.

“And let me assure you once again,” Veronika said in her velvety voice. “I will uphold my promise not to change the things your former business partner incorporated into Serpenti’s design. It’s half the reason I was interested: As you can see, we have a lot to work on in terms of upgrading this property. But with a rebrand, making both of them Serpenti properties, I think we can attract the type of clientele you’ve been so successful at courting.”

Draco dipped his head in gratitude. “Thank you. I’m happy to hear it.”

“I suppose it’s safe to say this now — You could’ve gotten more. I heard Athens was offering more; millions more.”

“I had my reasons for choosing you. You’re good to your people, bright, self-made. And I don’t need more,” Draco said, slipping his arm around Hermione. “I have everything.”

She nearly swooned at the implication.

Veronika winked at Hermione before turning her attention back to Draco.

“What will you do next? Don’t tell me you’ll retire.”

“I have a few ideas. First, though, I need to get back to London and debrief my staff, outside vendors —”

Lavinia cut in. “The jet is waiting for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Lavinia,” Draco said, looking relieved to see her. “Glad you’ll still be with me until we fully transition everyone over to working with Veronika. I can’t thank you enough for your discretion during this process.”

“Hermione,” Blaise said offhandedly. “I’d love for you to stick around, if you can. I spoke earlier with Mr. Jansen, and he told me he’s a major donor to the Society for the Betterment of Merpeople.”

Hermione, interest piqued, looked quickly over at Mr. Jansen, then back to Blaise. “SBM? Even after their scandal last year?”

“He indicated he’s open to hearing about new opportunities, particularly ones more conscious about issues like gender equality and ethical kelp harvesting. I suggested we discuss over lunch. And I’ve invited Daphne to join as well, considering her experience in maintaining healthy supply chains for potions ingredients.”

“Stay,” Draco encouraged. “Sounds like that’d be right up your alley.”

“You’re sure?” Hermione asked.

“I’ll be slammed the rest of the day; for next week, probably, but I want to take you out tonight. Stay for now and I’ll see you later. We’ll talk.”

If she were being honest, she’d rather find an excuse to go with Draco, even if all she could do was sit in his lap while he drafted memos or initiated bank transfers. She wanted to be with him no matter what he did. But ultimately she knew she’d only serve as a distraction, and most of his time was about to be hers.

Because he loved her. He loved her, he loved her…

“Hermione?” Blaise prodded, interrupting her thought-spiral.

Right. Yes. This would be good for her career; the career she fought so hard for and finally achieved. And she’d be damned if she wasn’t intrigued by the potential new business.

She’d be in Draco’s capable hands soon enough.

“I’d love to,” she said. Then, to Draco, “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

***

At seven fifty-two, Hermione shifted back and forth, admiring herself in the mirror. The little white silk dress clung to her curves like a second skin, just barely smoother than her own.

She’d gone through her most intense beauty regimen in preparation for her date. From the top of her head — hair curled yet sleek — to the tips of her toes — painted red, nearly dry — she was utterly perfect. That’s what she wanted this night to be: perfect.

She wanted to always remember the night she confessed her love to Draco.

Butterflies exploded in her stomach, not from nerves, but from sheer joy. She felt like the luckiest girl in the world. She was going to tell the man she loved with her whole heart the secret that had been eating her up inside for weeks, and she didn’t have to wonder if he’d say it back, because he’d kept the same secret from her, too.

As far as secrets went, it was the best one possible.

And in more good news, Hermione had heard from Ginny. A letter arrived while she was in the shower. It was brief, and lacked Ginny’s usual fire, but said she wanted to talk when she arrived for Harry’s festivities, and she was open to getting to know Draco.

There was no mention of Pansy, but that didn’t necessarily mean they hadn’t worked things out. If they hadn’t, there was still plenty of time before they needed to leave for Tahiti. The Portkey had arrived today, a little Snitch with a lightning bolt engraved on it. Theo’s doing, probably.

If by some chance Ginny and Pansy weren’t back together by the time Ginny got to Tahiti, Hermione resigned herself to meddling. It was clear Pansy loved Ginny, and if Pansy’s memory was anything to go by, Ginny had the same feelings for Pansy, only she was frightened to share their love with the world.

Hermione had thought a lot about Ginny those past few days; even more since her chat with Harry. She hadn’t experienced a falling out like this since the mess with Ron in fourth year, where she’d be doing something benign, like reading the paper, and all of a sudden a twist of guilt and grief would spasm in her chest. Their Friday nights together seemed so long ago.

It was impossible to be angry with Ginny, despite the fact that she had withheld information, too, because Harry was right. Ginny had a lot at stake. The world at large might think less of Hermione for being with Draco, but random wix’s opinions regarding her romantic relationship meant nothing to her.

Ginny, on the other hand, would almost certainly forfeit her strained, yet significant relationship with her mother. Maybe even her relationships with her more conservative brothers. Ron hadn’t batted an eye when Harry came out, but Percy would probably faint — again. And her work was all tied up with her family life, her incredible inventions that spread laughter and mirth throughout the wizarding world, that brought them all a little levity in the immediate aftermath of the war, that paid homage to her dearly departed brother.

Losing almost everything that had defined her life for the past decade? Yeah, Hermione could relate to that. That’d been her whole summer. But it didn’t feel like a loss, not anymore. She’d gained so much more than she’d dared to imagine.

Ginny deserved a chance to reinvent herself, too. And maybe, just maybe, Hermione could help her through it, because that’s what best friends were for, and Hermione had decided that from then on, she was going to be the best friend that Ginny deserved. They’d still watch the Olympics and Muggle films, and eat pistachio ice cream straight from the carton, but Hermione would lay bare her troubles, warts and all, in the hopes that Ginny might show her cards, too.

She twirled a curl around her finger, reflecting on the afternoon’s success. After she’d left Betoverd with Blaise and Mr. Jansen, they’d found a cosy restaurant with incredible Indonesian food and talked business for two hours. Daphne, who was far more silver-tongued than anyone gave her credit for, ended up being a massive help in closing a deal that would have them not only helping merpeople, but getting a hefty donation as well. Afterwards, when Blaise suggested a tour of the public library, Hermione recalled a little tidbit she had picked up from Pansy — it was considered deeply rude in Pureblood circles to leave an invitation entirely unaccepted. Skipping the library nearly killed her, but it was worth it when Daphne, predictably, did the proper thing and accompanied Blaise on his little sojourn.

She hoped he hadn’t squandered his good fortune.

Fortune certainly smiled on Hermione, because when her clock rang out the hour, she’d put the finishing touches on her hair. She was right on time. With a swipe of her cherry lip balm, and a dose of sweet clear gloss on top, she was ready.

“This is it,” she said to herself in the mirror, shaking out her hands at her sides. “This is it.”

Crookshanks leapt up from the bed, his keen ears hearing Draco’s knock before Hermione could. She practically ran to the door, and when she flung it open, she didn’t even see the bouquet of red roses he held in front of him.

“Ow,” she gasped, clutching her forearm. She’d simply launched herself into his arms. She never considered there might be thorns.

Hermione stepped back and lifted her hand to see the damage. It was minimal: A pinprick of blood bloomed in her inner elbow, and she stood motionless as it dripped down onto her tattoo. The bluebell flames dimmed, then guttered.

“Episkey,” he murmured quickly, smoothing his thumb across the tiny wound. Her skin stitched over it quickly, almost as if it had never existed at all. “I’m sorry, princess. Next time I’ll remove the thorns first.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Hermione stammered, waving it off. “I should’ve looked before I leaped.”

She took a moment to drink him in. He wore the same suit from earlier, the fine tailoring showcasing his muscular frame to his best advantage, but his hair had rebelled against the severe styling. Now it hung just the way she liked it.

Draco tapped the bouquet with his wand, shearing the thorns from the stems. He extended the flowers to her. “For you.”

Hermione took the flowers from him, cradling them in her arms as she revelled in their heady scent. She felt like her heart had been replaced with a pulsating ball of light. She didn’t need to ask what red roses meant.

“Thank you, Daddy. I love them.”

“You ate the dinner I sent over? I’m sorry I couldn’t join you. It’s been a headache getting everything in order. I delegated most of it to Lavinia, but naturally people had questions and insisted on speaking with me and only me.”

“It’s a big change. I think it’s understandable they want to hear it from you directly. And I did get dinner. I ate every bite.” She put the flowers under a bell jar and applied a Stasis charm as well as a few miniature wards, so as to be certain her roses were safe from mischievous cats, then accepted Draco’s open hand. “Are we taking the jet? Should I grab my shawl?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “We’re not going far tonight. Do you mind a walk?”

“Not at all.”

They stepped out into the moonless night, walking hand in hand along the pavement. Hermione’s magic ached as she cast a Disillusionment charm over them both. Hiding who they were any time they were out in magical London had begun to take a toll on her emotionally.

Only a few more days of this, she thought. Once the news about the sale and pictures of them together in Tahiti hit the papers, they’d lay low for a bit, and then start testing the waters with broader magical society. At least, that was her plan. Now that she had Harry’s blessing, all she had to do was invite Draco to Tahiti.

“I sold my casino today,” Draco said, his deep voice tinged with awe and disbelief.

“You did,” she agreed. “Though you have thirty days to change your mind.”

He shook his head. “I won’t.”

“When did you decide to sell?”

Draco sighed and carded LUCK through his hair as they turned the corner. LOVE held her firm.

“I’d thought about it at various points in time, before we were together. The workload would get to me, or we’d have a bad quarter. But it was never a serious consideration until you came along. After you took me to task in Taipei, it got me thinking.”

“Suppose I read you the riot act, didn’t I?”

“Suppose you did. And it worked; when I went to Rio and Vegas, and I saw what my competitors were doing — all of it stretching the boundaries of legal operating standards — I don’t know. I started avoiding the tables, then the floor, and after you took me to your meeting, the writing was on the wall. I went back to Serpenti, looked around, and it was like the scales fell from my eyes. I didn’t want to be part of it anymore.” He looked at her out of the corner of one eye. “You’re not upset that I sold instead of…”

“Burning it to the ground?” She huffed a laugh. “No. I don’t think I’ll ever fully let go of my idealism. It makes me good at what I do. Magical creatures are so accustomed to being ignored that they’ll settle for scraps, but then I come in and show them much more is possible. Not everything, of course, but more. Money has a lot more influence than I ever gave it credit for, and it’s not as if power and money will ever be disentangled from each other.”

Draco didn’t rush to fill the silence, so Hermione continued on. “Of course, if all the money ends up in just a few people’s hands, especially people who are incentivised through existing power structures to be as calculating and selfish and sociopathic as possible, that’s the worst case scenario. It’s a recipe for revolution, though revolutions require sacrifice and compromise, and the trappings of modernity in a fractured media landscape make organising near-impossible. Sadly, the best case scenario, the one most people wish existed that creates a more just world, won’t ever come to pass, because of the existing power structures.”

“And what of the next best case scenario, princess?”

Hermione grinned, adding a skip to her step. “I was hoping you’d ask. I think the next best case scenario is to convince existing billionaires to become millionaires personally and billionaires philanthropically; use their considerable talent for making gobs of money to shift to improving our institutions; schools, healthcare, etcetera. We can’t leave our societal structures vulnerable and dependent on trickle-down economics, because that doesn’t work, even though governments try to pretend it does. An unrealised gains tax won’t ever make it past the elites. We need to appeal to their vanity, their desire for a strong legacy, their morality. Some will be unwinnable, but at the end of the day, they’re just as human as anyone else, and they can’t take it with them.”

“It’s the human part that’s essential,” Draco said solemnly. “Our shared humanity is weakened when we limit our pursuits to extracting wealth from everyone and everything around us.”

“Gods, you really were listening.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow, as if not listening to her had never crossed his mind. “Yes?”

“Sorry, I’m not surprised, it’s just hot. When you listen to me, and support my dreams, though, it’s more than that. You take action. You change. No one’s ever done that for me. Everyone else sort of nods their heads and waits for me to run out of breath.”

“They’re missing out. It’s sexy when you talk about the things you’re passionate about. I’m only sorry I didn’t properly appreciate you in my misguided youth. You’re doing quite well at the schmoozing, by the way. Consider me sufficiently schmoozed.”

“You could do this with me,” Hermione said gently. “Show other powerful people with means that there’s only so much you can buy, but a lot more you can influence. You did say you would let me leverage your connections.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Draco said. “I plan to give a good chunk of my Serpenti money to Theo. I told him at Daphne’s. He was all too happy to accept, especially after I said I didn’t need my name on it.”

“Perhaps I could prevail upon you to reconsider?”

“How so?”

“As I said, we need to appeal to vanity. If the sorts of people we need to persuade see the Malfoy name emblazoned across all kinds of research and development, buildings, patents — Blaise is always saying billionaires love patents —”

“And then the press will come knocking, and awards, and suddenly all those billionaires might want to have some skin in the game,” he murmured, finishing her thought. “Gods, you really are something else.”

“Plus everyone loves a redemption arc.”

The adoration in his eyes gave her the courage she needed to ask him what she’d wanted to ask him for weeks now.

“Speaking of the press, I wanted to ask you… I wanted to ask if you’d come to Tahiti with me, and, well, go public with our relationship.”

Draco blinked with surprise. “Really?”

“I forget if I mentioned, but it’s a belated birthday celebration for Harry, and the Daily Prophet will be there, conducting interviews and providing an update on where we all are now. And I just thought, after what you said today,” That you love me, she didn’t say. “Maybe you’d want to?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to, but, Potter’s okay with me gatecrashing?”

“You’re not gatecrashing. I asked him. After everything with Ginny, I figured it’d be better if he heard about us from me. I explained everything and he’s good with it; with us. As far as the press stuff, we’ll get the Prophet’s questions in advance. You and I can shift the conversation from your past to your future plans. I won’t let them ask you anything unkind.”

“Always thinking of me,” he murmured. Draco’s fondness for her shone through every word. “I can’t believe my luck.”

She swung their entwined hands, brimming with hope. “So you’ll come?”

“Of course. I’ve never been to Tahiti, and I’d say I’m more than ready to complete my redemption arc. Making you happy is the cherry on top.”

They turned another corner, entering a leafy neighbourhood of well-tended townhouses, illuminated by the soft glow of streetlamps.

“This is cute,” Hermione commented idly, admiring the brickwork.

“What about that white one over there?” Draco asked, jerking his chin towards an elegant three-story across the road. White with black shutters, the home was framed by double columns on each side. A summery wreath adorned the bright red door, encircling a brass knocker that, if she squinted, looked a bit like a lion’s head. The windows were dark.

She shrugged. “It’s nice, I suppose. Bit poncey.”

He barked a laugh and tugged at her hand, looking both ways before crossing. “Maybe you’ll like it better up close.”

“Wait, what?” She laughed breathlessly. “What are we doing?”

Draco led her up the steps onto the landing and, instead of knocking, fished a key from his pocket.

“Is this place yours?” Hermione asked as he fiddled with the lock. His hands were abnormally unsteady; he dropped the key twice before sliding it home.

“Not exactly.” Grey eyes met hers in the dim lamplight. He held the doorknob fast. His breath seemed to have evaporated into the humid night air. “Close your eyes?”

She screwed her eyes shut, a smile twisting her lips as she imagined what might lay inside. Maybe it was an underground jazz club. Draco liked live music. Or maybe it was a late-night bookshop, and they’d have to solve a riddle to get the password.

Draco dismissed the Disillusion charm and she heard the door swing open.

“Lumos Maxima,” he commanded. The darkness behind her eyelids lessened. “Okay, princess. Open.”

The first things she saw were the candles. White candles were everywhere, from tea lights to thick pillars, nestled in glass votives on the polished hardwood floors. Scattered around the candles were red rose petals, forming a path through a beautiful entryway and up another set of stairs. Wide rooms flanked both sides of the entryway, but while they were painted and bedecked with ornate cornice mouldings, they were empty, devoid of any furniture or drapery.

Hermione took a halting step inside, trying to take it all in, but she was too stunned to do anything but gape.

“Oh my gods,” she said at last, nearly letting her handbag fall from her shoulder to the floor.

What was happening?

Draco closed the door quietly behind him. “Let me give you the tour. Dining and kitchens first, I think,” he mused, brushing past her to go through the room at her right. “This way, please, watch your step. Kindly refrain from flash photography, and hold all questions and comments until the end of the tour,” he said, in a tone that, while teasing on the surface, belied his nerves.

Hermione’s legs, apparently the only working part of her body at present, followed him dutifully into the next room. It, too, had glinting candles and rose petals on the floor, spilling out from the corners, unrestrained in their beauty.

“This can be our dining room,” Draco said, miming smoothing his hand along a wide, invisible table. “We can seat twelve comfortably. I’ve never hosted a party at a place of my own, so I might not be any good at it, but it might be nice to start with one of the less popular holidays, work our way up to Christmas and Easter.”

His eyes flicked to her face, hopeful, before he strode through another doorway. A lump of emotion welled in her throat as she tried to keep up, in both the physical and emotional sense.

He’d found a home. For them.

The kitchens were beautiful. A wide, farmhouse sink with a window overlooking the back garden. Gleaming appliances. An island with seemingly endless storage, and an informal dining area and a built-in table with padded bench seating.

Draco pressed his palms into the worktop. “We’ll cook delicious meals here. I don’t know how, but I’m assuming you do; yet another thing you can teach me. And if your parents are comfortable coming into the magical part of the city, we can bring them round, and maybe you and your mum can bake together.”

The first tear beaded at the corner of her eye and fell onto her cheek. It was the way he’d so clearly thought about it all, every single detail, that got her so choked up.

Here he was, standing in the home he’d envisioned for them, painting a picture of everything she’d ever dreamed of but never thought she could have. He laid it out as if it was simple, as if he were a real-life magician who could make her every wish come true with a snap of his fingers.

“Your father and I will be the official taste testers, for quality assurance purposes, you understand. Anytime we make fish, Crookshanks will try to jump up here and steal the scraps, and we’ll have to shoo him off, but neither one of us will be serious about it. I’ll sneak him bits under the table, and you’ll hand out treats like candy, and the old chap will grow too fat to fit on any of the regularly sized window sills.”

He tapped his fingers, seemingly trying to remember if he’d missed anything, but then moved swiftly into the next room, leading her in a counterclockwise circle.

“Here’s a loo, and then in here’s the washer and dryer. I haven’t done any washing up in ages, so I’m afraid I’m no use here, either. You’ll insist on doing it yourself at first, but eventually you’ll relent, and send it out. I will gripe about the inevitable bounty of orange fur that will cover all my nice trousers, but secretly enjoy it.”

Next came an informal living room with a wide bay window.

“I’ll make you a reading nook here, and erect bookshelves along this wall. We’ll select a non-squashy sofa at first, but you’ll wear me down, and I’ll accept my life as a man who has to sit on squashy sofas. In return, you’ll put up with me interrupting your reading from time to time in pursuit of… Other pleasurable pastimes,” he winked, and despite crying, she blushed. Draco wiped a tear from her jaw with his knuckle. “Come on, princess. We haven’t even seen the other two floors.”

They made their way up the stairs, Hermione snuffling but otherwise silent. What could she even say? This was romantic beyond all logic or reason. She clutched the bannister to try and ground herself in an evening she never wanted to forget.

“This is the main level,” Draco was saying as they reached the second story. “Two more loos, including one attached to this room here.” He ducked into the doorway. “This’ll be the main guest room. Your family, our friends, they can always stay here. Our door will always be open.”

Next he showed her another guest room, and two studies; one for each of them. When they looped back towards the stairs, he took her hand in both of his. “There’s one more thing I want to show you before the master suite.”

They climbed the next flight in silence, following the candles to a small room with arched windows. There were two interior doors, one of which appeared to be a closet, and the walls were painted a pale aquamarine that reminded her of blue skies and crystal clear waters and Draco’s magic flowing through her veins. A sense of calm and well-being washed over her as she stepped inside.

Draco moved behind her and set his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging.

“This is my favourite room.”

“Why?” Hermione croaked, voice small from disuse. She couldn’t wait until the end of the tour to ask.

“It’s dark now, but the light, when it comes in, bathes the whole room in sunshine. That’s one reason,” he said. Now his voice was genuinely quaking; she wasn’t imagining it. “And the other is that when I saw it, all I could think was…” LOVE drifted down to her lower abdomen, stroking the softness there. “All I could think was that it would make the perfect nursery.”

She clapped both hands over her mouth as a sob wracked her body. Draco gently turned her to face him, cupping her damp jaw, brushing away her tears with both his thumbs. His expression was worshipful, and she nearly collapsed under the weight of his regard for her.

“Hermione, I love you. I love you more than I ever thought possible, and I meant it when I said I want to build something with you. On paper, maybe I’m not the best investment. I’ve just lost my job, and soon I’ll be homeless, too.” He tried to smile, and she cried harder. “But you’ve always seen the good in me, even when I only showed you the bad, and I’m hoping that you’ll let me finally give you everything you deserve; the very, very best.”

“Draco,” she cried, clutching the back of his head as she rose up on her tiptoes to press her forehead to his. “I love you, too. I have for a while now. Ages.”

He held her close, their breaths intermingling in the infinitesimal distance between their lips.

“I saw you holding that baby and I lost my fucking mind,” Draco professed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort of speaking a longheld truth. “You have no idea.”

Hermione hiccuped a laugh, nearly exploding with joy. “I thought you panicked.”

“No, love. I’m not scared. Not anymore.”

The first kiss was fleeting, like a falling star. His lips grazed hers, and she held back another sob as he nudged her nose with his. Tender, sure fingers voyaged down her arms, exploring the terrain like he was holding her for the very first time, stroking until he found her hands and entwined them together. Draco’s magic felt different as he swept her away into the next kiss, and she surrendered to the heat of his body, the sensation of his magic; less calm and more relieved. Hers had changed, too, the passion simmering into something far more potent.

Hermione opened her mouth to him, trapped in his orbit, aswirl in his galaxy. No, she was thinking too small. He’d created a universe, and he’d made her the centre of it. They made the most of their mutual discovery; hands breaking free to clutch at hair and slide down chests, tongues tasting sweetness mixed with spice, forgoing oxygen in favour of life-based carbon.

There was nothing like kissing Draco, at least not this side of heaven.

Before they got too carried away, she curled a hand around his wrist, right above LUCK. Hermione groaned as she broke the kiss. Draco’s answering whimper of protest sent her pulse through the roof, and she almost decided to forget the English language in its entirety.

“Should we see the rest?”

They hurried through the motions of examining the large master suite, quickly appraising the gorgeous soaking tub and his and hers closets, both of them eager to get back to snogging the daylights out of each other in their future bedroom.

“There’s so much we’ll get up to here. I hardly know where to start,” Draco drawled as his hand closed around her hip. The way heat rolled off him, thick with intent, made her cheeks flush.

“You could show me,” she countered. “Give me your jacket.”

He shrugged out of it, and she Transfigured the jacket into a humble bed with grey sheets. His shirt became a pillow. Draco, always in search of atmosphere, twirled his wand to extinguish most of the candles in the home, leaving only a few burning brightly by the bedside.

“I guess we’re not casual anymore,” she said slyly as Draco pinned her wrists against the wall, dipping his head to kiss the tops of her breasts. She was grinning like an idiot, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“This is the furthest thing from casual.” He sucked the succulent slope of her neck, nibbled the velvet lobe of her ear. “Of all the lies I’ve ever told myself, telling myself that I could keep things casual with you was the biggest one of all.”

She bit her lip, suddenly shy under the weight of all their confessions, but Draco dragged LUCK down the curve of her waist and hips, and she sighed his name.

“I don’t want to make decisions without you anymore,” he said, meeting her lust-dampened gaze. “What do you think about this place? It’s ours, if you want it.”

“I love it. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered. She’d never get tired of hearing him say it. Never ever. “So you’ll move in with me?”

She nodded eagerly, then remembered to use her words. “Yes. Of course, yes.”

He let go of her wrists, LOVE ceding control. “I know it’s only a first step, but I won’t make you wait too long for the rest, princess. I would never do that to you. I promise.”

“I know you won’t,” Hermione said, trailing her fingers through Draco’s hair as his mouth found her nipple through her dress. “I’ll take care of you, Draco. I don’t know how you did it for so long on your own.”

“Same as you. I didn’t,” Draco said, words muffled as he freed her breasts and twirled his tongue around each nipple, licking and sucking until they glistened. “Thought I was, until you came along. You always prove me wrong. I’m a better man for it.”

Her head fell back, and he continued his ministrations as he pushed her thin straps down her arms and let her dress fall to the floor, pooling at her feet in a heap of white silk. She was bared to him then, in more ways than one.

He stared at her for an eternity, drinking her in. Then, like a pious worshipper, so moved to be in the presence of his goddess, he fell to his knees before her. His tattooed scars rained down his back. The sight of the glass shards, ethereal even in silhouette, tugged at her through her ribs as Draco ran his hands up and down her legs, as if reassuring himself of her existence.

His hot breath ghosted along her mound, and she shivered, desperate for him to throw her leg over his broad shoulder, part her with a flick of his tongue and devour her whole. Draco’s voice was husky, thick with desire as he closed in on her cunt. “Now tell Daddy why he buys you all that pretty lingerie and you never wear it?”

Hermione wet her lips and whined. She wanted more of his words, loved the way they set her ablaze. But talking required use of his mouth, and she needed his mouth elsewhere.

“S-sorry Daddy.”

“You’re beautiful either way, princess. But don’t tell me you don’t like it when I unwrap you like a present only for me; take my time, tease you until you make that little noise in the back of your throat,” he said as he moved them to the bed. He laid her on her back and knelt between her thighs, trailing his fingers over the soft swell of her breasts, plucking her nipples into rosy peaks. She gasped when he moved south, her skin erupting into goosebumps as he brushed his knuckles over her womb, and Draco growled his satisfaction. “Mm, that’s the one. I love it. So needy.”

He swept through her folds with two fingers, gathering her sticky desire before giving her clit a little pinch. “But you know what I love most?”

“What do you love most?”

Draco lowered himself down onto his hard stomach and looked her right in the eye. “I love to taste your sweet little cunt.”

He dove in, palming her arse and bringing her up to his mouth so he could feast. Draco had always been a giving lover, his whole body involved in the act, senses trained to recalibrate at the smallest sign of pain or pleasure. But this? This was on a whole other level of attunement. Normally he’d edge her a little, lick a wide, wet stripe up her centre, tease around the bud of her clit with the tip of his tongue. But not tonight.

Tonight he immediately introduced his middle and ring fingers to the spongy spot right inside her pussy, and Hermione found herself throwing her head back on the pillow, toes curling into the mattress as she arched her back. There was no grounding herself, not when he wanted her to fly apart.

There was no thinking either, as he closed his lips around her clit and sucked. She nearly jolted off the bed.

“Hermione, I need you to come for me,” he groaned, voice strained. His entire nose and lips glistened with slick. “The way you look right now… Fuck, I won’t last.”

She’d never missed his mirrored ceiling as much as she did right then. She wanted to see herself making a scene, trembling and sobbing, legs splayed, falling apart for the man she loved.

“Close,” she mustered, just barely.

Her eyes fluttered shut, imagining him naked and grinding his dick into the mattress while he ate her, as desperate to come as she was. She squirmed in his grip, the vision stoking her higher. Fuck if she didn’t want to see that someday; see him lose all control.

Draco, ever-observant, sucked harder, demanding her attention. She pried her eyes open, chin wobbling to hold in a scream as he worked his fingers faster.

He was her dom, and her pleasure was an affirmation of her submission. A declaration that she was his. If it would make him look up at her like he did then; eyes dark, jaw determined, she wanted to give him all of it, let him wring every last drop from her. .

“Do it, love. Come.”

It was love that did her in.

Her vision whited out when the orgasm hit, and she cried out, grabbing Draco’s hair, scrabbling at his shoulders as she twisted beneath him in the throes of pleasure. It was all-consuming, soul-syphoning. She might’ve said his name, or that she wanted his baby now, right now. But she was scattering like stardust, drifting somewhere she’d only been once before, before he pulled her out of it.

Subspace, that was it.

She gave in easily. Hermione went blissfully limp, dimly aware of the shove and scuffle of trousers and pants coming off. She melted further under the heat of his body as he braced himself over her, positioning his cock at her entrance.

“Ah,” he said, meeting her glassy stare as her eyelids drooped. “I see. Such a good girl, aren’t you?”

Everything was wrapped in cotton wool, and she was warm in that lovely way only achieved after an impromptu nap on a winter’s day, one firewhisky deep on the sofa in front of a fire.

Draco kissed her forehead, the barest whisper of a kiss. “You’re safe. I’ll take care of you.”

She closed her eyes, expecting him to enter her. He’d needed her badly. But he didn’t.

A shift in weight made her brows furrow. Where had he gone? Oh, he was there, by her side. Petting her pussy gently, coaxing another rush of desire from her to coat his fingers. She tilted her cheek to lay on his shoulder, the ridge of a cool scar pressing into her skin as he praised her.

“My darling,” he breathed.

Magic surrounded her, heady and effervescent. Then, the nip of teeth at her nipple. The flick of a tongue in her navel. Something hot simmered underneath her skin, and she thrashed her head as she moaned.

“That’s it, princess. Give your Daddy another.”

She opened her eyes just before she succumbed to the orgasm.

“Draco.”

“Shh. I’m here. I’m yours, Hermione.”

She dissolved in his arms, a gentle reckoning, a quiet surrender. Draco held her close, solid and sturdy. He kept her tethered, and reluctant as she was to surface, she tugged at their magical connection, a plea to provide safe passage back to reality.

Understanding her without words, or any language at all, really, he rubbed her tingling shoulders, arms and hands. He was still hard, leaking against her inner thigh. Hermione marvelled at the way he’d managed to hold off; his superhuman ability to put her first.

“Please.” Her voice was rough from disuse. “Please, Daddy. I need you.”

“Where do you want me?” Delicately, he touched her opening with the pad of his finger. “Here?”

“Please.”

Draco covered her body with his, groaning as he guided just the tip inside. He hovered there, letting her adjust, waiting until she was ready, even though she could feel the needy pulse of his cock. When she pulled him down to her, he hungrily slanted his mouth over hers, and rewarded her with the tangy taste of her own essence as he gave her more of his cock, until she was stuffed full, desperate for him to move.

And move he did. His white gold chain tapped against her collarbone with every desperate thrust. His patience had finally worn out. Already his pace faltered, the high points of his cheeks pinkening.

“Gods, you’re so… I’m gonna…”

She’d been waiting for this, for him to break; open his eyes to the reality of her love, open his heart to her, receive everything she had to give.

Hermione bore down on his cock, legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing him for everything she was worth. Every cell in her body was attuned to him, focused solely on drawing out his pleasure. She propped herself up on one elbow and reached her other arm around her leg to cradle his balls, gently tugging the way he liked; the way that made him forget himself inside her.

How beautiful to know someone so well, to know what they liked not only in bed but at the breakfast table. How wonderful to experience true intimacy with someone. How sublime, to be in love.

It was the most human she’d ever felt.

Moments later, exactly as she intended, Draco came inside her with her name on his lips. Feeling him lean into his pleasure was almost as good as receiving her own. She remembered when he’d told her he’d never spilled inside a witch, and the primal way she’d reacted to his admission. She’d immediately wanted to be the first he ever did it with. Now she knew she’d be the last, too.

One day he’d lay LOVE on her wrist as she reached for her contraception potion, a question in his eyes. They’d come back to this bedroom, their bedroom, and he’d give her a baby. Hermione had a feeling it wouldn’t take many tries.

Okay, she was way too broody right now. Definitely ovulating.

Marriage first. Then baby.

For now they could just enjoy each other.

“I love you, Draco,” she whispered as he nuzzled into her neck. “Feels so good to say it.”

His reply was instant. “Say it as much as you like. I’ll tell you all the time.” He slipped out of her as he rolled them to the side, finding her eyes with his starry gaze. “I love you.”

She slid her leg between his so she could nestle closer to him. They’d need to go soon — this place wasn’t theirs quite yet — but there was no harm in cuddling for a few minutes.

“I think I know how my bedtime story ends,” she said, burying her nose in his chest, where his scent was strongest. They were both sweaty and spent. His red tattoo glowed in the near-darkness.

Draco ran his fingers idly through her curls. “And how’s that?”

“The sorcerer, having broken the king’s enchantment, wanted to keep the princess in his palace in the clouds, thinking she would be happier there. He draped her in the finest silks, fed her the finest food. But though she came to love the sorcerer, she longed for her kingdom, despite the fact that much of it lay in ruin, neglected by the king. As for the sorcerer, he saw she was unhappy, and thus became unhappy, too.”

“That doesn’t sound very good.”

“Hush, I’m not finished. The princess bade the sorcerer return her home, and though it was against his own heart’s desires, he resigned himself to fulfil her wish. She banished the king, restored the bounty of the land, and her people rejoiced when she assumed the throne. The sorcerer travelled the world, building more wealth, spinning straw into gold. Yet, despite all that, neither of them were satisfied.”

Draco jumped in. “The sorcerer, having realised true wealth lay not in gold but in the love of a good woman, vowed to win the princess’s heart. He slayed her dragons, one by one, so that her rule might be a long and prosperous one, praised by her people and sung about by bards for generations to come. His palace paled in comparison to the touch of her hand, the honey on her lips.”

His eyes, hooded from their lovemaking, drank their fill of her features, roving ravenously over her naked form. When she thought she might implode, he kissed her so chastely it was sinful, and her head spun.

Hermione shivered, and he held her closer. “The princess, too, had some growing to do. She was scared to be vulnerable, but she didn’t want to waste another decade. She had to learn to trust the sorcerer, but when he showed her his heart, she gave him hers. He became king there, first.”

“And then they ruled together, earth and sky?”

“Oh yes,” she murmured. “And they lived happily ever after.”

***

Decorating a townhome on an unlimited budget was far more fun than Hermione imagined. Draco gave her free reign, busy with the Serpenti sale. He was at the casino every waking hour, and hadn’t packed any of his personal things. Meanwhile, Hermione had already sold her furniture, listed her flat, and moved all her belongings plus Crookshanks to the new townhome.

Just as Draco predicted, the cat quickly found the perfect perch. In the window overlooking the back garden, Crooks licked his paws and observed fat red squirrels and tasty starlings hop across the grass, permitting them to traverse his new lands so long as his food bowl overflowed with tinned tuna and beef with gravy.

Draco and Hermione hadn’t spent the night there yet, but there was a real bed in their bedroom now, and two night tables with reading lamps and a tray for Draco to set his glasses. It was beginning to look like a home.

The night before they were set to depart for Tahiti, Hermione had insisted on sleeping over at Serpenti and helping Draco prepare for the move. It was also a good excuse to have her favourite Palak paneer one last time. She’d consulted with the kitchen staff on how to make it herself, but deep down she knew it would never be quite the same.

Around midnight, Draco made lazy, delicious love to her under the mirrored ceiling, in the bed where they’d first slept together, not knowing where that fateful night all those months ago would lead.

And in the morning when Hermione rose and checked her reflection, she smiled with the simple yet life-changing knowledge that no matter what changes time had in store for her body, her heart would always feel young, because her life was filled with love.

Her parents were doing well; they rang her more often, and planned to visit after Hermione and Draco returned from Tahiti. Crooks, despite his age, was spry. Work didn’t feel like work so much as focused passion, which made her magic easier to wield. And her friends were going to accept Draco in the end, she just knew it.

That had just been her luck lately.

As she waved her wand to summon Draco’s books from his bookshelf and organise them into one of his posh trunks, she heard the shower turn on. They were running a little behind — the Portkey was scheduled for ten o’clock and it was already a quarter past nine — but she didn’t fuss. She’d been the one who insisted that Draco take his time at breakfast, particularly when it came to licking chantilly cream from her fingertips. Then one thing led to another, and well… If they missed their Portkey, they could always take the jet.

She patted the pocket of her little black dress. The Snitch that would whisk them away to a roomy bungalow over clear blue waters was safe and secure. But first, there were a few more things Hermione needed to take care of.

Careful not to elbow Draco’s ledger from its precarious position on the corner of his desk, she rummaged around in his topmost drawer for a quill and parchment. Her former colleague Addison had graciously volunteered to watch Crooks and handle additional furniture deliveries at the townhouse, and Hermione had yet to send them an owl confirming her new address. Instead of a quill, her hand closed around something small and square.

She opened her palm to find a little red box edged in gold.

Her pulse skittered. This was the same box from Cannes, but Draco wouldn’t keep cufflinks in the back of his desk drawer. She had a feeling she knew what was inside, and she suppressed a joyous squeal. Would he have picked a diamond for her? A thin gold band, perhaps? Tempted as she was to look, and she was beyond tempted, she tucked the box back inside the drawer unopened.

After she found a quill and placed the letter to Addison in Draco’s outbox, Hermione silently congratulated herself on her magnificent display of willpower. It hadn’t been all that long ago since she’d broken into that very same desk and helped herself to Draco’s private things in a misguided and ultimately unsatisfying attempt at revenge.

They’d both grown, Draco even more so than her. Yes, she’d learned to stand up for herself and leave behind the things that no longer served her, and achieved more for creatures in the past three months than in the past decade, but Hermione had always had a strong sense of purpose, bolstered by an unshakeable foundation of friendship and family.

Draco had possessed some of those things at various points in his life, but never all of them at once — not until now. He wanted to help the world as much as she did. He’d reconnected with his friends. And he’d recently realised he wanted a family. With her.

Hermione glanced at the drawer. Nope. She wasn’t going to look.

“Don’t do it, Hermione Jean,” she whispered to herself. “Let him surprise you.”

In an effort to put more space between herself and the troublesome box, she spun around the desk, jostling Draco’s ledger and sending it crashing to the floor.

“Shit.”

Hermione got down on her knees and heaved the ledger into her arms, assessing the corners and the open pages for any damage. She didn’t mean to look at details, but it had fallen open to June, when they’d first begun seeing each other, and she smiled when her eyes snagged on a massive donation to Blaise.

But as she scanned further down, her smile faded.

Blaise’s name appeared a lot in June; four more times, to be precise. A weekly payment.

A weekly payment matching the exact amount of her salary.

If she hadn’t already been on her knees, she would’ve fallen to them.

What the fuck?

Hermione recalled her conversation with Blaise when he hired her.

“...I finally got in the room with the right investor.”

“I might’ve thrown your name around.”

“I’m in talks with a few other key players, but with our new backer, I don’t think there’ll be any issues…”

Realisation hit like a hex to her gut. She tried to draw breath, but it was like all the oxygen had gone out of the room, and she thought she might faint.

Draco paid her salary.

Their first night together, she’d told him all about the job she wanted, and he’d gone out and bought it for her. And later, when she’d confessed she wasn’t sure if she’d get it, he’d played along, knowing the whole time that the offer was already hers.

Her thoughts spiralled. What if she hadn’t earned the position at all? What if Blaise only hired her because Draco made his initial donation contingent on her employment? Was their entire operation existing only because Draco willed it so?

Hadn’t she promised Harry that Draco wasn’t the type to buy her affection? She dug her fingernails into the soft fleshy parts of her palms, wincing with mortification as her lovestruck words came back to haunt her. At least the pain kept her upright.

Unable to stop herself, Hermione flipped to July. Regular operating expenses. More payments to Blaise. And then…

No.

A payment to a rehab facility, Miami Gambling Recovery. She’d seen this place before, on a pamphlet at Al-Anon, on the day she took Draco with her to a meeting.

“Harry’s trying to get him to go to a facility like that, in Brighton. I don’t think it’s the right place, but I don’t want to get involved.”

Draco picked up the pamphlet, setting his critical gaze on the photo of a sunset over a white-sand beach. “I wouldn’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

Like a fool, she’d listened. She hadn’t worried about it at all.

How had she missed the signs? Her friends had all but said Ron wasn’t in Brighton like Hermione assumed. And Ron’s Portkey — she’d thought it was odd, though perhaps symbolic, to use a poker chip as transportation to rehab, but she’d been preoccupied with getting him off her doorstep and didn’t think more about it.

Now it seemed obvious: The dark green poker chip could have only come from Serpenti, because it was Draco who had given Ron the Portkey, Draco who offered a different rehab after the initial intervention didn’t go well.

Hermione felt sick. She pressed a fist against her mouth to quell the nausea, but it did nothing to settle her rising unease.

Had he offered Ron more money to go, too? Made him promise to never speak to her again?

Draco hadn’t been surprised at all when she told him that Ron was going to rehab, had he? When he’d burst through her door, he’d thought she was in trouble, but when she explained the situation, he’d only reacted to the fact that Ron had showed up to have a final conversation with her.

“I’m sorry. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Should’ve been saying goodbye to Potter or something, not darkening my witch’s door.”

Ron wasn’t supposed to be there because in Draco’s mind, he should’ve already been in Florida. Here she’d thought Draco was being mature about the whole thing but of course he would seem mature about it. He’d already known Ron was leaving. He’d made sure of it.

Had he only done it so going back to Ron wasn’t an option? Surely he knew Hermione would never be with Ron again. Or did he trust her so little that he felt the need to send her ex halfway around the world?

Heart pounding in her ears and dread clumping at the back of her throat, Hermione kept reading the ledger. She couldn’t stop. What else had Draco been hiding?

When she got to August, her magic flared, liquid fury coursing through her veins. A complicated series of transfers indicated Draco hadn’t only gotten Hermione the job, but he’d also inserted himself into her very first assignment.

“Aren’t they dangerous, centaurs?” Draco asked. “Blaise could take the lead, though, surely.”

She squinted over her shoulder at him. “I’m the Chief Outreach Officer. I might be a bit nervous, but this is what I signed up for. I can handle it.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” He said quickly, playing with her hair. “But I’m sure it would be easier if you didn’t have to wade into unfamiliar, potentially frightening territory on your very first assignment. Alone.”

So not only did Draco think that Hermione would never have landed her dream job without his help, he also thought she was entirely incapable of doing it. He was the third party that had overstepped, inserting himself into Blaise’s deal. Of course he was.

“...No experience in creature relations whatsoever; negative relations, really, if we’re operating based on historical norms. But it worked out for the best. The wizards agreed to relocate in exchange for the mineral rights to the new area.”

She really had been blind. Deaf, too. Blaise had all but told her that Draco was the one behind the deal, with his troubled history with Buckbeak and house elves, and despite it all, he’d allowed Draco to interfere, because the business wasn’t sustainable without Draco's money. All Hermione’s special treatment, extra days off… Did all her colleagues laugh behind her back, assuming that Hermione’s position as COO was secured only because she was the big donor’s girlfriend? Were they right?

For the first time in months, she took a cleansing breath. She stood up, abandoning the ledger, and tried to get a handle on both her magic and her emotions, but breathwork was useless, as was the Malfoy magic, which frantically pushed back against the rising tide of her inner turmoil.

Was it all a lie?

She grit her teeth and glanced down at Draco’s desk. She had to know everything now, no matter how much it hurt.

Her hands shook as she fumbled with the pull on the desk drawer and withdrew the little red box. She swallowed hard, fingers braced around the gold clasp.

“Ah, so you’ve caught me.”

Hermione jumped at the sound of Draco’s voice and looked up to find him standing on the other side of the desk. Freshly showered, with a white towel slung around his hips, he looked as relaxed and unguarded as she’d ever seen him, a pleased smirk on his face.

The contents of her stomach roiled. She thought she might cast up her breakfast.

Had he thought she’d never find any of this out? Were they just meant to move in together and go about their shiny new life now that he’d smoothed out all the wrinkles? What would happen when new obstacles came their way, as they inevitably would? Would Draco keep managing her life for her, unbeknownst to her, weaving a dream within a dream?

Her mouth couldn’t seem to form words. The bitter taste of ash coated her tongue.

“Have you already looked inside?” His eyes flicked to the box and back to her face. “As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, I bought it in Cannes, but if you don’t love it, we can return it and get you something more to your taste.”

Hermione still couldn’t speak. He thought she was struck dumb by whatever lay inside the box. This stupid, stupid little box that she’d been so happy to find just minutes earlier. On impulse, just to twist the knife, she flipped open the lid.

It was everything she’d feared.

It was everything she’d wanted.

Nestled on a red velvet pillow was an engagement ring. Gold band, huge diamond. At least three carats. Princess cut.

She was too stunned to sob.

“What do you think?”

Hermione looked at Draco. He was so hopeful, standing there, his phoenix tattoo burning brightly. An inky feather fluttered down to rest atop the tattoo she’d given him. She’d made a home in him, for her magic. For her love.

She fought to swallow again. “I…”

“Don’t worry, I’m not asking right now. I have a plan for your proposal,” he said, stepping towards her. He frowned when she staggered back, teetering in her heels. “Princess, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t. Don’t call me that.”

His brows knit together as he followed her line of vision to the ledger, still on the floor, still open to August. Then, understanding burst across his face, tinged with mild horror.

He held one hand up, as if trying to calm a spooked animal. “Hermione, I can explain.”

Hermione closed the ring box and set it on the desk, her tattooed bluebell flames glowing bright red. She kept her voice deadly calm. “I think I understand well enough.”

“What exactly… Okay, fuck… I was going to tell you.”

“Huh.” She blew a curl out of her face. “When? After I moved in? After I agreed to marry you? After I had your babies?”

She felt fresh tears spring to her eyes, but she was not going to cry. Nope. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Today. I was going to tell you today.”

“That’s awfully convenient.”

“I didn’t… You have to understand, when I met with Blaise, I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again. Our business was done. He mentioned wanting to hire you and not having enough funds, and I thought… I only wanted to do something nice for you, especially after the way we left things.”

“But you did see me again. And you kept meddling. You sent Ron to rehab. You settled the centaur dispute without so much as a drop of my input. If I was a betting woman, I’d say you probably had something to do with McLaggen’s reassignment, too. I mean, how could you? How could you, Draco?”

Draco had gone an unearthly shade of pale. “Please, pr— I only wanted to make your life better. I had every tool at my disposal to make your dreams come true. How could I not use them?”

He’d almost called her princess again. Did Draco take their dynamic more literally than she thought? Did he actually think she was some incompetent little girl?

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“You wouldn’t ask for that, because that’s who you were, then. Now you’re out there making real change, asking for more and doing the advocacy work this world needs. Is it so bad that I worked a little magic behind the scenes to make it possible?”

“You could have asked me! It’s like you don’t trust me to do things myself.”

“I do trust you. I believed in you then, and I believe in you now and fuck, I’m making it worse, aren’t I?” He scraped LOVE through his hair, wet strands sticking up in every direction. “Hermione, I fell in love with you and I wasn’t ready for it. I might’ve made some mistakes, but it’s only because I couldn’t lose you. I can’t lose you.”

She shook her head, holding her sides as immense sadness settled around her shoulders, weighing her down. “I knew it was too good to be true. You said you needed control, and I didn’t listen.”

The Portkey buzzed in her pocket, and she tossed it onto the desk, where it glowed, warning them of their imminent departure.

“Harry’s party,” she mumbled. “I should —”

Wetness spilled from her eyes, and she couldn’t stop the tears. She didn’t want to go without him.

“Are you… Are you leaving?” Draco’s jaw was clenched tight, sharp as glass. “You promised we’d fight for this. I’m here, and I’m ready to fight; not even fight, Hermione, I’m ready to surrender.”

“I want to believe you,” Hermione choked. “But I’ve been lied to before.”

This pain was all too familiar. Ron had lied through his teeth about what he was up to, and how bad it had gotten. Draco knew what she’d been through, which made this jumble of horrible feelings even worse. This thing with Draco was supposed to be different, and yet here she was again.

He closed the distance between them, falling to kneel before her. LUCK closed over her hand. “Please. I’ll — Don’t go.”

The fear and sorrow in his eyes sent a shock through her system. Gods, everything hurt. Was this really it? She squeezed his fingers, trying to conjure up coherent thoughts and turn them into speech, but all her effort went into holding herself together so she didn’t shatter in front of Draco. He didn’t get to see her fall apart.

“How did I let this happen again?”

“You didn’t. I hid it from you. It was wrong of me.” He hung his head.

She took a deep breath and tried to see past her hurt; tried to focus on Draco, down on his knees for her. "I know you meant well. I know people make mistakes; keep secrets. I haven’t been perfect either. One secret I could understand, but this is…"

He pressed his forehead to their entwined hands. “I know. I know. I’m so sorry, love.”

“I think… I just need to think.” Grief sliced through her as she pulled her hand from his grip. “I promised Ginny I would be there, so maybe I should just…”

“It’s okay if you want to go,” Draco rasped, staggering to his feet.

More tears tracked down her cheeks. She didn’t want to go. She’d grown accustomed to him telling her what she wanted, showing her what she needed; she’d come to rely on his intimate knowledge of her inner life. It had been so sweet, but he'd taken advantage of it. She couldn't look to him for guidance now.

"I can't let Ginny down. I have to be there."

“If you… If that’s what you need,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I get it.”

“I’m not just walking out on you, Draco, but… We should probably take some space.”

“Space,” Draco echoed, and her heart cracked in two. “Yeah.”

Hermione’s face crumpled as her crying intensified. She could hardly see Draco through her smeared mascara as she fought to get her next words out. “We can talk when I get back?”

“Yeah.” He sounded utterly defeated. Gone was the confident sorcerer. In his place was a ghost of a man, haunted by his clever mistakes.

“Okay. I guess I’ll, um, I’ll see you then.”

Just as her hand closed around the Snitch, Draco seemed to think better of letting her go. He reached for her, her name on his lips, but she was already spinning through space.

Chapter Text

The Portkey spit Hermione out onto a sun-bleached dock flanked by rows of identical thatch-roofed bungalows. She landed flat on her arse, sans handbag or luggage. All she had was the dress on her back, the wand in her hair, and her heels, one of which was now snapped from the rough landing.

She felt raw, as if someone had cut her open, scooped out all her insides, and left only mangled remnants of viscera and flayed nerves.

“Hermione?”

She looked up to see Ginny, standing in front of the bungalow in a red bikini with some sort of tropical drink in her hand, and Hermione broke into a heart-wrenching sob.

“Oh sweet Merlin,” Ginny ran over and crouched down beside Hermione, then looked back over her shoulder and yelled, “Pansy? We’re gonna need a few more Mai Tais.”

Pansy poked her head out of the doorway, her arched eyebrows raising with alarm as Ginny helped Hermione to her feet. “I’m on it.”

With Ginny’s support, Hermione made it inside, where she collapsed into the white linen sofa. She clutched a kitschy pillow shaped like a plumeria blossom to her stomach and tried miserably to quell her tears. Ginny wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and whispered encouraging words in reassuring tones until Pansy set a fresh Mai Tai on the wicker coffee table.

“Take a sip,” Pansy encouraged, sliding into the armchair across from Hermione. She was barefoot, bob tousled by the salty breeze, and she wore a one piece under a blue sarong. “It’ll help. Everyone else is out kayaking for the next hour or so; it’s a sunset tour. Take as long as you need.”

Hermione brought the drink to her lips with unsteady hands. The sour lime burst across her tongue, cutting through her nausea, and focusing on swallowing allowed her to regulate her breathing. She took several long gulps, keenly aware of the two sets of eyes on her, and drained the glass before attempting speech.

First, the obvious: “You got back together.”

“We did.” Pansy smiled at Ginny, in that melty way that reminded Hermione of how Draco looked at her right before the world came crashing down around them.

What she wouldn’t give for him to look at her that way again. She loved him so much it made her stupid; the last thing in the world she’d ever wanted to be. He’d hidden so much from her, some of which seemed so obvious now, even after she’d given him a chance in Amsterdam to come clean with the things that were bothering him. In hindsight, it was easy to see his actions were weighing on him. Maybe he hadn’t had the right opportunity to tell her… But there would never be a good time to tell your girlfriend that you’d meddled in her work and her personal life. And had he really expected her to believe he was going to tell her today?

She needed another drink.

“I missed you; both of you,” Hermione said. The sentiment was genuine, even if she was doing her damndest to paste on a facsimile of a smile. “How did you —”

“We missed you, too,” Ginny interrupted, squeezing Hermione’s shoulder. “But there’s time for that story later. Now, I’m no Auror, but I’m assuming the fact that you showed up here alone and crying means something went wrong with Malfoy —” She glanced at Pansy. “I mean, Draco.”

Ginny’s comforting touch and gentle self-correction brought fresh tears to Hermione’s waterlogged eyes.

“Yeah,” Hermione sniffled.

“He didn’t turn his wand on you, did he?” Ginny asked, her words quiet but lethal.

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s… I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Chin up,” Pansy coaxed. “Weren’t you just telling me that you were in love with him? And he clearly loves you. It can’t be that bad.”

Twenty minutes of explanation, intermittent crying, and another round of Mai Tais later, Pansy changed her tune.

“I take it back. That’s rough. Deceptive, even by Slytherin standards.”

Hermione put her head in her hands. At least she hadn’t gone mad on top of everything else; her friends agreed with her. She might be a fool, yes, but she wasn’t mad.

“I’d have run out, too, not before giving him a piece of my mind, of course,” Ginny plucked the lime garnish from the rim of her glass and sucked the juice out.

“I can’t believe he sold Serpenti.” Pansy shook her head, still in shock. “Chalk that one up to your good influence. Far be it from me to defend a man, particularly one that’s hurt my friend, but I must say, Draco’s shown an aptitude for change that’s, frankly, beyond most men. This… This is forgivable.”

“I might agree,” Ginny shrugged. “Emphasis on might.”

Pansy and Hermione whipped their heads to look at each other and then back to Ginny.

“What?” Ginny asked. “Hermione, you earned that job. How long has Blaise been coming round, practically begging you to join him?”

“I don’t know. A while.”

“Before Draco came along, though, right?”

She had a point. If Hermione hadn’t been utterly shellshocked by the contents of Draco’s ledger, that thought might’ve occurred to her sooner. She’d been in early, informal talks with Blaise even before Harry and Theo’s wedding last year. Blaise had always made it clear she was his top candidate.

“It looks bad, and keeping his influence a secret from you is perhaps one of the worst decisions Draco’s ever made, which is saying something,” Pansy chimed in, shooting Hermione a meaningful look. “But he didn’t get you the job in the way that, say, McLaggen got his job. The only hold up was the money.”

“That’s true,” Hermione said, perking up a bit.

“Blaise probably thought you knew about that part,” Pansy continued. “But he really should’ve said something about the centaur stuff. Draco, too, since it was mostly his doing. That I think you’re deservedly peeved about.”

Ginny’s temper flared. “Putting the money up for you to get the job is one thing, but that’s… That’s big. That’s more than throwing money around.”

“I agree. That was a bridge too far,” Pansy said in a soothing tone. “Forgivable, but not excusable, and that’s only if he realises why it’s a problem and doesn’t do it again.”

Ginny nodded. “He can’t keep subverting your autonomy for the rest of your lives. You deserve a massive apology. Massive. Trust will have to be reestablished.”

“And what about sending Ron to rehab in Miami?” Hermione said, bristling anew, but without as much heat in her words as before.

“Draco regularly offered rehab to clients through Serpenti, did he not?” Pansy asked, leaning forward and adjusting her sarong. “And you told him you thought Ron’s best shot at recovery was rehab, and the one he was supposed to go to wasn’t the right one for him?”

Hermione held the plumeria pillow tighter. “I did say that. And Draco’s very good at listening to me.”

“He’s just gone overboard with it because he’s — rightfully — worried he’s not good enough for you,” Ginny said sagely. “I’ll admit, I wondered why Ron changed his tune all of a sudden. I can’t say I like how Draco did it, but he did get my brother in treatment, which is the important thing. I mean, if he really wanted to get rid of Ron, why not take the far easier and less expensive route of calling in his other debts and letting the creditors get their paws on him?”

“He had other debts?”

“Merlin, Hermione.” Ginny relinquished her lime and plopped it in her glass. “You’re my best friend, and you’re so smart and I love you, but you’re such an innocent. Of course he had other debts.”

“Of course he did,” Hermione mumbled, bitterness coating her tongue. “Draco probably paid those, too.”

A horrible chasm opened in the pit of her stomach. Had Draco done even more that he hadn’t told her about?

Ginny sighed. “I highly doubt it. If he did, he didn’t take care of all of them. I paid some, and George, and Bill…”

“What?”

“It came out when we were setting up the intervention. In our defense, we mostly gave him a couple Galleons here and there over the years. We didn’t know what the money was for, and he just asked for a little… He’d always pay us back. At first I thought maybe he needed it to save for an engagement ring, since all the good family rings were already spoken for…”

Oh, gods. Hermione thought of Draco’s ring for her. It had been so beautiful nestled in the little red box, though perhaps a bit flashier than she might’ve liked. He had good instincts, but the ring would have meant so much more to her if he’d involved her in its choosing; or, if he wanted to preserve a bit of mystery, discussed her preferences before buying it. At the very least, he should’ve spoken with her about marriage.

She’d made it abundantly clear that she wanted marriage and children, and Draco loved a grand gesture — and what is a proposal, if not a grand gesture? — so if she was being charitable, the reason he bought it and kept it a secret was for the most benign of reasons: He wanted to surprise her. Most proposals were a surprise, and Draco excelled at surprises. Maybe he thought they’d talk about their expectations for marriage after she agreed to marry him. They’d done everything else rather backwards, after all.

But she wanted to talk about much more than their potential marriage. She wanted to discuss their life, and on some level, she knew he did, too. He’d said as much — that he didn’t want to make any more decisions without her.

They’d probably be talking right now, if she’d stayed.

Her heart sank. It’d seemed like a good idea, in the heat of the moment, to seek the comfort of her best friend and cool off, much like when Daphne had suggested sending an owl to Ginny rather than storming over to see her. And it was helping, having Ginny and Pansy sort through her emotions with her. She could only imagine how Draco was processing this, alone in his empty penthouse.

That raw feeling rubbed at her insides again.

“And here recently,” Ginny continued. She’d been talking the entire time, and Hermione shook her head, trying to pay attention to Ginny and not her tumultuous inner monologue. “With his post rerouted to the Burrow, we saw the extent of it. I think my dad ended up paying the balance, and told Ron he’d be paying him back for the rest of his life.”

“At least someone’s holding him to account,” Pansy grumbled. “I know he’s an addict, but he could have a little self-respect.”

Ginny nodded. “I get it, and I agree, but it’s part of the disease.” She ran a comforting hand down Hermione’s arm, stalling right above Hermione’s tattoo. The bluebell flames were dim, but still very much lit with the light blue Malfoy family magic.

“His magic’s still on you,” Pansy said with a soft smile. Everything about her seemed softer around Ginny, and it made Hermione ache.

“I know. I can feel his distress.” Heartsick, Hermione lay her head on Ginny’s freckled shoulder, and reached out for Pansy’s hand. Pansy gripped her fingers tightly. “I want to forgive him. I really do. But part of me thinks maybe I shouldn't, because I used to forgive Ron and make excuses for him all the time, and that’s how things got so bad.”

“I know,” Ginny soothed.

“I’m serious. I want, more than anything in the world, to believe that this love I have with Draco is different.” Hermione’s voice broke. “It seems different but is that just my, I don’t know, reflexive optimism, my tendency to make excuses for liars who don't deserve them? I mean, you said it yourself, I’m an innocent when it comes to this sort of thing. I had one boyfriend during my formative years. One. Draco is my first adult relationship, and look at everything he lied to me about. Like I know on an intellectual level what you’re saying is reasonable, I’m just… I’m scared.”

It was the truth. She’d given Draco everything; her dreams, her magic, her heart. All the most vulnerable parts of herself; the parts he’d healed when she let him in.

She traced her tattoo with a fingertip. He’d given her those same things. He hadn’t gone about it in the healthiest of ways, but he hadn’t had an adult relationship either, and Draco’s parents, by all accounts, had been rather toxic, to each other and their son. His mother — his own mother — had bailed on him when things got tough.

Shit. No wonder he’d asked her to stay and fight.

“I understand why you ran, Hermione, and I’ll be on your side whatever you decide to do, okay? I was there after Ron, and if you’re done with Draco, I’ll support that, too, but I think you need to get resolution here. Figure it out, one way or another. Take it from me — Running only makes it worse.”

“I agree,” Pansy said. “You need to have this out; sooner rather than later. Don’t be like us and take space for longer than necessary.”

Hermione sat up and Ginny summoned a box of tissues for her. She dabbed at her eyes gingerly, letting her friends’ wisdom sink in. “I still haven’t properly apologised to you, Gin. For hiding everything from you.”

“It’d be more than a trifle hypocritical for me to stay sore with you over that, wouldn’t you agree? Once I took a breath and got over myself, I wasn’t angry anymore, just embarrassed that I kept things secret as long as I did. I went to Harry and we talked and… Well, suffice it to say he’s emotionally matured since we dated. Then I wallowed until I put my big girl knickers on and owled Pansy. We met up, she told me you saw the memory, and then I watched it from her perspective, and, yeah. I’m not proud.”

“I’m not proud either,” Hermione said, narrowly thwarting a resurgence of tears. “I was so determined to stop being emotionally codependent post-breakup that I applied the same drastic measures to all my relationships. I mean, Theo guessed and I didn’t say anything to him, either. Looking back, I should have leaned on you, and made it clear, in more than just words, that you could lean on me. I should’ve trusted our friendship to bear weight. That’s on me. I really am sorry.”

Ginny smiled at Hermione, and Hermione smiled back, and Pansy heaved a sigh, attracting both of their attentions.

“This is all so very…” She sighed again, waving one manicured hand in the air. “I’m annoyed that I’m charmed by this. Is this that emotional growth the hoi polloi speak of? As you know, such displays are immensely confusing for witches of my calibre. Too busy with all the emeralds.”

“Oh, please.” Ginny rolled her eyes, and Hermione laughed. “You have a perfectly manageable amount of emeralds. Also, you love this, and me, and if you still want me to move to New York with you someday soon, you’re going to have to get used to the notorious Gryffindor sentimentality.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll adjust,” Pansy conceded, though from the look on her face, it was hardly an inconvenience.

“So,” Hermione said, leaping at the opportunity to change the subject. “How did you two manage to patch things up?”

Pansy’s warm gaze flitted to Ginny, the faintest blush blooming on her high cheekbones. “I apologised, for one thing.”

“I did, too,” Ginny added. “We talked about what we’d want if the only people we had to worry about were each other, and we realised we could have that if I decided to prioritise our relationship; the way I should’ve from the beginning.”

“You had more to lose, love. I should’ve been more sensitive, and made a plan for the future with you instead of springing one on you last minute. Instead of waiting around and feeling neglected when you didn’t want to risk your family and your livelihood, I should’ve communicated.”

Ginny practically glowed. “And now we know how to have a proper row.”

“It’s not me against you. It’s us against the problem,” Pansy said, a touch of pride in her voice as she disclosed the hard-won knowledge.

Emotional growth, indeed.

Hermione looked down at her empty glass. Was it really that simple? Have a proper row, recalibrate, and come out the other side a united front?

“So you’re coming out? Doing the article together?”

“Yep,” Ginny grinned. “Already told my parents. It went about as well as you’d expect. But Bill and Charlie are on our side, George too. You won’t believe it, but Percy of all people has been really supportive.”

“I want to set him up with Addison,” Pansy said. “Tell me you see the vision.”

Hermione tilted her head to the side, contemplating the match. She could see it, actually. “Well, I’m glad.”

The first streaks of sunset filtered through the window as Ginny extricated her arm and pulled Hermione to her feet. “I don’t want to rush you, but the rest of the guests will be back soon. Do you want me to try to get Harry and Theo in here so you can talk with them, too?”

“No. I think you were right earlier; I need to talk to Draco. I needed to see you and make sure our friendship was okay, too, and I want to celebrate Harry, it’s just…” Hermione trailed off. “I love Draco, and I want our relationship to work. If we’re going to salvage this, more space isn’t the answer.”

Ginny tapped her foot on the tiled floor. “It’s not. But I’m glad he didn’t come after you when you said you needed space. That’s something, I suppose; shows respect for your needs.”

Part of her had hoped he’d come, but Ginny made a good point. If Draco had followed her here, it would have undermined everything he’d promised her. It would prove he wasn’t serious about changing his ways.

He’d begged her to stay, so she knew space was the last thing Draco wanted. Yet he’d given it to her anyway. He let her take the Portkey; didn’t try to force the issue. He hadn’t even sent an emergency international owl.

It wasn’t all the proof she needed. But it was enough for now.

“Okay.” Hermione summoned a Sober-Up from the kitchenette and quickly downed it, steeling herself. ”I have to go and fight.”

Ginny whacked her on the back. “There she is. Go fight.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Pansy said, casting a series of charms that not only mended Hermione’s broken shoe, but refreshed her makeup and hair as well. “There. Right as rain. We’ll let Potter know you’re delayed.”

“Doesn’t she need a Portkey?” Ginny asked, confused.

Pansy looked meaningfully at Hermione, who broke out into a grin. “Gin, did your dad ever tell you about Muggle air travel?”

All the colour drained out of Ginny’s face, leaving her pale and horror-struck. “Oh, gods.”

***

Fortunately for Hermione, Lavinia was happy to help her get back to London post haste, no questions asked. All it took was a Patronus and the jet was on its way. Hermione wondered why she hadn’t taken advantage of the perks of dating a billionaire much, much earlier.

Though, if she were being honest, she felt a bit odd travelling on Draco’s jet by herself.

Part of it was the fact that technically, due to the ten-hour time difference, she was going back in time. Back to rainy London, cloaked in grey, exactly like the day she walked back into Draco’s life; back to Serpenti. The other part that made her feel so strange was the empty seat beside her. She was accustomed to Draco’s broad form filling up the space, cracking jokes or scrawling entries in his ledger.

Hermione sighed and looked out the window as she hurtled through the sky. That damn ledger. If it hadn’t fallen to the floor, would Draco have confessed everything to her today, really? So close to revealing their relationship and thereby declaring their love to the whole world?

He said he planned to tell her, but it seemed too convenient. Then again, he knew how she felt about lying after being gaslit to the moon and back by her ex. Maybe Draco didn’t realise the depth of his betrayal or predict the extent of the fallout. Maybe it wasn’t her he was lying to as much as it was himself. Or maybe he assumed she wouldn’t have such an extreme reaction.

Her gut simmered, conflicted. He’d done so much work to get this far. He understood her like no one had, translated her complexities in their entirety until he learned the language of her body, her mind, her soul. How could he not have predicted that she would run?

She hated that she’d run. She hated that she’d used her commitment to patch things up with Ginny in Tahiti as an excuse to bail out of the situation. He deserved better than that.

But Hermione had come far enough these past months to see that she deserved better, too.

There was no denying that Draco had given her more than just a taste of the good life. Dresses and flowers and exquisite cuisine. Exotic destinations, luxury vehicles. She’d agreed to be his princess, and by gods, he’d made her one.

Those weren’t the things she felt she deserved, though, generous as they were. The things she deserved were priceless. She deserved honesty. Communication. Love.

Draco did, too.

They’d both held back on all of those at one point or another, and ultimately it had been to their detriment. It was so new, so tender, the love they’d made together, and it had needs beyond what either of them had anticipated. Like a budding rose, it required the clarity of sunlight, the absolution of water. Love didn’t bloom on its own, and it couldn’t endure on its own, either. It needed gentle hands. It needed open hearts.

It needed more.

Before long, the jet touched down on British soil, and Hermione thanked the crew for the smooth journey. Her Ducati and helmet waited for her in the hangar, just as she requested in her urgent missive to Lavinia, and she straddled the bike, revved the engine, and peeled out onto the streets of Muggle London.

Her thoughts refused to organise themselves as she weaved through traffic, passing double decker buses full of commuters and the last of the summer tourists with relative ease. She tried not to attract too much attention, slowing down as she hung a left into an alley that would take her back to the magical world, but she turned plenty of heads as she pulled up to Serpenti, slid off the bike as elegantly as she could in a mini dress and newly-mended heels, and tossed her keys to the valet.

Hermione ran to the lift, heart hammering away in her chest, ignoring the curious stares of patrons and staff. Her eyes followed the buttons as she ascended to the penthouse, lighting up one by one until finally, finally, the doors opened.

Lavinia wasn’t in her chair. In fact, most of the desks were unoccupied, but that wasn’t terribly abnormal for a weekday morning at a casino. Still, the quiet rattled her nerves.

This conversation would probably be one of the most important of her life, and she had no idea what she was going to say. Her mind was a jumble, and the cavernous ache in her chest expanded with every breath. Draco’s magic called to hers, sensing the wound, but magic alone couldn’t heal this.

She had to see him. If she could just see him, she’d know what to do. She’d know if they could fix this.

Hermione pushed his door open, half-expecting to see Draco at his desk. But he wasn’t there. Nor was he in his bedroom, or the kitchen. The gold bars in the corridor that used to wink at her behind the glass had vanished, as had the boxes Hermione had packed that morning. His closet was empty, though it still smelled like him. Even the bowl of green apples was gone.

“He left about thirty minutes ago.”

Her breath caught in her chest as she spun around to see Lavinia, her bright hair swept up in a stylish chignon. Lavinia, who’d dedicated herself to the Serpenti transition and was therefore no longer burdened by the task of keeping up with Draco’s busy schedule, looked positively radiant.

“I see,” said Hermione, not meeting Lavinia’s perceptive eyes. “Do you know where he went?”

“He said he was going home. I just sent the last of his things via courier. Is something the matter? Was there a problem with the jet?”

“Home,” Hermione echoed. “To the townhome?”

Lavinia arched her brow. “Where else?”

Hermione lunged at Lavinia, wrapping her up in a crushing hug. Lavinia, ever the portrait of formality, stiffened at first, then patted Hermione’s back with soft taps of her fingers.

“He’s really selling,” Hermione said into Lavinia’s chignon, loosening a hairpin.

There had been a dark part of her, one that she’d refused to acknowledge until this very moment, that worried Draco would give up on her after her abrupt departure, and give up on himself, too; a sneaky inkling that she desperately wanted to be untrue. Now she knew it to be false; now she could reject it. Draco wasn’t going back on his word to sell, thirty day grace period be damned.

This massive change he’d undergone in a matter of months, was here to stay.

Her bluebell flames lit up at the realisation, burning brighter than they ever had before. Lavinia jumped away in shock, uttering a small gasp before her mask of professionalism returned.

Hermione knew her grin probably looked maniacal bathed in the blue light bursting from her arm, but she didn’t care.

“I have to go,” she said, brushing past the other witch. “Thank you for everything.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” Lavinia said, digging at the rogue hairpin. She shouted after Hermione before the lift doors closed. “Don’t forget to invite me when you two get married! I’ll bring a nice gift!”

When you two get married… The words ricocheted through her skull as her smile faded. Hermione’s head fell back against the marble wall of the lift with a hard thunk. Had Lavinia seen the ring and assumed a wedding was in the works? It wasn’t an unreasonable supposition.

Hermione had long envisioned her wedding day, having dreamt of seeing her groom through her cathedral veil as she walked down the aisle in a long white gown. She’d never really pictured anyone specific until Draco, and now anytime she closed her eyes it was him waiting for her, reaching for her with LOVE.

Her sorcerer. He’d almost made it happen. Almost made her dream come true.

Could it, now, after everything?

She wanted it. Wanted him. But sometimes wanting wasn’t enough.

After retrieving her keys from the valet, Hermione zipped towards the townhome. The adrenaline of the ride stoked her anxiety to life once more, but uncertainty wasn’t eating her alive anymore; more like nibbling at the edges of her psyche.

His actions told her a lot. Now she needed to hear what he had to say.

She parked the bike outside and walked up the steps. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and her throat ran dry.

Hermione inserted her wand into the lock. In a clever bit of magic, Draco had keyed his extensive warding to their wands. It admitted her soundlessly, a series of protective charms shimmering across her skin as she stepped into the entryway and slipped off her heels.

Fresh red roses, sans thorns, stood proudly in a crystal vase on the table. She closed her eyes and ducked her head to inhale their rich scent, trembling as she fluttered her lashes open and drank in the home she and Draco were meant to share together.

Could they have it all? The cosy home, as well as the high life?

The informal living room already bore the hallmarks of a Granger domicile; bookshelves packed with leather-bound books, board games and keepsakes from travels. A hodgepodge of furniture chosen for comfort over style complemented old world reading lamps and handwoven rugs. She’d even found a vintage backgammon set at a nearby shop and refurbished it, ready for her mum to visit.

But there were signs of Draco, too. Nearly half the books belonged to him. His first Snitch hovered in its glass case on the mantelpiece, and cashmere throws lay draped across the back of every chair. In the corner he’d added a brass bar cart with an array of scotch, firewhisky, and more.

Her fingers trailed over a crystal decanter, each sparkling facet throwing light across the room. Everything depended on Draco. Could he be the man she needed him to be, beyond the boardroom and the bedroom?

Hermione loved him with all her heart, but she needed him to meet her where she was. She could see their life together more clearly than any prophecy, and it would shatter her to the bone to walk away, but she could, if she had to; she wasn’t a girl anymore, stuck in stasis, letting everyone walk all over her.

She was a woman; a witch at the peak of her power, reconnected with the unshakeable personal integrity that had served as her guiding light through it all. She’d never forsake that part of herself. Draco had made her feel like she didn’t have to, that they could build something new.

How much did he believe in her? In them?

Draco’s deep voice, slightly muffled by distance, floated down from the second floor. He was talking to someone, but who? She couldn’t make out the words as she ascended the stairs, gripping the bannister harder than necessary, her breaths coming more quickly and more shallow with every step.

This conversation, this fight, would determine how they moved forward; if they moved forward. Their entire future, the one she’d only recently dared to desire, spun from sugar and dreams, hung in the balance.

She paused outside the open study door, hidden from sight.

“If I chase after her, it only proves her right.” Draco said. “But I don’t want her to think I’ve given up on us. I don’t know, I’m out of my depth here.”

Hermione rapped lightly on the door, then stepped into frame. Draco, barefoot in a white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, had crumpled himself into the corner of a squashy sofa, the exact kind he’d said she’d inevitably wear him down on buying, with Crooks curled up in his lap. He looked a fright, eyes rimmed with red, and his hair was nothing short of a disaster. Despite his melancholy disarray, his lips turned up at the corners when he saw her.

He’d never been more handsome.

“Hi,” Hermione whispered.

Draco’s smile was cautious; hopeful. “Hi.”

“Is Crooks giving you good advice?”

“Less advice and more orange fur, I’m afraid.”

She bit back a smile. “He does tend to do that.”

The cat leapt down with a haughty look and trotted out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

“And now I’ve lost my only ally,” Draco joked softly.

A stilted silence passed between them.

“I know I’ve only myself to blame.” He stood and wiped a hand over his face, his t-shirt riding up to flash a sliver of his abs. “For this. And I can’t make it right, I know that.”

Hermione kept her distance, though it killed her to do it. “You could try.”

“No, you were right, before. I wasn’t trusting you to make your own decisions. It’s an indefensible position, no matter the intentions behind it. You said you wanted more from me; you told me upfront, to my face, and as time went on, it became clear that I — I —”

He balled LUCK into a fist and pressed it into the desk until his knuckles turned white.

“That you?” She prompted, gently. Her arms uncrossed of their own accord, softening in the wake of Draco’s earnest stammering.

“That I couldn’t live without you. Can’t live without you. That I love you and I have to give you more. But I didn’t know if I had the capacity to be what you needed, so I gave what I thought was the next best thing.”

Her stomach lurched. “Money?”

“Not money. Influence. The kind of influence only my kind of money can buy. Only, you didn’t know I was doing any of it.”

“I just wish you’d told me.” She barely got the words out, fighting back a wave of emotion as her voice broke. “Were you ever going to? I’m serious. I… I have to know.”

“Originally I’d planned to tell you much earlier; I wanted you to know. I thought when I told you that I did all these things because I care about you, and your dreams had become my dreams, that you’d think I hung the moon. What man wouldn’t want that?”

“But was it a lie? When you said you were going to tell me today?”

His eyes locked on hers, pale and solemn. “I was… Well, I wanted to tell you today. I’d been planning to before, in Amsterdam, and… I knew I needed to, it just never seemed like the right time. And maybe today wasn’t good either, with the party and our plans, but I was going to tell you, I swear.”

Hermione let her shoulders drop a few centimetres. The answer didn’t paint him in the best light, but at least it was honest.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, deep in thought. “I’ve never lied to you, though I’ll admit I’ve kept things close to the vest. My whole life, it’s been second nature to never leave things to chance. Owning a casino gave me the ultimate security: If you’re the house, you always win. And I couldn’t lose you. If I took away your problems, maybe you’d feel free to fall in love with me. But it began to chafe, weeks ago. Subconsciously I think I realised the flaw in my plans and ultimately, I took the coward’s way out, not telling you earlier. And, in case it’s not blatantly obvious, I regret it. Deeply.”

“That’s what I don’t understand.” She made a helpless gesture. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I still would’ve been upset, to be clear, but we could’ve talked about it.”

“Because I’m an idiot when it comes to you, Hermione. I thought I was in control of everything in my life, and then I fell in love with you, and I thought I was letting go. I intended to loosen my grip on everything, but in reality I was losing control, and they’re two very different things.”

This. This was what she needed to hear. That he could see where things went wrong.

“If I had been in control,” he continued, jaw wavering. “I would’ve confessed to you, but I was in too deep at that point. I was scared I’d lose you, so I didn’t want to tell you. I couldn’t even admit how scared I was. And then my worst fears came true: I saw you with the ledger and the look on your face… To think that I hurt you like that… And it was all my fault…”

He put his head in his hands.

“I thought I’d done it all on my own, you know?" She shook as she spoke. "I’d finally earned my place in this world. But when I put it all together, I just felt… Small.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, Hermione. I thought I was taking care of you, but I was, fuck, I was rigging the game in my favour telling myself it was okay because it was for your benefit. It was beyond the bounds of our agreement, and I understand if you can’t forgive me; you’ve forgiven me so many times now. But if you could try, one more time, I’d be forever in your debt.”

Draco made a choked sound, and Hermione couldn’t stop herself from going to him. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. His entire body sagged with relief, and their combined magic sang in her veins.

“You don’t need to be forever in my debt. I don’t keep a ledger. That’s not how this works,” she soothed. “It hurts, and I’m disappointed, but I'll be okay. We can get through this.”

He blew out a breath and, tentatively, settled his hands at her waist, gathering her closer to him. As fragile as they were in that moment, it felt so good to be held by him again.

Hermione summoned her courage and continued. “I could’ve talked to you, too; about how I felt. And if I hadn’t been so caught up in denying my own feelings I probably would’ve noticed what you were up to. If this is going to work, we’ll have to learn how to communicate better; both of us. Respect each other’s boundaries.” She craned her neck to look up at him. “We’ve come this far. I know we can do this. You’ve already done so much for me. For us.”

“I did it all for us.” His expression was a mix of relief and joy. “But I would’ve sold Serpenti and kept donating even if you decided you couldn’t see a future with me. I don’t want that life anymore.”

“I believe you.” She’d known it, deep down, but it still made her bubble with happiness to hear him say it.

She felt him swallow twice before speaking again. “It’s astounding, looking back, how disconnected I’d become from everything, how much I missed being part of the societal fabric. I’d unwittingly resigned myself to a life of material wealth and moral bankruptcy, not because I was happy, but because it was easy.”

Hermione touched his cheek. “You were grieving, too.”

“Yes, and so I slid further into it than I might’ve otherwise. I didn’t try to fight until you came along.”

“I wasn’t fighting for myself, either; not until you essentially blackmailed me in the most dramatic fashion possible to make me realise it.” She huffed a laugh. “I was so passive —”

“Entirely unlike you,” Draco murmured, his thumb brushing along the notches of her spine. “Killed me to see it.”

“I didn’t know what you were grappling with at first. I didn’t know you like I do now. But it killed me to see you hurting, too.” She collapsed under his gentle touch. “I’m sorry I left this morning. I shouldn’t have. I regretted it the moment I touched the Portkey.”

“I missed you even more than I believed, and I was prepared to miss you a great deal,” he confessed, finding a knot in her shoulder and massaging it out. Hermione let out a low groan and abandoned all pretense of standing on her own two feet, giving herself over to Draco’s care. “I wasn’t sure what ‘space’ entailed.”

She wrinkled her nose. Space could go the way of casual, as far as Hermione was concerned: Right out of her vocabulary.

A sense of safety engulfed her, and she allowed herself to become even more vulnerable with him. “I know I ask a lot of you.”

He let out a quiet tsk. “You rarely ask for anything. I need you to know you can ask things of me, and that you deserve more than pretty words in return. I want to prove myself to you. It’s… What you need, I'm not used to giving. Or receiving, for that matter.”

She felt a pang at the memory of the boy she’d known at school. Lonely, stretched thin under the weight of his parents’ expectations, and with more loneliness ahead. She’d noticed, but she hadn’t done anything about it until his trial, and even then, it had been the bare minimum.

Maybe he didn’t expect anyone to see his actions now in a sympathetic light. Maybe he didn’t dare believe he deserved more, too.

Hermione cupped his jaw with both hands, pressing her sincerity into his skin. “I fell in love with you, Draco, and I keep falling in love with you. As you are. Not the idea of you, or because of what you can give. You might say it was despite all you can give me.”

Draco made a muffled, grateful noise, and she felt a tear roll down her face, but she didn’t move to wipe it away. They had needed to have this fight. Now that they had, they could both let go, with each other. Take care of each other. Go all in.

She sniffled before continuing. “You held up a mirror to my life and I didn’t recognise it. I didn’t recognise myself. And you helped me find my way again. Everyone else in my life gave me empty words; worse than that, some of them fed me falsehoods to keep me in line. But not you. You stepped in; took action. You gave me everything I didn’t know I needed. You went a little too far, but… I forgive you,” she whispered, standing on her tiptoes so she could nuzzle into the crook of his neck. “Will you forgive me? For running away?”

All the tension in his body melted under her touch. “There’s nothing to forgive, love.”

Privately, she disagreed, but that was one point not worth belabouring. “Will you say it anyway? For me?”

“For you, anything.” He spoke it like an oath. “I forgive you. I love you. And now, do you know what I want out of life? What I’ll give away my fortune for?”

“Draco,” she cried, arms thrown around his neck, fresh tears falling on his shoulder.

“It’s you, Hermione. If I had to live these first twenty-seven years of my life a thousand times to be with you only once, I would still choose to suffer it all, if I could have you.”

“You have me,” Hermione promised, clutching him tighter. “You have me.”

Draco brushed her hair from her face and kissed one tear from her cheek, then another, before finding her lips with his. He was reverent with his tongue, worshipful with his hands, and Hermione hoped with everything she had that he felt the same devotion from her. She poured her magic into him, and nearly gasped with a delicious thrill of pleasure when his magic swept through her.

If she wasn’t mistaken, it was stronger now that he’d surrendered all control. His calming magic now felt more like… Peace.

It was peaceful to be here with Draco. Here in their home, their sanctuary, unhurried and unconstrained by the demands of the world. Some people searched forever to find a fraction of the serenity they achieved simply by opening themselves to one another, little by little, over the course of one summer.

It wasn’t always easy. They had run up against challenges that could’ve easily driven them apart.

And yet, here they were. Still standing. Still kissing.

Still loving.

After everything, winning.

Against all odds.

After a particularly long, sensuous kiss that stole both their breaths away, Draco reluctantly came up for air. “Please believe me when I say it pains me to ask this, but don’t we have to get back to Potter’s birthday celebrations?”

“They can wait,” Hermione insisted. “Pansy and Ginny are back together. They’ll hold down the fort, er, bungalow.”

“Good.” He drew back and searched her eyes. “What do you think about letting them steal our thunder?”

Drunk on the man she loved, Hermione blinked and shook her head dazedly in an attempt to reactivate her brain. “Hmm?”

“They’ve been together a long time, yes? Their coming out will be a bombshell and will play well with the press. You and I, on the other hand, might benefit from operating on a longer timeline.”

She recovered quickly. “Repair your reputation with the public, raise awareness for our causes, and then announce our romantic involvement.”

“Precisely.”

“That’s genius,” she murmured. “And then we don’t have to rush back to Tahiti.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise. “You want me to come back with you?”

“Of course I do. Just because we’re not making a big announcement doesn’t mean I don’t want to hang out in paradise for a week with my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend, is it?”

She was too busy formulating a strategy to acknowledge him with anything more than a nod of confirmation. Boyfriend felt right to her, and Draco’s pleased grin told her he liked it, too. There was no question that they would be more, one day, but for now, Draco was her boyfriend.

“I want to show you something,” Draco said. “In our bedroom. I took the liberty of doing some decorating of my own.”

He swept her up in his arms and carried her upstairs like a princess — much differently than the night he’d hauled her over his shoulder at her old flat and insisted she take better care of herself. Also different? The way she felt about being his princess. At first she’d thought it might be mocking, or diminutive. Now, everything in her saw with perfect clarity that Draco respected her and loved her, and their dynamic was his way of showing her just how much he cherished her.

When they crossed the threshold, he set her down gently and gestured towards the wall over their new bed, where he’d hung three photos of them together.

One of them cuddled up on the Sea Serpent, sunkissed with seaswept hair. Another from Fiji, when he’d tucked a hibiscus behind her ear. And one of them standing in front of the townhome, completely absorbed in each other, stars in both of their eyes.

They were the kinds of photos married couples showed their children when piled up in the bed all together as a family, telling the story of how they fell in love. Her heart soared. Putting these up, for her? It was the most husbandly thing Draco had done thus far, and it was incredibly hot.

For now, he was her boyfriend. Her serious boyfriend, who’d bought a ring for her. Sold his casino for her. Picked out a home with the perfect nursery for her.

Okay, her very serious boyfriend. Almost fiancé? Future husband?

Baby daddy-in-waiting?

The thought made her heart race and her breath catch, and she had to suppress a giggle. Her ovaries were never beating the allegations.

She smiled at Draco, then back at the pictures. “I love them. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Draco tugged at one of her curls, putting a temporary stop to her giddy spiralling. “So. Tahiti. What’s the plan?”

“The plan. Right.” Hermione found it difficult to focus with him so near when she was that turned on, but she persevered. “I think the only thing for us to do is take the jet back and enjoy the sunshine. Our friends all know now, which makes things easier. We’ll play it cool at the photoshoot and with the larger group; just say you and Harry made amends long ago and now you’re close.”

“Close?” His eyebrows shot higher.

She playfully pushed at his chest. “Oh, hush. This will work. I’ll clear the whole thing with him. I’m sure he’ll be fine with it. I really want you two to be friends.”

“Friends? With Harry Potter? I believe I’ve told you how much I admire your idealism, but have you considered that this might be pressing your luck?”

Draco’s smirk was more flirty than fiery, and Hermione seized the opportunity to push him again, hard enough that he toppled back onto the bed. She hitched up her dress and straddled him, poking her bottom lip into a pout.

“Please, Daddy?”

He sucked in a breath, pupils dilating. His typical suave response seemed to escape him, because all he said was, “Fuck.”

“You’ll be friends?” She rocked her hips against him; once, twice, enjoying the way he instantly hardened underneath her.

“Friends. Best friends. Whatever you want,” he paused, bringing both hands up to stroke her bare thighs. “Princess.”

So happy she could burst, Hermione tipped her head back and sighed, running her hands down his chest, bunching up the soft cotton of his t-shirt and tugging it upwards until Draco got the hint and helped her get it over his head. His tattoo glowed bright red with her magic, and she pressed her palm against it, where his heart was.

“You’re always here,” he murmured, placing LOVE over her hand. “Remember?”

As if she could ever forget.

She nodded, then brought their hands up over her heart, too. “You’re always here.”

Draco propped himself up on one arm and encircled her waist with the other, gently guiding her down to his lips. In no time, their meltingly tender kiss turned into something desperate, spiked with unslaked desire. Their hands wandered; clothes disappeared.

“Green?” Draco was panting under her, so vulnerable and open it made her stomach flutter.

“Yes, Daddy. Green.”

She was already slick with need, so she raised up on her knees and guided his cock to her entrance, sinking back down on him with agonizing slowness, reacquainting herself with his enormous size but playing it off as teasing.

“Thank fuck,” he groaned when he was fully seated inside her, then again when she started to move. “Gods. Hermione.”

“Touch me. Please, touch me,” she begged. “Tell me I’m good.”

He spread her knees wider, bracing her with one arm to help her keep her balance atop him, and rubbed his thumb against her clit. “You’re so good, princess. Too good. Too good for me.”

“Not too good,” she said breathlessly, picking up the pace. “Just right.”

Everything was just right: The way he looked at her, the way she held tight to him. They moved as one, with their magic swirling around them in a symphony of colour.

When she teetered on the edge of orgasm, Draco gripped her hip with LUCK and gave her as much LOVE as she could handle.

It was all they needed to tumble together into bliss.

***

They didn’t make it back to Tahiti until a new day dawned over the island, clear and bright.

A cosy-looking, sundrunk Harry and Theo came by the bungalow around noon. Draco apologised for their late arrival without going into why they’d been so delayed, and wished Harry a happy belated birthday. Hermione went over their plan to keep their relationship quiet for a little bit longer and let Ginny and Pansy enjoy the spotlight.

“Sounds good to me,” Harry said with a shrug of his shoulders.

He’d fully disappeared into holiday mode, shedding all vestiges of the demanding Auror lifestyle except his exceptionally fit form. Hermione hadn’t seen him this relaxed in ages.

Theo, whose brain never seemed to go on autopilot, only smirked. “Oh, sure. It’ll definitely work. It’s only obvious if you’re within a few kilometres of each other.”

“It is not,” Hermione huffed.

Theo pierced Draco with a look. “Just try not to call her princess in front of everyone.”

Hermione blushed furiously, though she was quick to blame it on the tropical weather. In further validation of his absence of mind, Harry didn’t even blink.

“I can handle myself,” Draco insisted.

And to his credit, he did.

The next two days were filled with some of the most fun she’d had in recent memory.

Hermione spent time with Ginny, catching up and reminiscing about their school days. Some memories were harder to talk about than others, but nothing was off limits; they even had a good laugh about some of Fred’s old antics.

“Who’d have ever thought we’d all end up here?” Ginny sighed as they lounged on a beach cabana.

On the small table between them sat two salt-rimmed margaritas, a copy of Theo’s latest research, and a dogeared romance novel with two scantily clad witches gracing the cover. Draco and Pansy were out in the water, whooping it up on Sea-Doos with Harry, Neville, and Padma Patil. Theo had slunk off somewhere for a well-deserved break from hosting duty, and other party-goers milled around on the sand, trying to rustle up enough wix for a game of volleyball.

Hermione shifted her sunglasses up to the crown of her head, where she kept her rioting curls in a bun secured with a satin scrunchie. “Not me. I imagined something completely different.”

“Same,” Ginny tilted her chin towards Harry as he raced across the waves. “But… Is it too cliché to say I wouldn’t have it any other way?”

“Probably, but I’ve had too many margaritas to care.”

“Cheers to that.”

They raised their cups and drank, wiping their mouths afterward in a useless attempt to quell their giggles.

“I missed you, Gin. I know I keep saying it.”

“I don’t mind hearing it,” Ginny said, looking down into her drink for a moment. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something. Two things, actually.”

Hermione shifted in her lounge chair towards her best friend. “Sure. Anything.”

Ginny bit her lip. “What kind of ring do you think Pansy would like? I’m tempted to get her an emerald, but she has so many…”

“Ahh!” Hermione screamed and flung her arms around Ginny, attracting the attention of the other sunbathers. “Sorry,” she said, trying to tone it down but mostly failing. “Oh my gods, Gin. I’m so happy for you.”

“She hasn’t said yes yet.”

“She will,” Hermione said. “Ahh, you’re going to be engaged! Okay, okay. How are you going to ask?”

“I don’t know yet. I might need your help with that, too.”

Little did Ginny know, Hermione had gotten very good at shopping as of late. In fact, she’d recently gotten something for Draco to thank him for giving her father his Ducati, and she was itching to give it to him.

She’d had Lavinia send the gift to the island in advance. Maybe she’d give it to him tonight.

“Of course. What’s the other thing?”

Ginny blew out a long breath, and for a moment, Hermione worried Ginny was about to ask for some sort of terrible favour involving her mum.

“Will you visit me in New York?”

Hermione sprang onto Ginny’s lounger and wrapped her up in a tight hug. “Are you mad? I have a private fucking jet, of course I’m going to visit you in New York!”

“Good, because I don’t know anyone there, and neither does Pansy. But Blaise said he’s ready to expand in January, and Pansy’s excited, so I’m trying to be excited, too. I’ll exit the joke shop by the end of this year and I think I want to try something new, too. Inventing and creating products, still, but, more for adults,” Ginny said, drawing back with a smile. She fiddled with her bikini strap. “I don’t know, I have some time to think about it.”

“I love it.”

“It’s a lot of unknowns, but it feels right. And speaking of unknowns,” Ginny segued slyly. “Draco’s doing pretty well. He fits right in.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Hermione stood and brushed sand from her legs, then stretched her arms over her head and made a show of yawning. “I might see if I can lure him back to our bungalow for a bit.”

She hoped it came off like she just wanted a nap, but she wasn’t at all tired. Seeing Draco near-seamlessly integrate himself into her friend group made her surge with pride, and he looked bloody fit in swim trunks, which stoked her lust. There was also the fact that he was still grovelling, and she had developed quite the appetite for his brand of penance.

The previous night, relaxed from a long day of doing absolutely nothing, Hermione let Draco feed her dinner, then sit behind her in the spacious soaking tub and wash her hair. Afterward he continued to pamper her, bundling her up in a fluffy dressing gown, going down on her, and holding her until she fell asleep, taking nothing for himself. Now she wanted to reward him, and, if she were being honest, spoil him right back.

“Missed your window, unfortunately,” came a deep voice from behind them. Theo, wearing a white button-down and navy shorts, approached, hands in pockets. “The reporters are already gathering on the dock. You’ll have just enough time to get ready, I think.”

“Blast,” Ginny said. “Shouldn’t have had that last margarita.”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Hermione said, masking her own disappointment by giving Ginny’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Pansy’s media trained, and she’ll do most of the talking.”

“And what, I just look pretty?”

“The three of us are merely ornamental, I’m afraid,” Theo chuckled goodnaturedly. “It’s all about the man of the hour.”

Harry and the others came bounding out of the water, and Draco held up a hand to shield his eyes, scanning the beach. The easy grin he threw Hermione’s way when their eyes met made her stomach flip all over again.

“We have to get ready,” Hermione shouted when he was within hearing distance. “Press is here.”

“How much time do we have?”

She shook her head and shrugged as he jogged up to her. Not long enough.

She’d never get enough of him.

“Chop chop,” Pansy said, running up behind Ginny and tugging her away by her hips. “See you all back here in twenty minutes!”

Hermione and Draco took separate routes back to their bungalow, but once inside, they came together, kissing between peeling off their swimwear and hurriedly filling each other in on their days.

“I’m glad we’re doing it this way,” Draco said, selecting a light blue oxford. “The slow roll out. Blending the friend groups.”

She took the liberty of buttoning it up for him, then turned and held up her hair so he could zip her flowy white dress. “Me too.”

“How has it only been one summer that we’ve been together?”

He dropped hot kisses to the side of her neck, and she sighed. “Feels like a lot longer than that.”

“Eternal summer,” he murmured, spinning her around and capturing her mouth with his.

She kissed him back, enjoying these last few moments of privacy. “Mm, but London’s lovely in the autumn, too. And I love Christmas.”

“I’ll give you that. But you can’t beat Paris in the spring.”

“I haven’t seen it in the spring.”

“Then you simply must,” Draco said smoothly. He glanced at his watch. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

Hermione took his hands in hers and squeezed. “Stand next to me in the big group photo?”

He squeezed back. “Anything for you, princess.”

The photoshoot ended up taking a lot longer than anyone planned. When they were finally dismissed, the last embers of sunset glowed at the edge of the horizon, extinguished bit by bit by the ocean’s dark waves.

Hermione said her goodbyes as friends, Order members, and former classmates went up to the main hotel for their dinner, or to their bungalows for a breather.

Draco was still on the beach where they’d taken the group photo, caught up in conversation with Neville and Susan. He’d tried to stand on the end next to Hermione, but the photographers had liked him with her on one side and Harry on the other, likely spinning some sort of enemies-to-best-friends story out of it. Honestly, it couldn’t have played better if Hermione orchestrated it herself.

Harry and Theo, hand in hand, walked up to where she stood alone on the dock.

“Ten years,” Hermione said softly, words carried away by the wind.

It had taken a lot out of her, talking about the past. She’d done her best to tailor her answers to be more future-focused, but that had been difficult too, because the reporter kept trying to steer back to the war, and the aftermath. Like everyone else in attendance, she’d papered over Ron’s absence with ease, and did her best to downplay her involvement in Voldemort’s defeat, steering the conversation back towards Harry’s heroics.

She’d only tripped up once: She’d blushed furiously when asked how Draco Malfoy had made the guest list.

“Ten years,” Harry echoed. “Wonder where we’ll be in another ten.”

She leaned over and rested her head on Harry’s shoulder. “Not saving the world, I hope.”

“I think we’ll stick to living in it.” Theo mirrored Hermione, laying his head on his husband’s other shoulder. “Improving it.”

Harry smiled, adjusting his glasses. “Sounds good to me.”

Draco waved goodbye to Neville and Susan and started up the beach. Theo nudged Harry. “C’mon. Let’s go; give them some time together.”

“I like him, for you.” Harry said, and Hermione jerked up in surprise. “I didn’t think I would. But I do. Not that you need my blessing, but…”

Hermione grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him on the cheek, and Harry flushed as red as the sunset. “I don’t, but it means a lot. Thanks Harry.”

“If I give my blessing, do I get one too?” Theo asked with faux innocence.

“Come here, you rogue,” Hermione said, and planted one on him, too. “Goodnight.”

The men walked away, grasping hands once more, and Hermione thought back to a lunch many months ago, right after she’d spent that fateful night at Serpenti, where she’d watched them leave in the rain, and wondered if she might ever find someone to love her the way they loved each other.

That someone stepped onto the dock, surrounding her with the scent of sturdy cedar and soft leather. She breathed him in, as vital as air.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Draco said.

“I do fancy seeing you here, actually,” Hermione bantered back, and they grinned at each other. “Listen, I know it’s been quite the day, but I was wondering if you might be up for a surprise.”

His brows shot up his forehead. “I would indeed.” He gestured towards her with a magnanimous sweep of his arm. “Lead the way.”

They left the dock and walked past the pool, through the lobby, and back out into the balmy evening. Stars popped silver-white against the darkening purple sky, and in the distance, Hermione could just make out the canopy of the rainforest. As they approached the long, palm tree-lined road leading up to the hotel entrance, Hermione made Draco cover his eyes.

“I have a confession,” she said, guiding him towards his surprise.

“Do tell.”

“I spent some of your money.”

She stopped in her tracks when she saw it, steadying him with a hand to his red tattoo. Lion. Her lion, free from the stone den. Interpreted, at long last. Known. Loved.

He rumbled a laugh. “Colour me intrigued. Can I open my eyes now?”

Practically vibrating with anticipation, Hermione didn’t even try to conceal the excitement in her voice. “Yes.”

Draco lifted his palm, curiosity giving away to radiant delight.

Next to Hermione’s cherry red Ducati was a brand new motorbike in solid, glossy black, with a matching helmet atop the leather seat. It gleamed in the fading light of the Tahitian sunset, beckoning its new owner with the promises of unfettered speed, roars of sound, and endless roads to conquer. All it needed was the right rider.

She tossed him the key, and he caught it with LUCK. Hermione waited for him to speak, but he simply closed his fist around the key and held it to his mouth, visibly moved. She’d apparently rendered him speechless.

“Your new Ducati. The finest money can buy,” she chattered enthusiastically. “Next year’s model, actually. It isn’t even available yet. But, as you say, money talks, and I can be quite persuasive. I’m actually very good at schmoozing now. My boyfriend taught me.”

“This is unreal. I love it. Thank you,” Draco said, wrapping LOVE around her as he admired the bike. When his gaze dropped to the rear tyres, he barked a laugh. “I just noticed the plate.”

“I thought you’d like that.” She beamed up at him. “Care to take a ride?”

He planted a kiss on her crown and summoned his helmet, working it over his head before running his hands along the chassis in disbelief. Hermione loved that she’d been able to surprise him, for a change.

Draco flipped up his visor and looked back at her eagerly. “Are we racing?”

“No,” she shook her head, straddling her bike and fastening her helmet. “We’re riding off into the sunset together.”

Chapter Text

HARRY POTTER’S BEST DECADE YET

SEPTEMBER 10, 2008

It has been ten long years since the Second Wizarding War ended at the Battle of Hogwarts, where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was finally vanquished once and for all by none other than teenage wizard Harry Potter. Despite the inevitable passage of time, our fascination with the Boy Who Lived has never wavered. In a Prophet exclusive, we were able to catch up with Mr Potter and his friends at his belated birthday celebration in beautiful Tahiti for an interview and photoshoot commemorating the past ten years.

“It’s certainly been my favourite decade yet,” Mr Potter said. Now Head Auror at just 28 years old, he has an impeccable track record. Crime is down across Britain. But Mr Potter isn’t eager to take credit, insisting that the wix out in the field every day are the true heroes.

“I’ve learned a lot from those who came before me, but I particularly love mentoring the next generation. They have a keen understanding of what community-based Auror action should look like. There will always be those who choose to violate the social contract, but if we are observant participants who intervene at the first sign of someone needing help, that’s going to go a long way in terms of reducing harm.”

As for what he plans to do next? “Well, hopefully I’ve got a long career ahead of me, so I’m set there. Theo and I would like to pursue adoption, so maybe that’s next. We were both only children, so we’d like to have a large family.”

Mr Potter’s husband, prominent researcher and Healer Theodore Nott, echoed the sentiment. “Four children, at the very least.”

Famous faces abounded at the festivities, including Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and more. Ron Weasley could not attend for personal reasons, though we were assured he and Mr Potter remain close friends despite the demise of Ms Granger and Mr Weasley’s romantic relationship earlier this summer.

Ms Granger extolled the virtues of Mr Potter. “I’m so thrilled for Harry. This is the first decade of normalcy he’s ever had, and there’s no one more deserving.”

A new relationship took most of the focus over the weeklong event: Ginny Weasley and Pansy Parkinson. Ms Parkinson, who works at the Ministry, was previously promised to Marcus Flint by her family in what was to be a traditional arranged marriage. The engagement went down in flames not long after it was announced when Mr Flint, then a Chaser for the Chudley Cannons, was found not only having an affair with another witch, but also doping, effectively ending his career.

Ms Weasley, for her part, was previously connected to Mr Potter, but the two amicably parted ways. She is the main inventor at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

“I’m a lesbian, so what?” Ms Weasley states with pride, wrapping Ms Parkinson in her arms. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and it’s time to live my truth.”

There was one other surprising Slytherin in attendance: Draco Malfoy, Mr Potter’s nemesis on and off the quidditch pitch during their years at Hogwarts. Mr Malfoy owns London’s most popular magical casino, Serpenti, and is the richest man in wizarding Britain. He is also the youngest person ever to take the Dark Mark.

“He’s been quietly donating to my research for years,” said Mr Nott, when asked about Mr Malfoy’s presence. “He’s a solid friend.”

Mr Potter seems to agree. “I’m privileged to have so many caring people in my life, from all different backgrounds. It’s a new world, and if we have anything to say about it, it’ll be a better one, for magical and Muggle people alike.”

For all that’s changed about Mr Potter, his intrinsic faith in the goodness of humanity remains.

“You don’t need to defeat evil to be a hero. Do what you can,” he urges. “Go round and check on a friend you haven’t heard from in awhile, or visit that sick family member. Take a mental health day when you need it, and talk to your support system if you need help. The best time to effect change was yesterday; the second best time is today.”

For more photos, see P9.

Friday nights had expanded: Instead of only Ginny and Hermione making dinner and watching telly, now Pansy tagged along, and the previous week, Harry, Theo, and Draco had joined too. This particular night all the men were busy with work — Draco was in Amsterdam to make sure the sale was on track — so it was just the girls in Hermione and Draco’s townhome.

Hermione uncorked a bottle of pinot noir while Ginny read the article with pursed lips. Pansy rested her chin on her shoulder, following along silently. Their easy intimacy in that moment was a thing of beauty; a quiet enjoyment that spoke of familiarity and rightness, like the way a teacup nestled in its saucer.

“Well, what do you think?” Hermione asked.

“Could they lick his Auror badge any harder?” Pansy snorted. “Circulation must be down. And they wrote more about bloody Marcus Flint than they did about me or Ginny.”

Ginny folded the paper and tossed it on the kitchen worktop, narrowly avoiding a disastrous collision with the charcuterie. “I can’t believe this is the quote they used. I told you I’d had way too many margaritas!”

They erupted into laughter.

“So, what’s the plan for your birthday?” Pansy asked, popping an olive into her mouth. “Draco’s got that island in Fiji. I mean, it’s no Tahiti, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

“Actually, we’re hosting my parents for dinner. Keeping it low key.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but she smiled all the same. “Merlin. It’s sickening how well you’ve trained him.”

If she were being honest, Hermione wasn’t sure who was training who. While the simple birthday celebration at home had been her idea, Draco had expanded upon her plans, making certain she’d have the entire day to relax and be pampered while he took care of all the rest. When he’d asked for gift ideas — he’d been good about not overstepping again — she’d asked for a weekend just the two of them, so she could try out being little with him.

“It’s a gift for both of us,” she whispered as he crowded her against the bookshelf, heat rolling off his body. His hands found hers, and he guided them up to wrap around his neck. She gulped at the desire in his steely gaze.

“Selfless little thing, aren’t you?” Draco tutted. “First a Ducati with Daddy’s name on it, and now you want to be my little girl? Do you know how long I’ve wanted…” His hot breath fanned over her sensitive skin as he drew her earlobe into his mouth and sucked, making her knees weak. “How long I’ve fantasised…” He moved his mouth to her neck, drawing indecent sounds from her throat. “I’d give anything to take care of you that way.”

“It’s not a negotiation,” she said shakily as he snaked his hands beneath her blouse. “You don’t have to give me anything. I just want to try this. I want to feel safe. Loved.”

Draco stopped moving. “Look at me, Hermione.”

She obeyed without thought.

“You are always safe with me. And I will always love you. I need you to know that.” He looked thoughtful as LOVE found the base of her throat. “I have an idea for a gift, but I’d like your input.”

Hermione nodded, whimpering as she rubbed her thighs together; not in an attempt to stop the ache blooming in her centre, but to encourage it. She liked him to know how much she needed him.

“But first…?” She eyed the restraints they’d used last night, still sitting on the table, and licked her lips.

“Did I say selfless?” He laughed, and it was brighter than his namesake constellatio n. “I should’ve said greedy. I like you greedy, princess. I’ll give you everything you want. Now, be a good girl and put those wrists above your head. Spread your legs. There’s a girl. Now…”

Hermione reached up to fiddle with the heart-shaped lock affixed to her early birthday present: a white gold choker. Well, Draco hadn’t called it a choker, but to the rest of the world, that’s what it looked like. They’d chosen it together when he returned the engagement ring, after she weighed in on what she’d like when the time came for Draco to propose.

She practically glowed at the memory.

“But we’ll do something together, too, right?” Ginny asked.

Hermione nodded. “Definitely. Brunch at The Vintage Vixen, maybe?”

“Cheers to that.” Pansy clinked her glass against Hermione’s, then Ginny’s.

“Cheers,” Hermione and Ginny echoed.

“To birthdays,” Pansy cheered.

Ginny raised her glass high. “To friends.”

Hermione thought for a moment, then grinned. “To the next decade, our best decade yet!”

***

DRACO MALFOY SELLS ICONIC CASINO; HINTS AT REFORMING HIS WAYS SEPTEMBER 25, 2008

On Monday, Draco Malfoy, best known for his days as a junior Death Eater, finalised the sale of his legendary London casino Serpenti to Veronika Visser, owner of Betoverd, a magical casino based in Amsterdam. While no official purchase price has been disclosed, Mr Malfoy has surely solidified his status as Britain’s wealthiest man — magical or Muggle.

“This deal has been in the works for some time now,” said Mr Malfoy, when reached for comment. “Veronika is a formidable witch with incredible business acumen, and with her at the helm, along with new Operations Manager Lavinia Smith, I expect Serpenti has a bright future ahead of it.”

Mr Malfoy has big plans for his next venture. “For many years I’ve engaged in corporate social responsibility, which is to say, I’ve donated to feel-good causes but not followed through on tracking those Galleons or measuring outcomes. Most of that money has helped people, but it hasn’t created meaningful social change. That’s why I’m pivoting to creating my own angel investing firm.”

It’s certainly a departure for Mr Malfoy, only son of the late Lucius Malfoy, who many considered to be the Dark Lord’s right hand. Whether he is able to rehabilitate his image remains to be seen, but his recent appearance at Harry Potter’s birthday has piqued enough interest to attract potential investors to his new firm, including former Hogwarts classmates Daphne Greengrass and Neville Longbottom.

“Malfoy’s pretty swell,” Mr Longbottom said. “He’s got some good ideas. Er, you’ll make me sound smarter in the actual quote, right?”

Mr Malfoy invites anyone interested in investing to contact him via owl.

“It’s done,” Draco shouted triumphantly as he walked in the front door. “It’s done! It’s a weight off, and I don’t think Vince would judge me. Gods, it’s really done.”

Hermione dropped her book, ran to him, and jumped into his arms, peppering his face with kisses. “You did it!”

“We did it.”

***

FLORIDA MAN: RON WEASLEY STARTS OVER IN THE EVERGLADES

OCTOBER 29, 2008

After months without a sighting, including a notable absence at Harry Potter’s birthday festivities in Tahiti, the Golden Trio’s lauded strategist Ronald Weasley announced his new venture out of Miami, Florida. This news comes after his sister Ginny Weasley also left the family business, famed joke shop Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, founded in 1996 by George Weasley and his late brother, Fred.

“Captain Ron’s Airboat Tours is about connecting with nature and discovering the beauty of an ever-changing ecosystem,” Mr Weasley told a smattering of magical and Muggle reporters. “No tour is exactly the same; each one is a new opportunity to learn something new and help preserve this rare habitat.”

There’s no doubt his former relationship with notable creature advocate and fellow Golden Trio member, Hermione Granger, influenced his business model. Ten percent of all proceeds go towards local Mandrake grove restoration. Mr Weasley and his two employees partner with a local addiction rehabilitation centre, volunteering their time and energy towards conservation efforts.

When asked what brought him halfway across the world, Mr Weasley extinguished his cigarette with his boot, playing coy. “I guess you might say it was a stroke of luck.”

The tours have proven popular with Americans; Mr Weasley already boasts a stable of repeat customers. What draws them in?

“His accent is somethin’ else,” says Buck Renegade, a Muggle electrician based out of Kendale Lakes. “And he knows where them big gators are at. Say, how’s that feather pen writing without you touching it? Batteries, or what?”

“You didn’t ask me here to talk about mandrakes,” Daphne said in a bored tone. She drained the rest of her espresso and flipped her blond hair over her shoulder. “Go on. Tell me why I’m sitting in front of this kangaroo court in Diagon Alley on a Wednesday afternoon and not in my Herbology classroom.”

Hermione glanced furtively at Ginny, who looked at Pansy.

“No bravery from the lions today?” Pansy arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “Fine. We wanted to know if you’re seeing Blaise.”

“He’s been missing work and giving the oddest excuses,” Hermione said, finally finding her voice and leaning across the table. “First it was dragon pox, which we all know was eradicated years ago, then pixie pox, which isn’t and has never been a real thing, and now he’s owling me saying he needs to get his broom polished but he has to take it to an equipment specialist?”

Ginny smothered a laugh. Hermione failed to see what was so fun— oh. Oh.

She really had not needed to picture that.

Daphne folded her arms. “I don’t know what it is with you all in these Gryffindor-Slytherin relationships, but not all of us have the irrepressible impulse to divulge who we’re shagging.”

“So you’re shagging him then? Got it,” Pansy said brightly, and Hermione spluttered into her coffee.

“It’s not just shagging, Parks, it’s called courting and —” Daphne groaned, realising her mistake. “It’s casual.”

“Casual, huh? Heard that one before.” Pansy’s eyes slid to Hermione, who felt her cheeks explode into a blush.

“That means it’s serious,” Ginny said in an exaggerated tone, signalling to the server that they were ready to pay. “Serious shagging. Is he courting your cunt properly?”

“Gin!” Hermione admonished, doing her best to keep a straight face.

“With friends like these…” Daphne gestured towards the three witches across the table. Her blue gaze sharpened. “Deviants, all of you. You know what? The next time we play night croquet, I’m changing the rules. You’ll all be magically compelled to keep your clothes on for the whole game. Maybe for the entirety of the time you’re on estate grounds, day or night.”

“Oh, come on.” Pansy stuck out her bottom lip and exaggerated a pout.

Hermione didn’t bother lodging a complaint. Some of her favourite sexual encounters with Draco hadn’t involved removing clothes. Which reminded her, she needed to figure out where to install a swing in the townhome. Maybe in Draco’s study…

Ginny’s irritated huff derailed her train of thought. “I suppose you and Blaise will be immune to said rule?”

Daphne didn’t dignify her with a response. She stood and smoothed her dress. “Hermione, if I were to somehow run into Blaise in the next few hours or so, would you like to pass along a work-related message?”

“Yes, please,” Hermione said. “Tell him he’s already surpassed the time off he gave me this summer but whatever he needs to seal the deal is fine. After that, we’ll be even. Also, I’m managing the team on the new hippogriff case, but there’s a dinner with the Scottish trolls’ legal representation tomorrow night he can’t miss.”

“Noted. Wait, what do you mean you’ll be even?” Daphne’s eyes narrowed.

Hermione waved a hand as she gathered her bag and coat. “He’ll know.”

***

HERMIONE GRANGER AND GINNY WEASLEY ENJOY SHOPPING SPREE IN LONDON

NOVEMBER 1, 2008

In her first public appearance in the UK since her contentious departure from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and the subsequent founding of her new line of magical adult toys, Ginny Weasley appeared ready to break the bank while shopping with close friend Hermione Granger.

The two witches were spotted on Bond Street in Muggle London, and later in Diagon Alley. They stopped in several ateliers, including a variety of jewellery shops.

During the duo’s visit to Flourish & Blotts, proprietor and former Uagadou quidditch star Kwame Abioye told this reporter that all required books for first year Hogwarts students had been paid for in perpetuity, from a trust established for the purpose. Curiously, Ms Granger was in the know prior to the announcement, though she rudely declined to comment on her insider involvement. The donor, billionaire Draco Malfoy, also established book trusts for first years at all other wizarding schools across the globe.

When reached for comment, Mr Malfoy said, “Reading is the gateway to understanding. All children, no matter their background, deserve access to literature, regardless of their ability to pay. This is why I’m also announcing a 100 million pound donation to Britain’s public libraries, and 1 million Galleons for the Hogwarts library, to be used for improvement to post-war renovations.”

At this time, it’s unclear what connection, if any, Ms Granger or Ms Weasley have to Mr Malfoy, though both appeared on surprisingly friendly terms with him at Harry Potter’s recent birthday celebration.

“Your shopping trip made the papers,” Draco said at breakfast as he poured her a generous cup of coffee. “I saw you stopped by a few jewellers. Did you pick up anything new?”

Hermione’s fingers curled around the handle as she smiled up at him. She knew exactly what he was up to, and it made her love him all the more.

“Tell Pansy that I love the dedication but she’s picked a terrible spy.”

Draco’s lips twisted with mirth. “That obvious?”

“An admirable effort all the same.”

“How admirable, would you say?”

“Oh, very admirable,” she hummed, reaching up to play with the shiny key hanging at the end of his white gold chain.

His gaze hooded; darkened. “I’m usually the one doing the admiring.”

Hermione, pretending to be unaffected but surely giving the game away by the heat on her cheeks, traced the outline of her choker. “I don’t have any meetings until ten.”

“Well, then, princess,” Draco drawled, pulling her to her feet with LOVE. “Why don’t you let me show you the full extent of my admiration?”

***

DRACO MALFOY’S MASSIVE DONATIONS

NOVEMBER 8, 2008

St. Mungo’s, considered by many to be the crown jewel of the Wizarding Health Service (WHS) , will receive a long-overdue infrastructure upgrade thanks to a new fund created by billionaire Draco Malfoy. Exact details are still forthcoming, but spokeswix for the hospital indicate Mr Malfoy’s initial commitment of 70 million Galleons (500 million pounds sterling) will not only rehabilitate existing facilities, but also provide for an expansion into underserved areas across Britain.

Spending and oversight will be managed by Theodore Nott. Mr Nott has experience in both the public and private healthcare sectors, and will receive a grant towards his research and development of spells reversing damage caused by dark magic.

“Eventually I’d like to explore options to bring elements of magical healthcare and environmental preservation to Muggles. They are the vast majority of the population, and therefore have the greatest impact on the sustainability of our planet, which concerns us all,” Mr Malfoy said. “But that will require partnerships across the globe, something I have my eye on in 2009 and beyond.”

It can only be assumed that Mr Malfoy will seek out private partnerships to continue his work: The Ministry for Magic has continuously delayed maintenance on crucial infrastructure and institutions, most recently voting down a new ward for sick and injured children. That budget instead went to the Unspeakables, who could not say what projects the money would support. Minister Robards and his staff could not be reached for comment.

“I don’t know if I can thank you enough,” Theo said, clapping his hand on Draco’s back. His voice was uncharacteristically thunderous, as if he spoke for the benefit of the whole restaurant. “This business with St. Mungo’s will help a lot of people.”

Draco ducked his chin in an equally uncharacteristic show of humility. “I’m happy to do it.”

He and Theo sat across from Harry and Hermione in the booth at Farmer’s Daughter. Draco had joined the standing Monday lunch as part of his slow reintroduction to society, since no one would question his presence when sitting amongst two-thirds of the Golden Trio.

It had been easier than Hermione thought for Draco to win over Harry. He’d gotten a head start in Tahiti: A little quidditch discussion; a heartfelt apology (much improved since the one Draco gave in Eighth Year) followed by open season on Draco’s ego, riches, and still-a-bit-pointy features, and they declared pax. No one was more thrilled by this development than Theo, who loved to invite Draco and Hermione to various dinners to discuss his research while letting his food go cold. Half the time Harry finished his plate.

Draco and Theo fell into easy conversation, and Hermione grinned as she turned to Harry.

“So how’s it going with the Auror trainees?”

“They’re trainees no longer, thank Merlin,” Harry said between bites. “Promoted the lot. I’m finally free. Well, until next summer. Then I’ll have a whole new set of problems.”

She playfully poked his side. “Please. You love them.”

“Yes, well,” Harry waved her off. “Oh, I’m meant to ask, do you and Draco have Christmas plans?”

“We’re stopping by my parents’ house in the morning, but otherwise, we’re free. Why?”

***

HERMIONE GRANGER SPOTTED WITH BILLIONAIRE TYCOON DRACO MALFOY

DECEMBER 12, 2008

Draco Malfoy, budding philanthropist and recent reentrant into wizarding society, was seen holding the door for none other than magical Britain’s sweetheart, Hermione Granger at Michelin-starred Alain Ducasse at The Dorchester in Muggle London.

Ms Granger wore a periwinkle coat over a black lace dress and accessorised with a white gold choker. Mr Malfoy looked dapper in a charcoal suit.

According to our source, the two emerged after their meal holding hands. Our photographer caught them looking awfully loved-up, with red lipstick on Mr Malfoy’s collar and Ms Granger’s hair a veritable nest, before disappearing into a black town car. Could the Golden Girl finally be moving on?

For more photos, see P6.

“Our first public photo as a couple,” Hermione beamed, holding the paper out for Draco to see. “We look good together.”

It had been a marvellous date. They’d each ordered the tasting menu, and the dishes just kept coming — wild mushrooms hidden amongst tart blackcurrants, hand-dived scallops with bright citrus beurre blanc and sumptuous caviar, buttery lobster and Dover sole, the most delicious venison, an array of French cheeses, and olive oil cake topped with powdered sugar for dessert.

“That was always a given.” Draco sat behind the desk in his study, surrounded by stacks of parchment. Crookshanks purred atop the shortest stack, thwapping his tail impatiently. Hermione scratched him behind the ears as Draco adjusted his reading glasses, breaking out into a smile when he saw the photo. “I remember when we bought you that coat.”

“It’s my favourite. I was thinking of wearing it in Aspen next week when we meet with that American hair potion billionaire again,” Hermione paused, and Crooks grumbled his displeasure until she resumed scratching. “I don’t know if we’ll win this one over. He seemed rather…”

“Deplorable?”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “That’s putting it nicely. I know we can’t persuade everyone…”

“But you want to,” Draco said knowingly.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll keep trying.”

***

CHRISTMAS AT GRIMMAULD PLACE

DECEMBER 28, 2008

Harry Potter and Theo Nott hosted their annual Christmas Eve Ball at Grimmauld Place, followed by their traditional gathering of friends and family on Christmas morning.

Guests included Hermione Granger and new beau Draco Malfoy, as well as Andromeda Tonks and her grandson Teddy Lupin; a Black family reunion arranged by none other than Harry Potter himself. By all accounts it was a success, as Mrs Tonks and Teddy spent Boxing Day with the couple as well, making an appearance at a charity breakfast for the families of war victims. Mr Malfoy was seen laying wreaths at the main gravesite, and later, with Ms Granger, leaving a poinsettia at the tomb of a deceased friend.

In happier news, Ginny Weasley proposed to Pansy Parkinson under the mistletoe at the Christmas Eve Ball. The Parkinson family and Molly Weasley offered no comment, but Bill, Charlie, George, Percy and Ronald Weasley expressed their enthusiasm for the match. The couple will reside together in New York City.

As snow fell outside their window, Hermione guided Draco down into their bed, his head laying on her chest. She ran her fingers through the silky strands of his hair and let him cry.

***

DOUBLE DATE? NEWLY ENGAGED GINNY WEASLEY AND PANSY PARKINSON SEEN WITH A COSY-LOOKING DAPHNE GREENGRASS AND BLAISE ZABINI

JANUARY 19, 2009

Friday nights at the townhome had expanded once again. In addition to the usual couples, Blaise and Daphne squeezed into a loveseat, and while Blaise probably thought he was being subtle, Hermione didn’t miss the way his hand draped possessively across Daphne’s exposed thigh. Across from them sat Percy and Addison, engaged in a tense battle of Scrabble. It was their fourth or fifth date, and despite their mutual competitive streaks, it appeared to be going well.

“How is this news?” Ginny asked irritably, scanning the Prophet. She appreciated the use of Draco’s jet, but flying still didn’t sit well with her, so her mood was more sour than usual.

“They just want to see the bling, love.” Pansy said, flashing her ruby engagement ring for all to see.

Hermione had thought Ginny’s choice of centre stone odd at first, but then again, Pansy had always said she had plenty of emeralds.

Ginny visibly melted. She caught Pansy’s wrist, turned it over, and planted a kiss on her palm. “Fair enough.”

From across the room, Hermione caught Draco’s eye. He winked.

***

EUROPE’S WEALTHIEST TURN OUT FOR STAR-STUDDED NIGHT OF CHARITY

JANUARY 31, 2009

A gala held this past Saturday in Oslo to raise money for various charities including the International Food Bank Alliance, Healers Without Borders, Clean Wizarding Water, and others shattered donation records, with commitments tallying over 3.8 billion Galleons.

After a lush dinner catered by Statholdergaarden, Harry Potter and husband Theodore Nott opened the evening with a silent auction. One-of-a-kind items up for bidding included the shirt Mr Potter wore during the Battle of Hogwarts, Ron Weasley’s chocolate frog card collection, and Hermione Granger’s original beaded bag. Also up for grabs: a seven-day luxury holiday in Cannes, Snitches signed by professional quidditch teams including Bulgaria and Holyhead Harpies, a phial of phoenix tears, and more.

Notable attendees included Celestina Warbeck, the Weird Sisters, and Hogwarts Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. Well-heeled billionaire and fashion mogul Cyril Gethsemane made an unforgettable entrance alongside Serpenti’s new owner, Veronika Visser, and shipping merchant Serge Portofino. Also in attendance: Draco Malfoy, who rubbed shoulders with ease, no doubt thanks to having Golden Girl Hermione Granger on his arm.

When asked about future events, Mr Potter said, “I dunno, ask Hermione, she’s the one who put the whole thing together.”

Ms Granger’s entire verbal manifesto could not be printed, as it would be longer than our Sunday edition, but in summary, she plans to continue lobbying “for a better world for everyone.”

“Are they serious? Verbal manifesto?”

Hermione, who’d been reading over Draco’s shoulder as he sat by the fire, clenched her fists at her sides. She’d just returned from a two-day conference in Munich where she’d been relentlessly questioned about selkie rights and balancing those with the fishing economy.

It hadn’t been difficult to defend her position, which preserved habitats while allocating room for growth to meet the demand for wild caught fish. But the room had been filled by bigwigs showing faux concern, eager to go back to their local towns and villages and say they’d listened to the magic and science but the whole issue was overblown. Everyone seemed primarily interested in foisting the problem on the next generation in order to preserve their current way of life.

“Hot,” Draco said, reaching backwards to curl a cool hand at the back of her neck.

She leaned into his touch. “The manifesto, or me?”

“Yes. And I can feel your magic. It’s literally hot.”

“Sorry,” Hermione winced.

“No, princess. Don’t apologise.” His voice was stern, but loving.

“Sorry,” she said again, and then, “Shit. You know what I mean. I just have all this now.” She came around the chair and fell into Draco’s lap, gesturing wildly. “The career where I was supposed to make a difference. Real money to make things happen. And I still feel like no one’s taking me seriously.”

Draco removed his glasses and cast the paper aside. “Let me remind you of your own words: The more you threaten the status quo, the more they will try to tear you down. Mock you. Silence you.”

“I know what I said,” she pouted.

“But they can’t ignore you, Hermione. No matter how much they want to, they can't ignore you. You will not be denied.” He dragged two fingers down her spine, and the intensity of his gaze stole her breath away. “Do you know what I think?”

She shook her head. No.

“I think you’re just hungry.”

Hermione tried not to laugh, really she did. Her cheeks puffed up with the effort, and she shot him her most irksome look. But Draco won her over in the end, as he always did, and made her eat an entire bowl of bibimbap topped with a fresh egg before sinking into the bath together to resume their conversation.

She washed his hair while she strategised aloud, and Draco offered his opinions and shared tidbits about his day. He’d suffered setbacks, too. But when Hermione really thought about it, they’d been outrageously successful for having only been at it for a few months. She might feel as if her efforts would never be enough, and in a certain sense, that was true — they needed a movement. But that didn’t mean she needed to be so hard on herself, especially when the press was all too happy to tear her down. Eventually, when Draco wasn’t such a novelty, they’d sour on him, too. Then everyone would come back around; she’d been through this enough times to know that favourability was cyclical.

But they weren’t doing this for fame, and they already had fortune. They did it because institutions were too slow, and the so-called free market was relentless, and if they did nothing, there would be precious little to leave their children.

“I’m not giving up,” Hermione said as she padded into their bedroom in her lotus silk dressing gown, wrapping her hair in a towel. Rain fell in a steady drumbeat against the window as purple twilight filtered in, lending everything a dream-like quality.

“Good.” Draco grinned, stepping into fresh pants. “That’d be no fun at all. I quite like having a front row seat to your plotting.”

She leaned up against the wall, muscles unbunched from the hot water. She drank him in, heart pounding in a way that shook her, that she didn’t understand. It felt like her feet weren’t underneath her. “How did this happen?”

“What?”

“We’re so… Comfortable together, like this. Domestic.”

Something inside her needed reassuring; she wasn’t sure what. She hoped he knew; hoped he could translate for her.

He chuckled, running LOVE over his tattoo of the sorcerer tarot card. “Surprised you domesticated me?”

“A little,” she admitted. “But you’re not that domesticated.”

“No,” Draco agreed, and he crooked a finger at her, reeling her in until she was safely ensconced in his arms. “But I want this. The everyday stuff. It’s nice.”

“Nice? Not tedious?”

“I lived in a casino. Twenty-four seven lights and sounds and all the simulated feel-good stimuli a body can handle.”

Hermione kissed him softly. “But this is real.”

“Real,” he echoed her with a whisper. “Come to bed?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

***

AN INTERVIEW WITH HERMIONE GRANGER: LIFE, LOVE, AND LOCAL ACTIVISM

FEBRUARY 14, 2009

DP: Thank you for sitting down with us, Ms Granger.

HG: It’s my pleasure.

DP: It’s been a busy year for you, and it’s only February. We heard you’re helping plan your longtime friend Ginny Weasley’s wedding, and you recently put together a gala in Oslo that raised billions. Have you considered that you may have finally found your calling in event planning?

HG: I’m happy to help wrangle, but I can’t take credit for the overall execution. My staff managed most of that, and we have excellent vendors. And I’m grateful to the many people and companies who donated items for the silent auction, as well as our esteemed guests. With their help, we’re feeding millions of families this winter and beyond, and fighting poverty worldwide.

DP: Incredible. Since we all know Time-Turners are illegal these days, do you find the time for anything outside of work?

HG: I have a standing lunch with Harry Potter and Theo Nott, and a get-together with friends every Friday night. I also see my parents, who live in Muggle London.

DP: Who could forget that you’re a Muggleborn? How has that impacted your activism?

HG: Oh, I don’t know, are you ready for my manifesto?

DP: We’ll circle back.

HG: Sure. To put it briefly, being Muggleborn is still seen as, at best, a weakness, and at worst a disease that needs to be eradicated. Discrimination has always been part of my lived experience, and so it’s impossible to separate out what has and hasn’t been impacted by my blood status. But I’ll never be ashamed, no matter how much some wix might want me to be, and I’ll never stop using my platform to speak out against discrimination in all forms.

DP: This article goes to print on Valentine’s Day. Are you seeing anyone special?

HG: I am, actually. We reconnected last year and I’ve never been happier.

DP: You’re blushing. Are we correct in assuming you’re talking about Draco Malfoy?

HG: You are correct. He’s truly wonderful. He has a huge heart for advocacy, and I can genuinely say that I wouldn’t be where I am today without him.

DP: He certainly seems like a changed man. It surprised everyone, given his background.

HG: We tell people it’s never too late to change, but so few of us actually mean it. I believe if someone walks the walk, like Draco has, we should support them.

DP: But so many Death Eaters and their families refuse to change their ways.

HG: As a country, we have such a long memory for others’ misdeeds, so much so that our prisons are full of those we’ve decided need to pay for their forced conscription to a racist ideologue, yet we have nothing for them after they serve their sentences. We take their money and their homes, offer no mental health treatment or jobs, and we expect them to become functioning members of society again. It doesn’t square.

Draco narrowly escaped a similar fate because Harry and I testified for him, and after he left Hogwarts and his mother fled the country, he and Vincent Crabbe scraped by until they built their business together.

DP: Serpenti, the magical casino which he sold for an undisclosed price last year.

HG: Yes. My point is, he worked very hard, and with a bit of luck, and a lot of love, he’s the generous soul I know today. But it shouldn’t take all that for someone who did wrong to get back on their feet. You shouldn’t have to be a billionaire to have a voice. We should have a strong social safety net and progressive policies, which the current Minister refuses to entertain —-

DP: Of course. You sound quite serious about Mr Malfoy. Are there wedding bells in your future? Maybe even the near future?

HG: If you have any further questions about my advocacy work, I’d be happy to answer them. As for the rest, you’ll just have to wait and see.

February disappeared almost as soon as it arrived, as was typical for the shortest month of the year, and all the snow evaporated with it. Hermione and Draco were busier than ever, but happier than ever, too. Despite setbacks, which had been minimal, they established a formal charitable fund with Draco as chairman, and their efforts began to draw positive attention internationally.

Draco was all too pleased to shake hands and run numbers. He’d even begun to learn how to use the computer, thanks to Hermione’s dad, which freed him up to spend more time pursuing his former hobbies, like quidditch. Hermione loved to watch him fly — from the ground, of course.

When Hermione wasn’t working, she was reading, frequently with a heaping bowl of fudge brownie ice cream and her feet propped up in Draco’s lap. She’d picked up reading travelogues, missing the days when she and Draco flitted off to parts unknown with no agenda. Strategising with him was wonderful, but as life had settled into a mostly-welcome rhythm, she missed his surprises, and hoped she hadn’t turned him off grand gestures forever.

She needn’t have worried. Late March swept in warmer air with the promise of longer days, and at the first opportunity, Draco whisked her away to Paris.

Versailles was already in bloom. Cornflowers and daffodils dotted the landscape, bountiful in number and bonny in appearance. Budding roses perfumed the light breeze twirling through her hair. It was almost too much beauty to take in all at once, like standing too close to an oil painting. The Petit Trianon, the Temple of Love, the endless gardens, all of it left Hermione breathless. Everything there felt vital; verdant and decadent and alive.

“I see what you mean now,” Hermione said. “Paris in the spring is divine. A bit brisk, but divine.”

She tucked herself further into Draco’s coat, which he’d been all too happy to throw around her shoulders after he bolstered it with warming charms. She’d assumed her sweater dress and tights would be enough. Draco seemed just fine in his wool jumper, if a bit jumpy. He kept patting his pockets, as if he’d forgotten his wand was safely tucked alongside hers in her handbag.

He offered her the pale green box of macarons they’d picked up on their way out of the hotel, and she selected a pink one, sighing with delight as the delicate sharpness of raspberries danced along her taste buds.

“There’s nothing quite like it,” he agreed. “Shall we go up to the palace? It’s nearly time for our tour.”

She polished off her macaron and put her arm, mostly covered by the giant coat sleeve, in his. “Let’s.”

Hermione had never seen anything like the Palace at Versailles. Bowled over by the sheer decadence, she gawped at crystal chandeliers, gilded archways, marble floors and velvet furniture. Beautiful, and wonderful to enjoy now as a cultural site, but she knew the cost. This would be exorbitant even by current standards. No wonder the French staged a revolution.

Their tour guide paused at the entrance to the Hall of Mirrors and said something to Draco in a hushed tone before unhooking the velvet rope to allow them in.

“I reserved it for us,” Draco said as they separated from the group. “We’ve got fifteen minutes to ourselves.”