Chapter Text
DECEMBER 2003
“What’s wrong with you?” Hermione’s voice betrays her; worry and concern shine through despite her best attempts to keep it at bay.
There is something wrong. Something genuinely, terribly wrong, and Draco’s lack of response only confirms it.
His lips pull to the side, a ghost of a delirious grin. “Nothing, Granger. I promise. Just let me enjoy this, will you?”
The shadows that smudge around his eyes are another tell, and she can’t help but catalogue them one at a time. His eyes are dimmer than usual, too. His body rests heavily against hers, his arms wrapped around her torso so tight that she couldn’t step away even if she wanted to. Like she’s the only thing that’s keeping his tall, lean body propped upright. Even his skin is hot, and a damp sheen of sweat is misted across the back of his neck when she reaches up to pull his face closer.
“Are you sick?” she asks, trying again. When her hand presses against his forehead he releases a pained sigh, leaning further into her touch. His eyes flutter closed, a momentary relief from whatever is plaguing him.
“No, no,” he insists, but doesn’t make any attempt to move himself. She absolutely, truly, does not believe him.
Nor would it be the first time he’s lied to her.
Soon his weight becomes too much for her to hold alone, and she tugs him toward the bedroom. His heavy footsteps thump behind hers, another sign that something is wrong. She’s the one who stomps; he’s always gliding, light on his feet.
Draco doesn’t fight her as she peels the expensive wool sweater from his shoulders and exposes the wide expanse of his chest, nor does he care when she unbuttons his trousers and slides them down the length of his legs to the floor. Another sign, added to her running list.
Usually, he would be full of flirty grins and sexy, whispered promises. He would be leaning down to speak directly into her ear, because he loves the way it makes her shiver. His fingers would be toying with the hem of her own blouse, or the little zipper on her muggle denims. But instead, his hands rest limp at his sides, his eyes closed as she traces her hands across his soft, porcelain skin. Etched with scars he stands before her, clad only in a pair of boxers, bared with a kind of vulnerability she once might have argued he didn’t possess.
Draco Malfoy is many things. A man reformed. An heir. A veela. One of her best friends, somehow, and an absolute pain in her arse more days than not. But more so than any of those things, he’s her mate.
Well, her mind can’t help but correct as she guides him to her bed. Not quite. I’m his mate. Humans don’t have mates, even if being with him does feel more right than anything else she’s felt before.
However, the longer it goes, the more she tries to study and categorize and assign a score to all the things she’s been tracking for the last six months, it all comes out to null and void. Perhaps there is no score, no numerical value she can tally up to quantify her feelings. Perhaps they are, after all this time, one and the same.
He groans when she tries to step away, his hand reaching out to stop her. Even the touch of his fingers, wrapped around her wrist, is burning with heat.
“Don’t go,” he begs. “Stay. I need you.”
The vulnerability in his voice catches her off guard. For the last six months, he’s very rarely spoken about his own wants. His needs, she knows, have been carefully Occluded away, locked in a box in just the way he promised her.
“Six months. Six months for you to decide, that’s all I need.”
The deal they made lives constantly in the back of her mind, never quite fading. It’s followed her through days and weeks, mornings and nights together. It has comforted her, grounded her, kept her from deciding one way or another what she wants and what she thinks she can have.
Six months to give her time to think. To decide. Six months that have rapidly burned away, leaving her with nothing but empty hands and a conflicted heart.
She’s barely climbed into the bed beside him when his wings release from his back, instinctively curling around them until her body is pressed against his and his arms are back around her waist. He pulls her in, clinging to her, and presses his nose to the crook of her neck. His deep inhale tickles, but it’s too tender of a moment to giggle. Unease fills her chest the longer he holds her, his breathing low and slow, quiet building around them.
“Draco, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on,” she tries again, pulling back to stroke at his cheek. His eyes are still closed, but the bliss that loosens the tension around his eyes makes warmth spread through her chest. She follows the instinct, touching him, caressing him, running her hands across his cheeks and jaw and neck. He leans into it again but doesn’t answer. “If you’re sick we need to get you to a healer.”
She knows enough about magical creatures to know that whatever is ailing him likely isn’t a human affliction. He needs a magical creatures healer, and quickly.
When her fingers ghost across his lips, tracing the lower curve, his tongue reaches out to taste her thumb. In a low, rough voice, he finally responds.
“It won’t help.”
He says it like it’s certain. Like he knows something she doesn’t.
“What do you mean?”
When she pulls back, one arm finally releases her waist, his hand coming up to intertwine their fingers instead. In the shadows cast by his pearlescent wings, she almost misses the flicker of sadness that crosses over his face once he brings the back of her hand to rest against his overheated cheek.
“You weren’t supposed to see this. I thought—” his words are cut off by a groan of pain, and she startles even further. He curls up against her tighter, his lungs expanding slower and slower by the second.
“Draco—you have to talk to me.” She’s beginning to panic, holding his face up like it might help. On instinct, his wings tighten. Even his beautiful, delicate wings look paler and almost wrinkled. Ragged. “You have to tell me how to help you.”
“You’ll be okay,” he sighs. “I’ve made sure of it.”
He’s growing incoherent, and it only strengthens the weight of the dread that sinks through her stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“This is it. The last of it.”
Fear turns her blood cold.
“The last of what?” She tries shaking him, tapping his cheek, but his body has turned even heavier, more weighted. He barely responds, choosing instead to hug her closer. His answer is a single word, kissed against the fluttering vein in her neck.
“Time.”
NOVEMBER 2003
She couldn’t believe his audacity. Even after everything they’d been through, it still took her by surprise. Even as he pressed her against the damp stone wall outside the pub, his mouth hungry against hers. Even as his hands held her in place, his strong thigh shoved between hers. Even as she moved against him, writhing and rocking, despite being in public. He devoured her, uncaring of who else could stumble down the alley to see them.
“You’re ridiculous,” she panted against his mouth, her fingers digging beneath his shirt collar. A button popped, clattering down to the stones beneath their feet, but she didn’t stop. She had to get even. His body stiffened against hers when her hands slid underneath his shirt and across his collarbones. Searching for the spot that she knew was most sensitive, most in tune with her specifically.
The sound he made when her fingers pressed against the knot of muscles just beside his shoulder blades could only be described as a growl.
“And you’re infuriating,” he answered before nipping at her lower lip, tugging it lightly. “We make quite the pair, don’t you think?”
They continued kissing, arguing between gasps for air.
“You can’t just say things like that, Malfoy.”
“I believe I can, and I did. As long as it’s the truth, I see no issue.”
“It’s—it’s not, though.” Her argument was getting weaker the longer she sat perched on his thigh. The seam of her denims was hitting in just the right spot, a line of friction she couldn’t stop chasing.
Draco hummed in answer, dipping his head to her neck to kiss the spot just below her jaw. She had to hold back her moan when his tongue darted out to taste her skin. If she let it out, it would surely echo all the way down to the main street.
“Forgive me for misremembering,” he paused to clarify between kisses, whispering around the shell of her ear until she was squirming. “But I do believe I said that you were mine. Not that I was yours.”
It was semantics, really. Tension was coiling in her stomach, pulling taut the longer she rode his leg. He urged her on as he always did, one hand guiding her lightly, but never forcing. Never pushing or pulling, just…touching. Like he wanted to be a part of it but knew that was as far as he could go.
It was as far as she would let him.
He’d been getting crankier lately, the sharpness in his features beginning to show through more and more. Quicker to snap, his verbal barbs more pointed than she was used to. Never at her, but always towards others.
Including the man who had offered to buy her a drink inside of the pub mere minutes before.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, clawing at his shoulders harder. She wanted to leave nail marks there, pink against his skin. The urge should have disgusted her. Should have made her feel ashamed, but there was something about it—something about him —that made it different. It made her want to give in to her urges, to touch and caress and scratch at him the way she’d read about in all of her books and research.
So many hours spent studying. Studying him, and the way he looked at her. Spoke to her. Gravitated around her, never asking or taking but always giving. She studied veelas through the limited amount of published research available, trying to grasp and understand the differences in their physical traits and theories on matehood. All considered and weighed and analyzed. What was normal for her to feel, and what wasn’t.
None of it was clear except in these moments.
Draco pressed himself harder against her, his hand moving to lift her thigh around his hips instead. Opening her, he stepped into the space between her thighs and ground himself right where she needed most. Right where she loved him to be.
He was already hard, pressing himself directly against her aching cunt. Their lips found each other once more, an angry kiss, but his relieved groan echoed hers. When his hips began to move, she matched his pace. Searching, seeking, wanting.
“Is this what you want?” he teased, and she couldn’t stop the slight laugh that bubbled up between them. “Because it seems like you aren’t too terribly upset about it now.”
“Next time, let me do the talking,” she said, growing breathless. Pleasure was sparking through her, her thighs beginning to shake, and she could feel the growing tension of her orgasm. Her inner muscles clenched around nothing at the thought of his display in the pub. How possessive he had looked, nostrils flaring and redness beginning to bloom at the base of his neck. Not for the first time, she wished for the kind of relief that only he could give her.
He grinned into their next kiss. “So certain there’ll be a next time, are you?”
“Knowing you?” She returned his smile, grinding against him until her eyes fluttered closed. “There will always be a next time.”
When he kissed her again, she came. His name echoed around the cobblestones and the old buildings, his body surrounding hers with more strength than she’d known possible. And still, as her body cooled, she was no closer to an answer than she had been five months before. Every tally was perfectly weighted on either side of her mental scales.
No more, no less. Never odd or even. Always zero.
OCTOBER 2003
He was late. He was never late. It was one of the many things she’d grown to count on him for. His mind, his wit, his manners. His body and his mouth, too. She blushed. If he were there to see it, she’d never hear the end of it.
The longer they spent together the more she grew in tune with him physically and emotionally, noticing and appreciating his needs as much as her own. Considering his preferences when she went for groceries on the weekend, just in case he might come by her flat. Setting aside books that she thought he might like. Knowing not to send her owls first thing on Saturday mornings, because he was always grumpy when woken too soon.
Worst of all, she found herself with an appetite that couldn’t be sated. Not when it came to him. Every day they spent together only made her feel more desperate and greedy for his time or attention. It wasn’t entirely sex, either, but his mere presence that satisfied her. His hand, tucked into hers or pressed against her back as they walked. The way he stood close to her, never crowding but always within reach.
She’d grown to love it, but couldn’t help but wonder, as she did with every one of his actions…Did he do it because he wanted to? Or because his matehood compelled him to?
Perhaps that was why she was so annoyed he wasn’t there.
Just as she was about to turn and leave the cafe where they’d agreed to meet, he came around the corner with an anxious expression playing across his features.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized, tucking a leather folio beneath his arm. “My meeting ran long and I came as quickly as I could.”
With his hands free, he pulled her into a quick embrace, his lips grazing her cheek in a light kiss.
Her ire dimmed immediately at the contact, like the flame of a candle snuffed out by a sudden and distinct lack of oxygen. Two years ago, she would have been appalled at how quickly and easily she melted beneath his touch.
Right down the street from where they were currently sitting, she realized as they took to the outdoor sitting area. Right before Christmas and in the middle of the holiday crowd, when he’d looked at her like he’d seen a ghost. Draco motioned for tea, folio set on the table as he tucked away a few loose pieces of parchment. The Gringotts label glinted gold in the sunlight, but he spoke before she could think to ask why his meeting had gone over.
“How has your morning been?” he asked. She blinked back toward him, noting the lines of tension around his eyes. He looked tired, but his features smoothed out when the waitress floated over a tea service.
“It’s been fine,” she assured him, moving to ready her own cup. It was their routine. Every week. A standing date for tea where he would insist they chat. Like friends, he assured her when she’d raised a questioning brow.
“Nothing more, nothing less.”
Never odd or even, always zero. And impossible to quantify.
Part of her wished for more, for him to show her some kind of assurance that he cared one way or another. But true to his promise, he left the playing field completely neutral. He never spoke of his feelings, never clarified the depths of his own thoughts or emotions lest it only complicate hers further. In the beginning, that was exactly what she wanted. Needed, even, but the longer it went, the more she was left to guess.
And she hated guessing. She hated not knowing.
After so many years, she was finally presented with a problem that had no clear, defined answer. It was one she couldn’t find in a book, couldn’t discover through hours of research–both of which she had tried. There was no logical conclusion, no path to follow, no answer to be found. He kissed her, but never told her how it made him feel outside of instinctual, physical desire. He bought her things, doting on her with small gifts of things she needed–a heavier duvet for the winter, or a selection of quick drying inks for her desk at work–but hadn’t gone as far as the grand gesture of her birthday gift.
All actions, but no words. Nothing that could help her to qualify the data she extracted from their interactions. Nothing tangible that she could grasp, that she could use as justifiable proof.
“And your parents?” he followed up, spooning sugar into his tea.
“Good, good. They’d like me to visit for Christmas this year.”
He stilled, his spoon never clinking the sides of the fine china. “And? Will you go?”
Although it meant applying for an international portkey, the idea was tempting. Their memories had been restored by a team of mind healers shortly after the war, but they’d chosen to remain in Australia. Maybe it was easier for them, not being reminded of the things she’d done to protect them, but it had made the subsequent years harder than she’d anticipated.
She couldn’t deny that her unexpected friendship with Draco was a light in her life, and she knew that she always had a spot at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. She had a growing community of people who loved her and still, she missed her parents.
“I was considering it,” she admitted. “Plus it might be nice to have a warm holiday for once.”
Draco nodded, slowly sipping his tea. His throat worked as he swallowed, and he carefully set his cup down before answering. “I think you should go.”
“You do?” She was surprised. Over the last several months, he’d grown almost overprotective of her. Always afraid of what could happen, doting and worrying over her like some kind of delicate creature. And to her surprise, she found it rather cute instead of completely infuriating. Mostly.
“Of course,” he replied easily, any trace of tiredness disappearing beneath a playful look. “That just means we’ll get to celebrate our Christmas early, then.”
“Our Christmas? I didn’t realize we were having one,” she said with a laugh. Though it didn’t necessarily surprise her, the strange, sparkly feeling in her chest did.
“I may have agreed to your needless request for your birthday, but I will not bend for Christmas, Granger. I have both the means and the desire, so I’ll do as I please. I’ll expect a list of Granger-approved gifts by the end of the week.”
Although his tone was firm, there was no question that he was playing it up. He turned his face up and to the side, blinking away as if it were as good as a vow.
“I don’t know…” She shook her head. There was no way she could reciprocate, no way to condense the intensity and depth of her growing feelings into a physical gift. Not when he already had everything he could ever want.
Well. Almost everything. There was one gift she could give him. One gift that was hers to give, and hers only by divine, magical right.
She still wasn’t sure if she could.
On one hand, she knew that she should. That it was the choice that would have been expected, if he were anyone else. If they were anyone else. If their situation were any easier, it would have been clear.
There was a possibility, however, that her hesitation stemmed from a lifetime of living under the shadow of the things that she should do. The things she felt she must do, that she felt indebted to do. Which brought them both to the same place, compelled to give each other a commitment that in another life, they likely wouldn’t have chosen.
Nothing between them could be so easy as a simple yes or no.
Every time she thought she knew, thought she could make that choice for better or for worse, something held her back.
Familiar frustration built inside her, eclipsing her appetite for the light finger sandwiches that Draco ordered. She ignored them, straightening her fork and smoothing out her napkin against her lap instead. A poor imitation of Draco’s natural manners, but ones she’d picked up on after months together.
“What about you? Any holiday plans?”
It was a touchy subject, given that the end of their six month agreement would arrive with the new year. They hadn’t made plans, hadn’t discussed what it might look like, instead choosing to dance around the subject. He wouldn’t bring it up, but neither would she. They both seemed to be too afraid to take that step, lest it shift them out of balance and spinning out in the wrong direction.
It could have been fear that held her back, but it felt more like hesitation. The same hesitation that kept her from being able to keep her thumb on the pulse of their relationship. They were many things, but not one in particular. Friends. Lovers. Partners. Mates. Nothing fit quite right.
“I’ll likely visit with my mother at the Manor,” he answered evenly, his coy tone from earlier vanished. “Enjoy the grounds. Take some time to myself.”
“Brooding, you mean,” she said. “Best break out your good cloak, then. Just to make it as dramatic as possible.”
Nudging him with her foot under the table, she grinned when he shot her an affronted look.
“I do not brood.”
“You do,” she replied. “And you’re very good at it. You’re even doing it right now.”
The line between his brows smoothed itself away, his features relaxing immediately.
“I don’t have the slightest idea of what you might mean,” Draco said with a sniff. “But please feel free to share anything else you think I’m very good at.”
Hermione’s response was a mix between a laugh and a scoff.
“If you’re a very good boy, perhaps I’ll write you a list for Christmas.”
The way his face lit up told her that while she had been joking, he was very much interested.
SEPTEMBER 2003
“I have something for you.” Malfoy leaned down to whisper into her ear, careful that no one else in Harry’s crowded living room might overhear.
Hermione had had just enough to drink that she couldn’t hide her excitement. Eyes going wide, she turned in his arms. “Really?”
Although he had only rested his hands on her waist to steady her while he spoke, his grip tightened when she swayed against his body. Instead of pulling her closer, he held her at a distance, and she frowned. Did he not want to touch her, now?
“Don’t look at me like that, Granger. It’s your bloody birthday. Am I not permitted to buy you gifts like the rest of this lot?”
With his chin, he motioned to the remainder of her friends that were still milling about Grimmauld Place. To her surprise, not only had Draco shown up to the birthday party that Harry and Ginny had thrown for her, but he’d managed to stay civil and polite with everyone the entire time. She couldn’t say the same for Ron or Seamus, but that was to be expected.
No one knew, really, what was happening between them. They’d come up with an easy cover story, a burgeoning friendship developed through their working relationship. Assured that he had repented and atoned for his actions, they didn’t have to like Malfoy, but they at least tolerated him.
“No, but…” she started to reply but paused, feeling the heat from his body beginning to radiate toward hers. She stepped closer under the guise of lowering her voice so no one else could hear, and aligned their chests. Gods, he smells good. “I guess I hadn’t considered it, that’s all. Why didn’t you give it to me with everyone else’s gifts?”
She’d opened a small pile of packages over dinner, right before digging into a giant chocolate cake. Perhaps it was the happiness of such a wonderful night that made her lean her cheek against his chest, and not actual desire.
It made sense, really. Physical affection was a side effect of happiness, and she’d given half a dozen hugs that night. Combined with the wine she’d consumed, her inhibitions would be lower than normal. He also had good arms. Very good arms.
She couldn’t be blamed for her reaction.
“I was hoping to give it to you in private.” His answer was a rumble against her cheek. “We should get you home, though. You look like you could fall asleep standing up.”
Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she knew it was late. Only-a-few-hours-until-dawn late.
“Then you’ll give me my gift?” she asked, just before a yawn overtook her. Draco chuckled, his hand finding hers before giving it a quick squeeze.
“Yes, you greedy witch. Now come on, before Potter accuses me of trying to take advantage of you in the middle of his house.”
He separated their bodies with a quick efficiency, stepping away from her before straightening his shoulders.
As he began to guide her toward the floo, she couldn’t help but giggle. “Gods, can you imagine what it would be like if they knew? That I was your mate?”
She thought she whispered it quietly enough, but Draco’s eyes immediately shot around the room behind her. Something panged, deep within her chest. A slight, dull ache. It had been her idea not to tell anyone, but the look on his face…
She didn’t have to be tipsy to recognize how alarmed he looked at the sight of someone finding out. The way he’d tried to hold her at a distance. How quickly he’d severed their hug to step away. And now this.
Her happiness at his presence was automatically negated by his reaction to her single display of public affection. Always striking through any potential progress on her study of their relationship, taking it back to null.
Always, always, always.
He didn’t notice her frustration as he continued toward the floo, holding the pot of ashes out for her to take from. He didn’t say anything as she stepped in and said her own address, uncaring if that’s where he had intended for them to go or not.
He could follow if he wanted, but he didn’t have to. He will, she thought. Because he does have to. Her lip curled in annoyance, the light and bubbly buzz she’d been feeling previously turned sour in her stomach.
Once through her fireplace, she made a beeline directly for the cabinet in the bathroom where she kept her extra Sober Up potions. Removing the cork from the vial with her teeth, she spat it into the sink and ignored the light footsteps she heard approaching.
Swallowing the bitter potion, she turned her attention to the hall. Draco leaned against the wall, hands in his trouser pockets and one foot propped up, crossed over at the ankle. A statue of ease with a guarded expression.
“What’s happened? What have I done in the last few minutes to make you so angry?”
“I’m not angry,” she snapped. Not technically. She was annoyed. There was a very big difference.
He shot her a look that oozed impatience. “Really, Granger? You’re being childish. Now tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”
She ducked around him before he could stop her. The potion was working quickly, her reflexes becoming lighter and faster than they had been in Harry’s living room.
“What’s wrong is that I think you should leave. I’ve changed my mind; you can give me my gift tomorrow. I’d like to go to bed.”
Where she could properly stew in her feelings, trying to sort and untangle the gnarled twist of emotions that continued to grow even more jumbled the longer she spent in his company.
His hand wrapped around her wrist, halting her steps. She tried to tug it from his grip, but his fingers didn’t budge.
“Let me go.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
His revelation three months earlier hadn’t been easy on either of them, that much she knew. And between them both, he would be the one struggling more. With the instincts. The urges. Working against his human side. His memories and his beliefs. Getting torn in two different directions, even worse than she was. Wants versus needs, desires versus instincts.
Turning, she tried to smother her frustration. They were both too stubborn to give in, and it wouldn’t have been the first time they stayed up arguing until dawn.
“I’m tired,” she said, her tone as hollow and unenthusiastic as she could manage. It wasn’t a lie, at least.
“Fine.” Rolling his eyes, Draco tightened his grip and began pulling her in the opposite direction, down the hall toward the room that used to belong to Ginny. It had been empty for almost a year, and Hermione pulled her hand back as he dragged her closer.
“What are you doing?”
As hard as she could yank, he wouldn’t let go. It didn’t hurt, but his grip was tight. Purposeful. He’d grown stronger before her very eyes. Like his body was trying to compensate for finding its mate, he’d grown a touch taller and his muscles had filled out just slightly as an adult. No longer as lean as they were as teens, he was solid. She had to ignore the way heat flared in her stomach at the potential for him to use that strength in other ways.
No, she chastised her body.
“Giving you your gift, as I promised.” Once at the door, he flicked the handle open with a quick twist and motioned inside the exposed room. “There. For you.”
His tone held no enthusiasm for what he was showing her, and Hermione had to blink several times to process the sight. He’d…
He’s somehow turned her spare room into a miniature library. Sturdy bookshelves lined the walls, reaching from floor to ceiling and packed with books. Books of every size and color, a maze of titles and subjects that she couldn’t even begin to fathom the cost of. The last time she’d looked inside the room, it had been empty with plain wooden floors and white walls. Now it was packed full, with a warm rug in the center and two oversized chairs. A work table sat at the far side, just below the window, and small lamps lit the room with a warm glow. It was perfect.
Which only made her annoyance flare into anger, bubbling over like an unwatched cauldron. It flushed through her veins, and she latched on to it instead of the uncertain swirl of emotions deep within her chest.
It took her several tries to find her voice after fully stepping into the space. “When did you do this?”
His posture stiffened. “Yesterday and today, while you were at work.”
Well, at least he’s honest.
Surprisingly enough, she wasn’t angry that he’d used her floo while she wasn’t home. It wasn’t really breaking and entering, she supposed, if she’d written his magical signature into her wards in case of an emergency. He didn’t even ask.
“Thank you,” she managed. “It’s lovely.”
His shoulders fell, and he stretched out his neck with a sigh. She could tell by the way he flexed his hands at his sides that he wanted to run them through his hair, to muss up the carefully styled white-blond strands and pull at the ends. But he held back, just like he always did. He never allowed himself to show any kind of weakness around her, and it only stoked her anger that much higher. Hotter.
“You hate it.” He didn’t bother phrasing it as a question.
“No, it’s wonderful,” she replied, tiptoeing around the truth. It was wonderful, and maybe in the morning after a proper night’s sleep, her palms wouldn’t itch with the desire to smack him.
It was too big. Too grand. Too...much for what they were. What they should be.
“Why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong so I can bloody well fix it? Why do you have to make this so difficult?”
Affronted, Hermione stepped back. “ I’m being difficult?! It’s my birthday, Malfoy! I’m sorry that I’m not slobbering all over your boots with gratitude, but it’s been a long day and I’d just like to go to sleep.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head as he stalked toward her. “You are, and you have been since we left Potter’s. But you want to pretend like everything is fine, and it’s not. Now just admit it and we can move on. You don’t like it? Fine, I’ll have it removed tomorrow. But say it, and stop acting like I’m—”
“You didn’t even ask me, Draco!” she shouted, unleashing her anger at once. She didn’t want him to remove it. That wasn’t the point. It was lovely, but just another example of how things were always stuck in the middle.
“Ask you what?” He halted, confused.
With a wide motion around the room, she gave him an obvious look. “What I wanted! You didn’t even tell me you were going to show up at Grimmauld tonight. And you didn’t ask me what I might want for my birthday. You just...you just do whatever you want, without thinking about how I might feel!”
“What do you want, then? Tell me, Granger. Because as much as you don’t like me making all the decisions, it’s not like you’ve offered up any kind of guidance for me to follow! You hold yourself at a distance, and it’s clear that you don’t care, but I’m trying my fucking hardest.”
He thinks…? Oh, that was too good. Too ironic.
She saw him standing before her with startling clarity. Perhaps it was the sobering potion that had eliminated any remaining tendrils of alcohol from her veins, or the anger that burned in her chest, but she saw him. Standing before her, neck flushing red with anger, chest puffed out as he stared her down. Angry. Grey eyes molten and hot. He was gorgeous in every sense of the term. Gorgeous and dangerous and hers, whether they wanted it or not.
Hermione was done wasting time. Done waiting for him to make the move that she was waiting for. It was clear that just like that night at the gala, just like that day at the registry desk, it was on her to push things forward.
“I want to see your wings.”
The room grew still and his posture shifted just slightly: eyes sharp, jaw tense. For once, he seemed at a loss for words. So she waited. The silence stretched between them, pulling until it felt delicate enough to shatter. But that was it. That was what she wanted. The realization filled the space between the lines as they blurred between them, growing more complicated and tangled with each passing day.
Intimacy.
They’d shared kisses, but that was it. Always chaste, always proper, he wouldn’t let them go past a few heated moments before pulling himself away with trembling hands and a low, rough voice when he told her that they needed to stop before they got carried away. Before he got carried away.
“Why?” he finally asked, spine straight and shoulders pulled back.
“Why not?” she countered. “If I’m supposed to make an informed decision, I should at least be allowed to understand every aspect of what I’ll be taking on.”
It was a clever way to disguise the curious desire that she’d been hiding for months. At first she hadn’t wanted to make him self-conscious by asking. But he never offered, and she was done waiting.
“No.” His answer was accompanied by a firm shake of his head.
“What do you mean no?” Hermione could have screamed in frustration, but she held it back. “You can’t expect me—”
“I don’t expect you to do anything,” he cut her off, but his voice was too calm. Too controlled. She should have taken it as a warning, but he continued. “But I won’t subject you to that.”
“Subject me? It’s who you are! You can’t pretend you don’t have them!”
As only part-veela, Draco hadn’t presented until his eighteenth birthday. It explained his sharper bone structure and the natural elegance that he exuded and once an adult, he had grown to become more handsome and irresistible than any man she’d ever met. And like many others, he had the ability to hide his veela features unless under extreme duress. Around her? He kept it locked away completely.
“I am not pretending anything,” he argued, his voice dropping. “But I fail to see how my wings have any relevance here.”
“I want to see them!” She tossed her hands up in frustration. “That’s the relevance—I want it. And as your mate, aren’t you supposed to want to dote on me?”
It was a dirty way to argue, and she knew it well before the words left her mouth. But she didn’t care. He was being just as ridiculous as she was.
He narrowed his eyes. “I also don’t want to scare you away. Guess which desire wins out?”
“How could you scare me off if I’m directly asking you for it?”
“Have you ever seen a veela’s wings in person?”
She hesitated. “Well, no, but I’ve—”
“Done your reading, like a good little witch? Researched and looked at photographs?”
“Don’t patronize me, Draco.”
“It’s not the same,” he said, shaking his head. “And it’s—they’re—”
She held her breath when he didn’t continue. Not that much was known about mated veelas, as they preferred their privacy and didn’t often share the intimate details of their transformations. She’d seen a few photos but no amount of research could stop her from fantasizing about what his might look like.
“They’re what?” she finally prompted.
“Sensitive,” he said with a sigh. “And…hard to control, sometimes.”
His words had the opposite effect of what he likely intended. Instead interest flared to life in her abdomen, heavy and warm, and she couldn’t stop herself from stepping toward him.
“I’ll be gentle,” Hermione offered, her voice turning just a touch softer. Sweeter. “Please, Draco?”
Heat turned his gaze almost black. “Granger…” he warned, but she continued.
“Just one little look?”
He took a moment, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lower lip before he answered. “For a price.”
She scoffed, but wasn’t surprised in the slightest. “It’s my birthday.”
He pointedly glanced at the nearby work table, where a clock sat.
1:04 AM.
“Not anymore.”
“Fine,” she gave in. She wanted to see his wings, and badly.
His lips pulled into a smirk. “You have to close your eyes.” Before she could voice her indignation, he held up a finger. “At first. I’ll tell you when you can open them.”
Always a give and take.
Dutifully, she closed her eyes. In the darkness, she could hear his every move; the brush of his shirt as he pulled it from his waistband, the slow slide of each button before he shrugged it off his shoulders. A slight rush of air against her arm as he tossed it on the chair behind her, and his slow, steady inhale. A press of warmth as his body came closer, his chest just a whisper away.
She shivered when his hands came to rest on her jaw, delicately tipping her face upwards.
Leaning in, she met his kiss. He worked her lips gently, a slower caress than she was expecting. It lacked any of the anger, annoyance, or frustrated indignation of their argument. Different even from their normal kisses, it held a sense of tenderness that had her heart swelling until she had to swallow back the sudden rush of emotion. This wasn’t just a normal kiss, but one for his mate. His fingers pressed tighter, his thumbs against her cheeks and his fingers spanning, reaching to her neck and burying into her hairline. His tongue found the seam of her lips and she opened for him with a light moan.
Sweet Circe, the man knows how to kiss. While that hadn’t surprised her at first, the intensity with which she enjoyed it certainly did.
Arousal pooled between her thighs and she tightened them, shifting on her feet. He took it as a cue to deepen the kiss, sweeping in and stroking her tongue with his own, slow and sensual and burning hot. No clumsy clinking of teeth or sloppy lips. He took his time. He pressed forward and pulled back over and over again until her hands were sweeping across his bare chest, following the lines of his scars like a map.
At first she thought it was the sound of her heavy breathing, panting through her nose as she wrestled for control, trying hard not to climb him and wrap her legs around his waist like she wanted. It was a slight whoosh , but the disturbance in the air is what made the difference. Alerted her that it wasn’t just the mix of their breathing, but something else entirely.
His wings.
Slowly he pulled back, giving her time and space to open her eyes. When she did, everything stopped.
He was glorious.
Wide wings stretched out behind him, blocking the view of the bookshelves and almost everything else that surrounded them. They were the same pale shade as the skin of his neck and chest, but the surface was almost iridescent. Like pearl-colored scales, they each glinted as the wings rose and fell with his steady breathing.
Long and sturdy, Draco held them still while she looked at him. Her hands slid across his chest, following the guide of his shoulders until the tips of her fingers skated across one of the sections. The wing twitched, so she did it again. Tracing the lines of the scales and the thin veins that crossed over the bone, it wasn’t until Draco let out a choked moan that she thought to look back at him.
His chest was flushed red, a blush blooming beneath the scars and up his neck. She realized, belatedly, that this was the first time she’d seen him with a shirt off.
“Is this—” She had to force her voice back into something that didn’t sound so breathy and aroused. “Is this okay?”
“It's fine,” he said, though the wing twitched again as soon as her fingers made contact again. The blush got deeper and his breathing grew unsteady, matching her own.
Curious, she tested out a heavier touch, sweeping her palm down the length of his wing. Letting her fingers trail delicately behind she felt his warmth, then pressed her hand up and around until she could feel the bone structure.
“Granger—”
He was barely holding back, his own hands balled into fists at his sides. His breathing had turned heavy, and he wasn’t looking at her. Instead his eyes were closed, the thick press of his erection against his trousers showed her well enough how he felt.
They’re sensitive, he’d said. Hermione blushed, her cheeks growing warm as she realized what she’d just been doing. Oh my gods, she wanted to hide her face. She wasn’t innocent by any means, but giving her mate the equivalent of an unintentional wing rub down was horrifying.
“Oh, gods, I’m so sorry—” She pulled back, knotting her fingers together on her chest so she wasn’t tempted to touch him again. “I didn’t mean to take advantage, I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable—”
Instead of answering, he grabbed her. His hands wrapped around her upper arms and pulled her against his body, a fierce kiss swallowing the surprised noise that squeaked from her lips.
This one wasn’t gentle or slow in any way. It was claiming as he forced her mouth open, his tongue dipping and licking between her lips as she fought to catch up. To match his pace. His skin was warm against her palms when they sought out his chest once more, sliding up and around his neck. He nipped at her lip, pulling it between his teeth, and she dug her hands into the tense muscles of his back. Right where his wings began.
A growl erupted from his chest and before she knew it his hands were around the backs of her thighs, lifting her up and pulling her legs around his waist. It settled her core right over his cock, but he didn’t break the kiss. Instead he walked forward until she was pressed up against the bookshelves, one hand under her arse and the other buried in her hair.
“Mine,” he bit out between kisses, his mouth trailing a line across her jaw and down to his neck. Tightness twisted in her chest, an answering sensation to the same heaviness that pulled at her core and made her undulate against him. Instinct. Want. Desire. Need. All mixed together, perfectly balanced.
She couldn’t bring herself to answer his claim, to confirm the call he felt to make her his. Not when it meant forever for both of them. Not when it wasn’t something they could take back after the embers of their desire had cooled and their minds had cleared.
So instead she gave in to what she could offer him. Pleasure. She could at least sate his need somewhat, testing her own as their bodies moved together. His wide palm gripped her arse, fingers kneading the flesh through her denims, and she tightened her thighs.
His cock was hard between her legs as he thrust against her, rubbing and pressing right against the ridge of her trousers as they kissed. It hit her clit perfectly, her knickers beginning to slide with the wetness that gathered from her arousal. Everything in her core was tightening, and she knew it wouldn’t be long. Not with how much she wanted him.
When her fingers found the base of his wings, his hips bucked. The noise that vibrated from his throat didn’t sound human, and Hermione was reminded once again…He wasn’t. A thrill zipped through her veins, and she met his thrusts with equal fervor.
When he nipped at her neck, she let her hand sweep across the top of one wing, then the other. His response was to push harder, to thrust faster, her back digging into the shelf behind her, but she couldn’t care. It felt too good—too right— to want to pull away.
Bearing down on him, she rocked her hips. She let her head fall back and opened her neck to him further, shivering as his breath ghosted across the shell of her ear. He kissed and nipped, licked and bit, marking her with tiny bruises...And she loved every one. Each one made her pleasure build, her cunt beginning to ache with the pressure for more. But not yet. Not until she was ready.
Even without the press of his fingers or his cock, she could feel the orgasm tightening at the base of her spine. They moved against each other, Draco’s lips coming to find hers once more, and she let her free hand thread through his hair. She grabbed the strands and pulled, smiling into the kiss at his answering growl. He liked her to be a bit rough, then.
And if not rough, he wanted her just as frenzied as he was. His hand on her arse urged her movements, his cock a thick, heavy reminder of how badly he wanted her.
“I’m close,” she choked out, feeling her thighs begin to shake. Just a bit more and she would be there. Everything in her felt hot—her skin burned beneath her clothes, sweat beginning to stick to her neck and between her breasts. But there was no time to rip off her shirt or break their position to shimmy off her clothes. “Keep going, Draco.”
His pace didn’t falter or slow, but he did lower his gaze to hers.
“Don’t regret this,” he begged. “Please.”
“I won’t,” she promised. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to.
The muscles in her legs were beginning to burn with the effort it took to hold herself up and to keep moving against him, but she could feel the sparks of her orgasm beginning to catch into a full flame.
He pulled her off the shelves just long enough for his wings to pull around them, pressing against her back until she was cocooned against his chest. It pushed her harder against his cock, not only surrounding her with his scent but insulating them from the outside world.
Just the two of them, wrapped in his wings, searching for release. Moving as one, nothing else mattered. Not their history, or their promises, or the time that was rapidly running out.
When his lips came back to hers, seeking her touch and her tongue, she fell apart. She shook as she came, her cunt spasming. Her moan was more of a whine, lost to his kiss, and his hands gripped her tighter. He continued to thrust against her, his pace growing faster, more erratic.
Pleasure spread through her limbs, golden and light. She squeezed him tighter, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on while her body came down from the pleasure of her orgasm. With her heart fluttering a rapid beat below her ribs, she was filled with a new desire. Not for herself, but for him.
His hands pushed and pulled at her hips, her arse, her thighs, never seeming to be able to stop in one place now that his wings were bearing the brunt of her weight. It was like he’d finally given himself permission to touch her and he wasn’t going to waste a single second.
“I love your wings,” she told him, pulling back until he could see the honesty in her expression. They showed their affection through action, but something told her he needed to hear this. He needed the confirmation that she did want him, in some way, even if she wasn’t completely sure yet.
To emphasize her point, she trailed her fingers over the arc of his left wing, then his right. He shuddered at her touch, his thrusts beginning to falter. She let her touch grow heavier, grasping and caressing, squeezing and fondling the delicate bones and scales that spoke to his power.
“But I like you, Draco.”
His mouth dropped open just slightly, his lips parting with silent pleasure, and she continued.
“Don’t hide them from me again.”
“I won’t,” he promised quickly. “Anything you want, Hermione. It’s yours.”
For once, she couldn’t bring herself to care if that was Draco talking, or the veela inside of him.
“Then I want…” she trailed off, leaning around to nip at his earlobe. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “...you to come, Draco. Right against your mate. Stop holding back.”
She felt the noise more than she heard it, her lips pressed against his throat. Her words spurred him forward, bucking against her with a new sense of determination. With one hand on the base of his wing and the other buried in his hair, she forced him to look at her, and that was all that it took for him to come. Whether from her grip or the acknowledgment of both who and what he was, it was exactly what he needed. His groan was deep and his hips stilled, cock pulsing and throbbing hard enough that she felt it through both of their trousers. It sent another zip of pleasure through her body, and she clenched her thighs tighter around him. His eyes drifted closed, long white lashes spread out across his cheeks, and he breathed heavily as his body twitched against hers. Even his wings tightened, pushing her harder against him until no space was left between them.
She knew, even without asking, that he was imagining what it would feel like to come that hard inside of her. To mate with her, to bind themselves together the way his body drove him to do. And she knew it because it was the exact thing she was imagining, and the way her body tensed at the thought was enough to make her gasp.
Self-consciousness immediately bloomed in her chest, and she released her hold on his wing and his hair. It was too much, and she followed the familiar instinct to withdraw to the safety of her logic and away from the enticing danger of instinct.
“Don’t.” His hand caught her wrist again, and he placed it on his bare chest between them while he kissed her. “I love it when you touch me.”
She broke the kiss with a smile, pulling back just slightly. Her hand flexed on his chest, her thumb tracing the line of his sectumsempra scar. “Fine, but you have to agree to two things for me.”
She would finish their night with another bargain. It only felt right. When he lifted his brow, she schooled her features.
“No more hiding your wings from me,” she said first, waiting for his nod before continuing, “and no more lavish gifts.”
He scoffed at the second request. “We’ll see.”
AUGUST 2003
Ministry galas were notoriously boring and stuffy affairs, packed full of witches and wizards with their noses stuck so high in the air that Hermione was surprised they didn’t trip over their own feet. It was an excuse to combine a party with political networking; a ploy for people to compete to see who could donate the largest pile of galleons or be photographed in the most expensive dress robes.
She hated every single bit of it, which is why she usually skipped. Her boss or the other department heads could very well schmooze and simper without her.
Except now, she had Draco Malfoy to contend with. The one man who wasn’t content to let her continue on as she had for years—perfectly well without him—and insisted on bringing her to such an awful, ridiculous affair. Unlike everyone else, his ploys actually worked.
“Think of the poor creatures, Granger,” he said, eyes widened in faux sympathy. “Your constituents will only continue to suffer the longer it takes you to fundraise.”
She scowled at him in return. As a representative in the Office of Misinformation inside the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, her latest campaign expanded the scope of her previous work and any done within the department up until that point. It was based on building awareness and acceptance for all magical creatures within the wizarding community, and while she had full support from her supervisors, she had almost zero budget.
“You could always donate the money,” she proposed with a grin.
He gave her a blank look. “Would you accept it?”
Her smile fell.
“No.”
As much as she wished she could—it would have been easier, at least—it wouldn’t have been right or fair. She had never been one for grand gestures, and she knew that if she accepted it would only feel like he was paying for her time or attention.
“Then I suppose you've got yourself a date. I’ll pick you up at six.”
Which is how she found herself standing next to him in the middle of a crowded ballroom wearing a too-expensive dress and gripping a glass of champagne as if her life depended on it. He was dressed in some of the most expensive dress robes she’d ever seen, tailored flawlessly to his tall frame. With inky black fabric and a cape that clasped over his suit with a silver brooch, the metal twinkled like a tiny constellation. She wanted to stare at it almost as much as she wanted to roll her eyes at his vanity.
It was silly, anyway. He could have been wearing a burlap sack and everyone in the room still would have been equally as enthralled. As a part-veela, it wasn’t his fault...which only made it that much more frustrating. For as much as she wanted to look away, she could only find growing annoyance and jealousy at all of the other sets of eyes that followed him through the room. She wanted him just as much as she hated it.
Pausing their lap, Draco leaned down to speak directly into her ear. “You look exquisite tonight, Hermione. Thank you for accompanying me.”
Heat suffused her cheeks. In the six weeks or so since they had found out about their... predicament, he had been nothing but a gentleman. A snarky, sarcastic gentleman, but one nonetheless. And although it had been several years since their re-meeting and his following apology, she still found herself surprised and impressed at all the ways Malfoy had changed.
It did her no favors when it came to making a decision. It’s okay, she reminded herself. You have plenty of time.
Through the night, he took the lead. With a careful hand on her lower back, he guided her through the crowd, extending introductions and carefully directing conversations to her work. She became more comfortable with every sip of champagne, laughing and joking with foreign dignitaries and wealthy donors.
He ignored drinks sent their way. Multiple drinks.
He didn’t glance at the witches and wizards that lined up to introduce themselves, drawn in by his veela allure. His attention never strayed, never lost focus. He stayed completely and utterly tuned into her and only her. He carefully led the conversations away from himself and back to her work, always emphasizing the things she was doing, and had done, to try to make change within the Ministry. It was enough to make her chew her lip while he spoke, trying desperately not to blush, before he would inevitably ask her a question regarding her work. It was then that she couldn’t help but clarify and expand, feeling that same spark of satisfaction that came with sharing her knowledge. Her expertise. That’s when he would fade back, stepping just out her line of sight, and let her lead.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked after breaking away from a discussion with the Undersecretary for the Austrian Minister.
“But shouldn’t we follow back up—”
His hand was light on her back as he ducked down so no one else would hear. “Give them time, Granger. Make them crave your attention. They’ll come to you.”
She snorted as he guided her out to the dance floor despite the fact that she hadn’t actually said yes. Nevertheless, one hand found his and the other reached up to rest lightly on his shoulder. The feel of his heavy muscles beneath her palm had her fingers curling tighter against the fabric. It was the closest they’d ever been, and she was surprised by the desire that made her want to step even closer to align their bodies.
“Everyone is looking at you, you know,” she said, deciding to announce the erumpent in the room.
His grey gaze never strayed from her face. Perhaps he was cataloguing her freckles with intense focus like that, but she didn’t look away.
“I know,” he answered simply.
“And? You don’t care?”
She’d expected surprise to flit across his features. Instead his lips pulled to the side, obviously amused.
“My, my, Granger, are you jealous? I didn’t take you for the type.”
He swayed her around the room, his steps guiding hers easily enough that she didn’t trip or stumble in her heels. With his hand at her waist and his palm resting beneath hers, he was steady. Unhurried. Contentedness made his eyes twinkle in the light, finally making her feel embarrassed enough to want to hide her face.
Her stomach flipped and fluttered like she’d swallowed a whole batch of Fizzing Whizzbees.
Instead of answering his question, she asked another.
“Why are you doing all this?”
She had to know. Was it because he wanted to, or was it because of the biological imperative? What were his wants? His desires, beneath the physical pull he felt toward her? Was he guided by instinct, or was it more? Was her receptiveness to him a result of his veela nature, or was her growing interest genuine? The man versus the veela.
His lips parted in response but before he could get the words out, they were interrupted. She could barely focus on the approaching figure, her mind too busy combing through the possible realities of his answer.
“I’m terribly sorry to inconvenience you both right now, but I’ve been called away and didn’t want to leave without dropping this off.”
Marin Shafiq, one of the wealthy political donors Draco had introduced her to, was standing next to them and holding out a small white card. The ink glinted in the light when Draco took it, barely giving it a glance before handing it to Hermione.
“I’m very impressed with your work, Miss Granger,” Marin continued. “Both inside and outside of the Ministry, and I’d like to support your campaign in any way that I can. I’ll be sending my banker an owl first thing in the morning, but make sure to give him that card and he’ll get the funds to you as soon as possible.”
The script on the small piece of cardstock in her hand held a number. An exorbitant, excessive number, and she couldn’t hide her shock.
“And thanks to you, Mr. Malfoy, for introducing us. I do hope to see you both soon.”
Before she could process the donation, Marin Shafiq was gone, drifting back into the crowd and disappearing between the other bodies sweeping around the dance floor.
“Draco, this is—” The words were stuck in her throat. “This is—”
It was enough to fund at least half of her project and ensure it’s operation for the next twelve months without issue.
“You did it, Granger,” Draco said with a genuine smile. Not a grin or a smirk, but a full smile. He was beaming, really, with pride stretching across his features and lighting him up in a way she’d never seen before. One hand gently came to cup her cheek while the other rested on her shoulder, with something that looked a lot like reverence shining in his eyes. “I knew you could.”
The bubbly feeling in her stomach floated up to her chest, and she couldn’t deny it any longer. Couldn’t deny herself any longer, as she grabbed his lapels, pulling her lips to his in an eager kiss.
She wouldn’t have even been at the silly gala if it wasn’t for him. If it weren’t for his introductions and his smooth charm, focusing his attention and energy toward getting her the things that she needed most. Then, to bypass his own role and instead look at her with such pride? Such adoration?
He froze, his body going stiff at the feel of her mouth against his. She gave him several moments to respond, waiting with her lips pressed against his, and when he didn’t…
Regret bloomed in her chest, and she began to pull away, an apology already forming on her tongue. The separation is what spurred him to action. His hands tightened and pulled her back, reigniting the kiss instantly. The intensity extinguished any regret, any second thoughts she might have had. Lips coaxing, pressing, working against hers with such care that there was no question he was trying to force himself to go slow. She could feel it in the way his body was still tense, his hands completely still while they kissed. Kissed, and kissed, and kissed, as everyone on the dance floor moved around them. Two stationary objects in a sea of motion, and for a moment, it was almost enough to sway her one way over the other.
JULY 2003
Hermione’s head was pounding so hard she didn’t even hear the knock at her office door. She did, however, hear the judgement that seeped through Malfoy’s tone when he opened it without waiting for a response.
“What are you still doing here?”
She could barely spare him a glance, smothering her sigh. “I’m working, Malfoy. I have to get ahead of these reports before the I.S.C.C.M.C. next week.”
“I don’t have the slightest idea of what any of those letters mean, Granger. But I’m sure none of them are nearly as important as you think they are.”
That had her setting her quill down and pursing her lips, giving him her full attention. “They are, actually. It’s the International Symposium for the Care and Control of Magical Creatures. Something you should care about, considering...everything.”
Dropping her eyes, she pointedly took in his clothing. A sharply cut suit of deep, navy blue, with silver accents. Combined with his grey eyes and naturally light complexion, it practically screamed who he was. What he was. Veela. It explained why she’d had so much trouble tearing her gaze away from him for the last few years, but any relief she felt was quickly extinguished by the added weight of expectation for more than fleeting looks or passing interest.
Instead of addressing her work or the way she was very obviously enjoying the way he looked, he sighed.
“You missed our meeting.”
She could feel the discomfort radiating from him, even from across the room. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that she had, in fact, missed their scheduled dinner by an hour. Annoyance that he’d interrupted her work quickly melted into guilt.
Cringing, she reached up to rub at her temple. “Gods, I’m so sorry. I must have lost track of time.”
Truthfully, it had been a month and she still hadn’t gotten used to his increased presence or position in her life. It was still too new, too strange, for her to really comprehend. A childhood enemy turned somewhat friend, turned…
Even in her mind, she couldn’t quite think about it in such a way. It still felt wrong, like some kind of mistake. Besides, for the sake of her eventual decision, it was better to stay neutral. To keep herself distanced from the more emotional side of their pairing. It was the only way to truly gauge whether or not they could work.
“Fate makes no mistakes,” Luna had told her once. Obviously she was wrong, considering the precarious situation that Hermione and Malfoy now found themselves in.
Malfoy didn’t seem surprised in the slightest, and leaned down to grab something just outside her office door.
“I assumed you’d gotten distracted.” He raised a brown paper bag with one finger and gave her a pointed look. “So I brought dinner to you.”
Hermione stilled, shock bleeding through her muscles. “You didn’t have to do that.”
His impatience was clear, but he still stepped forward to set the bag down on her desk before folding himself into the chair that sat across from hers.
“You would be surprised.”
It took her a moment to process, to switch her focus from the legalese of her work enough to sort through the meaning beneath his tone. When it registered, she didn’t know whether to feel flattered or even more guilty.
That seemed to be the trend, though. Never one or the other. Never wholly excited or entirely upset. Her reactions to him bled from one to another, twisting and melting and morphing too quickly to categorize or record in her mind the way she wanted or needed.
Give it time and it’ll become clear. It was the mantra she’d repeated to herself for the last month, but she was still standing in the same spot as that fateful day in the registration office. It has to.
“I wouldn’t have gone hungry,” she promised him. She had taken a quick break for tea and crisps earlier in the afternoon.
“Yes, well. Even so, you agreed to six months, and I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t expected even a slight amount of resistance.”
Her neck grew hot, and she focused her attention on the bag of food between them. “It wasn’t intentional.”
“I know,” he replied honestly, and she was surprised that his tone held no malice. “Hence why I already was prepared to track you down.”
Without waiting for her to begin, he reached forward to unpack the food. Takeaway containers were unloaded onto her desk, stacked for her to choose from. A variety of cheap plastic and heavy cardboard, with different logos stamped and printed on the sides of each one. A glossy black box, something square wrapped in brown paper, a white cup with a little plastic lid. Some she recognized, and some she didn’t.
“How many places did you go to?” she asked in awe once he was finished, vanishing the bag away.
Malfoy leaned back in his chair, one finger toying with his silver cufflink. “I...wasn’t sure what you preferred.”
Unexpected affection swelled within her. It was a sweet gesture, and one she hadn’t realized he was capable of.
“I’m not picky,” she told him gently, reaching out to take one of the containers closest to her. “And thank you for dinner.”
He waited for her to begin before grabbing one for himself, leaning forward to eat it at the edge of her desk. Clearing away some of the paperwork and files, she made room for him, and he moved into the space she allowed. They ate in silence, and she couldn’t help but grin as he picked at his food with the cheap, plastic cutlery.
Figuring it was an opportunity to continue her analysis of their situation, she swallowed and cleared her throat.
“So, tell me—which is your favorite?” Between them sat containers of all types. Italian. French. Thai. Even a quick, pre-made sandwich from the local market down the street where she often grabbed a cheap lunch.
He glanced up at her in surprise. Motioning with his fork, he pointed at the Coq au Vin she had already eaten close to a quarter of. Embarrassment flooded her, and she tried to push it away.
“Why didn’t you say something?!”
Malfoy chewed his own food slowly, a slight grin forming at her immediate discomfort. Once done, he patted his lips with his napkin. “Because then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you squirm.”
Her expression flattened, and she grabbed the food back. Grumbling, she forked a massive bite into her mouth, just to prove her point.
“It’s delicious,” she said, garbled.
“Leave it to you to risk choking just to make a point.”
She took her time chewing and swallowing, drawing it out for as long as she could before responding.
“My apologies, I thought you appreciated a good sense of dramatic flair.”
He blinked. A slow smile spread across his face, chagrined acceptance turning into a light chuckle. Soon, her own matched, and they were laughing over their dinner, poking at each other’s dishes before the other could swat them away. And not for the first time, she was surprised by how easy it was to flirt with Draco Malfoy.
And even more so, unlike some other things in their lives, it wasn’t an unwelcome change.
JUNE 2003
For as much as Hermione loved her job, she despised being put on the rotation for the registration desk. It was monotonous work and took away from her other, more important duties. Which is why she almost didn’t notice his tall frame, slipping in through the door when she was too busy repeatedly filling out the six different forms that asked for the same information in only a slight variety of ways.
“Welcome to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, how can I—Malfoy? What are you doing here?”
He looked almost as shocked to see her as she was to see him.
“Ahh, hello,” Malfoy said with a pause, his eyes darting around the room. It was odd, the way he stood so stiffly. He held his shoulders tight and his hands folded behind his back, and she followed his gaze around the room, wondering what he might be looking for. It was clear she was the only person covering the registration desk, but there could only be one reason he was standing in front of her.
“I’m sorry, Malfoy, but my answer is still no.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d shown up at the Ministry, but she couldn’t pretend that a part of her didn’t hate his offers to get tea together. Even if she felt too conflicted to say yes.
It was one thing to grab tea together after running into each other at Diagon, but it felt so strangely formal for him to continue to ask her. Especially when she had a sneaking suspicion that he was still offering out of his sense of lingering guilt, trying to make amends long after she’d already accepted his apology.
Confusion flashed across his features, sharpening his gaze, before realization set in. His shoulders relaxed, and he let out a slight laugh. “Yes, of course. My apologies for bothering you at work, Granger.”
As he turned, pulling his arms around to his front, she caught a flash of yellow parchment.
Yellow. The same shade as the update forms required by the Magical Creatures Registry, and the same one she’d just been filling out. Every department used a different shade, and she recognized it by years of her own work. Purple for Magical Law Enforcement, green for Sports and Games, blue for International Magical Co-operation, red for Transportation, and so on.
There was no question that the piece of parchment, now hidden as he walked toward the door, was the same canary yellow of every other file in her desk.
“What are you doing with that?” Her question stopped him before he could reach for the handle.
Malfoy turned around, his eyebrows lifted in confusion. “Hmm?”
The parchment was gone.
“What—the parchment you just had. The yellow one. Where did it go?” Hermione stood, her fingers trailing across the desk as she tried to sort out what he’d done with it. It wasn’t sticking out of the pockets of his suit, so he must have vanished it.
Malfoy raised both of his hands, now empty, and gave her a hesitant look. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
She narrowed her eyes. There was something off about him, and the longer he stood near the door, the more obvious it became. “How did you know where to find me?”
While they had run into each other in the atrium once or twice, and even more times out in Diagon, he’d never come up to a different floor to seek her out directly. There was no way he could have known.
Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but the last piece of information she needed clicked into place before he could come up with an excuse. Today’s date. It was his birthday.
His birthday. The registration desk. The yellow form, hidden away. His surprise at seeing her.
Her realization must have been apparent, because he quickly closed his mouth, pressing his lips into a thin line. Looking away, he let out a curse.
“You’re—” She raised a hand to her chest, pressing her fingers against her collarbone. “What’s happened?”
Part of her knew that she had no right to know, no right to ask such an invasive question. But there was still a small part of her, one that had been growing for over a year, who cared about their burgeoning friendship in a way she knew was likely dangerous to encourage.
It could have been anything—a vampire bite or a werewolf—
“I thought you didn’t work the registration desk,” he said, cutting off her spiral of theories. “You told me your job was more legislative.”
She was too caught up to process anything except the question at hand. “Only once a month. We all have to take a shift.”
Almost inaudible, he cursed to himself again. “My lucky fucking day.”
“Are you okay?” If he wouldn’t answer her first question, she at least needed to know that he was safe. Protected. Cared for. The sudden flash of deep, intense concern should have shocked her, or at least set her back into self consciousness. Instead it had her rounding the desk, searching him for obvious wounds on his hands or neck.
“I’m fine,” he said, stepping back as she approached. “Please, Granger, don’t make this a big deal. It’s nothing.”
“It’s something!” she replied sharply. Although their burgeoning friendship wasn’t something she’d quite come to terms with, she couldn’t deny it. A part of her liked Malfoy, despite everything telling her she probably shouldn’t.
With a resigned sigh, Malfoy pulled out the yellow parchment from the interior pocket of his jacket, smoothing out the folds before holding it out to her.
“I presented as a part-veela on my eighteenth birthday. One eighth, on my mother’s side. I only came to update my yearly registration, as required by law.” His voice held no hint of emotion.
Hermione was too shocked to take the parchment. “You’re...veela?”
She could have slapped herself for not realizing sooner. His flawless complexion, his near-silver eyes. His white-blond hair, carefully styled back from his face. The tall, elegant grace he held himself with, and the ease in which she found herself wanting to watch him. Especially as an adult, she felt a pull toward him that she’d never known before.
Malfoy let her process the information in silence, but didn’t drop the form. She finally took it, her eyes scanning his information quickly before she forced herself back into professionalism, rather than acting as his friend.
“I never realized,” she finally said, turning back to the desk. Of course it would make sense for him to want to keep it quiet. He wasn’t the only part-creature who preferred their privacy. “I’m sorry for being so intrusive.”
His response was dry. “That was precisely the point.”
Taking her seat, she flashed him an apologetic look. “Let me get this processed for you quickly, then, and you can be on your way.”
He nodded, but his posture was still stiff. She hurried to get the matching forms from the correct trays. Thick, uncomfortable silence stretched through the otherwise empty room.
“Happy birthday,” she said as she inked her quill, struggling to find the easy conversation that they typically held. “Any big plans to celebrate?”
“Not many, no.”
Hermione hurried, taking his short response as a clear sign to finish her duties so he could go.
“Any changes since your last update?” she asked, duplicating his form so she could add it to his file. It was an awkward question to ask anyone who came in to update their registration, but her discomfort increased tenfold as the tension grew between them.
“No,” Malfoy replied quickly. His hands were tucked into his pockets as he looked around the room, his eyes never settling on one place in particular, but quite never looking at her either.
She moved to check through the last of her review and readied her signature. “Perfect, that should be—”
One box was checked with a quick slash.
Mated? Yes
That couldn’t be right.
“This says—”
“Are we done?” Malfoy cut her off. “I do need to go.”
He’s mated. He has a mate. The information couldn’t quite translate. No, a voice firmly disagreed in the back of her mind. There’s no way.
“You have a mate?” she asked, incredulous. Jealousy swelled, and she dropped the quill. She stood again, this time readying for a fight. “You’ve been asking me to tea for close to a year—”
So she had misinterpreted his offers. Either that, or he was shunning his mate, which was all but unheard of. Veela matehood was built on a foundation of unwavering devotion, driven by instinct and desire to make them happy no matter what. And Veela were one of the few creatures that could die of sorrow, if left unmated or unrequited for too long.
Malfoy raised his hands slowly. “It’s not what you think, Granger—”
“I think it is!” she cut him off. “Your poor mate—have you shunned them, then? What do you think is going to happen—”
“I know very well what is going to happen, though I appreciate your concern—”
“—do you? Because it sounds to me like you’re being rather blasé about it. You could die, Malfoy. Not to mention if your mate is also—”
“She is not, I assure you. The only person affected is myself. Now, are we done?”
He held his hand out for his copy of the form, impatience brimming, but it only spurred her own.
“So, what? You’ve been asking me for tea as a way to move on? To try to resist the call? How long have you known?”
Hurt was a tender wound in her chest. She had been so foolish, entertaining the idea that he could be interested in her. Although it had been a fleeting indulgence to consider otherwise, she was thankful for her immediate refusal. Every other moment they had spent together suddenly felt like a betrayal.
“I did no such thing,” he replied sharply. “I would never do that to her.”
“Does she know?” Hermione wasn’t sure why she asked, why the question pressed so heavily against her tongue. The idea that he might shun his mate made her stomach turn sour.
Malfoy was silent. Realization set in.
“She doesn’t know?” she gasped. “Why wouldn’t you tell her?”
He released a sigh, shaking his head before deigning to answer her. “I had a feeling she wouldn’t react very well.”
“So you’re taking the choice away from her because you think she’ll react badly? Gods, I thought you were better than that. I thought you’d grown—”
“I assure you, this is the best option for both of us. There is no choice to take away, not when it’s me. She’s already made her lack of interest clear.”
Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t see how she could if she doesn’t know the full scope of the situation.”
A brief smile pulled at his lips, a sardonic grin flashing across his face. Like he knew something she didn’t.
“You think I should tell her, then?”
“Of course I do! Even if she’s human and not bound by the laws of matehood, you can’t make that choice for her!”
“And you don’t think it would scare her off?”
She scoffed. “Not if she has any decency, no.”
“All right,” he agreed easily. Too easily. Stepping forward, he set his hands on the desk between them and leaned in until she could easily differentiate between the shades of grey and silver in his eyes. They were intense as he looked at her, cataloguing her features before speaking again. “One last question, then. Would you consider yourself a decent witch?”
Hesitation stilled her from fidgeting under his attention. “I would, yes. Why?”
“Because it’s you, Granger.”