Orange Moon

by endegame

Summary:

Having burned bridges in the healing world early on in her career with her blunt and driven nature, Healer Hermione Granger maintains a small private practice in which she tries her best to provide quality care, which includes experimenting with potions. Frustrated with Ministry sanctioned restrictions on how she brews her potions, she reluctantly teams up with reclusive potions master, Draco Malfoy. Exploring their new professional relationship forces them to explore a personal one as well, a relationship that explodes, leaving Hermione and Draco reeling with its consequences.

"'You know, the bride doesn't usually see the groom,” Hermione glanced at the clock on her fireplace mantel, “one hour before the wedding.”

Draco smirked at her. “When have you ever done anything the usual way?'"

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

I am writing another fic! Woohoo! I enjoyed writing "Stirring the Porridge" so much that I couldn't help but write this little idea that's been floating around in my head. Title inspired by 'Orange Moon' by Erykah Badu. I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading and leaving comments/kudos! Follow me on twitter.

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Hermione loved magic. She loved its history, its knowledge, how she felt powerful when holding her wand, how she felt invincible.

It was a feeling that carried her all throughout Hogwarts, even during the times she was told she was powerless. It never stopped her. The magic was an anchor for her as a teenager, a lifeline, and then, as an adult, it was a catapult to the life she had wanted. A healing mastery, with a specialization in mind healing. A cushy career at St. Mungo’s, ensconced safely within a pristine office on the other side of the Janus Thickey Ward, away from the patients, and away from the noise.

But it only took her so far. 

And, as Hermione groaned over her now useless cauldron, she wished that magic could take her beyond this, beyond her choices. A Time Turner couldn’t fix this. Hermione checked the time on her watch, cursing to herself when she realized she was fifteen minutes late. Hurriedly banishing her attempted potion, Hermione wiped her hands on her apron before moving through her spare bedroom-cum potions room and into her bedroom, tearing off her apron and shirt before throwing on a blouse and skirt and swiping some lip balm across her chapped lips. Tying her hair back into a haphazard bun at the nape of her neck, Hermione rushed through her apartment and into the floo, calling out her destination with an acquired comfort.

Neville Longbottom’s Hogwarts office swam into view and Hermione, dusting off the green ashes, stepped through.

“Neville?” she called. “Sorry I’m late!”

She stood anxiously in front of the fireplace, worried that perhaps he had been called on some school emergency, but, to her immense relief, the handsome face of her friend popped out from behind a curtain.

“Hermione!” His smile was wide, and he caught her in an easy embrace, one they repeated monthly. “I almost thought you weren’t coming. Thought you might have been called away on an emergency” he said into her hair.

Pulling away from him, Hermione felt her own smile stretch widely to match his. Neville Longbottom, her friend at school, had become her confidant and one of her dearest friends in adulthood. Quietly brave Neville had gone on from Hogwarts to earn a mastery in Herbology and, upon Professor Sprout’s retirement, had been hired as the Herbology professor.

Neville was a natural at his job, having an easy demeanor that made even the most nervous of students feel good about themselves and the content they were learning. He was someone who learned the pain of being constantly underestimated and dismissed, and went to great lengths to recognize the strengths of each of his students, taking those budding qualities and nurturing, providing words of affirmations, until they bloomed in each of his pupils.

He had done the same with Hermione.

When Hermione had graduated from Hogwarts having completed an 8th year, she immediately went on to pursue a career in healing at St. Mungo’s. Given her experiences in the war and aptitude for quick thinking, Hermione had completed her first two rotations in the Magical Emergencies Ward. Ever the diligent pupil, Hermione took a two year hiatus to pursue an American mastery in healing, its programming unique in that the MACUSA incorporated muggle medical knowledge with the principles and practice of magical healing. It was there Hermione had discovered her love for rehabilitative services - its seemingly sluggish progress spurred on by what Neville had taught her was important - the relationship.

The administration at St. Mungo’s, and, by extension, The Ministry had not been pleased. The director of the magical hospital had told Hermione that the two year fellowship had been a massive failure when Hermione refused to return to the emergency department, instead taking a position in the Janus Thickey Ward to provide therapeutic services to its long term residents.

“You have a choice, Healer Granger,” Kodiak Armadill, St. Mungos Medical Director, had started. “We’ve given you a job to do. You were not sent to the MACUSA to go rogue and decide what is best for this hospital. Your talents are best suited for where we want you to be, not for what you think is right.”

Healer Armadill did not think of what it could mean for the future. And when Hermione was presented with the choice to follow the rules or to follow what was right, it had been Neville who reminded her of her strengths.

“No emergencies today. How are you doing? Classes going well?” She settled into one of the plush armchairs in Neville’s office, her eyes eagerly roaming over the spread Neville had laid out in preparation for her visit. She snagged a cracker, giving it a generous smear of brie before topping it with apricot jam.

“Classes are going well,” Neville responded as he joined Hermione. “Now that it’s November I feel as if I’ve gotten to know this new cohort well enough. It always amazes me how different the students are every year.”

Hermione hummed in agreement, this time popping a cracker with pepperoni into her mouth.

“How’s the brewing going?”

She shook her head, mouth full of another cracker. 

“No good. I think I’ve hit my limit.” She picked at a piece of lint on her blouse, feeling embarrassed, despite the fact that Neville entertained this song and dance every month. “I’d appreciate it if you had anything to spare me, I just can’t seem to get around Ministry restrictions. It’s been three years since I quit - when will they stop punishing me with this bureaucratic bullshit?”

Leaning back to take a sip of his tea, Neville’s curious eyes roved up and down her form. “You know, you’re always welcome to peruse whatever ingredients I have in my own stores. But,” he continued gently, “I thought you had moved beyond what I have to offer here…?”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I am, I did, Neville. I just don’t know what to do. I just can’t seem to get around the Ministry restrictions around some of the ingredients I need.”

“I know the MACUSA would be happy to put you up in a lab.”

“They would, but I don’t want this being lost in a corporate profit scheme.” Neville’s office was light, airy with its high gothic windows and pale wood flooring and unlike the offices of the other, more traditional professors. His furniture was modern, comfortable, and well used in the last five years since his appointment. It was so like him, to come in quietly and change the fundamental ways things had been done. Hermione wished she had had a modicum of his subtlety. Then maybe she wouldn’t have to beg her friend for something he didn’t have. ‘Besides,” she continued softly. “I want this to be for us. There are so many people in the Janus Thickey Ward, and my own private patients that I could help. I want this to be for us.”

Neville nodded, his kind eyes misty with emotion and the knowledge of wait went unsaid between them. This was for Neville’s parents, and for Hermione’s too. Hermione’s healing was holistic and therapeutic in nature for adult wizards with seemingly permanent damage to their minds. Most of the time, these witches and wizards were left in the ward to simply pass the time until they died of natural causes. But Hermione had found that providing carefully planned and functional tasks, like book clubs or sessions on how to button and unbutton clothes. Menial tasks that a child knew, and that an adult wizard or witch may delegate to magic took on a special role for rehabilitation and worked to rewire the neural pathways that had been damaged by magic. While she worked on these tasks, Hermione thought that there had to be a potion she could create that could, in theory, “prime” the mind for these activities and to stop or slow the decay. Enrichment and purposeful activities that she planned could only do so much, but there needed to be an option for the long term.

“You should get in touch with Malfoy.”

Hermione coughed into her tea, sending drops of it flying unpleasantly. She grimaced, waving her wand to dry where she had spilled. “You mean Draco Malfoy?”

Neville leaned back in his chair, legs crossed. “He has an advanced potions mastery from France and his speciality is sourcing rare ingredients. He’s who I contact when I need to restock here.”

“Malfoy wouldn’t help me,” she protested, the memory of his pointed sneering face weakly appearing in her mind’s eye.

“Don’t be so sure,” Neville chuckled.

“Last I heard, he had married Astoria Greengrass.” She had seen the full color article about it in the Daily Prophet the day after his house arrest ended when he was 19 years old. It had been a lavish affair, planned by Narcissa Malfoy herself. Hermione, Harry, and Ron had all received invitations but only Harry had attended, much to Ron’s ire. She had shrugged, thinking that life would go on, as it had for all of them and didn’t spare any more thoughts for Malfoy until, six years later, a short, somber obituary appeared in the Daily Prophet for Astoria Malfoy. “It’s been, what, maybe four years since his wife passed away?”

“It was a shame,” Neville gripped his teacup tightly, his usually happy face pulled into a deep frown. “Draco called me at the end. She had a blood curse,” he explained. “Nothing could be done for her though, and she died.”

“Malfoy called you ? Did he not have an army of private healers at hand?” Hermione winced at her incredulous tone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just-”

He held up his hand, his expression one of perfect calmness and understanding. “They had healers. I think Draco was desperate for anything. I had just started this position here, and he owled me to see if I had anything to offer.” Neville’s eyes took on a faraway look. “I brought some herbs and plants over to make her more comfortable. It was,” he took a deep breath, “it was difficult for Astoria, in the end. In any case,” Neville continued, his eyes focusing back on Hermione, “you should try reaching out to him, see if he has any insight. He’s helped me procure rare ingredients for the school on tight timelines. I know you’re resistant to the private sector, but I think I’ve exhausted all my resources for you.” His tone grew gentle. “It might be time to ask for someone else’s help now.”

Hermione nodded, hugging her empathetic friend tightly. And, in the end, she accepted Neville’s hastily scrawled note with Malfoy’s mailing address. As she meandered her way to the Floo, she could not help but turn over how Neville had called him Draco, his voice gentle, as if they were friends.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

Hi! I was so excited by the reactions and feedback I got from Chapter 1, so here goes Chapter 2! I'm definitely fleshing this story out as I go and enjoying the process. I went into a little more detail about Hermione's backstory in this chapter, as well as a tiny bit into Draco's, but I'm hoping to share their full histories as they share it with each other.
Thank you for taking the time to read, subscribe, leave comments, leave kudos, etc. I really appreciate all the feedback and I hope you enjoy this!

By the time she had returned by floo to her flat, the sun had made its descent so the moon had her turn to play. Hermione sat by her large window, taking in its glow, the note with Malfoy’s address dangling in between her fingers. She had learned two pieces of information that afternoon. Malfoy had a mastery in potions. And that the person who could vouch for him was none other than her friend Neville. She wondered if Neville ever chafed at being underestimated and Hermione winced thinking about the tone she had taken when Neville shared that Malfoy had called him. She knew that if she had nowhere else to go, she would also call Neville. She could have spent the rest of the night pondering how Neville and Draco connected, but she had patients in the morning. Sighing and ignoring the slight rumbling of her stomach, Hermione made her way to bed, dropping the note with his address onto her bedside table.

The next morning found Hermione methodically packing her healers’ bag with what was standard: essence of dittany and murtlap for minor aches and pains, some fever reducers, draughts of peace, calming draughts, skelegrow. These lay mostly untouched in Hermione’s bag. What she used more consistently, if not every day, were the laminated picture cards of common household items, a label maker, Muggle pencil grips magically enhanced to fit wands. 

Hermione’s first patient was relatively new to her, a referral from the daughter of an existing patient. Helen Strix was 70-years old and experienced a “mind block” three months ago. She had been admitted to St. Mungo’s emergency ward but was released once her vitals were stable and the block was cleared. However, Mrs. Strix experienced loss of her speech and difficulty moving her right side - it was sluggish and uncoordinated. The healers at St. Mungo’s, thoroughly satisfied that she would not die, had simply shrugged and told her that the skills would come back to her. They had not. When Hermione started working with Ms. Strix, she worked on doing simple exercises to improve her strength and coordination with her dominant hand, while also working on Strix’s ability to use her nondominant side for magical activities. She also worked on Strix’s ability to hold conversations and did not simply give up when she needed extra time. This was the nature of Hermione’s healing. This is what she had learned while in the United States, what St. Mungo’s administration and, by extension, the Ministry of Magic deemed worthless.

Hermione spent about two hours per week with each of her patients, either working directly with them or with their families to figure out ways to modify the home environment to either make it more accessible or to make it safer. Magical homes were ripe for accidents when its inhabitants could not control their magic fully.

It felt thankless some days. Most of her patients turned to her in desperation, looking for something to “fix” them the way they were used to things being “fixed” in the magical world. She remembered how, as a young girl, it was amazing that a broken arm could be healed overnight when in the Muggle world, it took months of healing and some physical therapy to regain motion. Wizarding society did not seem to care for those whose magic couldn’t make them fit in. They often expected Hermione to be the person to cast a spell, perhaps a charm, or a potion and they could live their life again the way they were used to. It was always the same, the anger and pure rage that was directed at Hermione, despite everyone knowing it was not her fault. And then they would begin anew the following week, the relationship between Healer and Patient, raw, vulnerable, and strong.

And it had been such a day for Mrs. Strix, who raged at Hermione and called her a wretched woman. Hermione documented it as a success, because this was the first time Mrs. Strix had put together a four-word sentence since her accident. It was as Hermione walked away from Strix’s London apartment that she decided to contact Malfoy.

She spent that evening sipping her tea, multiple drafts of her message strewn about her. How does one go about contacting their childhood bully turned child-soldier for the Dark Lord turned reformed recluse and potions master? She decided she could only be herself and wrote, very simply, that Neville Longbottom had passed along his contact information. She had some interest in acquiring rare potions ingredients - would he be open to meeting to discuss?

To her surprise, Malfoy’s reply was swift, and he arranged a meeting for them that Saturday at a French cafe just outside of wizarding London, giving her time to look into her mysterious former classmate.

***

Malfoy had picked a muggle cafe. Hermione had apparated to the nearby apparition spot, and walked for ten minutes, enjoying the crisp autumn air. Hermione had spent hours researching what Malfoy had been up to, only to discover very little. She wasn’t sure who he was paying at the Daily Prophet, but he must have been paying them well.

Following the conclusion of the war, the Wizengamot had ultimately decided that Malfoy’s age, his show of remorse, and the undeniable influence of his father mitigated a more lenient sentence, one that was rehabilitative instead of punitive. Their hope, the Wizengamot had provided during sentencing, was that Malfoy would use this time to complete his schooling and contemplate ways he could contribute positively to wizarding society upon reintegration. He completed his N.E.W.T.S, and following the end of his house arrest and the beginning of his marriage, completed an Advanced Potions mastery in France. Malfoy Manor still appeared to belong to the family, according to public records, but he had made a number of real estate purchases in France and, she deduced from his very interesting investment history, spent most of his time there.

She had lingered on the two published photos she had found, one from his wedding announcement and the second from his wife’s death announcement. At 19, she saw the traces of the sullen, pompous boy who had terrorized her in childhood, but his cheeks were fuller, his face flush and excited as he stood facing the photographer. Astoria was small, pale, with strikingly dark hair and bold eyes that were slightly fearful, apprehensive. They looked so young, so fragile. The Draco Malfoy she saw at his wife’s funeral had grown into a man, one whose face was drawn tight with misery, brow furrowed, his eyes closed, as if the photographer had caught him trying to stop tears.

She wondered, as she slid into a chair at a corner table while she waited, which version of Malfoy she would see today, wondered if he was still haunted by the grief life had dealt them all. The anticipation of it all had Hermione distracted, so distracted that she startled when a dark figure loomed over her table.

“Hi,” she said lamely, standing up to offer her hand in a handshake.

Malfoy stilled for a beat, examining her hand before taking it in a brief, strong handshake. She started, realizing that this was the first time they had touched ever, if she didn’t count the time she punched him in third year. “Granger,” he said, his voice calm, his eyes quietly taking her in.

Hermione was 29 years old - she had thoroughly shed any girlhood insecurities about her changing body. She carried herself with an air of confidence and one that she paired with simple, classically cut staple clothing items. But she would be lying if she said she didn’t put in a bit of extra effort for this meeting.

Her eyes took in his form in exchange. He had always been on the taller side, and maybe stood around 6”0, his frame lithe and muscular. He was dressed smartly in neatly pressed black trousers that tapered at the ankle and a short-sleeved open-collared polo shirt with a striped knit. His platinum hair was fashionably cut, slightly short on the sides with longer wavy pieces falling artfully, some pieces falling into his forehead. He had grown up and into his pointy features, the name ferret no longer applicable for his handsome face with its strong jaw and aquiline nose. Dammit. He was fit .

He was so different from the sickly young teenager she had known him as last, his skin and hair wan and starving. Today’s Malfoy looked absolutely healthy, as if he had just stepped off a yacht vacation or perhaps a luncheon where they spent Hermione’s yearly income on alcohol alone.

“Coffee?” Malfoy released her hand, and inclined his head towards the register.

“Oh - yes!” She reached for her purse, rummaging through it. “I have my wallet in here, let me just find it and I can-”

“No need. You can keep this table. Cream? Sugar?” Malfoy interrupted, holding his hand up. Clearly, he had better things to do.

“A vanilla latte, with oat milk,” Hermione looked up to meet his gray eyes, her hand still rummaging blindly in her purse. “But this is a muggle cafe, you’ll need pounds-”

Malfoy rolled his eyes at her, walking away before she could finish her sentence. She watched, dumbstruck, as he approached the barista, offering the poor girl a charming smile before ordering and handing her what looked like a credit card. Hermione sank into her seat, her gaze fixed on Malfoy as he waited patiently at the receiving end of the coffee bar, offered a smile to the now-smitten barista, and walked back to Hermione, carefully holding two steaming mugs in his hands.

“You’ll catch a snitch,” Malfoy smirked at her as he approached their table, gently placing Hermione’s latte in front of her. She smiled - the barista had made latte art in the shape of a heart. “Don’t look so surprised, Granger,” Malfoy said as he slipped into the chair opposite hers. “It’s not like you to look gobsmacked by something.”

Hermione peered over at his drink, not the black coffee she had anticipated he would get. She smiled, despite her nerves. “You’re right about that, but I suppose I hardly know anything about you.”

“Yes.” Malfoy leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed at the knee, his hands laced and rested against his stomach. He looked relaxed, as if meeting with her was something he did all the time. “You said you had questions about ingredients…?”

She inhaled. It was now or never.

“My patients are usually older, some of them are not much older than us though, and they all have some sort of prolonged effect because of dark magic or because they got sick. They have trouble doing basic things, like buttoning their clothes or using simple magic, let alone any of the advanced spells they know. I work with them on improving these basic skills.

But I’m creating a potion. I think it can reverse the effect of damage done to the mind due to either dark magic or natural causes. I’ve almost gotten it, but I’m having trouble acquiring the quantities of the ingredients I need. Potions ingredients are highly regulated for personal use, and I’ve not been successful in any of my attempts to secure them. Or, when I find a way around it, I’m hit with some governmental bullshit.”

“Yes, Granger,” his tone had taken a sightly impatient edge. “That’s why most people go through dealers. That's why you contacted me.”

“But it’s not just about the potions, or the ingredients.” Hermione picked up her latte, puffed a short exhale over it before taking a sip, unsure if Malfoy’s interest was piqued at all. “I think I can change the way we take care of sick wizards and witches.”

His eyes widened, genuine surprise flashing across his face. “I thought you only needed help sourcing ingredients?”

“I need that, too. But I’m asking you for something else.”

“What are you asking me for?’

“Because I want you to invest, Malfoy.” Hermione leaned forward, her eyes fixed on his, her tone earnest. “The Ministry isn’t ready for this, and they’d rather stick their head in the sand and tell me to go away. I could do some really good things with this. I know that you invested in Theodore Nott’s healing offices in France and I know that, outside of The Ministry itself, you’re the primary ingredients sourcer for all of Hogwarts. Neville was severely under-reporting your contributions.

“I know that your company has large market shares in potions and ingredients dealing in France and in Romania,” she continued, “but I also know that you’ve not been as successful in the British market. Probably because of your history, probably because of the cuffs and sanctions the Ministry arbitrarily places on you. What you need is a product and a plan. And I can give both to you.”

He sat silent for a moment, taking a slow sip of his own drink. Hermione’s hands gripped her drink tightly, the rush of adrenaline from pitching this idea to him making her perspire. 

“Why haven’t you given this to the Americans? They loved you over there, they’d be happy to give you one of their own shiny labs. What?” He asked at her furrowed brow.  “I’m not the only one who’s done their homework on the other person’s history..”

“I want this to be mine . I want this to be for the witches and wizards here. If I give this to the Americans, I’d never see it again and it’d be lost to mass production and so expensive it’s as if I’d never have made anything at all. My patients won’t be able to afford it.”

“Yes but why give this to me , Granger?”

“Because,” she faltered, her eyes flickering down to where he had laid his hand and flickering back up to his thoughtful face. “Because you exist outside of The Ministry and what I could find of your history showed me that you like high-risk, high-yield investments.” Malfoy was looking at her like he was impressed - she wished she could take a picture. “I’m Hermione Granger and I have a plan to change the way we handle healthcare in Britain. Imagine if we became the leaders in rehabbing dark magic damage - we could become invincible. We could improve the lives of magical people all over the world, without them falling into the traps of extremism, or boredom, or even suicide when they feel as if they’ve lost their skills.” 

He took on a thoughtful gaze. “You were fired from St. Mungo’s.”

“I resigned,” she corrected.

He waved his hand, as if it was inconsequential. “You were asked to resign shortly after you returned from the United States. Why?”

“St. Mungo’s administration and I had differing philosophies. Our values no longer aligned.” At his cocked brow, Hermione continued. “I take a holistic and long-term approach to care. So much of healing is preventative and rehabilitative. It’s not just a matter of mending a broken bone with Skelegrow and continuing on your merry way.”

“But why did they tell you  to leave?”

“They said that what I was doing was a threat, dangerous to already established methods of healing and that I’d give false hope to patients. I couldn’t - I couldn’t fall into line.”

Malfoy hummed in acknowledgement, his long fingers tracing a circle on the table surface. He looked thoughtful, too thoughtful, and Hermione wondered what information she had unknowingly divulged to him. “Unsurprising. You and your friends never had much regard for the way things have always been done.” A sneer fainted across his face.

She reached into her bag, refusing to take the bait, and handed him a folio. “Take a look at my practice model and numbers. You don’t need to answer me right now, think about it.” Watching as Malfoy tucked it away in his black bag, she commented, “It’s clear from the past few years that you’re no longer doing things the way they’ve always been done either.”

She pushed away from the table, determined to get the last word in, pleased that she had taken Malfoy for surprise. Malfoy stood up, towering over her briefly, before extending his hand out to hers, the corners of his lips turned up.

She took his hand and he squeezed it briefly, stroking his index finger across the inside of her wrist once. “This was exciting, Granger. I’ll take a look. You’ll be hearing from me.” 

Hermione nodded at him, before pushing her way out of the cafe. It was a thrill, she thought, to realize that she still had it, the spark of tenacity and innovation that had catapulted her through an exciting youth only to land her in a stagnant adulthood. She touched her wrist briefly, wondering if he felt the rapid thrumming of her pulse, if he had sensed the kernel of hope that had taken root in Hermione’s chest. 

Chapter 3

Notes:

Hi, everyone! Hope you're having a good week. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Things are moving along and we'll get a lot more Draco and Hermione interactions in the next chapters! Also, I don't have a beta and I am terrible at proofreading so any mistakes I make are my own!

It had been a ridiculous idea. Hermione twisted her hair into a half-up, half-down hairdo as she used her fingers to blend blush into her skin, swiping the same cream blush over her lips. 

The idea of private practice growing larger had come to her in the middle of the night, in a dream. She bolted upright in bed, hand groping for the parchment and quill she kept on her nightstand.

Enact a bigger change, she had scribbled. Why stop at just the potion? Consider facilities. Consider philosophies. Consider books.

As she wiped the sleep from her eyes, Hermione staggered her way to the living room where she fully, or as fully as she could, fleshed out the idea of “enacting a bigger change.”

Hermione was a woman who loved data. Her own patient files were thick things with reams of extensive data regarding the number of spells her patients cast, at what level of support, and across what time periods. She also meticulously documented data reported from her patient’s family - How often did the patient eat? Did she have any instances of spontaneous magic use? Was it intentional or accidental and what behaviors did you see immediately prior to or following the magical incident?

It was time consuming, and it often took Hermione months of data collection before she was able to identify patterns.

She could only do so much.

But what if, Hermione thought, what if she took this method of healing and trained other like-minded Healers? And, if she had more patients, she could distribute the potion more widely, and the evidence that it worked would be undeniable to the Ministry. They had been so determined to protect the fragile peace that had been established after the fall of Voldemort that they didn’t want to consider anything new, even if it meant doing good.

Hermione also considered the optics. While she didn’t flex her name on a regular basis, she knew that her name mattered to people. Every year she attended the commemoration for the Battle of Hogwarts and sat upon the stage next to Harry and Ron. If she said something worked, and she had proof that it worked, it could force mean something. 

Hermione pondered her rationale as she prepared to go meet Harry, Ron, and Ginny for their weekly dinner at Grimmauld Place. It was a tradition they had kept throughout the years, except for the year that she had resigned. Ron had been sympathetic to her situation, but Harry, to her surprise, had admonished Hermione for not following the Ministry guidelines. Fatherhood and unresolved trauma from his childhood and the War had made him cling to the newly established peace with a ferocious tenacity. James had been but a babe when Hermione resigned, and, to Harry, he felt responsible for the established lives they were living. She, looking to rock the boat of a major pillar of wizarding society, was a “threat,” in Harry’s eyes.

It had been a particularly ugly time in their friendship. Hermione had admonished Harry for being a bootlicker, and he had called her an extremist of the worst kind. They did not speak for six months before establishing a tentative peace, worked out by Ron. She wondered how she would be able to tell him what she was planning, and with who.

She bounced her knee up and down, anxiously chewing on a hangnail on her thumb when she was interrupted by the sound of an owl tapping on her kitchen window. Her heart stilled - this owl looked regal and she wasn’t sure who it belonged to. After she took the parchment, the owl didn’t fly away, simply sat in her windowsill and blinked at her, waiting for Hermione to send a response.

Malfoy’s neatly looping script greeted her. “ Meet me at La Maria restaurant in two hours.”

Hermione scrawled back, “ I have plans. Reschedule to tomorrow. ”

The regal owl came back not 15 minutes later, ruffled angrily at Hermione, indignant that she would put her in the position of taking all these trips.

“ What I have to say will make up for your plans. I’m in .”

“Git,” she thought to herself.

---

Malfoy had picked another Muggle meeting place. It was a Thai, despite its Italian sounding name, and Hermione wondered if that had been done on purpose to confuse travelers. She had told the hostess she was meeting a man, tall and blond, and she had understood right away, almost giving Hermione a look as if to convey, “You’re so lucky.” Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

This time, Draco was sitting and waiting for her, rising to his feet and pulling out her chair when she arrived. She sat awkwardly, stiffening when the cuffs of his shirt skimmed her shoulders as he pushed her chair in.

“So,” she said as Malfoy returned to his seat, her tone brisk. “You looked over my proposal?”

“I did. A drink, Granger?” Malfoy glanced at the drink menu, and then up and behind Hermione’s shoulder and a pretty server materialized behind her.

She glanced briefly down at her own drink menu, opting to order a jasmine infused vodka with prosecco and orange and elderflower liqueur, noting that Malfoy ordered a Singha beer. They sat in silence while they waited for their drinks to arrive, Malfoy with a decidedly neutral expression and Hermione with a placid smile on her face. She knew that Malfoy was brewing something and, if there was anything her line of work taught her, it was that sometimes silence and patience wrought the best results. 

He didn’t speak until Hermione had taken a sip of her drink.

“I looked over your proposal.”

“I gathered,” she took another sip of her drink.

“It was interesting,” Malfoy steepled his fingers under his chin, his gray eyes staring through Hermione. “You’re asking for upfront funds to cover the cost of your potions, sourcing the ingredients, and you’ve even thought as far ahead as the media campaign for it. I do have some suggestions.”

She nodded at him to continue, knowing that this was expected. Of course he would negotiate.

“Most of your proposal really only spoke about the potions, and the procuring of its ingredients. You don’t say much about the practice itself. I think you need to have a physical location, and that you need to consider hiring another healer. I think that your proposal overemphasizes the potion -”

“The theory behind the potion is sound and I -”

Malfoy held up his hand, interrupting her interruption. “But it’s a theory, nonetheless. I can’t invest this much money into something that’s not guaranteed to work. Your practice, however, I see more potential in that. Dark magic damage or mind damage will always be around.”

She considered, taking another pull of her drink through the straw. It was really quite good. “What else?”

“We can talk about the finer details later, but I want to talk about the potion too. I don’t have any questions about your potion theory, or your testing protocol. Very thorough, but I knew it would be that way. I’ll source all the ingredients for it. I’ll even set you up with a lab attached to where you see your patients. But,” he paused, noting how Hermione stilled, his gray eyes flashing. “I want to be identified as a co-creator.”

“No,” Hermione’s rejection was swift, instantaneous. “It’s my potion.”

“That I’ll be paying for in its entirety.”

“Yes, but it’s my potion. There’s no need for you to be listed as a co-creator, you would already be entitled to 40% of all profits. It’s already very generous.”

“I don’t care about the profits, Granger. I won’t move forward with this unless I’m co-creator. I want to be involved in this, not some anonymous investor.”

“Malfoy,” she hissed, her head feeling light. “No. I can’t accept this.”

“I’m willing to drop to 25% of the profits and I’m listed as co-creator.” He raised an eyebrow at her furiously, shaking her head in disagreement. “Twenty-percent?”

“It’s not about - it’s not about the profits. When this potion is successful - when I create this potion, and you’re co-creator, it’ll mean our names are tied together forever. Isn’t that repulsive to you?”

He leaned forward, his finger tapping on his beer bottle. Hermione noticed that he had barely drunk half of it while hers was nearly gone. His voice was quiet. “You would think that it would be, Granger, but this isn’t about the money to me. It’s been ten years since we saw each other. Good to know you’re still as judgemental as they come.”

“I am not being judgemental, don’t try and tell me who’s being judgemental given who you were at Hogwarts. I’m only bringing up a valid point. The last time I ever saw you, you were a Death Eater on trial,” she hissed, a niggling voice in her head telling her that perhaps she was crossing a line that would stop her from moving forward with her plans. “People might think you're running your own experiments.”

Malfoy’s tapping finger stilled, and he looked at Hermione with a grim expression, all the light leaving his eyes. “Is that what you think? If so, tell me now and the offer is off the table. You will never hear from me again.” 

She faltered. “Uh, no, I don’t think that but-” And she truly didn’t. Malfoy had been under extreme duress at the time and he had paid for his crimes. She leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. “Let me think about it.”

“Make a decision about now or I’m walking away.”

“ Why ?”

“Former Death Eater and current Malfoy patriarch teaming up with the U.K. “Golden Girl” after her very public resignation from St. Mungo’s. It makes for great publicity. Didn’t you say it yourself? Changing the way things are done. This is the best way to show that life is moving forward, and that we should all change. I did, despite your failures to see it.” He smirked. “You haven’t picked up on it yet, but you were extremely detailed in your reports. It’d be curious to see what could be done with the proper resources.” He smirked, and Hermione felt the floor fall out from under her.

Of course. 

She clenched her teeth, the tension in her rising. She had expected for Malfoy to needle her, to maybe ask for a bigger cut of the profit, but she had not expected him to want to be a co-creator . He had been relatively anonymous when he invested in Theodore Nott’s practice, and, to be honest, Hermione had only deduced his involvement based after seeing some loose financial connections. She had gotten lucky with her guess.

“No one would trust the product from you,” she retorted. “You wouldn’t be able to sell it. You said it yourself, Former Death Eater selling an anti-dark magic damage potion? You’d be chased out of the UK.” She smirked back at him, enjoying the twitch in his eyebrow. “You need me.”

“And you need me, ” Malfoy sneered. “That’s why we’re here in the first place.”

If she clenched her teeth any harder, she’d crack them.

“But…but don’t you hate …This would mean our names are tied together. Potentially forever. You really want that?” She hated the tremor in her voice, hated what it betrayed about her. That she was still fearful of him, of the ideas he held.

The silence stretched between them for what felt like hours. Malfoy’s finger tapped rhythmically on his bottle of beer, the condensation leaving tiny puddles on the table.

“Hermione.”

The use of her given name had her eyes snapping up to his in alarm. It sounded foreign coming from his lips.

“Hermione,” he repeated slowly, as if it was foreign to him too. “I was punished for my crimes, not harshly enough if you ask me.” He sighed, finally taking a large pull of his drink. “I am sorry for the way I treated you at Hogwarts. My whole life I had been raised to think a certain way, and I never challenged it, never tried to see beyond it.

“I can’t say that I never hated muggles, or muggle-born magical people. I did when I was younger because it was the only thing I was thought. I had been fed the most unimaginable stories about muggles, taught to look down on people as if they were filth.” He frowned, his eyes snapping up to meet Hermione’s, determination burning in them. “I was so wrong. It was all so wrong and fucked. I can’t even begin to explain it. The magic that runs through our veins is amazing, anyone who has it is my equal. I lived in France for a long time after my wi-after things changed here. I’ve traveled all over the world, been to India, Mexico, China. We were the only ones so behind.

“But I’ve learned, and I’ve changed now. I realize I never knew much of anything about you other than you being a swot, and you never knew much about me other than being an arrogant prick.” The corners of his lips lifted in a soft smile. “We can start over again, Granger.” He held his hand out to shake. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

She looked at his outstretched hand, before flicking her eyes to his incredulously. Did he think this was actually going to work? She went back to the moment she first laid eyes on Malfoy in the Hogwarts Express, his pointed face sneering and angry. The man in front of her wasn’t any of that. The sincerity in his eyes almost bowled her over.

She extended her hand, letting his warm and much larger hand envelope hers in a squeeze. “Hermione Granger,” she nodded at him.

They dropped hands and Malfoy looked at her, expectantly. She chewed on her bottom lip, her mind racing. 

“Co-creator. And you get 15% of the profits. You set up the physical location for the practice, but I retain full rights and decision making over diagnostics and assessments, and anything related to patient care. And…you have to answer this question.” At his arched eyebrow and expectant look, she continued. “Why me? And I don’t mean for the profits. But really, why?”

His voice was quiet when he responded, his eyes clear. “I think that if there’s anyone who can make changes here, it’s you.”

She believed him. Despite everything, she believed him and, if she wasn’t trying so hard to control her emotions, she’d likely close her eyes with disbelief. There were so many things that could go wrong here if she relinquished this much control. But Neville’s voice, the small encouragements he had peppered her throughout their friendship rang in her head. 

“Okay,” she breathed. She ran her hands through her hair, missing the way Malfoy followed the movement. “Okay, Malfoy. We have a deal.”

The smile he flashed her was blinding, but brief. “Let’s celebrate.”

“What? No, I told you I had plans, I could maybe still make them if I-”

“We’ll have another round of drinks,” Malfoy interrupted, speaking to the pretty server that materialized again by Hermione’s shoulder. “We’ll also take the coconut shrimp, chicken satay, and lettuce wraps. I think we should get to know each other if we’re, how did you say it? ‘Tied together forever?’”

---

“Neville,” Hermione moaned, flopping into his office chair. She hadn’t called in advance, and it was too late for this type of call, but Hermione had felt too manic, too charged up to sleep once she had gotten home. “Neville!!” She called again.

She opened his desk drawers haphazardly, looking for where he kept his desk snacks. When Neville finally emerged from his chambers, she was halfway through a packet of biscuits. He collapsed into plushy armchair across from his desk, his bleary eyes blinking sleepily at her as she tore through his snacks.

“Are you drunk?”

“A little,” Hermione admitted through a mouthful of savory cheese and scallion biscuits. “I took your advice. I asked Malfoy.”

It took a minute for it to register, Neville’s face breaking into a sleepily concerned face. “What did he say?”

“We’re in it together,” Hermione sang back. “Forever,” she added solemnly, the buzz from the four drinks she had consumed at dinner turning into a throbbing headache. “Malfoy agreed to fund my potion.”

“What did he want in exchange?” Neville was up now, murmuring a quiet charm to boil water as he accio’d two cups from his cabinet.

She was slumped into the chair, eyes heavy. “Co-creator. He’d be the potion’s co-creator. Wants to expand the practice too.” She groaned. “What did I get myself into, Neville? Did I make the right choice?”

The room was quiet, save for the clinking of china. Neville set down a cup of tea in front of Hermione. “You’ll know soon enough. You know, Hermione, he’s not a bad man.”

The overwhelming excitement of the night had finally caught up to Hermione and she laid her head down on Neville’s cool desk. “I hate that you might be right,” she whined into the mahogany, turning her head so her other overheated cheek could cool down. “Harry’s going to throw a fit when I tell him.”

Neville’s hand smoothed over her hair in a soothing motion and Hermione sighed. “You have to live for yourself, Hermione. Just rest now.”

“He’s gotten fit though, hasn’t he?” Neville’s disembodied voice floated behind her, and she could hear the smile in it.

Her eyes closed, sleep almost grabbing her, but not before she grunted in agreement.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Thank you for the all the kudos and comments on this! We're getting to the juicy tags very soon, maybe even in the next chapter! Thank you very much and I hope you enjoy!

 

TW / CW: Brief mention of self-harm that happened in the past 

---

Sunday morning found Hermione asleep on her couch, where she had spent all of Saturday after half-crawling out of Neville’s office in the morning. Probably the most unique walk of shame she had ever completed, even if it was only the steps from Neville’s fireplace to hers. Poor Neville had fallen asleep on his office couch and had, from his half-asleep state, offered Hermione breakfast. She had only had four drinks at dinner before finding herself at Neville’s but her hangover on Saturday felt like she had spent the entire night drinking. Aging was a privilege, she reminded herself firmly, but on Saturday, it had felt like a punishment.

Moaning, Hermione rolled up to a seated position, lazily waving her wand to tidy up some of the books she had knocked down in her sleep when she was interrupted by a persistent tapping on her window. 

Malfoy’s owl. She was tiny, despite her regal aura, and cute as could be. But right now she looked pissed and Hermione assumed the poor thing had been trying to get her attention for a while, waiting for her to show up. The owl huffed and stuck her leg out insistently and Hermione chuckled, reaching into her cabinet for a treat, before looking at the note.

“ I will spend this week setting up a space for the practice and the lab. Enclosed is a list of lab items. Add anything else you need. You should communicate with your patients about a location change and can start seeing patients in-office starting next Monday. Come Thursday at 7pm to see the site.” He had scrawled the address on the back, it was a small office within Diagon Alley, located between Gringott’s and The Leaky Cauldron. Hermione was pleased that it could be easily accessed through the floo network.

“Hmm, can you wait right here? I just have to look over this list. Can I get you some water?” Hermione didn’t wait for the owl’s response, instead pouring her a bowl before scribbling her response to Malfoy, an uneasy knot of excitement growing in her stomach.

---

Hermione chose to take the walk down to the new office, enjoying the late sunset. She hugged her arms to her chest, slightly chilled. She hadn’t had the time to change her sundress - her clients had been back to back today and she enjoyed the unrestricted movement she was allowed. She certainly didn’t miss the stifling healers’ robes from St. Mungo’s.

The office was located in a small brick building that was tucked away, even by wizarding standards. Stepping through the doorway, Hermione was greeted by blonde wood flooring and brick walls that matched the exterior. It was a small waiting room, with modern plush chairs and a plant.

There was a single doorway, which led into a hallway with four identical doors. Hermione started when one of the doors opened and Malfoy stepped out. He was dressed casually today, jeans, white t-shirt, and boots. She suddenly felt underdressed when his eyes raked over her, just like she did to him, the chill of the building making goosebumps rise on her arms.

She couldn’t help herself. “Where’s the lab?” She asked, her tone swift.

Malfoy smirked, and motioned to the door behind her and she almost kicked it open in her excitement.

It was beautiful. It had been so long since she had been in a proper lab with proper equipment. Nothing had compared to the labs she had seen during her two-year stint in the U.S., but this came close. The room was light, airy with blackout curtains that could be drawn when needed. Three cauldrons sat in the center of the room with floor to ceiling shelves stocked high with everything she could possibly need. One of the cauldrons was active, a calming draught if her nose was correct. She arched an eyebrow at Malfoy who shrugged.

“This is amazing ,” she breathed. She hadn’t felt like this since Hogwarts, maybe, and she felt giddy with the realization that all of this was hers to use. This was an upgrade from the second-hand cauldron she was using in her spare bedroom with ingredients she carefully rationed out..

Malfoy chuckled, the sound bringing her back to reality. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest watching her, a small smile on his lips. “This takes me back to school. You’re the only one who could get so excited over a potions lab. Don’t get too excited - these aren’t all the rooms.”

She followed him out and stepped into the next room in the hallway. A light-colored desk sat towards the back wall against a large window overlooking Diagon Alley with two black armchairs facing it. Closer to the entrance and tucked away into the corner was a smaller table with three chairs. Across from that wall was a large fireplace. For easy Floo travel, she assumed.

“I wasn’t sure what exactly you needed treatment-wise, and it sounded like you had all the materials you wanted to bring.”

“This looks fine. Not all my patients will come to the office, sometimes therapy is better at their homes. I can add more things as I need.” Malfoy was standing in the doorway, as if he was trying to be respectful of her space. “What’s in the next room?”

“My office.”

“What?”

“Do I need to repeat myself? It’s my office.”

“But…but this is my practice. I’ll be bringing patients here.”

His response was slow, exaggerated. “Granger. Did you forget this is our joint venture? What was it that you said? We’re “tied together forever” now.”

“My patients shouldn’t see you. It’s important for them to have their privacy.”

He nodded, conceding. “They should just floo directly into your office. No need for me to ever cross paths.”

A beat passed, the reality of Malfoy being five steps away from her door hitting her squarely in the chest. This is the emotion she had been actively avoiding all week after dragging herself home from Neville’s office. She had made a deal with Malfoy, one that she couldn’t break.

He sarcastically ushered her into his office with a dramatic flourish and she noted that his office was surprisingly welcoming. Motioning for her to sit, she and Malfoy began to work out a tentative schedule. To her immense disappointment, he wanted to be an active partner in their work. They tentatively decided that she would condense her schedule so she would see clients Tuesday-Thursday with Monday and Friday being flexible days for brewing and other work, as needed. And so it began.

Patient transitions to the office setting were surprisingly smooth, and Hermione felt that the novelty of the location provided more therapeutic opportunities than she had realized. Her patients often felt trapped, their magic too uncontrolled and their awareness too minimal to successfully be out in the community on their own. Therapy for the past three weeks had included taking polls, working with her patients to create pros and cons lists for going out with her, and practicing what outside interactions they might encounter. 

Hermione had just come back from the cafe with her bravest and most adventurous client and she groaned before stepping into her office. It was later than usual, but the excursions out into the community left her with less time to document their progress and less time to decompress. Less time to brew.

Poking her head into the potions lab, she found Malfoy standing over a simmering cauldron, one hand holding a book close to his face, the other scrubbing his chin thoughtfully. She couldn’t help but stare at his long, aristocratic hands and up his wrist and sinewy forearm. His dark mark wasn’t visible from this angle, although, she realized with a start, she had not noticed it in any of their interactions together. She followed his arm up to his bicep, his shoulder, and up the long line of his neck, where she saw the light blonde of his stubble in the evening light.

She had never seen Malfoy as a man before, only ever thinking of him as the rat-faced hateful little boy and then, as adults, he seemed more of a thought than a real person anyway. Biting her lip, she bit back a chuckle as she recalled Neville’s wistful sigh.

“A calming draught?” Hermione called from the doorway, her brows furrowed. “I could have given you something from my stores if you needed it,” she continued, making her way over to peer into the cauldron. 

Malfoy regarded Hermione impassively. “Those are for your patients.”

She shrugged. “Still. Do you need them to sleep?”

His eyes cut over to hers, before snapping the book shut and taking his wand out to siphon his calming draught into vials. “They’re not for me.” And, before she had a chance to open her mouth to probe further, he caught her off guard. “Are you hungry? There’s a new restaurant that opened outside of Diagon Alley. Indian. Do you like Indian food?”

She loved Indian food, and it turned out Malfoy did too.

He ate with gusto, using his long fingers to tear apart the garlic naan and bring it to his lips like he had never eaten anything before in his life. They were in the potions lab, Malfoy having opted for takeaway. Hermione had thought they would take their respective orders and eat alone, in their offices, but when Malfoy transfigured an end table from the waiting room into a dining table perfect for two, she knew better. This was the second meal she’d shared with Draco Malfoy, although the first had her slamming drinks back to get her through. She didn’t have the luxury of that this evening.

He looked alarmingly relaxed, the sleeves of his button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His hair was more mussed than usual, like he had been running his hands through it all day. She noted that he ate like he enjoyed every single bite, and, if she closed her eyes, she very well could have been having this meal with Ron or Harry.

“Stop doing that.”

“What?” Hermione startled, her grip on her fork slackening.

“That,” Malfoy waved his free hand at her from across the table, his other hand bringing naan and what he called Kerala-style beef fry to his lips. “Overthinking something. Like you’re not sure if you want to bolt or not. You can go to your office if you’re too uncomfortable.”

She frowned, moving some rice around her plate. “I didn’t know you liked Indian food.”

“Who couldn’t like Indian food?” He paused to drink some water. “I did some investing in India, never had anything like it before. Thankfully there are some good curry houses here.” He paused, taking a look at Hermione’s full plate of white rice and butter chicken. Her go-to order. “Try this.” And before she could say anything, he had placed a forkful of his beef on top of her rice. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she took a tentative bite, her eyebrows raising in disbelief as the flavors hit her tongue.

“That’s amazing.”

He chuckled smugly. “Try something other than butter chicken next time.”

She made a nose of disagreement, her appetite rearing its head as she ate the rest of her meal. They were silent for the rest of the meal and it wasn’t until he vanished the dishes and came back from washing his hands that she interrupted the surprisingly peaceful country.

“Let me ask you something,” she blurted.

He looked at her placidly, it was the same expression he had worn when she questioned him about his motivations for working together. 

“If it makes you more open to working with me, fine.”

“Can I see your dark mark?”

Malfoy paused, considering and then he slowly flipped his hand over so his palm was up, and the dark mark on his forearm exposed. Hermione gasped when she saw it, fear taking root in her stomach, her reaction to the mark visceral. But she forced herself to look, to see it as it was.

It was ugly, large, but faded and criss-crossed with scars. She reached out tentatively, her pointer finger tracing from the snake’s tail to its head. Malfoy was so still she wasn’t sure he was even breathing, like she was a stray cat he was trying to trap.

“I haven’t noticed it all this time,” she mused. “A glamor?”

He nodded. “On my whole arm. Haven’t been able to remove it completely, but the glamor world most of the time. Doesn’t work if someone really wants to see it.”

She traced her finger across a particularly raised scar that went cleanly up from wrist to inside of his elbow. “And these scars?”

“I had a lot of time on my hands during house arrest. I experimented with removal methods.”

Her finger stilled, a pang of sympathy coursing through her at the thought of teenaged Malfoy taking a knife to his own arm. Distance and age had given her perspective, the perspective to understand how troubled and truly helpless he had been.

She straightened, meeting his eye and nodding. He rolled his sleeve down over the mark, his gray eyes open and calm as water on a still day. 

This was it, she decided. She could move on, suspend her disbelief. She didn’t know Malfoy, not this iteration of him at least, but she could at least recognize what he had been carefully trying to show her. That he was, at the very least, different. A part of her recognized that he too had experienced loss, recalling Neville’s grim expression and admission that Malfoy, in desperation, had called him for help. And a part of her, a not so insignificant part of her, liked that had experienced loss and pain. He had, at the very least, had a taste of what she and the rest of her friends had experienced.

---

The next few days found Hermione caught in a whirlwind of patients and desperately trying to keep up on her paperwork. Her progress with the brewing was slow, and she found herself back at step one as her previous protocols didn’t account for the variable of using a high-quality or fresh ingredient. She was back to the experimentation phase to try and at least establish some sort of baseline.

 Walking Malfoy through her potion was stressful, but not in the way she had anticipated. He was competent, understood potions theory well, and always came prepared with the best ingredients. But what slowed them down, to her surprise, was the genuine interest Malfoy had in her line of work. It was new to him, and while he had self-reportedly become “good” at interacting with the Muggle world, muggle science was new to him. 

They would begin with the brewing, Malfoy often opting to cut or measure the ingredients in advance, but then he would ask a question, and then a series of questions that had Hermione drawing the brain and all its gyri and sulci for Malfoy to see and learn. There had been a few times where they ended up in tucked away Muggle restaurants, Malfoy listening with rapt attention as she told him about the language acquisition process in children. It was fun. All these years working on her own, with patients that were thankful, but ultimately just her patients. She lost colleagues when she left St. Mungo and the camaraderie she shared with Harry and Ron when she went her own way and pushed back against the Ministry and St. Mungo’s. It had been a solitary endeavor, until now.

They had stayed in the lab today, Malfoy having ordered a fast and greasy burger and chips for dinner. He sighed, wiping his mouth with a napkin and she wondered when he learned to eat with such gusto. She had never noticed it at Hogwarts.

“Don’t you get tired of doing this?”

She cut him a sidelong glance. “You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Nice try,” he snickered.

She smirked back at him, both of them falling into their respective prep work. Their silence was amiable, and Hermione couldn’t help but linger on his strong but fine hands as he worked. His hair fell over his forehead and into his eyes and he shook his head occasionally to move it away.

“Do you need a hair tie?”

His hands stilled and he turned to look at her. “What?”

“For your hair,” she said, motioning vaguely to his head. Snapping a hairtie off her wrist, she held it out to him, and he looked at it like she was offering him a slug. “It’s not good to have your hair constantly in your eyes. Besides, one of your hairs could fall in and mess this up. You know, when I was in the U.S., we had to wear these special hairbands that -”

“Alright,” he snapped, grabbing the hairtie from her outstretched palm and tying his hair back - resulting in the ridiculous effect of his fringe sticking straight up. His expression was bland, unimpressed as he met her gaze and she tried her hardest to stay professional.

She failed.

She guffawed, bent over and bracing her hands on her knees, merciless to the tears of laughter rolling out of her. 

“Sorry - I -,” she took a deep breath, her next sentence coming out strangled. “It suits you.”

Malfoy grinned back, the low timbre of his laughter joining hers.

Damnit.

She liked him. Despite it all, she liked him. She liked this.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Summary:

We've got some spice!

We've finally gotten to the spice! Hope you enjoy. I'm still a newbie when it comes to this so I appreciate any feedback or compliments (lol) you want to give me. Writing fanfic has been a fun endeavor and I love getting your comments. Thank you!

---

“Neville,” Hermione called. “Neville! I’m here!”

She stepped through the floo into Neville’s office, only to find it empty. She wondered if Neville ever got annoyed with her and the way she barged in, pilfering some of her favorite treats from The Great Hall.

Neville had become her greatest confidant in adulthood, her timid childhood friend turned into a quietly confident and secure man. 

“Hermione!” Neville called, his voice muffled through the door that connected to his small attached living quarters. “Come on through, you caught me at the right time!”

Hermione stepped through into Neville’s living quarters to find him in an apron, dressed casually in sweatpants and a t-shirt, stirring something delicious on his stovetop.

“Mm, smells great,” Hermione called, setting a bottle of wine and a baguette down on his small dining table. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me for lunch. I’ve been so busy lately.”

He didn’t answer, opting instead to place a bowl of hot tomato soup in front of her before he turned to cut off a crusty piece of bread for her. Neville settled across from her with his own bowl and slice of bread and motioned for her to eat.

She was halfway through her bowl when Neville broke the silence.

“It’s easier to talk to you after you’ve eaten,” he chuckled. “How are you, Hermione? How’s it going with Malfoy?” Neville waggled his eyebrows. “I hadn’t heard from you since that first night you dragged yourself here last time.”

“Honestly? I almost wish I had done this earlier,” she admitted. “Malfoy set up this lab, and the ingredients he has access to is incredible. Maybe even better than the stuff I’ve even had here. Sorry - didn’t mean to imply anything. But can you believe that he has fewer restrictions on purchasing ingredients than I do?” She scoffed. “It’s amazing what sins money can wash away.”

“Mmhhm, but how is it working with him?"

“Tell me something first, Neville. I know you told me that he called you, but why? What’s the connection between you two?”

He offered Hermione a soft smile. “I was…I was seeing Theo Nott at the time. He was - he is close to Draco.”

“I didn’t know you were seeing Theo.” Neville looked so forlorn that she reached forward to hook her pinky on to his. “What happened?”

“Theo went to France,” Neville shrugged. “He worked on growing his practice. I stayed here, got this position.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know - I could have -”

“You were in the U.S. anyway. And I wasn’t - this was before I told anyone that I was gay.”

Being gay was still taboo in wizarding society, although England was more repressive than most. Birth rates for witches and wizards were low and large families like the Weasleys were the exception, never the rule. The U.K. had enjoyed a baby boom following the defeat of Voldemort, many of these children were first years at Hogwarts now. There had even been talks of a marriage law - one that had been swiftly squashed at The Ministry. Despite this, witches and wizards often remained fearful of living true to themselves, often opting for a life of perpetual singlehood, or at least perceived singlehood instead of being thrust into an arena for open criticism. Children, and by extension, the family unit were too important to wizarding society.

“I’m sorry you were alone for this.”

Neville shrugged, continuing his meal in silence. 

“Malfoy was surprisingly accepting. He protected Theo during the war and is the reason he never took The Mark. He never told me all the details, but he told me enough.”

“Do you miss him?” Hermione regretted asking the question, because the answer was written clearly on sweet Neville’s open face.

“What is it they say? Right person, wrong time?” He chuckled, a scornful sound, using his finger to sweep away a single tear that had not yet broken. He hand enveloped Hermione’s in a quick squeeze before releasing her, pushing away from the table and flicking his wand to send both of their bowls to the sink.

“How did you forgive him?” Hermione asked when they finally settled on his couch, his head leaned on her shoulder.

“Theo? He was always decent enough at school-”

“No - I meant Malfoy. How did you reconcile him, what he did to us at school? During the war?”

“Hmm. When I teach my students, I always try to consider that Hogwarts is usually the first time they’re exposed to other people and different ideas. I try to approach them with the thought they could be transformed.

Hermione, they’re so little when they get here. I can’t believe we used to be this young and that we had all this pressure and fear on us. I looked at Malfoy that way, tried to think about what I would have done if I were his professor.” He pulled away from Hermione to look her in the eyes. “The adults in our lives failed us. I can’t hate Malfoy for what he did as a child who was a product of his environment, especially when I got to know him a little bit. He’s different now, isn’t he?”

Hermione hummed in agreement, her fingers idly picking at invisible lint on her pants. “But what does that mean for the others? If we offer forgiveness, how does that make it right for them?”

“You haven’t told Harry or Ron yet, have you?” Neville asked and she offered his perceptiveness a watery smile and a shake of her head.

“I don’t think forgiving Malfoy or seeing him for who he’s become erases his past. Maybe it clears a pathway for his future.”

“What does it say about me?” Hermione could feel her voice grow small, the fear that her pleasure in her work and the man she worked with was a betrayal to her past. 

Neville put his arm around Hermione, drawing her into his chest. “It means you’re human, Hermione. It means you’ve changed too.”

---

Malfoy wasn’t in on Monday, instead opting to send his cute owl to Hermione with a note that he would be working abroad for the week.

Hermione continued about her day, seeing her patients, taking them out into the community, and slogging through paperwork. She brewed without Malfoy some nights, but other nights she crawled into bed with nothing but her thoughts.

Malfoy was quiet, charming, and, in all that she had seen, reasonable, nice enough, and respectful. He was handsome, rich beyond what she could comprehend, and genuinely interested in her line of work. She turned over what Neville had told her, that Malfoy had protected Nott during the war and had later protected him and Neville by not betraying their secret,

When she drifted off to sleep, she dreamed of Malfoy sitting on Neville’s couch.

---

When Malfoy returned, his quiet presence filled the empty office. His office door was shut, which was usual, as he kept true to his promise to stay away from the patients. She contemplated knocking on his door to ask if he would be brewing with her later, but opted to leave it alone. Malfoy joined her fifteen minutes later, nodding a silent hello while they brewed.

“How was your week?” She asked, stirring her cauldron. Malfoy was attending to his own - their goal today was to brew two patches and see if adding siberian ginseng after one hour or two hours of brewing had any effect.

He looked surprised that she was speaking to him, but the moment passed and he shrugged. “It was nice to be traveling again. I haven’t spent this much time in London for a few years now.”

“Really? Where do you live?”

“I keep properties in France and Italy.”

“And you’re still so pale,” she tutted and he cast her a sidelong glance.”Where did you go?”

“I was in Berlin. I attended a genetics conference over the weekend.”

It was Hermione’s turn to cast him a startled glance. “You’ve never asked me about genetics before.”

He shrugged and Hermione let it be. But she felt him turn beside her, put his wand down and face her.

“Do you know anything about blood curses?”

Hermione stilled, pausing in her knife work, before slowly resuming her chopping. His wife had died from a blood curse. Malfoy had been smart enough to make the connection between blood curses and genetic disorders.

“No,” she answered tentatively. “There’s not much information out there about blood curses - only that it’s caused by a curse being placed on the bloodline. It’s impossible to know what generation the curse will affect. It’s like that with some Muggle diseases. Sometimes they’re triggered by something, usually something shocking enough to the system to force the underlying abnormality to manifest. Sometimes people are what we call “carriers” for diseases and can go their entire life without knowing it until they have a child and the child inherits it.”

Malfoy was leaning against the bench, legs crossed against his ankles, hands gripping the lab bench behind him. He looks pensive, if not a little detached and Hermione felt nervous, unsure if she was supposed to know what she knows of him.

“My wife died from a blood curse.” The words fell at Hermione’s feet with a metaphorical thud and she puts her knife down to turn and face him. Eye contact, her body language open, tucking her hair behind her ears. She stepped forward to stand next to him on the bench.

“I know,” Hermione responded quietly. She covered Malfoy’s hand with hers and his eyes found hers. Fifth touch. She wasn’t counting. “Neville told me. I am sorry for what happened to her.”

“The downside of being a Pureblood.” He scowled. “It’s drilled into us from when we’re young that we’re superior, only for a good woman to be killed because some prejudiced imbecile cast a curse on another prejudiced idiot generations ago. It’s all bullshit.”

This was the most frank conversation they’ve had, Hermione edging close to see how Malfoy had deconstructed. She couldn’t stop herself. “Tell me about her.”

“I didn’t remember her much from Hogwarts. She was quiet, but kind. Her parents had fled to Italy with the Zabini family at the start of the war and had avoided being mixed up with it. She was…progressive, for us, Malfoy hastily added. “We were too young when we got married. We didn’t really know each other.”

“You were married for six years. That’s no small number.”

His gaze darted to hers in surprise and she realized that he had never told her how long they had been married. She had revealed that she knew. “No, it isn’t,” he admitted with a heavy sigh.

“Neville told me,” she explained. “And that you called for him at the end.”

“I did.”

The silence stretched between them and Hermione sought desperately to fill it.

“I obliviated my parents,” Hermione confessed. “I did it to keep them safe from Voldemort, I could have used a simpler charm but I wanted to be sure. I gave them new identities, a new dental practice, and sent them to live somewhere faraway and warm.” Embarrassingly, tears welled up in her eyes and she angrily brushed them away. It had been 12 years since she had made the decision, a teenage girl, and now an adult, living with the consequences. “I tried to reverse the spell, I researched it for years but there’s no way for me to do it without permanently damaging their minds.”

She witnessed the moment Draco realized what Hermione was with her life’s work, committing her penance for the crime of protecting her parents. Every abuse her patients hurled at her, met with chagrin and an outstretched hand the following session. She was reliving the cycle of pain, forgiveness, anger, pain, forgiveness, and anger on a loop, on repeat, hoping desperately for it to be her own.

Pity flooded his face. She hated it.

“Hermione,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” she protested, her voice breaking as she moved away from the lab bench. “It needed to be done.”

Malfoy took a step towards her. “It needed to be done,” he repeated to her, his voice unbearably kind. She shuddered and he took one step even closer, his hand outstretched. He was toe-to-toe with her now, his heavy hands dropping to her shoulders. “Do you hear me? It needed to be done. You protected them.”

Protected them from you? The thought flitted through her brain instinctually, but the heavy, warm weight on her shoulders chased it away, Neville’s words following them instead.

---

Hermione sighed, studying her reflection in the mirror before opting to fluff her hair before putting on a simple gold chain around her neck before smoothing out the wrinkle in her skirt. She usually didn’t dress up this much for her Grimmauld Place dinners but tonight was different. She wanted to go in feeling confident. Today was the night she confessed to her friends what she was doing.

Their friendships had changed. If she was being honest, it had been strained. There were things that they didn’t say to each other, in front of each other - emotions and feelings from their past that they had all mutually agreed to bury and never mention again. It was a fine line they walked, one that Ron and Harry seemed to do better than her. There had been a time when it was Harry and her against the world. 

Shaking her head, Hermione grabbed the tray of samosas she had ordered to bring to dinner and stepped through the Floo. The familiar setting of Grimmauld Place swam in front of her, its cozily worn couches and rugs filling her vision. After the war, Harry and Ginny had done an entire remodel of the Black family ancestral home, working to keep the integrity and charm of the original home while also updating it to suit their tastes. 

Luna jumped up from the couch when Hermione stepped through, squeezing her in an enthusiastic embrace with Ron following soon after.

“Where’s Rose?” Hermione asked, setting her food down on the dining table, looking around for Ron and Luna’s toddler. 

“We left her at home with Luna’s dad. He’s been keen on having Grandpa time with her.”

“Hermione, you look amazing. Is something big happening tonight?” Luna asked, ever perceptive.

“Maybe,” Hermione laughed, craning her head to see Harry and Ginny quietly make their way down the stairs.

“Hi, Hermione,” Ginny whispered. “We just put James to bed…ever since his third birthday he’s been a nightmare trying to put him down.”

“We cast a silencing charm on the room, Ginny,” Harry chastised. “James won’t hear us. I think he realizes that we have fun without him and he wants in.” 

Both of them pressed a swift kiss to Hermione’s cheeks, Ginny murmuring a small thanks for the appetizers.

“Drinks, anyone?” Ginny called, popping a bottle.

The five of them settled into their meal seamlessly, happy chatter filling the table. Hermione was pleased to see that the samosas she had ordered got cleared out first. They might not have been the perfect fit to Ginny’s proper roast, but it was a welcome change.

Dinner had fallen into a comfortable lull when Hermione cleared her throat. “I’ve got some news.” The crew turned to her expectantly. “I’ve expanded my practice. I’m, uh, I’m seeing patients within an office now. And I’m even thinking of starting a group, you know, like a community group?”

Luna leaned forward, always the one who showed the most interest in her work. “What does a community group mean?”

“It’s like…it’s like this! We make the effort to get together to share our lives. Most of my patients are older, more isolated. And it’s hard for them to go out safely to be with friends, or they struggle having conversations with friends. I can, well, I came into some funding recently, and I think I can hold a group where I could be a facilitator, a place where my patients could socialize without worrying.”

“Hermione, that sounds great,” Ron smiled at her and she couldn’t help but smile back at him. Ron had always been supportive of her, trying his best to mend the bridges she and Harry built, burned, and rebuilt between the three of them.

Ginny and Luna hummed in agreement but Hermione’s eyes darted to Harry at the head of the table, where he was silently cutting into his dinner. The timidness she had been feeling about sharing her news turned into righteous indignation.

“Harry?” She challenged. “What do you think?”

“He probably thinks it’s a lovely idea,” Ginny nervously chuckled. “Right, Harry?” Hermione imagined that she had delivered a swift kick to Harry’s shin.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed amiably, pushing his glasses up. “It’s a great idea. Where did you get the funding from? Did St. Mungo’s agree to fund your experiment?”

“It’s not my experiment, it’s my work,” she bit back, cutting vigorously into her chicken. It had gone dry and tasteless. “And I didn’t get the funding from St. Mungo’s. I pitched this to a private investor and he liked the idea.” A beat passed. “Draco Malfoy is my investor. Neville recommended him to me.” Hermione hoped that her friend wouldn’t be angry for getting thrown under the Knight’s Bus.

A terrible tense pulsed through the table, Ron and Ginny not fast enough to hide their shocked expressions. Luna looked between Hermione and Harry with unabashed interest while Harry continued at his roast, his brow slightly furrowed.

He was furious, and everyone knew it.

“I had heard Malfoy had some investments in France,” Ron offered in an attempt to break the silence. “I’ve met him at charity fundraisers.” Ron had invested in the joke shop after the war and ran it with Fred and George and it didn’t surprise Hermione that they had likely crossed paths.

Harry remained silent, working diligently on his dinner, his knife and fork scraping unpleasantly on his plate.

She wanted to rage at him, to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. To scream at him and tell him that she wouldn’t have ever been in the position to ask Malfoy for anything if he had just helped her all those years ago.

When Hermione was given the choice to either fall in line or leave, she had chosen to follow her morals and start her private practice. In retaliation, the Ministry had demanded that she pay back the expenses from her residency in the U.S., including tuition and room and board, with interest. It had been an exorbitant amount that Hermione would never have been able to repay in her lifetime on a private Healer’s income. In her desperation, she had gone to Harry, an Auror unit chief with close ties to Minister Shacklebolt, to ask Shacklebolt for leniency. Surely he could pull some strings for his closest friend?

He had refused.

“What?” She bit out. “I’ve never known you to hold your tongue,” she scoffed at Harry.

Ron tried to caution Hermione under his breath, his hand reaching to grip hers under the table. She jerked away, her furious gaze zeroing in on Harry.

“Malfoy is a convicted Death Eater.”

“He was convicted but not for the crime of being a Death Eater. He served his time and obviously hasn’t done anything illegal if he’s still walking around.”

“That we know of,” Harry muttered into his wine.

“Guess that makes you a shit Auror since you haven’t found a reason for him to be guilty in the past ten years.”

Harry’s laughter wasn’t what she was expecting. “Guess you’re right, Hermione.” A beat passed, with Ginny and Ron joining in, Luna’s troubled gaze landing on Hermione.

“I’m glad you found some money for your work, Hermione,” Harry continued. “Just…just be careful, alright?”

She nodded, heartbeat wild in her chest, its drone drowning out Ginny’s exclamation for dessert, her gaze fixed on Harry.

And the gap that had formed between Harry and Hermione only grew wider with the secrets they shared buried in shallow graves.

---

Hermione had barely made it through dessert, opting to duck home at the first possible opportunity. She furiously wiped away the tears from her eyes as she stood in her living room. It was painful to know that Harry disapproved of her every decision since she left the security of The Ministry. She knew how he felt, knew what he felt like he was protecting but she couldn’t understand why he refused to see her side, to understand why she felt the way she did. She was doing the right thing, trying to make Wizarding society safer for everyone. It was what they had always done together .

Throwing open her kitchen cabinets, Hermione groaned in frustration when she realized her potion stockpile was empty because she had opted to stock the office instead. It was only 11pm, if she got to the lab now she could brew a Dreamless Sleep draught and be back before midnight.

To her immense surprise, Hermione wasn’t the only one who had the same idea.

Malfoy was in the lab, dressed down in gray joggers, his fringe tied up with the hairtie she had given him two weeks ago. She knocked, and gave him a moment to take it off his head, noting how he slipped it onto his wrist.

“Can’t sleep?” She questioned, her eyes taking in his casual outfit.

“Bad date?” His eyes roamed up and down her figure in return. She hadn’t changed out of her fitted skirt and top.

She chuckled. “I wish. No, just…just had a tiring evening with friends. Should we have a drink?” She walked across the room, reaching into a cabinet to brandish a bottle of firewhiskey that she knew Malfoy kept in one of the cabinets.

“Pretty sure that’s mine, Granger.”

She shrugged, scourgifying two beakers before topping them off with Malfoy’s undoubtedly expensive liquor. He watched her with a raised eyebrow, accepting the beaker. They clinked drinks, both taking long draws of the amber firewhiskey as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the lab bench.

“What are you drinking about, Granger?”

She debated lying, telling Malfoy to mind his business but grinned, realizing that her work was her life, and now it was definitely Malfoy’s business.

“Harry doesn’t like that we’ve…partnered up. He never approved of my work anyway but now I guess he has another reason to.”

“Typical Potter,” Malfoy sneered. “What did Weasley have to say to that?”

“Ron? Why would he say anything?”

“Is he not your…is he not your intended? ”

She nearly spit out her drink. “My intended? ” She guffawed. “Ron and I aren’t together. Oh please Malfoy, don’t pretend like you didn’t research everything there was to know about me before meeting me in that coffee shop. I know I did it for you.”

His responding grin was cheeky, Hermione reminded of how handsome he had become. “Touche,” he sassed. “So, what did you say?”

“What?”

“Potter gave you shit. What did you do about it?”

“Oh! Um-well, I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t say anything?”

She took a sip of her drink, shrugging.

“But why?” Malfoy pressed. He turned on the bench to face Hermione, his eyes searching over her. She straightened under his gaze when his eyes opened wide, like he had found what he was looking for. “Don’t tell me…You and Potter?”

She took a long pull of her drink, pushing away from the bench and Malfoy, the distance between them too close, the air too warm. His eyes followed her, a flush forming on his cheeks.

“For how long?”

She took another sip and Malfoy guffawed. She couldn’t believe she was in this situation.\ “It was…during the war.” She confessed, unsure why she felt like telling this secret no one knew. Maybe she was angry at Harry, angry at how she protected him every single day and in return she suffered for it. “There was a time when it was just the two of us…There’s not much to do without going crazy.” 

Malfoy went from triumphant to shocked, as if he could not believe that he had been right.

“Malfoy! We were just horny teenagers. We thought we were going to die.” She blushed. “I didn’t want to die a virgin.”

He scoffed and Hermione tried to stare at him indignantly but broke into laughter too. 

“Ok, but what about you? Who was your first?” The two glasses of wine she had at dinner, combined with the firewhiskey and Malfoy’s unabashed curiosity had her wanting more. 

Without missing a beat. “Pansy Parkinson.”

Hermione frowned, and Malfoy shrugged. “I didn’t want to die a virgin either.” 

They both took a drink then, both of them lost in how they coped during what was undoubtedly the most stressful time of their lives. How, when nothing felt in their control, they tried to do what felt like it was.

They finished their drinks in silence, Hermione declining when Malfoy offered a second pour. He left his beaker empty. She set her beaker down and stretched, noting how his eyes roved down her body, his gaze focused on the sliver of skin exposed by her top riding up. She caught his eyes, her belly warm. She wasn’t drunk, not even close, but was riding that edge of buzzed that came from drinking. They made their way to the doorway, Malfoy motioning at her to go first. 

Hermione knew she was the one who set this all in motion although, later, she would claim that it would have happened eventually. She just sped the timeline up. She leaned forward, catching Malfoy’s lips in a kiss. For a fraction of a second, he was still underneath her, until he moved his hand to grip the back of her head, his other hand pulling at her waist.

The kiss was intense, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She tasted cinnamon on his breath, and she buried her hands in his silken hair, gripping and pulling. He growled against her lips, squeezing her to him tightly before walking her back and down the hallway to his office, never breaking contact. She had assumed that Malfoy would be domineering, controlling, but he was surprisingly gentle, if not urgent. She writhed against his hands as they traced a path from her hips to the sides of her breasts and back down.

He paused in his doorway and she tried to take a step into the office but he held her close to his body, stopping her.

They clashed teeth once, twice, Hermione pulling back to offer him a sheepish smile that he didn’t see because he’d moved on to gently nipping at her neck. She moaned, rolling her hips against him, thrilling with excitement when she felt how hard he was already. 

She whimpered and Malfoy chuckled into her neck, muttering something incoherent. His tongue laved against her neck, tasting the slight tang of her sweat before capturing her lips once more. She pulled him again, and he relented, following her into his office and onto the couch. They fell in a tangle of limbs, Malfoy bracing himself above her, her legs falling open so he could settle in between them.

She made quick work of undoing the buttons on his shirt, pushing it down his shoulders and while he shrugged out of it, she sat up to pull her blouse over her head. She reached down to the button on his pants, but he stopped her, his eyes searching hers.

She knew what he was asking. And she didn’t want him to ask, because her heart was going like a runaway train and if she thought about it long enough, she would say stop. 

“Please,” is all she says in response, her eyes fixated on the bulge in his pants. He released her wrist, and she unzipped his trousers, gripping him in her closed fist as he kicked them off.

He was so hot to the touch. Malfoy groaned and the sound sent a jolt straight to her pussy. He reared up on his knees, hooking his fingers in the waistband of her skirt and underwear at the same time and pulling them down and off her, Hermione lifting her hips up to assist.

“Fuck, Granger,” he whispered. He was on his knees above her, his eyes taking in her lush skin, the thatch of dark brown curls between her thighs, her brown nipples. He leaned forward slightly, running his hands from the inside of her ankles and up her thighs, before sliding two fingers between her slick folds. When he brought his fingers up to his lips to suck them clean, Hermione moaned, her thighs clamping together, desperate for friction.

Whatever effect the alcohol had on her had been burned away thoroughly. Her mind was almost painfully clear, Malfoy settled between her legs like a weight. He had a smattering of fine chest hair, a few moles scattered on his chest and stomach. He was lean with an athletic build, slightly muscular. A seeker’s body.

His eyes darkened at her appraisal and he lowered himself until they were chest to chest.  His cock teased her entrance, his fingers pinching her nipples into fine points. He captured her lips in a searing kiss, his hips drawing circles against her center. She whimpered, her arms reaching up and gripping his hair, leverage so she could snarl a command.

“Fuck me, Malfoy.”

He cursed, and before she could beg, sank into her in one swift thrust. They both moaned Hermione drawing her knees up and close to her chest as he sank into her.

“You are so fucking tight,” he grit out, his hips still as she adjusted to him. He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

She writhed beneath him, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, her hands wrapped around his back, hips moving to feel the friction of his pelvis around her clit. He thrust into her slowly, savoring her whimpers.

“Malfoy,” she panted, her hips rolling. She released her hold on his shoulders to bury her hands in his hair, yanking his head so she could kiss him. His next thrust had him hitting that spot inside of her, the one that was elusive, even to herself. She clenched around him and Malfoy hissed.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned and pulled out, his body stuttering and jerking as he came.

It had only been a few minutes.

Hermione dropped her head back, her knees still drawn up as Malfoy caught his breath above her. Disappointment swam in her eyes and she fought the irrational urge to cry, her desperate need for release burning her. She tried to roll out from under him but Malfoy drew up on his knees, his hands gripping her waist.

“Hermione,” he said. “You’re not done yet.” He slid down between her legs, grabbing his shirt to wipe away his come from her inner thigh. She tried to jerk away from him, suddenly self-conscious, and he pinched her.

“Hey!” She protested, her body rapidly cooling, reality threatening to set in.

She stared down at his gray eyes looking at her hungrily from in between her thighs, as if he were a starved man. She nodded, and, without hesitation, he licked a stripe up her folds. He groaned into her, and he drew his tongue around her lips and entrance, ignoring her clit as she bucked against his face. He made an upside down-V with his index and middle fingers around her clit and pressed the pressure everywhere but where she needed it, causing a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach. She moaned, half a snarl, struggling to sit up, grabbing his hair in her fists to try and drag him to where she needs him.

“I won’t tease you anymore, Granger,” he chuckled. He brought her clit between his lips and sucked, her whole body jerking at the contact, her legs drawing up to rest her feet on his shoulders. Malfoy worked two fingers into her, curling them up against her to massage that spot that has her curling her toes. Pleasure swirled deeply in her belly, a peak, her climax inevitable. The squelching noises her body made seemed obscene, but she was too lost in the sheer pleasure of it to care. When her orgasm crashed over her, her knees fell together, clenching Malfoy between them. He gripped her stomach with his free hand as she rode his face, her legs barely relaxed when he rose up, his lips red and shining, and pressed a sloppy, smacking kiss to her lips. 

Tasting herself mixed with him is so erotic that she moaned, her body sparking. He reached down to grab himself, tapping his cock against her thigh. “I’m hard again, Granger.” His gray eyes are darkened, hooded with desire. Hermione can only imagine what she looked like. “Tell me you want me,” he commanded.

And so she did.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

A/N: So sorry for the long time between updates! I moved, I finished my first semester of doctorate school, went to Utah and hiked up a mountain, and only now feel like I have a moment to write. Life has been really kicking my ass recently, but I think I may have some time to relax for the next 20 days or so, so I'm hoping to do as much writing as I can! As always, thank you so much for reading, commenting, subscribing, leaving kudos. Reading your comments is always so motivating and I love being able to share my creative attempts with you all. Thank you :) Follow me on twitter @endegamem

---

The weekend passed in a blur. She had never felt like the weekend was too quick, always frustrated at how it dragged, how ideas she had on Saturday were different by the time Monday rolled around. But this time, she spent the weekend pondering what Monday would look like with Malfoy.

She had confessed her past with Harry, to Malfoy of all people. It was perhaps the most closely guarded secret she kept, one that she and Harry had sworn to keep between each other. To protect Ginny. To protect Harry. What would it say about The Boy Who Lived that he two-timed on his devoted girlfriend (although Harry had ended things with her) with Hermione Granger?

And then she slept with Malfoy. Twice. She thought about telling him that it couldn’t happen again, but the truth was that she wanted it to happen again, and again, and again. Hermione was no stranger to sex, and no stranger to good sex, but there was something in the way Malfoy had coaxed two orgasms from her, even after the initial event of finishing early, that made her want to pursue their sexual compatibility. It had been so long for her, and the looseness and ease she felt over the weekend was something she had missed.

---

Her Monday had been quiet and Malfoy had been conspicuously absent from his office. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she had taken her shoes off and crept down the hallway in her socks, just to find out if she could hear him. And when she slinked back to her office to continue therapy, she wondered if Malfoy was out there. Thankfully, she was distracted by her patients, who seemed frustratingly apprehensive about a group session. 

It wasn’t until Hermione finished her last session of the day with a noncommittal, “I’ll think about it,” that she realized why her patients were so reluctant. They were ashamed .

Having magic was inherent to a witch and wizard, and, for many of her patients, they had no lives outside of magic, no context. Without total control of their bodies, and by extension their magic, they had no control over their lives. Many of them continued seeing Hermione not always because they believed in her or understood her work, but because they knew that she was the only thing stopping them from being punted over to the Janus Thickey Ward by their families, where a life of drudgery and an errant visitor awaited them.

Hermione contemplated this as she unpacked her potions ingredients, assuming that if Malfoy had not shown up yet, that he was missing their Monday brewing session.

She didn’t feel like brewing her potion today. Her hands found themselves chopping familiar ingredients, a bezoar, leaping toadwing caps. Potioneering has never been her favorite, despite being good at it. She much preferred to be at the bedside, interacting, sharing knowledge. While she had been an annoying know-it-all in her youth, she had grown into her knowledge and the realization that it was okay to let people be wrong sometimes. Sometimes they wouldn’t be ready to hear the truth, but she had learned the way to have her patients trust her.

She wondered what she would do if she couldn’t control her magic anymore. She told herself that she could handle it, that she could live in the Muggle world without any issues, but she quickly knew she was lying to herself. Perhaps she could feel more comforted by knowing she had a fallback, another life she could turn to, but deep down she knew. Without her magic, without magical society, she wouldn’t be Hermione.

But what did that mean for her patients now, her very much affected patients who were struggling with the loss of self and the shame that came with it? How could she bridge that gap for them? She knew it was a community, because a community was all that had worked for her, but she needed them to be open to it.

“No brewing today?”

Malfoy’s voice from behind her had her yelping, the ladle with which she was stirring clattering in her cauldron. Her dreamless draught potion curdled in front of her eyes. She grunted in frustration.

“You scared me!”

“Sorry,” he said, wincing. “I thought you heard me come in.”

Hermione shook her head, waving her wand lazily to vanish the now-ruined Dreamless Draught, only slightly surprised by how the ‘sorry’ fell off his tongue so easily. “I didn’t think you were in today and I just felt like taking a break so…” Her words trailed off as she turned to face him fully.

He was standing near his lab bench dressed in slacks and a black polo. His hair was mussed, as it tended to be at the end of the day, and the memory of her fists gripping it flashed through her mind. Malfoy’s lips curved into a slight smile, one that she knew the shape of when he was buried between her legs.

“You really should let me know if you’re not going to be in the office,” she scolded, subtly pressing her legs together. “I could have gone home.”

He shrugged. “Thoughts kept you too busy? What are you so worried about?”

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Do you think you could survive if you lost your magic?”

He hadn’t been expecting that question, his eyebrows flying up his face and then furrowing as he considered. “When I was on house arrest,” he started, “I had to give up my wand.” Hermione’s eyes widened at that revelation - it hadn’t been included in his sentencing notes. “I still could do some wandless magic because I was above age, and the Manor’s magic responded to me, even without my wand but it was demoralizing. I think what stopped me from going insane was knowing that it was temporary, and I was still able to study and read.”

She nodded thoughtfully, her right fingers picking at the dead skin on her left thumb. A bad habit. “Most of my patients can’t control their magic and it’s not safe for them to use it. Now that I have the space here, I was thinking of running a group session, so they can all get together and realize that they’re not alone, you know? I think it could be helpful.”

“It could be,” Malfoy agreed.

“Right? But they don’t want to, or at least they don’t seem interested. They’re ashamed. I thought about rescheduling everyone to the same appointment time on the same day but that would be deception.” Hermione shrugged and smirked at Malfoy’s startled laugh.

“What if you called it something else?”

“Hmm?”

“Instead of calling it a group session or whatever, call it a social gathering. We could look into catering food and drinks so it feels more like an event than it does a medical appointment.”

She considered it for a moment. “I’m not sure if it’s in my budget,” she confessed, running the numbers for drinks, lighting, food, staff to serve food.

“But it’s in ours.” Hermione’s eyes flashed up to Malfoy’s in confusion before she remembered - this whole endeavor was as much his as it was hers. She had demanded that he leave patient care entirely up to her, but something like this, an expansion of the program was his decision too. At her surprised expression, he shrugged. “Your patient care has been surprisingly low cost, you brought everything you needed with you. But I need to make a suggestion. We should publicize this event, send something to the Daily Prophet, stir up some publicity about this.”

“No!” Hermione protested, shaking her head vehemently. “The whole problem is that my patients are ashamed, blasting them on The Prophet will only make it worse. Some of them won’t even show up, not to mention it being a huge waste of energy.”

“But imagine the good publicity it could draw up, how many more clients you could attract. You’ve operated in relative obscurity all these years and most of your clients have been referrals. You could grow the practice, you could hire someone -”

“No,” she said, louder this time. “Forget it, I’ll figure out another way to convince my clients to come around. I don’t want to do all this publicity nonsense.”

“Granger, be sensible. If you were fine with everything as it was then you’d never have come into business with me.”

“Not yet.” She sighed, running her hands through her hair, mussing it from its neat bun at the nap of her neck. “There’s no good in having an article written if we can’t even have my clients come in.” She brought the thumb she had been picking at to her mouth, now gnawing on it for a moment before slapping her hand back down. “Let me do this my way first, let me get my patients to actually come. They trust me.”

Malfoy sighed, frustration evident on his face as he crossed his arms. “Fine. But this is something you’re going to have to do sooner rather than later.”

She nodded at him in recognition, her heart already pounding from the idea of the press, from the idea of another person in her space, potentially messing with her clients’ lives. “Since it’s late, and neither one of us have done any brewing, I’m heading home.” She turned away from him, packing her bag slowly.

“So, that’s it for today? Work’s over?”

She raised her arm and gave him a thumbs up with her back turned, too intent on packing away the remnants of her belongings.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about how you tasted all weekend.” 

Hermione whirled around, her half-packed bag forgotten on the bench behind her. He was so casual he might have been talking about a sandwich.

“What?” She squeaked, her head spinning from the quick turn and the whiplash. How did they go from having a business disagreement to this?

“I couldn’t stop thinking about how you tasted all weekend,” Malfoy repeated, his thumb brushing back and forth across his lips, as if he was tasting her again. She watched the movement, an electric pulse coursing through her.

“In a good way?” She stands up straight, her gaze defiant as Malfoy slowly moved up and down her body.

“In the only way.” Is his simple response. “I want to taste you again.”

A thrill shot through Hermione at the possessive tone in his voice, at the way he took a step towards her. “Wait,” she put her hand up, turning back around to finish packing her bag, before turning around again to see him frozen in place, his face alight with amusement. 

Her pussy clenched at the sight.

“I want it to happen again,” she told him resolutely, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I think we’re sexually compatible.” She hesitated, her eyes scanning the lab. “But I don’t want it to affect any of the work we’re doing here. We have to be as objective as possible.”

“Didn’t I wait until we were done working to proposition you, Granger?” He took a step closer to her, forcing her backwards until she came into contact with the table. She hopped backwards, pulling him into her by the collar. She thrilled at the sensation. He leaned forward, as if to kiss her, but paused. “I can agree to objectivity during work. We should also agree to end this at any time.”

This would be fine, she thought. She kissed him. First. She kissed him first, again .

This time was slower, more deliberate. He liked to kiss, liked to drag his tongue across her exposed skin while she whimpered, testing and teasing different spots along her throat, her collarbones, her shoulders. He had ripped the buttons from her shirt, letting it fall open and pushed her skirt up to her waist, bringing her to the edge of an orgasm with his fingers. Shoving the gusset of her simple, white cotton panties to the side, he sheathed into her, her legs wrapping around his waist automatically. She watched him through hooded eyes as he sucked his fingers clean of her, his eyes never leaving hers as he pushed inside of her.

If Friday had been passionate, and messy because of its unexpectedness, today felt planned, felt mutually agreed upon, felt like something she could control. She could do this, she thought, this mutually beneficial transactional relationship. 

His thrusts were slow, and deep and when he reached his fingers between them to draw circles on her clit, she came apart with a cry. His thrusts became deeper and less controlled, and he followed her a few minutes after, his fingers digging so deeply into her hips they left bruises.

He pulled away from her, breathless, and she hopped off the table, muttering a quick reparo on the buttons Malfoy had ripped in his haste. He looked unruffled, save for the red tint on the high points of his cheeks and mussed hair. She could feel his semen running down her thigh, where he had pulled out at the last possible second. 

He offered her a handkerchief and she took it, not so surreptitiously wiping her thigh before handing it back to him. Grabbing her belongings, Hermione walked past him, resenting the fact that he looked like he had only just taken a brisk walk. She knew she looked absolutely disheveled.

“Well. See you tomorrow?”

He smirked. “See you tomorrow, Granger.”

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

“Granger.”

The voice was disembodied, a ghost floating over her as she lay under her potions bench counting the waves in the wood grain. But, at this point, she could recognize that voice anywhere, given that she spent most of her days listening to him drone on about publicity, data collection, publication of evidence, new hires, and new clients. Her nights, on the other hand, had him whispering filthy words of praises in her ear while he thrust up from under her, or gritting curses and compliments when she took him in her mouth, or, her personal favorite, moaning in between her legs as he licked her to orgasm, as if it was just as pleasurable for him as it was for her. She hadn’t realized she had ears in her -

“Malfoy.”

She slid out from under the potions bench to find him staring down at her, arms crossed, his expression agitated.

“Did you need something from me?” She asked, her expression placid.

“Why didn’t you tell me the conference approval came in? We barely missed the deadline to confirm our attendance-”

Hermione groaned, pushing herself up and off the floor before moving to her prep station, where she worked to finely chop, and then mince, the holy basil she had left behind.

Malfoy scoffed, following her, his presence like a looming black cloud. “What the fuck? Did you hide this on purpose? Why ?”

She ignored him, one second away from turning the basil into a paste, before moving to storage for lion’s mane mushrooms, returned to her prep station and worked on slicing those.

“ Granger.”

Malfoy’s voice had gone low, threatening, and she knew this to be his “business” voice, the one where he negotiated with potions ingredient farmers when he knew they were shortchanging him or when Hermione moved on his cock when he had told her to be absolutely still, for science .

She was being petty, and she knew it. She had hidden the conference acceptance letter, and that had been after weeks of dragging her feet to submit, after months of refusing to turn over her patient data sheets so he could run an analysis, and weeks before she had acquiesced to submitting her work to an academia. For public dissemination, Malfoy had so passionately argued.

Malfoy had no time to waste today, it seemed. As he simply scoffed at her silence. “I need to know you won’t actively sabotage this when we get there. Have you even told your clients that you’ll be away?”

She shrugged one shoulder in response and he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Do it or I will.”

“Fine,” she snapped, shoving the finely chopped mushrooms into a bowl and turning to finally face him.

He glared at her, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He was furious at her and she couldn’t blame him. This was a conversation they had over and over again in the past eight months of working together. Their first jointly planned event had been a success, and Hermione was now running a total of three group sessions in addition to her typical home-visit and in-office patient visits. At Malfoy’s suggestion, Hermione had opened her Thursday afternoons for general health inquiries, secretly glad to have the opportunity to meet other witches and wizards who maybe needed a quick round of Skelegrow instead of a debilitating, degenerative illness with no cure. It helped keep her general medicine skills sharp. 

She knew why he pressed about expanding her practice, knew rationally that the first step in combating the alienation she had received from the magical healing community was mainstreaming her care as a viable option. For the public, she did that through interviews, public events, information sessions, pamphlets left out for her new general patients to peruse in the waiting room. For the healing community, she needed to do this through published studies, conferences, workshops. All things she had been unable to do on her own, but now suddenly available to her because of Malfoy’s cash-flow. The sweet cherry on top of was the fact that she, after paying her monthly sum back to The Ministry, finally earned enough of a salary to put away into a savings account and spend for pleasure.

But she still dragged her feet. Sometimes.

Malfoy folded his arms over his chest, studying her intently. “You need to tell me why you’re so against this. You’ve fought me every single step of the way.” He rapped his knuckles against the potion bench, startling her into meeting his eyes. “I need you to be honest, Granger.”

“I am being honest. What would you know about honesty anyway, you snake?”

The schoolyard insult surprised him, but it didn’t have her desired effect. Instead of storming off, he walked right up to her, the toes of their shoes nearly touching. She felt his breath disturb the stray curls that fell over her forehead, his cologne overwhelming her.

“I thought you Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.”

She swallowed, noting how his eyes tracked the movement before darting back up to her lips. Her hands snaked up to find his shoulders, squeezing, before she leaned forward. This was a dance they had done many times before, each time after promising to never again have sex during work hours again. His lips ghosted over hers. She exhaled.

He pulled away.

“Tell me why you tried to hide this.”

She groaned in frustration. “I am scared .”

“Of what?” he asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“When I first left St. Mungo’s,” she began slowly, “I was shunned by the healing community. I have colleagues who I haven’t spoken to in years. So many people considered what I was doing to be fake, or worse, to be detrimental to my patients. They perceived it as poaching, as denial of care. People who I considered my colleagues, my equals. They hated me and didn't even give me a chance to explain.”

She sighed. “There’s no going back from this. It was easier doing the local pieces for The Prophet, it’s easier to talk to the public than it is to other professionals. And-” she chewed her bottom lip in hesitation. “I’m afraid that it will happen to me again if I go public, at least to the level of this conference.”

“Hmm.”

“ Hmm ? Is that all you have to say?”

Malfoy shrugged. “You’ve never let that bother you before. In school you never hesitated to show off what was right, despite it making you a pariah.”

“That’s - that’s different.”

“That never stopped you and Potter.”

She winced, swallowing down the pit of shame that threatened to bubble up and out of her mouth.

His eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Potter? What stake could he possibly have in this?” He paused, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. 

“When I left St. Mungo’s and pursued this career path, Harry didn’t speak to me for six months. We’re only speaking again because Ron stepped in. It’s…it’s tense between us. He doesn’t approve of what I do, and even less so since you’ve been on board.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Malfoy sneered, and an image of his thirteen year-old self floated past Hermione. “Are you in love with him?” At her confused face, he continued. “It’s the only reason why one man’s opinion is stopping you from pursuing something that could - how did you put it? - ‘reimagine healthcare.’ You made me a binder, for Merlin’s sake. What the fuck happened?”

She gaped at him, but he continued, apparently not satisfied with her reaction. “You roped me into this, pitched me an idea of a new treatment and I agreed because you’re Hermione Granger. Don’t tell me that Harry fucking Potter is going to ruin this for you? For me?” He scowled, his cheeks flushed, his anger evident. “Of all the reasons, I didn’t expect you to be a coward.” 

He didn’t let her have the final word. He stormed out of the potions lab but not before he shot a threatening look over his shoulder.

“Sort your shit out, Granger. This is what you signed up for.”

---

It was humbling, Hermione realized, to be scolded by Draco Malfoy for being a bad partner. This is what her classmates felt all of their time at Hogwarts when Hermione mercilessly ripped into them when their work was subpar, or, even worse, late. The worst part was that he was right. When did she need anyone’s permission to pursue her dreams? Why was she afraid of what Harry, someone who was so far removed from these academic circles, thought? This conference didn’t exist within the confines of The Ministry, and, even if someone ran to Minister Shacklebolt to snitch on her, what could they possibly make her do? She no longer had any ties to them. 

She was in the middle of pacing, excitedly venting her thoughts to a sleepy Neville as lounged on her couch. He had been granted a day off from lecturing and duties, and he often liked to spend the night in Hermione’s flat. It was even better now that she could actually use her second bedroom as a guest room and not a DIY-potions lab.

“Hermione,” Neville interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “What’s happened between you and Malfoy?”

“What?” She stopped abruptly in her tracks, whirling around to face him.

“I’ve never heard you say, ‘Malfoy was right’ before, and just tonight I’ve heard you say it four times.” His brow furrowed. “Are you alright ?”

She scoffed, a nervous giggle making itself known. “I’m perfectly fine, Neville. I think I’ve finally got my head on right - I feel like I’ve just been asleep and it’s like-” 

“Holy shit - you’re sleeping with Malfoy.” Neville was wide-awake now, scratching his evening stubble as he sat up, leaned forward. “I thought you looked more relaxed than usual - I thought it was just the fact that your group sessions were going well but the last time I saw you look this relaxed was when Krum was in London for a match and we both know what you two did that weekend and it only makes sense because -”

“Stop!” Hermione couldn’t stop the blush that was spreading blotchily across her cheeks and neck. She cast a cooling charm on herself, but all it did was make her shiver. Neville looked at her expectantly and she sighed, throwing herself on the couch next to him. “We have an arrangement.”

Neville nodded, leaning into her and she settled into his shape. “Hermione,” he began. He had adopted his professor’s voice. It still amazed her, sometimes, to know that the timid boy she knew in childhood grew into a man, one who could get your attention with his quiet and thoughtful confidence. “You know what they say about defecating where one eats.”

“That’s not a kink I have, Neville, you might be confusing me with one of your exploits.”

He chuckled, his hand squeezing her shoulder. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I know you’re a grown woman - and Malfoy is a grown man but just…”

“This isn’t the first friends-with-benefits situation I’ve ever been in, Neville.” She paused. “But I hear you. We’ve managed well, so far. What’s most important to me is my practice and what’s most important to Malfoy is…well, it’s Malfoy himself. He wouldn’t want to do anything that hurt his business or reputation and I wouldn’t do anything that would hurt my practice or my patients.”

Neville nodded. “Hard to argue with that.” He pulled on Hermione’s single braid. “Just be careful, alright?”

“You’re the only one who knows,” she confessed, her bravado fading. The shame she had been loudly banishing just moments before crept its way back into her bones. Ron had certainly mellowed out in fatherhood, perhaps the only truly secure and happy one out of the three of them, but she was sure that even he might struggle with the news. She couldn’t even think of what Harry would say. Not that it mattered, she chided herself. She was a grown woman. But still.

“Do what feels right, Hermione,” Neville said calmly. “You know yourself.”

---

The following morning found her marching into Malfoy’s office as she dropped a thick stack of parchment on his desk.

“I edited the draft presentation to reflect the data I collected as recently as last week. I also added a bit about the emerging evidence I’m collecting on the efficacy of my group sessions - that will be something we can present at the next conference.” She turned away and marched right back out, not wanting to be late for her first client of the day. If she had looked back, she would have seen the grin on his face.

---

Traveling by portkey was always nauseating and the hooklike sensation only felt worse as she aged. This conference was in India, a country not bound to the same Statute of Secrecy that European countries often adopted. Magic was India and India was magic - and while muggle citizens didn’t know Indian wizarding society, they coexisted in a quiet medium where the veil between the muggle, the mystic, and the magic was waning, flexible, and sheer.

Hermione had barely made it to their stop in Milan, staggering and panting as they landed in the small Italian cafe that had been their portkey stop. He raised an eyebrow at her and she waved dismissively, steeling herself for the next stop to Istanbul, which was followed by a staggering jump to Dubai, then to New Delhi, before the final, and short, leg of their journey to Bangalore, the city in which the conference was being held.

But by the time they had made it to Dubai, the world continued to spin unpleasantly and she retched, falling to her hands and knees. Shocked gasps and murmurs surrounded her, but sooner than she could collect her bearings, Malfoy had banished her vomit and was crouched down in front of her. She lifted her head to look at him miserably, eyes watery and red from the strain of trying to throw up the contents of her now empty stomach. She sat back on her haunches, using her sleeve to wipe her mouth, not caring that Malfoy winced at it, at her. She felt terrible.

“Are you alright?” When she glared tearily at him in response he frowned. “Do you think you can make the next two stops?”

Hermione gagged in response, and the crowd of concerned onlookers seemed to grow noisier. “”M alright,” she muttered, struggling to get to her feet. Malfoy rose with her, and she gripped his forearms tightly to support herself to standing, finding herself unable to let go. The world was spinning, and she was sure she would throw up again in five more rotations. Malfoy had shifted so that he was firmly gripping her bicep, his jaw set as he half-dragged her across the atrium. She couldn’t even appreciate the stunning glass ceilings, the lush plants, or the luxurious marble floors that she had just vomited on. She had half a mind to ask Malfoy where exactly this place was.

Malfoy was silent as he walked on, seemingly sure of their destination, and Hermione was struck by how vulnerable she was in this moment, awareness bleeding into her as the ground felt more solid under her feet and as the feeling of being pulled across kilometers and kilometers of land left her navel.

She dragged her feet, slowing Malfoy’s breakneck speed, wrenching her arm from his grip. “Malfoy, wait!” She closed her eyes, taking slow deep breaths to stabilize herself, only to open them to find Malfoy staring at her in panic.

“Are you going to throw up again?”

She took another deep breath, deciding, before she shook her head. Malfoy sighed in relief, his hands running through his hair. “Why didn’t you say you weren’t feeling well when we left? We could have traveled another way - maybe I could have booked a flight -”

Her stomach lurched. “I think a broom would have been worse.”

His eyes widened, looking at her like she had truly lost the plot. “Not a broom, you idiot. A plane. It would have taken us longer but-”

“You’ve been on an airplane before?” Despite her nausea, Hermione managed a weak smile at the thought of Malfoy queuing up at security before cramming himself into an airline seat between someone’s grandmothers.

“I only fly first class,” he sniffed, reading her mirth correctly.

“You really are different, huh?”

He had nothing to say to that, so Hermione weakly rummaged in her purse for a piece of gum, the dry taste of her sick coating her mouth. “Give me a minute, and then we can go.” She leaned against a nearby column and sighed, using every bit of her waning strength to remain upright.

“I don’t think so.” Her eyes flew open to see Malfoy staring at her, his arms crossed over his chest. “We have an extra day. If we stay here tonight and leave first tomorrow we’ll still have plenty of time to check in and prepare for the conference.”

“But where - where would we stay? I don’t really know anything in this area -”

When he told her the name of the hotel they’d be staying at, Hermione blinked, the sea of nausea threatening to take her under again while she tried to calculate approximately how much money she’d have at the end of tonight. Seemed like her savings would be wiped. Understanding dawned on Malfoy’s face.

“It’s taken care of.” He shrugged, a smug smile taking over his face. “This is a business expense, Granger. Don’t question it.”

And, for the second time in so many days, she listened to Draco Malfoy.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Summary:

Hermione thrives in academia and gets in her flow. Also - they check into the hotel and there's only one bed. Oh no!

When Hermione met Malfoy in the lobby of their hotel the next morning at 5am, she had come prepared. Or rather, Malfoy had sent her the supplies so that she could show up prepared. After dragging her a short distance in Dubai to their hotel the day before, Malfoy had all but pushed her into her room before slamming the adjoining door to his room shut. She spent the rest of the afternoon curled around the toilet, too ill to even think about a spell or potion to help her. She must have fallen asleep there and was awoken to Malfoy’s cool fingers pushing away her hair from her forehead. The nausea had passed but the overwhelming feeling of fatigue and stress had her sluggish. He all but tipped a nutritional potion down her throat and, after a few minutes when she felt stable enough to walk to the bedroom, he offered her a dreamless draught that she took herself. She didn’t think twice when she haphazardly stripped herself of her clothes and tossed them on the floor before staggering facedown onto the bed. Somewhere above her Malfoy tsked before drawing the covers up and over her bare body. She couldn’t be sure when he left.

When she awoke the next morning, feeling as close to herself as she could, she saw that her bedside table held a plate of toasted bread and honey and a pot of mint tea that had been charmed to stay warm in addition to a little smorgasbord of nutritional potions, pepper-up potions, and an anti-nausea potion.

Bolstered by the food, the sleep, and the potions she took out of caution, she was ready for the next leg of their journey. Malfoy nodded when she greeted him, surprised to see all their luggage neatly stacked next to him. He looked as pristine as ever with not a single hair out of place. Prat.

“Thank you,” she started, suddenly shy. “For coming to check on me yesterday and for sending food up this morning.”

The air between them grew thick, uncomfortable. Malfoy had taken care of her, and while she knew it was simply the decent thing to do for another person, she still felt gratitude. 

“I wasn’t going to leave you to fend for yourself,” he sniffed, uncharacteristically studying the perfect skin around his manicured hands.

She shrugged. “I know, but, thanks.” She offered him a smile, his returning half-smile sending a warmth from the top of her head that trickled down to her fingertips.

He held out his open palm and uncovered a small silver spoon embossed with the Malfoy “M.” Despite breakfast and despite the anti-nausea potion, Hermione’s stomach lurched. She took a deep breath in.

“Your baby spoon?” She asked.

“Born with it in my mouth,” Malfoy responded, both of them stretching their hands out to touch it, her responding laugh lost to the wind as they traveled.

---

By the time they had reached their final stop in Bangalore, Hermione was gripping Malfoy’s bicep tightly, swaying slightly on her feet. Once he made sure she was seated on a bench in the lobby, he shook her off to check in. Fifteen minutes had passed, and so had Hermione’s motion sickness and she wandered towards the check-in. 

Malfoy was frowning, speaking to the hotel staff in a low voice, his expression threatening.

“What’s going on?”

“Ma’m,” the hotel staff started. To his credit, he did not look ruffled by Malfoy’s antics. “At this time, we only have one room available.”

Malfoy snorted. “I booked two rooms -”

“And,” the hotel staff interrupted. “As I explained earlier, we reserve the right to cancel rooms based on need if the guest does not check in time for their reservation without notifying the hotel.”

“When we took our unexpected stopover in Dubai, they gave one of the rooms away to someone else. We’re here for the conference, you know.”

“Many of the guests staying this weekend are also here for the conference, sir.” His nametag read “Manoj” and Hermione’s estimation of him was rising by the second.

“So you’re saying that one of the rooms is available, just not both?” She asked.

“Yes,” both Manoj and Malfoy answered, one placidly and one angrily. “You and Mr. Malfoy will have to share a room.”

She handled the rest of the check-in, not letting Malfoy complain and he wandered out of the lobby while Hermione passed their luggage on to the elves dressed in impeccable hotel uniforms. He had left muttering something about finding another hotel, but Hermione, still trying to fight off the last dredges of her travel sickness, didn’t care and trudged up to their room. Malfoy could pitch a fit about it, but she was here, in India, about to present on her life’s work. She didn’t have the time to worry about what he thought. 

The room, or rather the suite, was gorgeous. It was all dark wood floors and wall carvings and accents, with lush green and red accents. Large sliding glass doors opened into a garden terrace surrounded by sweet smelling jasmine, rose, lavender flowers. Their terrace had a view of the hotel’s perfectly manicured gardens below and she could hear the faint chatter of the restaurant below. The bathroom on one end of the living room was as big as her bedroom back in her London flat and was modern, with sand color tiles, a standing shower, and ornate bathtub. When Hermione entered the bedroom, she quickly turned around and shut the door. There was only one bed. Malfoy was going to pitch a fit.

She flopped onto one of the couches in the living area, reaching to pour herself tea from the pot that had materialized on the counter. She wondered if this hotel’s food service was charmed to work like Hogwarts.

She was looking over her presentation notes when Malfoy walked in, his hair mussed like he had run his hands through it. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid and he sat stiffly down across from Hermione, helping himself to some tea.

“There’s only one bed,” he grunted.

“Yes, I know.” Hermione sniffed back at him, mildly offended that he was this angry about having to share a bedroom with her. He could sleep on the couch then! “I have to admit, I’m a little shocked that you’re this upset?” She tilted her head, taking him in. “I know we usually have our romps in the office, but surely this isn’t…when was the last time a womanizer like you spent the night in bed with a woman?” She was teasing, trying to mask the slight hurt she felt.

“I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since I was married.”

Hermione’s mind silently filled in, “ Since my wife died. ” Her smirk fell from her face and she almost wished that his reluctance had something to do with her instead. “Er, sorry,” she started.

He took a sip from his tea, his head and body turned away from her. Hermione ached for him, her right hand rubbing her heart over her shirt. He looked tired, drawn, how he always looked during the brief moments he mentioned Astoria.

Shaking his head, as if to pull himself out of memories, he turned to her, pointing one elegant finger to her parchment. “You’ve got about an hour before this thing starts - are you ready?”

---

Time dragged until Hermione and Malfoy checked into their conference, both separated almost immediately by the pull and push of the crowd. She might have panicked but she drew on her experiences in the U.S., and did her best to keep her wits about her.

She had been underselling herself. She knew this much after she found herself repeating her practice model again because someone in the conversation needed their colleague to hear it. She had forgotten just how powerful and brilliant she was, basking in the rays of admiring gazes and the heat of a spirited debate. Interest in her presentation session was growing and, by the time her session rolled around by 2:30, the room was packed.

Part of the interest this generated was because Hermione had a strong clinical focus, while most of the attendees existed in the theoretical world. And while she was not the only person interested in rehabilitation of skills, she was the only one who practiced full-time and had access to client data at all times. She was so caught up in the excitement, in her passion, that she barely noticed the figure with platinum blonde hair in the back of the room. He was sitting, watching her with rapt attention, and, despite only meeting his eyes for a second, his eyes glittered. She forged on.

---

It had been a success. Hermione had been a success.

She was glowing, practically radiating light and happiness that evening as she sat among a group of healers that had attended her info session and invited her and Malfoy to dinner to celebrate. This, Malfoy had warned her, could be just as important as the science itself as this was where she made connections, where she spread the seeds of her work, where the money could be made. She had balked at that and Malfoy, who had originally declined the invitation to dinner, agreed to accompany her. He had made a snide comment about not wanting to lose galleons because she was a know-it-all, but she had felt relieved nonetheless. 

She didn’t even need him.

It was exhilarating to be in a room full of like-minded professionals, people who spoke of hypotheticals and science and magic with hope and awe instead of the scorn she was so used to in London. And Hermione, always the smartest in the room, thrived.

“Tell me, Lukas,” Hermione said to the man on her right, “Tell me more about your speciality?”

Lukas was a handsome man, about her age, and held the impressive title of being both a magical healer and muggle doctor with a speciality in neurological disorders. He maintained a caseload of both muggle and magical patients and was just beginning to connect the diseases and disorders he saw in his nonmagical patients with those he saw in his magical ones. His current research focused on looking to see if there was a genetic component to how neurological and magical disorders presented in witches and wizards. 

He was a charismatic speaker as well and Hermione found herself leaning in to hang on to his every word, her excitement growing. She wanted to ask him about blood curses, or if he knew anyone that could - 

She was startled by a slight touch on her bare shoulder and, looking back, realized Malfoy had draped his arm across the back of her chair, his fingers lightly brushing against her. He had been largely silent all dinner. When Hermione had introduced him as her partner and primary investor, attention to him had been swift. But, when the others realized he was not interested in investing in any more projects, he was just as swiftly left alone. And while Hermione knew he was quite intelligent, he was, after all, not a Healer or a doctor, or even a scientist. He was a businessman who had little to add to the conversation.

Leaning forward and asking Lukas to repeat himself earned Hermione another brush of Malfoy’s fingers and, in her excitement, she got up, angling the chair away from him and towards Lukas so they could finish their conversation.

“You know, Hermione,” Lukas was saying. “It might be helpful to have you come to my hospital to show us what you’ve been doing. I’m not sure if we serve the same clientele as you as most of our patients are affected by age and not just curses, but some of the things you’re doing may improve their quality of life.”

She was glowing, so excited by this opportunity, that she hadn’t even noticed when Malfoy slipped away from the table and did not return.

---

When Hermione made it up to the - their - suite about an hour later, she worried. Malfoy had left dinner abruptly and the anxiety she had felt about his anxiety over sleeping in the same bed as her had her losing the glow of confidence and happiness she put on during the course of the day. Malfoy must have been in bed already, judging by the closed bedroom door. She stripped and stepped into the luxurious shower, taking her time to shampoo and condition her hair, shave her legs, and even use one of the coconut scented body scrubs the hotel had provided. But, alas, she could only be in there for so long.

When she cracked open the bedroom door, the lights were off, save for a few floating diya candles that bathed the room in a calming, soft light. Malfoy was not asleep, as she had hoped, and was instead sitting up in bed reading. He looked up to greet her and she dithered, suddenly nervous and self-conscious about the shorts and tiny tank top she wore to sleep.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” she said in a way of a greeting.

Sighing, Malfoy held his hand out. “Just come to bed, Granger.”

She slides into bed and he extinguishes the lights, coqui frogs and the occasional hum of a motorbike buzzing by. The silence between them was so thick, she could practically see it grow legs.

“Did you have a nice time at dinner with what’s his name?” Malfoy broke the silence, his tone irritated. He huffed quietly after he asked, as if the question had unwillingly slipped past his lips.

“Lukas,” She corrected. “He’s a healing professor at St. Alphonse’s Magical Hospital. He asked if I would come and run a training session here.”

“Fabulous,” Malfoy drawled, although his tone was anything but. “I’m glad you and Lukas had a nice talk.”

“What?” She asked, not understanding why Malfoy was annoyed for making connections - oh. Her mind flashed to the way he draped his arm over her chair, the way he had left soon after she had all but ignored him when speaking to Lukas. He was jealous.

They studied each other, Hermione startling at the fact this was perhaps the most intimate moment she’d shared with him. Despite Draco having had his body in or on every part of hers, their interactions always held an air of distance. Back at their lab, he never had any problem spending the last ten minutes of what was supposed to be a lunch break shooting numbers and data points at her and expectantly waiting for her to respond while she tried to catch her breath or resist the urge to run her fingers through his silky hair.

But here, he was in this bed with her and there was nowhere for him to go or hide. She needed to know, needed to see if she was the only one with feelings that were this…complicated.

She snuggled into the bed more comfortably, sighing as she felt the weight of the day melt away. She reached her arms overhead and her legs wide, toes pointed in a full-body stretch, groaning as the tension released from her joints. Malfoy eyed her with interest, his gaze lingering on the sliver of exposed skin on her belly.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, turning on her side to face him, the memory that this was the first time in years he had shared a bed with someone. He tilted his head at her in confusion, setting the book down on the bedside table.

“Do you miss her?”

Malfoy’s brow furrowed, before he connected her apology and the question, an indescribable emotion flickering across his face before he set his jaw.

“It’s poor form to talk about my late wife when I’m in bed with another woman.”

Hermione’s heart was pounding like a runaway train, one that she had no intention of stopping. Malfoy knew her secrets - she wanted to know his too.

“Does it feel like a betrayal to talk about her when I’m in the bed?” she shrugged. “I’ve never been in love before.” She blushed despite herself, waving her hand vaguely in the small space between them. “I imagine this must be hard for you.”

“You didn’t love Potter?” His tone was odd, one that she hadn’t heard from him before. He sounded resigned.

“I thought, for a little bit, that I was in love with Harry.” Memories of their nights in the tent during 7th year flashed in her head. The desperation, the fear, the way they clung to each other after Ron had left. “After the war was over - after the dust had settled - we realized that it was just the stress of the war that pushed us together. He belonged with Ginny. It was…difficult to accept at first.”

She didn’t tell him about the nights Harry would floo to her flat when Ginny was away for the season or training, how he would rage and cry from his PTSD before they fell asleep shoulder to shoulder on her couch. He’d always leave in the morning, always pretend like it never happened. Nothing ever happened but she always felt that edge, that feeling that perhaps they could be more whenever Harry fell into her arms. She gave up that feeling when Harry proposed to Ginny. She had locked her floo every night for the next year. He understood. She understood. And so life went on.

She didn’t know why she was blathering on like this, talking and thinking about an old crush when she was laying in bed with a man who fucked her silly before he asked her questions about her business model.

Malfoy was quiet for a moment, and if he hadn’t been staring right at her, she might have thought he had fallen asleep. He seemed to be thinking, contemplating, his tongue rolling along his bottom teeth as he decided on answering.

“I haven’t either.” he settled on. “Been in love.”

“But you were married?”

“Astoria and I were an arranged match.” Malfoy’s eyes grew distant. “I was 19, and fresh off of house arrest, aware of the dire circumstances of the Malfoy finances. I knew what my expectation was.” His next statement was quieter. “I was lonely too.”

“But you didn’t love her ?”

“We grew to care for each other as friends. We were close…by the end.”

She knew that matches in Pureblood society were often arranged or, in more modern society, “suggested” but ultimately, courtship and marriage were highly regulated affairs. It felt unfair to Hermione, who had only known loving relationships her whole life. Hermione’s parents had been in love, and were still deeply in love and living in Australia. Molly and Arthur Weasley had been an exception, as they often were in Pureblood circles, and had actively chosen each other for love. Coercing a nineteen and seventeen year old into a lifetime commitment felt egregious,  especially when the pressure of the family name and wealth relied on the alliance.

But, despite his words, Draco spoke of his late wife with obvious devotion, one that must have been hard earned given that they didn’t know each other well before making their commitments to each other. Hermione pondered this for a moment, remembering all that Neville had said Draco had done when Astoria was dying and how, almost five years after her death, he attended conferences, both magical and muggle, to understand the curse that had killed her. It felt like a lot to do for a woman he said did not love.

He was watching her, studying her and she wondered if he could read what emotions were flitting across her expressive face. His expression was inscrutable, perhaps a little tired, resigned. She wanted to smooth it away, wanted to wrap her body around his and keep him in this moment with her. She wanted him in a way that was more than what she knew she was allowed. 

“Are we friends?” She meant for her delivery to evoke a chuckle, or at the very least a snort, but her insecurity showed through and she felt like a little Muggleborn witch on the doorsteps of Hogwarts, friendless, and desperate for approval. In another life, she was eleven years old asking Malfoy this question and he accepted. In another lifetime, she thought, they could have been best friends.

“Yes,” he let out a soft laugh. “We are. Now shut up so we can sleep.”

Hermione murmured in agreement, turning over on her side to face away from him, to give him the space she had stolen during their conversation. She had closed her eyes, her breaths deep and even, when she felt Malfoy’s warm body against her back, his lips pressing kisses against her neck. His hand slid over her stomach, leaving a blazing trail on her cooled skin. He stopped at the waistband of her shorts, gripping them tightly in his fist, hesitating. She arched her back against him, whimpering when she felt his hard length against the thin material of her shorts. He had decided, it seemed, and slid his hands under her shorts, huffing in surprise when he realized she had no underwear on.

He skipped the drawn-out teasing she was used to, using his fingers on her in the exact rhythm and movements she loved. He brought her to the brink of an orgasm quickly before sliding her shorts down her legs. She felt him kick his own shorts off before he swiftly removed his own shirt and her flimsy tank top. He pulled her back against his chest, both of them gasping at the heat. She felt his hard length against her, and she reached to grip him, drawing her leg up for him.

When he sheathed himself in her, she gasped. He stilled, groaning as she contracted against him, adjusting to him. Draco usually took his time with foreplay so she could take him without hesitation but tonight, she wasn’t as ready. He rocked into her at a steady pace, his lips leaving gentle kisses and bites on her shoulders and neck. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he commanded. His business voice.

The friction burned, but she loved it, feeling herself growing embarrassingly wet around him. When she didn’t answer, Malfoy pushed into her, his hand snaking up to grip her hair. She felt a twinge, the pain and tension twining with the pleasure he was delivering to her on every thrust, hitting the spot inside of her that she once thought was elusive.

Sex never felt like this. She and Draco had only been sleeping together for a few short months, but in that short time he had mapped and charted every centimeter of her body, kissed every mole on her back, and made her come countless times. 

“Did you fuck your wife like this?”

Malfoy’s grip in her hair tightened and he pulled, causing her to gasp out in surprise. “What if I did,” he whispered into her ear, the airflow causing her skin to break out in goosebumps. 

“Did you?” She challenged, trying to turn her head to face him. Draco gripped her harder, pulling her back so she was unable to. His free hand had snaked its way over her side and down in between her legs, his index and middle fingers drawing lazy circles around her clit. A ragged moan escaped her, the pleasure taking over her in waves. She felt possessive of him, felt possessed by him, and it thrilled her.

 She bucked against him. “Draco. Answer me ,” she bit out through clenched teeth.

He still didn’t answer, the only sound was the sound of their flesh meeting and the little moans and pants Hermione made on each thrust, on each stroke of her clit. She started rolling her hips, the feeling in the pit of her stomach tightening and tightening until she felt like she was going to burst.

She needed to know, needed to know if this pleasure was the same for him as it was for her.

Draco drew his mouth away from her neck, licking and nibbling on her earlobe before pulling out of her completely. His strong hands flipped her so that they were facing each other. He kissed her, not breaking their contact as he rolled on top of her, his forearms bracketed around her head. He reached down to rub his cock along her entrance and she keened, lifting her hips. He captured her mouth in a searing, possessive kiss and thrust into her. She cried into his mouth and he groaned in response. How could it feel like they had been doing this for years?

He grabbed her chin, forcing her head up to meet his beguiling gray eyes.

 “No, Hermione . I only fuck you like this.”

Hermione came apart at his words, her body rigid as she convulsed, her eyes locked onto Draco’s. She had been looking at him through a veil the whole time, she thought, because in this light, he looked golden. She sucked his thumb into her mouth seeking an outlet for her crash. Draco, feeling her clench around his cock and his thumb, grabbed a fistful of her curls, dropping his forehead to rest against hers.

She didn’t need to say it for him to know, for him to understand that if he only fucked her like this, she only let him fuck her like this. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight - I can feel-” Draco’s voice broke and Hermione, through the haze of her pleasure, felt him come inside of her, his pulsing cock prolonging her orgasm.

She was distantly aware that Draco still had his arms wrapped around her, that she could feel his cock softening inside of her. He rolled off her slightly but she chased him in the bed, slinging her arm across his shoulders as he lay on his back. He reached under, pulling her so that she was tightly snuggled into his side.

Several minutes passed in a dazed silence, Hermione’s tired eyes heavy with sleep. She had crossed the boundary. Whatever invisible line she had set for their…relationship had been obliterated tonight. Draco’s breathing turned slow, deep, and even. Sleep pulled her in, their arms and legs intertwined in a way Hermione could only call possessive.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Summary:

Finally get to the reveal of one of the tags! Hermione makes plans for herself but nothing can really ever go her way. That would be too easy.

Thank you for reading, subscribing, and commenting! I love reading all your comments and all the thoughtful insights you come up with. Enjoy this chapter - we're moving into the juicy stuff now! As always, any errors are mine! No betas here, lol. Please follow me on twitter @endegamem

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“Okay, everyone.” Hermione smiled brightly at the small group of 6 patients around her, clapping her hands as she stood up. “This is our last session of the month. We’re going to take a two week break and then I’ll open up the sign-ups for group sessions that will begin in three weeks.”

The witches and wizards around her nodded enthusiastically, wishing Hermione well before they filed out of her office and into the lobby, where she had moved the floo from her office. There had been too much traffic from her tiny office, and, even with an expansion charm, the room felt too cramped to house everyone while they waited.

Presenting at the conference in India had been a turning point for her. She returned to London refreshed, although her green-tinted pallor and tight grip on Malfoy’s hand had suggested otherwise. She had made the trip in its entirety, without any overnight stops. He had released her hand immediately, only checking to make sure she stepped into the doorway of her flat before he turned around and apparated away with a crack.

After a nap and some soup, Hermione sent owls to all her contacts, asking for recommendations. She had Neville sneak her into the Hogwarts library and may have even charmed the Oxford librarian to let her borrow books even though she didn’t have a book card. She realized she had gaps in her knowledge with the anatomy and physiology of the brain and its nerves and its connections to that in magic. No magical book that she had known ever clearly established a link so she found it best to learn about each area separately before drawing her own connections and conclusions.

It was invigorating. Hermione felt similarly to when she had been in the U.S., full of energy to learn. And, moreover, she finally had what she had been missing all these years: validation.

When Hermione had first arrived at Hogwarts, she had come prepared with almost every textbook memorized before even getting sorted into a house. For her classes she came prepared, ready to not only partake in magical culture, but to prove that she had belonged. That had never been easy for her and, despite their initially rocky start, this never would have happened had it not been for her friendship with Harry and Ron. As an adult she could look back and feel sympathy for her younger self, see all the ways in which she was already worthy without having to prove herself but old habits and deeply ingrained thought patterns do not diminish with age on their own. 

She recognized her self-worth, in all areas of her life, but there would always be a part of her, sometimes deeply rooted or sometimes living on the surface, that craved the attention and validation of her peers. Her exile from the medical community all those years ago had been crushing, but it had been her consistent patient group, in addition to her learned confidence, that allowed her to carry on. And now she had found something else, something else that made her feel fulfilled, curious, and excited.

There was, also, the glaring fact that she and Malfoy had hardly spoken since their time at the conference.

The morning after it had been awkward. She woke up to find him pressed against her back, his face buried in the crook between her neck and shoulder, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other over her shoulders with his hand resting on her breast. She shifted, moving out of his grip as quietly as she could, moving to shower and dress. She had been drinking tea on the terrace, taking in the sounds of a still sleepy Bangalore when she heard Malfoy behind her. They didn’t speak.

It wasn’t until they met at the door, both bags fully packed that he asked her if she would be alright to to travel the full way without any stops. She said she would, and they made it to London. They had decided to close the office on Monday, returning only on Tuesday to debrief about the conference and next steps. It was all business .

“You did well,” Malfoy commented as he pored over the list of “soft requests” for training sessions she had received.

“Yes,” she agreed, idly stirring a Skelegrow. Her stock had grown low and she needed to replenish. Brewing was never an issue now that Draco kept the pantry stocked. “I was thinking,” she said, feeling Malfoy’s gaze flit to hers. “I think we should slow down on the brewing, and maybe shift my focus to developing a training session.”

“I agree. I think it’s also time you consider training an apprentice.”

Hermione paused in her stirring, nearly ruining her potion. She resumed quickly. “I don’t want to.”

“You have a waitlist.”

“But this has always been my practice.” Hermione controlled her tone so she didn’t sound indignant, already aware of the waitlist she had earned. “I could dismiss patients and start seeing people on the waitlist.”

His eyebrows moved up to his hairline. “How many patients are you ready to dismiss?”

Hermione didn’t answer him, mentally poring through her patient names. “I won’t have time to bother with interviews. It can’t just be anyone.”

Degradation of magic was a curious thing. Despite living far longer than nonmagical people, witches and wizards experienced a similar decline in health as they aged. And while not every witch and wizard had a magical decline, it wasn’t uncommon for their magic to be uncontrolled or unpredictable. Most of Hermione’s patients had a history of experiencing a Dark Curse and, while they recovered, experienced residual effects that were hard to predict. But, with her practice growing, a new population emerged. Witches and wizards with no significant history with Dark Magic but experienced changes in the way they communicated and used their magic because of aging. Once discovered, once the thought that perhaps this was something that need not be a part of life, it was difficult for people to let it go.

She knew what Draco was saying to be true, knew that in order for this to mean something she needed to share it. And while she could host in-service trainings to other healers in other countries, she would need people, a team, here to carry on the work that she did. But how could she explain the selfish need to be the only one, the need to ride this wave of success on her own for a little bit? She didn’t feel like she had had enough. 

“What about Theodore Nott?” Draco packed away his parchment into his leather satchel, taking his time to reorganize whatever was in there.

She snorted. “What is this, Hermione Granger’s Home for Wayward Slytherin Boys? First you and now Theodore Nott ?”

Her eyes cut to him, to find him staring at her rather unhappily, as if he was disappointed.

She jutted her chin out. “What’s that look for?”

Malfoy sighed, his eyes sliding to a spot just above her head. “Theo was never a Death Eater, was never connected to or convicted of any crimes. He only had the misfortune of being his father’s son.”

She felt chagrined - she hadn’t meant it like that . Her memory of him at Hogwarts was hazy at best - he was smart but not smart enough to be serious competition and despite being a Slytherin, he had never really taken part in any of the bullying or the teasing. She knew that he was gay, given his history with Neville, and she wondered if perhaps, despite belonging in Slytherin, he always felt like an outsider. And, while Theo’s father had been an exceptionally evil and loyal servant to Voldemort, Nott had never taken the Dark Mark, had never participated in anything. While she didn’t know exactly what he did after Hogwarts, she did know that he had relocated to France and became a private Healer to France’s upper-crust wizarding society, with some investment and management from Malfoy himself. 

Heat crawled its way up her neck and cheeks. “That’s not what I meant - I,” she stuttered, searching for her words. “Why Theo? Isn’t he busy with his own practice?”

“Theo has taken on multiple apprentices over the past few years. His practice can run without him. He heard of your work and expressed interest.”

“So he’s bored? And I’m supposed to open up my practice to let someone in because they’re bored ? I think that’s fucking ridiculous.”

Malfoy shrugged, his expression suggesting that he was not going to bicker with her about this. Slinging his satchel over his shoulders, his hands moving to grip the strap, he continued. “I can give you until the end of next month before you decide. If there’s someone you want to have as an apprentice, let me know. Otherwise I’ll tell Theo to come in for an interview.”

There was no one else and she knew it. She had already reached out to her former colleagues from the Janus Thickey Ward, sending them pamphlets with a brief abstract of her work and presentation. None had responded and she wasn’t sure if it was fear of punishment from the ministry or if it was because they truly did not see the merit in her work. And Malfoy knew that too.

“I’ll think about it,” she muttered, fuming.

They stayed staring at each other for a few seconds, the silence between them fraught with tension. It was Malfoy who broke the silence first.

“I’ll be going to Italy for the next month.”

Whatever Hermione had been expecting, it had not been that. While her mind was still buzzing from the conference and now from this shock he had delivered on her lap, she so desperately wanted to crack Malfoy’s head open like a coconut to know what he was thinking. Did they cross the line in India? Would they be able to go back and uncross it?

“There’s a plague,” he offered, “in some of the vineyards Blaise Zabini and I invested in. The harvest has been poor and none of the usual protocols are working. We think our competitor sabotaged us and I have no choice but to go down there and take care of it..”

Her eyes grew wide as saucers. “Are you…are you going to kill them?”

A beat passed, one fraught with tension, before a grin broke across Draco’s face. It reminded her of daybreak, the way it transformed the sharply tense planes of his face into a relaxed, golden version of himself, one that she had never seen at Hogwarts. She couldn’t help but return the smile. Crossing the line could be worth it for this.

---

She enjoyed the first Malfoy-free week. She came and went as she pleased and took a proper break from brewing. Potions had never been her favorite, and while she had knowledge, she did not have a mastery. All healers were adept in brewing simple potions that had every day or common medical applications, but the potion that she had been trying to create was simply not that. All healers were specialists in some area. She held a dual speciality in general medicine and mind healing, but not in potions. She was burnt out from brewing.

Her true passion, her true vigor was with her patients and their therapy. Having an office and a schedule transformed it. She used to spend days apparating or using the floo between several homes at all hours of the day, returning to her flat in the oddly-spaced out free intervals she had to hurriedly brew, splitting her time. Now she saw her rehabilitation patients daily but designated two half-days a week for general, non-emergency medical needs, affording her more structured time to monitor patient progress, record their data, and report to and consult with caregivers.

She hadn’t even realized Malfoy was gone that first week.

The second week found her dragging, poking her head into his office, shaking her head at the fact that she had gone her whole adult life without seeing him once, but a fourteen day absence had her a little stressed. A letter had come on the 18th day, not that she had been counting. The saboteurs plaguing his vineyards were more nefarious than Draco had realized, he had written, and that his return to the office would be delayed as he dealt with the Italian magical government. He wished her well with her group sessions and invited her to start interviewing candidates for an apprenticeship. Prat.

At the beginning of the third week, she languished in Neville’s office while he laughed at her. She could barely stomach the usual spread Neville had prepared of cured meats, cheeses, and olives spread about a wooden cutting board.

“Neville,” Hermione moaned. “I don’t want to bring on an apprentice. It’s making me sick to my stomach. I can hardly eat.”

“Why are you so averse to it, Hermione?” Neville frowned at her as she put a half-nibbled cracker back on the serving board.

She pushed the hair that had fallen forward onto her face away. “I only just feel like the world is starting to see my work for what it’s worth. I can’t,” she frowned. “I can’t share this with anyone else.”

“No more Golden Trio?” At Hermione’s glum expression, Neville continued. “It might not be that bad.”

“Malfoy wants me to bring on Theo Nott.”

Neville was silent, only opting to take a large sip of his tea.

“Say anything, Neville. I’ve thought about it, and I did reach out to some of my colleagues from my time at the Janus Thickey Ward. They never returned my owls. I guess I’m still cursed.”

The end of the fourth week had her dragging herself to Grimmauld Place for another dinner, Hermione always happy to at least see James. He was sat on her lap this evening, patiently accepting spoonfuls of rice off Hermione’s plate, despite adamantly refusing when he was sitting with Harry. It worked because the thought of eating Ginny’s cooking was making her stomach do cartwheels. Ginny wasn’t a bad cook, nor was she a particularly good one but tonight she couldn’t handle it.

Ginny laughed. “Hermione, can you come over for every single mealtime? Getting him to eat has always been a nightmare.” James grinned cheekily at his mother in response and Harry shot him a hilariously stern, but still affectionate look.

Hermione smiled softly, bringing her left hand up to idly stroke James’ still downy-soft, jet black hair. 

“Aye, I’m right there with you, Ginny. Rose has been going through a bit of a picky phase as well. Gin,” Ron turned to his sister, his brow furrowed in deep thought. “You reckon we ever had a picky phase like this?”

“Can’t imagine you ever being choosy about what you’d eat,” Harry snorted, earning a stuck out tongue from Ron in response.

Luna smiled. “She certainly didn’t get it from me either. I loved to eat, I remember my father trying to stop me from eating pebbles.”

The whole table erupted in laughter, with James joining in after a brief moment, his hesitant but loud giggles causing a new round of laughter in the adults. 

“Do you ever think about children, Hermione?” Luna asked. All heads swiveled towards her and, despite her reluctance to answer, she didn’t feel any animosity towards Luna for asking. She knew her friend didn’t mean it to pry or to pass judgment. 

“I do,” she said, noting how Harry looked down at his plate, unable to meet her eyes. “But you know,” she continued. “I just can’t figure out how it’s done.” A slow grin spread across her face. “How did you all do it? Could you demonstrate, with examples maybe? I’ve been researching for years but-”

“Oh, shut up, Hermione Granger!” Ginny howled from her seat at the table, flicking a pea straight at her. 

When Hermione popped the flung pea right into her mouth and shrugged, the table, Harry included, burst into peals of laughter. 

Later, when Hermione was in bed, she realized that she hadn’t thought about Draco all day. Perhaps her crush, Neville had wrangled the word out of her during week three, was just that. A crush. A fleeting fancy that would go away over time. She thought often of their night in India, how they both showed a streak of possessiveness for each other. 

She believed that Malfoy had to go to Italy, but she wondered if his urgency to leave was driven by the fact that he needed space, needed time to think on his own. She needed it too. They were business partners and their partnership had opened Hermione to avenues and crossroads in her career that she had long forgotten.

Malfoy had provided the resources for her to take her practice and flesh it out to its full potential. The binder she had made for him was obsolete now because she realized she could do so much more. She could take on an apprentice.

She rolled over in bed and huffed, ready to admit that an apprentice would not diminish her accomplishments but would rather make them more reliable, more valid to the public instead. If she could double the amount of patients she served, if she could perhaps devote herself full time to brewing and to research…

Her career trajectory could be followed until its end. She could live up to her name, live up to all the aspirations she had as a child. She would change the lives of her patients and change the lives of all those after. What she wouldn’t do, not anymore, was stay stuck in a sometimes half, sometimes quarter of a relationship with all the burdens and none of the perks. It was easy, Hermione thought, to believe you were close, to believe that it was more in a tent that existed in desperation or a hotel room in a steamy, sultry country that inspired jealousy. 

Her mind whirred but sleep approached her much faster. It wasn’t a good idea to bite the hand that feeds, much like it wasn’t a good idea to sleep with your business partner. She had lived four weeks without him and her work continued. She still saw patients, she still corresponded with other healers, she still saw her friends. Draco’s life would undoubtedly continue the same as it had been. They would continue a business partnership, one that she trusted now that she felt she knew him a little better, even if only in the confines of their shared office. They would brew together, he would advise her, they would release this potion, and Hermione would have her career. Draco Malfoy would move on to the next project, maybe marry again, and they would lose touch slowly and over time as he found bigger and more lucrative opportunities. That was life. And that would be her life.

Hermione sighed, snuggling closely into her bed and letting sleep finally come for her. It could always be peaceful like this, she thought.

***

Malfoy came back.

She had expected more fanfare or, at the very least, a letter to let her know but what clued her in instead was the smell of Indian takeaway. She followed the smell to find him hunched over the shared potions bench, eating as if he was starving.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back today?” She hadn’t meant to sound annoyed, she really hadn’t.

He paused briefly to glance up at her. “I wasn’t supposed to be back today. The mob fucking with my vineyards died faster than I was expecting,” he deadpanned.

Hermione froze, before remembering their joke and giggled, Malfoy’s low laughter joining in a moment later.

“I didn’t mean to come in tonight,” he explained, delicately wiping his mouth as if she didn’t just witness him devour two naans in quick succession. The sight of it had made her queasy, if she was being honest. “I just was so hungry and I couldn’t stop thinking about the takeaway place. Remember we had it?”

He grinned ruefully at her, and she was struck by how many smiles she had seen from him in this short interaction, how the sight of it wasn’t odd anymore, how she felt a small thrill of satisfaction whenever she coaxed one out of him. How, at times, she didn’t feel like she had to even work all that hard to see one.

The smile cemented it for her, she couldn’t deny that she was developing feelings beyond a casual sexual partner. She spent too much time with Draco Malfoy, too much time conversing about her favorite topics, too much time joking and laughing for this to remain what they had started it as.

“Malfoy, I need to speak to you about something.”

He winced, putting his hand up. “Another time? I am really tired. I was going to take tomorrow off just to catch up on sleep.” He rubbed the back of his neck and she resisted the urge to trace her fingers down his spine, remembering how he always shivered when she used the tips of her nails. It had been so long since they…

“Alright, goodnight, Draco. See you.”

“See you, Hermione.”

---

Bone-deep fatigue haunted Hermione those days. The floo ride back to her flat almost sent her flying across her living room because she could hardly support herself for a secure landing. She dragged herself into the shower, tying her hair up in a high bun because she couldn’t be bothered to wash it again. But when she slipped into bed, her mind spun, her body buzzed, and she felt queasy as if she was riding on a broom. Hermione reached over for her personal stash of potions stocked in her night table, accidentally grabbing a pain relief potion.

She froze, her eyes squinting in the dark at the small phial, tension and dread cracking itself on her head and dripping down her back unpleasantly. She usually took these to manage her period pains. Except the last time she had taken it was…she closed her eyes, mentally counting each day backwards, but it was useless. She already knew. She was late. Four weeks late, if she were to be exact. She had been due for her period the weekend of the conference, but it had never come, Hermione chalking it up to stress. But surely it should have come since?

Jamming her feet into slippers, Hermione skidded into her second bedroom where she kept a personal cache of medicinal potions. Her organization was impeccable and it took her less than three seconds to realize that she did not have any magical pregnancy tests but that she had a plethora of hemorrhoid relief creams. After shrugging on a light cardigan, Hermione made her way to the Muggle pharmacy, her heart pounding and droning in her ears. How had she not realized that pregnancy tests were locked behind a glass screen? She considered casting alohomora, but the young, suspicious sales associate kept shooting her glances. Whispering to him had been no help, his booming announcement making Hermione wish she could cast an unforgivable curse.

“A manager is needed in the Family Planning Aisle. A manager is needed in the Family Planning Aisle.” The teenaged sales associate enjoyed this part of their job too much and smirked at her when she added two water bottles to her purchase. Asshole.

Hermione apparated directly into her bathroom, not even bothering to read the directions. She wasn’t sure if it would work anyway. She set a timer, her hands shaking with nerves as she waited for the flimsy plastic stick to reveal her future. She always hated divination and Muggle pregnancy tests, she decided, was the worst form of it.

The third moment had found Hermione in her bathroom, shaking with nerves as she waited for the flimsy plastic stick to reveal her future. How foolish she felt to have been snuggled up in her bed, smug, excited, hopeful, determined. Her palms were sweaty, her bare thighs sticking to the lid of the toilet she had been unable to leave. Each second of the timer that ticked away felt like a blast, a shooting pain that entered through her temples and trickled down her ears, her neck.

It all tracked, she thought with dismay. Her fatigue, her inability to keep any of her meals down, her vacillation from extreme hope about her future to despair to the final decision to end her relationship with Malfoy - Malfoy .

Hermione’s thoughts raced to the blond who was undoubtedly snuggled into his own bed, his mind clear, free, and pleased. But before she could follow that path down any further, the timer rang. The steps from the toilet to the counter felt like the longest walk she had ever undertaken, her fear clawing its way up her throat. She hadn’t had enough time to think, not enough time to plan, not enough time to-

Pregnant.

Someone cast a knockout jinx on her. She was sure of it. That’s the only way she could have ended up kneeling on the bathroom floor, her grip so tight on the plastic stick that told her the future that she almost snapped it, her free arm wrapped around her waist, the waist that still felt familiar to her, the one that - oh gods. 

She leaned over and retched into the wastebin.

It was ridiculous, to think, that the man she had seen again for the first time in 12 years only six months ago, was now linked to her in a way that was permanent, in a way that would change their fates. This child inside her was Malfoy’s, as much as it was hers - this child was theirs.

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Summary:

Hermione comes to terms with her pregnancy and musters up the courage to tell Draco.

Thank you so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and subscribing! Your comments are so valued!

---

Healers always made the worst patients. 

They were proud, smug, so assured of their optimal health and so confident in their knowledge that they never needed anyone else. Healers were notorious for explaining away problematic symptoms until the small problem had become unreasonably large and required some sort of traumatic intervention, thus cementing for the Healer-patient that other Healers were ghastly. There was also the type of Healer that was not opposed to seeing other Healers, they were just allergic to accepting their advice and would often flit from professional to professional seeking a second, third, or fourth opinion.

Hermione wasn’t sure which Healer she was at the moment. Perhaps the second, but she had never really had life-altering medical emergencies. She treated minor cuts and scrapes herself and, since she had given up the life of dueling and fighting as quickly as she could, suffered her most egregious injuries when doing knife-work.

But all of this implied that Healers were adults, adults who knew where to turn, who to ask, what to do when faced with an injury. But Hermione didn’t feel like a Healer, or a woman, or even herself.

All she wanted was her mother.

Hermione had made the choice, twelve years ago, to obliviate her parents and fabricate a life for them in Australia. But she had been too thorough, too perfect in the slices she made in her parents’ memories. She visited specialists all over the world who all told her the same thing: reverse the spell and, at best, traumatize her parents for life as they try to reconcile their fabricated memories with their “real” memories, or, reduce them to barely verbal individuals with no sense of self. It took her five years to accept this.

She had attempted to speak to them, to introduce herself as a friend, for some sort of connection but she could see right away that it would only do them harm, as evidenced by her father experiencing sudden fits of fear if he saw her or her mother staring at her with disgust and confusion. So she set them free, bearing the guilt of her crimes, trying to make a penance through her work. And most days she accepted this. She had done this to herself. Most adults needed their parents less and less, and the traumas of the war had made her an adult far sooner than she had been ready.

But today, Hermione wanted her mother. She wanted someone to smooth her hair back, whisper soothing words into her ear as she was carried to bed, given a kiss on the forehead as she was tucked in. She wanted to ask her mother how this could have happened, what should she do now? What did her mother do all those years when she found out she was pregnant with Hermione?

Her mother had been joyful, likely, had maybe run to get her father while they thought about the new life they had created. Hermione wondered if she felt fear, the same fear that was running through her own veins right now. She gasped, clutching at her chest as she lay curled up in her bed.

Her life would never be the same. The career, the conferences, the potions. All of it.

Her parents were both dentists, both had their practices, but she noticed how her father took on most of the clients, attended all the professional development conferences, branched out and did specialty work while her mother maintained a smaller, more stable caseload. And her parents called themselves egalitarians and were proud of it, in fact. But Hermione couldn’t look back and not see “how things were.”  Magical society was even more conservative and, outside of unmarried older women, most witches became full-time homemakers following the birth of their children. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but Hermione had wanted something different for herself. 

But underneath all of this, was a small pulse, a fluttering maybe, of joy, of devotion. She was pregnant , the feeling of James’ solid weight in her lap, the feeling of Rose Weasley’s baby fine hair and little fingernails, the way they had both snuffled when she bottle-fed them, how James always, always reached for Ginny no matter how independent he’d become…

A baby. Her baby. 

---

She didn’t see Malfoy at work. She contemplated calling out but she felt too fragile, too stressed about the potential upheaval of her life to make any changes in her routine. She pulled a book from her office shelf, a long unused textbook on magical pregnancies, making a quick list of the prenatal potions and supplements she would need. Most of them were simple enough to make herself with her eyes closed but Malfoy, who kept meticulous records and never let materials get to scarcity, would likely clue in. She wasn’t ready for that.

She moved through her client list automatically, greeting them and ushering them into her office. She couldn’t even feel the excitement of attempting magic with one of her patients, whose sole goal had been to boil water for tea using magic, successfully cast a heating charm with the correct intensity. To Hermione’s credit, none of her patients noticed, or, if they did, they let their tenacious Healer be.

Now that she knew she was pregnant, Hermione was keenly aware of the low-level nausea that had been bothering her, chastising herself for not noticing weeks ago when crackers had barely been edible. But, now it had a name, a reason, and she found herself unable to even stomach the smell of her lunch without her stomach doing flips.

She should probably see a Healer. Hermione had referred Ginny and Luna to Hannah Abbot who specialized in reproductive health, but she also knew Healers were not bound to secrecy. It was polite, and an unspoken rule that very few ever violated but it was enough of a risk that she didn’t want to do it.

What about Theo? Draco’s question floated to the front of her mind but she squashed it, knowing that his allegiance to Draco, in whatever form, would supersede any wish Hermione had for secrecy.

She couldn’t keep it a secret for so long.

For the rest of the week, Hermione grappled with this dilemma, while also trying to cope with the fact that she was pregnant, that she was currently serving as the host for a little life that was hard at work creating itself. Draco’s return to the office had been quiet, and it reminded her of their early days of sharing this space. They were no longer brewing together and, while she only wandered into the potions lab to restock her office shelf, it had now become Draco’s domain. They spoke casually in the morning and in the evenings on their way out, Hermione always making an excuse for why she had to leave. The coolness between them felt unnatural, but, at the same time, how it had always been. She wondered if she was really feeling him sending her longing looks, or if she was just wishing it into existence after she watched his retreating form for a bit too long, for a beat longer than what was professional.

And while it was odd to think that they didn’t keep secrets from each other, Hermione realized how much of their relationship, professional and personal, had been forged in honesty and transparency. This felt like deception on multiple fronts.

She only lasted one week from finding out she was pregnant before she floo’d to Neville’s housing, head down as if she was expecting him to dock points from Gryffindor. Best to get on with it.

“Neville,” Hermione said, chewing on her bottom lip. He looked at her, his expression expectant as he poured a glass of wine. “I’m pregnant.”

Neville’s wand twitched, and the bottle he had been levitating stopped, the steam of white wine frozen mid-air, one droplet clinging to the edge of the glass. “Is it mine?”

It’s possible that Hermione cycled through every single stage of grief before landing on a new one that she just made up, hysteria. She howled, clutching her sides and leaning over, tears streaming down her face as she laughed. Neville made his way over to her on the couch, holding his now very full glass of wine, and ran a soothing hand up and down her back.

“Sorry, Hermione. You’re serious aren’t you?”

Looking up blearily at Neville, her emotions bordering on hysteria and despair, she nodded. “I’m pregnant,” she repeated, feeling the weight of the statement settle around her. She hadn’t said the words out loud but now that she had, there was a feeling of totality, of finality. She was pregnant. “It’s Draco’s,” she whispered.

Neville nodded, setting his wine glass down to rub his chin thoughtfully. “What will you do?” His tone was neutral, but warm and again, Hermione was reminded of how lucky the students of Hogwarts were to have an attentive and accepting teacher.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. Neville’s response was to stare at her serenely, and that serenity, that acceptance, broke the carefully constructed mental blocks she had set up for herself. “I’m scared, Neville. I really don’t know what to do. I tried to do everything right.”

She shrunk into herself on the couch, resting her hands on her stomach. “I’m pregnant,” she repeated. It was simultaneously relieving and terrifying to say it aloud because now it was real and couldn’t be taken back.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she cried, tears falling in earnest. “Things were just starting to look up for me, Neville. I don’t know what to do.”

“Will you keep it?”

Hermione’s fists clenched. “Yes.” 

It hadn’t been much of a debate, really. Once Hermione had let the reality settle in, the desire to see this baby had overruled everything else. It was confusing, really. She mourned her future, desperately wanted it back, but this was something she could not bring herself to undo. The option to terminate was available to her, but she knew she didn’t want it.

“You have to tell Malfoy.” Neville was looking at her, concern etched into every line in his face.

“I know,” she sniffled into the handkerchief Neville summoned for her.

Neville startled, his hand stopping its soothing strokes up and down her back. “You know it wasn’t just you, right?” He stopped, roughly grabbing Hermione by the shoulder to force her to look at him.

Hermione looked at him, squinting to see him clearly through her tears. His eyes were a deep brown, and, while she thought they had been mousy in childhood, she realized they were guileless, warm, earnest. So clear she could see right to their bottom and Neville, bless him, never hid it. She already knew what would happen, knew that as soon as she had conceived, unspoken rules out of her control had already been set in motion.

“Hermione…” His grip tightened on her shoulder and she nodded at him, smiling weakly.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

His hand dropped from her shoulder to her bicep before drawing her into him for an embrace. He smelled of the earth and soap, the same soap he had used in childhood. Here they were, two of the same, both living lives  minimized, hidden from society at large. It wasn’t fair, she thought, as she clung to Neville. It wasn’t fair.

---

When Draco floo’d to the office, he didn’t hear the usual sounds of Hermione knocking about in her office, shuffling, reshuffling, and organizing, and doing gods knows what else in there. She hadn’t told him she wouldn’t be in and while he thought about poking his head into her office, he knew better.

He knew it hadn’t been a good idea to involve himself with this wretchedly intriguing woman but something about her, the way she furrowed her brow in concentration when speaking about her cases, how pressed her lips together as she counted the exact rotations she made when brewing, how she panted three times in quick succession right before she came -

Things had cooled considerably between them since India, a night he couldn’t bring himself to regret if he tried. They had been crossing the metaphorical line for months now, really as soon as they had started.

She had interested him ever since they met in that café. It amazed him that the girl he had remembered as maddeningly invincible had been reduced to nothing but a self-conscious and nervous but brilliant outsider, operating quietly on the fringes of magical society. She didn’t have the glamor of Gilderoy Lockhart, or the sly nature of Kingsley Shacklebolt. She was earnest, and that was her problem.

He had, at first, assumed that her earnestness was naïve, but quickly learned that she was every bit as thoughtful and aware as the most cunning Ministry politician, but that her expression of it lacked finesse. She was a bull in a china shop, willing to stomp on anyone who got in her way. But even for Hermione Granger, the might of the entirety of the Ministry of Magic had been too much. It had been even more pitiful yet admirable to realize that she had forged this practice and small, but dedicated caseload all by herself while her so-called friends had ditched her.

But her confidence was growing. And when he watched her present at that conference, those endless brown eyes blazing as she presented the life’s work that had left her shunned from her own colleagues with pride and conviction, he knew that his feelings for the witch had tipped into a direction that was uncontrolled, dangerous, and stupid. 

In the beginning it had just been sex. She was a departure from his usual choice in partners, all curves, soft and rounded in ways that women in his social circles were never allowed to be. She was responsive in a way that made the lizard part of his brain light up with smug satisfaction when she gripped him tightly and shuddered around his lips, fingers, and his cock. There was no way Harry Potter could have made her feel like that. He often found himself chasing that sound, that sensation far more than he ever did his own release.

So, when Blaise had owled to casually complain about the group of new farmers messing with their vineyards in Italy, Draco had taken the excuse and run with it to give himself the space from Hermione Granger that he needed.

They didn’t really know each other at all. He knew that she was a swot, that she liked chips the best, that she had obliviated her parents beyond recovery as a teenager, that she was biting and sarcastic to others but all sugar to her patients, and that she had lost her virginity to Harry Potter. She knew that he was rich and had a dead wife.

This had gone on for too long and Draco, having tied up a sizable sum into her practice and did believe in its potential, could not complicate things even more. So, as he lounged about on a terrace in the northern Italian countryside, he excised the growing feelings for Granger, who was really just a stranger from his past, from his heart. At least, he thought he did.

Which was why, when Draco walked into his office, two weeks after his return to Italy, and found Hermione Granger sitting on his desk, he faltered. She was wearing a dark green skirt that reached her calves and a white sleeveless top that was form fitted, high-necked, and sleeveless. She had her arms crossed, her long curls falling down her back, two gold pins holding the front pieces back. Her eyes were smudged with their usual makeup, a brown that was deeper than her skin that emphasized the thick, curly lashes that surrounded her eyes. Her bottom lip was pink, slightly puffy, as if she had been chewing on it in thought. She wore a simple gold bangle on each of her wrists, her hands twisting together nervously. 

“Draco. I need to talk to you.”

She looked beautiful. 

The first time they had kissed and subsequently had sex, it had been Hermione who initiated. But this time, it was Draco who gave into his impulses, Draco who stepped forward to cup her face in his hands and kiss her.

She gasped into his lips, standing up from her surprise, her arms hovering tentatively until she sighed, reaching up and around his neck. Placing hot, open mouthed kisses along her neck, he reached to rub her nipples through her shirt. He felt them pebble under his touch, two points like guiding stars bursting through her top’s thin material. She shuddered, her grip on his shoulders vice-like.

He knelt, trailing his nose and lips down her chest and stomach, his hands sliding up from her ankles, disappearing as they slid up her calves and thighs. He rested his hands on her hips, his fingers curled lightly around the plain cotton of her underwear.

“Lift up your skirt.”

She was staring up at him, her eyes half-hooded with desire. She obeyed, delicately picking the hem of her skirt up by her fingers and lifting them prettily, putting herself on display for him.

She was soaked . Draco groaned at the sight of her, the darkened spot where she had leaked through. He licked his lips, leaning forward to press a kiss to her - 

“Wait!” 

Hermione’s gasp had him halting his movement. He could smell her. His eyes darted up to hers to find her staring down at him with something he could not place. Had he misread the situation?

“Granger,” he began, the apology on the tip of his tongue.

She bit her lip, shaking her head at him before closing her eyes. When she met his gaze again, she was resolute, determined. Her voice betrayed her.

“I’m pregnant.”

She let her skirt fall then, shrouding Draco, trapping him in the heady scent of her. His hands were still on her hips, and his eyes focused on the small of her stomach. She looked the same as he remembered, soft and rounded with thin white lines running up from her pubic bone to her bellybutton. She didn’t look pregnant. He grazed his fingers gently over her stomach and she flexed at the touch, the sudden movement releasing him from his daze.

He whipped his head out from under her skirt, quickly getting to his feet, noting how Hermione didn’t shrink her gaze as he loomed over her. 

“I’m going to cast the pregnancy detection charm on you.” 

It was said like a statement, but Hermione knew he was asking by the way he hesitated to draw his wand. At her nod, Draco drew an intricate series of circles in the air over her clothed stomach, his voice strong as he murmured the incantation. 

Hermione gasped, recognizing these words from her textbook - this was an advanced and somewhat archaic spell that she hadn’t been able to execute until she had been considered “advanced” in her medical training. It could only be cast once, required a strong bond with the person on which the spell was cast, and an intention that only signified goodwill and care. In darker, older times when lineage was even more important, it had often been used to test a wife’s fidelity. Now, it was meant to be a unifying moment, one that was a portent for loving, golden times to come.

Hermione had only cast this spell once before for Ginny and Harry. 

A small golden orb radiated out between the two of them, casting them both in a warm, sparkling light, the magical fetus recognizing both father and mother. The allure was hard to resist, and Hermione felt a bolt of joy course through her, her hands twitching to hold on to Malfoy. The tenacious thread of joy she had felt upon discovering she was pregnant had materialized and it was beautiful. Her eyes shot up from the shimmering orb in front of her to find Malfoy’s gaze had been locked on it, his expression severe, devastating.

“Are you angry?”

Draco startled, his eyes darting to Hermione’s face. “What?” His voice was small, faraway. He licked his lips, his eyes flickering back to the golden orb that still hovered between them. It pulsed and thrummed steadily.

“That’s it’s heartbeat,” Hermione whispered, her fingers reaching forward to brush against Draco’s. The magic would wear off soon and this beautiful golden orb would disappear. She was suddenly desperate for a connection, to feel him. He flinched at her light touch, and she drew back, as if burned.

The orb vanished, disintegrating into thousands of small sparkles that dispersed and clung to Hermione’s skirt and Draco’s slacks, illuminating them before disappearing for good. Draco gasped, his breathing ragged. He had been holding his breath.

“Are you angry?” She repeated, her voice small and strained.

“How long have you known?” His eyes were still glued to the now empty space. When she moved to step back and lean against his desk, his eyes snapped up to follow her movement. After a second, he did the same, his hands gripping the edge of his desk.

“I knew for ten days.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she peeked at him. “If my math is right, it happened about six weeks ago.”

He nodded, his thumb sweeping thoughtfully against his jaw. “When we were at the conference.”

She wanted nothing more than to crawl into his lap and tuck her head into the space between his neck and shoulder and inhale his cologne. 

“It’ll mean our names are tied together forever. Isn’t that repulsive to you?”

The question she had asked Malfoy all those months ago floated to her. She laughed weakly, wiping away an unexpected tear that had fallen from her eyes. Draco’s eyes finally moved to her at her sound, his brow furrowed in what she couldn’t decide was concern or confusion.

They were inextricably linked, this child between them of their flesh and blood. 

Blood .

Draco had been so good at making her forget where he had come from.

The man she had seen for the first time in twelve years was now linked to her in a way that was permanent, in a way that would irrevocably change their fates.

The child inside her was Draco Malfoy’s, as much as it was hers. This child was theirs .

Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Summary:

A proposal? Judgmental friends? A royal wedding? Oh my!

A/N: Please check out my pinterest board for my Draco x Hermione wedding inspo. I'm telling you right now that Hermione's makeup is from this 2015 CT makeup tutorial. I think about this look at least once a week and it's been nearly 10 years! I think we've reached about the halfway point for this fic. Your comments and engagement with this fic are always so encouraging and I love reading your thoughts and analyses on my chapters. I am having so much fun with this fic! I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, I don't have a beta so any mistakes are all mine :) Thank you!

---

“How did this happen?” When Hermione opened her mouth, he put his hand out. “Stop. Don’t answer that.” He brought his thumb up to rub back and forth against his bottom lip. “This is my child?”

“This is our child, Draco,” she said with a sigh.

A shiver went down his spine at the word “our,” a word that he had not imagined would pass from her lips when speaking to him. They had this venture, and he thought this would be it. His heart twisted with fear. In some ways, Hermione was a traditional woman, and in other ways, the ways that mattered, she was not.

“I will claim this child.”

She giggled, despite the blood rushing to her head. She had expected Malfoy to question her, to make sure she wasn’t lying. But this…this formal response of “claiming” the little olive-sized baby inside of her made her feel silly, despite it all.

He shot an angry look at her. “You don’t understand.” He was scowling, almost impatient with her. “I will do the right thing. We,” he cleared his throat. “We will get married.” 

Married .

The word hung in the air between them, dangerous. He could not take it back once he put it out in this world, but by the gods, he thought she would be the witch to force him to.

“But we don’t love each other.” She was protesting, but her voice was odd, flat, like her mind was elsewhere.

He waved his hand, and paced in front of her. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I won’t get married just because I’m pregnant.” She all but stamped her foot.

He scowled at her. “I won’t have a bastard.”

Grimacing at him. “Do you really have to use that word? It’s the 20th century for goodness’ sake.”

Draco stopped in his tracks, finally taking in how resigned she looked, how detached she sounded, as if she were reading a list of excuses from a list.

“What are you doing?”

She shrugged, taking a deep breath and leaning back against his desk. She hopped a little bit, perching herself on its edge. “I had to at least try,” she sighed, her hands resting briefly on her stomach. “When Har- when someone asks me, I can say that I at least put up a fight.”

Malfoy laughed. It was short, humorless. “I don’t remember you ever putting up much of a fight at all.” He smirked when she blushed. The tension between them broke and Hermione breathed in deeply, not realizing how tight her throat had been since she blurted out that she was pregnant.

It hadn’t gone to plan. She hadn’t expected Malfoy to pounce on her like that and for her to let him. She had imagined that he would question her about paternity, maybe he would have stormed out and she would have chased him. But here he was, only slightly agitated, making glib comments about the moments that they conceived. Her own reaction upon finding out she had been pregnant had been hysterical in comparison.

“You’re taking the news rather well,” Hermione observed, swinging her legs. 

He cocked a brow. “As are you.”

She held her hand out for Malfoy to observe its tremors. “Not quite,” she offered with a tight smile. “Don’t…don’t you have any questions to ask me? Like if I’m sure it’s really yours?

Looking at her from the corner of her eye, Draco asked, “Are you sure it’s really mine?”

A blustering sigh escaped her. “Yes.”

“You haven’t said yes yet.” He stopped his pacing to stand in front of her, her natural instinct to spread her legs so that he could step between them. They had done this before countless times over the last few months.

And that’s how you ended up in this situation, Hermione chastised herself. Too horny for your own good. What was the word Neville had called her? Dickmatized?

She crossed her leg at the knee, demurely adjusting her skirt, ignoring the way Draco quirked a brow at her.

“I don’t…I don’t want to fight you for the baby.You would fight me until the bitter end to take this child from me…I don’t…I don’t want to fight,” she admitted. She paused, her eyes widening. “Unless! Unless you wouldn’t and you’d let me-”

“No.” Draco’s voice was stern, final, and brooked no argument. “I would fight you.” His voice broke and he inhaled sharply, turning away to hide the brief look of devastation that flashed across his face. When he turned again he was calm, composed.

“We can discuss,” she paused, gritting her teeth. “Getting married.” 

Echoing her from earlier, Draco asked, “Don’t you have any questions to ask me?”

“I don’t want to stop working.”

“But you will, at some point for the…the baby.” That devastation flashed across his face once more, but it was so quick, she thought she had imagined it.

Her mind stalled. “But not forever.”

Making a noise of agreement, Malfoy responded, “No, not for forever.”

Forever.

Embarrassingly, Hermione felt tears well up, her chest grow tight. This was no proposal, no engagement, there was not even a ring. Just a discussion with a wizard she knew only a little, the discussion holding the same tone she’d have with a potential business partner. And it was her whole life.

“Sorry,” she muttered, wiping the tears from her eyes before they could fall. “I never - I never thought I’d be in a situation like this. Would we have a real marriage? Fidelity, trust, obedience, devotion…?”

His response was halting, deliberate, sucking on each word like a hard candy before he spit them out. “We would have fidelity and trust.”

“I’m a mudblood, Malfoy.” The word had hardly left her lips, his jaw working in response. She wondered if he felt shame at the reminder of how he yielded that word against her, and even though she had told herself it was over, she needed to make sure. 

“I told you that doesn’t mean anything to me -”

She held her hand up, surprised when he stopped. “Our child,” the words felt strange around her lips and she wondered if she would ever get used to saying it. “Will be a half-blood.. And I’d only be willing to marry you if it means that they grow up with the Malfoy fortune and access.” Her eyes flashed.

“Our child,” Malfoy started, Hermione’s eyes catching how he swallowed right after. “Will want for nothing. To clarify, Granger,” Malfoy said insistently. “Their blood status is inconsequential to me. This is my child. They will have everything.”

She believed him. The little ball of tension, fear of rejection, that had been living in her chest and unpleasantly kicking her at all hours of the day, dissipated. She believed the Draco she knew now, believed that he would care for this child.

“I retain access to all my assets.” Her only assets were her practice and the tiny, two-bedroom flat she owned, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You will have access to all of mine.” The corner of his lips lifted in a smile before returning to its neutral position.

Five years ago Hermione might have been ready to fight him, to fight for her maternal right over the child. She might have contemplated running away, hiding, or, at the very least, fighting out a custody battle in front of the Wizengamot. It was rare, but not completely unheard of. However, she had spent the last half of the decade living how lonely things can be when you turn your back on tradition, on societal norms. She had done it too many times.

“We don’t love each other,” Hermione said weakly, noting how Draco had left out devotion and obedience from his answer. “Could we even be happy?” 

“Does it even matter, Hermione?” Draco sounded resigned, slightly exasperated and she was unpleasantly reminded that this would be his second marriage, his second marriage with a woman he did not love. “You’re pregnant with my child.”

“It matters to me,” she protested, her voice small. The words felt childish. She had expected Malfoy to scream, yell, shut down perhaps, or even storm out of the room. But the clinical quickness with which he accepted impending fatherhood, the way he had already likely drawn up their marriage contract in his head had her feeling off-kilter.

He stepped forward, the toe of her shoe bumping against his thigh and, instinctively, she uncrossed her legs. Taking another step forward, he stood in between her legs, reaching forward to grab both her hands. He unfurled them from the fists she hadn’t even realized she had made, pressing them against his chest so she could feel the slow, steady beats of his heart. Her eyes snapped to him to find that his face was flushed, his hair mussed and hanging over his brow.

She wanted to smooth his hair back. 

“You’re right. We don’t love each other. We hardly know each other outside of this office.” A pause.

She swallowed, nodding, her heart rate picking up. His stayed maddeningly constant. 

“How are you so calm?”

“I’m not.” His thumb swept back and forth on the back of her hand where he was holding them.

“Is there..will we get divorced?”

Malfoy released her hands and they slipped without him keeping them in place, his silver eyes boring into hers. “No.”

Her ideals may have been wild to some, but Hermione was a pragmatist. She never made foolish decisions, or, if hindsight revealed them to be foolish, she could justify everything that had carried her to the singular point of error.

She already knew that they would not get divorced, knew that, when she examined all public records, Malfoy marriages only ended in death. Her decision had already been made, she already knew what she would do when Neville had, with all the trepidation and weariness of a father trying to explain to their daughter what a period was, would happen, according to Pureblood customs. 

“Marry me, Granger.” Malfoy repeated, as if he could sense the calm acceptance in Hermione. His tone was calm, almost empty, but his eyes held her captive with their intensity. 

She placed one hand on her stomach, slightly rounded, but still normal for her and nodded.

“We were already bound together because of all of this.” She waved her hand around in a circle, gesturing to the office in the building he had purchased for her practice. “What’s one more agreement,” she muttered. “I’ll marry you, Draco.”

---

It was her wedding day, one that arrived swiftly and with little fanfare.

The past 12 days had been a mess of grimaced, tear-stained faces and resolute promises from Harry and Ron to protect her, but not before Harry raged. She had told them together and Harry was so silent, she thought he hadn’t heard her.

But then he had reacted.

Ginny had raced down the stairs, wand drawn, only to find Harry and Hermione nose to nose bellowing at each other. Most of it was incomprehensible, but Hermione felt the shame of his words as if he had slapped her.

“ How could you?” 

His tone had been loaded with judgment, with contempt, and Hermione, who had for so long kept quiet for the sake of his lifestyle, unraveled at the seams. 

“How could I have not!?” She screamed back at him, shoving at his chest. Angry tears pricked at her eyes. How dare he judge her, how dare he speak to her like this when she was only in this situation because the man she considered to be her best friend had abandoned her so many years ago. If she wanted someone to blame, it would be him.

It had been Ron, dependable Ron, who had swiftly pulled Hermione to his chest, enveloping her in his strong embrace. She sobbed, then, her arms gripping him tightly as she mourned the unformed future she thought she had. Harry joined the embrace reluctantly, but his grip tightened on her neck as he felt her sob. They both agreed to be her witnesses.

Hermione had firmly vetoed a large wedding at Malfoy Manor, Draco agreeing with her without hesitation. She had never really given much thought to her own wedding before, simply because she had assumed that she would be able to plan it and design it whatever way she wanted, when the time came.  A piece of her contemplated doing this secretly but, if this were to be the only marriage she would have, she wanted to do it…right. 

They agreed upon a small gathering of their closest friends, which amounted to no more than ten people. The Ministry of Magic, in an effort to promote more marriages, had created an addition consisting of a series of wedding halls that could host anything from the simplest of ceremonies to the most lavish affairs. She and Malfoy selected the smallest Ministry venue, a stunning greenhouse style venue.  She agreed to relinquish the planning to Draco, requesting only that some of the flowers be pink and that their vows be scrubbed of anything requiring blind obedience. He had laughed, that grin bringing her out of her somber anticipation of what was to happen. He winked at her shocked expression.

“May as well have fun with it, Granger,” he suggested, shrugging.

She took his advice.

When Draco told her that he opened accounts for her at the jewelers and tailors, she did not reject it or fuss. She spent an entire day designing a bespoke gown at Madam Malkin’s, impulsively purchasing glittering rose gold and diamond hair clips shaped in starbursts and moons.

Draco had offered to take her to the Malfoy vaults for jewelry selection but she declined. There had been a thrill at the thought of her “defiling” the preciously hoarded family jewels but, when she thought about the journey into the Gringotts’ vaults, her brazenness cooled. She would have a whole lifetime, she thought, to scandalize the Malfoy ancestors. No need to rush into anything now.

Ginny and Luna accompanied Hermione as she went to the jewelers. Neither woman would throw her a hen party, there was no time for one anyway. When the jeweler left to gather some design ideas, the three women sat awkwardly, the silence between them thick. Resentment gnawed at Hermione. She had organized hen parties and had gone with both women when they purchased their gowns. Selfishly, she wanted this experience with them but the ball of disappointment in her only grew when each woman could only muster polite “looks lovely” when Hermione asked for their opinions.

Ginny had perked up, however at the end of the now excruciating hour when the salesclerk told Hermione her total. Her eyes wide, color rushing to her face, she asked, “Hermione…Is this all too much?”

Hermione shrugged, responding that she would only get married this one time. She had a right to do it this way, despite what Ginny or anyone else thought.

---

Hermione heard the floo to her flat roar to life as she secured her tiny pearl drop earrings that hung on a delicate gold chain. She stepped out from her bedroom, expecting to see Neville, ready to escort her but stopped short when she saw Draco Malfoy standing in her living room.

His hair was styled perfectly, swept back, but with a few artful pieces falling delicately over his brow.  He looked striking in his suit, a black dress robe with a thick gold brocade cascading down from his shoulders to his front. When he moved, the gold threads shone and glittered, catching the light. The back of his robes were resplendent, with the brocade continuing down his back in intricate spirals.

He was adjusting his cufflinks when he heard Hermione’s steps, his eyes raking down her form. Her gown was a square-necked, a-line satin dress with tulle bishop sleeves that gathered delicately at her wrists. And while the front of the dress suggested something simple, classic, the back of the dress was its antithesis. The dress was backless, exposing the smooth expanse of Hermione’s skin that ended at the small of her waist. From there, the dress flowed in a train that extended 3.5 meters. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears in the front, secured with the celestial diamond hair clips, and tumbled down her bare back in loose, natural waves. Her look was complete with an oyster gold shadow swept on her lids, her dark lashes curled and open, her lips impossibly full and bitten-pink.

He wasn’t quick enough to hide his surprise, his mouth falling open at the sight of her. He cleared his throat, his eyes warm, approving. She was glad she did not forgo the formality of the day.

She walked fully into the living room, her nerves sparking.

“You know, the bride doesn’t usually see the groom,” she glanced at the clock on her fireplace mantel, “one hour before the wedding.”

Draco smirked at her. “When have you ever done anything the usual way?”

She smiled back at him, her heart beating a rapid staccato in her chest. Seeing him like this made it all the more real.

“I should have done this earlier,” Draco said, somewhat sheepishly, reaching into his breast pocket to withdraw a small octagonal box. He opened it to reveal a stunning oval diamond on a delicate rose gold band that twisted and twined with another rose gold band encrusted with smaller diamonds. The two bands didn't merge to one but instead remained as two, intertwined and supporting the diamond separately, but still connected. She wondered if this was perhaps a metaphor for them - professionally and now personally. Maybe this was a promise from Malfoy that their lives, previously separated, would join together without either one being lost to the other.

It was the loveliest thing she had seen.

“ Oh ,” she said, her voice catching. “This is...” She reached forward to pluck the ring from the box, but he pulled away.

“I’d like to put it on you.”

“Since when have you ever done anything the usual way?” Hermione laughed softly, but offered him her left hand. He held her wrist gently as he slid the engagement ring onto her finger, his gaze lingering. He brought her hand to his face and pressed a kiss to it before dropping it.

“You look beautiful, Granger,” he murmured against her skin. Her sleeves hid the goosebumps that erupted down her arms.

She could smell his cologne, his soap, the familiar scents that she had grown to know so intimately the past year. She wanted to touch him, to return the romance.

“I won’t be Granger for much longer,” she smiled ruefully at him lowering her hand, but not releasing his.

“You’ll always be Granger to me.” His eyes searched hers and all she saw were unfathomable depths. She realized with a start that he was perhaps more nervous and resigned than she was. She felt a deep pity for him, to be married twice to women he did not love. For circumstances beyond his control. She could not understand what it felt like to never be free.

She inclined her head towards the floo. “Shall we?”

His grip on her hand tightened, and they stepped through together.

Chapter 12: Chapter 12

Summary:

The wedding and the aftermath.

A/N: Hi! Here's a really short chapter. It was originally just part of a longer chapter but I felt bad about not posting anything for a while and figured I could split up the chapters like this. Life has been really intense lately! Everyone's been sick, my doc program is getting intense. Anyway, enjoy this chapter and thank you for sticking around, reading, commenting, sharing, and interacting in general. I appreciate you all!! (P.S. I don't have a beta so any errors are all mine hehe)

---

The disorientation from the floo never left her.

She imagined herself to be in the middle of the ocean, clinging to a life raft. She only needed to endure this set of waves, she told herself. This set, and this set, and this set, and this set. The wave would pass. It passed when she hugged herself around the middle, whispering little promises to the baby inside of her she was too afraid to speak to in the light. It had passed when she told Neville about her pregnancy and she looked ahead to her future under a clear blue sky. It passed when Malfoy had promised that the baby would have everything he could offer and she sat in a dress shop frivolously rubbing her cheek against fabrics, knowing she was just going to pick the most expensive one because she could. But this wave, marriage, did not pass.

She felt adrift, Malfoy’s grip on her hand either an anchor or a manacle. She couldn’t be sure. Was it a manacle if she put it on herself? He left her, presumably to walk down the aisle, but the weight of him stayed with her.

Tinkling chords of a piano began playing and the double doors in front of her swung open. A clammy sweat broke out on the nape of her neck while her exposed back erupted in goosebumps. She felt gaudy, sweaty, like a little girl dressed up in the ill-fitting clothes of her no-longer glamorous aunt. Her stomach turned.

She was about to get married. Her five friends stood, their heads turned, their expressions grim at the sight of her. Neville was the only one who looked like he was at a wedding and not a funeral, his eyes roaming up and down her appreciatively. She should have taken him shopping with her instead.

Draco’s side was even more sparse, with only a wan apparition of a woman Hermione recognized as Narcissa Malfoy and a handsome man with curly brown hair that she assumed was Theodore Nott.

She walked herself down the aisle, each soft thud of her foot echoing in the now empty chamber of her heart. The man at the end of the aisle - Draco Malfoy - watched her, his expression unreadable. When she reached him, and he took her hand in his to help her up to the officiant, his hand was cold.

 They didn’t love each other.

This wedding was a farce. The beautiful, but simple floral arrangements should have gone to another couple, one who picked their flowers with the same care they picked each other. Hermione tried to take it all in, to appreciate the way her dress felt against her skin, the way she knew her hair pins sparkled when hit by the mid-morning sunlight, how she felt knowing that the unbearably handsome man at the end of the aisle was waiting for her.

They had not written their own vows, opting to recite the Ministry provided ones instead. Malfoy spoke clearly of protection, devotion, and fidelity, his eyes full of storms as she recited her version back to him. They didn’t speak of love. She couldn’t even appreciate the way the fine gold of his robes shimmered in the light, the way they seemed like molten gold had been poured into the fabric. If she had been in her right mind, she would have realized that this was the same golden aura she had seen from him that night in India, where he seemed to light up everywhere he touched her.

Her hand was shaking when she slipped his thin gold wedding band onto his left hand. His hand had been steady when he put hers on.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride.”

Hermione startled, her head whipping around to stare at the Ministry provided officiant. When did the ceremony happen? Was it over so soon? Surely he forgot something! She had just opened her mouth to protest when Malfoy interrupted her.

His left hand entwined with her right at her side and he brought his right hand up to gently cup her face. Tilting her up to him, he pressed a tender kiss to her lips. She exhaled into him, into the familiar feeling of his lips. Regret twisted in her heart and, through closed eyes, she felt tears well up.

She could pretend they were in love. For the both of them, this was them pretending, yearning, creating the experience they had both been denied.

---

There was a small reception, serving only drinks and hors d'oeuvres but it had been so painfully awkward that after two polite obligatory drinks, her friends left. Harry pressed a terse kiss to her cheek, a muscle in the side of his jaw tensing before he shook his head and left. He hadn’t needed to say anything to her. She knew what he thought of her.

She felt meek, almost shy, when Malfoy asked her if she wanted to leave. She had barely finished nodding before he had taken her arm and swept her and her magnificent dress and all out of the venue and to the Floo.

He took her back to his townhouse. She knew from their many late-night conversations that he didn’t live in Malfoy Manor anymore, choosing to relinquish his ancestral home to his mother. She remembered him sharing that it had been hard on Astoria being in that ancient, hostile home. Her hand shot up to rub the twinge of pain over her heart.

Malfoy’s townhouse was modern and looked more muggle than magical, which surprised her. She knew he had a credit card and a muggle bank account. He had even admitted to taking the Tube, but felt restricted being underground without being able to use his magic. She had laughed, imagining him pressed up against hundreds of people with only a black ceiling strap to cling to.

“Hermione.” 

Her head whipped around to find him looking at her expectantly, if not a little harried. Was he late for something?”

He cleared his throat. “I set up a room for you.” When her eyes widened in response, he continued. “I don’t expect you to move in right away or for you to give up your flat. But eventually…” He trailed off, turning his head, that curious flash of devastation crossing his face once more.

“Right. Eventually.” She feels stupid, awkward, standing in this ridiculous gown in Malfoy’s townhome. She followed Malfoy into the kitchen, where he had a neat pile of documents stacked on his island. He handed them to her wordlessly.

It was a parchment paper with instructions on how to access the Malfoy vaults.

“Read it carefully,” he instructed. “This parchment can’t leave our home. It’ll self-destruct.”

Her mouth fell open and she wasn’t entirely sure if it was because Malfoy had referred to this place as “our” home or if it was because Hermione had just become a very, very rich woman. Before she could comment, or protest, Malfoy handed her a heavy bankcard with her name embossed on it.

Hermione Granger-Malfoy.

He knew she would hyphenate.

The chasm between them seemed to stretch wider and wider as the reality of what had happened this morning hit her. She was married to Draco Malfoy, pregnant with the next Malfoy heir, the first half-blooded child in their line. The first grandchild her parents would never know about.

She had been in a panicked state since Malfoy had collected her from her flat this morning. And while he had given a cool, calm aura, she watched as his face twisted with worry, fear, and what she thought was regret. He walked around her, down a hallway that presumably led to his bedroom.

“Malfoy,” she started, taking a step to follow him, her foot catching on her gown. She stumbled, righting herself immediately, her hand slamming down on the island for support.

“You’re Malfoy now, too,” he responded, walking over to pick up her train as she struggled.

She looked at him in thanks, feeling much lighter without the train. “You knew I’d hyphenate,” she smiled at him, trying to wipe the devastated look on his face. She stepped closer to him when he did not answer, drawing her arms up and around his neck, the fabric of her gown a buffer between them. “How are you feeling?”

He didn’t move away from her, instead opting to drape the train of her dress over his arm. “I think I should be asking you that question,” he said, his hand ghosting over her bicep before settling, and squeezing.

She hadn’t been sure if this level of intimacy was alright. It felt alright, better than the strained celibacy they had taken on since she had told him she was pregnant. But it also felt new, this level of closeness. There was no taking it back, no ways out.

Her kiss was soft, tender, hesitating. Draco exhaled, his hands reaching up to grip the sides of his face, pressing her to him. This was another first kiss for them. He kissed her slowly, if not desperately, his hands trailing down her neck and her back, the heat of his fingers on her bare skin causing her to shiver and erupt in goosebumps.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into each of her cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered back when he swept her into his arms, nearly losing footing on the train of her dress.

They spoke apologies to each other, he as he carefully undid the buttons at her wrist before easing the dress down one of her shoulders. His next apology was whispered into the space between her breasts as he pushed the dress down her hips. Her apologies were less frequent, and more for herself than anything else. Apologies for the careless way she kicked her shoes off, the way she tugged at his robes before pulling them roughly off his body, the way she wanted to hang up her dress because she didn’t want it to wrinkle on the floor because, even if she hated why she had to wear it, she loved it.

“I’m sorry,” they had both whispered, Hermione bucking into his hand when he palmed her through her soaked white panties.

They were a clash of fabric, dark and white, soft and hard, pure-blood and muggle-born, a messy dichotomy, once separated by societal beliefs and childhood prejudices, now bound together irrevocably. 

The familiar burn of pleasure coiled within Hermione as she rocked on Draco, her head thrown back. She had almost forgotten how good this had felt, how his body felt as familiar as hers. She threw her hand up to her forehead to push back her hair, freezing when the afternoon sun caused her diamond ring to send sparkles throughout the room. She froze, her gaze blurred on the diamond ring on her finger. Her wedding ring.

Draco sat up from underneath her, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist so she didn’t fall back. He kissed her, first her ring finger, sucked on the sensitive spot on her collarbone, before finally her lips. He rolled his hips, creating a delicious friction that buzzed through her. Breaking the kiss, she leaned forward onto his chest, arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Hermione,” he groaned into her hair through gritted teeth.

It wasn’t until Hermione felt him kissing her cheeks that she realized she was crying, the intimacy of the moment opening the floodgates to her fears, her desires, her needs.

This wasn’t at all real. She was pretending, she realized, that they were in love.

Rolling her hips in earnest with Draco, each pant and breath punctuated with a moan that fell from their lips. They were moving in a perfect rhythm, this position causing unrelenting friction to her clit. The build was inevitable. Draco’s was too, his fingers digging into her flesh.

“Come, Hermione,” he commanded, the muscles of his neck strained. 

His voice was a trigger. It slid over her like silk, tangling itself in the deepest part of her heart. Her back arched, pushing her closer to him, and he held her tightly as she convulsed. He groaned into her ear loudly, nonsensical words about how good she was, how she tight she was, before he spilled deeply inside her.

They went limp, Draco falling back, taking Hermione with him.

Her fingers drew lazy patterns across his collarbones, traced the red-tinged spots where she had marked him with her teeth. His left hand drew up, gently clasping her left wrist.

Fear gripped her, mind distracted by the sight of their hands, matching rings glinting in the sunlight. 

They didn’t love each other. But she thought that they might be able to.

Chapter 13: Chapter 13

Summary:

A Draco POV Chapter as he comes to terms with their new reality.

A/N: Here's another chapter :) Thanks for being patient! I think this may be the longest chapter I've written so far. Hope you enjoy! Please follow me on twitter. Thanks for all your comments and kudos. P.S. any errors are mine because I've got no beta reader.

---

She was going to punch him.

He flinched, despite himself, his body remembering the first time she had punched him, the first time had ever been punched. He didn’t even have time to draw his wand.

“What the fuck is this?” Hermione snarled, her voice not quite a yell. Almost. Her eyes were sparking with fury as she tossed a copy of The Daily Prophet on his office desk.

Draco had been sitting at his desk, mindlessly poring over his investments, pleased to see the Italian vineyards were back to their pre-competitor margins. This sometimes got dull, examining his finances with a fine-tooth comb, and Draco itched to pull the mystery novel he had recently purchased from Diagon Alley from his bookshelf. He hadn’t had the time yet - it was only 11 o’clock in the morning, after all. He had been surprised when Hermione stormed in, even more surprised at the rage that crackled around her.

“I thought you went to work,” Draco responded, in a clipped tone, unhurriedly sitting up in his chair, ignoring the front page of the paper.

“This was all anybody could talk about in my first session. Derailed the entire fucking morning.” Hermione huffed, jabbing her finger at the paper, drawing his gaze to whatever she was so angry about.

It was a picture of a couple at their wedding, the bride and groom staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. The groom grasped his wife’s hand in one of his before cupping her face and tilting her up to him for a kiss that was sweet, gentle, and passionate. An attractive blush spread across the bride’s cheeks, her molten brown eyes fluttering open as the couple ended their kiss, only to repeat the scene over and over again amidst the greenhouse buzzing with thousands of blooming flowers.

“MALFOY-GRANGER WEDDED BLISS” was printed in large block letters underneath the photo.

Mr. Draco Lucius Malfoy and Ms. Hermione Jean Granger wedded in a quiet, intimate ceremony with their closest family and friends in attendance. Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger first met at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry 18 years ago. Earlier this year, the pair reconnected as business partners. Ms. Granger, a Healer who boasts multiple specialties in general medicine, emergency medicine, and mind healing, expanded her practice to treat patients who experience decline in their magical abilities. Mr. Malfoy, who previously invested in French medical practices, was brought on as an investor and together they have opened a brick and mortar practice that services up to fifty patients. 

The once schoolyard rivals could not resist the lure and passion of intellectual stimulation and found themselves together, on the same side this time. Ms. Granger stunned in a bespoke Madame Malkin gown with an extravagant train and simple diamond accents in a rose-gold setting. Mr. Malfoy’s bespoke suit and robes, boasting gold brocade, was designed by Italian designer, Pensiero. The couple have opted to delay their honeymoon in the interest of their joint endeavors. Notable guests included Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter, Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley, Mr. Neville Longbottom, and Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. We wish Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy a bright and loving future!

“This is our wedding announcement.”

“How did they get this picture?” Hermione’s finger jabbed at the tiny Draco on the page, who went on kissing tiny Hermione over and over again.

Steepling his fingers under his chin, Draco met her angry line of questioning with unflinching calm. “I sent it to them.”

A red flush spread up Hermione’s tan skin. It started at her neck and creeped up to blotchily spawn across her cheeks. She looked like a teapot.

“You sent it to them?”

“I said that already, Hermione. ”

She gasped at his sarcasm, cringing as if he had slapped her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You left the wedding planning to me. Part of it included the press, something which you like to avoid.” 

“I thought that just meant flowers and, and picking appetizers, maybe.”

“It did - but it also included how the wedding announcement was made. Granger, it was either I pay the Prophet for this puff piece or they exposed us.”

“Expose you, maybe. I don’t have anything to hide.” She was indignant, haughty, and judgmental. It made Draco mental. When Draco’s eyes dropped to her stomach and then darted back to her face pointedly she crossed her arms.

“I was just trying to buy some time.”

“And then what? In 6 months get written up in the Daily Prophet for having the biggest premature baby ever?”

“Think of the optics, Granger. What sounds better, a shotgun wedding or a newly-wedded couple with a surprise?” He stood up, pushing his chair back, leaning forward into her space.

“But we did have a shotgun wedding,” she insisted, her index finger now firmly trying to smush the tiny Draco on the front page, as if she could erase him.

He didn’t know why he felt so protective, why her anger at the tame and relatively positive wedding announcement irked him. The fact that he had paid a hefty sum to The Daily Prophet as a “donation” to keep the announcement free of any long winded exposees and speculation perhaps had a thing to do with it. This was simply how things were done. 

His first wedding announcement had made it to the actual front page of The Daily Prophet - at the time he thought it was because news was slow that year but, in reality, it was because he was a spectacle, an enigma. It was humiliating to think about the color photograph, how his tense eyes couldn’t even bear to land on Astoria, who herself looked like a child being marched to the gallows. No, this wedding announcement had been better, the best it could have possibly been given their circumstances.

He took two swift steps around his desk, crowding her with his height. Snatching her hand back, Hermione lifted her head defiantly up at him. She wore black, wide-legged trousers with a tucked-in and slightly oversized brown turtleneck sweater. Her curly hair fell around her shoulders and down her back, almost vibrating with her frustration. Three small, bezel-set diamonds sparkled in her ears. Her eyes were smudged with brown liner, even more beautiful as she squinted at him, waiting for him to answer her, her eyes seemed to be yelling “Well?” at him.

“The wedding announcement is typical for all couples, not all couples-”

“Not all couples get married with a ministry officiant and making a wedding announcement was a way to ensure that marriages were valid and documented in some way.” She interrupted impatiently. “Yes, I know that already.”

He inhaled, which was a mistake as now he could only smell her moringa and citrus perfume. “Where are those earrings from?”

Her finger, which had previously been on a mission to squash him out of existence, darted up to her ear. She blushed.

Ah.

“It also,” he began with an arched brow. “Serves as an official way for a spouse to get access to Gringotts accounts.” He reached forward, tracing his index finger along the shell of her ear, before landing on her earlobe. Meeting her eyes, he smirked.

She jerked her head back, crossing her arms over her chest once more. “You already gave me access to those accounts.”

His smirk only grew wider as he watched her frown deepen. This was unexpected. “I did give you access to those accounts.”

“So I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this.”

“No, Granger, I don’t see why you’re making a big deal out of this ,” he said, waving his hand back at the newspaper on his desk. “It was part of the wedding process, the one you handed over to me.”

“You could have told me first,” she replied, smoothing her palms down the front of her trousers before leaving them at her sides. Her rage had abated and he no longer felt like he was in danger from physical harm but felt that danger slam back into him when he saw tears prick at Granger’s eyes. She sniffled, tilting her head up and back, as if she could force the tears back into her eyes.

“Listen, I’m not upset about the earrings. I’m happy you’re not being shy about -”

“I know you’re not upset about the earrings. I’m not crying because I think you’re upset.” she sniffled once more, tilting her head back down to meet his eyes, swiping the back of her hand against her cheek to catch a traitorous tear.  “I got the stack of applicants you sent me. To take on as an apprentice.” Clearing her throat, she continued. “To be my leave replacement.”

He inclined his head to her, letting her know he was listening. It had been two days since he forwarded them to her office. This could have been avoided if he had just walked them over himself. Maybe.

“They’re all shit, Draco.”

“There’s no way you looked at all of them,” he scoffed. 

“I did and none of them are good. You sent me interns. Sent me Americans! As if my patients want to work with some bright-eyed American.”

“You trained in America-”

“Furthermore, all the applicants you sent me are woefully inexperienced, I would spend more of my time teaching them the basics than I’d be able to teach them how to -”

“What about Theo Nott?” 

At Hermione’s silence, he pressed. “Theo went back to Paris last week after the wedding. He’s read your work, Granger and he wants in. He’s experienced, so no need to worry about training him outside of your typical protocols. You can trust him.”

A thunderous expression took over her face and where he had felt like her curls crackled with rage, they now hung low, morose. Even worse, her eyes filled with tears again.

“For fuck’s sake, Granger,” Draco sighed.

“It’s the hormones,” she whispered, tipping her head back again to catch the tears, one delicate finger swiping at her under eyes, her free hand resting on her belly.

She was about 11 weeks along now, almost done with her first trimester. They never spoke about it. It had been two weeks since their wedding, four weeks since she had told him, and forever since they had talked about it. Really it had been two weeks since they had seen each other. He had stopped going to their shared office, feeling unwelcome and unsure if it was still appropriate, afraid of what would happen if he did. What had once been easy, a fun intermingling of a hobby and a pleasure, felt dangerous, inappropriate.

She looked the same, swallowed up in that oversized sweater, but Draco noticed the rosiness in her cheeks, the slight deepening of dark circles under her eyes. Fatigue, he had assumed. But, her skin was luminous, her hair shiny as always. She had been making her own supplemental nutritional potions. He knew this because every week he restocked the same medicinal ingredients, the ones he knew to make natal potions. He knew he should ask her if she had been to see a Healer, someone other than herself, but he hesitated, settling on annoyance over concern.

“When was the last time you brewed?” Draco demanded.

“Six weeks,” she responded, her head still tilted up, not even flinching when a tear dripped down the side of her face and into her ear. A beat passed, her long sniff the only thing breaking the silence.

“ Why? ”

She glared at him again, looking forward now. “Because I’m tired. And pregnant. I’m tired because I’m pregnant. And now you’ve fucked off and don’t even come to the lab anymore.” She sniffed, this time not resisting when two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “We had a schedule, you made me commit to a schedule to brew with you and ever since I told you about - about-” Her voice cut off, her mouth open, as if the words “about the baby” had gotten stuck in her throat. “Ever since then, you’ve stopped coming in to brew with me, stopped bothering me about publications, stopped bothering me about conferences and reporting on my data, and I can’t do it by myself .”

Her tears were flowing earnestly now, streaking down her face in brownish trails, her eye makeup unable to withstand them. She swiped the back of her hand against her cheek, making a tutting noise in the back of her throat when she realized her makeup had come off.

His thoughts skittered, like the bag of spiders that had been menacingly lurking in the back of his mind had been kicked. He hadn’t even realized it had been so long, that Granger hadn’t been doing what Granger does, which was everything . The crying woman in front of him wasn’t the Granger he had grown up hating for her relentlessness, for her persistence. Nor was she the woman he had grown to become affectionate for, the woman who’s large, molten eyes were always plotting, planning, thinking, scheming, or imagining. 

She looked vulnerable . That was because, Draco realized with a start, that she was. He had assumed that she had entered this contract with him, this marriage, with the same pragmatism he had entered it. He had, perhaps, even entered with some cautious optimism because he liked his wife, something that he couldn’t say about his first marriage.

His thoughts skittered again, flashes of Astoria’s silent, withdrawn face, the way she flew into rages and crying spells for seemingly no reason in those early days of their marriage. Two teenagers trapped in a manor that felt so dark and decayed it seeped into their bones through the sheets, through the walls. How often she cried when she -

A whimper brought Draco out of his thoughts, his eyes focusing on Hermione once more. She looked angry, angry at him and at herself for being unable to control her tears, her nose pink and snotty. He quickly transfigured one of the parchment papers on his desk into a handkerchief, handing it to her before she started using her sleeves to wipe her nose. She gurgled a small thanks, noisily inhaling through hiccups to calm herself.

He found himself reaching for her, drawing her into his chest, her body tense, stiff before she relented. Her arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing, and she wept openly. Guilt gnawed at his stomach, working its way up his throat until it sat lodged uncomfortably in his throat. There they stood, Draco Malfoy and His Weeping Wife.

One arm wrapped around Hermione’s waist, his hand pressing firmly on her back as he slid it from the base of her spine down. His other hand was buried in the hair at the back of her neck, his fingers moving in circular motions on her scalp.

His mother had soothed him this way when he was a child, a pathetic crybaby that blubbered on about perceived injustices. She never judged him, which, in hindsight, he probably needed, but she didn’t needlessly coddle him, the way his father was prone to do. She would let him cry, offering nothing but rhythmic pats, deep pressure on his head, his back, his arms, until Draco could catch a breath, and then another, until he was greedily gulping down air, his mother’s hand pressing it down his back. He had forgotten this kind of comfort but his body certainly had not, reenacting the comfort many years ago when Astoria had thrown herself on him, weeping. She had always felt so fragile, so delicate that sometimes he worried he would break her trying to comfort her. And he had.

Hermione was a solid weight against him, the heat from her body at first too hot, too uncomfortable, gradually seeping its way through his clothes and into his skin. He felt as if he had eaten a spicy cinnamon bean and that it was slowly dissolving, his body working to carry them through his extremities. They stayed like that for a few moments, Draco inhaling and exhaling deeply, her moringa and citrus scent clouding his mind, hoping that his rhythmic breaths would help regulate hers. And eventually, they did. She calmed, her weeping turning into whimpering, turning into hiccups, turning into pants, turning into deep, even breaths, as if she were asleep. He pulled away first, moving his grip to Hermione’s biceps to examine her. 

She looked wrecked, her hair tangled where he had rubbed circles into her scalp, her eyes red and puffy. Her makeup was smeared and smudged under her eyes, the neck of her sweater damp from where her tears had fallen.

“You look like shit.”

She laughed, a short burst that escaped out of her. A sunburst. 

“I think we need to talk,” she sniffled, her voice hoarse.

Draco made a noise of agreement. “What about your patients?”

“Canceled them,” she admitted, ignoring how Draco winced when she used her sweater sleeve to wipe her nose. “Couldn’t bear being the topic of the discussion.”

“Go, clean up. You can use my bathroom. I’ll make us something to eat.” 

By the time Hermione emerged from his bathroom, Draco had made a tidy stack of french toast with a skillet of scrambled eggs, cooked well. He had almost considered skipping the eggs, not knowing if she would be able to stomach it, but he went ahead and did it anyway, hoping that she could at least eat some for the protein. 

“I didn’t think you would actually cook.”

He turned to see Hermione dressed in nothing but one of his jumpers that hung on her frame to the middle of her thighs, her feet and calves ensconced in one of his many black dress socks. The sight of her in his clothes, the smell of his soap and shampoo on her made him want to bend her over and see if she was wearing anything underneath that sweatshirt. The wicked thought flitted through his mind, zinging around like a snitch.

If Hermione noticed, she didn’t seem to care, beelining straight to the french toast and placing two pieces on a plate, lazily flicking her wand to drown them in syrup. Raising an eyebrow, Draco pushed a small serving of eggs to her, which she accepted. They ate in silence at his kitchen island, Draco standing, leaning over the counter, Hermione perched on the stool, her legs crossed, like she was a child, licking the tips of her sticky fingers. When they were finished eating, they worked in tandem to clear the plates, Hermione charming his sponge to start washing, Draco placing preserving charms on the remaining food. It felt domestic, familiar, a translation of their brewing routine.

When everything was cleared away and the only thing that stood between them was a candle, they stalled, awkward.

“Our marriage didn’t end our business arrangement,” Hermione began, her voice sharp. She was feeling better after a good cry and a meal.

“No, it didn’t.”

“We established a schedule that was working for us and maybe I would have been able to keep up with it myself if it was just the brewing alone, but I don’t have the ability to brew, consult, and write articles about my work at the same time.”

“I can agree to returning to our brewing schedule.” He folded his hands, feeling tired already. “But I still think we need to consider hiring an apprentice.”

Hermione was silent for a beat before clearing her throat, nodding. “Taking an apprentice could allow me to keep my caseload and let some patients off the waiting list.” She raised her head, defiant. “I still think the applicants you sent me are shit. I won’t take on any of them.” The corner of her lip turned down when Draco sighed. “But I’ll consider Theo Nott. Can you arrange a meeting?”

“Yes. He’ll owl you by the end of the week. Let’s agree that you have three weeks to hire someone, Theo or someone else.”

She nodded her assent and Draco continued cautiously, knowing they were entering unknown territory. “You could also shift your focus to more consulting and remote work especially as you get further along. The binder, the plan is still good, Granger. It just needs some…tweaking.”

“Just some tweaking,” Hermione echoed, left thumb reaching up and over to rub against her wedding ring. 

“How are you feeling?” Draco blurted. “Are you feeling sick? Morning sickness? Unusual tiredness and fatigue?”

Her eyes widened, startled.. “Uh - I’m, well I suppose I’m feeling fine. More tired than usual, but it waxes and wanes. Sometimes I have these bursts of energy but I go through them quite fast.” She frowned. “Nothing unusual though.” Her brow furrowed, carefully cataloging the quick release of Draco’s shoulders in relief, the thankful look he shot her before his face returned to neutrality.

“I think you need to move in with me.”

He might as well have uttered an unforgivable curse. He watched Hermione recoil, her own thoughts scrambling as she tried to make sense of what he had said.

“You want me to move in with you?”

He nodded, rubbing his hands together, as if he were trying to bring some warmth to them. “Live with me. Let me help you.”

She flicked her wand, charming a napkin to fold itself into origami. She watched it intently, as if the correct answer to his proposition would show up in the folds. He wished he hadn’t been shit at occlumency, wished he could see through those Jersey-cow eyes and dive headfirst into her thoughts. He had always imagined Hermione’s mind to be neatly organized, labeled, clear, systematic. But he knew her enough to know that the connections she made would be nearly incomprehensible to anyone, her mind zinging from thought to thought too quickly for anyone to even see it.

“ Why?” She flicked her wand, the origami napkin ripping itself to shreds before repairing itself again, just a napkin once more. “I mean, why? We got married,” her voice going high on the word, “And you just disappeared. I went on doing the same every day and it seemed like you had just cut and run.”

He winced, expecting this. “I thought you would want space.”

“I-,” She swallowed. “I did want space. But - ugh - I didn’t…I don’t want to be alone.” She hunched into herself, shoulders rounded and drawn up. And, while she didn’t cry, her lower lip trembled.

“I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want to be alone either.” He could feel his eyes on her, and he rolled his shoulders, stretching. “I want to do the right thing.”

She winced, but nodded. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to do any of this.”

“Live here with me,” Draco insisted. “Let’s prepare your business, get you to another conference. Let me make your potions, make your meals. Let’s be together. ”

She looked conflicted, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. 

Draco reached forward, grasping one of her hands in both of his. “There’s no going back from this, Granger. You can be mad at me, and I’m sorry for what I did to you the past few weeks. But this isn’t something we can keep between us for much longer.” He squeezed her hand. “I need to be this child’s father.”

“We’re going to be parents,” she whispered. Hermione’s jaw had gone slack, her eyes focused on something invisible, something that only she could see. Her eyes were dry. 

He liked her, and this made this moment even harder for him. It felt like the death of the relationship he thought he could have had with her. He never had any control over his connections, was always just thrust into them and tried to figure it out day by day. He grew up curiously watching his parents, yearning for his father’s approval and then, as a teenager, Voldemort’s approval. It had broken him, left him a shell of himself that he ritually hated, excised, forgave, and hated again while he spent his house arrest trapped in his ancestral home. He had been thrust into a marriage, eyes still blinking at the magical world that had changed so much in two years. He spent so many years trying to understand Astoria, his wife, before deciding to give it up, let her be. And then, his wife died. It had been a horrible, slow death, one that made him wish he had gone with her, not because he wanted to be with her in the afterlife, but because he wasn’t sure how he could bear to go on, bear to endure another relationship that left him empty, left him drained beyond empty.

But when he reconnected with Hermione, shared all those late-night meals amidst a potions lab that was the home of their experimentations, he realized he liked her. In India, at their first and only conference, he couldn’t forget the fire of possessiveness that had shot through him when Hermione spoke that researcher at the conference, how, when she climbed into bed later that night, he gripped her rough, hard, fast, and marked her. 

She was pregnant. She was his wife. And there he was, thrust again into a commitment he didn’t fully understand, didn’t fully know where the other person stood in this arrangement. Experience would have told him to let things be, to not get too invested, but he liked Hermione, respected her, mourned for the dreams he knew that she had already given up on.

“Okay.”

Hermione’s words startled him out of his dark spiral of thoughts. She squeezed his hand back, the corners of her lips lifted in a small, apprehensive smile. 

“Will you make french toast again?”

She laughed then, that sunburst sound filling the kitchen, filling him. It could be alright, he thought. It could be alright.

Chapter 14: Chapter 14

A/N: I hope you enjoy! Your comments and feedback are so motivating! It's so crazy and fun to think that I've been writing Dramione fanfic for a little more than a year now. Thankful for tis community :) Please follow me on twitter @endegamem 

P.S. - any errors are all mine! I don't have a beta reader.

---

She felt stupid again, angry at herself for agreeing to something else without really thinking through the consequences. Another thing, just another fucking thing she could add to the list of spectacularly significant decisions she had made within the past few months.

They had dawdled after she agreed to move in with him, him showing her the enormous room he had already set aside for her. Of course, she had already been in there, and she blushed when she saw the bed again, the bed in which they had consummated their marriage. He laughed at her, shaking his head, and she scowled back at him, which only made him laugh harder.

She had spent some time in his kitchen, examining his various cookware (part of an expensive set meant to last a lifetime and infinitely better than hers ), his dinnerware ( the same ), and his silverware ( more of the same ).

“How did you know how to buy all of these?” she asked, incredulously. “These are all muggle brands.”

Draco, who had camped out in the kitchen, likely to supervise her, looked up from the sleek, black notebook he had been scribbling in.

“And where did you even learn how to cook? You never struck me as the domestic type.” She dragged her finger along the engraved brand name of a particularly heavy stewpot, and her mouth watered at what could be slow cooked in here. “I thought you’d have elves for that…” Her voice trailed off.

“Two years is a long time to be on house arrest.” His head turned down, once again focused on whatever he was writing. “Our elves were all freed.”

She continued her silent cataloging of the kitchen, feeling surprisingly mournful of the fact that there wouldn’t be room for her here, how Malfoy’s life was already set up.

“Did you live here with Astoria?” She couldn’t help herself from asking, her mind whirring from the thought, the memory that Malfoy had been married before jolting her straight. Her eyes glanced to the spot where Malfoy had picked her up, wedding dress and all, and carried her to their marriage bed, her mind wondering if perhaps Malfoy had done the same for Astoria.

She didn’t know much about Astoria Malfoy, nee Greengrass. After their big splash of a wedding announcement, the couple faded from the news. Occasionally a strained, blurry photograph of Astoria and Draco stepping out of a restaurant or, in one case, off his broom, peppered the gossip columns but, after three years of marriage, they stopped completely. The next mention of Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had been Astoria’s obituary. 

“No.”

She didn’t have to look back to know he hadn’t looked up from his writing.

She wanted to press on, to understand why he always clamped shut about his dead wife, how she burned with curiosity to know if he still attended muggle conferences to understand the blood curse that had killed her. His denial of loving her made her jealous. If he did all that for a woman he said he didn’t love…

She left shortly after, ignoring Malfoy’s eyes as they tracked her across the kitchen and into the living room, calling out something to him about packing before muttering her apartment address and stepping through the floo. And there she stood, in her full apartment, bursting with books, the barely alive potted plants, stacked with parchment. She flopped on her couch, a little mournful that this too, was unnecessary and she wondered if maybe she could get it to fit inside the bedroom.

They always started conversations they couldn’t finish. Always made decisions without talking out the consequences.

She was angry at herself for everything. Except the sex, she thought to herself. She couldn’t be upset at herself for the sex.

How many times had she gone home with Viktor Krum whenever he sent her an owl telling her he was in London in his looping, beautiful cursive that didn’t match his brawny, masculine build? She thought about how she would spend entire weekends holed up in whatever 5-star hotel he booked, ordering room service and lounging around in a fluffy white robe while she waited for him to come back from playing a match. If he won, he’d bring her a gift, a purse, a pair of designer heels she would never wear, maybe a bouquet of a thousand roses.. If he lost…well. She still counted that as a gift.

Or the times she’d call Cormac McLaggen, no earlier than one o’clock in the morning, looking for a lackluster, if not dependable release. Her thoughts wandered to Daniel, the most stereotypically American doctor she had met while in New York, how he had perfectly shining white teeth that her parents would have loved. She thought about Harry, the first person she had ever shared sex with, waiting for the shame, regret, embarrassing, the longing, to come to her but it never did. They were just teenagers, children really, burning out the last dregs of a childhood crush driven to the desperation to do something, anything before they died. Her stomach knotted at the thought, remembering how she would stroke Harry’s hair in that tent, how she tried to make herself memorize every texture, every shade she saw, in case they died. At the time she had documented shades, shades she was sure she had never seen before but now, if she placed herself back in that memory, all she saw was black.

But when she thought about Draco, her heart fluttered. It was such a stupid thing to feel, one that she hadn’t felt since she was a simpering twelve-year old girl with a crush on Gilderoy Lockhart. And that was entirely stupid because Malfoy didn’t book her five-star hotels and gift her expensive items that she donated anyway. He wasn’t the booty-call she dropped like a hot potato as soon as she caught her breath nor was he a childhood friend that she looked at through rose-colored glasses.

He wasn’t her boss, wasn’t her colleague. She might have considered him business partners, but his role, outside of actively brewing with her two evenings a week, felt more like he was an advisor. That she was now married to.

But maybe the butterflies weren’t even her, maybe it was the baby thinking about its father. She remembered Luna and Ginny both, happily complaining about their children playing quidditch in the womb when they heard their father’s voice.

And then that thought crushed her like a London skyscraper. Not only was Draco Malfoy probably the best sex she had ever had, but he was the father of her unborn child. Her husband , a man she didn’t didn’t date, didn’t court, didn’t even really see him outside of her office. And now, as she stood in her still-furnished flat, he was her roommate. Or rather, she supposed she was his roommate.

Hermione had never been in a relationship. She might have looked at them through windows, imagined what it might have been like to enter one, but she had never been in one before. And, for a long time, that was fine for her. But, woefully, regretfully, she didn’t know how to be married. There was no book she could buy, or at least, there wasn’t a book that taught her how to be married to a man who doesn’t love you, but likes you enough, but also feels an immense sense of duty because she’s pregnant. There wasn’t a book that taught a woman who maybe liked her husband but also felt cripplingly afraid of being alone that she agreed to a marriage without setting a contract, or some sort of marriage agenda .

She sighed, rubbing her temples. She gave herself a headache thinking about this and, while she knew there was no book for marriage, the book on magical pregnancies had certainly told her to manage her stress. She groaned, reaching behind to brace her palms on the small of her back as she stretched back, before falling forward to touch her toes, stretching out her tight muscles. Dipping forward seemed to dislodge the thoughts from her brain and all her worries about her marriage faded to black when the question of if her child would have curly hair like hers floated to the front of her consciousness. She could almost see it. A little girl with a riot of curls, curls that Hermione would nurture, love, because she knew what to do, knew not to dry brush them into oblivion. She could do that for her daughter.

Hermione sprung up, pleased that she could still touch her toes, and wrapped her arms around her still small stomach, as if she could contain all the love she was feeling to just herself.

After a minute, feeling the release of her muscles trickle through her body, making her feel a little more loose and limber. She moved through to her bedroom where she lazily cast clothes into the oversized trunk she had had for almost twenty years. The same trunk she had brought to Hogwarts, now filling with her clothes as she prepared for her next journey.

Her vanity was cluttered, but neatly so. A tiered drawer sat to the left, the top tier filled with her three-step skincare routine, the second shelf cluttered with the little bits of makeup she wore, kajol, mascara, a small bottle of concealer, and a pink cream stick that she used as lipstick, eyeshadow, and blush all at once. She pulled out one of the drawers, comforted in its familiar squeak, her eye catching on the ornate jewelry box that almost sparkled in its newness.

Most of her things were nice, but old. She was never one for cheap, fast fashion or jewelry but, with the Ministry’s automatic withdrawal from her accounts, she never quite had enough to replenish her old, but still decent things.

Her first purchase had been just to test if Draco really had given her access to the limitless Malfoy coffers. The goblin at Gringotts didn’t even so much as bat an eye when they took her down to the Malfoy vault, Hermione unable to look into the rooms so full of gold they made her head hurt. She went immediately to the jeweler’s, using the heavy bankcard, half expecting it to burst into flames, and was shocked when the jeweler smiled and handed her the diamonds she had selected instead.

Her fingers flew up to her ears, remembering how Draco had recognized them as new, filing away for later inspection the idea that he knew her enough to know what was part of her daily rotation and what was not.

She spent the next few hours sending her items into trunks, grateful that she was truly a minimalist at heart. But her books were another story. They lay crammed into any available space and crevice in her flat. When she first purchased this flat she had tried shrinking them to fit, resizing them when she wanted to read but she found that each resize degraded the books, made the letters wonky, and leapt off the page. She kept them the same, untouched by her magic, her escapes into different worlds. She could bring these to Malfoy’s townhome. This could be the piece of her she could bring into her new home.

---

“Malfoy?” Hermione called, stepping into the townhome through the floo. It was quiet, dark, and all the lights were off. A chill went up her spine. She whispered a quiet lumos to herself, the glowing tip of her wand casting an eerie white light over the townhouse.

Was this a prank?

She stepped further into the living room, quietly setting down the satchel of books she had slung across her back, and peered about, not noticing anything that seemed out of the ordinary.

taptaptaptap. 

Hermione shrieked, catapulting herself behind one of the couches for cover. She heard pounding footsteps down the long hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“Hermione!” Draco skidded into the living room, wand drawn, and she saw him swing his head around twice before he found her, half kneeling on the floor.

The persistent tapping noise got louder, and seemed to increase in intensity like thousands of pebbles being thrown at the window. Was there going to be an explosion?

Grabbing his hand, she pulled him down behind the couch with her, her heartbeat wild.

“Oh my god,” she cried, realizing that his hand was wet. “Are you bleeding?”

Panic rose in her throat and she swung her wand into his face, the bright light casting shadows around the room, Draco wincing as he looked away. His wand hand protecting his eyes, the other hand waving about in a bit of wandless magic, all the lights in the townhome flicked on, bathing them in it.

Her mind reeled, her hand trembling as she peered at what she thought was blood, but was only water, water that dripped from his head to toes. She started at his bare toes, traveled up his legs and the fluffy white towel that was wrapped low on his hips, up his bare chest covered in water droplets, his strong neck and jaw covered in shaving cream, and up to see his typically styled, platinum hair slicked back. At first glance, it reminded her of how he wore his hair as a first year, slicked back and greasy but this - suited him. He looked like he was modeling for a cologne and had just emerged from the pool like Poisedon. 

He was looking at her with thinly veiled annoyance. “Are you out of your mind, Hermione? Did you get hit in the head?”

She looked at his dumbfounded, sure her mouth was open as she drank in the sight of him but she couldn’t help it. Her heart still felt erratic and that incessant tapping only seemed to increase in intensity.

“What is that-” but before she could finish her sentence, her eyes saw it. What looked like hundreds of owls were outside of Draco’s windows, each of them tapping persistently on the glass. “Are these,” she gasped, her heart beating so loudly that they almost drowned out the sound. “Is this because of…?”

Draco’s lips were pressed into a thin line. It was all the confirmation she needed.

“ Oh no.” 

The words came out strangled, felt like they had been cut up as they came up her throat. She couldn’t focus her eyes on one spot, her mind pulsating, her vision going dark around the edges. She barely heard Draco’s voice as he turned off all the lights again and she would have screamed again if it weren’t for the hand he placed on her elbow, firmly steering her down the hallway. She could feel his wet arm dampening her sleeve, and saw how half of his face was covered in shaving cream.

He was angry, muttering under his breath before bringing her to what she assumed was his bedroom. Clarity hit her like a curse. She wrenched her arm away from him and strode back into the living room, her shock making way for anger.

Sliding the door to the deceptively large garden, Hermione strode out into the cool evening. The owls seemed to stop crowding the windows, the smell of bird shit hitting her with full force.

“Well?” She demanded of the crew. The owls seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if they were surprised their incessant harassment had actually garnered a response. “Give me my mail.” One petite owl, she would have called it cute if she weren’t so angry, gracefully swooped down to drop a letter at her feet. “Is that it?” she called, waving the light of her wand back and forth.

“ Bloody fucking hell, Granger .”

She didn’t even flinch at Malfoy’s angry hiss, only sparing him a glance, her eyes widening when she realized that he had followed her out in only his towel. Goosebumps dotted his flesh but he didn’t shiver.

Hermione watched as the owls swiveled their heads to peer at Malfoy and Hermione huffed.

“Give me all the mail. I’m his wife!” When none of the owls moved, she screamed. “I’m his bloody wife, I’ll read his mail if I want to!”

That did the trick. Suddenly, and all together, the owls dropped their envelopes and small parcels in a demented storm that blew through the garden in a matter of seconds. Hermione spotted the scarlet red of Howlers, and, without thinking twice, she opened them.

“You’re a blood traitor, sullying the good Malfoy name with a mudblood…”

“I’m ashamed of you, Hermione! I thought you would know better than to end up in bed with a Death Eater…”

“The lot of you are disgusting, parading your relationship around as if there isn’t a marriage crisis in society right now…”

“Would pay money to watch you both…”

When the last Howler had ripped itself up in anguish and Hermione slowly felt herself return to her body, Malfoy was already half dragging her back inside, his own body cooled to the touch. He slammed the glass door behind him, his arms crossed against his chest as he surveyed Hermione, his wife that read his mail.

“Were you hiding from that?” She demanded, crossing her arms disapprovingly across her chest.

He scoffed, his posture going from protective to defensive. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“Lights out and holed up in your bedroom?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. Her throat felt dry, her hands shaky. She walked away from Malfoy and crossed the open concept living room and into the kitchen where she opened the fridge, rooting around for some pumpkin juice and drinking directly from the jug.

Malfoy winced, walking to stand on the other side of the island. “I was shaving,” he growled, the annoyance in his tone. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“So you were hiding?” She took another swig of the juice, feeling it wash through her. She felt like she needed chocolate, the adrenaline from the encounter leaving her body, making her feel chilled and feverish. “Smelled like they had been there forever.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t worth it to go out there. I knew they’d leave.” He paused, adjusting the towel on his hips. “Eventually.”

He looked a sight, pinkish, covered in goosebumps, his normally styled hair pushed back into half-dry waves, his face covered in odd patches of shaving cream. He didn’t bristle under her critical gaze, that slightly judgmental one.

“It’s okay to be afraid,” she started, her tone slow, haughty.

“Oh, piss off, Hermione.” His eyes rolling, he walked into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel to wipe the remnants of shaving cream off his face, his eyes darting to her lips as she took another large sip of the juice. “I’m just not a masochist like you.” Throwing the dish-towel onto the counter, Draco half-turned, opening and reaching up to open a cabinet, pulling out a chocolate bar. He broke off a piece and held it out to her.

She accepted it begrudgingly, letting it melt on her tongue. “I’m not a masochist.” She sighed a little, thankful for the sugars hitting her bloodstream. “Aren’t you upset?”

He had one hip leaned against the counter, his arms crossed on his chest. Hermione wondered if he was cold. “Why would I be upset? Nothing I haven’t heard before.” He smirked. “‘ I’m his bloody wife, I’ll read his mail if I want to? ” 

She hadn’t expected that, his smile sending jolts to her already frayed and irritated nerves. “I won’t actually read all your mail.”

He spread his palms in front of her, tucking his wand with his thumb. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

The silence hung between them for a moment, Hermione breaking it.

“How did they even know where you live?”

“Probably someone from The Ministry. They have my address on file, given my history .”

“From the Aurors department?”

He shrugged, turning back to the cupboard to retrieve two more pieces of chocolate, handing one to Hermione before popping one into his mouth.

“Draco, that’s not right! That’s a safety issue!”

“You know just as well as I do that The Ministry doesn’t give a fuck about what’s safe or not.” His tone was sharp, biting. He walked out of the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder and nodding his head, beckoning her to join him. She padded behind him, admiring the long, lean lines of his back, and grabbing a third piece of chocolate on her way. “You’ll spoil your dinner,” he said, not even turning his head.

He pushed open the door that was directly across from the room she knew to be hers, and Hermione crossed the threshold into Draco Malfoy’s bedroom. The room was large, one wall almost entirely devoted to floor to ceiling glass doors that opened onto a balcony. The flooring was a worn but beautiful hardwood stained to an espresso color, the walls a dark gray with gray wainscoting. His large, king-sized bed sat atop an oversized rug so intricately detailed that it looked like a solid dark gray until she looked up close. His bedding looked impossibly soft, all muted browns and greens. Earth tones, soft, light fabrics, plush fat pillows. He must sleep like a princess. An emerald green chaise lounge sat at the foot of his bed, facing the walk-in closet that appeared to be the size of her own flat’s living room. She sighed, sinking into the comfortable chaise without a second thought as Draco disappeared into what she presumed was the en-suite bathroom.

She closed her eyes, her head lolling back, the silence interrupted by the sound of water running and then shutting off. She took a deep breath, listening to the water shut off, and a gentle, faint scraping sound. Breathing in deeply, quietly, she followed the pattern of quiet sounds. Tap on, tap off, scrape, tap on, and repeat. It was about 7pm and he was shaving. Hermione hadn’t even realized the trance she had fallen into until Draco missed a step. The tap ran, but it didn’t shut off right away. The door shut, and, when it swung open, Hermione lifted her head, taking in a now fully dressed Draco Malfoy.

He was smiling, just a tiny bit, one corner of his lip lifted in a smirk as he took in the sight of Hermione sprawled across the chaise. Desire coursed through her, the need to wrap her arms around him and inhale the smell of his clean skin, to taste it. 

“Did you know that would happen?” She asked instead, struggling to sit up and shake the desire to fall asleep. “The letters?”

“Didn’t you?”

She mulled that question over for a moment. “No,” was her simple response.

Draco arched a brow at her, questioning. “You’ve never  had bad press before,” was his response and she couldn’t be sure if he was making a statement or asking a question.

“I have a connection…at the prophet,” she admitted, not willing to fully come clean. Her reluctance only piqued Draco’s interest, his eyes widening as he stepped closer to her, urging her to go on. He was looking at her with unabashed curiosity and he looked much younger than he was. “Rita Skeeter was, is, an unregistered animagus. I discovered it during the Triwizard Tournaments, that’s how that bitch was able to eavesdrop on private conversations. Viktor helped me set her up and I trapped her.”

Draco’s eyes almost fell out of his head. He gaped, his mouth falling open, before he clicked it shut, as if he remembered his manners. “Fourteen years old and you’re telling me you kidnapped and blackmailed a prominent journalist?”

“I didn’t keep her for very long -”

“You kept her!?” Draco’s voice had gone high in his shock, girlish almost, and when he flushed with embarrassment, she guffawed in response. “That’s absolutely diabolical, Granger.” He was laughing in earnest now, a thread of panicked shock underscoring his laugh. “Should I be worried?”

His smile was so beautiful. She had grown so accustomed to seeing it, so thrilled when she could coax one out of him, and, having not seen it in two weeks, it stopped her in her tracks. They had an easy camaraderie like this, how she felt like she could trust him, how she almost forgot their past and how every moment they spent together felt new and fresh.

“I took an oath to do no harm,” she responded dryly. “I think those days are behind me.” 

He didn’t look like he quite believed her, a nervous chortle escaping from him. “I’m not an animagus.”

“Oh - so not a ferret?”

A smug sense of satisfaction filled her when he laughed, the booming sound echoing in the room and making it feel small. She wanted to bottle up this memory, live in it, revisit it. But it was time to break it.

“What do we do about the mail, Draco? What about the wards?”

“I made them myselves and they’re impenetrable. For the most part,” he added, noticing her skeptical glance. “I made exceptions to the wards so I could receive business mail here.”

“Why don’t you close the wards and send your mail to the office instead?” 

“I can do that,” he conceded. “I can start working out of the office full-time.”

“And go back to brewing with me in the evenings.”

“That too.”

The silence between them grew awkward, heavy. “Are you hungry?” He asked.

The answer was yes. She was ravenous, but hadn’t realized until the second the words left his mouth. She offered to cook and he waved her off, striding off to the kitchen. She scurried after him, sad to leave the chaise behind.

Their dinner was simple, a chicken and rice dish he cooked in the same pan. They had done most of the prep work together in silence, Hermione dicing an onion and garlic and washing the cutting boards while Draco manned the stove. When it was time to eat, he poured himself a glass of wine, smiling bemusedly when Hermione insisted that she have one too, just so that she could smell it. He drank both glasses.

After dinner had been cleared, Hermione froze, realizing that at this point in the evening, she would have gone home. Except now this was her home. Unease spread throughout her, undoing the effects of the relatively peaceful dinner. Draco, sensing her panic, paused, his hands full with two dessert plates, each holding a little slice of cake on them.

“How are we supposed to do this?” She asked him. She was still sitting at the island where they had eaten dinner, spinning Draco’s empty wine glass around in circles.

He didn’t answer her right away, instead setting down her slice of cake (lemon) in front of her before he leaned against the opposite side of the island.

“I can deal with the owls,” he started slowly, deliberately. “It will be difficult, at least for the next couple of weeks, maybe even less if something else more interesting happens in the news cycle. I don’t have as direct as a connection as you have, but I do have some colleagues who can help with what gets published and what doesn’t.”

“I wasn’t talking about The Prophet but, but that’s good to know. What I’m really asking is…How are we supposed to live together? To be married?”

Draco was silent for a beat. “Is it so bad?”

“It’s not that,” she protested, exasperated. “But what’s real? What’s fake?”

He took a bite out of his cake, chewing, thinking, and driving Hermione mad. She didn’t want to yell, didn’t want to burst into hysteria for the third time today in front of him so she also took a bite, too agitated to appreciate the subtle flavors that melted on her tongue.

“I was going to end things with you when I came back from Italy.”

She froze, her lips slightly parted in surprise. Embarrassment rushed through her. “I was…I wanted to end things with you too,” she admitted.

Their confessions hung in the air and while Hermione felt the hot sting of rejection (irrational!, she scolded herself), Malfoy simply nodded, accepting the information as if she had just told him that tomatoes were on sale.

“Why?” he asked.

“I wanted to focus on the practice, wanted to get back to what everything has always been about. My work.”

Malfoy made a hum of acknowledgement punctuated by the clink of his spoon against his plate. She was burning to ask him why, wondering if her gaze would be enough to break him.

“We didn’t - we don’t, ” he corrected himself. “Know each other. Not well. I didn’t want to complicate our working relationship.”

“And yet…” Her voice trailed off.

“And yet we’re married now. Two Malfoys,” he inclined his head, “Granger-Malfoy. Bound together until death separates us.”

He was simply repeating their vows, his expression and tone neutral but the declaration shocked her. When they had been dressed up, both styled to play the role of loving fiances, when everything had felt surreal, like they had been different people, she had heard those words and said them too. But here, in the intimacy of their home, after she had almost fallen asleep to the domestic sounds of him shaving, her belly full of food he had cooked for her, the weight of those words struck her. 

“For better or for worse,” she echoed. “I wish there was a binder for this.”

Draco laughed, the sound of it warm and she smiled sheepishly back at him. “Listen, Granger, I may not have a binder but I think we should give it a go.”

“Give it a go?”

He polished off the last bite of his cake then, dragging the edge of his spoon across the plate to collect some of the icing that had been left behind. “We should get to know each other,” he clarified.

“Like we should date each other?”

He shrugged, reaching forward to take the now empty plate from Hermione. He walked them over to the sink, placing them in carefully, before turning around to face her again. “If you want.”

She scowled, already regretful that she didn’t ask for a second piece of cake. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.” 

“Come on. You know I didn’t-” his voice cut off, his frustration on full display. “I’m trying my best here, Hermione. I know this isn’t what you wanted, it’s not what I imagined I wanted either. But don’t you think that this is something we can at least try? For our child?” He seemed to sense how the words lingered in the air, how any mention of the baby seemed to cow her into contemplative silence. He continued on. “I would like for our child to see two parents who can, at the very least, get along, who view each other as equal partners.” There was a story here that Hermione wanted to know but she let that desire go, too curious to see where Malfoy would take this. “I’m not asking you to love me. I don’t need you to love me. We just need to understand each other.” His tone had gone from neutral to pleading and Hermione wondered when he had become so pragmatic, so responsible.

She had been too concerned with love, for her own plight, for her changing body to think about the fact that the little magical bean inside of her would eventually become a person, half Granger and half Malfoy. 

He took three long strides to meet Hermione on her side of the island, gripping both of her hands in one of his, his other hand pressing against her shoulder blades, arching her forward so her head tipped, her gaze meeting his.

“I am responsible for you.” His eyes darted down to her stomach, slightly rounded through the thin material of her sweater. “For both of you.”  And then he did what she thought would have been impossible. He kneeled.

Hermione gasped, her hands instinctively jerking to cover her mouth, but stopped, restrained in his grip. “Draco - what are you-”

“I want to be a father.” The confession tears out of him, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve dreamed of having a family.” His grip tightened, squeezing. 

In childhood she had scorned him, repulsed by the mean little boy he was, how he was a coward, a fool. She felt sympathy for him as they aged, even defending him from Harry when he thought Draco had been a Death Eater. She had been wrong, of course, and found herself disappointed, having thought that perhaps he was just a tiny bit smarter than that. In adulthood, she forgot about him, barely spared him a thought, the area gray, their once intersecting lives running parallel to each other. The mosaic she had made of Draco Malfoy had always been bland, always been flat and on dimensional. Even now, as she enjoyed his attention and company as an adult, it was only one facet of who he was. Draco Malfoy was a construct. His wealth was only one piece of him, his success another. But this. Draco Malfoy the Dreamer was new to her. In all her time with him, she had never considered that he, too, could have a dream.

“We can call it whatever you want, Hermione. Dating, friendship, marriage. But we need to try this at least.” The words were pouring from him now, finally releasing her hands only to move his hands to her knees. “You’re living with me now. Let’s learn to talk to each other, learn each other’s values. We didn’t choose to be in this. But maybe, at the very least, we could be friends. Make something good of it.”

And in this moment she recognized another facet of him. Draco Malfoy the Lonely.

She felt tired. She could not believe that earlier this morning she had stormed into what had been Malfoy’s residence, cried on his shoulder, 

Friendship. She could be his friend. Being a wife was not something she felt prepared to do but friendship? She had been a friend before. She could be his. She could do it for their child.

“Get up, Draco,” was her response, her tone firm, but not unkind. He stood up warily, unsure of what she would do. She herself hardly knew what she would do. He stood up immediately, his expression shuttering as if he was waiting for the rejection. She stood up too, her feet feeling a little steadier, his honesty grounding her.

“You want to be friends?” she asked, her mind playing a scene of a curly-haired girl with gray eyes resting her head on her shoulder. “Then talk.”

Chapter 15: Chapter 15

A/N: Sorry for the delay!!! Life is so hard sometimes. I'm trying my best to stay on a writing schedule but it gets to be a lot. I will, however, have more time to write after Christmas so I'm looking forward to that! Well, enjoy this chapter. :) Follow me on twitter

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“Congratulations, Hermione.”

The voice startled Hermione from her reverie, her gaze fixed but looking beyond the patient file that was in front of her, the patient file she was supposed to write her notes in before Theodore Nott came in for his interview.

In the morning she had emerged from her new bedroom, feeling a little more like herself after Draco helped her put books away, but not for too long before fatigue overtook her and she all but collapsed into her bed. They had established a tentative sort of truce in the past two weeks. Hermione’s first trimester ended and the second trimester began, almost ridding her entirely of her morning sickness but bringing to her exhaustion at all hours of the day. At times she had heartburn, an experience so shocking and novel that she had returned to the townhouse in a panic, convinced that she had been poisoned. Draco had calmed her, and, once she was calm enough to coherently describe what she was feeling, had laughed at her when the realization that it was just heartburn arrived like a train off-course in her brain. Of course, it was just heartburn! She wondered if she should be allowed to keep her license to heal; Draco laughed louder, doubled over, before questioning what she had eaten that day.

Draco, true to his word, made her meals. He was a far better cook than she would have imagined and Hermione, who always thought herself to be a decent home chef, was floored. Breakfasts were balanced, nutritious: a protein paired with a fat paired with a carb. It wasn’t until she found herself rummaging around in the kitchen for a particular snack she knew she wanted but couldn’t name that she discovered them. Cookbooks. Two magical and muggle cookbooks for pregnancy along with a slim black notebook filled with Draco’s beautiful, looping penmanship, marking comments she had made about the meals and, more recently, what foods triggered her heartburn. It touched her, made her teary eyed. His notes on her were impeccable and she wondered where he had learned to be so devoted.

That morning, Hermione had been late, full of nerves to be meeting the man she would likely hand her practice over to if things went well, and doubly full of nerves about what would happen to her small practice if things didn't go well with Nott. Draco had been uncharacteristically rushed that morning, pointing to a brown bag he said was a roasted chicken wrap with hummus for lunch and a bowl of oatmeal with raspberries and greek yogurt for breakfast.

“You’re going out now?” Hermione asked, shoveling a spoonful into her mouth.

He looked up briefly from where he stood by the fireplace, his hands working his tie into a knot. A lock of hair fell over his forehead and Hermione suppressed the urge to kiss him, to brush it out of his eyes.

“Meeting with Blaise,” he said, tucking the tie into place and flipping his head up. She had gotten so used to seeing him in his house clothes, soft joggers and t-shirts, that her heart thumped seeing him in a suit. He smirked at her unabashed gaze, drawing his shoulders back and preening a bit. She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed. “Dinner tonight?” He asked, one hand reaching to grab some floo powder. “There’s a new dim sum place that opened down the street…”

Hermione, realizing how late she was, was too harried and off-kilter to think it was a date, agreed.

That was how she found herself in her office, staring at the same patient file, her heart pounding about how the morning hadn’t felt awkward, how it had felt nice. How she had gone from living as a single woman in charge of herself to eating meals made by her husband without a second thought. The biscuits she usually left in her desk had gone stale.

The man in her doorway cleared his throat and Hermione stood, plastering a smile on her face.

“Theo,” she said. “Come in.”

She had seen him at the wedding but had been so out of her mind that she had barely registered him, hadn’t even spared a thought for poor Neville, how it might have been for him to see the ex he had so clearly loved but let go.

Theo was tall, handsome in a way that Hermione felt too princely, too polished. In school he had been much of the same way, looking every bit as Pureblood royalty as he was.

He held his hand out to her and she shook it. Firm, dry. His smile was disarming, open. If someone felt intimidated by his looks, that smile could break down their defenses.

She cleared her throat, pausing before her next sentence. Theo looked at her expectantly, a smile dancing at the corner of his full lips.

“Why do you want to come here, to my practice? And leave your own in France?”

His smile broke, Hermione begrudgingly charmed by it. 

“I’ve been reading your work.” He pulled a folder from his cross-body bag and set it on her desk without opening it. “It’s impressive. New.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a way that reminded her of Harry. “I’ve brought some patient files, I’ve trialed some of the techniques you’ve published with great success.”

“From what I understand, you’re more of a general practice. How are you able to do this?”

“The French are…a little more open to trying things. While the patients I’m trialing with this haven’t experienced a wound or an illness, they are experiencing some…decline in magical control as they age. The techniques you’ve written about and the activities you’ve shared keep their minds and magic busy.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Theo’s eyes lit up, seeing the challenge, the test hidden in her question. “You’ve often incorporated muggle mind science into your practice. It’s not something I could consider myself an expert in, but what you had written sent me on a quest. You’ve explained that muggles view the brain as a mass with pathways, connections in which messages are sent. Those pathways can degrade,” his eyes sparkling like emeralds as Hermione’s own open expression grew more and more interested. “And make it harder for messages to go through, or for them to even reach that specific pathway as well. Throw in the natural weakening of the physical body on top of that and, well, even our brightest geriatric wizards and witches struggle.”

She nodded in approval, pleased that he had appeared to understand the theoretical basis of her work. To the Muggle eye, this type of neurology was well known but to combine it with magic was unheard of. Until she spoke about it.

“The clients I serve are very old,” he admitted. “Older than I would have expected. So often our society puts them away, so to speak, after a certain age. Their children or great-great grandchildren deem them too risky to be out and so they stay at home. My clients like their social lives, like being out within society. They deserve that.”

It was easy, Hermione mused, to see how Neville and Theo might have fit together easily. Theo’s heart, a natural extension to the warmth and advocacy Neville offered to the youngest members of wizarding society. She wondered if Neville had anything to do with it.

The interview felt less like an interview and more of a conversation between colleagues. She understood why Draco had advocated for Theodore Nott as her replacement. He was knowledgeable, of course, but his personality was warm, charming. Her patients could trust him. She could trust him.

“Thank you, Theo,” Hermione smiled at him, pleased that his first name flowed off her tongue without hesitation. “You should come tomorrow for my 4pm group and introduce yourself.” She clarified. “I’d like to hire you.” 

He thanked her back, ever polite and gracious but he didn’t get up from his seat. He was hesitating, seemingly debating with himself if he should say whatever it is. She quirked a brow at him, silently giving him permission to continue.

“Do you have a Healer?” At her quirked head, he continued. “For your…for your pregnancy.” He finished lamely, an uncharacteristic shyness taking over.

A wave of protectiveness washed over her, the urge to wrap her arms around her stomach to hide it from prying eyes growing stronger and stronger. The answer was that she hadn’t seen a specialist Healer, opting instead to brew her own supplemental nutritional potions, to do her own cursory checks. She had a book, Advanced Healing for Magical Pregnancies, that she had bought just in case she was ever needed for Luna and Ginny, but she hadn’t had the time, too busy with brewing and writing and seeing her patients. 

“How far along are you?” Theo’s tone was coaxing, neutral and Hermione felt the urge to spill her guts out to him, to lay everything out on the table and scream, “Look! Look at this fear that I have!”

There was a terrible loneliness that had taken over her life since she had found out she was pregnant. She had known, expected, that her friends would be less than enthusiastic about her choice of partner. But she hadn’t expected this level of exile from them, banished, marked, forever tarnished. They hadn’t resumed their bimonthly dinners after her wedding but Hermione acknowledged that she was too tired, too swept up in trying to work double to prepare for her impending leave of absence that she hadn’t made much of an effort anyway. Neville, who Hermione usually visited at all odd and unannounced hours and days, had fallen to the wayside, at first encouraging her to spend time adjusting to her new life living with Malfoy, to now patiently waiting for her to initiate.

And, despite living with her husband, their interactions were often brief, friendly, bordering on words spoken for future meals or focused on the amount of time spent on the next batch of the brew. They didn’t speak of the baby or themselves. Despite his claim that he wanted them to be friends, she felt like she knew less of him than when they were working together.

“I’ve been monitoring myself,” she started slowly, unsure if she felt offended by Theo asking her this, bracing herself for his judgment.

He inclined his head. “Excellent. Well..if you ever need it, one of the healers in my French healing network who specializes in magical pregnancies. She would be discreet.”

Relief.

“See you tomorrow, Theo.”

***

She wasn’t brewing today. Hermione thanked the gods that she could go home, her body screaming at her to escape the tedium of the office. There were times where direct patient care felt like a performance, especially now as she still tried to conceal her pregnancy from her clients. The news of her marriage had been the topic of conversation for at least 10 business days in the therapy groups and Hermione could only grin and bear it. Sometimes she thought that the news of her pregnancy might be more effective at sparking connections and conversation than the potion she was currently brewing.

She was seated at her desk, her wrist cramping when a petite owl tapped at her window, Hermione springing up when she recognized it to be the Potter owl. Slipping a treat into its beak, she removed its offered scroll, recognizing Ginny’s looping, girlish script.

She had some time between training for the new quidditch season, she had written, and had invited Luna and Ron over for dinner and if Hermione was free could she join?

Hermione was already spinning in the floo when she realized Draco had not been invited, unease trickling down her spine.

When she arrived at Grimmauld Place, her first visit since she had married, she half expected the house wards to chew her up and spit her out. But, she realized with a jolt, that her connection to this house was probably stronger, how, in some funny way, she was ancestrally connected to this home, albeit distantly, through marriage. The child inside her, however, had blood ties to it.

Her brief fantasy of her child laying claim to this house, kicking Harry’s ass to the curb had her snickering, only for it to be cut short by Harry’s presence himself.

“Hermione,” he nodded to her, his hand reaching out to take her coat. His eyes lingered briefly over her, the size of her stomach hidden under her choice of oversized slouchy sweater and wide-legged trousers. She was grateful her new Mrs. Malfoy budget allowed for a seemingly endless supply of clothes and tailoring. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for having me,” she responded woodenly, her awkwardness around her best friend too much to handle. “I got Ginny’s letter,” she explained, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “About dinner tonight.”

“We missed you.”

Before Hermione could respond, Luna and Ron stepped through the floo, each one of them holding a bottle of wine, one red and one white. The expression on Luna’s face was genuine, substantial, and Hermione felt relief and gratitude flow out of her when Luna threw her arms around Hermione, her one hand sliding down her back and across Hermione’s belly in a flash. She couldn’t even be mad at it, or cringe at it because the sensation was so foreign.

Ron hurried into the kitchen after taking everyone’s coats and handing them off to Harry, coming back holding a tray of chilled wine and levitating a tray of beef pasties. Hermione had three, relaxed into the lull of casual conversation, the crackle of the fire, her belly full and warm. At some point in the evening, Harry directed them all to the dining room, where they sat down to tuck into an experimental dinner, something new she had tried, Ginny explained.

Ginny’s experimental dish had turned out to be a disastrous attempt at palak paneer, Hermione taking one bite and realizing that Ginny had used firm tofu ( she thought it had looked the same in the packaging ), skipped chili powder and cumin ( she didn’t want it to be too spicy in case James ate some of it. He was eating meals now and not just milk and porridge, you know ), and, what was supposed to have been only a finishing splash of cream, turned into a “healthy dollop” ( I thought cream made everything taste better). They politely pushed around the palak paneer around their plates for about 10 minutes before Harry sent the plates to the dining room and summoned dessert instead.

Ron poured healthy refills of the white wine, almost pouring into Hermione’s glass before she covered it with her palm.

“No, thanks.”

“Oh..er…right.” His eyes darted down to Hermione’s stomach, Hermione’s poor posture making the sweater fold, causing the illusion that she was much, much farther along. 

“How…how are you feeling?”

It was the first direct question anyone had asked Hermione all night, and she might have let the night pass like that because she was just so happy to be back here. All the heads whipped around, waiting with baited breath for Hermione to answer. 

“I’m feeling alright,” she admitted. “Just tired. Thankfully I think I’m over most of my nausea from the first trimester. Although Ginny’s dinner almost brought it back to me.” She meant to say it as a joke, but her tone felt flat, nervous.

“I remember when I was first pregnant with Rose,” Luna started, her dreamy voice drifting over the table. Her hand reached over to twine with Ron’s, a soft smiling adorning his face when he looked at his wife. “I loved every second of it. The anticipation of feeling her move inside me, the idea that she was half me and half Ron…” She trailed off, eyes glittering.

A noise of agreement escaped Ginny, her tone wistful. “Seeing you like this makes me miss being pregnant. It’s like somehow I forgot how miserable I felt. Kind of makes you feel like we should have another. Don’t you think so, Harry?”

“You’d have to give up another season.”

“I know, I know. But it was just so…nice, right?” Ginny asked, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on her taut stomach.

“Ron was so lovely during it all,” Luna said, her voice now leaving the dream and now entering another realm of being altogether. Ron blushed a beet red, an inadvertent giggle escaping Hermione, enjoying seeing her easily flustered friend get flustered.

“How is…How is Malfoy? Is he treating you alright?”

Harry’s tone was so tender it made her want to gnash her teeth and weep. How often had she craved that from him when she was younger, how ten years ago she would have ripped the memory from her mind and poured it into a pensieve so she could revisit it again and again.

An idea struck her. “Actually,” she started, everyone at the table perking up and leaning in slightly. “It’s been…We’ve been getting hate mail. It was worse after the news of our marriage hit the press,” she explained, wincing. “And Draco thought it would taper off and it has, but we still get more than make me feel comfortable. He says he’s handling it, but he also made it sound like people got his address because someone from The Ministry might have leaked it.”

The sound of Harry’s knife scraping unpleasantly against his dessert place made everyone jump. “Is that what he thinks?”

Her eyes narrowed. “It’s what I think.  His residence isn’t listed anywhere on any official Ministry documents or databases. I checked. And I checked again after we got - after the wedding.” She leaned back in her seat, hands clasped in her lap. “I was wondering if you could look into it for me.”

“But didn’t you already check?” Harry’s knife scraped against the plate again and Ginny muttered under her breath, rising to collect them even though no one had really finished.

“Oh, come on, Harry,” Hermione cajoled, working to keep her tone light. A pulsing pain had formed in her right temple, her armpits growing damp as her heartbeat picked up.

He shrugged, reaching to drain his wine glass, reaching to pour another. Luna excused herself, the sound of Ginny noisily scraping food into the bin in the background. Ron sat serenely between the two of them, his tapping index finger the only indication of his unease.

“I’m just saying,” Harry continued. “If you already checked and you couldn’t find his address, why would you still think the Ministry had anything to do it with it?”

“I don’t think The Ministry had anything to do with it,” she countered, unable to hide her annoyance. “I just wonder if there’s someone on the inside who would want to leak that information.”

“For what reason?”

She threw her hands up. “Hell if I know, Harry. I was just wondering if you could look into it for me, it could maybe give me some sort of idea of how to deal with it.”

“Do you feel unsafe? Do you feel like Malfoy can’t protect you?” His green eyes, the ones she once thought she would like to drown in, were hard.

“I think she’s good, mate,” Ron interjected, his tone resigned.

“Do you feel like The Ministry,” his tone was mocking. “Is out to get you?”

Ron sighed and it sounded like it came from deep inside him.

“I never said anything of the sort,” she protested, fists clenched. “Listen, Harry, I was only asking you this as a friend-”

“Asking me to look into something I know wouldn’t happen. It’s like conspiracy after conspiracy with you. You’re convinced that you’re the victim somehow.”

“I am a victim, Harry,” she said in what she hoped was a calm voice. “I’m being harassed in my home .”

“And I’m sorry that it happened to you in Malfoy’s house - but I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. I had nothing to do with it. The Ministry of Magic had nothing to do with it.”

“I never said that - you know what?” Her voice tightened with anxiety. “Forget it.”

Harry’s tone went concerned again, and he leaned forward, just as Ron scrubbed his hands down his face. “I trust you can handle it. You are Hermione Granger, after all. I don’t underestimate you. I know you’ll find out how someone got your husband’s address.” 

Embarrassment, wet, hot, and sticky, rolled over Hermione’s skin. She clenched her fists as she glared at Harry.

“C’mon, Harry,” Ron murmured. “It couldn’t hurt to look..”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Ron. “She might have married him but I certainly did not.” 

Ron, to his credit, remained calm. “You’re being a bit harsh, don’t you think?” He turned to Hermione. “Maybe I can ask Dad or Percy to look into it for you, Hermione.”

“What for?” Harry asked bitterly. “There’s nothing to leak. Malfoy probably had his address listed on one of his many businesses.”

“He doesn’t,” Hermione insisted. “He -”

“How do you know?” Harry pushed away from the table then. “You think you know Malfoy? All his dealings? Everyone he knows, everything he does?”

She stuttered, a protest dead on her lips. She was losing this, and had too much pride to admit to Harry that she didn’t know Malfoy as well as she’d like, and didn't know how to tell him how she struggled with the idea that she had half of him inside of her while he remained such a mystery.

“You know what,” Hermione struggled to keep her composure, her voice going slightly hoarse as she tried not to cry. “I think you’re right. I can figure it out myself. Thanks for the reminder, Hary.” She turned to Ron, who was sitting with his ankle crossed over his knee, arms crossed on his chest, a murderous expression on his face as he glared at Harry. Harry didn’t even flinch. “Ron, don’t trouble your dad or Percy about this. I’ll look into it.”

She pushed away from the table, standing on wooden legs. Ginny and Luna emerged from the kitchen then and disappointment coursed through Hermione.. Cowards, she wanted to scream at them. She had been so excited for them both for every milestone they had achieved before her, how they advanced in their careers, had weddings, pregnancies, birth. How Hermione had enthusiastically cheered them on. But all she could see now were two women who judged her for not planning ahead. For not thinking everything all the way through. And how, while Ginny had invited her, hadn’t even bothered asking about Malfoy.

She nodded at them. “Thanks for dinner, Gin. I think I’m going to leave now. You know, I’m a little tired,” she added, waving to her belly. 

“Goodnight.”

Ron walked her to the floo, squeezing her hand in his before she departed. His blue eyes were cloudy. “Sorry, Hermione.”

She shrugged, the tears she had been fighting welling in her eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but Hermione shook her head. “‘Sa alright,” she mumbled and he frowned, opting to lay a kiss on her forehead.

She recited the address to her flat, bitter that she needed to travel to her flat first and then the townhome from there because the Potters had never connected that network. Her eyes fluttered shut, and, in the darkness of her now stale flat, Hermione wept.

Chapter 16: Chapter 16

A/N: Wow! The response to Chapter 15 was amazing. It may have motivated me to push through Chapter 16 :) Thank you all for reading!!

P.S. I've got no beta reader so any errors are all mine!

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She let herself cry for 10 minutes in her half-empty flat before she floo’d back to the townhome. Her townhome, she reminded herself, despite the fact she could still hear Harry spit “Malfoy’s home” at her.

Emerging from the fireplace, she was immediately greeted by the warm, well-lit open concept home, its airiness lifting the apprehension and unease she felt in the dark and dank Grimmauld Place. To be fair, it had been renovated several times over the years, but the stink of age and dark magic had never left it. But Malfoy’s home - their home - felt fresh. She sighed, taking a deep breath in, her eyes snagging on Draco.

He was lounging on the couch, clad in gray joggers and a sweatshirt, his hair tied back with the hairtie she had given him months ago. He peeked over at her from his spot on the couch, his eyes widening as he took her in. He jumped up from the couch and strode over to her in one, two quick steps.

“Have you been crying?” He demanded, worry clouding his voice. He took her chin in one hand, turning her face to inspect, his other hand reaching around her back to pull her closer to him. It was the closest they’d been in weeks, since their wedding. He felt so warm. “What happened?”

She sniffed, jerking her face out of his grasp, and stepping away from him.

“No I haven’t,” she said, defensively. “Nothing happened.” Too defensively.

Draco’s eyes widened in panic.“Is it the baby? Is the baby alright? Should I call Theo? I can get him right now”

“What?” She made a face of confusion, Draco’s hand already reaching for the floo powder. “No, no nothing has happened to the baby.” Her hands went to cradle her stomach as if to say “See?”

“Hermione…” He started, his voice uncharacteristically stern. “Are you hurt? Should I call Theo?” He stepped toward her again, his hand reaching out to grasp her elbow.

“For Godric’s sake, I’m not hurt.” She yanked her elbow away from him, angrily stomping into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He followed her.

“Why were you crying?”

She filled a second glass of water, chugging its contents, hoping that Draco would get the hint and leave her alone. She didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to bear the sting of being berated by another man. She’d had enough of it that evening, from Harry’s patronizing tone to Ron’s well-meaning but effectively useless interventions. She didn’t need Draco to…to tell her anything.

But he was like a looming ghost behind her, his expression growing thin as the seconds past. She broke.

“I…I went over to the Potters’ for dinner,” she said, trying her best to make it sound like a fact and not a confession.

“Ah.”

That single syllable sounded disappointed, weary. “Ginny invited me,” she said lamely, suddenly nervous about how this might look. She didn’t want Draco to think…Could Draco think that? “It was nothing, really. Just a normal dinner.”

Draco’s expression beckoned her to continue.

“I..I asked Harry to look into the hate mail. To see if he knew anyone who might want to leak your address.”

Whatever Draco had been expecting, it had not been this. A flash of relief crossed his face, confirming for Hermione that he had thought that Hermione might have broken her vows, or at the very least, had talked about it. The relief passed like daybreak, giving way to a look of sheer annoyance and disgust.

“I told you, I’d handle it. You didn’t need to run to His Holy Savior Potter,” he sneered, turning away from her abruptly and returning to his position on the couch.

She followed him, her bladder already protesting from the two glasses of water. She persisted. “What, Draco? I don’t have time to fight about this right now,” trying to match him.

“Do you run to Potter every time you have a problem?”

She scowled at him, “No, I thought I could leverage our friendship to get insider information at the ministry.”

He scowled back at her. “Do you truly think that he would jeopardize his position, even if it would cause him only a moment of annoyance for me? For you?”

She frowned, crossing her arms across her chest, wishing to just go to bed and escape this conversation. He was right. And she hated it. “I at least tried something instead of sitting around all evening.”

“Was that before or after you stood me up for dinner tonight?”

Hermione froze, both hands gripping the strap of her crossbody bag tightly. “What?”

He waved his hand, “It’s fine. I left you something. I didn’t know what you’d like so I just ordered soup dumplings and an egg tart. It’s under a stasis charm, so, be careful.”

“Oh! You didn’t have to go through all the trouble-” Her voice had gone high, polite.

“It’s fine,” he repeated, but his voice held an edge, a tenseness that hadn’t left him after she had told him she had been at Harry’s.

She looked at him, waiting for him to explain, to be forthright about what was bothering him. When he didn’t expand, she sighed, rubbing her temples. “I’m sorry. Old habit…they hadn’t had a dinner at Grimmauld Place in so long, so when Ginny told me I…I didn’t think twice.” She paused. “Did you already know that I went to Grimmauld Place?”

He nodded. “When you didn’t come home, I got nervous. I checked your office first and saw the letter open on your desk. I figured you had gone there and that you would come back, at some point.”

She had been so eager to see her friends, lonely after a few weeks of isolation that she had forgotten about her husband, about their efforts together. She felt guilty.

“I’m sorry I missed our dinner.”

“Did he make you cry?” Draco sat on the couch, his legs spread wide, his eyes dark, defensive. 

It felt pointless to lie to him, felt pointless to protect Harry from this. “He wouldn’t help me.”

“Granger, there’s no way to stop the letters.” He sighed. “Not any way that’s legal, at least.”

She considered, measuring her words. “It could be simple - a tracking charm. Pay them a visit, see how they like the consequences of their actions, make them realize that their words have meaning.”

Draco blinks at her. “Diabolical,” he drawled. “And what happens after we get arrested for harassment?”

“Or what if we sent them a Howler of our own?”

Draco’s nose wrinkled at the suggestion and Hermione frowned. “No - you’re right. Stupid idea. We could…” She trailed off, her mind whizzing through ideas. “It’s difficult,” she finally settled on, “being a Healer. I swore to do no harm and none of my ideas are harmless.”

Draco laughed out loud, sitting up, surreptitiously pulling the hair-tie out of his hair and pocketing it. If he noticed Hermione watching, he ignored it. “I’m afraid to even ask you what your ideas were lest I be nailed down as an accomplice.”

She felt a thrill go through her at his smile, as if she earned it. She wanted to see it again and again, see how many things she needed to do or say to see it again.

“But seriously, Draco. How come you’re not bothered by the letters?”

He shrugged, his smile retreating. Her heart sank and she wished she hadn’t asked. “Not the worst I’ve seen.” When Hermione shot him a quizzical look, padding over to the couch and tucking her feet up under her, Draco sighed and continued.

“You know what my sentence was. Some people felt like it should have been longer or more severe. And when the news of my wedding hit the front page of The Daily Prophet. Well, that too.” He paused, as if deciding to say the next part, before setting his jaw and continuing. “When Astoria died, it was the worst. Letters saying that it was good that she had died, such a shame that it hadn’t been me, accusations that I had killed her…” His voice trailed off, the corners of his mouth downturned, his eyes faraway. 

It was uncomfortable, telling Hermione this, being open and vulnerable to her. But she needed to know, and he wanted her to know how his inaction wasn’t born of cowardice, nor of fear, but of resignation and understanding that the public did not like him.

“I’m sorry.”

At some point she had scuttled forward on the couch until her sock-clad feet were wedged under his thighs, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her knees. She looked compact, solid.

“Nothing for you to apologize for,” Draco responded lightly, reaching over to tuck away a strand of her hair. Desire coursed through him and his first thought was to kiss the worry from her forehead, to smooth out the furrow of her brow.

“I hired Theo today.”

“Finally.”

She rolled her eyes at him, summoning the soup dumplings, trying not to feel self-conscious when Draco watched her bite the top, slurp the soup out, and stuff the whole dumpling in her mouth.

Her next words were half a moan. “I know it’s better with soy sauce and vinegar but sometimes,” she forcibly swallowed, “but sometimes it’s better just like this in its natural state.”

Draco’s expression was pinched at her lack of basic table manners but she ignored it because she was eating on the couch and not at the table. Different rules. 

“When did you become such an adventurous eater?” She asked, her mouth full of another dumpling.

“Have you ever been out of England?”

She slurped the last dumpling noisily, sad that it was already over, before she answered. “I’ve been to Italy, but only as a girl. I think I only ate buttered pasta at the time. I’ve been to Australia after the war, to check on my parents. Didn’t get around to trying much.”

She set the takeaway container on the coffee table, Draco silently watching her every move. She could tell he was trying to be patient, waiting for her to move the conversation along or change the subject. She cleared her throat.

“Does it make you sad,” he began. “That you can’t share this with them?”

“Yes.” The confession fell out of her in one swoop, all she needed was the slightest prompt to talk about it. “Even after all this time…” She trailed off. “Every time I think it should be easier, but it’s not. I made the choice,” she put her hand up, waving off what Draco might say. “I made the choice but you know what’s the worst bit? Once I realized they were happy, blissfully happy without me, it made it easier for me to forget. Sometimes I can go whole days without thinking about them, feel happy, feel content.” Draco didn’t say anything, just soothed his thumb in a circle over her knee and she sighed, unsure of if she was talking only about her parents, but of her friends too.

At some point in her speech, they had become entangled, her legs extending out into his space, his legs drawing up to let her in. They were knee to knee now, their socked feet touching, but barely. She sucked in a breath.

“What does your mother know about us?”

Draco tipped his head back. “Just enough.”

“She was at the wedding. She looked…tired.”

“Living in a cursed mansion will do that to you, and then some.” Draco scoffed, irritation and worry crossing his forehead. When Hermione just stared, her expression expectant, Draco sighed, his expression pinched. “We are estranged. We never could reconcile what happened during The War. It might have been alright, we might still talk if Astoria hadn’t had to experience it too.”

While Hermione had expanded, seeking connection with Draco while she shared about her parents, Draco retreated, his hand moving from her knee to his own, his shoulders hunching, his brow furrowing, as if he could retreat into himself.

“What happened?”

She felt like a voyeur, her desire to flay Malfoy open and see all his hurts and pains laid out for her to observe, wanting to rip his heart out and see how it beat for her, for Astoria, and for himself. She slid over closer to him until her legs were draped across his lap, her chest to his shoulder. His hand moved to her thigh to steady her and she startled from the heat of his hand, acutely aware of how long it had been since he last touched her.

But if Malfoy had noticed, he didn’t let on. His hand was pressed firmly into her thigh now but his gaze was shuttered, distant.

“After my father died -” Malfoy started. “It was just the two of us. I never forgot what she did for me during The War, how she tried to protect me as much as she could. I was so thankful to her. But,” his mouth twisted. “The better thing to do wouldn’t have been to team up with a violent psychopath hellbent on ruining society. She had a chance, you know, when we were small, to change her mind, to learn something. My father did too. They both did.” He sighed and started again. “After my father died, it was like she had been radicalized for a third time. I didn’t see it coming, maybe I was too lost in the beginning of my own deconstruction. But this time, instead of hating muggleborns, she hated everyone. ” 

Hermione wanted to murmur, to exclaim, to offer some comfort or sympathy but she found the words had stuck in her throat, had died there. Like so many from her past had. She knew what grief could do, how it could wash over them, purify, and begin a process of rebirth. But she also knew that it could drive someone to the brink of insanity and push them over suddenly and without warning. Her heart panged with sympathy but her stomach, the deeper part of her, the one that imprisoned Rita Skeeter, the one who scarred Marrietta Edgecomb, the one that almost cast the killing curse all those years ago, twisted with smug curiosity.

“She withdrew from her small social circles, spent all her time in her room talking to Lucius’ portrait. She started homesteading on the manor grounds, insisting that we grow our food, rely on ourselves.” At this, his nose wrinkled. “She couldn’t do all the work, even with the help of the elves. The food was terrible and the manor was overrun with all sorts of plants, even livestock before she finally admitted she couldn’t do it and invested in a nearby farm.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “At first, I wasn’t the focus. But then I got married. It had been at her insistence and I did it for her, of course I did it for her. How could I not, after all she had done for me?” He turned to Hermione suddenly, who flinched, caught in her unabashed attentiveness to Malfoy. She met his eyes and, where she felt hers were unmasked, shining, his were flat, dark, anguished.

“Things had changed. Wizarding society was different. Astoria was different. I was different.” He exhaled, his eyes closing. “My mother couldn’t handle it. She became angry at Astoria. I think she was really angry at me. ” When he opened his eyes and peered back at Hermione, she noticed that his eyes had become the ones she recognized, the ones that were observant, sharp. “I was fully deconstructed by the time I was 21. Astoria endured for as long as she could but we left the manor to my mother. My relationship with my mother improved for a bit after that but when Astoria got sick,” Malfoy shook his head. “I’ve barely spoken to her since. I think it’s better we keep it that way.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide, carefully noting how Malfoy’s story ran short of details as soon as Astoria entered, how it ended when she had. How his decision had turned from an “I” to a “we” that was one part him and one part Hermione.

“I think that’s for the best too,” Hermione admitted. 

Malfoy stood up then, unceremoniously disentangling himself from Hermione’s legs and she yelped in surprise. “Who would have thought?” he questioned. “Hermione Granger agreeing with me.” He smirked and Hermione blinked at the change in tone and the way his eyes were sparkling as if he did not just detonate bombs named “Malfoy Lore” right in her face.

He padded away from her and into the kitchen where she watched him pour and drink two glasses of water in quick succession. “It’s quite nice,” he said in between sips.

“The water?”

“Yeah. I import it from Fiji.”

She smiled, expression bemused, but pensive. She glanced out of his floor to ceiling windows then, noting how the sky was pitch black.

“It’s late,” Draco acknowledged, his gaze following hers.

She yawned then, bone-deep fatigue hitting her like a bludger. It was like he had manifested it for her. She rubbed her eyes, scoffing in irritation when she remembered she was wearing eye-makeup. The siren-call of her king-sized bed draped in the softest, most luxurious sheets and blankets she had ever slept in was irresistible, but she didn’t want to go. She wanted to keep him talking, wanted him to spill his guts out to her for her judgment.

He laughed, as if he could read her mind. “It’s okay, Granger. We can talk again.”

“Thanks again,” she motioned to the empty takeout containers on the coffee table, a protest coming to life and then death on her lips when he levitated them over to him in a bit of wordless magic. “I would have gotten that.”

He shrugged. 

“I’m sorry I missed our dinner,” Hermione called from her seat on the couch. “Could we try again tomorrow?”

Draco nodded. “We can go out, or stay in.”

“Why don’t we stay in? I can make something. I feel bad, you’re always cooking for me.” She stretched, noticing how Draco’s eyes traced the curve of her body from her head to her toes.

“You know I like cooking for you. I want you to be healthy.”

It felt like there was something more, something else that he wanted to say, if only Hermione could reach into his mouth and grab it. But the moment passed.  

“Goodnight, Draco. See you in the morning?” She padded past him in the kitchen to go down the long hallway, her body aching for a hot shower. She didn’t wait for his response, opting instead to drop her clothes in the massive hallway bathroom, scrub her skin raw, and then soothe it with body oil. Ritual, comfort, something familiar, something tangible. Something she could control.

Chapter 17: Chapter 17

A/N: Hi! I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and I hope you have a fabulous New Year! This is just a short little chapter that was originally part of a longer chapter but I wanted to publish something while i work on the next couple of chapters. I'm seeing an end in sight for this fic - I'm thinking maybe 5 more chapters and an epilogue? Either way, it's so fun to be writing, reading your comments is such a positive part of my day, and I enjoy being a part of the dramione community! Please enjoy this little Draco POV and follow me on twitter if you'd like! As always, I've got no beta so all errors are mine!

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The early morning sun reflected off the windows in the townhouse, bathing the kitchen and living room with a warm glow.

Hermione was up early today. He could hear the shower in the hallway bathroom running, and could imagine how the steam was filling the space because Granger liked her showers obscenely hot. She had confessed it to him months ago before all of this , his imagination suddenly filling in a fantasy of her naked in the shower rubbing soap across her breasts, down her stomach. When she moved into the townhouse, he charmed the showerhead to run a little hotter.

His attention turned back to the mirepoix he had sauteeing in olive oil on the stove and added rice to toast for a few minutes before pouring in chicken stock, a tablespoon of butter, and a healthy pinch of salt. He was packing a rice pilaf for Granger today.

It was five days before Christmas. She was hosting a party in the office today, co-hosting it with Theo and officially introducing him as a partner. Partner was what they had decided on, Hermione not quite ready to break the news that she was going on maternity leave just yet. Malfoy, remembering her frustration with the wedding announcement, didn’t protest. In any case, he agreed with her.

Their marriage felt real, solid, and he accepted that it had happened. But her pregnancy? The baby? They hadn’t spoken about it since she told him she was pregnant. Both of them existed in this home together like they were roommates, Draco carefully pretending to not notice the rounding of her cheeks and the way she wore her sweaters that she thought hid her growing stomach. Maybe it did to others, but not to him.

He knew her body, had obsessively charted it in the months of their reckless office trysts. He knew the exact circumference of her thighs, the weight and feel of her breasts, the texture of her nipples against his teeth, on his tongue, the fluttering pulse of her inner wrist, the way her stomach folded in on itself at her belly button, the dimples and stretch marks across her ass, ones that she bemoaned but he couldn’t get enough of. 

But this body, the one that she tried to hide under sweaters or sweatshirts, was new to him. And he was growing desperate to see. Two nights ago she had come to the kitchen with the intent of making an egg in a basket for a snack and Draco, for once, let her make it herself just so he could watch her. The curve of her belly and the swell of her breasts, now struggling to stay contained safely in her shirt, mesmerized him. He needed to see it for himself, needed to see if her nipples and areolas had actually darkened, wanted to rub lotion into her hot skin, wanted to kiss the inside of her ankles before he positioned them on his shoulders, wanted to kiss down her thighs and peer up at her, his head between her legs, his hand reaching up to cup her belly -

The now furiously boiling rice in stock bubbled up at him, and he cursed, lowering its heat to a simmer and giving it a stir. 

The baby. The one they never spoke about. His baby. Her baby. Their baby .

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not ever, not to him. And yet…

His thoughts were interrupted by Hermione skidding into the kitchen, frantic, frazzled, nearly leaping into the barstool at the island.

“Breakfast?” She asked, her neck straining over to see what Draco was stirring on the stovetop.

He nodded his head, angling his chin to the bowl on the island. This morning was baked oatmeal made with greek yogurt, cocoa powder, sweetened with maple syrup, and topped with a peanut butter and honey drizzle.

This was a funny routine. He experimented, and she ate. He loved how she ate.

For a long time, he had been a rich boy with rich hobbies, and now, he spent his mornings trying to be nonchalant while he eagerly awaited her commentary, filing it away so he could write it down later.

At first it was curiosity, and then it was sex, and then it became about his feelings and then, none of it suddenly mattered at all, responsibility and duty clamping down on him like a vice once more. He was married. To a woman he liked. To a woman who despite all her good senses, liked him back. His wife was pregnant. He was going to be a father, the corner of his mouth lifted, knowing that this woman had…

He slammed his mind shut. It had been years since he had to put up his shit Occlumency shields to stop his mind from wandering to darker places he wished to forget. It might have been easier if he hated her. It might have been easier if he was disinterested, if her golden girl shine had just worn off.

***

Hermione came home a little later than usual. She stepped through the floo and into the townhome in a frenzy, her hair and skin smelling like a cold night, her eyes sparkling, her mouth in a wide smile, tiny wrinkles appearing at the corner of her eyes. It was as if she had taken the floo back home in the middle of a vibrant burst of laughter.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, winding her scarf off and tossing her coat on the floor, only to levitate it back to the closet. She bounded over to the couch where he was sitting and reading, beginning what was turning into another ritual of theirs. On nights he didn’t brew with her, she stepped through the floo and they sat on the couch and simply talked.

At first it was simple, about their respective days, she inquired about his day-to-day dealings. He had once shown her the Malfoy ledgers, the flowcharts, the updating lists, and her eyes had widened, pupils moving rapidly over each page, each number.

“Holy shit,” she had murmured. “You’re really a rich prat, aren’t you?”

Snapping the ledgers shut and levitating them back into their respective spots, he reminded her that she was married to him and, by extension, was also a rich prat. The next day she came home with a new diamond bracelet.

She was practically giddy today, not even giving him a moment to sit up before she started talking.

“It went really well tonight, Draco. It really did!” She sighed and leaned back, her hands reaching back to rub her lower back. “The introduction was fabulous, everyone seemed charmed by Theo, but that’s not too hard, the charming git.” A giggle escaped her. “Thank you for arranging the catering, by the way. It was delicious. Everyone enjoyed it.”

Draco had sent an assortment of hors d'oeuvres and sparkling cider for the event, signing it off as a business expense with a dramatic flourish, to Hermione’s amusement. 

“Are you surprised it went so well?” He asked, tucking his legs in so Hermione could stretch hers out. They were on opposite ends of the couch and Draco pulled her feet into his lap, pressing his fingers into her ankles.

She jerked in surprise when he began peeling a sock off, her protest turning into a laugh when he mimed that her feet smelt disgusting. They didn’t, but they were cold and, judging by the small sigh Hermione let out, they were hurting.

“No, I’m not surprised,” She said, eyes closing, head tilting back. “It’s more that it exceeded my expectations.” 

They sat silently for a few more minutes, the silence only broken by a single moan when Draco pressed on a seemingly sensitive spot on her foot. Desire shot through him, white hot, burning. Had this been just three months earlier, he would have been on her, devouring her. How often had he started a conversation only to end it abruptly with a kiss? His impulse was to press on that spot again, to make her make that noise again, and again, and again, until he could swallow it with his mouth. Fuck. He wanted her.

She pulled her feet back, tucking them under herself until she was a mirror image of him. They kept up this charade of platonic friendliness, Draco keeping his distance. Their wedding night had been different than any other time they had been together, and, while his body desperately wanted her, his emotions kept him at bay. If her tears that night had been any indication, it had all been too much for her and, if he had learned anything in his time with Hermione Granger, it was that his wife was sensitive, deeply wounded, and needy for something he wasn’t sure he could give her.

“Draco,” she started, her voice taking on an oddly strained quality. He had overstepped. “What is the plan for Christmas?”

He stiffened, extending his legs back out. He couldn’t sit still. “I usually spend it at The Manor with my mother,” he started. At her stricken gaze, Draco reached his hand out, as if to soothe her. “But this year she’s going to France. I made plans to stay here. In the townhome.” He shot a sidelong glance at her. “What are your plans?”

“I usually go to the Weasleys…” she trailed off, the happiness she had been radiating leeching away from her by the second.

Months ago, Draco would have felt a sense of satisfaction at the demise of the Golden Trio, the three best friends he had grown up hating but wishing he had been a part of. In the dark years after his conviction, after The War, he often wondered what things would be different if Draco had not denigrated Weasley, had offered him his hand as easily as he offered it to Potter. He wondered how things would be different if Harry had taken his. He had thought, for a long time, that it had all been out of his control, that the prophecy would have played out no matter what Draco did and that Harry was always destined to be on the side of light while the Malfoys, harbingers of bad luck, always stayed in the shadows.

But his mistake had been to think that all things were absolute. Because now, no matter the dark pathways he took in the past, he was sitting in Hermione Granger’s light, watching the disintegration of their friendship in real time. There was an element of guilt, this was another thing he was taking from her. First her work and now her potions. And yet she still sat with him, reached out tenderly to him, held him on their wedding night when he had been resigned to leaving it unconsummated, untouched. And he couldn’t help himself. He never could with her.

“Spend Christmas with me,” he offered. “Not like you’re doing anything anyway.” He grinned. “Shall I order hideously itchy sweaters with your initials on it? HM, Hermione Malfoy?”

She giggled at his teasing tone, some, but not all, of the sadness leaving her eyes. “Oh, please do,” she huffed. “You’ll have one too, I hope? Matching sweaters for us?”

When they retired to their respective rooms, Hermione having eaten scrambled eggs and toast as a snack, Draco went to sleep, dreaming of her wearing his Quidditch jersey.

Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Summary:

Draco and Hermione let some of their defenses down. Emotional intimacy is hard, even during Christmas!

A/N: Here we go! Sorry this took so much longer than I was anticipating. My winter recess was much busier than I had anticipated and I had no time to write or relax! Please enjoy this chapter! I also found myself making a pinterest board of this chapter and honestly it was lots of fun! I may do this for previous chapters and for future chapters moving forward. As always, I truly appreciate all your comments/kudos/bookmarks. Follow me on twitter :)

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Hermione woke on Christmas morning to a gentle, but persistent knock on her door. She opened it, rubbing sleep from her eyes, to find Draco, casually but neatly dressed in joggers and a sweater.

“Merry Christmas, Granger,” he began, stepping into her room excitedly. “I thought we could exchange gifts.”

“What time is it?” she mumbled, suddenly self-conscious about her unmade room, the pineapple bun that was barely hanging on, and the oversized t-shirt she wore to bed.

“It’s 8am,” he admitted, the tiniest bit of chagrin coloring his voice. “I let you sleep in but I didn’t want the morning to go to waste…”

She yawned, reached up to cover her mouth with one hand, scratching her scalp with the other. Her initial bout of annoyance gave way to affection. It was Christmas after all. 

“Give me 30 minutes and I’ll be out.”

She hadn’t had a Christmas morning at home in years. She treated herself to a peppermint sugar scrub in the shower, only spritzing her curls with water to refresh them. She slathered herself in a thick cream she had impulsively purchased from the luxury department store and pulled on what was quickly becoming her favorite outfit to wear at home - leggings, a sweatshirt, and fuzzy socks. No handmade Weasley sweater had arrived for her this Christmas.

Pushing the sting of that rejection out of her mind, Hermione wandered into the main living area to find Draco excitedly watching snow fall, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. She wandered up to him, taking the cup from his hands to take a deep inhale, before picking up the mug of tea she knew to be hers from the counter. 

“I know we didn’t talk about presents but I still got you something,” she said, pulling a wrapped parcel from where she had stashed it under the Christmas tree that had appeared the morning after they agreed to celebrate Christmas together. They settled on the couch together. “Merry Christmas!”

He didn’t open it right away, instead levitating a slender, rectangular box into her lap. She meant to tell him to open his gift first, meant to be polite about it but she couldn’t. She tore into the wrapping excitedly, opening the box to reveal a bezel-set gold and diamond bracelet. Her eyes went wide.

“Draco-”

He laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling, his perfectly straight and white teeth practically gleaming. He was beautiful.

“You should have been in Ravenclaw with the way you absolutely lose it over shiny things.” When she flushed bright red, his laugh only grew louder. “Put it on, then.”

She did, holding out her wrist for Draco to admire the way the diamonds glinted and glimmered in the morning light. His thumb brushed lightly against the inner part of her wrist, and she bit her lower lip, her pulse thrumming.

He released her to open his own gift, Hermione snapping to excuses ready at the tip of her tongue.

“Listen,” she started. “It’s no diamond bracelet, and in hindsight I probably should have gotten you a watch or something but I noticed you still use the one I gave you months ago and that it’s looking a little frayed -”

“Thank you.”

His tone was so sincere that it made Hermione’s heart hurt as he fingered the package of hairties, inspecting each one as if they were gold. Some were brown, some were black, and some were a whitish-blonde she had charmed to match his hair color from memory. They share a glance and the moment is so warm, tender even, that Hermione’s throat becomes thick with emotion.

This Christmas was different than any other Christmas she had ever experienced. Her first Christmas after the war had been spent with the Weasleys, and she felt a profound sense of loss over the cozy Christmases she had spent with her parents. Every year that followed that loss followed her, only to be filled bit by bit by her friendships, by her found family. She had awoken, alone, in her bed this morning, curious like a child. And, despite expecting to feel that same loss amplified, she felt like all was well.

She wanted him. And not just in the carnal sense, not just in the moments of passion she had stolen with him in the lab before they were friends, before she had gotten pregnant, before they were husband and wife. She wanted him and she wanted this.  

“Draco,” she said, her voice low and unhurried. When he didn’t answer her right away, she repeated herself. “Draco.”

His head turned at her insistent tone, eyes scanning her from the top of her wild hair, loose, open, and tumbling down her back in a sleepy mix of waves and curls, her face, bare-faced, down her breasts, her stomach, her legs, and her socked feet. He wanted her too, she knew it.

She pitched forward, uncrossing her legs to go on her knees, her arms reaching towards him. To embrace him, to do anything to facilitate this connection. For a moment she thought that she could land on him, or that he would reach back out to her but he sat upright, moving away from the couch, leaving Hermione lurching awkwardly. She sat up on her knees, the cold trickle of rejection making its way down her head and spine.

He was saying something, something light, probably about the hair ties because she saw him take one out and slip it onto his wrist. He might have started admiring it, but she couldn’t be sure because her eyes welled with tears.

“Are you having an affair?”

The question flew out of her before she could stop herself, her pride wounded and festering. Rejected, dejected, and alone. Draco moved to sit back down next to her, offering his palm to Hermione, as if granting her permission to speak.

“I asked, are you having an affair?”

“No,” Malfoy responded flatly.

A beat passed.

“Is that all, Granger?”

The sheer ridiculousness of it all barreled into Hermione with all the force of The Hogwarts Express. The tentative peace and warmth from their brief Christmas morning had been shattered, and she felt foolish to be a woman married to a man who didn’t want her affection, who didn’t need her affection. So what if she had never been in love - that didn’t diminish her need, or yearning. She wanted to love, she wanted to be loved. And maybe Draco couldn’t offer that to her, and maybe she couldn’t have that with Draco, but could they truly have nothing? Did he not even have the stomach to pretend?

Angry, embarrassed tears rolled down her cheeks. She sniffled, jamming her fists to her eyes to wipe them away, forcing herself to take deep shuddering breaths to calm down. She turned away from Draco so he couldn’t see, but he grabbed her wrist. When she didn’t turn, but didn’t yank her wrist away, he moved from the couch to kneel beside her on the couch. She filed this away as the second time he kneeled for her.

“Hermione.” He placed one hand on her thigh and she burned. “I promise I’m not having an affair.”

She brought her fist up to her mouth, gnawing on the skin around her thumb, ignoring how Draco winced at the habit. She refused to ask him, she wouldn’t ask him, she couldn’t ask him, couldn’t let him know -

“I know you don’t love me.” The words came out in a whisper, her voice hoarse from how tightly she had clenched her body to stop the words from coming. She couldn’t stop. “I won’t ask you to love me. But don’t we like each other? Aren’t we friends? I want…I want to spend time with you and I have needs and I know you have them too but you don’t seem like you do, and I don’t want to sit here and beg you but-” She wrung her hands, her eyes darting up to see his stormy eyes watching her, listening to her intently. “I don’t want to beg you…I didn’t think we got married just for the show.” She was blabbering now. “I know that to ask you to give me what you and Astoria had is not realistic but Draco, I’m asking for this. ”

“Astoria and I had a different kind of marriage.” He inched closer to her, reaching up to cup her face and tilt her chin up to meet his eyes.

“I’m not Astoria.” And she felt stupid all over again for feeling jealous of a dead woman.

“I know. I know,” he repeated softly.

She waited for him to say more, to explain what kind of marriage he had with Astoria and to tell her what kind of marriage they could have. But when she felt the soft brush of his lips against her forehead, what she knew to be his spicy and woodsy scent invaded her senses, she sighed. If this is what he would offer, she would take it.

His lips moved from her forehead, pressing gently to the corner of each of her eyes, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears from her cheeks. He kissed each cheek, her chin, her jaw, his hands moving from her cheeks to her back, wrapping her tightly and pressing her forward against him. She gripped his shoulders as he made his way down her neck, her legs parting and then squeezing to keep him locked in an embrace. Her hands slid down his back, feeling the muscles of his back bunch, her fingers pressing where she knew he had a constellation of moles.

“Stop!”

Malfoy stilled, and she drew her legs together, pushing him away with her knees. He let her, but didn’t withdraw fully, opting to rest his head on her thigh and trace a pattern along her outer thighs, his eyes peering up with her in a question.

“I don’t want a pity fuck, don’t do this because you feel sorry for me-”

He stood suddenly, cutting her off, and yanking her up by the wrist so she was standing. He pulled her up off the couch, pressing her firmly to his chest, and pressed her hand against his groin so she could feel his erection.

“I’m only sorry I haven’t been doing this every day,” he bit back through clenched teeth.

A thrill shot through Hermione and, when Draco pressed his lips to hers, her protesting thoughts of needing to talk more were silenced. They could talk after. They had the rest of their lives to talk, after all.

But right then, she needed this.

Draco’s tongue swept into her mouth and she reached up to grip his silken hair, twisting it in her fingers. He was pressing himself into her, or maybe she was pressing herself into him, and she could feel every hard line of his body against every soft curve of hers. She rocked back onto her heels, her toes cramping from being on her tip-toes and Draco chased her, stooping down to haul her back against him, his hands reaching down to cup her ass. He kissed her so quickly, so roughly, and with so much fervor that she wondered how much of him had been holding back from her, and why.

Her lips found all the spots that he liked, the skin behind his year, the juncture where his jaw met his neck, her fingers raking through his scalp, tugging gently on his hair. Her hands trailed down his chest and up under his shirt, fingers gliding up and through the light smattering of fine hair, up his nipples, and back down to his waist. His skin was so warm to the touch. He shuddered, the muscles of his stomach contracting underneath her hands. She groaned, her hands finding the soft waist of his joggers.

Draco pulled away from her, goosebumps erupting on her arms from the sudden chill it sent through her. His hair was mussed, falling over his brow, the high points of his cheeks pink, his lips wet and swollen.

“No,” he said raggedly, his eyes dark as he took in Hermione’s equally disheveled experience. “You first.” He was back on her before she could protest, this time walking her backwards and kissing her so quickly she barely registered one sensation before it melted into the next. He worked her sweatshirt up and off of her, pressing himself back into her quickly as he guided her down the hallway, past her room, and into his bedroom.

It was dark, and for that Hermione was grateful. She didn’t want to hide exactly, but the last time Draco had seen her naked she had been - 

Her thought was interrupted when the back of her knees hit the bed and she sat. Her hands reached for the waistband of his pants again and he swatted her hands away smirking before kneeling again, coaxing her socks, her leggings, and underwear off her legs. She leaned back on her elbows and Draco, still on his knees(was this five times now?) began kissing a line from her ankles, to her thighs.

He didn’t tease her. Wrenching her thighs apart, Draco descended on her as if he were starving, the sudden heat and wetness of his mouth making her cry out loudly. She had long given up being embarrassed about how her body reacted to him - she was nothing more than a moaning, begging mess when he laid his hands on her. Draco slid two fingers into her, curving them up in that way that had her aching her back, her fingers practically pulling at his hair. Everything was so sensitive.

“ Draco !” His name was a plea on her lips, one hand reaching down to tightly grip his free hand. He entwined their fingers, eyes blazing as he took in the sight of her splayed on his bed.

“Just like that, Hermione,” he murmured against her flesh. “Say my name when you come.”

Her orgasm crashed through her, blanking her senses, her knees falling inward to trap Draco between her, grounding her, connecting her to him. She shuddered and Draco pushed away from her only to shift her back onto the bed, draping himself over her body. He lowered his lips to her breast before she could stop him, his left hand reaching up to cup her right breast. He groaned feeling the weight, the heft of them in his hand. His thumb and index finger tweaked her nipple, his teeth drawing her other into a fine point.

She writhed under him, this sensation wholly too sensitive and too new for her. Her hands reached down his back to tug impatiently at his shirt and he gently bit the soft underside of her breast. She yelped, Draco rearing up on his knees to pull off his shirt before getting up to remove his pants. Hermione followed, greedily reaching for him, aching to feel the length of him in her mouth.

Cupping her cheek with his hand, his thumb sweeping against her lower lip, the corners of his lips turning down in a disapproving but indulgent smile. “Not yet.”

“But you said to me first,” she all but whined.

His lips curled up in a smirk, but his eyes felt distant, perhaps a little sad. “Come here,” and he pulled her to lay down beside him on the bed, face to face, chest to chest. Hermione reached her arms around him, her hand giving his ass a firm squeeze before clinging to his shoulders and neck. Her need for him was so terrible, so great, and she felt like she would freeze without the heat of him inside her. She was whimpering as his hands roamed over her squeezing, reacquainting himself with her body. When his hands reached the curve of her belly, she flinched, and Draco’s hand pressed firmly into her, wrenching his lips away from hers to look.

She had been quite small her first trimester, mostly looking like she had perhaps just eaten a big lunch. But now the pop of her belly was more noticeable, unusual, the skin of her stomach firmer and taught. She could barely stand to see it but couldn’t help but feel the heat of his hand sink into her stomach, into her blood, into her soul . She looked up from his hand into his face, sucking in her breath at the profound longing that melted and pooled in his now stormy eyes.

Draco’s eyes snapped up at hers, the sadness receding like the tide, that familiar look of lust in his eyes. 

“Draco,” she began, the need to talk to him, to dissect his thoughts breaking through her own cloud of desire.

He hushed her gently, taking her face between both hands to press a deep, slow kiss to her lips. Gone was the urgency with which he had caressed her before, replaced with something deeper, something tender. She wondered if he was thinking of Astoria.

“Granger,” he murmured into her hair, wedging his thighs in between her legs.

She rolled her hips, chasing the friction, her hands mapping out his body, the one she knew so well. Her fingers danced over that one spot above his hip and he jerked, a breathless laugh escaping him, blowing the loose strands of hair off her face. She did it again and he pressed into her insistently, hands reaching down to grab her wrists and bring them up over her head. 

They stared at each other for a moment, Hermione mesmerized by the shimmering pools of molten silver in his eyes and how they seemed to reach right into her. Draco inched up her body and she could feel him against her inner thigh, hot, insistent, heavy. She moaned. 

“Please, Draco. I want -”

He swallowed her words with a kiss, releasing her hands and bracketing his arms around her and pushed inside her.

It felt like coming home.

Hermione cried out, wrapping her arms around his neck, losing herself in the sensations. It had been too long, it felt so good, and she heard herself whimpering these things in his ear.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling away from her. “I won’t last long.”

She chased him, sitting up immediately and straddling him, sliding her slick center against his cock, watching the muscles of his stomach tense and release. With one hand he gripped her hip and himself with another, maneuvering her until she sank onto him inch by delicious inch.

She was being wound taught, that familiar coil of pleasure winding itself deep in her belly. She leaned forward, dropping her head to his forehead. Draco wrapped his arms around her, thrusting up into her at frenzied pace, the sounds of wet skin on skin and their moans and pants filling her ears.

“Oh god,” he grunted, reaching to pull Hermione by the hair back to look at her. “I’m going to -”

She nodded, her fingers curling into his shoulders. She shuddered, the pleasure crashing over her, prolonged only by the sensation of Draco shuddering beneath her, all sensation narrowed to the parts of them that were connected, her mind emptying, her heart filling.

She collapsed onto him, her legs going weak as she rolled to her side. Draco chased her, pulling her to his chest, cradling her. He kissed her temple.

“Merry Christmas, Draco.”

“Merry Christmas, Hermione.”

Chapter 19: Chapter 19

A/N: Enjoy this spicy little chapter! I'm almost done with Chapter 20. My goal for the rest of this week is to create an outline for the rest of this fic. I'm hoping to wrap this up in about 6-7 more chapters, maybe with an epilogue? We'll see. I don't have a beta, I'm running on 4 hours of sleep, and I've just binged all seasons of Castlevania as well as Castlevania Nocturne so I'm feeling creatively rejuvenated! I was so inspired after watching that show that I just HAD to stay up late writing this chapter and Chapter 20 (which is completed!)  As always, thank you to everyone for reading. Writing this fic has been so fun despite how challenging finding the time to write it is. Thank you for commenting, leaving kudos, and recommending my fic to others! Follow me on twitter .

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They didn’t spend long in bed, Draco all but dressing Hermione in one of his t-shirts before deciding they would make breakfast. He had all the ingredients for a full English breakfast and, to Hermione’s immense pleasure, also had laminated dough that only needed to be rolled for fresh croissants.  

Sleepy, and full, Draco let her nap for twenty minutes before she felt his caresses on her.  

“This is the second time you’ve woken me up today,” she protested, lifting her arms up to assist Draco in taking off the t-shirt.  

“Oh? Is that so?” He murmured against her sternum. “You should file a complaint.”  

“Ok,” she sighed, yanking on his hair. “I’m filing a complaint.”  

“Let me make it up to you,” he murmured against her inner thigh.  

And he did. Again and again.  

When Hermione slipped into her own bed that evening, she was too sated, limbs too jelly-like to even care that Draco had kissed her goodnight and slipped into his own room.  

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Time was always strange in that space between Christmas and the New Year. Hermione had closed the clinic for all her patients that week, deciding to only reopen on January 12th, with the hope that she could use this time to figure out how exactly she would be announcing her maternity leave to her clients.  

“Draco,” she said over breakfast. She had requested a bowl of oatmeal while Draco had made himself eggs over easy with sausage and bacon. And, while she always enjoyed a hearty meal, the sight of the runny eggs made her queasy and she all but gagged when he dipped a piece of toast in the yolk. “I wanted to go to Diagon Alley today - check out some books at Flourish and Blotts. Do you want to come with me?”  

He ripped a piece of bacon in two with his hands before taking a bite. For someone raised in the upper-crust, he had poor table manners at home. “Sure,” he said easily. “I also invited Theo over for dinner.”  

She stilled, her teeth biting down on her lower lip, her oatmeal all but forgotten now. “I had made plans with Neville this evening. I haven’t seen him since the wedding - he’s been so busy with final exams  and he’s now on break. He’s actually staying at my flat right now.”  

Draco shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Why don’t you invite him too?”  

“But what about - what about their-?” Hermione bit her lip, stopping herself. She knew that Draco knew Neville was gay, knew that Draco was aware of their history but she had been too used to keeping it a secret for all these years.  

Draco rolled his eyes, patting his lips with a napkin, Hermione’s stomach roiling at the sight of the grease stain left on it. How much butter did he cook his eggs in? “They’re adults, Granger. It will be fine.”  

“But when was the last time they shared a meal together? Won’t it be awkward? I don’t know how I’d do it.”  

“Don’t you have meals regularly at the Potter house?”  

Hermione flushed a deep red, her cheeks heating. “But that’s different.”  

Draco shrugged. “Not really.”  

“It is,” she insisted. “And I haven’t been - not since we -” She cleared her throat. “He’s married.” At Draco’s arched brow, she corrected herself. “We’re both married . To other people.”  

He shrugged, pushing away from the table, pointing to Hermione’s now empty bowl to ask if she was finished. “Neville and Theo have dinner pretty regularly, last I checked.”  

“But they’re not together.”  

Draco scoffed. “That’s what Neville told you? Why do you think Theo is so eager to come back to London?”  

“You told me he was interested in my work. He told me that too.”  

“He is interested in your work. It certainly doesn’t hurt that your work is close to someone he wants to be close to.”  

“Don’t tell me - you’re acting as some sort of demented matchmaker for them?”  

Draco was at the sink now, lazily charming the sponge to move in a circular motion on the dishes. He turned, one brow cocked at her. “Hermione.” He used her first name so little that it made her sit up straight. “What did Neville tell you about their relationship?”  

“Theo moved to France and Neville started at Hogwarts. The long distance didn’t work for them.” She shrugged, watching how Draco moved around the kitchen to tidy up. He was meticulous, opting to wipe down surfaces himself and return the glass jars back to the massive walk-in pantry. She would have used magic for this but Draco did it himself - rotating each glass jar so that its label faced forward in the exact same way as the others. All alike, nothing different. Hermione wondered if he did a lot of organizing and cataloging the Manor’s items during his house arrest.  

“That’s…a convenient truth,” he finally responded, wringing his hands dry on a kitchen towel. “But why does Neville stay at your flat?”  

“Nevermind that - what happened with them?”  

Draco smirked. “Better ask Neville tonight at dinner, then.”  

---

They decided to make the 30 minute walk to Diagon Alley, Hermione wanting to enjoy the sunshine. She had hardly walked in the day with Draco and she wondered, as she tucked her chin into her coat that Draco had charmed with a warming spell, if she should take his arm or hold his hand. He was walking slowly, tempering his long strides as much as he could so she could keep up with him. The streets were empty, only sleepy couples headed for brunch or young families walking their children to the local park. She eyed a couple pushing a pram in their opposite direction, her eyes flitting to Draco, trying to imagine him pushing a pram, to imagine a baby with blonde curls.  

Her breath caught and she misstepped, the toe of her shoe getting caught under an uneven piece of the cobbled sidewalk. She never thought herself to be clumsy, but her balance felt off, and she staggered forward, her arms pinwheeling.  

“Hermione!” Draco’s hand shot out, gripping her bicep so tightly it hurt as she steadied herself. “Are you alright?”  

She nodded, shrugging out of Draco’s grip. “Just tripped.” She kept walking, not wanting to share. “You coming?” She asked over her shoulder.  

It took Draco only three strides to catch up with her, and one more stride to bring him just close enough for him to bring his hand to the small of her back, the heat of it warming her from the inside out.  

By the time they reached Diagon Alley, Hermione was tired, her nervousness was ramping up. This was their first outing in Wizarding London as a couple and, as they stepped through the brick wall, her ring grew heavy on her finger.   Draco, to his credit, seemed unperturbed, and he walked with his chin tucked into the front of his coat, one hand in his pocket, presumably gripping his wand, his other hand pressed against Hermione’s back.   

“Good lord,” she muttered, as she pushed past a throng of middle-aged witches and wizards who stared at them with open disapproval. “Any one of these hags could be sending the letters to our house.”  

The corner of Draco’s lip lifted, half snarl, half smirk. He was quiet. People were, at their best, unpredictable.   They made it into Flourish and Blotts and the cacophony of the streets outside immediately fading. Hermione sighed, breathing in the smell of parchment, ink, and dust. Her favorite smells. It had been too long since Hermione had visited and she missed the jam packed bookstore full of new and old.   She separated from Draco immediately, losing herself in the spirals of the bookstore, taking meandering detours before she reached her final destination. She already had three books tucked under her arm by the time she reached the book she actually needed. She was just about to reach for it when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.   She gasped, dropping the books, her free hand reaching into her pocket for her wand. She spun around, wand out, a curse on the edge of her lips when Draco’s woodsy, smoky scent crowded her, and he pressed the length of his body into hers, pushing her into the bookshelf.  

He held one hand firm on her hip, the other bent and resting just above her head, his own face dipping down to look at her. A piece of hair fell forward on his forehead and Hermione moved to push it back.  

“Where did you disappear to?” His eyes were dark, a playful annoyance flitting through them.  

“I’m right here,” she huffed back, acutely aware of how he shoved his thigh in between her legs.  

His head dipped and she found herself unwittingly lifting her face to his. She thought to correct herself, to push him away from her in the bookshop, but…  

She wanted him too badly.  

How much of her life had she spent wound up so tightly? How many hours had she spent devouring books under the guise of knowledge but really, truly, it was all just to prove herself? How many days had she denied herself Malfoy, opting instead to spend his money for both noble and trivial pursuits, when all she really wanted was this?  

She kissed him, her hands immediately working on the belt of his pants.  

“Hermione,” he protested, breaking the kiss in surprise. But she was good at this. He made a sound of protest again when Hermione deftly unbuttoned his slacks, but the complaint died when she gripped the length of him in her fist.  

She sighed, drinking in the sight of Draco disheveled, undone, his mouth hanging open in surprise and pleasure.  

“ Fu-uck .”  

The low groan of pleasure soared through Hermione, her cheeks heating. She could feel the hot pants of their breaths and he pressed himself closely to her. His hips began pumping, gently at first, rocking with the movement of her hands and she saw his fists grip the shelves behind her. She was quite uncomfortable, the shelves digging into the small of her back so hard she wondered if it would leave marks, her selected books forgotten and haphazardly scattered on the floor. His head dropped to her shoulder, his lips leaving sloppy kisses on the side of her neck.  

“Come for me, Draco.”   

His head snapped back up, the high points of his cheeks red. She thought to feel embarrassed about using her favorite Draco Malfoy phrase against him. There was a challenge rising in his eyes -   

A bluster of giggles cut through the thick shroud of their lust, Hermione and Draco registering at the same time a group of women walking through the store on the other side of the bookshelf. Draco’s eyes widened in panic and he made a move as if to pull away from her. But her grip tightened, gently, her other hand reaching up to fist the collar of his shirt.  

“Come, Draco,” She repeated, her tone insistent, her voice low. “I want to feel you come in my hands.”  

She felt so unlike herself, so unhinged in her singular focus of hearing, smelling, seeing Draco come undone, to see if perhaps he was a mirror image of how she felt when he laid his hands on her. He shuddered, a low moan barely escaping from his clenched teeth. She felt the warmth of him on her hand, dripping down her fingers and wrist. The women behind them passed, their low laughter and chatter disappearing as they rounded the corner.  

Draco sagged against her, his forehead pressing into hers. “Hermione,” he muttered. His hands moved from the bookshelf behind her to rest on her throat and he kissed her deeply, slowly. Pulling away from her, Draco reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, carefully wiping her hands clean. He righted himself, quickly, quietly, and when he stepped back, fully set to rights, he peered at her with curiosity.  

“What’s gotten into you?” he murmured, bending down to pick up Hermione’s books and shooing her away when she tried to take them from him. “Our first outing together, Granger. And look at you…” his voice trailed off. He looked like he had been stunned.  

She smirked, taking his hand and dragging them to the checkout counter, the mildly disapproving stares from bystanders  earlier turning to outright disgust at their very mild yet open display of affection. If only they knew. She released him only when they reached the counter, Malfoy politely yet distantly proffering the money for Hermione’s purchases to the only mildly interested cashier.  

The blast of cold air from the street stunned her, the heady daze she had been in dissipating, but not entirely.   

“Didn’t you say you needed new creams?”  

Hermione whipped her head around to peer up at Draco, who too seemed to have sobered up in the cold. He inclined his head and she followed his gaze to see a lavender storefront, presumably new, with a sign charmed to read “Glamora’s Grimoire of Glow” flashing over the entryway.  

She had mentioned that her lotions were running out and that she had been mixing them with muggle body creams to make them last a touch longer. She just hadn’t had the time to make it to Diagon Alley.  

“Come on, then,” Draco took her hand in his again, pulling her along.  

It felt good, she thought, to be out here with him. To hold his hand, to be with him in public, her diamond ring throwing brilliant rainbows under the blinding winter sun. If they hadn’t been married, she might have wanted him to be her boyfriend.  

And what an interesting thought that was.  

Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Summary:

Draco and Hermione are in love, but too stuck in their own thoughts to just enjoy it. They just needed a little bit of help from Theo and Neville...

A/N: Thank you for reading. I'm sorry I've slowed down on the updates. I think about this fic constantly but can never find the time to sit down and write it properly. On the positive side, I did finally flesh out a complete outline. This fic is going to be 28 chapters long with one (perhaps two!) epilogues. Also! My doctorate program is going great and my study was recently approved by my university's IRB so I'll be running an experiment for the rest of the year. It's pretty neat to be so creative, artistically and scientifically all at the same time in my life. What an immense privilege it is to create and to read and to experience everything the world has to offer! I'm going off the rails here. In any case, please enjoy this chapter. I don't have a beta so please excuse any mistakes I make. Thank you for your comments, they are so motivating and fun to read!

---

When they returned to the townhome, Hermione’s feet and back ached and she groaned when they crossed over the threshold. They had a few hours before Neville and Theo were supposed to come over. 

“Don’t start cooking without me,” she said sternly as she settled on the couch, a steaming mug of herbal tea in her hands. “I’m going to help you cook tonight.” 

*** 

Hermione startled, disoriented and decidedly not on the couch. She squinted in the dim room, trying to orient herself, and realized that she was in Draco’s room, in his bed. Draco must have carried her here after she had fallen asleep on the couch. She stretched her arms overhead, wiggled her fingers and toes, willing life to come back to her. She almost felt worse after this nap and it took everything in her to not burrow back under the covers that smelled just like Draco and see if, come nighttime, Draco would crawl under the covers with her. 

She strained her ears, listening for the tell-tale sounds of clattering and banging, maybe some music playing, all signs that Draco was cooking. But all was silent. She staggered out of his room, not bothering to make up the bed, and peeked her head into the living room, only to gasp in surprise. 

Draco, Neville, and Theo were all lounging on the living room couches, an abandoned deck of cards scattered on the coffee table next to one empty and one half-empty bottle of wine.  Neville was the first to notice her. 

“Hermione!” His smile was wide, too wide, his whole face ruddy. He always got so red when he drank and, judging by the tomato-red color of his entire face, he was smashed. “You awake?” He stood up, clumsily, lurching forward to envelop her in a sloppy hug. 

She hugged him back, happy to see her friend. “Happy late Christmas, Neville,” she wished him. He smiled at her again, his lopsided grin and Hermione couldn’t help but return it. 

“Happy Christmas, Hermione.” Theo’s voice was like running water with  the way it poured over her. He materialized behind Neville, offering a clumsy pat on her shoulder. The bastard was so charming, even when he was drunk. It was obvious that they all were. 

Draco remained seated on the couch, one leg crossed over his knee. He looked like himself, stoic, calm, devastatingly handsome. But the tips of his ears were tinged pink and Hermione knew he was sloshed.  

“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” she started, making her way to the couch. She hesitated, before opting to sit on the far side of Draco’s couch. “Although it seems like you ended up drinking most of it.” 

Theo giggled and Neville quickly followed suit. Draco, who still hadn’t spoken yet, instead reached his arm over and around Hermione’s waist, his strong fingers digging into the skin of her side. He yanked, pulling her closer to him, until she pressed up against his side. He draped his arm over her shoulders, his fingers idly twisting around the curls. He brought his mouth down to her ear. 

“Sorry I didn’t wake you. You just…you looked so peaceful.” 

She turned her head to look at him, trying to decipher what was going through his head at the moment, or what the three men had possibly been doing while she slept. 

“How long have you two been here?” 

“Maybe two hours,” Theo supplied, taking what appeared to be a restrained sip from his glass. He shrugged. “Something like that.” 

“Hermione,” Theo leaned forward, Neville, who was on the opposite couch, mirroring the movement. “Have you considered my offer?” 

She felt Draco turn his head to look at her in curiosity. “Er..Draco, Theo offered to tell us if...we - if the baby was a boy or a girl.” 

“Oh.” 

“I only offered, and she didn’t take me up on the offer. I just wondered if you needed to know for nursery decorations or anything like that.” 

The truth was Hermione and Draco hadn’t discussed that, hadn’t discussed anything about the baby since their wedding. They were only just getting to know each other, after all. At least that was what she told herself. 

Theo looked between Hermione’s stricken expression and Draco’s stoic one, his enthusiasm leeching away from his face. “Of course, if you haven’t, that’s all fi-” 

“It doesn’t matter.” Draco’s voice was a pleasant rumble in her ear. “It doesn’t really matter to me,” he said again, shrugging. 

“A girl would be nice,” Neville offered. “I always imagined myself having a daughter.” 

Hermione smiled at Neville, her gentle friend. “I could see it.” And she really could. 

Theo cleared his throat. “In any event, I came prepared.” He flicked his wand, summoning a parcel wrapped in gold paper, topped with a beautiful white bow. “It’s gender neutral.” 

Hermione reached for the package, carefully undoing the bow and gingerly pulling the paper apart to reveal a beautiful baby mobile. 

“It’s beautiful,” She gasped, her mouth dry. 

It was celestial themed, with delicate twinkling stars encircling an exact replica of the moon, clouds winking in and out of existence. What Hermione thought was a shooting star flit through the scene and disappeared in the clouds, only to reappear again. But when she looked closely, she realized it was a golden snitch. 

Draco leaned over her shoulder, his hands reaching over to grab the mobile out of her lap. He held it up to the light, a finger ghosting over the little golden snitch that zipped away from his touch. 

“How did you..?” Hermione’s voice trailed off in wonder, her emotions caught in her throat. 

“Neville helped me,” Theo said proudly. 

“I may be an herbology professor but I’m quite good at charms. I replicated the magic in The Great Hall. This mobile will match the sky of wherever you are.” 

“Thank you,” Draco breathed, and Hermione heard the same raw emotion in his voice from when she had first told him she was pregnant. Silence fell over them, Draco leaning over Hermione’s shoulder, both their eyes taking in the mobile, their thoughts only half-present. 

“You know,” Neville leaned forward, placing a hand on Hermione’s knee. “I’m happy for you.” He gestured to Theo. “ We are happy for you.” 

The tears pricking at Hermione’s eyes filled over, emotion spilling over her cup. Had she heard that once this entire time? Her entire adult life, had anyone treated anything she’d done with something other than contempt, or at the very best, suspicion? And now this, what was to be the grandest and most terrifying thing she’ll do, had been met with thinly veiled judgement, with contempt, and, even by herself, total ignoring. 

“I’ve always wondered about having a girl.” Draco’s voice was so soft, so quiet that Hermione thought she had made it up. She turned her head to find Draco had settled back on the couch, almost looking as if he had wished he never said anything. 

“Really?” She breathed, heart thumping in her chest. “I wasn’t expecting that.” 

He chuckled, a wry sound. “There hasn’t been a girl Malfoy born in the last 200 years. Very rarely has each Malfoy couple had more than one child anyway. I think it would be nice if our child was...different. In so much that they already are,” he added, after a pause. 

“Have you thought of a name?” Theo’s voice was brash, intrusive on what had become such an intimate moment.  

“Cassandra,” was Draco’s immediate reply. He had moved his arm from around Hermione’s shoulders and was now sitting up, leaning forward, his eyes shiny. 

“Cassandra,” Hermione repeated, the name feeling heavy and foreign on her tongue. “A constellation,” She murmurred. 

“What do you think, Hermione?” Theo asked. 

“I haven’t - I didn’t,” She cleared her throat. “I hadn’t thought about it.” She paused, her cheeks warming. “I’ve been calling the baby Peach.” 

“You have?” Draco had turned now to face Hermione, his hand resting on her knee. 

“And what if it’s a boy?” She asked, not waiting for his response. “What about Leo?” 

“Have you really been calling the baby Peach?” Draco’s voice was soft, a smile hidden in its depths. 

She felt shy, nervous, but at the same time wanted to jump in his lap, pry his mouth open, and make all his thoughts pour out. What else had he thought about? What fantasy did he have? She pictured him, leaning over a crib, calling out the name Cassandra. Her breath caught. 

“Are you not – are you not talking about these things?” came Theo’s slightly incredulous voice, cutting through the tension. 

Neville, whose eyes had been volleying back and forth between Draco and Hermione, reached out, as if to stop Theo. 

“Yes,” she nodded. “Peaches have so many medicinal qualities. I thought she could be,” She paused, carefully considering her words. “I thought she could be something healing for me,” she admitted quietly. “I always imagine her in a nursery the color of the sunset.” 

“Beautiful,” Draco murmurred, picking up her hand to ghost a kiss on the sensitive skin of her wrist. “I think I want that, too.” 

Hermione’s stomach swooped, the proverbial butterflies gone rampant in her stomach. She wanted to reach out, to kiss him, to have him put her hands on her belly and hold them, herself. This shared closeness between them felt unbearable and she wanted to smother him, wanted to be smothered.  

“Theo,” Neville’s voice cut through, but softer. “We need to leave.” 

Hermione whipped her head around, her hand still clasped in Draco’s. But the moment was broken, gone. “But you only just got here.” 

“We’ll come back, don’t worry.” Theo stood up, taking the half-empty bottle of wine with him. Neville followed suit, both of them gathering their coats from the coat closet before standing in front of the fireplace, floo powder in each of their hands. “Draco,” Theo inclined his head. “Hermione, sorry for the poor manners. But it’s getting late. I’ll see you at the office?” And he stepped through the floo, calling out the name for Nott Manor. 

Neville, on the other hand, lurched forward to embrace Hermione, giving Draco a confident but hesitant handshake. “Nice to see you again, Malfoy.” And he too stepped through the floo. 

“Celestial names?” Hermione asked without preamble, Draco’s head turning suddenly to face her again. 

“Of course you noticed.” He nodded, clearing his throat. “It’s a Black naming tradition, not a Malfoy one. I’d like to – I thought that,” his voice uncharacteristically unsure. “I would like to pass this tradition down, but I understand if you would rather not.” 

And there it was, the ugliness of their collective past rearing its head. She tamped it down. 

“I think that would be alright,” she said softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. They were sitting thigh to thigh, facing the roaring fireplace. “I’d like to pass down my middle name. For my mother,” She explained. 

Draco laced their fingers together and she could feel him nod. “Cassandra Jean Malfoy.” 

“Or maybe Leo.” 

“Maybe Leo,” he conceded. 

They sat in silence for a bit, Hermione, despite having slept most of the night away, lulled to a doze-like state by Draco’s warmth. Draco was growing increasingly slouched, his eyes heavy and half-opened. And then, to her embarrassment, her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since lunch when Draco had plied her with not one but two quiches, a decaffeinated latte, and a fruit tart. 

“I left you dinner. On the counter,” He murmured. 

She extricated herself from him, walking quickly, eager to see what Draco had cooked for what was supposed to be their dinner party. 

“Pizza!?” She called out from the island. 

She picked it up gingerly, a little surprised at herself for her disappointment. She had never considered herself spoiled. It took a lot of her to not cringe, to not ask Malfoy if this was all he could muster. It’s not like she had helped, or even been awake for any of it. 

Draco was up and by her side before she knew it, his glazed eyes roaming over hers. “I can make you something.” 

“Oh, no!” She laughed, waving her hand as if to shoo the idea away. She took a large bite of the pizza, relieved to know that, at the very least, it was a good slice, albeit cold, even if it would likely give her heartburn in about an hour.  

He grabbed the plate from the counter, sliding it towards himself. “Let me make you something else.” 

“What?” She protested, her mouth still full. “I said this was fine,” as she reached back out for the plate. 

“ Granger ,” Draco started, his voice low and insistent. 

“ Malfoy,” She retorted back, screwing her face in a sneer that rivaled his. “Give me back my pizza.” 

Draco laughed quietly, sloppily seating himself on the barstool next to hers. His head bowed, eyes half-closed, before he gave up and laid his overheated cheeks on the cool marble surface. “I drank too much. Theo never knows when to give it up.” 

She eyed him skeptically. “Clearly,” she sniffed. 

Draco smiled, his eyes closing all the way. He looked much younger at that moment and Hermione imagined a small Draco Malfoy, before his time at Hogwarts, falling asleep at the kitchen table. She imagined that his cheeks were ruddy, his hair falling onto his forehead the way it did now. She reached a hand out to brush his hair away, but the vision changed and, instead of a little Draco, she saw a little child she didn’t recognize. But when she studied his slim nose, her eyes roaming over his milky skin, the dusting of freckles of across his round cheeks, the perfect platinum blond curls, recognition filled her. She blinked, her eyes suddenly full of tears, and Draco Malfoy, her husband, came back into focus. 

“You were right,” he muttered, his eyes still closed. 

Hermione started, surprised that he wasn’t already asleep. “I usually am,” she responded dryly, picking apart the crust of her now eaten pizza. She could already feel the heartburn coming up. She was sure she had a potion for it somewhere here. “But this time...about what?” 

“This morning you asked me if I was playing as...what was the phrase? ‘ Demented matchmaker?’” Draco opened one eye, to peer at her. “Did you hear what Neville called out as his floo destination?” 

Hermione paused and Draco pushed himself to sit upright, his expression expectant. When she clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, he laughed, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “ Shit!” She laughed breathlessly. “They both went to Nott Manor!” 

“Took you long enough to realize.” 

“Well, I did walk in media res .” She waved her hand at the now empty living room.  

“Don’t curse at me, witch.” But his tone was light, the wrinkles in his eyes still present. He winced, putting his head back down on the island. “Everything is spinning,” he moaned, the sound muffled. 

Giving into the impulse, Hermione stroked his hair before giving him a light pinch on his ear. “I wish I had been a part of it. I don’t know how you managed to mend what I thought was a years long separation.” 

“It was pretty easy. They wanted it.” 

“Hmm,” she responded, continuing to stroke his hair, her fingers running through his silky tresses. Somewhere from the table Draco sighed, turning his head so she could get the back of his neck. “But why did you?” Her voice was soft and, for a moment, she thought that perhaps Draco had fallen asleep or was pretending to. 

“I...I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. 

She stood, moving her hand to his shoulder. He turned his head to face her, fixing her with half-open eyes.  

“Come on now,” she soothed. “I think it’s time for bed.” 

With a little pulling, Draco dragged himself up from the counter. She walked with him to his bedroom, her arm wrapped around his waist. He didn’t need the support, but he leaned on her anyway.  

He collapsed onto his unmade bed, landing face first in what Hermione was sure where her drool had dried up. She fussed, trying to pull the pillow out from under him but he gripped her wrist tightly. 

“Lay down with me.” 

Hermione complied knowing all too well that Draco was likely entering the worst part of being drunk. Trying to sleep while everything fel like it was on a rollercoaster. She adjusted herself so she was on her back next to him, Draco face down on the bed, one arm slung over her chest. 

“You know,” She murmured, her fingers tracing the light sectumsempra scars that crisscrossed down his shoulder and bicep. “I think I know why you did it.” When Draco didn’t answer, she continued. “It’s...it’s not a bad thing to want your friend to be happy. Theo and Neville, I mean. I’ve schemed bigger things for less when it came to my friends. I wish...I wish I had been awake to see you scheme.” 

Draco’s breathing was slow, his eyes still closed. She turned on her side, tracing the bridge of his nose up to his forehead and down his temple to his jawline. She wondered if their child would look like him. Perhaps a girl with aristocratic and delicate features, or maybe the curly-headed boy she had imagined earlier. Or maybe, she thought, she’d have a little Hermione Granger with the temperament of Draco Malfoy. A part of her cringed, another part of her giggling at imagining a four year old being disappointed about pizza for dinner when they were so used to home-cooked meals. 

“Draco,” she whispered, her eyes heavy with sleep. “Is someone scheming for us? Does someone want us to be happy?”  Maybe it didn't matter, she thought. Maybe it didn't matter that no one schemed. They were here, together. Perhaps it was up to them to scheme for themselves.

She could have sworn he answered but Hermione was too eager, too excited, her dreams wandering from room to room in the townhome calling for their child. 

Chapter 21: Chapter 21

Hermione cleared her throat, adjusting her robes to ensure that they fell over her belly as she waited for the crowd to filter into her designated conference room. She was in Ireland today, presenting on the development of her potion, which was nearly in its final stages. This was Hermione’s third conference since presenting in India, and her closest to London. She tapped her wand tip nervously on the podium, curious if any of her ex-colleagues from St. Mungo’s would join in.

Hermione started when the clock read exactly 11:30. It was like riding a bike. Draco or Harry might have said like riding a broom, but she had never been good at that. It was so easy to be lost in the theory, to share her thinking, to synthesize and share out what existing potion masters and charm specialists had observed in isolation. Hermione knew she couldn’t have been the first to explore this and she felt a sense of excitement knowing that she wouldn’t be the last and, that perhaps a hundred years from now, some other young witch would reference her, brining Ms. Hermione Granger back to life in her favorite medium: words.

“Any questions?” Hermione asked, slightly breathless, a little sweaty. Her back was starting to twinge – she had stayed late in the potions lab the night before brewing a batch for her client knowing that she would be too exhausted from the conference to work tonight.

A man from the back of the room cleared his throat, raising his hand. When Hermione nodded at him, he spoke, his voice rougher and deeper than she had expected.

“Given that this is a theoretical concept,” he started, and the dread trickled down Hermione’s back. “What is your timeline for starting a clinical trial and by what metrics are you measuring success?”

She opened her mouth to respond but the man went on.

“Incorporating muggle science into the application of magical ingredients is very clever, indeed, but what can we expect magical ingredients to interact with each other in the same way muggle ingredients would?”

“I’m beginning to run small, single-subject trials of the medication. Case studies first on my patients,” she began, ignoring the man’s scoff. “And for your second question – I hope to answer that when I begin giving this to my patients.”

The same man raised his hand again and Hermione bit back her grimace, nodding at him to speak. “So you currently have no evidence to support that the potion is effective in reversing magical degeneration?”

“The evidence shows that-”

“Yes,” a voice from the crowd interrupted, and Hermione’s eyes flit before landing on a woman in the front row. “The theory behind it is excellent, Ms. Granger, but to reverse degeneration? Are you saying this potion can stop the natural aging and degeneration process?”

“No, not at all.” Hermione took a sip of her water.  “We all know that magical degeneration manifests in different ways and affects each individual uniquely, dependent on their personal and environmental factors.” She tapped her wand, flicking back into her magically projected presentation to come across the deidentified details of one of her patients. “Take Patient X, for example,” she began. “She experienced some trauma to her brain while flying with her sons. St. Mungo’s stabilized her, but I suspect she experienced a lesion that-”

“But would the potion serve to heal the legion or simply stop the damage from getting worse?” The woman in the front interrupted her.

“In this case,” Hermione started through gritted teeth, “The lesion has already been established. The evidence seems to suggest that, given daily use, my potion could work to heal the lesion, to a certain extent, and restore some pre-injury magical control.”

This seemed to placate the crowd and Hermione went on to answer a few limping questions regarding her ingredient sourcing and if she found that regionality mattered. It didn’t, but she preferred to source her ingredients to be consistent. By the time her hour-long seminar was over, Hermione’s back pain was unbearable. She was pregnant and it was quickly becoming an uncomfortable experience.

While her nausea from the first trimester had mostly subsided and her energy levels had returned to normal, Hermione found herself burning through her reserves much more quickly than typical. On a normal day, she was exhausted by 3pm, her feet dragging. But today she felt as if she were running on empty.

She had a portkey set up to bring her back to London but had also booked a hotel room in case she didn’t feel well enough to travel. As she shuffled through the crowded hallway full of researchers and healers making plans for the evening, Hermione could think of nothing better than to crawl into bed. She had standing invitations to dinners, meals, she knew we were more about networking than it was anything else. And, had this been 2 months earlier, Hermione might have gone. But it was getting harder and harder to hide her pregnancy now, and the luxury of billowing wizarding robes could only help so much up close.

She took the floo back to London, eager to take advantage of this form of travel while she could.

The townhome was empty, all the lights off. She wondered if Draco had gone out, expecting her to stay out. She wondered if she would sleep in his room tonight. She flicked her wand, turning on all the lights in attempt to feel less lonely, wandering down the hallway into her bedroom thinking only of taking a scalding hot shower and making a cup of tea. She paused in the hallway, seeing the door to the room between hers and Draco’s slightly ajar.

The nursery.

Hermione pushed the door open slightly, ignoring the ache in her legs. She had only been in here a few times, most recently to hang the baby mobile, ignoring the ache in her chest at the sight of the mobile in the empty room.

She paused, the light from the hallway casting a slant of light into the room. Draco was seated in the middle of the room, asleep in one of the thick armchairs he must have dragged in from the living room. A notebook lay precariously grasped between his fingers, Hermione unable to make out what he had written. Her heart seized, wondering about what he was dreaming and why he had retreated to this empty room with nothing but a baby mobile and a window.

She moved to leave him to his dreams but he startled awake, the book dropping from his fingertips in a loud thud. He sat up wildly in his chair, his eyes scanning the room, quickly, quickly, before they landed on Hermione’s lurking form in the doorway. His gaze softened.

“I thought you’d stay at the conference tonight.” His voice was thick and slightly raspy from sleep.

“I didn’t want to. It was all too tiring and I just…I just wanted to sleep.”

He smiled softly at what she didn’t say, that was, she wanted to sleep here, with him. “How was it?”

Hermione made her way over to the armchair, plopping herself into the armchair, ending up half splayed in his lap. His arms went around her instantly, securing her so she didn’t fall, and Hermione frowned, unhappy with the way there was barely any space left.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, nuzzling her face into the crook of Draco’s neck, taking in long, deep breaths so she could fill her lungs with his scent. She felt him chuckle, the low vibrations of it soothing her like a cat’s purr.

“That bad, huh?” His hand reached up to massage Hermione’s scalp and again, she felt his low laugh in response to her moan of bliss.

“They weren’t wrong,” she started, the tension rolling down her back as if Draco had just reached up and dislodged it all. “They had doubts about whether or not the potion could deliver.” When he was silent, she continued. “There are flaws in my theory. Anything is possible with magic but I may – I may have promised too much.” She buried her face into his shoulder, ashamed to see his gaze upon her face as she admitted what was to be the biggest failure of her career.

“I don’t think the potion will work the way I wanted it to.”

The words felt pried out of her, it felt like she excising the rot deep inside her soul. She sniffed, a single tear of frustration and regret rolling down her cheek. Draco didn’t say anything, choosing instead to continue massaging her scalp.

“It’s not going to reverse or completely heal. The theory makes sense but the magic…I could never control how magic would react.” She sighed, placing her hand over her distended belly, thinking about her failure, about her legacy. Is this what she would leave her child?

“What are you doing in here?” She asked, mentally shooing away the thought. “In the nursery,” She clarified.

“It doesn’t look much like one at all,” was his reply. His tone was faraway, and Hermione pulled back just in time to see the wistful look in his eyes before he shuttered whatever he was thinking about away. His free hand moved from her head to the round of her belly, where he tapped his fingers in an absent-minded rhythm.

“We should paint it.”

“You mean do it ourselves?”

He laughed, jostling Hermione playfully. “Don’t you sound awfully spoiled?’

“Would you even know what to do?”

“Would you?” He brought a finger up to tap her diamond earrings, a new pair, before pressing his palm against her belly. “It could be fun,” he admitted. “How hard could it be?”

She laughed in return, his smile so bright it warmed the room. “I’m sure we could figure it out. Chances are one of us could figure it out. Do you reckon we could build a crib?”

“I am sure we could design one,” Draco responded. “Is this a do it yourself kind of thing for muggles?”

“Not really,” she admitted, her childhood memories of attending baby showers with her mother floating to the forefront of her mind. “I think safety standards change every year, most muggles are gifted their baby items.”

“I know a carpenter,” Draco started. “I met her when I was in Italy. She actually designed the dining table.”

“Oh,” was all Hermione could muster while she tamped down the rising flame of jealousy and possessiveness.

He waved his hand, as if he could read her thoughts. He likely was just watching her expression. “We could meet with her. Design furniture for her to make. In Italy,” his fingers picked up a tapping motion on her belly again, but this time it was quicker, harder, the only thing that betrayed his otherwise calm and relatively neutral tone. “I could show you the vineyards, the house-our house there. Maybe make a weekend of it.”

Affection, tender and vulnerable, bloomed in her chest. She pressed her palm against Draco’s flattening it on her stomach. A dozen protests rose in her mind, the stress of her potion, the theoretical and clinical adjustments she’d have to make, she’d need to plan for Theo to take over a day or two if they wanted to have a proper weekend. But Hermione, feeling selfish, feeling like putting herself first, nodded.

“We didn’t have a honeymoon,” she started, shrugging. “I would…I would really like to see the vineyards with you.”

Draco beamed at her, and it took everything in her not to burst into tears at the sight. She sniffed, choosing instead to bury her face again in the crook of his neck.

“We could,” he coughed, clearing his throat. “Visit the jeweler there too. Where I got your engagement ring made. I know how you like your shiny things.”

“Good,” she sniped, her voice a mocking, haughty tone. “I’ve worn these earrings twice this week. It’s time for a new pair.”

Draco responded by giving her a swift slap on her bum, ignoring her squeak of surprise. “Get up,” he commanded, pushing her up and off him gently to bring them both to standing. “It’s time for dinner.”

He walked to the hallway, pausing to look back at Hermione and reach his hand out. She took it, without thinking. She never would anymore.

Chapter 22: Chapter 22

A/N: TWO chapters in one week??? Who am I, lol! I was so blown away by the encouraging and sweet comments on my last chapter. Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart for reading this story and sharing your thoughts with me. We're coming up on the one year anniversary of me posting this story! What a fun time it has been. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter...I love the little bitty bits of angst here that's pushing H and D closer and closer together. Hope you enjoy :) Follow me @endegamem on twitter/X for updates! I post a lot of sims and Dramione content there.

(P.S. I don't have a beta reader so any errors are mine and I'm sorry in advance).

---

The whiplash of the weekend, the bitter disappointment from her conference in Ireland to the giddy plans she had made with Draco, had Hermione in a slump she couldn’t seem to shake herself out of. Ordinarily, she might have had an latte, the caffeine and sugar buzz coasting her through the day with ease, but obviously, in her condition, caffeine was off-limits. She almost snorted. Her “condition” was becoming more and more apparent every day. She was lucky if she only woke up three times a night to pee and felt even luckier if her back hurt only a little bit at the end of the day. She had always considered herself an athletic woman and, while she kept up with daily walks and gentle stretches, the bone-crushing fatigue she felt was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

She would have to announce the pregnancy soon. They would have to announce soon.  When they got married, it had been easy to plant the story about falling in love while working together. It had been fast, to be sure, but the paperwork had documented Malfoy joining in her organization months earlier. Only their guests knew, and no matter where she stood with them, she knew that they would keep the secret. And they had. But, as Hermione approached the second half of her pregnancy and it wasn’t something she could just rationalize away, she knew her time was running out.

 A knock on the door broke her from her reverie, the free-time she was supposed to have caught up with her client notes.

“Yes, come in,” She called, her tone only somewhat irritated.

“Er, sorry to bother you but Luna said I should-”

“Ron!” Hermione smiled warmly, genuinely pleased to see Ron in her office. It had been weeks since she had seen him last, at the disastrous Grimmauld Place dinner. She pushed up from her desk, her robes abandoned on the back of her chair, Ron’s eyes dropping immediately to her protruding stomach.

“Wow, Hermione! You’ve popped!”

She faltered, arms still out to hug him. Ron, seemingly unaware of the effects of his words, put his hands up. “Maybe stay away from me, Hermione. I’m not feeling great, Luna recommended I come over to see you.”

Grateful for the distraction, Hermione reached back to her desk for her robes, concealing her stomach and slipping on a mask. “In case what you have is contagious,” she explained.

Ron, who typically accepted anything Hermione suggested or did with placid agreement, simply nodded and took a seat. She did a preliminary check of his vitals (normal, except for a mild fever and a slightly elevated heartrate), a description of his symptoms (feverish, headaches, body pains), and an examination of his throat and lungs.

“I just think you’ve got a nasty cold,” Hermione offered. “Been around anyone sick lately?”

“Ginny said Albus picked up a bug from daycare.”

“Oh wow,” she intoned. “Daycare already?” She turned from Ron to hide her bittersweet surprise. Albus was growing up and, because of her sins, she was missing it.

“Yeah,” Ron’s voice was soft and Hermione immediately knew she had been caught. When she returned to Ron’s side with a simple fever-reducing potion and some muggle paracetmol just to be sure, Ron gave her a sheepish grin. “Thanks for this, Hermione. It’s way easier going to you than it is trekking all the way to St. Mungo’s.”

She smiled at him, repressed the urge to tuck a lock of his unruly hair behind his ear. “How’s Luna? Rose?”

His smile grew even larger, brighter, and Hermione marveled at how he seemed to light up from within at the mention of his little family. Another twinge of sadness – Albus, Rose, Luna, Ginny, Harry. All these relationships gone to the wayside, all because of the one inside of her?

“Rose is starting to talk now. We’ve tried tried teaching her your name but she has a hard time. We’ve settled on ‘Meemee.’ Temporarily, of course. But I hope that’s alright…”

“Of course that’s alright. Rose might be the only one I’d let call me…Meemee.”

“We miss you, Meemee.”

She meant to laugh, she really did. But if someone were to ask her what happened, it would be that she recognized the look in Ron’s face, the one of pure, unabashed affection and charm that had made a friendship with him so easy, all these years later. It reminded her of what was once her home, of her childhood and how it all felt so irrevocably lost to her.

She burst into tears.

“Hermione! No – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I won’t call you Meemee anymore, I promise. And I’ll make sure Rose-”

Hermione cried harder, pressing the heels of her hands to both eyes in an attempt to stop them. She wasn’t entirely sure if they were tears of laughter or of sorrow. “No, Ron, it’s not that it’s,” she hiccuped, taking the mask off her face as tears had begun to pool uncomfortably in it. She let a few more tears fall down her face before taking five deep breaths. Ron, to his credit, waited patiently for Hermione to explain herself.

“Don’t be so silly, I’m not crying over that.” She didn’t want to go on but Ron’s singular raised eyebrow compelled her. “I just miss all of you.”

Guilt bloomed, red and splotchy on Ron’s face and she knew that he would prefer if she cried over the stupid nickname instead. Ron was too transparent, too easy to read, and Hermione knew angrily that they all still got together. Her tears turned righteous.

“Our last dinner together was terrible. Don’t make that face, don’t act like it wasn’t. It was bad enough that they didn’t invite Draco,” she said, ignoring Ron’s wince at his name, “But Harry was being such an asshole when all I asked was for him to maybe do his job!” When she saw Ron start to open his mouth, she cut him off. “And it’s not fair, you, and Ginny, and Luna, you all sat by and let him. I’ve always,” she cleared her throat, her mouth feeling like cotton. “I’ve always, always stood by his side, even when no one else did. And even after Hogwarts, in adulthood, I was there for every dinner, every celebration, your engagements, your baby showers. And what did I get?”

“Hermione,”

“Nothing,” she answered viciously. “I got fucking nothing except for all of your disdain,” she sneered.

“Hermione, you have to understand, your wedding, to Draco,” Ron was practically tripping over his words. “It was a shock to us all. We didn’t even know you were seeing him.”

“I wasn’t, not really,” she admitted with a tearful shrug, ignoring the aghast look on Ron’s face. “But, Ron. Please understand. Now he’s my husband,” Hermione whispered tearfully. “And you all are my friends. We fought a war together.” She continued, ignoring Ron’s grimace. “We all paid our dues for our roles,” she conceded. “Of course I want...of course I want us to all be together.”

She watched the internal struggle play out on Ron’s face, the colors he turned a representation of how he grappled with the number of loyalties he held. For all the fickleness of their teen years, Ron had grown into a fiercefully protective, trustworthy, and loyal man. She appealed to him.

“Ron. I don’t want my child to be a-lone,” Her voice broke on the last word, the trauma of her childhood rushing up to close her throat. She saw Ron swallow, saw the pain cross his face as he looked at her, pregnant belly, and all. “I want this baby to have better than what we had,” She admitted tearfully. “I want that for all of our babies. I want that for Rose, and for James. And I want. I so badly want to do right by this baby,” she cradled her belly for emphasis. “To have friends, to have family…It’s everything.”

Ron sighed, rubbing his temples. Hermione felt a bit sorry that he had come in for a sick visit and spent most of the visit now listening to her cry. But he had come, hadn’t he? She couldn’t miss out on the chance to plead her case, to close this gap, no matter how desperate or messy she might seem.

“Call us,” interrupted Ron.

“What?”

“Call us. To your home. Invite us on your terms.”

She had never considered this before. “You want to come to my house? But we’ve never done that.” She had taken for granted that Harry and Grimmauld Place stood firmly in the center of their friendship. “Harry won’t come.”

“He will,” Ron promised. “Don’t worry about it. I will get everyone there. Well,” he amended. “Maybe not the kids.”

She nodded dabbing at her eyes. Ron stood, reaching for the medications Hermione and packed up neatly for him. “Well, Hermione, I’m going to go home now. Take a lie down, talk to Luna. This Friday evening, alright? We’ll all see you then.”

Against her better judgement, she reached forward to pull him into a hug, one he returned without hesitation.

“I’m sorry it’s been so hard for you, Hermione,” he murmured.

This, she thought, this is what I want my child to experience.

---

“You want to do what?”

Hermione cringed from her perch at the kitchen island while Draco stopped mid-stir to stare at her, open-mouthed.

“It was Ron’s idea, really. He suggested it and I said yes. I know, I know, I should have remembered our trip but Draco – this is really important to me.”

“Even after what Potter did to you the last time you saw him?” His lips were turned down in a frown, his body language stiff.

“Please,” was Hermione’s only reply.

Draco looked at her for one long moment, something defining rising between them. She had unwittingly created some sort of test, one that she had already failed by creating plans without speaking about it with him first.

Draco, of course, passed.

---

Nervous anticipation flooded Hermione as she anxiously hovered in the living room. She had helped Draco with dinner tonight and she could smell the chicken they had marinated in garlic and lemon roasting away in the oven. The rice pilaf had been one of her own recipes, kept under a stasis charm. Bottles of white wine sat chilled, and ready to be drunk beside a charcuterie board for a light appetizer.

The doorbell rang and Hermione bounded over to the door, yanking it open like a child in her excitement. And there they were. Her friends on her doorstep.

“Hermione!” Luna’s warm voice cut the momentary tension and she stepped forward and into the Malfoy-Granger home without resistance. Ron, followed by Harry and Ginny, stepped through as well, their eyes tense as if the wards would push them out at any second. They wouldn’t, Hermione had made sure of it.

“Luna!” Hermione replied back, giddy, her arms out for a reflexive hug.

Luna embraced her warmly, followed by a swift peck on the cheek from Ron.

“Weasley, Lovegood. Welcome,” Draco’s voice cut through and he materialized behind Hermione, one hand on her shoulder and the other extending forward to give Ron and Luna a firm handshake.

“It’s Weasley now too,” Luna replied, her smile just as disarming as it had been in Hogwarts. “Thank you for inviting us into your home. These are for you,” she said, proffering a bouquet of flowers from her pocketbook and thrusting them into Draco’s hands. “Yes, they’re for you,
 she confirmed. “I’ve got something else for Hermione.”

“Malfoy.”

Harry’s voice was polite but Hermione could hear the strain in it. He hadn’t made eye contact with her yet and Ginny, standing firmly by his side seemed conflicted.

“Potter,” Malfoy said back, his tone placid, if not just as strained. “Welcome to our home.”

Hermione pretended not to notice how Harry’s eye twitched or how Ginny’s gaze darted between her husband and her surroundings. Hermione allowed herself one moment of smug satisfaction that her home was much nicer than Grimmauld Place ever had been.

With Luna’s help, Hermione herded into the living room and, once everyone was situated with wine and at least a cracker, she relaxed. Ron, feeling all better after taking the potions Hermione had prescribed, appeared to be committed to his role as mediator.

It went as well as Hermione could have hoped, and that was that no one yelled, no one cried, and absolutely, under no circumstances, did anyone bring up anything difficult. She should have realized, Draco being an avid quidditch fan, they he and her friends could, at the very least, talk about this, especially now that house allegiances (hopefully) lay in the dust behind them.

It had been Ginny, first, to bring up the topic. Draco, who had been sitting back on the couch beside Hermione, one hand absentmindedly stroking a maddening rhythm on her thigh, sat up and engaged. Hermione, whose ears always seemed to bleed whenever quidditch came up, tuned it out, instead focused on the chatter and the babble. The warmth of Draco’s hands seeping through her pants, the deep gravelly voices of the men she loved, the laughter of the women she considered sisters.

The spirited conversation continued over to dinner and Ginny, perhaps one or two too many glasses of wine in, slipped.

“Of course you would think that, ferret,” she sneered, her complexion going sheet white as soon as the words left her mouth. Harry bit back a startled laugh, the childhood insult surprising, even for him. For a moment, Hermione regretted everything that had led her to this moment.

But then Draco laughed. And then Ron, and then Luna, and then Hermione, and Ginny, and finally, Harry. While Ginny and Draco cleared the plates and returned with lemon posset for dessert, Ron nudged Hermione.

“Not bad, eh?”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

He squeezed back before letting go to accept dessert and Hermione decided that, if nothing else, she could accept this. Draco and Ron started a game of wizarding chess, Draco’s expression showing genuine delight at Ron’s abilities. Ginny, a bit of a messy drunk, was dozing on Luna’s shoulder while Luna read a book Hermione had left on the coffee table, leaving Hermione to sit alone.

She slipped out through the side door, needing the cold air to snap her back to reality. She felt as if she were floating, trapped in the heady haze of success and the cloudy fog of fear. A bright light startled her.

“Harry?”

“Oh, shit,” was his muffled reply, the dot of orange light being snuffed out immediately and crushed underfoot.

“Cigarettes? I didn’t know you had that habit.” She cast a lumos, illuminating her and Harry in a harsh light.

He chuckled sheepishly. “It’s new. Work has been hard.” He shrugged and Hermione waited for him to go on. “People are starting to feel uneasy. There's an election season coming up. Not many representatives or members of the Wizengamot are choosing to run for reelection. There are a lot of...strong opinions of how the government should look moving forward.”

She nodded, remembering how angry people had been at some of the lenient sentences handed down to some of Voldemort’s supporters. There were rumbling at the time of trying all supporters, active members of Voldemort’s regime or not, to trial.

“Do you think Voldemort’s supporters are rallying again?”

“No.” Harry cleared his throat. “It’s not that. There are talks of opening new trials and new cases against them.”

Her breath caught in her throat and she didn’t miss how Harry’s eyes darted back inside to the townhome. “But how can that – the rulings were final-”

“They were final,” Harry agreed, cutting her off. “Sentences were handed down and there’s no precedent for re-opening old trials. But that’s not stopping anyone from being frenzied about it.”

“What does that have to do with your office? Shouldn’t that be legal?”

Harry sighed. “There have been some...reports of crimes. Small curses, nothing all that serious. But we get called nonetheless.”

“Nothing all that serious? People shouldn’t be cursing each other.”

“The crimes are minor,” He insisted. “Some property damage, some theft, some minor assaults.”

“Are you investigating?”

Harry shrugged. “The department’s not worried.”

Cold dread filled Hermione as she understood Harry’s implication. “Should I be worried?”

Concern flooded his face and, for a moment, she saw the crack in the jaded man obsessed with maintaining order. “I don’t think so.”

“We’re still getting hate mail here.” Her tone cutting. “It’s slowed down but we still get it. Draco and I...we chalked it up to just obsessive people. We’ve been ignoring them. But now I wonder...Harry should I file a complaint with the Auror’s office?”

He sighed, again, its world weariness irritating her. “I’ll look into it. I promise I will.”

A silent moment passed between them, the sound of laughter a quiet din in the background.

“This is a nice place,” Harry offered. She nodded, her mind still cycling through what Harry had told her.

“Are you and Malfoy-”, he paused, clearing his throat. “You seem happy.”

She nodded, wrapping her cardigan around herself tightly and replenishing the warming charm she had cast on them.

“Does he...does he know about...about us?”

“What’s there to know about?” She kicked at a rock, huffing a little bit at Harry’s dark glare. “Yes, he knows.”

“Was he angry?”

“Why would he be angry?” She was playing dumb, and Harry knew it. “There’s nothing between us.” The words were strange in her mouth, clumsy. “There was nothing between us.”

He furrowed his brow. “That’s not true, Hermione. The way I felt about you-”

She put her hand up, to stop him, the other hand pinching the bridge of her nose. “We’ve never spoken about this before. Why are you bringing it up now? My husband is inside. And so is your wife.” The words came out more acidic than she had intended.

“I just,” and Harry ran his hands through his hair. “I care about you, Hermione. I’ve only ever wanted what is good for you, just wanted you to be safe. I didn’t ever imagine that you’d be with Malfoy.”

She scoffed. “Look at me,” she waved her hand vaguely at herself, calling attention to the not-so-subtle differences in her. Everything she wore was new, tailored, her jewelry, while simple, was bespoke. “Look at my house. You didn’t seem all that concerned when I was living paycheck to paycheck in my old flat.”

“So is that it then?” Harry challenged. “You just needed some money? Hermione, I can give you a loan, I know you’ll pay me-”

“Oh, fuck off!” Hermione’s voice had gone shrill. “Don’t fucking patronize me, Harry. You knew how hard it had been for me all these years, how much I struggled to get my practice running, how it took me years before I made a small profit. But now, now that I have money you’re concerned? I never took you for the jealous type.”

“I’m not jealous-”

“And you have no right to be!” Hermione’s voice had risen in volume again, but she lowered it, wondering how long she had been outside, wondering if Draco had realized she was gone. “Ever since I contacted Malfoy, he’s been the only one, the only one who seemed to know what the fuck I was ever on about. None of you ever did that for me, all of you could barely stomach a polite compliment. I’m going to fucking conferences. People are inviting me to give lectures. I just hired a new Healer. To expand my practice.” She saw Harry opening his mouth to reply but she continued, her hand up to stop his words. “You have no right,” She hissed, “to come into my home and insult me like this. Telling me you’re worried, doubting my husband.” She cupped her belly, emphasizing her bump under her slouchy sweater.

“You know I’m pregnant. That man inside, Malfoy,” she mocked Harry’s tone. “Is my baby’s father.” She was feeling faint, breathless, like her chest was being squeezed. “He’s the only one,” Her voice cracked. “He’s the only one who helped me. I did everything alone after the war, after I left St. Mungo’s. I have a chance now to do something beautiful and I want to do it with him. With Draco.” She was wheezing now, the emotion in her chest reaching up like a vice around her throat.

“Let’s go inside,” Harry urged. “Forget I said anything, Hermione -”

“Get out.”

“What?”

“We’re going to go back inside, and act like this never happened. You’re good at that, you can do that, right? And then you’re going to tell Ginny that it’s time to go and you are going to leave my house.” She turned her back to Harry who was looking at her with an expression that was mournful. For what, she wasn’t sure. “Stress isn’t good for the baby,” she sniffed, hastily wiping her eyes and storming back inside the house.

They couldn’t have been gone for more than 10 minutes, and, for a moment, she thought that Draco might not have realized that she had even left. When she joined his side on the couch, he gripped her hand and squeezed, shooting her a look. She brought their joined hands up to her lips and kissed his fingers, relishing in the way the corners of his lips turned up in a smile, even if his eyes turned weary, concerned.

Harry came in five minutes later, calm and composed. He casually gathered Ginny, making an excuse of relieving Molly Weasley from babysitting with Ron and Luna following suit. Dinner was over anyway, dessert half eaten on their plates. They stood at the fireplace, hand in hand, watching Hermione’s friends disappear in a green flame. The last flame had barely died before Draco was on her.

“What happened?” He demanded, his voice low, but insistent.

“Harry told me why we might be getting hate mail. Apparently, people feel as if sentences handed down to Voldemort’s supporters after the war weren’t severe enough.” Their gazes both flicked to Malfoy’s covered forearm before returning to each other. “Some groups want to re-open trials, even ones with sentences handed down and served. But they have no grounds,” she continued, cutting off what she presumed to be Draco’s protest. “And apparently they’re unhappy. They’ve been targeting old supporters, or suspected supporters. Harry says it’s nothing major -”

“But you don’t believe him.”

“I think he’s underplaying how serious some of these crimes are,” she admitted. “I know how he feels about it.” She shrugged.

“And how does he feel?”

“Probably that they deserve it, to some extent. He would never admit that out loud.”

“What else?” Draco was peering into her eyes now and she contemplated keeping this a secret. But she couldn’t.

“We...argued.”

“About the letters?” he probed, raising his eyebrows.

“About you and me.” Exhaling, she continued. “He didn’t say much. I don’t think I let him,” she admitted. “I blew my lid at him, told him to leave, told him how dare he come into our home and insult my husband.” She sniffled, the tears she had held back in the garden spilling down her face now.

Draco’s eyes widened. “Fucking bastard.”

“Don’t,” Hermione sighed. “It’s not even worth it, Draco.”

She stepped forward into him, burrowing her face into his chest, his arms wrapping around her immediately. “I’m not crying because of him,” she clarified tearily. Draco’s hands were working their way down her back in that steady stroking motion that soothed her so well.

“It’s okay if you are. He’s a prat, but I know you and him have a long history.”

“I’m crying...I’m crying because I’m happy.”

“You’re crying because you’re happy?” Draco’s voice floated above her, skeptical.

“I wanted them to see,” she gulped. “That I was happy here. That you...that you and I...that we...that we are happy here, together. Right?” The words poured out of her, as close to a confession as she would get. She didn’t actually know if Draco was happy, didn’t even realize the depths to which she had become to crave their domesticity, their friendship, their intimacy. She cherished it. She cherished him.

He pulled her away from his chest, using his thumbs to wipe the tears that streaked down her face. He looked at her for a long moment and Hermione fought the urge to squirm out from under his grasp, bit back a sarcastic remark. It would do no good to waste these words on Harry, she needed Draco to hear them.

“I am.” Draco cleared his throat. “I am happy here with you.”

She exhaled, the pressure and stress from the evening evaporating from her body like Draco’s words were a charm.

“Although,” his words were tinged with sadness. “I’m happier when you’re not crying.”

She smiled, wiping away the fresh set of tears that had begun to roll their way down her face.  “Kiss me.”

And so he did and she lost herself in the tastes of sugar and sweetness, of whiskey and lemon. She lost herself in Draco.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23

A/N: I'm sorry!!! Life is so busy!!!!! I'll be off for the summer from my job and I'll be going to LA and hopefully within the next two weeks I'll have more free time to write! Follow me on twitter

As always, all errors are mine alone because I don't have a beta. Enjoy!

---

Hermione lived and died for the weekends. And when she dragged her body to the office on Monday and stood over a rancid cauldron that afternoon, she raged. The four patients she had been trialing the potion with hadn’t shown the magical progress that she had hoped for.

“How did I do?” Mrs. Crumplebottom’s pointed, wrinkly face peered at the furiously scribbling Hermione. She had just gone through an assessment of various basic magical skills and charms that advanced progressively as she went on.

“You did great, thank you, Mrs. Crumplebottom. You’ve maintained the progress we’ve made in the past few months together. You’ve successfully cast four out of the six charms you identified as important to you. However,” Hermione hesitated, loathe to admit this, loathe to tell her client that she couldn’t fix it, couldn’t fix her.. “We were unable to regain levels close to the functioning you had before.”

Mrs. Crumplebottom licked her thin lips, her tongue tremoring. “So the potion that I’ve been taking every day. It didn’t work?”

Hermione gave her a thin smile. “No, not in the way I had hoped.” She scribbled something in her notepad as an excuse to look away from the disappointment welling in her patient’s eyes. She let the silence stretch knowing that the silence would give her patient the opportunity to express herself.

“Will I ever,” Mrs. Crumplebottom’s voice cracked and Hermione bit her lip, dreading the question she knew was coming. She cleared her throat. “I’ll never do magic the way that I used to, isn’t that right?”

Hermione smiled, the clinician’s smile she wore so well that was supposed to convey patience, understanding, and hope. “Your magical capabilities changed after your fall,” she started. “But with the help of therapy, you’ve been able to meet your personal magical goals for most household tasks. Will you ever be able to duel again?” Hermione paused. “Probably not, but you were never a dueler anyway, according to what you’ve shared with me.”

Crumplebottom was peering with Hermione with an indecipherable emotion. Hermione went on, unsure if her patient was going to cry or yell at her. “About what we can do now,” clearing her throat. “We can continue the plan of care as is. You continue to take the potion daily, continue to come to therapy, and we monitor. Perhaps the potions effects are compounded over time.”

“And what if I don’t want to do that?”

“You could continue coming to therapy and discontinue the potion.”

“And what if I don’t want to come to therapy anymore?”

Hermione began slowly. “That is not my professional recommendation.”

“My grandson made me see a healer from St. Mungo’s,” Mrs. Crumplebottom began, her tone icy. “That healer told me what you do is…what did he call it? Psuedomagic. That your techniques diminish the magic because you use so much muggle theory.”

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, her fingers twitching at the insinuation, at the insult. “You are always free to seek outside opinions,” Hermione said calmly.

It was important, she had learned, to not take things patients said personally, even if they were meant to cut. There was an imbalance of power here. Hermione had the knowledge, her patients didn’t. And they often came to her vulnerable and humiliated by their lack of control, their deteriorating magical skills. Magic was their life and, when in danger of losing it, Hermione had promised them some level of control back. And they were angry it wasn’t working.

“Mrs. Crumplebottom.” Hermione’s voice was clear and steady. “My professional opinion is that, at the very least, we should continue therapy together. You have made tremendous progress since we started together two years ago. Your growth makes me wonder where you might be two years from now.” When the patient scoffed, Hermione went on. “Of course, the choice is ultimately up to you.”

To Hermione’s immense relief, Mrs. Crumplebottom nodded, giving Hermione a pat on the hand as they walked out to the floo together. Hermione, frustrated, stormed into the potions lab, anxious, sweaty, wanting to create something that was excellent.

She opened the cauldron to the draft of the potion she had started brewing three days ago, waving her wand to light a low fire over it. She was experimenting with letting the base of the potion sit for longer, hoping that it would perhaps increase its potency. As the lab warmed, Hermione absentmindedly rubbed her stomach, her fingers catching on the raised edges of her new stretch marks.

Her clinical trials are too short, too small. A frustrated whine lodged itself in her throat. Her lab, despite being fully funded and renovated using Malfoy money, was too small. She was limited to a single batch at a time, couldn’t run multiple batch experiments. And, even if the lab was larger, it wasn’t as if she was around all day to monitor them. She saw patients, dedicated time to keeping meticulous patient files, wrote reports. Her brewing sessions had grown shorter and shorter as time went on and Hermione saw her day sectioned off into three categories: Work, brewing, and home.

Before, before all of it, Hermione would see patients in their homes, anxiously apparating and flooing between each location before tumbling into the second bedroom of her small flat where she immediately started brewing. Hours could pass that way with Hermione only wandering out for a meal or the bathroom before she groggily felt her way to her mattress and fell in. But it wasn’t like that anymore. Now she went home, to the luxurious high ceilings of her townhome, its plush couch, the small library that always had space for whatever books she brought from Flourish and Blott’s. And Malfoy, who treated every domestic chore as if it were a ritual, something delightful to savor. It was impossible not to feel the same way. Her previously one-track mind felt like it was split open, her thoughts about work, Draco, the baby, all competing for the most valuable space in her mind.

A terrible moan came from behind her. Hermione whirled around to find the sound coming from the cauldron, her potion – previously a healthy lavender color – was curdling in front of her eyes, releasing its anguish and frustration at her in its slow death. She clapped a hand over her mouth, before reaching her wand up, instantly casting a bubble-head charm as protection from the fumes. She worked quickly, hurriedly, to clean up the mess, levitating the spilled potion off the floor into its appropriate disposal containers.

It took her four containers. Hermione stamped her foot in anger at the mess she had made, mentally tallying the cost of the ingredients she had ruined, the rate at which she’d have to brew (one batch tonight and another tomorrow morning) so she wouldn’t be behind on refills in two weeks. Hermione counted all this, hurriedly scribbling in her notebook. Rolling up her sleeves and -

She went home instead.

---

“I want to go out for dinner.”

She had not even been fully out of the floo before she was shouting her demand in the empty living room. Impatiently brushing the floo powder off her shirt she called out again.

“Draco! I want to go out for dinner!” She had one hand in the bag of floo powder, her wiggling around and she shivered from its sensation.

Draco rounded the corner, his eyebrow arched, his stance casual. He stood in the entry way to the living room, crossing his arms to appraise his wife.

“It’s 4pm,” was his only response.

“I want the senior citizen special,” she huffed.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m hungry,” Hermione was being petulant, and she knew it. But it felt good to throw this temper tantrum.

“Didn’t you-?”

“I did eat lunch. And my morning snack and the afternoon snack.” She huffed, impatient. “But I’m hungry now and I want to go out.”

“Why didn’t you just go out from the office?”

She glared at him, and he returned it with equal fervor until she made a noise that was half a whine, half a grunt. “Fine, I’ll just go without you and I’ll-”

“Ok, enough,” he was laughing, his full smile with his shiny bright teeth disarming her immediately. He stood by her, his musk mingling with the cologne he had sprayed this morning, now faded. She inhaled deeply.

By the time they floo’d to The Leaky Cauldron and stepped out into the sunlight filtering through Diagon Alley, it had hardly been any time since she left her office, her heart pounding. The patrons of Diagon Alley hardly looked up at the couple as they landed, Hermione covertly adjusting her coat around herself.

Their forays into wizarding society had been more frequent, less secretive and they explored all the restaurants, shops, and cafes wizarding London had to offer. Hermione felt a tinge of relief that the looks they got seemed almost bored now, if they even got looks at all. On Saturday mornings, Hermione and Draco scoured copies of The Daily Prophet, circling any mentions of them in red ink. Sometimes, if the news week had been particularly slow, there would be pictures of them walking. Boring. Just a boring couple running errands or having dessert, shopping bags in Draco’s hands. These photos had been more frequent a few months ago. She couldn’t remember when they had last been worth photographing.

Predictably, the restaurant Hermione picked was empty, caught in that lull between lunch and dinner. She felt ravenous this afternoon, the adrenaline from her last client meeting and the ruined potion leaving her lethargic. They passed their meal mostly in silence, Hermione devouring her mushroom ravioli and periodically asking Draco for bites of his chicken, which he dutifully provided, despite his put upon expression. The server had just cleared their plates away, prepping the table for dessert when Draco fixed Hermione with his gaze.

“What’s going on?”

She scowled. “Nothing.”

He scowled back at her, an amused glint in his eyes. “You have always been so bad at this. You wear every emotion on your face.”

She rolled her eyes at him, her gaze wandering around the restaurant, grateful that the crowd had picked up, providing more background noise. “I do not.”

“You do – it was why in school – why,” He paused. “Why it was so easy to rile you up,” he finished, his cadence halting, as if he were unsure of this.

“Is that what it was?” She wondered aloud. “Riling me up?”

She let the words settle uncomfortably between them and the reminder that this relationship, this marriage, had all been out of her control hit her full force. She was tired of being a victim to her circumstances, tired of chafing against societal rules, both muggle and wizarding. Being married to Draco – no, being married to a Malfoy had opened doors she had not previously known existed.

The big things she noticed, like how she never thought twice about business expenses, how she ordered whatever she needed for the lab whenever she needed with no care to the budget. Before, walking into Gringotts had been an experience that always left her feeling slighted by the way the wretched goblins treated her had become a more luxurious experience now that she owned a number of the vaults. She knew the goblins still hated her for infiltrating their security but the luxury of the Malfoy name made them hide it a little bit better. She didn’t worry about paying her mortgage. And, after the first month of being married and realizing that the wealth was real, she wrote a check to The Ministry, forever ridding herself of their financial contribution to her life.

It was the little things too. Like how everything she wore was new and tailored to her perfectly. How she never worried about when she would find the time to feed herself or do her laundry or pay the mortgage on her flat. How she could order a glass of wine at dinner, just to smell it, without fretting about wasting it. It never got wasted because Draco always drank it.

The words she had spat at Harry during her disastrous attempt at hosting floated to her consciousness.

“I have a chance now to do something beautiful and I want to do it with him. With Draco.”

“I think it’s time to announce.”

“Announce…?” He was guarded, his face gone blacnk all of a sudden.

“The-,” she paused, bringing her voice down to a whisper and leaning forward. “The baby. We should do it properly. Do it your way,” She added, noting how Draco’s eyes grew wide as saucers at her words.

He didn’t answer her right away, his breathing deep and even, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Why now?” His inquiry was simple and, if there were a business ledger, his tone would be casual.

But this was the child they were speaking about – a topic that was so tense and fraught with worry, anxiety, hope, and fear. While they were no longer ignoring the topic wholly, they only conversed about the baby in concrete steps, what color the nursery would be, and when they might making the oft cancelled trip to Italy. They always spoke differently in the shadows and privacy of the night.

She was spending another night in his room (yet another thing they never spoke about). Hermione had been sprawled out on the bed in a bit of a starfish position as she waited for the glass of water she had pestered Draco into getting her. He hadn’t been gone but a moment when she felt it, a jab to her belly button. It shocked her so much that she hadn’t even realized she had screamed for Draco until he came skidding into the bedroom, eyes worried.

“Come here,” She had commanded, impatiently dragging his hand to her belly and pressing it there while she placed her other hand firmly over her heart. Draco waited, eyes wide, breath held, until he felt it too.

Her whole life had felt narrowed to that moment, that shared moment between the two of them. Family, friendships, romance, trials, annoyances, tragedies, all narrowed down to this singular point, to this feeling pulsing through her skin and his. Nothing else, and she really meant it, nothing else mattered but this moment with him.

Draco was still looking at her, placidly waiting for her answer.

She contemplated telling Draco about how she felt that night, how she cried herself to sleep after he made love to her because that’s what it had felt like. Love.

“Because I want to.”

Draco didn’t question her, didn’t argue with her, didn’t gloat about how he was right (surely he would do that at another time), didn’t even look doubtful.

His expression softened, the corner of his lip lifting up slightly. Around them, the noise of the restaurant hummed on, fading to a drone in the background until the only sound was Draco’s resounding, “Yes.”

Chapter 24: Chapter 24

A/N: Five more chapters to go! I'm off of work for the summer (the perks of working in a school, lol) but my doctoral summer classes are in full swing! My goal is to have this fic completed by the end of August!! I think it's reasonable. And something I could do. Do you know what I've been doing to destress from classwork? Been playing this game called Palia. Very fun. Anyway. Here's the chapter. I hope you enjoy!!

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It had all been very swift.

After their early dinner, Hermione and Draco retreated to their home and each sent an owl to the Daily Prophet with their announcement, wagering bets to see which reporter would answer them first. Hermione had won this round, her chosen reporter a newbie medical reporter who Hermione thought to look at evidence critically and with an open mind – a skill rare for many. They agreed to print at the end of the week. Hermione had decided that she would tell her patients first.

On Tuesday, Hermione planned out her announcement with Theo and it was every bit as professional and matter of fact as it could be. This was life, Theo had said, and Hermione, not used to normalcy, wondered at how she had become a part of it. She decided that the next eight weeks would be dedicated to moving as many clients as possible to a consult model, a recommendation Draco had made early on in their partnership, but one she had rejected. Her recent conversation with Mrs. Crumplebottom had weighed on her. Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing for her patients to have a break.

When she arrived home on Thursday evening, feet and back aching, Hermione was surprised to see a small parcel waiting for her in the living room. Draco wasn’t home yet, having told her he’d be out for an investors’ meeting with Blaise. She shrugged it off, making plans to see Neville instead and leaving the parcel behind.

Neville was only slightly distracted, the start of a new term bringing its typical stressors.

“Students go home and get scolded by their parents’ for their marks,” He explained, shoving a pile of student essays into his desk. “Some come back with a renewed vigor for their studies and others…Well, now they’re just extra anxious.”

Hermione smiled at Neville as he tidied up hurriedly and she propped her feet up, munching away happily at a cracker and some cheddar cheese. Regrettably, she couldn’t have soft cheeses and cured meats anymore and Neville tried his best.

“What’s going on with you?” Neville asked, sighing as he slumped into the armchair opposite of Hermione. He was drinking a hot chocolate, same as Hermione, as he had given up wine in her presence in a show of solidarity.

“I’m going to announce.”

A grin split Neville’s face. “In the Prophet?”

She nodded, smiling back at him, excitement curling at her toes. She had forgotten what this kind of joy felt like, what it was like to revel only in good news without fear of judgment.  
“It’s going to print at the end of the week.”

“We’re meeting with a designer,” she blurted. “To go over the nursery. It feels so real.” And, as if in response, the baby moved. She excitedly beckoned Neville over, grunting and reaching forward to grab his hand and press it to her stomach when he looked at her in confusion. His expression, almost queasy at first, froze, and then stretched into a look of pure joy, one that Hermione relished seeing. “Do you feel?” She whispered, her hand pressed over Neville’s.

The look of mild nausea had returned to him, mingling with the excitement and he nodded. “Wow.”

“I know!” Hermione giggled breathlessly, leaning back when Neville removed his hand. “I’m going to have a baby!”

Neville didn’t respond, simply looked at her, his doe-like eyes heavy with emotion. “I’m so happy for you, Hermione.”

Her joy felt like a wild, reckless thing. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, now warm and flushed. “I don’t know why I’m blushing.”

Neville’s expression was soft. “I can guess why.” He paused, caught on his words. “What does this mean for you and Draco?”

Hermione’s joy was dashed, but only momentarily. She shrugged, feeling her walls coming down. “Nothing about our arrangement has changed, really.” At Neville’s arched brow. “I think…well, it feels more,” she paused, unsure of how to explain this. “It feels more real,” was what she settled on. She didn’t know if she should tell Neville that she was spending every night with him and that in the mornings she found him curled around her so protectively she wondered if there had been an attack in the night through which she had slept. “I’m happy,” she clarified. “I’m happy being married to him. And I think he’s happy too.”

Neville hummed, his fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“What about you?” She queried, reaching forward for another cracker. “You and Theo seem…” She trailed off, her eyebrows waggling suggestively, desperate to move on from the unknowing that was her marriage and relationship to Draco Malfoy.

It was Neville’s turn to grin at Hermione, but she couldn’t help but notice the tinge of sadness that colored his eyes. “It has been nice to be with him again.” His lips pursed thoughtfully. When Hermione frowned slightly at his silence, he went on. “I just,” he ran his hand through his hair. “It’s so easy being with him. But it’s everything after that makes it hard.”

She slumped down in her seat, bringing her hot chocolate to her lips and taking a long draw. She knew all too well the after that Neville alluded to.

“It feels,” Neville started and his eyes grew misty. “I can’t lie. It hurts now that he’s back. Don’t get me wrong – these past few weeks have been some of the best but,” he sniffed, and a tear trailed down his long nose. “He didn’t come back for me.”

Hermione hiccupped, her shock caught in her throat. “Neville-”

“No, no,” Neville waved her off. “I never told you the full story,” he sniffed once more, gaining his composure. “It’s a tale as old as time, really. I wanted to stay, to settle down. Theo was…Theo wasn’t ready to face the troubles of being together. Maybe that’s not fair. It’s not that he didn’t want to. I just don’t think he could.”

Hermione tried to reconcile this with the calm and kind Theo Nott she had come to know. He was reserved, and when she thought of it, she hardly knew him personally. But he was competent, good to her patients, and presented with the confidence of someone who was excellent at their craft.

“Was it going to France?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Neville mused, his eyes lost and faraway. “Everything changed when Astoria died. It changed things for me. Made me realize what I wanted.” He smiled ruefully. “Theo didn’t want the same things.”

Hermione took another pull of her hot chocolate, the drink warming her as a cool air of wariness overtook her. She understood all too well the pain of wanting one thing while the person you loved simply didn’t.

But something bit at her mind, frustrating her to no end. It was the mention of Astoria.

“Did you know Astoria well?”

Hermione watched the way Neville’s expression shuttered, the way he tried so hard to become detached. Like Draco did. She hadn’t brought up Astoria since that night, hadn’t dared bring her up again since Christmas. It had felt so long ago and it had been easier, far easier than Hermione liked to admit, to compartmentalize. She could no longer ignore her suspicions.

“Tell me about her,” she demanded, setting the now empty cup on the side table. She rested her hand on her belly instinctively, as if to shield herself and the baby from whatever Neville would tell her. “Everyone shuts down – see!” She pointed at Neville who had turned his face away. “Please, Neville. Something else happened – something else other than a tragic young death.” Her voice had grown tremulous. “I need to know.”

Neville didn’t respond.

“Did he hurt her?” Hermione’s voice was small and she regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

“Gods, no, Hermione.” Neville’s gaze whipped back to hers. “I would never,” he cleared his throat. “I would never have encouraged you to go into business with him if he had. Let alone marry him, pregnant or not. I meant what I said. He’s not a bad man.”

“Then what?” Hermione scowled, angry now that Neville was being so coy.

“It’s not my story to tell.”

“I can’t very well go ask Astoria.”

“No, but you could try asking Draco,” Neville shot back.

Hermione recoiled, surprised by the acid in his voice.

“Sorry,” Neville flushed, reaching forward to place a hand on Hermione’s knee.

She looked away from him, biting her lip to stop the tears welling in her eyes. Her emotions were a nasty thing, even nastier with pregnancy.

Neville withdrew his hands, running them through his hair in frustration. “I can’t tell you what happened with Astoria. But I can tell you what it meant to Theo and I.” He inhaled. “I hadn’t known Draco and Astoria before he called me in as a last resort. Theo had encouraged it. I had heard secondhand from Theo but seeing the loss, the devastation her disease left behind. It broke him. And while it made me want to be closer, it scared him away. All our plans,” Neville laughed and it was a bitter sound. “He decided it would be better not to have them at all then to have them and lose them. Potentially.”

“But he’s here now,” Hermione pointed out, feeling like a dunce. “You seemed happy enough when you both came over.”

“Aye,” Neville agreed. “We never could really stay away from each other properly.” He paused, weighing his next words carefully. “He asked me what I would do if he stayed.” When Hermione stared at him expectantly, Neville shrugged, giving her his lopsided smile.

She let the conversation go, her mind and body too tired to unravel the secret romance her friend had been carrying on over the years. Not when the mystery of her husband’s dead wife plagued her.

Her tired feet carried her to the empty townhome and her heart ached at the empty couch and kitchen. She took for granted the quiet domesticity of coming home and seeing Draco lounging, waiting for her or cooking, waiting for her.

She showered, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt from Draco’s collection, inhaling deeply, her heart aching as she sat on their bed.

It was happening again. That feeling that she wasn’t enough. She hadn’t been enough for Harry Potter, and she had saved his life.

She was a fool to have believed she could have been enough for Draco fucking Malfoy. She chewed on her lip, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the ring on her left hand. The ring she wore without hesitation.

Astoria had worn his ring, too.

And she had laid beside him, her head on his chest, lulled to sleep by the steady thrum of his heartbeat. She likely placed her shoes next to his, hung up his suit jackets when he came home, shared a cup of coffee together in the early hours of the morning. Draco had kissed her good morning and goodnight. She had gone out to dinner with him and they probably split their meals, so each of them could try two things that night. She had loved him. And he loved her deeply in return.

Hermione took a sharp inhale, suddenly finding herself curled on her side, her arms wrapped around herself. She lay there, her mind playing a neverending loop of imagined scenes of intimacy and domesticity between Astoria and Draco. And, amidst her intense jealousy, lay shame, and that was the most unbearable of it all.

Astoria was dead. Hermione was the one married, flesh and blood and soul, to him now. She was pregnant, her future with Draco sprawled out in front of her like a tantalizing buffet. But she could never have it, never have it fully because she may never have him fully. Not with the trauma of his first wife’s death.

She inhaled deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, her mind running through pneumonic runes in an attempt to soothe herself. She thought about their wedding and the way he seemed to drink her in when he appeared in her flat. The way the silk thread on his cloak shone with the light as he moved. How he had brushed his thumb across her cheek twice before kissing her in front of everyone they knew. How he had carefully undone the buttons of her gown, his fingers trailing down her spine.

She wouldn’t ask him to tell her what happened.

For better or for worse, she had carved out a space in her life where she felt more fulfilled than she had ever been. Her struggling private practice was off the ground, running itself so seamlessly that she was sure it would be fine without her. She no longer had financial obligations and instead could shamelessly give in to her every desire for a bauble. She thought about the meals, of the notebook Draco kept, meticulously recording her reactions to his cooking. How he never made her ask twice for anything, how he kept the townhome cooler than he preferred because she ran hot. How he kissed her. How he looked at her.

This was enough, she decided. This was more than she had hoped for, in her pathetic life trajectory from brilliant prodigy to discarded friend to brilliant employee to disgraced, fringe member of society, treated by her closest friends as someone they couldn’t wrap their heads around. As if they had not fought in a war, as if they did not bleed the same blood or weep the same tears.

She was successful. And it would be enough.

It was the mantra she had been repeating in her mind all night, until Draco came home, silently, quietly, because he thought she was asleep. And when he slid into bed beside her still form, his hand coming up to brush the hair from her cheek, leaning close to brush a kiss on her forehead, she eased. Enough, enough, enough.

Chapter 25: Chapter 25

A/N: Please enjoy!! We've got a little Draco POV in this. Bad Friend Harry Potter is really coming in to play here. Enjoy!!!

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“I can’t remember the last time I waited this eagerly for the mail,” Hermione groused.

It was Saturday, the morning their announcement would appear in the Daily Prophet. Hermione was seated at the kitchen island, one leg tucked under herself as she tapped her fork in an inconsistent rhythm.

“I think this tops receiving my Hogwarts letter,” Malfoy responded, placing a plate of eggs and buttered toast down in front of her.

“Didn’t you already know you were going to Hogwarts?”

“I did. But it didn’t make me any less excited.”

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, crunching away on her toast while Draco poured them both a cup of coffee. Hermione’s was less a cup of coffee and more a splash of coffee with steamed milk, but she wouldn’t complain.

Hermione had been surprised, to say the least, when she received her Hogwarts letter. But that initial shock had subsided quickly with satisfaction that this was the reason she was different. It had been such a happy time for her and she fondly recalled the way her parents read and reread the letter. That night they had surprised her with a witch’s hat. It was cheap, sparkly, the sort of thing you got as part of a Halloween costume but Hermione’s parents had placed it on her with great reverence before they all screamed and danced around the kitchen table.

What kind of celebration would she and Draco have for their child?

“Here it comes.” Draco’s voice broke her out of her reverie and Hermione turned in her seat to find a small owl hurtling towards the open kitchen window. It had a rough landing, skidding on the windowsill before shaking itself out, dropping the rolled-up paper unceremoniously on the windowsill. He waited, pompous, for an owl that almost careened into their kitchen, for Draco to hand him a treat before flying away.

She stood, joining him at the window, breakfast and coffee abandoned. She attempted to snatch the paper out of his hand, but Draco held it close to his chest, frowning at her.

“Don’t grab, you impatient girl,” he huffed.

“Open it,” she grumbled, straining on her tip toes to rip it from his fingers.

“The last time there was an announcement in the Prophet, you stormed into my office and screamed at me.” Draco eyed her suspiciously and she put her hands up in supplication.

“I solemnly swear that I will not yell at you.”

He didn’t look convinced. He unfurled the paper, easily tossing aside the headlines and flipping to the social pages. Their breaths caught.

There it was.

“Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger-Malfoy are thrilled to announce that they are expecting their first child. Hogwarts alum, the business partners turned husband and wife are excited to welcome their new baby. The couple were married late last year. This is the first child for both Mr. Malfoy and Mrs. Granger-Malfoy.”

A small, black and white photo of Hermione and Draco accompanied the short announcement. They were standing in the nursery, hand in hand, facing the camera. Hermione’s hand was placed on her belly, the angle making it hard to judge how far along she was exactly. Their smiles were relaxed, genuine. At the last moment, the paper Draco turned his head to smile at Hermione who smiled softly in return. And then it began again.

Her eyes scanned the rest of the announcements, two births, a death, and three marriages. Her eyes returned to their own post. Draco’s finger lingered on the text of their announcement.

“Not bad.” Hermione exhaled gustily, her breath disturbing the paper. Her palm rested on her belly, mirroring the picture. “It’s real now.”

Draco gave her an odd glance before folding the paper into neat squares around the announcement, using his wand to cut it out with surgical precision. He disappeared with the announcement into his office room, returning only a few moments later.

Hermione, who had already drifted back to her breakfast, looked up when Draco proudly presented her with their announcement in a frame.

“For my office,” he explained, and for a moment, Hermione saw a little boy, proudly showing off his new toy. His grin was wild and, before she could even comment, he was on her, lifting her from her seat by the shoulders to press a wicked kiss on her lips.

His hands wrapped around her waist to press against her back before moving forward to cup her belly.

“I’m going to be late,” she protested. But her arms reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and she inhaled, enjoying the scent of the coffee beans he had ground that clung to him.

He smiled into her lips. “For what?” His voice had taken on a low, husky quality and Hermione felt her heart seize. “It’s Saturday,” he whispered into her skin.

His breath sent goosebumps down her arms and she tightened her hold on him. They were practically swaying now, Draco clasping her as tightly as he could.

They spent the rest of the morning like that, wrapped up in each other’s arms, Hermione chasing away her doubts from the previous night away with kisses and gentle caresses, breakfast long forgotten on the counter.

The mail came, as expected. The first letter had been from Molly and Arthur Weasley – a simple card of congratulations with the promise of a baby Christmas sweater. Narcissa, despite having known about the pregnancy already, sent parcels of baby onesies and toys that had belonged to Draco. In one of the packages, Hermione recognized a tiny silver spoon, the same one Draco had used as a portkey when they traveled to India all those months ago. She gingerly cradled a onesie to her chest, wondering how something so small could be for a little human. She thought of how Draco -once small and downy-haired and milk-sleepy- had worn it and it brought her to tears. He watched her, bemused.

Ron and Luna sent a card, a lovely one that glowed blue or purple depending on what, she wasn’t sure. Luna and Ron had sent Hermione and Draco a pillow.

Harry and Ginny’s card came much later. It was simple, a small congratulations written in Ginny’s blocky handwriting. She had sent Hermione and Draco socks embroidered with the letter M. Draco put them over his fingers, his eyes wide.

“There’s no way…” He muttered, and Hermione agreed, marveling at exactly how small a baby could be.

Her breath caught and Draco, whose game of sock finger puppets had been interrupted, joined her. At the bottom of the card was Harry’s scrawled handwriting.

“Hermione – I am happy for you.”

Draco sneered at the message and Hermione tucked it away into a drawer, not wishing to investigate it further.

Theo and Neville’s cards came, separately. Neville sent a scrapbook, a place where she and Draco could document firsts. First words, first steps, first signs of magic. Theo sent, of all things, a muggle polaroid camera, fascinating Draco to no end. He had snapped no less than ten pictures of Hermione that afternoon, secretively hiding them from her. She let it go, her emotions high.

She made dinner that evening, a simple roast chicken. She hummed as she worked, relishing the way Draco would periodically lift the hair off the nape of her neck and blow cool hair on her as she sweat, the oven creating heat. When they sat down to eat, Hermione with her customary glass of wine to smell and Draco with his wine to drink, of course.

She spent the rest of the evening fawning over the baby clothes Narcissa sent, reveling in the feel of the fine material.

---

“Did you know there’s no post on Sundays?” Hermione smiled cheerily at Draco whose expression turned from bemused to serious as his gaze caught on something in the window.

An owl, nondescript, brown, adequately adorable. It tapped impatiently at the kitchen window, its leg held out with not one but three letters attached to it.

“Leave it,” Hermione warned, but it was too late, and Draco was already making quick strides across the kitchen with his wand drawn. He all but ripped the letters from the owl, scowling when it pecked him in response before flying away.

“Not expecting a response?” He muttered, opening one of the letters with his wand tip. He had read only one line before making a noise of disgust and slamming it on the counter. He lifted his wand, the incantation to incinerate on his tongue.

“No!” Hermione leapt from her seat, hustling to grab the letters.

“Hermione, come on now – these are rubbish. It’s not going to do you any good.”

But Draco’s admonishment was too late and Hermione was caught, entranced by the words. It was some variation of the letters they had received after marriage but this one was different. Her eyes snagged on one line.

“A shame that the once great House of Malfoy is sullied by your blood. You couldn’t even let Astoria Greengrass’ body cool before you climbed into their wedding bed.”

Her eyes stung, trembling fingers dropping the letter. The other two were much the same, although without the direct reference to Draco’s wife. Swallowing hard, she looked up at Draco who was glaring at her.

“I told you not to bother with them.”

She nodded, smiling, the movement causing an errant tear to fall from her eye. “I know. But you know me…” She trailed off, shrugging.

Draco’s expression softened and he took the letters from her, and she noted that they went into his back pocket and not in the trash. They finished their breakfast in near silence, Draco pressing a kiss to the top of her head before heading to the floo.

“I have some business in London,” he explained, fist already in the floo powder. His mouth was set in a grim line and Hermione, who simply did not have the energy to question him, waved him goodbye before collapsing on the couch.

Of course he had read the letter, of course it had been a mention of Astoria Greengrass that had him fleeing their home.

---

The café was busy, as to be expected on a Sunday morning. Draco watched aimlessly groups passed, some dressed a if they were ready to start the day, others dressed as if they were ready to go to bed, and even more dressed and looking like they weren’t quite sure when a morning started or ended. It had taken him some stealth, and perhaps a winning smile, to secure this table by the window. A year ago he had sat at this table and had touched Hermione Granger for the first time. He could still see her in his mind’s eye, her curls cascading down her back, the lipstick stain she left on her vanilla latte with oatmilk. The way she had gawked at him when he told her he had a credit card. He could practically see her, sitting across from him, tapping her bitten down nails on the front of a comically large binder.

Harry Potter slid into the seat across from him. Potter had grown up to be a handsome man. He was a bit shorter than Draco, no longer thin and gangly but full of lean, taut muscles. His auror’s physicality showed, his compact muscles hidden under a wiry frame.  

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

Malfoy did not give him a moment to breathe.

“I want a screener set up for all mail coming into my home.”

Harry nodded, reaching forward to take a napkin from the dispenser and rubbed it between his fingers. His eyes darted back to Malfoy.

“You’re getting hate mail because of the pregnancy announcement?” His tone was mild. “Congratulations, by the way. Officially.”

“Hermione and I,” Malfoy started, relishing in the way Harry seemed to shake just a little at the mention of a Malfoy-Granger unit, “Have been getting hate mail since our wedding. But you already knew that.”

Potter, sufficiently having crumpled the napkin, leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “Why now?”

“It’s evolved beyond petty, meaningless drivel.”

“Threats?”

“No, nothing outright. But enough to upset Hermione.”

“What have you done about it?” Potter’s tone was casual.

“Familial wards are in place,” Malfoy replied evenly. “But that’s about the extent of it. I’ve refrained from anything stronger. I wanted to go through,” He paused, weighing his words carefully. “Legal routes, first,” he settled on.

“That might be a first,” Potter remarked, his puke-green eyes boring into Draco’s. “A first for a Malfoy man.”

Potter couldn’t fucking resist. Harry Potter, the object of Draco’s every desire and simultaneous fury in Hogwarts. Potter, who had sneered at his outstretched hand, Potter, who had taken every opportunity to scapegoat Draco. Potter had been right, for the most part, and Malfoy knew he had been destined to play this trope, this supporting enemy in the prophecy that belonged to Harry Potter.

But it was obvious that the security that was ushered in for this new era did not comfort Potter, or at least let him know that he had done his duty. No. Potter, like he had always done, shouldered the burden of society’s happiness on his shoulders, stuck his nose in every affair. But, for all these years, he had been paid for it, encouraged to do so, and told that it was his moral responsibility as a wizard, as a father, as man. People like Draco, people like Hermione, Draco realized, threatened all that he had worked for, all that he had sacrificed his childhood for.

A weaker man than Draco would have been intimidated by Potter’s casual ire, his skepticism, his hidden wrath. But Draco had come too far, had already repented a thousand times over for the sins of his father, for the sins of his childhood, to feel like he had to prostrate himself at Potter’s feet. But he didn’t love Potter. Hermione did. And, Draco, wounded for his wife, could only imagine what it felt like to be sitting on this table and victim to Harry Potter’s need to save the world.

He smiled blandly, masking the fury he felt. “Yes,” he agreed. “Impending fatherhood has changed me. As I’m sure fatherhood has done to you.”

“Have you heard from any of your previous colleagues?”

Draco’s fury sharpened to a fine point, Potter’s brazen accusation hanging between them. How the fuck did Hermione accept this kind of scrutiny for years?

“Potter, let me be very clear.” Draco took a sip of his coffee. “I have no affiliations with any former or active death eaters.”

He smiled, seemingly impressed with Draco’s decision to confront the hidden meaning head on. “So,” he began, taking his glasses off to clean them on his shirt. “Is that all? A mail screener? Is this what you dragged me away from my family for on a Sunday?”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Only for Hermione. I don’t want her to be upset.”

“Yes, and certainly not at the hands of anyone else. You seem to want that title exclusively,” Draco sneered. He couldn’t help himself, he never could.

Potter’s gaze grew cold, his eyes narrowing. “Shut up, Malfoy. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What? Don’t like it when a mirror is held up to your face? I bet it kills you,” Draco started. His voice didn’t seem to belong to him anymore and he watched, with righteous fury, as he continued. “That she ended up with me, death eater scum.”

“Careful,” he warned. “That sounds like a confession.”

“You just can’t stand it,” Draco continued, his voice low and tight. “Can’t stand the fact that the world is changing without you. Needing to be the center of attention all the time – having your wife and child just wasn’t enough for you, was it? You needed the satisfaction of Hermione waiting, pining, struggling. After all she’s done for you.”

“You’re out of line - ”

“All those years you let her struggle after she left the Ministry!” Draco noted how Potter’s head shook in brief surprise, and he knew that Harry had only been thinking about their romantic history. His disgust grew.

He couldn’t blame Hermione. How could she have not? Potter was charismatic, powerful, her friend. The two of them had endured immeasurable childhood experiences, both terrifying and exhilarating, forging a bond between them that was powerful beyond magic, a love that was enough to defeat the dark lord. And for all that she had done for him, he had tossed her aside and treated her like a hostile threat the second she fell out of what was proper. The irony was not lost on Draco – Hermione Granger, muggleborn best friend of Harry Potter, refused the luxury of changing the wizarding world because Harry Potter had decided he had done enough change.

“You’re out of line,” Potter seethed. His voice had grown loud and the chatter of the busy café came to a deafening silence as the patrons took in the odd sight of these two men arguing. The barista at the register shot a look to her colleague.

I’m only here out of courtesy for my wife,” Draco snarled, his voice hushed. “Otherwise, I’d have done this myself, in my own way. But I’m doing this for her. For them. You would do the same for your family, I’m sure.”

“Stay away from my family,” Potter hissed, casting a surreptitious muffliato under the table.

“How?” Draco drawled. “We’re practically in-laws. Hermione graciously invited you into our home and all you did was leave a shitty bottle of wine and make my wife cry.”

“She told you?”

“She tells me everything.”

Potter stiffened, his mouth set in a grim line. He looked older than his years. The men glared at each other across the table. The moment broke, Potter running his hand through his thinning hair before scrubbing it down his face.

“I’ll put a team on the wards today. Consider this a gift.”

He did not look at Draco again.

Draco nodded, slapping a bill on the table before walking out to the apparition point. He was grateful for the slap of the cold air and he inhaled deeply, releasing his grip on his wand.

When he returned to the townhome, Hermione was sat on the floor of the nursery, her hair falling loose down her back as she sat before cans of paint, her gaze focused on the rain pelting down the large window. She was frowning – the lineup looking as if she were trying to get one of them to confess to a crime.

He cleared his throat in the doorway and she startled, turning to him, her large brown eyes misty and distant. At the sight of him, she shuttered the emotion away. Instead, indifference crossed her features. Draco understood.

“We shouldn’t be getting any more mail,” Draco said, as way of explanation.

“Oh?” Hermione asked archly, her brow raised. “No more mail at all?”

“Yes. No more at all. How will the jeweler send their bills to me?”

Hermione sniffed, her twirling her wand aimlessly in her hand. She felt distant – the letter from this morning likely weighing heavily on her mind.

“Come on, Granger,” he padded over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder, his gaze following hers to the rain. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours?”

“We should charm one of the walls,” she said, her voice dreamy. “Something like this. The English countryside. This weather is lovely.”

“Ugh, why not somewhere tropical? Why show the girl something inside that she can just see outside?”

Hermione pushed up on her knees to slowly stand, accepting Draco’s arm for leverage. She stretched, her hands pressed against her low back as she moaned with the stretch.

“Hogwarts was charmed for the night sky. We never complained.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” Draco rolled his eyes at her. “What did it matter in or out? Shouldn’t it be something more enriching? Like the desert? Or the rainforest? Or maybe a city.”

“But this is beautiful,” Hermione insisted, her finger jabbing towards the window. At Draco’s skeptical expression, she hustled out of the room with surprising speed, Draco quick on her heels. She sprinted towards the yard, flinging the door open and stepping out into the pouring rain, arms outstretched.

This woman was mad.

She stood in the yard, her face tilted up towards the sky as the rain pelted her. Her hair became long and heavy as the rain saturated it. Her thin grey t-shirt and matching gray lounge pants turned black, clinging to every single bit of her. He stood, mouth agape, at the woman he called his wife. Nothing, he thought, nothing could ever be more beautiful than she was in this moment.

As if walking through a fog, he joined her, his words to Potter rolling through his head. What a fool he had been to have Hermione and to lose her. What a fool they had all been, he thought, to all abandon her. Their loss had become his riches.

He had reached her now and she laughed, pushing his own wet hair from his forehead. Her touch sent a jolt through him. All her touches did. He studied her face intently, counting the freckles across her nose, the beauty mark on her smile line, the one that disappeared when she grinned too widely. She studied him in return. Draco never wished to be an occlumens as much as he did when all he wanted to do was dive into her thoughts.

He kissed her, his hands moving up to cup her cheeks. She kissed him back tenderly, sweetly, hesitantly, before pulling away.

“Tell me the rain is so boring now,” she said, mischief lighting up her eyes.

He pulled her in again for another kiss, breaking it only to respond, “I might need more convincing.”

Her grin grew wicked as she pulled away from him, dragging him back into the house. She peeled pieces of sodden clothes of herself as she went, leaving breadcrumbs. By the time she was in his – their – bedroom, she was clad in nothing but in diamond earrings, perched on the edge of the bed.

His hand trailed up her foot to her ankle, snagging on an anklet. He lifted her foot, examining the thin gold anklet there.

“New?” He murmurred, leaning to press a kiss to her ankle.

Her breath hitched. “Mhhm.”

She was splayed out in front of him, propped on her elbows as she watched him kiss up her legs, her breath coming out in small, anticipatory pants. He let his teeth graze the inside of her thigh and she whimpered.

He couldn’t wait. He ran his tongue along her, a moan escaping his own lips at the taste of her. He would never get tired of this, he thought, his tongue working in circles around her clit. Her smell, her taste, the way she brazenly rocked her hips against his face, her grip so tight on his hair. He could do this every day and it still would not be enough.

The thought frightened him. He inserted a finger, and then two, curving them in the exact way he knew drove her mad. When she came, he pulled away from her immediately. She cried out from the loss but knew what was coming when Draco wordlessly summoned a pillow and placed it under her back. New adjustments, new rituals.

He came home to her – that is what it felt like. Fully seated inside her, her fingers gripping his back so tightly, her breaths hot against his ear. He rocked against her and she responded to the call, her fingers trailing down his back, his chest, his arms. Her body was so different now, fuller, lusher, her stomach a protruding reminder of the future. He felt so possessive seeing her like this, wanted to be the only person who could ever see her like this.

“Draco,” her voice cut through his spiral. “I’m going to-”

Her words were cut off with a cry, Draco following her soon after. They both scooted up the bed (yet another addition to accommodate pregnancy) and they settled side by side, facing each other.

“Do you think…?” Her voice sounded small, hesitant.

He had been tracing his hand up and down her waist, down to her thigh, and back again. “Hmm?” His eyes felt heavy.

“Do you ever,” she stopped herself.

Draco pushed up on one elbow, leaning over to place a kiss on her neck, on her cheek. “Tell me,” he urged.

But Hermione was already pushing herself up and out of bed, making her way to the bathroom. “No time for rest,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve got to paint the nursery.”

Draco fell back against the pillows. She reappeared in front of him minutes later in an oversized t-shirt and ripped leggings, her wet hair detangled and plaited neatly down her back.

“Ready?” She eyed him appreciatively and he flexed, watching her expression from the corner of his eye.

“No time for that,” she scolded. “We’ve got to paint the nursery today.” She shot him one last glance before turning away. Anyone else would have thought she was impatient but he knew her too well. Knew that she had retreated to somewhere deep in her mind. He wondered what she locked up in there. Wondered if there was a place for him there.

Chapter 26

Notes:

Hey....LOL. Sorry for being so MIA on this fic. I am so freaking close to the end of this but damn, real life is kicking my butt! My fellow school professionals you will understand how hard it is to go back to being at work when having had the whole summer off. My spirit was a little demoralized, let's say. But things are stabilizing a little bit and I've been feeling inspired to write. Those of you who also write, do you also spend all day long thinking about story ideas but then either (a) get distracted by real life and forget, (b) get too tired trying to so hard to work and cook and eat and keep yourself fed and watered that you're too tired, or (c) spend too much time using any of your free time playing the sims?? lol. ANYWAY. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Remember, I've got no betas and I'm doing my best out here!!! Follow me on twitter @endegmame where I post dramione and sims stuff. Have a great week, everyone!

Hermione leaned back in her chair, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. It was only 11am and she was exhausted.

In the short time she had spent in the office, not only had three of her patients decided to drop out of Hermione’s potion study, but one asked if she could be reduced from two groups to one group session per week. There had, unbeknownst to Hermione, been drama between the women at the group and Mrs. Bjergsen and Mrs. Hendermiffler were refusing to be in the same room. Theo’s groups, however, were running spectacularly, to Hermione’s satisfaction and simultaneous disappointment.

Her potion wasn’t working, there were fights in her therapy sessions, and her impending deadline was fast approaching. She checked her watch, realizing now that at 11:15, her appointment was likely going to be a no-show. She groaned. Nothing was going to plan.

She struggled out of her chair and wandered into the lab, ignoring the sounds of laughter coming from Theo’s office as he treated. No one had that good a time in Hermione’s sessions ever.

The lab was pristine, as always, neatly and perfectly stocked with every ingredient Hermione could possibly want. She thought back to her days brewing in her spare bedroom and ingredients leftovers from Hogwarts. She ran a finger along the prep station, eyed the various knives and tools for chopping and extracting, and peered into the large cauldron in the center of the room. Spotless, sharp, and empty.

She hadn’t been brewing, had hardly been in the lab since she left her presentation in Ireland, waving Draco’s inquiries off with excuses of fatigue and backpain (neither of which had been untrue).

When Hermione had only a limited number of resources available, her potion had seemed viable, realistic, close, even. Her brewing was precise, methodical, highly justified. She avoided missteps at all costs, knowing that a ruined ingredient meant no more experimentation. But she had hit a wall, the point in which she needed more, which is when she had recruited Malfoy.

And he had given her anything, with no restrictions.

The thrill she had felt when he unveiled this lab, the same feeling of wonder that Hogwarts inspired in her, felt foreign to her now. Where she once saw cutting edge equipment, she saw a burden, an expectation. For so long Hermione had felt like she was flying towards the finish line, the end was in sight. But something had snagged.

First it had been her tryst with Draco, all that time he spent buried between her legs while the potion simmered to the point of no return. Draco simply waved the mess away, making a note to replenish the ingredients. And they always appeared the next morning.

 

Then it had been the baby, the wedding, moving in. There had always been something. Doubt crept into Hermione’s mind. She had been brewing, nonetheless. While she may have spent less evenings doing it, she had been able to do more, simply because she had access. And nothing was working.

She had been defensive in Ireland, blatantly ignoring the issue, misleading the man who had asked her about her connection to theory and practice. She stopped her thoughts, not yet willing to admit it, even to herself. She wondered if Draco already knew and she flushed at the thought, white hot embarrassment piercing her chest.

She was a housewife running around doing a pet project with her husband’s money. The fine clothes she had worn today felt itchy on her skin, the gold on her ears and wrists burning as if they were made of mud.

She heaved, a whimper getting caught up in her throat. It was over.

But then sound of her floo roared to life and Hermione hastily wiped her tears, turning to face her scheduled patient with a smile.

***

Hermione swept into her home from the floo, distractedly shaking off floo powder from her fine wool coat. It would be spring soon and an errant thought to reach out to the tailor at Madame Malkin’s crossed her mind. She frowned, shaking the thought from her head, frustrated at her now flippant desire for materials.

The Grangers had never been overly sentimental, Hermione recalling how her mother would do massive cleanouts of the home, donating every scrap of clothing she had grown out of. Would Hermione do the same? But she thought of the small drawer of baby clothes she had quietly accumulated and her heart twisted at the thought of those clothes, likely smelling milky and sweet, trashed in a landfill.

She wandered into what used to be her bedroom in the townhome, her fingers lightly running against the various bits and bobs she had left around. The bed was made, the door to her massive walk-in closet closed. She wrenched the door open, her eyes scanning the dim space until she found the massive chest she had lugged from her flat to here.

She fell to her knees, grunting as she did so. She riffled through the chest, her hands scrabbling until it made purchase with a tissue paper, soft, and wrinkled. The material felt paper thin and fragile between her fingers, the fabric gone slightly yellow from years of poor storage. Her christening gown.

It felt so delicate between her fingers, so fragile, like if she squeezed, it would disintegrate. A tear drop landed with a quiet splash, startling her. She stared at the drop, spreading and bleeding out in a strange fascination.

Her mother would never meet her baby, would never hear about Hermione’s accomplishments, would never see Hermione’s failures. And there were so many of them.

She moved her way from the closet, gingerly holding the christening gown to her chest as she stumbled to the nursery. It was beautiful,

Draco wandered in after twenty minutes, curious about where she had gone only to find Hermione weeping, clutching the gown to her chest. She felt wrung out, self-conscious, overwhelmed.

The nursery was beautiful, the charmed ceiling twinkling as it showcased a countryside sky. Draco had acquiesced to her request, begrudging, but still smiling. Her eyes fell across the bespoke bassinet, the half-empty drawer. She pulled open a drawer, gingerly placing her christening gown in it, feeling a selfish desire to have nothing else inhabit it. She was sure Narcissa Malfoy would send boxes of Malfoy heirlooms, passed down from generation to generation. She had kept a spoon Draco had eaten with – and Hermione was chagrinned to realize that her baby wouldn’t be gnawing on a plastic spoons the way she had.

“Hermione?” Draco’s voice called for her and Hermione cringed, not ready to face Draco, for her to lay out her failures to him.

She heard his footsteps, his voice calling out for her one more time, she heard the rustling of the paper bag as he examined its uneaten contents. He had no doubt seen her hung up coat and shoes and his pace quickened as he moved from the kitchen and down the hallway to their bedroom. He blew past her, his footsteps quick, hurried, before pausing and tracking back down the hallway. He strolled into the nursery, his calm expression in direct conflict with his steps.

“Hi,” He said, his eyes taking in her teary face. “You didn’t eat?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

His eyes darted down to her fingers, tightly curled around the christening gown in the still open drawer.

“You should eat.”

“I will.”

He hovered in the doorway. “Everything alright?”

She slammed the drawer shut, flinching a little bit at the noise it made. “It's fine.” She brushed her hair back – it had gotten too long. “Let’s eat.”

She breezed past him, ignoring the way he took in that she was still in the clothes she wore to work, the tear stains, the mysterious item she had slammed shut in the drawer. She half expected him to check, to confirm what she had put in there but he didn’t. He simply followed her back into the kitchen, sitting at the island as he watched her get out plates and cutlery.

They ate in silence, Hermione carefully avoiding Draco’s curious gaze. The fork seemed to burn her, the heft of it, the price of it all. She had so easily fallen into this life of luxury, this pattern with Draco, but it was all leading somewhere, wasn’t it?

Stupid, pathetic housewife with a hobby. The intrusive thought crept back into her mind, ricocheting, bouncing. Failed, disgraced Healer.

She would fail at this too, wouldn’t she?

“Draco.”

She didn’t have to work hard at all to get his attention, he had been watching her the whole time. He inclined his head to her, waiting, curious.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.” He shrugged. “Good.”

Hermione nodded, pushing around the rice on her plate.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “What kind of father will you be?”

Surprise colored his face. They didn’t talk about the baby, didn’t talk about the impending arrival of parenthood. He blew air out between his lips, seemingly at a loss for words. “I’d like to be a good one.”

“So, not like Lucius?”

It had been an unnecessary jab, a mean little remark that she couldn’t help. Her emotions were running so high, the stress and disappointment of how her life had turned out a crushing weight on her shoulders.

Draco didn’t take the bait. “No, not like my father.” When she motioned at him to continue, he did. “I don’t want my child to fear me, nor do I want her to feel like she can never live up to my expectations.” His eyes met hers and she softened. “I’d like to be someone she loves. Someone she knows loves her unconditionally.”

It felt like a challenge, or a confession. Hermione couldn’t be sure which. “Is that all it takes, then? To be a good father?” She pushed away from the island suddenly, Draco following her, his eyes wary. She grabbed their plates, still full of food, hastily dumping them into the sink and running the water. She whirled, the tap still on. “Aren’t you worried?”

“What are you worried about, Hermione?”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Answer my question.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Answer my question.” Her voice was tight.

He laughed at her, incredulous. “Do you think you’ll be a good mother?”

Her lip quivered.

Draco sighed, his shoulders rounding in on himself. He moved to get closer to her but she stepped away from him, her one hand out as she pinched the bridge of her nose with the other. She inhaled deeply and slowly only to exhale noisily to dispel the thoughts ricocheting in her mind.

“I don’t know how to do it.” Hermione’s voice was thin. She wasn’t sure exactly which she was talking about. Motherhood, her career, her life in general.

“Never thought I’d hear those words come from you.” Draco’s tone was teasing, but soft. He hesitated, but continued toward her anyway, his hand making contact with her shoulder when she didn’t move away. He pulled her, slightly stiff and resistant, into his embrace. The tap turned off behind her and Draco ran his hands down her back in that peculiar way that always seemed to soothe her to the point of lethargy.

“How are you handling this so easily?” Her voice was quiet as she pulled back from him, unwilling to let him do yet another thing for her, unwilling to let go of the misery she thought she deserved.

He pursed his lips, thinking, his fingers drumming a pattern on her stomach. She felt the baby move in response and his fingers stilled, before continuing.

“I don’t know if I’ve been handling it easily.”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

He moved away from her, stretching out as he lay on the couch. She trailed behind him, reluctantly sitting next to him with her legs tucked under her. It was uncomfortable and it took her a little bit of maneuvering. Before she was settled, Draco draped his arm around her.

“Did something happen today?”

“I found my christening gown. From when I was a baby,” she explained. “It made me miss my parents. It made me think of…well – it made me think of what kind of mum I’d be.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

She sniffed, tilting her head back to redirect the uncontrollable tears that slid down her cheeks. “I never imagined it would be like this,” she confessed. Draco was silent so she continued. “Like this,” and she motioned vaguely to the townhome. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I imagined it in any way that felt real. This all happened so quickly, didn’t it?” She peeked a glance at Draco who was looking at her with an expression that was so heartbroken, so full of yearning that it took the breath away from her.

She caught these glances, from time to time, especially in the moments where she felt closest to him. Loneliness clawed its way up her throat, threatening to escape the walls she had built around it in her heart. She started to sweat, her weaknesses and failures, too insurmountable.

She had fought a war, had worked in tandem to defeat an evil wizard as a child. Never did she think that the woes of domesticity would be the end of her.

She would never save the people she wanted to save. She would never see her mother or father again, would never get to see her children reach for their grandparents. She would never be held by a man who loved her, who wanted her, who didn’t look at her and wish he was seeing a different woman.

Draco’s expression shuttered when Hermione’s gaze didn’t leave his. Her fingers, trembling, reached up to touch his cheek and he turned into her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm. It burned her.

She moved to straddle him, her movement slightly clumsy and limited. He grunted slightly as she settled her weight against him and she kissed him, stealing the sound from his lips. He startled, is lips hesitant as she kissed him with a bruising intensity. She ground her hips against him, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

He groaned again, his hands snaking up and under her shirt, the heat from his hands jolting her awake. She pulled away from him, her hair falling around them like a shroud.

His eyes were half-lidded with lust but she studied him for a beat longer, noting the sadness that never seemed to leave him. The sadness she had decided she could life with. Until now.

“Draco,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his lightly.

“Hermione,” he whispered back, one hand sliding up the nape of her neck to grip her hair. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her, silence whatever was bubbling up inside of her. She might have let him, would have been content to let him remove the stress of another worry from her. But he didn’t.

“Tell me what happened with Astoria.”

Chapter 27

Summary:

Draco begins to explain.

Notes:

PLEASE take a look at the tags once more. TW // CW for: miscarriage, pregnancy loss

There were moments in her life that Hermione could recall in crystal clear clarity, moments that she could replay in full technicolor and surround sound. She had told Draco this, once, in another lifetime, when they were sat in the quiet of the lab, both concentrated on stirring their potions clockwise and counterclockwise, respectively.

Draco’s brow had furrowed, although he did not look up from his potion, his teeth scraping his bottom lip as he concentrated. “What is technicolor?”

She thought of that moment now as she studied the Draco that was molded under her hands, watched the light in his eyes dim until they were dark, not with lust, but with fear. He didn’t speak, his fingers burning where they gripped the back of her neck before he released them, his eyes falling away from hers.

“Draco,” she repeated, her fingers squeezing on his shoulders, as if to sear the words into his skin. “Tell me what happened to Astoria.”

Draco frowned, his teeth clenching as he gingerly, tenderly, lifted her off of him. He rose to his full height, leaving Hermione crumpled, discarded on the couch. His shoulders were rounded, tensed and he stalked away from her to the sliding glass doors, his gaze set on the darkness ahead of him.

“She’s dead, Hermione.”

Draco’s voice was surprisingly gentle, placating. She rose up from her position on the couch, angry that she couldn’t be as graceful as him, angry that he wasn’t answering her.

The question was burning in her throat. It had been something that sparked her curiosity ever since she had seen the obituary all those years ago, stoked again only to be cooled by her own choice. But she couldn’t -wouldn’t- let it go.

“I deserve to know,” she insisted, padding over to where he stood. He sighed heavily when he felt her at his back and he turned, leaning against the cold glass.

They appraised each other, his eyes a unique mixture of grief and despair and anger that she sucked in a breath over the surprise of it. She twisted her wedding ring, Draco’s eyes flitting to the movement before he mirrored her.

Draco had purchased their wedding bands, and she had known that the ring she wore was hers, and hers alone but his – she took another breath, her heart thundering in her chest with the weight of knowing that perhaps Draco never put on a ring for her, just slipped on an old one.

“Don’t go there,” Draco’s voice was dark, sullen, and her eyes snapped back from his ring finger to find his gaze back on her.

“How can I not?” She demanded.

The question had been burning in her, ever since she had known Draco as an adult, really, but Neville had planted a seed whose roots were tangling every thought she had.

“I tried to,” she started, swallowing quickly before continuing on, hating the pleading tone in her voice. “Draco, I tried. I tried to take you at your word-”

“So you think I’m lying?”

She laughed incredulously. “I just – I just don’t know what’s true.”

“This,” Draco waved his hand between the two of them. “This is true. Isn’t this enough?”

Enough.

The word sang through Hermione, stinging. Enough, enough, enough. She wanted so badly for this to be enough. When she stepped closer to him, placed her hand in his, he didn’t resist. Nor did he resist when she pulled him gently to his – no – their bedroom, like a child.

“Draco,” she hissed between grit teeth. “This is the rest of my life. This is the entirety of her life,” she said as she moved to cup her belly. “I need to know. There’s something you’re not telling me.” She put her hand up when she saw Draco opening his mouth to protest. “I know – I don’t think you’re lying. But something happened. It’s why Neville clams up, it’s why Theo treats me the way he does.” She stepped, closing the gap between them, her hand reaching up to Draco’s beautiful face. “I know you loved her.” Her fingers traced the shape of his hairline, over his eyebrows, down his aquiline nose. “But I need to know what happened to her.” She leaned closer, her mouth near his ear. “Share the burden of it with me.”

He exhaled in her arms, body sagging forward into her as if he had been carrying this on his shoulders the entire time. Or perhaps it was defeat.

“You should sit down.” His voice was muffled in the crook of her neck and he peeled himself away from her as if it hurt.

And maybe it did, she thought. Maybe all of this hurt.

***

The clock in this old manor was always an hour behind. No matter what Draco did, he couldn’t fix it. He hexed it, charmed it, spoke to it as if he could cajole it into changing, like he often did with the portraits. It ticked on anyway, one hour behind the rest of the world.

The night before his house arrest ended, Draco sat down in front of the clock, his own watch flipped to be face down on his wrist as if not to offend the wall clock. When the minute and hour hand met at eleven, he stared. The tainted manor gave a shudder, groaning and moaning in protest until it settled, the air around him glimmering. The clock didn’t change. Draco put his head in his hands and wept.

***

“Draco, dear, are you listening?”

He opened his eyes to find a pair of fine shoes, his gaze tracking up to see even finer pale green silk robes that hung on the skeletal frame of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy. She was gripping two forks, one silver and one gold. Astoria sat behind Narcissa, her dark hair smoothed back into a Malfoy approved coif. She was equally dressed in finery, her young face pale and determined.

“I rather like the silver ones, Mrs. Malfoy,” Astoria offered, her dark eyes meeting Draco’s.

Narcissa’s smile twitched, her gaze not leaving Draco’s. She studied him and he peered back at her. Somewhere outside, a cow mooed and Narcissa’s smile dropped.

***

She was soft. It was the first thing he noticed about Astoria as he held her small hand in his. Her strength, was the second, and most important thing, he noticed about Astoria Greengrass – now Astoria Malfoy- as she gripped his hands, surging forward to press a kiss to his lips. In his surprise, he squeezed her hands back, the force of it shocking him into awareness. He had been a free man. And now he was married.

***

“I can’t fucking stand the smell of this cow shit.”

Astoria blew into his office (the one with the wretched clock), sending his parchment into a flurry. She all but tumbled onto the green velvet couch across from his desk, her arm over her face in a dramatic show. She was flushed, her pale skin bitten rid on her cheeks and the tips of her nose. Cute.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she made a face back at him only to turn away, reach into her pale blue robes, and procure a bottle of champagne.

“It’s half-past two.”

“It’s half-past three, actually,” She scoffed, lazily waving her wand to summon two glasses. She poured enthusiastically from her reclined position and Draco found himself smiling, despite himself.

“Mum had you out there with the cows?”

Astoria took a long, deep drink. “No, I was taking a walk. You know, to clear my head.” She waved her hand, as if to imitate her fluttering thoughts. “It reeks of cow shit.”

Draco shrugged, his gaze lingering on the rising bubbles of his drink. “Which bottle is this?”

“You know which one,” Astoria waved her hands again. “Anyway, it stinks of cow shit, Draco. It’s unbearable. I don’t know how your mother expects to host a Christmas party here. And if I have to go over forks and linens one more fucking time I’m going to lose it.”

“You curse a lot.”

“So what?

“I don’t know.” Draco contemplated the champagne before taking a drink. The bubbles burst on his tongue and he savored it. Just the right amount sweetness.

***

“Fuck. You.” Astoria was openly weeping, her makeup running down her face.

“Fuck me? Fuck me?” Where Astoria’s voice was slurred, his was sharp, each consonant sharp and cutting. “Something could have happened to you.”

“So what? So what if something happened to me? At least I’d be outside – outside of this fucking decrepit old house-”

“Astoria, you could have been hurt,” Draco pitched his voice up, louder. “Look at you,” he sneered, motioning to Astoria’s outfit, a tiny skirt and a scrap of cloth around her breasts. “What are you wearing? What are you thinking going out into a – a place like that?”

“It’s called a nightclub-”

“I don’t give a fuck about what it’s called-”

“You have no right to come out and ruin my fun. I wasn’t even going to do anything,” She sounded exactly like she was – petulant and drunk.

“You think I care about that?” Draco felt like grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. Her fascination with muggle culture had felt like a quirky hobby, one that she poorly concealed from everyone in the house. But it was fine in the house, fine when she disappeared into Diagon Alley to purchase the entirety of muggle specialty books, barely okay when she frequented muggle cafes and restaurants.

But to find Astoria nowhere in the manor – only to get a call from the elf employed at The Leaky Cauldron if Mr. Malfoy could please come collect Mrs. Malfoy? She was making a scene and scaring the patrons.

At first, she had thrown her arms around Draco but her pleasure quickly soured when the motion sickness from the floo caused her to throw up all over the Malfoy rug.

“You’re just so scared,” she was sneering at him back, her lipstick smeared where she had wiped her mouth after vomiting. “Don’t you know that there’s more to this life than this old manor? More to life than following in your parents footsteps like some sort of pathetic dog?”

Her words stung. He inhaled. He thought about telling her how he really felt, how he knew that there was more to life but he could never have it. But he didn’t. Instead, he gave her one final glower before leaving her, ignoring the way she screamed after him.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

***

“You know, you’re kind of like my brother.”

Draco cringed. “Of all the horrible things you’ve said to me, I think that might have been the worst.”

They were laying in bed together in such a manner no siblings should be and whatever afterglow Draco had been experiencing was disappearing fast. Astoria propped herself up on her shoulder to peer down at Draco, her expression growing amused at his reddening face.

“Best to get it out of our systems, right?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, reaching up and back to cup the back of his head. He was enjoying himself, was enjoying her company.

“Not sure we have a choice, whether it’s ‘in our systems’ or not.”

Astoria’s face sobered and Draco regretted saying it. She had such a mouth on her, but she crumbled whenever he spoke.

“Happy anniversary,” she muttered, sighing as she flopped back down next to him.

Draco pulled the covers up over them both, startling when he felt the ice cold of her toes brush his calves.

***

“This is a little small.”

Draco’s voice echoed in the empty flat, his fingers fiddling with the wedding bad on his left hand. It felt heavy.

“I don’t care.” Astoria’s voice floated in from somewhere in the bedroom before she materialized in front of him. Her energy was frenetic. She was practically vibrating. “I want all new furniture.”

“Fine,” Malfoy groused, checking his wristwatch.

“You have somewhere to be?” Astoria’s heels clicked on the parquet wooden floor as she draped her arms around Draco’s shoulders. She smelled the same as she always did, like rain, and Draco inhaled, despite himself.

“No, but we do have dinner reservations in an hour,” he reminded her. She smiled at him, releasing the hold on his neck to take one of his hands in both of hers.

“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand and he was brought back to their wedding day, at the surprise he felt at her strong grip.

***

“Mother,” Draco’s voice was cool.

“Son.” Narcissa’s voice was always like water, the way it flowed over him, the way it promised destruction if there was too much of it.

They were seated on the green velvet couch, facing the clock. It was four in the afternoon.

Narcissa looked even thinner than usual. But her hair was still swept up into an elegant chignon, her robes fine, her nails perfectly manicured. Pure-blooded aristocrat through and through.

She seemed to know his internal dialogue. “Have you had enough of your journey into the wild?”

“Muggle London is hardly the wild, Mother. You’d know if you came to visit.”

Narcissa scoffed, a shaky hand moving up to move a lock of hair that wasn’t out of place. “Your wife doesn’t seem like she wants me there.”

Draco shrugged, reaching into the desk drawer to grab the stack of papers he had come for. “Remember, this was your idea.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” She paused, considering. “So things are going well with you and Astoria? Have you thought about-”

“Goodbye, Mother.”

***

“Mr and Mrs. Malfoy,” the healer started. Her voice was calm and reassuring. “What you are experiencing is called an early magical miscarriage.”

The healer whose name Draco couldn’t remember motioned to a chart levitating by her head. “In your case, Mrs. Malfoy, you were pregnant for only the briefest of moments. The pregnancy did not have time to establish itself. Your body sensed that this wasn’t the optimal time and, without any intervention, stopped the process.”

Draco wondered what they looked like to the experienced Healer on the maternity ward. He felt young and when Astoria’s hand squeezed his fingers, he felt sorry for his wife, who was even younger than him.

“It’s not possible for us to determine the reason for this happening and,” the healer paused to lean forward. “Many of these possible reasons have nothing to do with you or anything you’ve done.”

“It wasn’t my fault?” Astoria’s voice was breathy.

The healer smiled and Draco wondered how many times today she had said the same speech, answered the same question. “Your body is working as it should. If you and Mr. Malfoy decide to try again,” She inclined her head to Draco, “There is no discernable reason why your future pregnancy will not be successful.” She paused, looking at them both expectantly.

“I didn’t even know I was pregnant,” Astoria admitted, pulling her hands back to wring them in her lap. She looked young, open, scared. “Is that bad?”

The healer smiled, this one more a touch mischievous. “It’s not uncommon in my young patients.” She turned her smile to Draco. “I recommend that you both go home and rest, relax, do anything you’d like to for the next few weeks. When you’re ready to try again, you can.”

The healer’s words echoed in Draco’s head like a drum as they returned to their flat, the usual disorientation from the floo barely registering. Astoria staggered to the kitchen, enchanting the kettle for tea.

He approached her like a wild animal. In many ways she was. “Are you...okay?”

It felt stupid, he felt stupid for asking, but it was the only way he felt like he had any control over the situation.

The weight of being her husband fell on him. Not roommates, not friends, not partners.

Her husband. For better or for worse.

Notes:

Thank you for reading - I am so appreciative of all your engagement and feedback. This chapter ended up feeling very long so I broke it up into two parts. This fic will end up being more than 30 chapters so I'm leaving it open-ended for now. I haven't forgotten about this story - life just gets so overwhelming! I want to finish this and I will. As always, any and all errors are mine because I don't have a beta and I don't proofread. Enjoy this chapter. It was fun to write.

Chapter 28: Chapter 28

Summary:

"How do you process grief? By running from it until it finds me in the middle of a sunny street on a beautiful day."

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by a tumblr post from ryebreadgf. Please be mindful of the tags. This chapter deals with a heavy topic (tw / cw : miscarriage).

Draco could never say that Astoria was a fickle woman. One with varied interests, perhaps, but never fickle. If she were fickle, she wouldn’t have filled the manor with all sorts of books about muggle studies, wouldn’t have spent several months learning how to go “incognito” in the muggle world, or wouldn’t have learned how to knit hats for the Shetland cows that Draco’s mother had brought to the manor grounds for a short time before deciding that it was too much work without the support of terrified, unpaid house elves. She wouldn’t have learned to cut Draco’s hair, nor would she have become so adept at the harp that she received invitations to play at parties.

So, when Astoria decided they would have a baby, she was single-minded in that determination. And Draco, who was learning that he couldn’t seem to help himself, became her partner.

Their relationship, their marriage, had never been conventional but for the first time in years, Draco felt like he was getting to know his wife. They spent time during the day together, went out to meals together, fell into a pattern of friendship that was equal parts frustrating and fun. He might have liked her had they never married. They might have chosen each other, given the opportunity.

“Who do you think the baby will look like?” Astoria’s voice was low, relaxed. She only spoke this way with him or with Daphne. Draco was basking in the post-coital glow, eyeing the nude form of his wife with appreciation.

“Probably like me,” he smirked.

She made noise of mock affront, swatting at his arm. “I do hope he gets your hair,” she mused, reaching forward to run her fingers through it. “Such a lovely color.” She was quiet for a moment. “Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”

He rolled over on his side to face her. She was already facing him, her blue eyes wide and guileless. It was hard to remember that they were so young – she only 21 to his 23. He wanted to tell her to stop this madness, that the clock was always one hour behind, that he could never be a part of the world she wanted to inhabit. But the cursed clock from the manor wasn’t here and Astoria was warm and bright by his side.

---

It had been easy for Astoria to become pregnant again. And after that second loss, it had been easy for her to become pregnant once more. They had held each other after that third loss, both of them openly weeping. Astoria lamenting the time that slipped away from them.

The healers had all sent Draco and Astoria along with smiles and hand pats, reassuring in their tone but offering no real answers.

“You’re young,” they had said. “Try again and come back to us.”

But neither Astoria nor Draco could accept that. He wanted it, he realized with an alarming clarity, he wanted this just as desperately as she did.

The fourth time they sought out an American healer, an expensive one, who spoke quickly and specifically. She moved at a frenetic pace, ordering potions and performing diagnostics that the English healers couldn’t even name. Draco, wealthy as he was, thought privatized healthcare may be a good thing.

Astoria stayed pregnant. And the trepidation they felt seemed to dissipate.  But then the healer frowned. And then her apprentice frowned.

And then Astoria wept.

---

It started with a clump of hair. It had been easier to explain the fatigue with her newly developed chronic inability to sleep, likely a result of all the anxiety she was experience, the healers said. But the clump of hair was meaningful and Draco said nothing as the clump left in the shower seemed to grow and grow until it had legs and walked them to the healer’s office.

“A blood curse.”

Draco hated this office with its sleek lines, high windows and even higher ceilings. It should be impossible for a skyrise this size to be in such a small place as Manhattan, where everyone on sidewalks seemed jammed up on each other. New York did, however, offer its own perks. Like the fact that a sum of money freed up multiple distinguished researcher-healers that seemed invested in digging deeper. But right now, Draco seethed.

“That doesn’t make sense-”

“Mr. Malfoy, please let me explain-,”

“I’ve let enough of you lot explain things to me and nothing you say makes sense.”

He wanted to shake her, have the Astoria he knew to yell, curse, scream, simply accept that it wasn’t true. But she only sat there, quiet and ashen.

---

Once Astoria Malfoy had decided to do something, she presented herself with a terrifying, single-minded focus. Astoria Malfoy had decided to die.

It wasn’t something she explicitly said. It wasn’t that that Draco could see her working towards death. But they had been on a beach in Florida, a place Draco never thought he would have visited when she pointed to the muggle ice cream stand and asked him to buy two scoops of butterscotch. Or when she had meekly accepted Narcissa's offer of moving back into the Manor. She had decided, on her own, and Draco, accustomed to life being this way, relented.

---

It had all been too fast. That was the only thought racing through his mind in those final months, weeks, and days. Hadn’t they just been teenagers? He felt aged, like one of his ancestors frozen in time. He was sat in his study and as he nursed his drink, he wished he could go back one hour behind just to be in time with that damn clock.

---

“How do I do it?”

The past few weeks had been a blur. Neville Longbottom had been here, his shirt sleeves dirty from the myriad of herbs and medicinal plants he had brought to ease Astoria’s pain. Theo had been here too, his clinical eyes seeing all but revealing very little. It wasn’t until Draco had seen the white-knuckled grip Theo had on Neville’s hand that he realized their efforts had all yielded nothing.

It was going to happen any day now, Theo had somberly told Draco and Astoria. She had simply nodded and Draco wanted to grab his friend by the collar and shake him. Astoria had never calmly accepted anything Draco had said – how could she so calmly accept this truth from Theo? A jealous rage burned in Draco at Theo, a furious one at Astoria. She had been so determined to live, had dragged him to innumerable places, only to succumb to – to this?

She looked like an ancient infant in the massive four-poster frame. Draco had always thought his wife’s deathbed would be a dark, gloomy thing. Instead, the room radiated light with its large windows, the side tables stocked with cheery, fragrant blossoms.

“How do I do it?” Draco repeated, his free hand stroking Astoria’s hair. “How do I process this grief?”

“Knowing you?” Astoria chuckled and it sounded more like a wheeze than anything else. She winced, looking away from Draco’s stricken gaze. She took a shallow inhale and forced herself to look back at him and smile.

“You run from it,” she said, her eyes clear and bright. “You run from it until it finds you happy on a beautiful, sunny day.”

---

When the grief found him again, it had not been sunny. Rather, there had been no sunlight at all as Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger loomed over a cauldron that had been carefully simmering for 48 hours in total darkness.

“Is this it?” Granger had whispered, an errant curl escaping the bun she had hastily tied moments before.

Draco had bit his lip, silent, and the potion let out an enormous belch before settling into a calm and silky lavender solution.

Hermione whooped then, her ecstatic laugh taking him by force. She had wrapped her arms around him then and he responded with enthusiasm, sweeping her off the ground.

“I did it, I did it, I did it,” she was babbling into his neck between breathless giggles.

It found him again and again and again – and always with Hermione. It found him until he realized he was no longer running, until he had accepted it simply as a part of his being. Hermione too had become a part of his being.

She was a complicated woman – like all the women in his life – but what he felt for her ran deeper than anything he had ever experienced before. He scoured her muggle medical textbooks, the ones she had so readily offered him, and had decided that she had become a part of him on a molecular level.

It had amazed him, the sheer luck of it all. That he had been given yet another chance at happiness, at love. Hermione was a woman who turned nothing into everything. And she had turned him to a life of contentedness, of happiness, of love.

---

They had, at some point during Draco’s ramblings, moved to their rarely used formal dining table. Hermione had taken the seat at the head of the table, Draco sat perpendicular from her. She was sitting rigidly, her hands so tightly clasped that he was afraid she’d cut off circulation to her fingers.

“Hermione,” he began, and he was surprised to hear his voice thick with emotion. “I loved Astoria. I did. It was dishonest of me to have said I didn’t.” His throat was constricting. “But what I feel for you is insurmountable.” He reached forward to take her hands from her lap, surprised to find them cold. “I want you more than anything.” He squeezed her hands. “I want you and our child more than anything I’ve ever wanted before. I can’t lose – I can’t relive – I can’t-,” He gasped, leaning forward suddenly as if to wretch, only to find a sob wrench its way out of his closed throat instead.

Hermione’s arms were around him then, her hands running up and down his back as he wept. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. It feels strange, uncomfortable, even if the feeling of being held by Hermione like this opens a door to a comfort he didn’t know he was allowed to have.

“Hermione,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and rough.

Her wide eyes found his and he wondered briefly if they look as wild and unhinged as he feels. He stood abruptly, knocking into Hermione in such a way that she stepped back and into her seat once more. He loomed over noticing the flash of fear in her eyes that turned into confusion as he dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Hermione,” he repeated, his voice unrecognizable. “I need to say this to you. I need you to know. I never – I never said it but it’s important.”

The fear in her eyes was undeniable, so heartbreakingly honest that it stole his breath away.

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

Hermione’s fearful eyes widened, shock bleeding into them before she looked away. And Draco wished he was back in the Manor, back in that room, back with that wretched clock that could take him back to one hour before it all fell apart.

Notes:

I had hoped to have at least Chapter 28 and Chapter 29 out before the new year but I unfortunately got super sick in December. I'm so glad I was able to at least get Chapter 28 out to you before the spring semester starts. As always, thank you for taking the time to read. I am so appreciative of your comments and feedback.

Chapter 29: Chapter 29

Notes:

No betas lol all these mistakes are my own

Author's Note: I did it!! I graduated with my doctorate degree!!!!! Dr. Endegamem - and I graduated as valedictorian of my entire university's class of doctorate students.  I've always worked full-time and I thought being at my job without the stress of school on my head would be easier but it has been much harder than I anticipated. It's been almost two months and the burnout I'd been staving off hit me hard. This chapter isn't my strongest but it's been good to get back into writing again.  It took me forever to write this chapter but it seems so short now. Anyway, I hope that you enjoy it. I've been so appreciative of the comments I've received on this fic. It was always super encouraging. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter!

---

Draco had always been a sniveling, wheedling, weak child. Coddled by his mother, filled with a false sense of importance by his father, it was a miracle, indeed, that as an adult, he demonstrated any sense of duly earned confidence and competence. It had only taken the condemnation of an entire government and two years of house arrest (a grounding, he would later learn from a muggle movie) to whip Draco up into some sort of presentable shape. He had been rehabilitated. A functioning member of society, one who spent his money within the community and used it to build it up. For a while, he had believed it too, that he was reformed, that the sins of his childhood were beyond him. He had fulfilled his debt to society.

But all of that seemed to come undone with the way Hermione was looking at him. Her eyes were wide, full opening and closing as she tried to conjure words to say. Her hands fluttered over his shoulders helplessly and Draco, no longer wishing to see the pity in her face, buried his face in her lap. He felt like a child, like how he had felt in chains standing before the featureless faces of the Wizengamot. But his life hadn’t been at stake then – he hadn’t had much of a life. But this time he did.

When she finally put her arms around him, running her hand up and down his back, he felt like a child. It was like how it had been standing in chains before the featureless faces of the Wizengamot, all those years ago. His life hadn’t been at stake then – he hadn’t had much of one anyway. But this time he did.

After a moment, or several moments, he pulled away, muttering a quick accio for a hand towel. He wiped at his face, embarrassed by the torrential of emotion. She was very still, her eyes trained on him.

“I should have told you.”

Her eyes flashed. “I would have understood.” She hesitated, turning her body so that she was facing him. “I would have understood,” she repeated, her hands wringing, expression morphing from cool neutrality to breathtaking pain. “I can’t,” she sucked in a steadying breath. “Draco, you’ve lost so much and I-and I-” She sucked in another breath, this time as if to swallow her words.

Yes, she would have. Of everyone in his life, Hermione Granger would have been the one to understand. The realization brought fresh tears to his eyes, joining the ones he saw gathering in hers.

“Not just Astoria, not just your…babies.” Her heart twisted at the word and by the set of his mouth she knew that his did too. “You lost a life. You lost a family, Draco. I can’t even begin to offer any comfort-”

“I’m not asking you to offer me comfort,” Draco bit back, his tone harsher than he anticipated. Hermione’s fingers twitched and he forced himself up, awkwardly shuffling himself into one of the dining chairs.

Hermione’s posture was ramrod straight. Her eyes were fixed on him but her body was turned, betraying her true emotions. He placed his hand on her arm, softening his tone.

“It’s just that I’ve heard everything there is to hear from the healers.”

She nodded, a tear silently making its way down her cheek. She swiped at it hastily, roughly, before bracing herself on the dining table to leverage herself up. Her limbs felt impossibly heavy and stiff, as if she had been frozen for decades instead of the half hour it had been since she walked through the door.

Draco mirrored her movements, his arms reaching out to catch her should she lose her balance. It was instinctual, second habit, a dance they had done many times over the past few weeks. She blinked, moving awkwardly to stand in the middle of the living room. She wiggled her toes in the plush carpet.

“Draco, I don’t know what to say.”

“Is this what you expected?”

“No.”

“Are you satisfied?”

She scoffed. “Satisfied? Draco, this was never about that.”

He sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands. “No, I know. I know.”

“I would have understood,” she repeated herself, chiding herself for not being able to offer any real words of comfort. She moved to the kitchen then making a mug of chamomile tea. The remnants of their dinner lay in the sink and her stomach churned. “Do you want some tea?”

Draco didn’t answer her, he only stood at the island as she spooned honey into her favorite mug with a carving of two kittens chasing a butterfly before pouring in boiling water and dunking a tea bag in it. She held the mug between her hands, ignoring the pain from the heat.

“Hermione, we need to talk about this.”

She slurped noisily at her tea, wincing as it scalded her throat. Draco made a sound in the back of his own throat and he cast a cooling charm on her drink. She took another sip. It was the perfect temperature.

“I know. I know we need to talk about this.”

“You did start it.” Draco’s tone was cry, a small smile lifting the corner of his lips. A wave of disgust washed over her and Hermione barely held back a gag.

She took another sip of her tea, now gone rancid on her tastebuds. “I can’t talk to you about this right now. It’s late. I’m tired. I need…I need some time to think.”

His expression was sad, contemplative as he regarded her. “Alright. But we will talk about it.”

She nodded, dumping the rest of the tea into the sink. She approached Draco slowly but without hesitation, leaning up to place a kiss on his cheek. He softened into her immediately, his body turning to her, his arms going around her as he buried his face into the space between her neck and shoulder. She gripped him back, inhaling deeply, ignoring the whispers of Draco’s “I love you” burning into her skin.

---

Hermione felt like a cliché. She wasn’t running away, she told herself. She really wasn’t. She just needed some space. She had, just by happenstance, given herself the most space by heading over to her flat. It would only be a day or two she had told Draco. She needed the time to think.

“What if I say no?”

Hermione turned to him, stunned, readjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Are you going to say no?”

Draco looked at her for a long, hard moment, his expression bordering on mutinous before he finally looked away. “No.”

She knew she couldn’t stay here for long, knew that there was an expiration date on this bid for space that was growing larger and larger each day. That had been their deal, after all. She knew she could never run away, not from him, the father of her child. So, this was why she knew she wasn’t running away from him.

Hermione was running from Astoria Malfoy. Astoria Malfoy had never stepped foot in the townhome she and Draco shared but in the hours after Draco’s past had burst open, Hermione couldn’t help but see her everywhere. The matching cookware, the beautiful furniture, the color schemes of his room. Had she had a hand in them? Had their marital bedroom looked like that?

But this was only a surface level emotion, she knew. She didn’t care, not really. She knew Draco had been married before, knew that despite his claims of not loving her, that he held a deep affection and devotion to his late wife. So, it didn’t matter it if Astoria had shown Draco the elegance of a matching cookware set or showed him what colors went together.

No, what mattered to Hermione were the conflicting emotions she felt. Everyone in her circle, in the small mutual circle she had shared with Draco, knew about the devastating series of events that had happened to her husband in youth and early adulthood. They had watched, in silence, as Hermione signed her life and their child’s life away to the widowed Draco Malfoy. And Draco. He had stood there, promised a life dedicated to her when she held the key to something he wanted but couldn’t have before. What a sorry replacement she must have been. A broodmare for the Malfoy line. What a shame that Draco had to settle for her when he could have had beautiful pureblooded babies with Astoria.

Hermione retched, one trembling hand holding her hair up while the other gripped the toilet seat. She pulled herself up, clumsily, rinsing her mouth and the thought out of her mouth at her small sink.

It was a vile thought.

He had only treated her with nothing but the utmost care and respect. When he spoke to her, placed his hands on her, he was so tender that she knew he meant it. She would be a bigger fool to think he hadn’t.

He had told her he loved her as he lay weeping in her lap, but Hermione’s heart ached. He was a man who had lost multiple children, who lost his wife, who did a remarkably fine job at white knuckling his way through the trauma. But she was so angry, angry that he had lied, angry that they had all lied to her.

Astoria was a dead woman, a dead woman who Draco let her grow to resent and hate. It had been easier to be jealous and believe that her husband was in love with a dead woman. The reality was so much worse. The reality was worse. In her core, at her deepest level, Hermione she felt a profound sense of shame – She had built Astoria up as someone to be jealous of, as competition. But Hermione had lived, Hermione’s pregnancy had been healthy, not only healthy but it had been easy.

Hermione had lived. And Astoria Malfoy had not.

Hermione floated from her bathroom to her kitchen, half in her body and half not. She had no food in her flat and her rumbling belly reminded her of all the creature comforts of home, of her husband. The reminder pushed her to the local grocery store, where she purchased a baguette, a hunk of cheddar cheese, and some butter before returning to her flat.

She wouldn’t be here for long, she said to herself as she unlocked her front door, idly scooping an errant package on the entryway table in her arms and dumping it in front of the fireplace before heading to the kitchen to prepare her grilled cheese. It would give her heartburn. Draco had documented it in that notebook he kept in the kitchen.

“Not for long,” She thought to herself. “I won’t be here for long.”