Chapter 1: The Proposal
Chapter Text
Chapter 1 Podfic
Let it be known that Hermione Granger was not often rendered speechless. Admittedly, there had been many moments throughout her life when silence might have served her better. She probably shouldn’t have called Trelawney a hack in third year; she could have found a more tactful way to advocate for house-elf rights in fourth; and when Cormac McLaggen hit on her at a Ministry gala last year, there was likely a more diplomatic way to reject him than calling him a nepo-baby man-child in front of three department heads and a French ambassador.
But alas, Hermione had a spotty history of letting her big mouth and even bigger opinions get her into trouble.
As her best friend wiggled her freshly manicured fingers at her, making the massive emerald that now adorned her hand explode in tiny, radiant starbursts of light, Hermione could only gape.
Around them, a chorus of gasps and squeals erupted from their friends. But Hermione just stared at Ginny, slack-jawed and oxygen-deprived, the air having wooshed from her lungs at the news.
“Look at that rock!” Parvati gaped to her right, reaching for Ginny’s hand and yanking it toward them for a better look.
The ring was an exquisite, slender platinum band with a no-frills cushion-cut emerald at its centre. It was so Blaise: understated and elegant in its simplicity. But Hermione knew better. The bloody thing probably cost more than her entire flat.
“The emerald was a nice choice,” Luna said thoughtfully. “It’s the exact colour as a particularly wise frog I caught by the pond near the Burrow last summer.”
The excitement paused briefly as everyone turned to Luna, puzzled. Luna blinked back, unbothered.
“Oh, you should feel honoured. Frogs are excellent judges of character,” she added reverently, “Perhaps that’s why Blaise chose it.”
“Oh, never mind the frog!” Lavender squealed in a tone so pitchy it made Hermione wince. “How did Blaise propose? Tell us everything!”
Ginny—all excitement and giddiness, and clearly basking in the attention of her girlfriends—rolled her shoulders back, carefully flattened her hands on the table, and flashed them a most conspiratorial smirk. She clearly knew they were all waiting for a good story and Merlin, was she ready to deliver.
On cue, the girls leaned in with bated breaths and mimosa glasses hovering in midair—the perfect captive audience. Meanwhile, Hermione took a long, bracing sip of her drink, wishing she’d opted for something stronger than prosecco and orange juice.
“Last night, Blaise took me to Angelo’s to celebrate me getting drafted for the Thunderbirds,” Ginny began, her grin downright wicked. “I wore that tiny red dress—you know, the one from his birthday last year? The one he nearly ripped off me the moment I walked into the party?”
The table erupted in giggles.
“I genuinely thought he was going to dump me,” she continued breezily. “Thought I was in for some rubbish about him loving me, but long distance being too hard. So I figured, if I was about to be heartbroken, I might as well look fucking phenomenal while it happened.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek as fear of instability and change began burrowing a home in the pit of her stomach.
A few weeks ago, Ginny had been approached by a recruiting scout for the Tahoe City Thunderbirds, an American Quidditch team looking to snap up some overseas talent.
No one had been surprised. Ginny had been a dominant Chaser for the Harpies the past three seasons, helping them win a World Cup against New Zealand just last year.
Foolishly, Hermione had remained hopeful Ginny wouldn’t sign with them. Ginny loved the Harpies. She was proud to play for an all-women’s team that had absolutely swept the league (no pun intended) in recent years.
But American teams were as flush as they were flashy. And after Ginny tallied up all the perks of travelling to new, world-class stadiums, a chance to dominate a new league, and the ludicrous number of zeros scribbled behind her sign on offer… Well, it hadn’t taken long for her to decide that America was the next great leap of her career.
As supportive as Hermione tried to be, it was hard to be cheerful when Ginny signing with the Thunderbirds meant losing her roommate and best friend to a team stationed an entire ocean away.
Hermione had already lost the two most important people in her life to a country halfway across the world. Now, she was losing a third.
“But then,” Ginny went on, eyes gleaming, “he got down on one knee and said—” She straightened up, mimicking Blaise’s aristocratic poise and clipped tone, “Ginevra Weasley, you are the love of my life. And if California is where you’ll be, then there is no other option but for me to go with you.”
She held out her hand, wiggling her fingers again. “And then he slipped the ring on.”
Hermione blinked.
That was it? That was the grand proposal Ginny had summoned them all to brunch for?
“He didn’t ask you if you wanted to marry him?” Hermione finally said, her voice a touch more accusatory than intended. “He just… slipped the ring on your finger?”
The table went quiet for a beat too long.
Ginny’s grin was still frozen on her face. “Well—yes. I mean, asking for things he wants has never really been Blaise’s way. He usually just takes. And surprisingly… I didn’t mind being taken.”
“Oh, I bet you didn’t fucking mind,” Parvati cackled, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
“How utterly romantic,” Lavender sighed dreamily, hands clasped under her chin.
“It’s quite unconventional, but I find the best proposals often are,” Luna beamed. “My mother proposed to my dad by sending a singing Valentine to The Quibbler that followed him around for days. He agreed to elope just to shut it up.”
“Sounds like harassment,” Hermione muttered.
“She preferred to call it… persuasive.”
“Gin, this is great,” Hermione tried again, twisting her mouth into what she hoped passed for a smile. “It’s just so… sudden.”
She bit back the words clawing at her throat, the ones she really wanted to say:
“Are you bloody mad? This isn’t great—it’s reckless! It’s been, what, three months since you started dating him? How can you possibly know you want to marry him?”
“It’s just so hot and manly,” Lavender gushed, “that he knew what he wanted so decisively and just—took it.”
“More like flippant about one of the most important decisions of one’s life!” Hermione wanted to scream.
“What will Blaise do in America anyway? What about his family’s wine businesses?” Parvati asked, completely unaware of the mental turmoil Hermione was experiencing.
How were they all being so nonchalant about this? Why were they praising Blaise’s impulsiveness, chatting about the logistics of this insane plan, instead of acknowledging that Ginny marrying him after only three months was completely and utterly mad?
“Well, California is known for its wine country, so his plan is to buy a vineyard in Napa Valley and expand Zabini Enterprises to the States.”
Parvati let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell—sexy and filthy rich. Ginny, teach us your ways.”
The bride-to-be let out a boisterous laugh that echoed through the restaurant. Hermione stabbed at her cold eggs on toast, appetite long gone.
“Put out on the first date,” she offered with a wink, “That seemed to do the trick.”
The girls burst into another fit of gleeful laughter.
Hermione forced a breath past the tightness in her chest.
Questions continued to volley around her:
“Where will you live?”
“I assume South Tahoe, near the training facility—at least until the vineyard is up and running.”
“Have you found a flat yet?”
“Not yet. His assistant will be sending us listings.”
“And the wedding?”
“At his family’s villa on Lake Como. In two weeks.”
At this, Hermione nearly choked on her mimosa. Two. Weeks?
She wasn’t sure when exactly the panic truly set in, only that her breaths had grown short and shallow. Her heart galloped in her chest like a herd of wild horses.
“I have to use the loo,” she said abruptly, pushing back from the table so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor.
She thought she heard Ginny call after her—“Hermione, are you alright?”— but it was hard to tell over the rushing in her ears.
She beelined to the bathroom, bumping into several tables along the way, muttering dazed apologies.
Only once the stall door was closed and she was perched on the toilet lid—her jeans still hitched over her hips—was she able to finally take in a full gulp of air.
Oh gods, oh gods.
What was Hermione doing—why was she acting this way? She liked Blaise. She loved that he was mad for Ginny; so obviously, unapologetically gone for her. And beneath all the posh detachment and bespoke tailoring, he was, shockingly, a decent guy. Kind, even. He treated Ginny like she was the bloody sun.
Hadn’t she and Molly spent hours gushing about how perfect they were together? How, after all the heartbreaks—Dean, then Harry, then Dean again, then that Harpies Seeker, Claudia Camarillo—it had been such a relief to see Ginny with someone who actually wanted the same things she did? Someone who didn’t flinch at her ambition or try to dim her sparkle. Someone who wasn’t threatened by the sheer Ginny of her.
So why—why—was she ruining this moment for her best friend? Why couldn’t she just shut her mouth, plaster on a smile, and go the way of Lavender Brown—ooh and ahh on cue, giggle like a schoolgirl, and pretend like everything wasn’t moving far too fast?
Truth was, it had nothing to do with Blaise, or the fact that they’d only been dating three months.
It was that, deep down, Hermione had been holding on to a glimmer of hope. Hope that Ginny would move to America and hate it. That she’d roll her eyes at the perpetually orange spray-tanned locals with their vocal fry, overly processed foods, and lack of proper tea—and realise she missed home desperately. Their home. Their tiny flat in Godric’s Hollow, with mismatched rugs and too much cat fur. Their spontaneous shopping trips to Diagon Alley, movie nights with takeaway from the Crooked Kettle, and cosy holiday sleepovers at the Burrow.
Because Ginny wasn’t just a friend anymore. She was family. The sister Hermione never had—the sister she had chosen.
And now, even if Ginny did come back one day—even if she decided California wasn’t her forever home—she wouldn’t be returning to their little flat.
She would be going home to Blaise—to her husband.
“It was meant to happen,” Hermione reminded herself. “It was only a matter of time.”
But knowing it didn’t soften the ache rising in her throat and curling in her stomach. That dull, familiar ache that had taken root when she’d lost her parents. The same one that returned every time her world quietly (and sometimes violently) shifted.
She was blotting her eyes with toilet paper when a soft knock came at her stall door.
“Hermione, are you alright?” Ginny asked from the other side of the wood.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, mortified that her best friend, glowing with happiness and newly engaged, was now forced to comfort her as she had a meltdown in the loo.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Hermione responded, her voice too bright to be remotely believable.
“I’m sorry,” Ginny groaned, “I know I should have told you first—just you. I meant to. I meant to tell you last night right after it happened, but when I got back to the flat you were already asleep. And I tried again this morning, but we were already running late for brunch, and I–”
“No, Gin. Really, it’s fine,” Hermione cut in quickly. She couldn’t bear to hear Ginny grovel—not when it was Hermione who owed her the apology.
She stood and opened the stall door to find the redhead’s face crumpled in miserable concern, the glint in her eyes dimmed.
“I appreciate that you told me along with the others.”
It was true. At least in public, Hermione was forced into some semblance of civility. Merlin only knows how she might’ve reacted alone in their flat, without the excuse of an audience to keep her from falling apart.
“Is it the rent? Because you don’t have to worry about that. I will pay for my half of the lease through the year. Hell, Blaise has so much money I could probably convince him to buy the bloody flat and gift it to you for your birthday!”
“That’s not at all necessary,” Hermione said, shaking her head. She didn’t need a roommate; her Ministry job paid more than enough to cover the rent. It’s just, well… she’d never lived on her own before, and she was a little terrified.
It was silly, really. She’d gone from living with her parents to Hogwarts. Then there was that year at Grimmauld Place with Harry and Ron after the war. And finally, when Ginny had graduated from school, the two of them had taken up a flat together.
Now, it would just be her. Alone.
“Then what is it?” Ginny asked gently, rubbing her hands up and down Hermione’s arms.
That was when Hermione could no longer hold it together. Her face crumpled. “I’m just… I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss us.”
“Oh, darling,” Ginny said, pulling her into a hug.
Hermione wrapped her arms around her best friend and buried her face in her shoulder. She held on tightly—to Ginny, to their friendship, to the last threads of normalcy she had left. Willing them to not unravel.
When Ginny finally pulled away, she dipped her head down to meet Hermione’s eye. “There will always be an us. You’re my soulmate—my sister. You think a little distance and a marriage certificate can change that? Please. You’re stuck with me. I’ve hexed people for less.”
Hermione let out a choked little laugh and sniffled.
“I love you, too,” she said, wiping at her cheeks. “I’m sorry I put a damper on your day. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“Oh, I know you will,” Ginny grinned. “You can start by being my Maid of Honour.”
“Seriously? You want me to be?”
“Who else? I can’t exactly ask any of my brothers. Ron would look dreadful in a dress. And besides, you’re the only one I trust to plan my hen night and keep our families and the whole wedding party from turning into an absolute circus.”
Hermione gave her a smile, faint but genuine. “It’d be my honour.”
“Don’t speak so soon,” Ginny said with a wince. “The wedding is in two weeks. Mum will insist we’re legally married before we move in together—you know how she is.”
“Two weeks. I think I can manage,” Hermione said with a nod, taking a steadying breath. She could already feel the storm clouds in her mind begin to clear. “I will make sure everything is perfect. I’ll start researching party planning tonight.”
This was good. She had a mission now; a checklist, a timeline, something to do. Nothing made Hermione rise to the occasion quite like a challenge—like being needed.
“That might not be necessary,” Ginny said, biting her lip. “You won’t be doing it alone. You’ll be co-planning with Blaise’s Best Man.”
“Rafe? Alright. I’ve only met his brother once, but I can play nice–”
“It’s not Rafe,” Ginny interrupted, her face scrunching into a grimace. “Please don’t hate me. You’ll just have to help plan the hen and stag nights, write a speech, and make sure our mums don’t murder each other.”
“Ginny,” Hermione said slowly, eyes narrowing, “Who’s the Best Man?”
Ginny hesitated. When she didn’t answer, Hermione’s voice sharpened.
“Ginny.”
Ginny let out a long, dramatic sigh of resignation.
“Draco Malfoy.”
Two weeks later, Hermione found herself speechless once more—this time standing at a dock at Lake Como, hardly believing it was real. After fourteen years spent knowing magic existed, you’d think she’d be used to awe. But the beauty here was staggering; sunlight dancing on the water, villas nestled in the hills, the scent of summer in the air. She had to pinch herself just to believe she was really here.
Her luggage was being loaded onto a gorgeous, vintage-style speedboat bound for Villa Zabini. She was wearing her favourite, most practical floppy hat, sipping champagne courtesy of the boat captain, and just days away from watching her best friend marry the love of her life. Life was good.
Or… it would have been, if she hadn’t just locked eyes with a particularly odious blonde heading her way. Malfoy was looking smug as ever and downright sinful in head-to-toe linen, while she stood there windswept, over-sunscreened, and already regretting her choice of hat.
“Nice life vest, Granger,” Malfoy drawled with a lopsided grin as he approached. “Though I’d have thought that wild hair of yours would be buoyant enough on its own.”
“Har har, Malfoy,” she replied with an eye roll and a saccharine smile. “You’re so hilarious it’s a wonder you’re not the one getting married this weekend. What, no one willing to put up with your charming wit?”
“Too many beautiful witches in the world to bother settling for just one, actually.”
“Apparently, you also couldn’t bother to show up on time. Didn’t you promise Blaise you’d join the flying party? They mounted broomsticks and left for the island twenty minutes ago. He asked me where you were. I had to cover for you so he wouldn’t stress. Honestly, Malfoy. You’re the Best Man. Try acting like it.”
Due to the heavy anti-Apparition wards around Villa Zabini, guests had only been given two options for arrival: by broomstick or by boat. Flying was faster, of course, but Hermione would sooner let a herd of hippogriffs trample her than willingly mount one of those death sticks. She hated brooms. Hated flying. So, naturally, she’d chosen the boat.
“Unlike you, Granger, not all of us work at the Ministry wrangling pygmy puffs. Some of us actually have important jobs.”
“Oh, that’s rich. I’m sure it’s several full-time jobs managing all that generational wealth, Malfoy.”
“It is,” he agreed with a smirk, “Besides, why fly when I can enjoy what I’m sure will be a peaceful boat ride with you and that neon orange monstrosity strapped to your chest?”
Hermione’s hands self-consciously flew to her life vest.
“You are not riding with me to the island,” she snapped. “I am not spending a single second longer than absolutely necessary with you.”
Merlin, she couldn’t stand him.
The day after Ginny asked her to be Maid of Honour, Hermione had taken one quiet evening to herself. To process. To breathe. To embrace the chaos. Then, like the good, accommodating friend she was, she’d sent Malfoy an owl and arranged a lunch to discuss wedding logistics.
Five minutes into their lunch, she had been reminded exactly why she’d spent the better part of her life avoiding Draco Lucius Malfoy.
He was still an insufferable, arrogant prick. He’d dismissed every single one of her ideas for a joint hen and stag night. Apparently, hosting “countless” society events at Malfoy Manor made him the leading authority on all things celebratory.
Eventually, Hermione had elbowed her way through his ego long enough for them to agree: separate hen and stag nights, with a small joint event at the end. Fine. Whatever. She could work with that.
The only silver lining in this entire mess was that in four days' time, she would be free of him forever. They just had to survive the welcome dinner tonight, the hen and stag festivities tomorrow, the rehearsal dinner after that, and then—finally—the wedding on Saturday.
Damn rich, entitled purebloods requiring an entire week for wedding celebrations!
If they made it through the week without anyone ending up cursed, hexed, or at the bottom of the lake, Hermione would consider it a rousing success.
“Look, I’m not exactly thrilled about being stuck on a boat with you either. But unless you want to deal with Blaise sulking all weekend about his Best Man missing the welcome dinner, we might as well get this over with. I’d hate to inform Red that her Maid of Honour barred me from fulfilling my duties.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Oh, I think we established back in third year that it was you who was insufferable—and a know-it-all.”
“Scusi, signorina, signore?” the boat captain interrupted, gesturing to the empty seats. “Are you coming, or no?”
Hermione grumbled under her breath and stepped aboard. She took the farthest seat possible, but Malfoy, the cheeky bastard, sat directly beside her anyway.
Most of the ride passed in relative, merciful silence. Occasionally, Malfoy would strike up a conversation with the captain—in fluent, effortless Italian. Of course he spoke Italian. He didn’t bother translating, just turned to her with that infuriatingly smug smile whenever she scowled.
She did catch snippets, though—words like bambino, Hogwarts, Blaise, amico. From what she could piece together, he was recounting summers spent here as a boy. She set her jaw and refused to give him the satisfaction of asking. If he was finally choosing to ignore her, she wasn’t about to encourage him otherwise.
But the ride was long, and eventually, Hermione’s indignation won out.
“For the record,” she said sharply. “I do not wrangle pygmy puffs. I’m working with Charlie Weasley to open a dragon sanctuary in Wales. The Highlands Ironbelly is on the brink of extinction. It’s important work—work I put on hold to be here, because Ginny matters to me. So the least you could do is pull your weight.”
Malfoy stared at her for a long moment with an unreadable expression and an intensity she could not place. She braced herself for more teasing, but it didn’t come.
“The rings,” she demanded. “You were in charge of them. Tell me you remembered to bring them.”
His face went pale.
“Malfoy, you blithering idiot! You forgot them?” she cried.
His look of horror twisted into a smug grin as he reached into the pocket of his cream linen trousers and pulled out a small velvet box. He waved it in front of her face. “Relax, Granger. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
“That’s not funny.”
“No, but this is.” He smirked, reaching to give the straps of her life jacket a tug. “The fact that a woman brave enough to ride a dragon out of Gringotts is afraid of flying a broomstick and insists on wearing a life vest that makes her look like an overstuffed pastry is hilarious.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but snapped it shut, lips pressed tight.
“What?” he asked, brow raised in amusement. “Don’t tell me I finally rendered the great Hermione Granger mute?”
“I can’t swim,” she muttered, cheeks tinged with pink.
Draco blinked. “You can’t swim? You could brew Polyjuice Potion at twelve but you can’t swim?”
Her wand was out before he could start laughing. With a swift flick, a wave of lake water surged over the side of the boat and doused him, sending his perfectly styled hair flopping over his eyes.
“Oi!” he sputtered. “What the bloody hell was that for?”
“For being an arse,” she said crisply. “And also—for knowing way too much about me. What department I work for, that I could brew Polyjuice Potion at twelve. Unless… wait. Did you read my book, Malfoy? ”
After the war, Hermione had written a memoir recounting her, Harry’s, and Ron’s journey through Hogwarts and the long, harrowing road to Voldemort’s defeat. What began as a therapeutic exercise on the advice of her mind-healer—a way to process the trauma of Horcrux hunting, the horrors of Malfoy Manor, the devastation of the Battle of Hogwarts, and the life-altering discovery that her parents’ memories were beyond recovery—had unexpectedly transformed her life.
Overnight, Hermione Granger was no longer just the brightest witch of her age or a war heroine; she was a bestselling author and an unwilling celebrity.
“Of course I didn’t read your book,” he said, scoffing a little too quickly. “Though apparently, I was the only one who didn’t. Everyone else in the bloody wizarding world couldn’t shut up about it. It was all ‘Hermione Granger this’ and ‘The Golden Trio that.’” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said coolly.
But for some reason, the thought of it—the thought of Draco Malfoy hunched over her book in bed late at night, reading her words, getting to know her inner thoughts—sent an inexplicable thrill through her.
Gods, how much longer was this boat ride? She turned away from him, fanning herself with her hat, suddenly convinced the summer sun had grown hotter just to spite her. The breeze off the lake did nothing. It was officially time for more champagne—or, ideally, something strong enough to get her through the next few days with Malfoy.
Chapter 2: The Welcome Party
Chapter Text
Chapter 2 Podfic
After what must have been the longest ride in history, they finally arrived at the Villa, the boat’s hull kissing the dock with a gentle thud.
“Well, that was delightful,” Malfoy sighed, gracefully leaping out of the boat and sweeping his still-damp hair out of his eyes. He flicked a galleon to the captain in thanks, and then turned to Hermione, who was gingerly stepping onto the pier, careful not to let her sandals slip on the slick wood. “Granger, I suppose I’ll see you… eventually.”
He didn’t sound thrilled at the prospect.
Before she could give him a snarky response, Malfoy had turned and was already sauntering off toward the house, only too eager to get away from her.
“Good,” she thought. She was all too glad to be rid of him too.
A small pop and a high-pitched “Benvenuta a Villa Zabini, Signorina,” signalled the arrival of a petite, female house-elf. Dipping into a low curtsy that made her starch white toga pool at her feet, she added in an Italian lilt, “My name is Gigi. If Signorina would please be following Gigi, she will be showing you to your room—this way, per favore.”
Hermione gave the elf a tight-lipped smile and a small, “Thank you, Gigi.”
Though house-elf enslavement was no longer legal in the European Union, most house-elves had volunteered to stay on with their respective families as salaried employees. She’d always heard from Ginny that the Zabini house-elves had always been treated exceptionally well—handsome wages, plenty of days off, full benefits.
But the reflex never faded—that churn in her stomach anytime a floppy-eared creature bowed to her.
However, Hermione wasn’t given much time to dwell on her internal moral battles. As she followed the small house-elf up the stone pathway, she was quickly caught in a daze as she craned her neck to take in the majesty of her surroundings.
Villa Zabini towered over her; a sprawling estate of honey coloured stone and terracotta roofs, framed by the glittering turquoise of Lake Como.
But even more beautiful than the house itself, if possible, were the gardens.
Cascades of bougainvillaea tumbled over its countless terraces and arched windows above, while neatly trimmed hedges and spiralling plane trees lined the grounds below.
Warm breezes carried the sweet scent of azaleas, and all around, the soothing sound of waves and garden fountains made the stress of party planning, the boat ride, the Malfoy of it all, melt away. Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. All she could think in that moment was, “I could get used to this place.”
Several minutes of winding through the various courtyards and hallways of the Villa culminated in them stopping before arched double doors of deep walnut. “Your Maid of Honour suite, Signorina.”
As the door swung open, and she stepped inside, Hermione audibly gasped.
Her room was nearly the size of her entire flat and bathed in golden sunlight pouring in from her private terrace. At the centre of the room stood a grand four-poster bed, covered in crisp white linens. And lining two of the four walls were, to her absolute delight, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
“Master Blaise told Gigi that Signorina Granger would be liking the books!” the house-elf giggled, eyeing Hermione with amusement as the witch stepped forward and plucked a particularly weighty tome, its cover embossed with gilded, swirling text: Le Grandi Dinastie Magiche d'Italia.
“Oh, it’s perfect, Gigi,” she breathed, already flipping to the index. “Grazie.”
But before she could begin attempting to decipher its Italian, her gaze snagged on a card perched atop her nightstand; Hermione scrawled across it in Ginny’s spiky handwriting. Carefully, she returned the tome to its place on the shelf, crossed the room, and flipped the card open.
Dear Hermione,
Thank you for being my Maid of Honour. I can’t imagine saying “I do” without you by my side.
May this week be the start of something extraordinary for both of us. (Or, at the very least, give us some hilarious stories to laugh about later).
Remember that even though I’m technically marrying Blaise, you’ll always be my soulmate. He just gets the snogging privileges.
Love you madly,
Gin
P.S. If you see anyone else wear white to the wedding, hex first, ask questions later.
Hermione put the card down with a chuckle, wiping away a stray tear from her eye as she turned back to Gigi.
“Do you know when I can expect my luggage to get carried up from the boat?”
The house elf blinked, waving a hand toward the antique armoire in the corner. “Oh yes! All of Signorina’s things have already been brought up and put away most carefully. Signorina will find her clothes hanging in the wardrobe and her toiletries in the bathroom.”
With a snap of her fingers, a spread of meats, cheeses, and fruit appeared on the table near one of the windows, along with decanters of wine and water.
“Signorina may relax and settle in, she may,” the elf said, adjusting a napkin folded into the shape of a crane. “Master Blaise said all honoured guests must be at the dock at 5 PM. Might Gigi fetch anything else for Signorina?”
Hermione shook her head warmly, “Not at all. Grazie mille, Gigi.”
“Il piacere è tutto mio, Signorina Granger,” she replied. And, with another low curtsy and pop, she was gone.
Once alone, Hermione popped a green olive from the luncheon spread into her mouth, and relished in this rare, precious moment of solitude.
The next few days would be complete and utter chaos. Tonight, it would just be the wedding party enjoying an intimate gathering on the Zabini yacht. But tomorrow, the rest of the guests would start arriving, and Hermione’s duties as Maid of Honour would officially begin.
As the exhaustion from travelling and putting up with Malfoy’s antics on the boat began to finally set in, she eyed the large poster bed greedily. Its gauzy curtains and satin white linens beckoned to her like a siren.
Oh, to cocoon herself within its covers and sleep the afternoon away. Hermione almost never allowed herself the luxury of naps. But, damn all, she was on vacation! And as her lashes grew too heavy to lift, she decided she desperately needed—and deserved!— a lie-in.
“Just a quick shower,” she bartered with herself, already shimmying out of her jean shorts, and kicking them, along with her sandals, into a small pile beside her bed. “And then I’ll rest my eyes till it’s time for the party.”
She unbuttoned her linen shirt as she walked to the bathroom, letting it slide off her arms and flutter to the floor before reaching for the bathroom knob.
The door swung open.
She froze.
Not a bathroom.
A bedroom.
A four-poster bed and white linen sheets, identical to hers.
And there, sprawled in the middle of the bed?
Malfoy.
Naked.
Eyes shut, mouth slack, one hand wrapped firmly around his—
“Oh, sweet Merlin!”
Her gasp echoed in the room as her hands flew to her mouth.
Malfoy’s eyes snapped open, his hand freezing mid-thrust.
There was a beat of horrific, deafening silence.
And then—
“CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR, GRANGER!”
Hermione let out a startled shriek, slammed the door shut, and stumbled back, hands in the air like she’d just been caught robbing Gringotts.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
Her face burned scarlet.
From the other side of the door came the squeak of bedsprings, a loud thud, and then—
“ARGH! WHAT THE FUCK!”
A crash.
And another thud.
She imagined Malfoy haphazardly throwing on his clothes, bumping into furniture along the way.
Hermione spun in a frantic circle, as if sheer panic might summon a hole in the floor to swallow her whole. No such luck.
Instead, she snatched up her shirt from the floor, dashed across the room to her crumpled shorts, and began to frantically re-dress.
She’d barely managed three buttons when a violent knock rattled her door.
“Are you decent?!” Malfoy barked furiously.
Hermione spluttered, breathless and dishevelled. “A-are you?!”
“Yes!”
“...I am too.”
“I’m coming in!”
The door flew open and in stormed Malfoy—flushed and wrapped tightly in a white bathrobe.
“What the hell, Granger? You can’t just come into people’s rooms without knocking! Who raised you—trolls?”
“I—I didn’t know it was your room! I thought it was the bathroom!”
For a moment, they just stared at each other, both pink-faced and panting.
Then, Malfoy turned and bellowed, “Gigi! ” loud enough to make her wince.
The house-elf appeared instantly, hands folded primly in front of her, expression calm and comically at odds with the electric chaos crackling in the room.
“Si, Signor Malfoy?” she asked sweetly.
At her tone, Malfoy visibly tried to compose himself.
“Gigi,” he tried again, taking a deep breath. “It appears my bedroom is adjoined to Miss Granger’s. Would you happen to know why that is?”
The elf beamed up at him. “Oh, yes! Master Blaise and Signorina Ginny thought it best. They said Master Malfoy and Signorina Granger might want to stay close, they did. For wedding planning!”
Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Though we appreciate the sentiment, their logic was slightly flawed. We’d like different rooms, please. In separate wings. Separate islands, if possible.”
Gigi’s ears dropped. Her eyes went wide and watery as she twisted her fingers in panic.
“Oh, no, no, no! Gigi is so sorry, Signor! Gigi never meant to upset! All other bedrooms are reserved for other wedding guests. Gigi has no idea where to put you!”
Hermione immediately stepped forward, heart twisting at the sight of the elf’s distress.
“It’s alright, Gigi,” she said gently. “We were just… surprised. We’ll manage. That’s all. Thank you.”
Gigi gave a jerky nod, lip wobbling, then disappeared with a pop.
“None of this is alright, Granger,” Malfoy growled once the elf was out of earshot. “You’ve completely invaded my privacy!”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Malfoy. It was an accident. I can assure you it won’t happen again. Besides, I didn’t see anything!” Then, just to wound his precious ego, she added, “Not that there was much to see, anyway.”
Gods, what a blatant lie. She would forever have that image of Malfoy seared into her mind.
“Bloody unbelievable,” he snapped, shaking his head. “Let me get this straight: you’re the degenerate, the peeping Tom who walks in on me mid-wank– mid-wank, Granger–and somehow I’m the one being dramatic? And then you mock me?” He threw his arms in the air, offended. “This trip cannot end fast enough.”
“I’m not the degenerate!” Hermione fired back. “You’re the one getting off in the middle of the day! And believe me, I’m just as eager for this trip to end as you are. On that, we are in absolute agreement—at last!”
“Oh, pardon me, Saint Hermione,” he sneered. “I’m sure the only time you get off is under the covers, lights off, wearing a t-shirt, reciting arithmancy problems. Do you pray for absolution after? Light a candle and cry into your pillow from the guilt?”
“You do not, nor will you ever, know a damn thing about how I like to get off!”
“And I consider myself eternally fortunate!” he shot back, already turning to leave. “Right, well, I’ve got things to get back to—important, private things. Try to keep your eyes off my genitals, would you?”
Hermione snatched the nearest pillow and hurled it in his direction. It missed by at least three feet, flopping pathetically to the ground.
Malfoy watched it fall, smirked, and drawled, “You missed.”
“Next time it’ll be a Bombarda to your scrotum, and I won’t miss! ”
“Merlin, this obsession with my private bits,” he tsked over his shoulder. “Take a cold shower, Granger.”
Hermione had her wand halfway up and a hex poised on the tip of her tongue when he bolted through the door and slammed it behind him. She could hear him laughing—laughing!—from the other side. And all she could do was stand there, fuming, two fists clenched tightly at her sides.
After her shower, Hermione could not, for the life of her, nap.
She’d tried—Merlin, she’d tried. But she’d spent the last hour tossing and turning, replaying the memory of Malfoy on a loop in her head.
His hand wrapped around himself…
The tendons in his forearm straining…
His abs flexed, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted as he stifled a groan…
“Oh, for the love of Godric, get a grip!” she groaned, pulling a pillow over her face.
At this point, she wasn’t even sure if what she was remembering had actually happened or if she’d filled in the blanks with her own wild imaginings. She’d only seen him for a few seconds. Mere, heart-stopping, sanity-shattering seconds. But the images in her mind were so vivid, so bewilderingly specific… they sent a warm, aching pull low in her abdomen.
She wanted to reach under the covers and touch herself. Just a quick release, a bit of relief from the tension and stress that had her coiled up so tightly.
But just when the need tipped into unbearable, her indignation won out and she shot upright in a huff.
Fucking Malfoy.
With just over an hour to go before she was expected at the docks, Hermione began getting ready.
She was annoyed that she suddenly felt the pressure to look her best. But she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t know where the pressure was coming from.
Determined not to give Malfoy another excuse to mock her hair or compare her to an “over-stuffed pastry,” she slipped into her favourite one-piece swimsuit and threw a pale blue sundress over it. A pair of white, strappy sandals followed it. Then, with Gigi’s help, she managed to wrangle her rebellious hair into a half-up, half-down style, with defined bouncy curls tumbling down her back.
Makeup felt like a waste; it would just melt in the sun. But she still swiped on a bit of mascara, glossed her lips, and pinched her cheeks for a little colour.
What would have normally taken her fifteen, hurried minutes somehow became a meticulous process. But when she was finally rushing toward the docks, borderline late, she had to admit: she looked good.
“Oh, you sexy minx! Look at you–trying to outshine me at my own wedding!” Ginny squealed when she saw her, “Italy looks sexy on you!”
Hermione grinned, returning her friend’s full-body, swaying embrace. Then, she pulled back to admire the bride-to-be: beachy waves, pouty red lips, and a white mini-dress that made her Quidditch legs look endless.
“Oh, please. Nobody could outshine you! Just look at you,” Hermione said, giving Ginny a spin.
Beaming, Ginny hooked an arm through hers and led her up the yacht steps—onto what could only be described as a floating penthouse: two decks, a plunge pool, a cocktail bar, and house-elves carrying trays of finger foods gliding between guests.
“Alright everybody, the Maid of Honour has arrived!” Ginny called. “The party can officially begin!”
Everyone turned toward them. Lavender, Parvati, and Luna cheered over their pink bubbly cocktails by the pool. Theo, Blaise, and Rafe raised their tumblers of amber liquid from the sky deck.
Everyone acknowledged her… except Malfoy.
He stayed where he was, leaning back besides his friends, a cigar between his fingers. No wave, no smirk, not even a glance in her direction.
And Hermione hated how it bothered her.
“Here, take this,” Ginny said, plucking one of the pink champagne flutes from the bar, “And let’s join the girls by the pool.”
Hermione took the glass, sipping delicately as her eyes flicked to the water. Ginny had already stripped off her dress and was striding toward the pool in her white bikini when Hermione called after her, “Do you… erm, have life vests on board?”
Ginny snorted. “You are not hiding that body of yours under a life vest.”
She waved over a nearby house-elf carrying a tray of canapes. “Vinny? Could I entrust you to be Miss Granger’s lifeguard tonight? To rescue her if she falls overboard or gets too splashy in the pool?”
Vinny bowed with a little flourish. “Yes, of course! Vinny won’t let Miss Granger out of his sight!”
“See? Problem solved,” Ginny said, tossing her a wink.
Hermione frowned, but nodded in resignation. Arguing with Ginny Weasley had always been an exercise in futility. The youngest of seven and the only girl, she’d long ago mastered the art of getting exactly what she wanted. So Hermione followed her to the pool, slipping off her sandals, and perching on the edge, her legs dangling in the cool, blue water.
Just as well. No life vest meant one less thing for Malfoy to mock her for.
And speaking of the devil…
“So,” Ginny said, settling into the pool and folding her arms on the edge beside Hermione, “how have you and Malfoy been getting on? Heard about your run-in today.”
Hermione’s eyes went wide. “He told you about that?” she gasped, her face going hot.
Ginny blinked in confusion. “About you two riding the speedboat to the island together? Yeah? Why wouldn’t he?”
“Oh. That.”
“What, did something else happen?” Parvati cut in, clearly eavesdropping.
“No, no,” Hermione said, quickly waving them off. There was no way she was telling them about walking in on him in his bedroom. She’d never hear the end of it. “It’s just… you know how on edge I’ve been lately. He made some Malfoy-ish comments on the boat, got under my skin, and I… I may have splashed him. With water. Not my proudest moment.”
“Oooh, waterplay. Kinky,” Lavender quipped. “Though a bit cliche for the Maid of Honour to sleep with the Best Man, no?”
Hermione blinked. “That is… not remotely on the agenda.”
Luna gave a dreamy sigh. “Not yet.”
“Well,” Ginny quickly cut in, “I appreciate the effort. I know your history with Malfoy isn’t exactly… easy.”
“Understatement of the century,” Hermione muttered, trying not to catch Luna’s knowing look. “But no point in dwelling on the past.”
“No, there isn’t. He’s Blaise’s best friend and you’re mine. After this weekend, you’re basically stuck with each other for life.”
“And just like that,” Hermione deadpanned, “the idea of sinking to the bottom of the lake doesn’t seem so terrible.”
All the girls burst into laughter, the kind that made her cheeks ache and her shoulders finally relax.
As the hours slipped by in a haze of pink champagne and girl talk, Hermione nearly forgot that Malfoy was even there.
Eventually, the boys climbed down from the upper deck, bringing with them the scent of cigars, and far too much firewhiskey. Someone turned up the music—Gin Fizz by the Weird Sisters—and suddenly the lower deck was alive with laughter, dancing, and terribly off-key singing.
“Fuck, I love this song!” Ginny shouted, flinging her arms in the air and belting the lyrics.
“Gin fizz, kiss this, drunk on love draughts,
Moonlit lips, don’t care what it costs,
Hex me, bless me, sparks when we touch,
Cauldrons boil over, it’s never too much!
Hey! Gin fizz, sweet risk, burn ‘til we drop!”
Hermione soaked it all in, feeling light. Her shoulders were sun-kissed and starting to freckle, her head buzzing like it had been filled with pixie wings. And before she knew it, she was throwing an arm around Lavender Brown’s shoulder, giggling and singing along.
At some point, the sun began to dip low, painting the sky the colour of bubblegum and tangy oranges. The party meandered back to the sun deck, half-dressed and wholly drunk, to watch the last sliver of sunlight sink below the lake.
“A toast!” Blaise called, raising his glass as he pulled Ginny into the crook of his arm. She looked up at him adoringly.
“To this beautiful woman I’ll soon get to call my wife,” he said. “And to all of you, for bearing witness to it.”
“And to Hermione and Draco!” Ginny added, grinning wickedly as she raised her glass higher. “For loving us enough to put up with each other!”
Their friends whooped and hollered in response.
“Cheers!” everyone chorused, glasses clinking, arms thrown over shoulders. The boys slapped backs, the girls kissed cheeks.
And then—
“Alright, who’s ready to fucking party?” Theo shouted, yanking off his shirt and tossing it dramatically aside.
Lavender and Parvati screamed, already halfway to the railing.
“Cannonball!”
Hermione laughed as she watched her friends–reckless and sun-stupid–fling themselves into the lake. Ginny dove after Blaise and surfaced in his arms, wrapping herself around him before giving him a deep, delighted kiss.
Hermione felt impossibly happy.
And impossibly alone.
She lingered on the deck, perfectly content to stay dry. No amount of alcohol or house-elf lifeguards could convince her to dive in too. But when she turned to find a quiet moment to herself, she realised she wasn’t alone at all.
Malfoy stood a few feet away, his forearms resting on the railing as he looked out over the water. A half-empty glass dangled from his fingers.
“Not joining in on the fun?” Hermione asked, walking over gingerly to stand besides him.
He didn’t answer right away, watching their friends with an unreadable expression. Then, he took a sip and said simply, “Not tonight. I’ll save it for the stag night. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
He glanced at her pointedly.
Hermione blushed and turned away. “Oh stop,” she muttered, taking a long drink from her own glass. “We’re supposed to be… what did Ginny say? Putting up with each other?”
“Oh, is that what we’ve been doing?”
“I’m serious, Malfoy. I admit, I have been less than… gracious. But planning all of this on such short notice would’ve been hell if not for your help.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Is that a thank you, Granger?”
“Ugh, you’re impossible,” she groaned. “But yes—thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And I reiterate that I wasn’t trying to walk in on you doing… that.”
“Stop while you’re ahead, Granger,” he said coolly. But she didn’t miss the flush rising on the tips of his ears.
So she stopped. But she smiled into her glass.
“Look, I know we haven’t exactly been the best of friends,” she said.
“Granger, we’ve never been friends—best of or otherwise.”
She ignored that. “But I think we should at least make an effort for the next few days. Until the wedding. For their sake,” she added, nodding toward Ginny and Blaise tangled in the water.
Malfoy frowned. “They do seem disgustingly happy.”
“Yeah. It’s quite obnoxious, really.”
“Makes me sick.”
Hermione laughed through her nose. “So what do you say? Should we form a wedding pact?”
“A what?”
“A wedding pact,” she repeated. “We promise to be friendly–”
“Civil,” he corrected.
“Tolerant. Just until the ‘I do’s.’” She held out her hand. “Deal?”
He looked at her hand for a beat. Then, draining his glass, he muttered, “Oh, what the hell,” and with an eye roll, he reached out and shook it.
“Granger, you’ve got yourself a wedding pact.”
Chapter 3: Hens & Stags
Chapter Text
Chapter 3 Podfic
“YOU CANNOT WEAR WHITE TO THE WEDDING!”
“AS THE MOTHER OF THE GROOM, I WILL WEAR WHATEVER I BLOODY PLEASE!”
Hermione’s eyes snapped open, wincing against the flood of sunlight pouring through her window. The real assault, however, came from the two voices shouting just outside her window—one she recognised as Molly’s in her not unusual state of fury; and one she couldn’t place but that could only belong to Chiara Zabini.
“No. No, no, no…” Hermione whimpered miserably.
She’d just been having the most divine dream. One of a beautiful stranger with the most gorgeous silver eyes, kissable cupid’s bow, and capable hands that had, just moments ago, been doing utterly unspeakable things to her body.
She buried her face in her pillow, willing herself to sink back into oblivion, when—
Bang, bang, bang!
“Hermione? Are you awake?” came Parvati’s panicked voice as she pounded the door. “Molly and Mrs Zabini have just arrived and are already minutes away from casting Unforgivables by the pool!”
Hermione groaned in defeat, bidding goodbye to her phantom lover.
“Just a second!” she called out, lurching out of bed. She squinted into the mirror to see blue pyjamas dotted with cartoon kittens, two bed-mussed dutch braids, and a pillow crease across her right cheek.
This was clearly no time for vanity. Frowning, she flung on a robe, jammed her feet into her slippers, and swiped her wand from the nightstand for a quick Denti-Scourgify. Proper dental hygiene would apparently have to wait as, clearly, her Maid of Honour duties had officially begun.
First order of business: break up the monsters-in-law.
When she opened the door, a pale-faced, wide-eyed Parvati stared back, her hand frozen mid-knock.
“Finally! Come quick!”
Hermione barely had time to yelp before Parvati seized her wrist and pulled her out into the hallway, down the stairs, and out into the sun-drenched pool deck of the Villa—where a plump, red-faced Molly was practically nose-to-nose with the statuesque Zabini matriarch.
“For the hundredth time: my daughter chose blue!” Molly shouted, brandishing the mother-of-the-bride dress Hermione and Ginny had helped her pick out at Madam Malkin's mere days ago. “This blue.”
Behind her, Arthur tried his best to calm his wife, only to be elbowed back by her wild gesticulations. Molly Weasley was clearly beyond soothing, if the way her hair was practically sparking with furious magic was anything to go by.
“That shade is tragic. It will do nothing for my complexion!” Chiara Zabini sniffed, turning her perfectly sculpted nose toward the sky. “Though judging by that orange monstrosity you saw fit to put on your body, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re colour blind.”
Hermione turned to inspect the orange monstrosity in question.
Mr and Mrs Weasley were in matching neon-orange tropical shirts that looked entirely out of place next to Mrs Zabini’s sleek, linen pantsuit.
“Oh, I’ll do something for your complexion!” Mrs Weasley growled, lunging forward with a drawn wand.
“Both of you, please stop!” Hermione pleaded, leaping between them with outstretched arms. “Do you really want to face Ginny’s fury? She’s terrifying first thing in the morning!”
She thanked her lucky stars that the bride-to-be was likely still asleep after a night of particularly heavy drinking on the yacht. Hermione was sure Ginny would not have taken kindly to her mother and future mother-in-law duelling before breakfast.
“And she’ll be even more terrifying when she finds out this woman means to sabotage the wedding!” Molly shot Chiara a nasty look. “Fine. If you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to the bride.”
“Mamma, what in sweet Salazar’s name is the meaning of this?” Blaise demanded, charging toward them with Malfoy in tow. “It’s six in the bloody morning!”
Hermione grimaced, looking down at her kitten pyjamas and sleep-rumpled hair.
But then she remembered the wedding pact they’d made last night. Technically, Malfoy was bound by oath to behave. They were supposed to be getting along.
Their eyes met.
He arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze.
Hermione narrowed hers, daring him to say something.
But he didn’t. With a quiet scoff, he looked away.
“Oh, Blaise, don’t be so dramatic,” purred a new voice.
Hermione turned to the girl—Portia? — lounging nearby in a barely-there bikini. She’d only ever seen her before in photos of Blaise’s family vacations, but amidst all the commotion, she’d completely missed her. What she didn’t miss, however, was the way Portia’s eyes seemed to lock with Malfoy’s the minute she spotted him.
“Draco, darling, tell my brother to relax, will you?” Portia added with a pouty smirk. “In fact, everyone should.”
Molly glared daggers at the young woman but–at Hermione’s silent, pleading look–mercifully held her tongue.
Malfoy gave Portia an acknowledging nod. Then, with a dazzling smile, took Mrs Zabini’s hand and kissed it. “Chiara, you outshine the sunrise. As always.”
Chiara preened, giving Malfoy a playful smack on the chest. “Oh Draco, you’ve always been a shameless flirt, just like your father.”
A less observant person might have missed it. But Hermione picked up on the way Draco’s smile seemed to tighten almost imperceptibly at the mention of Lucius.
“Speaking of,” Chiara barrelled on. “Where’s that fabulous mother of yours? Has Narcissa arrived yet?”
“I’m afraid not. She will be joining us tomorrow at the rehearsal dinner.”
“With her new beau, I hope?” Chiara said gleefully, wiggling two suggestive eyebrows.
Draco’s face twisted into a grimace and Hermione’s heart ached for him. Knowing Lucius Malfoy, the Death Eater, had been a bastard was one thing. But she was sure for Draco to hear someone speak so flippantly about his father’s death was another thing entirely.
“Oh don’t give me that look, Draco. Your late father was a wonderful man, of course. But a woman should not wallow in mourning forever. Trust me, I would know; I’ve had seven husbands myself!”
Keeping his face perfectly impassive, Malfoy nodded. “Yes, they will both be here tomorrow. And after the wedding, I believe they will spend some time away on holiday to celebrate her birthday. In fact, I was hoping you could join me inside to help me pick out a gift for her. I curated a few options I thought might be suitable, but I would certainly benefit from your impeccable taste.”
Molly, still vibrating with rage over the dress, cut in. “We are not done here. You will not wear white to my daughter’s wedding!”
Chiara let out an exhausted sigh. “Oh, fine. If it means so much to Ginevra, I will wear royal blue to the wedding. But not that insipid pastel—it will make me look like a ghost.”
Molly opened her mouth to argue further, but Malfoy smoothly cut in.
“A lovely compromise,” he said, looking pointedly at Hermione. “Wouldn’t you agree, Granger?”
She exhaled through her nose, not at all pleased with the way Malfoy was cornering her into speaking for her friend. But, ultimately, for the sake of keeping the peace, she nodded. “Yes, I’m sure Ginny will be fine with that.”
Draco smirked, taking Chiara’s arm in his and began guiding the woman inside.
But then, right before disappearing inside the house, he glanced back just long enough to mouth, “You owe me,” leaving a scowling Hermione in his wake.
Just like that, whatever sympathy she felt for him vanished like smoke.
Damn him!
“I mean, technically you do owe him,” Parvati agreed as Hermione filled Ginny in on the morning’s drama during their spa appointment. “If Malfoy hadn’t stepped in, I’ve no doubt Molly would’ve hexed her.”
“And I’d have applauded,” Ginny huffed from her pedicure chair. “White? At my wedding? Where does she get off? Honestly, at this rate, I fear the Atlantic Ocean will not be big enough. She’s been a nightmare these past weeks; dictating the colours, the entrees, the length of my veil. You’d think after so many weddings of her own, she’d let someone else have a go.”
Hermione bit her lip as the spa attendant painted her nails a soft pink. This was supposed to be the relaxing, girls-only portion of the hen night—a spa day before dinner, a few hours to enjoy massages, drink champagne, and bond with each other.
She wondered if Malfoy’s stag party was faring any better. He’d planned a morning Quidditch match, an afternoon of sailing, and a firewhiskey tasting. Tonight, the groups would reunite at some upscale wizarding club for drinks and dancing.
But so far, this morning’s drama had overshadowed any chance of relaxation.
“I hope you don’t mind that I agreed to royal blue for her,” Hermione said with a grimace. “I didn’t want to overstep, but I was out of ideas for how to deescalate the situation.”
“Not your fault,” Ginny said. “Chiara’s stubborn as a hippogriff. Honesty shocked she conceded at all.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Lavender giggled from her massage table, where she, Parvati, and Luna laid face down as house-elves worked out the knots in their shoulders. “Did you see how charming Malfoy was? He had Mrs Zabini practically eating out of his hand.”
Parvati rolled her eyes as she looked up to find Hermione scowling. “Sorry, Hermione. I know you hate him, but you have to admit he’s always been fit. And he’s only gotten better since Hogwarts.”
“Spitting image of his dad,” Ginny sighed. “Say what you will about Lucius Malfoy, but the man was a DILF and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Gross, Ginny.” Hermione shook her head in distaste. “That man was foul.” And Malfoy, despite all his faults, wasn’t as bad as all that. Hermione, of course, would keep that little thought to herself.
“Hmm. A tree,” Parvati mused, ignoring her. “I’d climb him like one.”
“He has very nice ears,” Luna agreed dreamily.
“But what’s with Blaise’s sister eye-fucking him by the pool?” Lavender lifted her head from the massage cradle. “I didn’t even know he had a sister.”
Hermione, who’d been determined to ignore the conversation and focus on relaxation—sans boys—pricked up her ears at the mention of Portia. Not because she cared, of course. She couldn’t care less who eye-fucked Malfoy. But as Maid of Honour, it was her responsibility to understand the social dynamics at play, if only to anticipate and defuse any potential drama that might threaten the flawless execution of the wedding festivities.
“She’s his former stepsister,” Ginny corrected. “Chiara was married to her dad before he mysteriously died while deep-sea fishing off Brazil. He just—” Ginny mimed an explosion with her hands. “Poof. Disappeared. His body was never found. Chiara was fond of Portia, though, and kept her around. Then she went off and married husband number five a few months later.”
“What a legend,” Parvati said admiringly.
“Um… does no one find it odd that all Chiara’s husbands drop dead?” Lavender’s brows arched. “And she always lands a new one so fast?”
“Perhaps the Zabini bloodline is cursed,” Luna murmured, her voice distant. “Doomed to fall in love over and over again, only to watch their beloved meet tragic ends. To feel all happiness and beauty in their life forever slip through their fingers like sand. A selkie might have cast the curse; that would explain the deep-sea fishing part.” She paused, blinked at the group's horrified stares, then shrugged, “Or she kills them for money.”
“...Anyway,” Lavender cut in, drawing out the word. “Portia. She has a crush on Malfoy, then?”
Ginny snorted. “Saying she has a crush on Malfoy is like calling the ocean a bit damp. She’d be Lady Malfoy tomorrow if he let her. They’ve had this on-and-off thing for years. He humours her when he’s bored, but…” She waved a hand. “Can’t blame him. She’s a bitch.”
“Then why did Blaise guilt us into inviting her out tonight?” Parvati groaned into her massage table.
Ginny rolled her eyes so exaggeratedly, Hermione was afraid they’d get stuck that way.
“Look on the bright side,” Lavender chirped. “If Malfoy’s busy with Portia, he won’t bother Hermione tonight. Perfect, right?”
“Right,” Hermione said, just as her stomach twisted painfully. “Perfect.”
It was far from perfect.
By the time they had finished their spa treatments, dined at La Civetta, and returned to the Villa to change, Hermione was utterly exhausted. It was barely past sunset, and yet the day had been so packed with chaos and activity that her bones ached and a low-grade headache pulsed at the base of her skull. She wanted nothing more than to pull on an old t-shirt and crawl into bed.
Instead, she found herself stepping into Club Sottovoce, squeezed into one of Ginny’s dresses—a scrap of black fabric that forerwent all pretense of modesty if she so much as lifted her arms above waist level—and wobbling on a pair of her stilettos, transfigured to fit, that no amount of cushioning or balancing charms could make tolerable.
The bass thrummed through the floor, coloured lights flickering over the crowds. Hermione resisted the urge to rub her temples, overwhelmed, when she spotted the groomsmen huddled by the bar—along with Portia.
The girl, predictably already cosied up to Malfoy with a drink in hand, shot her a mocking sneer. Malfoy, following Portia’s line of sight, locked eyes with Hermione, gave her a quick once-over, and frowned.
Self-consciousness bubbled under her skin. Merlin, the borrowed dress had clearly been a mistake! She probably looked ridiculous. No doubt the two of them would have a grand time laughing together at her expense.
“I should’ve worn the floral dress I packed,” Hermione grumbled in Ginny’s ear over the pulsating music, tearing her eyes from Malfoy. “I feel ridiculous. This works on you, Gin, but I feel like I’m playing dress up.”
Ginny rolled her eyes, snagging two shot glasses from a passing waitress. “That dress made you look like you were going to tea with your nan. You look fit. Own it.” She thrust one of the glasses toward Hermione expectantly.
Fine. She would own it. But she couldn’t do it sober.
With a resigned breath, she took both shots from Ginny and downed them in quick succession. Her face twisted as tequila burned a fiery path down her throat.
Fuck.
A shit-eating grin spread across Ginny’s face. “In the words of Theo Nott: Let’s fucking party! ”
Parvati, Lavender, and Luna cheered behind them.
As the five of them snaked through the crowd toward the bar, Hermione distracted herself by taking in the other patrons. The club was packed with the most beautiful people she’d ever seen—tall, sun-kissed supermodels with dark features and sharp Roman noses laughed and danced around her. She caught several loud conversations in rapid-fire Italian; and though she couldn’t understand what they were saying, the words sounded so melodic and romantic that she wished she could drown in them.
When they reached the bar, Blaise greeted Ginny with a tipsy, “There’s my favourite lady!” and the group began ordering rounds.
“I’ll have a Dragon Drop Martini,” Hermione told Theo, who was placing an order. After a quick glance at Malfoy and Portia–still talking to just each other, tucked away at the end of the bar–she turned back to the actual bartender and amended, “Better make it a double.”
Theo shimmied in delight. “Attagirl, Granger. I much prefer you as Maid of Dishonour.”
When her drink arrived, they clinked glasses, and Hermione gulped down the green, citrusy concoction in two swallows. Gods, it was strong. Between the wine at dinner, the tequila shots, and now this, her thoughts were beginning to blur at the edges.
But before she could set her glass down, Theo was already pushing another into her hand.
“I sense you’re in the mood for mayhem,” he said, eyes gleaming, “And as this is my natural state of being, I’m happy to enable.” He twirled a finger at the bartender. “Keep them coming!”
Hermione accepted the second martini, bracing for the burn. But to her pleasant surprise, the gin slid down her throat like silk this time.
Two drinks turned to three, turned to five, turned to–
Well. Hermione was unsure how much time had passed. But by now, she was fairly certain her veins ran more with top-shelf liquor than blood.
On the bright side, she felt gloriously, recklessly free. And for once, she wanted to dance.
Even she was surprised when she grabbed Ginny’s wrist and dragged her to the dance floor.
“Come on!” She urged her friends, tossing her head back as her hips swayed to a contagiously catchy Italian pop song.
Everyone indulged her, circling up on the dance floor to fist-pump the air and swaying with abandon. Parvati was grinding shamelessly against Rafe Zabini’s crotch. Ginny had her arms slung around Blaise’s neck, the two locked in a slow, heated make-out session that completely ignored the beat. Lavender was bouncing with both hands in the air. Meanwhile, Luna and Theo were off in their own world, performing what could only be described as an interpretive duet.
Everyone was lost in the music.
Everyone was having fun.
Everyone, of course, except–
Malfoy and Portia.
They were gone.
Hermione craned her neck, scanning the bar, but their spot was empty. A hot, prickling sensation spread through her chest, tightening her fingers into fists. In her hazy state, she had the absurd urge to pout and stomp her feet.
She slipped away from the group, searching the crowd for his face.
Where was he?
Portia could vanish into the ether for all she cared. But Malfoy was the Best Man. This was their night—the one they’d planned together. He was supposed to be here, celebrating with their friends, not off Merlin-knew-where with some posh, stuck-up—
A hand settled on the small of her back.
Her heart leapt. But when she turned, it wasn’t silver eyes and platinum hair that greeted her. Instead, a stranger with honeyed curls and a dimpled smile leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.
“Sei semplicemente bellisima,” he murmured. “Dimmi il tuo nome, così posso sognarlo stanotte.”
For a dizzying second, Hermione wondered if she was having a stroke. Then, she remembered—Italy. Italian. Right.
“Sorry,” she said, blinking. “I don’t speak Italian. Just English.” She pointed a thumb at herself. “I’m English. God save the Queen.”
His smile deepened, eyes twinkling in amusement. “I said you are breathtaking,” he purred, switching to flawless (if slightly accented) English. “My name is Guillermo. And yours, bella?”
She frowned, swaying slightly. “My name’s not Bella,” she informed him. “My name,” she declared solemnly, “Is Hermione. Jean. Granger.”
“First of my name,” she thought.
But was pretty sure she didn’t say aloud.
“Well, Hermione Jean Granger,” he said, grinning, “I would love to take you out. How long are you here?”
“Oh, just until–”
“We’re leaving at the end of the week.”
A familiar voice cut through the noise. Hermione whirled around and there was Malfoy, looming behind her, his gaze locked on Guillermo like a predator sizing up his prey. His hand curled possessively over her shoulder. She stared down at it, trying to ignore the way her heart lurched at the touch.
“Let’s go,” he insisted, steering her away.
But Guillermo’s grip tightened on her arm, pulling her back. “The lady should decide if she wants to leave, no?”
Hermione looked up to see Malfoy’s bright silver eyes darken to a stormy grey. Then, in one fluid motion, his wand was pressed between Guillermo’s startled eyes.
“Touch her again,” he warned, voice lethally soft, “And I’ll hex off your hands.”
Guillermo released her instantly, backing away with raised palms.
Indignation and something far more heated flared in Hermione’s chest. Since she couldn’t make sense of the latter, she clung to the former.
“What the hell, Malfoy?!” she shrieked as Guillermo disappeared into the crowd. “What if I liked him? You scared him off!”
Malfoy tucked his wand away, unfazed. “Any man worth your time wouldn’t scare so easily.” He plucked the half-finished drink from her hand. “Besides, you’re drunk. He was taking advantage of you.”
“By asking me out? And I’m not drunk!”
She was, in fact, spectacularly drunk. But she wouldn’t be admitting that to Malfoy.
He arched a brow, sniffed her glass, and grimaced. “You’re practically drinking poison.”
“It’s not poison! It’s a Dragon Drop Martini,” she enunciated, crossing her arms.
Malfoy’s smirk was infuriating. “Prove it. Say ‘Dragon Drop’ five times fast.”
She scoffed. “Please. Dragon drop, dragon drop, Draco drop—”
Her hands flew to her mouth.
Malfoy’s grin was triumphant. She wanted to reach out and smudge it off his face. With her fist. Or possibly her mouth.
Before she could act on the impulse, however, he leaned down, his breath warm against her ear.
“Enjoying your Draco Drop martinis, Granger?”
Hermione’s thighs pressed together of their own accord.
“I’m enjoying them just fine, actually,” she managed, though it came out far too breathy and weak for her liking. She tried to channel outrage, but her body leaned in, as if the man had his own gravitational pull. “Maybe Portia would like one. Perhaps you should buy her one.”
He pulled back, smirking devilishly. “Perhaps I will.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth. Hers dropped to his.
She was scrambling for a response. Something snarky and cutting. But before she could get there, someone in the crowd jostled past, bumping her squarely against him—chest to chest, hip to hip.
Her brain short-circuited.
The club seemed to melt away. There was no music. No Portia. Just Malfoy’s clean, sharp scent. His hands gripped her hips instinctively, steadying her. His body filled her entire field of vision. The pounding base of the music dulled to a faint hum behind the rush of blood in her ears. Her mouth went very, very dry.
She watched Malfoy’s eyelids droop, his mouth parting to form the word, “Fuck…” before his fingers dug further into her sides.
All oxygen left her lungs. She felt feverish. Her stomach erupted in a million, furious butterflies.
No, wait—
Not butterflies.
Definitely not butterflies—
“Merlin, Granger! Are you alright?!”
Hermione doubled over, staring in horror as the lime-green contents of her stomach splattered all over Malfoy’s polished dragon-hide loafers.
Those bloody Dragon Drops.
She felt his hand immediately slide into her hair, gathering it back. The other rubbed soothing circles between her shoulder blades.
The crowds around them parted as faces mixed with disgust and sympathy stared at them.
Then Ginny’s voice rang out, sharp and frantic.
“Out of my way! Hermione, love, are you okay?!”
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks aflame with humiliation. She was too woozy to speak.
“We need to get her back to the Villa,” Blaise said. “How many drinks did she have?”
“Judging by the colour, I’d say at least seven,” Luna chimed in, squatting down to examine the green chunks on Malfoy’s shoes.
Hermione groaned, hands over her face, refusing to stand upright. Luna flicked her wand, and the vomit vanished.
“It’s alright, sweetie. We’re taking you home,” Ginny said, wrapping an arm around her and helping her up.
“No, I’ll take her,” Malfoy cut in. “Luna’s Scourgify is all well and good, but I probably need a shower after this.”
Hermione whimpered.
Where the hell was a Time-Turner when she needed one? What cruel, cosmic joke had led her to vomit on Draco bloody Malfoy’s shoes mere seconds before he…
Oh, no. No. Just kill her now. Throw her in the lake. Let the fish pick her bones clean.
“Blaise, can you call the boat early?” Ginny asked. “It’s not supposed to pick us up for another couple hours.”
“No need to cut everyone’s night short,” Malfoy said. “I’ll fly her. I’m fine. I’ve only had two drinks, tops.”
Hermione felt tears sting her eyes. She’d ruined everything. All that planning, all that effort—for nothing.
“Hermione,” Ginny said gently, cupping her face. “Are you alright with Malfoy flying you back? If not, we’ll come too. Just say the word.”
If she hadn’t just emptied her stomach, Hermione might have puked again at the thought of flying. With Malfoy. Under any circumstance, she’d have refused outright. But she couldn’t bear the thought of making Ginny go home early on her hen night.
“I’m alright,” she hiccuped, sipping the water Parvati handed her. “Please… please enjoy your night. I'm so, so sorry I ruined it.”
“You’ve nothing to be sad about, love,” Ginny said warmly. “This is officially the best hen night ever.”
“Yeah, I reckon it’s not even a proper party if someone doesn’t black out,” Rafe added good-naturedly.
“All hail the Maid of Dishonour!” Theo cheered. The rest of the group chimed in with tipsy, affectionate laughter.
Hermione managed a shaky smile. And then Malfoy was guiding her out of the club into the cool, forgiving air outside—his hand firm at her waist, his touch oddly gentle.
When he Accio’ed his broom with a casual flick of his wand, however, Hermione’s composure cracked.
“On second thought, I’ll wait for the boat. It’s only a couple of hours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous and get on the broom, Granger,” he huffed, swinging a leg over the handle and nodding to the space behind him.
Hermione shook her head so vigorously it made her queasy again.
“I’ll fall off. In my state? I’m all noodle.” She demonstrated by lifting and dropping her limp arms. “See? Noodles.”
Malfoy dragged a hand over his face, visibly summoning patience. “Fine. Sit in front. I’ll hold onto you.”
She stared at the spot between his legs, face flaming. “You want me to sit where?”
“I swear I won’t let you fall,” he said, voice quieter now. “Get on, Granger.”
Her stomach, which had already gone through enough tonight, chose that moment to perform a somersault.
Reluctantly, she gathered her hair into a messy bun, then awkwardly swung one leg over the broom and settled gingerly in front of him. She tried to ignore the heat of his thighs bracketing her hips. Or the way his arms reached around her to grip the broom handle, effectively caging her in.
Once again, he was everywhere.
“Breathe, Granger…” he murmured in her ear, his voice like velvet.
She exhaled sharply, goosebumps spreading across her skin. If he noticed, she really hoped he’d chalk it up to her fear of flying, and not… whatever this was.
“Count down with me…” he said. “Three…”
He bent his knees. She clutched the broom.
“Two…”
He kicked off the ground, making them barely hover. She pressed back against his chest, instinctively shrinking into herself.
“One.”
With a smooth lean forward, the broom glided gently over the lake in a steady, low arc.
“See? This isn’t so bad,” he murmured. “You’re doing so well.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her core turned molten at the praise.
But then, she remembered they were flying over the water, and her eyes shot open.
“Oh gods, oh gods,” she breathed, squirming against the handle, hands flying from the broom to clutch at his thighs. She didn’t even mean to. It just happened.
Malfoy made a strangled noise behind her. “Granger,” he choked. “Unless you want us to crash, I need you to stop moving like that.”
She froze, becoming very aware of the growing pressure against her lower back.
“Sorry,” she muttered, grabbing the broom again. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologising. Just… breathe, alright? Can you take some deep breaths for me?”
Hermione nodded, squeezing her eyes shut. She dragged in a long breath through her nose, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly through her lips.
A couple more, and then she heard herself say, “Merlin Malfoy, you smell so good. I literally just puked on you. How is that fair?”
She felt him chuckle, his chest moving against her back.
“And your shirt,” she continued, unable to stop herself from nuzzling slightly into his arm. “It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt. Did it cost you a million galleons?”
“Something like that,” he said. She could hear his smirk.
She let out a dreamy sigh and burrowed deeper against him. Merlin, it really was obscenely soft.
“Alright, settle down,” he teased. “Don’t throw up on my shirt now too, yeah?”
She rolled her eyes and fell silent.
The lake was glittering beneath them, the moon painting silver streaks across the water. Slowly, her body relaxed into his.
She didn’t know if it was the steady rhythm of his breathing, or the warmth of his chest, or the breeze on her cheeks, but she felt her lids starting to get heavy.
“Are we almost there yet?” she yawned, even as the Villa came into view.
“Nearly. Don’t fall asleep on me.”
“I won’t…” she mumbled, already leaning back against him, eyelids fluttering shut.
She barely remembered landing. Just the sensation of being lifted in strong arms, the scent of citrus and smoke, and soft white linens under her back before the world went dark.
Chapter 4: The Rehearsal Dinner
Chapter Text
Chapter 4 Podfic
The following morning, after frantically searching the Villa from top to bottom, Hermione finally found Malfoy by the pool. He was lounging at one of the wrought-iron patio tables, under the shade of a large, black and white striped umbrella.
She was acutely displeased to find him looking refreshed, clean-shaven, and entirely unbothered in his usual cream and pale-blue linen. A sharp contrast to Hermione, who had woken in a startle, with a pounding headache, and a rising tide of dread—in his bed.
“Malfoy!” she hissed, fighting against her fury to keep her voice down. Their situation was already humiliating enough. The last thing she wanted was to make anyone else—namely, Lavender or Theo—aware of it. If they found out she’d slept in Malfoy’s bed, she’d never hear the end of it. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“Granger,” he drawled in the form of greeting, slowly dragging his eyes from the journal in which he was writing. “Did you sleep well?”
“Sleep well?” she gasped, flinging herself into the chair across from him before double-checking no one was within earshot. “Malfoy, what the bloody hell happened last night?”
Two lines appeared between Malfoy’s brows as he regarded her with confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean what was I doing in your bed? ”
“Sleeping, I imagine.”
She exhaled sharply through her nose and squeezed her eyes shut—partly in exasperation, partly in yet another futile attempt to recall anything about the night before.
Everything after the third Dragon Drop Martini was a blur.
“Before that, you prat,” she snapped, feeling her face turn a deep shade of scarlet. “I mean, did I…? Did we?” Her eyes widened with mortification at the thought of her inebriated, sloppy self falling into bed with Malfoy. “For Merlin’s sake, I was drunk!”
Malfoy went very still, staring at her with open bewilderment. And then, as the implications of her words seemed to sink in, his face slowly shifted, his eyes darkening with slow, silent indignation.
“Granger,” he said in a low, warning tone, “are you suggesting I took… advantage of you? While you were drunk?”
She opened her mouth for a sharp retort, but floundered when she caught the look on his face. He seemed genuinely affronted. Well, “took advantage of” seemed a bit harsh. She hadn’t necessarily been ready to storm in, wand brandished, ready to accuse him of that.
“Because I didn’t,” he growled. “I’ve done plenty of things I’m ashamed of. And I’ve paid for them. Azkaban saw to that. But if you check the record, you’ll find this: I have never—never—laid a hand on a woman without her consent.”
His voice was steady, but barely. She’d never seen that kind of fury in his eyes before—his usual silver had turned to molten ash.
“I’m not a rapist, Granger.”
Whoah.
She blinked rapidly at him, stunned by how quickly—how violently—this had escalated.
“I woke up in your bed, Malfoy,” she said defensively, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I was wearing your clothes. What else was I supposed to think? And you weren’t even there to explain. You were gone, and I was alone, and so I assumed—”
“What?” he cut in sharply. “You assumed I’d fucked you and then ran out at first light to avoid dealing with the fallout?”
Yes.
“No! I was just… confused!”
He leaned in, eyes cold and unblinking.
“Then allow me to provide you with some much-needed clarity. Last night, you got drunk and I flew you home. I tried to carry you to your room, but it was warded, and you were too far gone to remove them. So I let you borrow some sleeping clothes and put you in my bed. I slept on the sofa. And this morning I left because I figured you’d appreciate some privacy.”
He pushed up from his chair so fast the iron legs screeched against the pavement.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as guilt and humiliation washed over her like a tidal wave. Before he could get far, she called to him.
“Malfoy, wait!” She reached out to touch his arm, but thought better of it. Her hand hovered for a moment, then dropped. “Just, wait. Please.”
He stopped and turned back to her, expectantly.
“I’m… sorry,” she forced out, the words feeling like molasses on her tongue. “I never meant to imply that you had taken advantage of me.”
Gods, how could she have been so impulsive? Of course Malfoy wouldn’t take kindly to careless accusations. He’d served time in Azkaban for mistakes he’d made as a child, for Merlin’s sake. And ever since, he’d kept his head down. Barely going out in public, doing everything in his power not to give people another reason to hate him.
Blaise had said as much once. He’d defended his friend to Hermione during a late-night conversation at her and Ginny’s flat. Back when they were trading stories from their school days and she’d had the audacity to complain about Malfoy.
Hermione glanced down at Malfoy’s linen shirt and frowned. Despite the scorching heat of the Italian summer, he wore long sleeves. The shirt was unbuttoned to show his sculpted abs and chest, sure. But while his right sleeve was casually rolled up against the heat, his left forearm remained covered.
And now that she thought about it… Hermione couldn’t recall ever seeing Malfoy in short sleeves.
Suddenly, the lingering throb of her hangover was nothing compared to the sharp, twisting weight of remorse in her stomach.
“I’m sorry. Truly,” she repeated, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. “And thank you.”
He looked at her for a long time, before releasing a long, deflating breath. “It’s fine,” he muttered. Once again, she caught the faint flush at the tips of his ears that betrayed his discomfort. “Just… just figure out your wards, alright?”
“I will,” she assured him.
In a bid to change the subject, she motioned toward the notebook in his hand.
“What are you writing?”
The red of his ears turned brighter.
“It’s, uh… my speech for tonight,” he replied reluctantly.
“Your Best Man’s speech?” Hermione asked, trying—and likely failing—to keep the renewed sense of shock out of her voice. “It’s… It’s not finished yet?”
She’d, of course, written, proofread, and finalised her speech a week ago. She’d even gone as far to print it and get it laminated at one of those Muggle copy shops near her flat.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, though he seemed relieved the conversation had shifted back to safer territory. “No, Granger. It’s not finished yet. It’s almost done. It just needs… some final edits.”
Hermione knew she should quit while she was ahead. But the curiosity about what he’d written and the academic itch to help was too much to resist.
“Perhaps I could take a look?” she asked, sounding far too eager. “I’m just saying—it might help to have a second pair of eyes on it.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
He still looked guarded, and it made her heart sink.
Then, just over his shoulder, she spotted an olive tree on the edge of the pool deck, and an idea sparked.
“Wait right here,” she said, already turning toward it.
Reaching up on her tiptoes, she plucked a solitary stem and returned to him, holding it out.
“What is this?” he asked, perplexed.
“An olive branch,” she said, flashing him a hopeful, playful smile. When he returned it, her heart lifted. “Besides, the rehearsal dinner’s tonight, so you don’t exactly have time. And as Maid of Honour, it’s my duty to make sure you don’t bugger it.”
A slow grin spread across his face, and Hermione thought it might be the most radiant thing she’d ever seen.
He slipped the branch into his breast pocket and gave her a resigned look.
“If you insist.”
She did insist.
She practically sashayed back to the table. “Alright,” she said, holding out her hand for the notebook. “What do you have so far?”
Malfoy groaned, flopping back into his chair before flipping open the notebook to the ribbon-marked page and handing it over.
She scanned it eagerly, her face lit with anticipation.
Then, just as quickly, her expression fell.
Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, puzzled. The speech was abysmally short.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
It is my distinct honour to stand here today as Blaise’s Best Man.
He is, objectively, well-suited for the role of husband and will, I suspect, make Ginevra very happy, indeed.
To his new wife: My sincerest congratulations and best wishes.
To Blaise: Try not to ruin it.
Cheers.
“That’s it?” She peered back at the page, half-expecting this to be a prank and that, soon, invisible ink would start revealing more text. “It’s so… short.”
“So?” Malfoy asked, pulling the notebook back to him, frowning down at the words. “It’s succinct.”
“It’s barely four sentences.”
“Exactly.” He tapped the page with his finger as if she proved his point. “Less is always more, Granger. The speech is refined. It leaves an impression!”
“It leaves no impression,” she said, flabbergasted. “Sometimes less isn’t more. Sometimes it’s just… well, less. I’ve read Ministry interdepartmental memos more touching than that!”
Malfoy scoffed. “Well, what would you have me add? I’m not one for–” He waved his hand dismissively, searching for the right word, “–sentimentality .”
Hermione bit her tongue, reminding herself of the wedding pact and their vow to be civil. She was already skating on such thin ice this morning.
“What about including some of his qualities? What do you admire about Blaise?” she prompted.
She knew that Malfoy and Blaise had been friends since Hogwarts—always running together with their pack of fellow Slytherins.
Hermione had never thought much of the others. She found Parkinson to be insufferable, and Crabbe and Goyle left much to be desired in terms of intellect. But she’d always thought Nott was funny. And Blaise… Blaise she had admired. He’d always carried himself with a sort of quiet elegance, as though he were somehow above the childish antics of his peers despite being the same age.
At first, he’d seemed to hover on the periphery of their group. But over time, it became clear that he and Malfoy had only grown closer.
Malfoy seemed to deliberate for a moment, and Hermione took that opportunity to reach for the notebook, turn to a fresh page, and dig out a ballpoint pen from her beach tote. He eyed it with interest, but said nothing. Instead, he tackled her question.
“Well, he’s one of the smartest people I know, and he has impeccable taste,” he began, echoing Hermione’s own thoughts about the groom.
He paused, watching as she jotted it down:
Smart.
Good taste.
She glanced up, silently urging him to continue.
“He’s loyal. To a fault.”
Loyal.
Then Malfoy grinned, giving her a pointed look. “And he doesn’t talk excessively which is a rare and underrated trait.”
The jab landed instantly and she rolled her eyes. “Ha, ha.”
“What about stories from your childhood?” Hermione pressed. “You’ve been friends forever, haven’t you? Surely you have loads.”
At this, Malfoy hesitated a beat longer. Then, as if realising she wouldn’t be satisfied until he humoured her, he relented with a quiet sigh.
He brought his middle and ring fingers to his lips in thought, the glint of his signet ring catching the light. Hermione’s breath caught slightly.
They were nice lips—an arched cupid’s bow, balanced by a full, pouty lower lip. His hands were long, deft, masculine.
She blinked, dragging her eyes back up to his face only to find him watching her now, one brow ever so slightly raised.
But he said nothing.
Just the barest flicker of a smirk, gone before she could be sure it had ever been there.
“When we were nine, Blaise spent an entire month at the Manor over the summer. Father had just purchased a new broom—a Stormwing. I think he pulled some strings to get it because I don’t believe they were even available to the general public yet.
It was beautiful. Wicked fast. I’d begged to ride it, but of course, he wouldn’t let me anywhere near it.
One night, Blaise and I were playing chess in my room when I got the brilliant idea to sneak out and try it while Father was asleep.
Blaise tried to stop me, but I was…persuasive.
We snuck out. I went first. And within minutes, after a particularly nasty nosedive, I lost control and crashed straight into Mother’s rose gardens.
By some miracle, I walked away with only a few bumps and bruises, but the broom ended up as mulch.
Dobby patched me up.
And the next morning, just as I was working up the nerve to tell Father—certain he’d kill me—Blaise was already at the breakfast table taking the blame.”
There was a beat of silence, and Hermione found herself leaning in, hanging on his every word.
But when Malfoy didn’t continue fast enough, she prompted, “Well? What happened?”
He chuckled, low and amused, clearly entertained by her eagerness.
“Father didn’t believe him, of course. Blaise was too well-behaved. I, on the other hand…” He gave a dry shrug. “I wasn’t allowed near another broomstick till second year. And Mother was livid about her roses. As punishment, I had to help her replant them.” A rueful smile tugged at his mouth. “I got a lot of thorns that summer.”
“So he’s a good friend— always had your back,” Hermione said, scribbling more notes down.
“A brother, really. When his father died, he came to live with us for a while. And, likewise, he was there when… well, mine did. Wouldn’t leave my house. I don’t know how many times I tried kicking him out… tried kicking everyone out. But he just…stayed.”
Malfoy had a pained, distant look in his eyes, as if he’d forgotten who he was speaking to. Or that he was speaking at all.
Hermione’s heart twisted painfully, knowing all too well what it was like to lose a father. Her hand itched to take his, to let him know she understood.
But instead, she closed the notebook and leaned down to capture his gaze.
“You could add that to your speech,” she said gently. “I don’t mean the parts about your fathers. But the broom story—the bits about how you’ve always protected each other—might be a nice touch.”
Malfoy snapped out of his daze, clearing his throat with uncertainty. “Yeah, maybe.”
She gave him a small, sad smile and pushed the notebook toward him.
As he reached for it, his hand accidentally closed over hers, and Hermione felt a spark of electricity shoot up her arm, spreading through her entire body.
She expected him to pull away instantly. But he didn’t. His hand lingered on hers as their eyes locked.
The whole world shrank to the mere inches between them.
His gaze dipped to her mouth, and a thrill shot through her. Drawn by some invisible force, she inched forward. He did the same.
Her eyes were glued to his lips, completely unable to look away.
She wanted to kiss him. Gods, she wanted to so badly. Just to know what it felt like.
He was a breath away. She smelled the cool mint on his breath, the spicy warmth of his cologne. And, despite the heat radiating off him, her skin erupted into a million goosebumps.
She heard nothing but the blood pounding in her ears—and that voice inside her head screaming: “You are about to kiss Draco Malfoy!”
But just as her eyes began to close, he froze and cleared his throat.
“I, uh… better get to writing if I want to finish this speech by tonight.” His voice was strained and gravelly.
She pulled back, cheeks burning, biting down on her disappointment.
“Right. I should… see if Ginny needs help with the rehearsal dinner.”
When she looked up, she realised he was avoiding her gaze.
Brilliant.
“Thanks, Granger.”
Without another word, he stood and walked away, leaving her dumbfounded—with her heart heavy, and her shame even heavier.
“Wait, you let the Ferret fly you home?” Ron spluttered in utter disbelief as Hermione glossed over the events of the past couple days.
She’d conveniently left out the almost-kiss they’d shared this morning. And the fact she’d slept in his bed. Surely, there was only so much her friends could take over one meal.
He, Harry, and the remaining Weasley brothers had arrived earlier that day for the rehearsal dinner, and she couldn’t be happier to have her two oldest friends sitting on either side of her.
They were, along with the rest of the guests, enjoying a multi-course dinner and the most exquisite wine Hermione had ever tasted. Though given the events of the night before, she was now being much more conscientious about her alcohol consumption.
She did not want a repeat of last night.
Or… did she?
No. No, she decidedly did not.
“And I didn’t even cry. Aren’t you proud of me?” she asked, nudging Ron affectionately.
She’d missed how easy it was being around them. It had only been a few days since she’d arrived at the Villa, but after the whirlwind of the welcome party and the hen night, it felt like a lifetime. Admittedly, she was also very used to seeing them every day at work, so it was comforting to fall back into their familiar dynamic.
“Proud of you? Feel a bit miffed, if I’m honest.” Ron gave her a wounded look. “We’ve been friends for fifteen years, Mione. I was your bloody boyfriend for one of them. And not once did you let me so much as fly you round the backyard at the Burrow, much less over a bloody lake!”
Hermione snorted into her wine glass, rolling her eyes. Despite breaking up ages ago, Ron still liked to bring up their short-lived, ill-advised romance just to annoy her. It was all in good fun, of course. They’d realised very quickly after the war—especially after sharing a deeply incompatible stint at Grimmauld Place as roommates—that they were far better suited as friends.
Hermione was the type to alphabetise her spice rack and use a lint roller on her bed sheets. While Ron viewed tidiness as more of a suggestion—something to aspire to, but not necessarily follow through on.
Hermione wasn’t entirely sure she ever wanted children. And if she did, she was sure one or two would do just fine. Ron, however, seemed determined to raise a full Quidditch team.
Needless to say, their breakup had been mutual, amicable, and very necessary.
Harry, who was digging into his pesto pasta, scoffed from her left.
“I quite literally killed a Basilisk, defeated Voldemort, and won Gryffindor the House Cup in third year—and I wasn’t trusted to teach her how to fly,” he said to Ron, shaking his head in mock offence.
“She’s been spending entirely too much time with these snakes, mate,” Ron said gravely, wagging his fork at Harry.
Hermione rolled her eyes as they continued to speak about her instead of to her.
“She knows how to fly,” she interjected, referring to herself in third person. “She just chooses not to. And as for the second part—it’s not my fault your sister decided to marry Blaise Zabini!”
“She looks happy though, doesn’t she?” Harry asked, his voice soft, eyes lifting to Ginny at the head of the table. She was laughing at something Blaise had said, her head tipped back in delight.
Hermione followed his line of sight and smiled. “She does. Very happy. She found her person.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “And you will too, you know.”
Harry and Ginny had also ended things after the war. But unlike Hermione and Ron, their relationship hadn’t ended because of fights over laundry or mismatched futures. It had ended because, after months of mind-healing and soul-searching after the fall of Voldemort, Harry had finally named a truth he’d carried for a long time. He loved Ginny deeply and fiercely—but not in the way she deserved. And not in the way he was meant to love.
He was gay.
And when he’d told her, Ginny hadn’t cried. She’d just taken his face in her hands and said, “Thank you for loving us both enough to be honest.” Then she’d kissed his forehead and told him she was proud of him, and that he’d be just fine.
But Hermione knew that, for Harry, losing Ginny meant, in a way, losing his one chance at becoming an official part of the Weasley family. Ron and Harry would always be chosen brothers, of course—but never real brothers. And so, she knew, deep down, that this weekend was hard for him. Even as he was doing his best to put on a brave face.
“Just for the love of Merlin, mate. Find someone who’s not a Slytherin,” Ron begged, turning the mood light again. And the three of them burst out laughing.
As the last of the dishes were cleared and the soft clinking of silverware faded, Hermione knew what was coming.
She’d be giving her toast tomorrow at the wedding reception. But tonight belonged to Malfoy as Best Man.
She scanned the long table for him. When their eyes met, he gave a subtle nod and stood.
Hermione nudged Harry and Ron, motioning for them to pay attention.
With a smirk, Malfoy tapped his glass gently to gather the room’s focus.
“Good evening, everyone. I hope you’ve all enjoyed your dinner,” he began, his voice carrying easily, his stance confident.
“For those of you I haven’t met yet, I’m Draco Malfoy, the honorary brother of the groom. Which is to say, we know far too much about each other at this point, and we remain friends mostly to avoid mutual destruction.”
Hermione let out a small laugh, pleased. This was already so much warmer and more engaging than the stiff introduction she’d read earlier.
“It’s an honour to welcome you to what I’m certain will be an unforgettable weekend.
Now, I believe I’m meant to stand here and recount embarrassing stories about Blaise, or declare him perfect husband material. But frankly, anyone who knows Blaise already understands his charm, his wit, and his unwavering loyalty. In short, you already know those things to be true.
And Blaise already knows how I feel about him. We’ve never been the kind of friends who need to say things aloud.”
He glanced at Hermione.
“Furthermore, I’m not the most forthcoming person when it comes to sentiment. I don’t share my fondest memories lightly. But make no mistake—some of my very best ones have been made with Blaise at my side.”
Hermione felt a blush creep up her chest.
“I don’t share my fondest memories lightly.”
She tried not to look too deeply into the fact he’d shared those memories with her. But, suddenly, the room felt very warm.
“At just twenty-six, it feels as though Blaise and I have lived several lifetimes together already. And perhaps we have.
There’s this theory—held by both Muggle and wizard philosophers—that we exist across infinite universes. That every choice we make splits reality into another world, another life. And in some of those lives, Blaise and I are friends. In others, we never meet at all.
And I grieve for every version of myself who doesn’t know him.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Hermione felt a lump begin forming in her throat.
“But I am certain of this: in every world, no matter the shape of it, you two—” He tipped his glass toward Blaise and Ginny. “—find each other.
Because the love I see between you doesn’t just belong to this moment. It’s the kind of love that defies reason, and time, and logic. It’s the kind of love that feels… inevitable.
Some might say three months isn’t long enough to decide on forever. But speaking as someone who’s made catastrophic decisions in far less time—I can tell you: when it’s right, you know.”
Malfoy’s eyes locked with Hermione’s.
“And when it’s this right, you don’t hesitate.”
He raised his glass and the room followed. Even Hermione, though her hand trembled slightly.
“So here’s to Blaise and Ginevra. To this lifetime, and all the others. May you always find your way back to each other. Cheers.”
Glasses clinked across the long table. Hermione had apparently lost the ability to breathe.
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered under his breath. “Who knew the Ferret had that in him?”
“No kidding,” Harry said.
“Mione, are you alright?”
“Brilliant,” Hermione replied automatically, only now realising she’d been staring at Malfoy, chest heaving.
And he’d been staring back.
She tore her gaze away.
“The champagne,” she said quickly. “I think it just hit me. I need some air.”
And without waiting for a response, she stood and slipped out of the room that suddenly felt far too small.
Chapter 5: The Fountain of Fortuna
Chapter Text
Chapter 5 Podfic
Hermione gasped for breath as she stumbled out of the Villa, the claustrophobia slowly starting to ease out of her bones.
She wasn’t quite sure what had happened. One minute, she was joking with Harry and Ron, admiring Ginny’s beaming face. The next, Malfoy’s toast was seeping under her skin, tangling like a vice around her lungs, and squeezing.
Trying to slow her racing heart, she slumped into the nearest deck chair and focused on the pool—on the way the twinkling lights hung for the rehearsal dinner danced across its surface.
Guests had already begun trickling out from the dining parlour, drawn by the promise of after-dinner cocktails under the stars.
The wedding party was beginning to regroup by the outdoor bar, joined by Harry and the Weasley brothers. In that moment, they looked almost alien to her—laughing so easily as they beckoned her over.
Hermione wondered if she’d ever looked so carefree. She certainly couldn’t recall a time she felt that way. Not while sober, anyway.
Not ready to slip on her mask of self-control just yet, she lifted her glass of sparkling water to them in a silent promise to join them later. Harry looked poised to argue, but dropped it quickly when Theo Nott approached him, seemingly offering him a drink. Harry took it and tapped his glass to Nott’s, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief at being forgotten for the time being.
She smiled sadly as she caught sight of Ginny and Blaise. They clung to each other in every spare moment, only breaking apart when guests swept them into a hug. Malfoy had been right: their love seemed inevitable. Effortless. The kind of thing cleverness and book smarts gave no advantage in.
More of his speech began looping over and over: the bits about alternate choices and alternate lifetimes. And so she thought of her own.
Of Ron and all those fights at Grimmauld Place. What would her life look like now if she hadn’t clung so tightly to her need for control, tidiness, and order? Would they be married now? Would they have had children? If so, how many? Two, four? And would she have eventually learned to love that life?
She thought of Alaric, that kind, forgettable Ruins Professor she’d dated for a few months. Nice enough, but selfish in bed, and dull at dinners. She’d ended it, telling herself that at twenty-four there was no rush.
And yet here she was, nearly twenty-eight, with no prospects on the horizon. She knew she was young—logically, she knew—but it was hard not to draw comparisons. Hard not to feel the slow pull of time and wonder, when will it be my turn?
Then, of course, there was Malfoy. She thought of their almost-kiss this morning. The way her breath had hitched, how his pupils had gone dark and wide as they fixed on her lips. They’d both hesitated. And then, nothing. She wondered: in another lifetime, if she’d been braver, what then?
But mostly, she thought of her parents, half a world away in Australia. And as she tilted her head to the brilliant night sky, she imagined another sky—one beneath which she’d never taken their memories, and they still had a daughter. That was the lifetime she longed for most.
“Everything alright, Granger?”
Hermione blinked, pulled back from thousands of miles and dimensions away. She looked up to find Malfoy, haloed by the soft glow of the lights above him.
He looked so breathtaking that it took her a moment to register he’d asked her a question.
“I’m sorry… Did you say something?”
“I asked if everything was alright,” he repeated.
“Oh. Yes,” she lied. “Everything’s fine.”
Malfoy gave her a discerning look as he lowered himself into the deck chair beside hers. “Once more with feeling. ”
Hermione forced a small, strained smile, determined not to talk of her troubles.
“It was a beautiful speech,” she said, deflecting.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am a little,” she admitted. “Pleasantly surprised.”
“Yes, well…” He lifted his champagne flute and tapped it gently against her glass of water with a clink . “I know your toast tomorrow will be brilliant, so I owe you something worthy to follow.”
Hermione grimaced, thinking of the speech she’d written. A string of flowery platitudes about love, marriage, and dozens of things she didn’t truly understand, and maybe never would.
As if reading her thoughts, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You know, it’s incredibly self-indulgent to be sad in a place like this.”
The comment startled a soft laugh out of her. He was right, of course. She was in a fairytale villa, surrounded by a silvered lake, while the sound of her friends’ laughter carried in the warm, sweet Italian air. And, as if that weren’t enough, there was a devastatingly gorgeous wizard at her side attempting to cheer her up. She was being spectacularly self-indulgent.
But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
“Please,” she said, scoffing lightly. “You’re like the poster boy for sulking.”
“Yes, well, I’ve had many years to perfect it,” he deadpanned. “But we’re not talking about me. And since you’re dodging my original question, let me rephrase: What’s wrong, Granger? And don’t say ‘nothing.’ I can discern between your moods easily enough to know that’s a lie.”
She arched an eyebrow, surprised. “Do you?” She wanted to ask. But instead, she let out a breath and gave him a sliver of the truth. “I miss my parents. Parties like this remind me of them. They loved a good gathering.”
“Ah.” His expression softened.
“They’re not dead,” she added quickly, because everyone always assumed. “They’re just—”
“In Australia, I know.”
She blinked at him. “How do you know that?”
He hesitated, then sighed, looking slightly sheepish. “Alright. If you must know, I read… parts of your book.”
She let out another laugh—a real one this time. It rose up through her like champagne bubbles, loosening the tightness in her chest.
“Draco Malfoy, you really do surprise me.”
A stunned look came across his face as he went very still. The expression was so unfamiliar that, for a second, she grew concerned. But then—
“You’ve… never called me Draco before.”
She tilted her head, brows furrowed. Hadn’t she? No… no, she supposed she hadn’t. The realisation made her blush slightly.
Before the moment could stretch too long, he cleared his throat. “Tell me about them. Your parents.”
At this, Hermione was thoroughly caught off guard. No one other than her mind-healer ever asked about her parents. Her friends tiptoed around the subject, too afraid to hurt her. Too afraid she’d shatter. But oh, how she wanted to talk about them! And here was Malfoy waiting, looking so earnest, like he truly wanted to hear.
“Well,” she began, the words coming out slowly and unpracticed. “My mum—Helena—was brilliant. She loved history, Greek mythology especially.”
His face lit up. “Is that where your name came from? Hermione–as in the daughter of Menelaus and Helena of Troy?”
“Yes!” Her smile grew. “Everyone always assumes it comes from an old Muggle play, but it was actually from mythology.”
“Clever.” He sounded genuinely impressed.
“And my dad, Christopher… he adored her. He was the best sort of husband, the most doting father,” she gushed, feeling herself getting swept up in the thought of them. “He was a serial hobbyist too. Loved woodworking, archery, golf…” she listed, shaking her head with a wistful smile. “But what he really prided himself on was being there for us.”
‘His girls,’ he used to call them. Hermione’s heart squeezed at the memory.
She’d spent her whole life chasing a love like theirs—that inevitable, perfect love. And now she feared that, in doing so, she’d doomed herself to always fall short.
“They’d be proud of you,” Malfoy said softly. “I mean, just look at all you’ve accomplished.”
She shook her head. “They wouldn’t really care about that. They never understood why I pushed myself so hard when it came to school. They’d have been proud of me just doing my best. What they really valued was family and friendship… and I think they’d be sad to see how isolated I’ve let myself become.”
Her gaze drifted back to Ginny and Blaise, and Malfoy followed her line of sight.
“Well,” he said, voice dry. “If you’re in the market for a new mum, I’m offering mine for a good price. She’s currently intent on humiliating me by dating our old Potions professor.”
Hermione’s eyes sparkled as they found Narcissa Malfoy, standing far too close to a surprisingly well-kept Severus Snape. His signature limp hair was stylishly cropped, his once-sallow complexion warmed to a healthy glow, and his posture had a relaxed ease she’d never seen before. Together, they actually looked…good. They complemented each other strikingly. He was the dark to her light, night to her day.
But she’d spare Malfoy from her positive assessment. He was clearly struggling with his mother’s new romance.
“That is… unexpected,” she said instead, biting her cheek to contain her grin. “What’s he like outside of the classroom?”
“Oh, you know—fine,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “Surviving a snake attack seemed to give him a whole new outlook on life. And they’ve always been friends. He protected me at Hogwarts during… well, everything. Technically, he’s my godfather.” He said the word as if it tasted sour in his mouth.
Hermione shook her head and tutted in mock disapproval. “I knew you were always the teacher’s pet. I just didn’t know how deep that well went.”
“Oh, do shut up.”
She laughed again, warmer this time. And Malfoy grinned, clearly pleased with himself for coaxing it out of her.
She’d underestimated him. Malfoy was incredibly emotionally intelligent. He always seemed to know when to be serious and when to lighten the mood. For someone who tended to linger too long on the side of sulking, Hermione found she appreciated the distraction more than she’d expected.
“Speaking of people who’d like to be more than friends,” she said, nodding toward Portia, who was glaring daggers at them across the pool. “What’s the story there?”
“That,” Malfoy said with a grimace, “was a mistake I made at twenty-two, right after my release from Azkaban. Though I try to remain civil for Blaise’s sake.”
She blinked, momentarily jarred by the reminder he’d served five years in Azkaban. It hardly seemed fair.
“And how’s your mistake going?” he added, tilting his head toward Ron, who was chatting up one of the Zabini cousins.
Next to him, Hermione was surprised to catch sight of Harry and Theo still standing close, heads bent together, deep in conversation.
“Ron wasn’t a mistake,” she said, a touch defensive. “We just realised we’re better off as friends than as more. We want different things, that’s all.”
“Such as?”
She hesitated. “He wants a repeat of his childhood. And I don’t blame him—it was a good one. He dreams of a slow, quiet life. A stay-at-home wife. Loads of kids. And I…”
“Want to save Highland Ironbelles and lobby for werewolf rights?”
Her eyebrow arched. “Someone’s been paying attention.”
She’d told him about the Ironbellies, but the werewolf legislation was one of her newer initiatives. Hardly anyone outside of her department knew about that, unless they’d made a point of staying involved.
He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “I try to stay curious.”
She gave him a small, unconvinced smile. “Yeah, well… truth is, I don’t really know what I want.”
Malfoy studied her, head tilted slightly, as if weighing something. Then, without warning, he stood and offered his arm.
“Granger. Fancy a walk?”
She stared at his outstretched arm, then glanced toward her friends.
What would they say, seeing her slip away with Draco Malfoy?
For a heartbeat, she wavered. Doubt tugged at her navel, whispering all the reasons this wouldn’t—couldn’t—be a good idea. But then she looked up at his face, so open and earnest it caught her off guard. The light caught on the sharp angles of his face, softening it. It highlighted his lashes, bringing out the silver in his eyes. Eyes that, for the first time, looked so honest. The fear quieted, then. And then she decided she didn’t care.
She chose to be brave.
“Malfoy, where on earth are you taking me?” she asked after they’d walked for what seemed like ages.
They’d slipped away from the pool and the hum of the party, down a stone path that curved through olive trees and low, fragrant rosemary hedges. He was cool as a cucumber. But a light film of sweat had gathered on her upper lip, and her feet were beginning to ache.
“Almost there,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “So impatient.”
Fortunately, he was telling the truth.
Just a few more steps, and the trees suddenly opened into a small clearing. At the centre of it, bathed in moonlight, stood a fountain of brilliant white marble. A soft glow seemed to emanate from the stone itself.
“Whoah,” Hermione gasped, stepping forward and craning her neck to study the structure.
It rose in three tiers, crowned by a remarkably detailed statue of a blindfolded woman clutching a cornucopia from which water spilled in a steady cascade.
It was the kind of sculpture that belonged at the Louvre, not hidden away in a grove of trees with no one to admire it.
“Is that…Tyche? The goddess of fate?” Hermione asked, studying the woman’s face. She wasn’t as well-versed in Greek mythology as her mother had been, but she vaguely remembered seeing the goddess in her mother’s textbooks.
“Or Fortuna, if you’re partial to the Roman name,” Malfoy said with a nod. “Gian Lorenzo Bermini built it for Blaise’s great-great-great grandfather or something. If you toss in a coin, it shows you a possible future.”
“A possible future? Not the future?”
Hermione, forever sceptical of divination, pulled a face.
“Didn’t you listen to my speech?” Malfoy teased. “The future isn’t set in stone, Granger. The fountain shows one path, and you decide whether it’s worthy enough to pursue it.” He held up a Galleon between two long fingers, offering it to her. “Thought it might help. Since you mentioned you don’t know what you want.”
“And you’ve done this before?”
“Yes,” he replied, in a way that made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be discussing what he’d seen.
She hesitated, then sighed, reaching for the coin. Fine, she could play along. “How does it work?”
“Just clear your mind, toss it in, and see what the water shows you.” His hands came gently to her shoulders, guiding her forward. “Sort of like a crystal ball.”
Hermione scrunched up her nose. It was hard for her to suspend disbelief—especially after her disastrous run with Trelawney.
“Will you see it too?”
He shook his head. “Only you.”
Hermione drew in a short breath, filling her lungs with the cool night air. She wasn’t sure why she felt so nervous, only that her body was buzzing with anticipation.
Steeling herself, she flicked his Galleon into the fountain. With a quiet splash, the golden coin broke through the surface. Then slowly, as if a veil had been lifted, the water began to shimmer.
An image came into focus. One of a sunlit rose garden.
A small child with pale ringlets ran toward a man crouched low, arms open to catch them.
The man laughed, and though no sound reached her, it made Hermione’s chest ache.
It was Malfoy, she realised. He looked a little older, with a streak or two of silver at his temples. His hair was longer, too, brushing just past his shoulders. But it was unmistakably him.
The child seemed to squeal with delight as Mafloy swung them up into his arms.
It was a beautiful scene, but Hermione could only frown in confusion. Something was wrong here.
Surely this wasn’t meant for her. Maybe the coin, being his, had shown her Malfoy’s fortune instead of hers.
But before she could tear her eyes away…
There she was.
An older version of herself, barefoot in summer robes, eyes bright with joy as she reached for both Malfoy and the child.
Their child.
Hermione’s breath hitched.
The image rippled, then vanished completely, leaving only the reflection of her wide-eyed face staring back at her.
“So?” Malfoy’s voice broke through her trance. “See something you like?”
She spun around, cheeks flushed.
It had all been so intimate, so intensely personal. Hermione was sure she’d been flayed open, left exposed for him to see. She couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t bear the thought he might somehow sense that a part of her wanted this, however new and fragile that desire still felt.
“Did you—did you see that?” she asked, her voice slightly sharper and more defensive than she’d meant it to be.
“No. Only you.” His brow creased. “Granger? Are you alright?”
“Yeah. It was… good. The vision.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll…keep it in mind.”
He studied her for a beat, then nodded. “Good. Come on, then. We should head back.”
“Yeah,” she said softly, falling in step beside him, trying to shake the image of soft blonde curls and tiny hands reaching for her. “Let’s go.”
“There you two are!” Ginny called out as they stepped onto the pool deck. The wedding party clustered together, along with her brothers, Neville Longbottom, and a murderously annoyed Portia.
“Where are Harry and Theo?” Luna asked, peering over their shoulders.
Hermione’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. The last she’d seen, Harry and Theo had been deep in conversation, looking as though they were thoroughly enjoying each other’s company.
“They weren’t with us,” Hermione said awkwardly. “We haven’t seen them in a while.”
“Where’d you two run off to?” Parvati asked, giving them a knowing look, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
Before Hermione could invent an excuse, Malfoy answered easily. “I showed Granger the Fountain of Fortuna. She said she liked Greek mythology and I thought she’d appreciate it.”
Hermione stared at him. There was no embarrassment on his part. No deflection. Just calm honesty. The Malfoy of her childhood would have sooner died than admitted to spending time with her willingly.
Then again, the Hermione of her childhood would have never spent time with him willingly.
“But that was years ago, and we’ve grown up,” she reminded herself. Or at least, he had. Perhaps it was her turn to do the same.
“Well, that sounds boring,” Lavender sighed.
“We were thinking we could all go down to the beach for a midnight swim,” Ginny grinned. “One last hurrah before the big day tomorrow.”
“Sure,” Malfoy shrugged. “But what about the rest of the guests?”
“Most of them are turning in. The rest can join or stay put. So long as the drinks keep flowing, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Blaise said, instinctively pulling Ginny in and tucking her into his side.
“I’ll dip my toes,” Hermione offered with a smile. “But I’ll pass on the swimming.”
Portia groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Oh, will you stop being such a spoilsport? Honestly, Draco, what the hell do you see in her?”
Before Hermione could react, she felt two hands shove hard against her chest.
The world tilted.
She flailed, arms windmilling as a silent shriek caught in her throat.
And then the water swallowed her whole.
She sank like a stone—kicking and clawing for purchase. But there was nothing beneath her feet.
She realised, with horrifying clarity, that Portia had shoved her into the deep end.
And Hermione couldn’t swim.
Her lungs tightened in panic.
Terror bloomed in her chest, sharp and suffocating, as the world above blurred into darkness.
Chapter 6: The Rescue
Chapter Text
Chapter 6 Podfic
Hermione opened her mouth to scream.
Big mistake.
Water surged down her throat, flooding her lungs, stealing her breath. Panic seized her.
She was going to die here.
Adrenaline, desperation, and the sheer, primal will to survive burned through her as she thrashed, clawing at the water, fighting for the surface.
But the harder she struggled, the deeper she sank.
Time blurred. She didn’t know if seconds had passed, or agonising hours. But darkness began to creep at the edges of her vision.
Then, just as she was beginning to lose all hope, two strong arms locked around her, hauling her upward.
That first breath of oxygen was heaven.
Air. Sweet, glorious air.
She gasped, choking, coughing, her body shuddering with the intoxicating relief of being alive.
Then—
“What the fuck, Portia?!”
It was Malfoy’s voice, raw with fury.
Hermione turned, blinking water from her eyes, to find herself cradled against him. His grip on her body was iron tight, and his face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Veins strained along his neck, his eyes two bottomless pits of black.
She’d never seen him like this.
Portia laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Oh, relax, Draco. It was just a bit of fun! I figured if she got wet, maybe she’d stop being such a priss about the beach—”
“She can’t fucking swim!” Malfoy snarled.
Hermione winced.
Humiliation burned through her as hot tears pooled in her eyes and the full weight of what had just happened hit her:
Portia had pushed her into the pool and she’d sunk to the bottom like a boulder. And now, she was in Malfoy’s arms, soaked through, while every wedding guest stared down at them with a mixture of pity and horror.
She barely heard the voices erupting around her.
“Hermione, are you alright?”
“Should we call a healer?”
Portia, who had only grown more aggravated, rolled her eyes. “Merlin, she’s fine! It’s just water!”
Hermione tried to hold back the sobs building in her chest as she pressed her face into Malfoy’s neck. As if instinctively, his hand immediately began to rub slow, reassuring circles on her back.
“Come on, Mione,” Ron called from the pool’s edge, reaching out. “Let’s get you—”
“No.” Malfoy’s grip tightened around her, his voice a low growl. “Nobody fucking touches her. I’ve got her.”
Hermione could only imagine Ron’s stunned expression as Malfoy pulled back, his gaze scanning her face.
“Hermione,” he breathed out softly, just for her to hear. “Are you alright?”
She gaped, unable to form words. He’d never called her by her first name either. And, stunned as she was, all she could do was give him a jerky nod as tears continued their steady stream.
Malfoy exhaled sharply. “Let’s get you dry.” He adjusted his hold on her trembling form. “Hold onto me, love.”
Without hesitating, she looped her arms around his neck as he swam out to the shallow end and carried her from the pool, water sluicing off them both.
Hermione could hear the crowds murmuring. She was sure Ron had let out a “Bloody hell!” in disbelief.
But she didn’t care. Malfoy’s arms felt so safe—so protective—that she simply squeezed her eyes shut and let him carry her away.
When they finally made it inside the Villa and to the foot of the stairs leading to their adjoining rooms, however, Hermione began to fidget.
“You can set me down now,” she muttered, suddenly hyper aware and self-conscious of him having to bear her weight. Gods, she must seem so weak to him. “I—I can walk.”
He didn’t answer, though. His jaw tightened, fingers flexing against her thighs as he adjusted his hold and started up the steps without a word.
She swallowed. His fury was still a living, breathing thing, radiating off him in waves. It was kind of hot… but also very intimidating. Either way, she decided not to push him.
Now that the adrenaline had started to fade, she felt a little foolish and a lot dramatic. She’d clearly overreacted. Of course, she wouldn’t have drowned. Someone—likely a Weasley—would’ve jumped in the minute they remembered she couldn’t swim. That, or someone would have thought to levitate her out using magic.
But Draco hadn’t hesitated.
He hadn’t wasted time on spells or deliberated. He’d just dived in, fully clothed, shoes and all, like nothing else mattered. Like only she had.
Her gaze traced the rivulets of water sliding from his hair, across the sharp angle of his jaw, and down the thick column of his throat. This close, she could see flecks of silver and gold in his storm-grey eyes, along with the faint turquoise halo around his irises. Two endless galaxies.
She also noticed a small, pale freckle on the side of his nose. And a thin, crescent-shaped scar along his jaw that she ached to trace with her fingers. Small imperfections on an otherwise perfect face.
He had to feel her staring, but his focus never wavered. He carried her carefully and effortlessly up the stairs and down the hall—like she weighed nothing. Like she was precious cargo.
When they reached her bedroom door, he finally paused and gently lowered her feet to the ground. The minute his arms pulled away from her body, she shivered at the lack of his warmth.
Now standing, Hermione could fully take him in. He was drenched. His linen suit clung to every plane of muscle, water pooling at their feet. She, too, was soaked through—her once bouncy curls now a sopping, limp mess at her back.
And yet, where she felt like a drowned poodle, he looked mythical. Neptune incarnate.
She wanted to tell him so. To thank him for rescuing her. But as she opened her mouth, he cut in, beating her to it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words were rough and low as he looked just above her shoulder, but not at her.
She frowned, confused. “Sorry? For what? Malfoy, you saved me.”
His jaw ticked. “She wouldn’t have pushed you in if it weren’t for me.”
Hermione scoffed, amazed at the mental gymnastics he must have executed to arrive at that conclusion.
“Malfoy, that’s ridiculous. Portia’s mental! This wasn’t your fault.”
“Stop.” He snapped, eyes finally flashing to hers. “Stop being nice to me.”
She was momentarily stunned at the forcefulness of his words.
“But… why?”
“Because I don’t deserve it.”
She laughed, incredulous. “Oh, come on! A witch you slept with ages ago pushed me into a pool because she’s still obsessed with you. That sounds like her problem, not yours.”
“It’s always mine,” he snapped. “It seems like every single time you’re hurt, I’m there. And I can never do anything to stop it.”
She froze, unable to keep up. Unsure of how the conversation had taken such a wild and unexpected turn.
He barreled ahead.
“Portia shoved you into a pool and I couldn’t do a thing. My aunt tortured you—in my own home—and I did nothing. You were petrified in second year, and it wasn’t just that I couldn’t stop it. I wished for it!”
You’ll be next, Mudblood.
The memory stabbed her in the gut, sudden and with a vengeance.
“And yet, here we all are,” he let out a humourless laugh that made her flinch. “All hanging out like old friends—you and me. Your lot and mine. As if we didn’t fight on opposite sides of a godsdamn war. As if the sick ideology my family fought for isn’t the reason yours was torn apart.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to keep it together, but clearly unravelling. “So that’s why you should stop being nice to me, Granger. I don’t deserve it, and I can’t fucking stand it.”
When he finished his ludicrous monologue, he turned on his heel and strode toward his door.
Red-hot fury lit up Hermione’s chest. How dare he? How bloody dare he be so maddening? So utterly impossible as to think he had any right to tell her how she should feel?
She lunged for him, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him back around to face her. “Well, that’s too bloody bad, isn’t it?!” Her voice trembled with anger, hands flying to her hips. “If my kindness feels like punishment, then you’ll just have to endure it like a man, Malfoy!”
Her voice, shrill and laced with indignation, echoed down the hallway. She was aware she was making a scene, but all thoughts of propriety had vanished. It was her turn to give him a piece of her mind.
“I happen to be a decent person, and I refuse to change or apologise for it just because it makes you uncomfortable! And while you may hate yourself, I don’t. In fact—I like you. More than I’d like to own up to, if I’m honest!” She shook her head, breath catching. “And yes, you’re impossible. And a prat. And I loathe that you know how attractive you are.” A short, bitter laugh escaped her. “But you’re also brilliant. And interesting. And—when you feel like it—actually quite lovely.”
Her voice dropped, shoulders sinking with exhaustion.
“And I’m tired. So impossibly tired of pretending I don’t see that!”
There.
It was all out now. And she felt like not an insignificant weight had lifted off her shoulders.
“Wait.” He held out a hand, palm out, as if to halt her. A sharp breath hissed through his nose. “You like me?”
She blinked, the accusation in his eyes catching her slightly off balance. She wanted to scream, “Yes! Of course I like you, you idiot!”
Instead, she gave him a noncommittal shrug. “...Sometimes.”
He huffed and threw up his arms in exasperation.
“What now?!” Hermione demanded.
“Oh, nothing. I just thought you were smarter than that!”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?!”
“I WAS A FUCKING DEATH EATER, GRANGER!” he bellowed, shattering all remaining composure. He stepped so close his breath hit her face. His cheeks burned red, and his voice rolled like thunder. She was certain everyone outside on the pool deck must have heard him.
Then, after dropping that final grenade, his face crumpled, and his chest gave a single, silent heave.
Oh, gods.
Something inside Hermione’s chest splintered.
No, no, no. There was something utterly excruciating about watching Malfoy break down.
She swallowed hard, approaching him carefully. “But you were a child,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Just a child…”
She pressed a hand to his chest, and could feel his heart hammering beneath her palm. She was sure he’d pull away, but he didn’t. And so she lifted her other hand to cup his jaw, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“Listen to me,” she said gently, her thumb brushing over that small, crescent scar from earlier. “Yes, you’ve made mistakes. But we all have. We are not defined by what we did at seventeen.”
“Easy for you to say,” he rasped, his fury finally fading into resignation. She noticed the way his throat bobbed as he seemed to fight back tears. “You’ve always been golden.”
His words seeped into her skin like sunshine. Warm and decadent as a summer day.
“And you,” she echoed, “were always more than the darkness they forced you into.”
He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, just a little.
“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’ve been sorry for so long, I don’t remember what it feels like not to be.”
A sad smile touched her lips. He was so achingly beautiful and so painfully broken. And all she wanted, with a desperation that startled her, was to gather all his fractured pieces and fit them back together. To show him he was still whole. Still worthy.
“I forgive you, Draco.”
His eyes opened, and they simply stared at each other. Locked in a moment, a million unspoken words passing between them.
And then—
They collided.
Mouths, hands, breath.
Like gravity. Like instinct.
Like drowning and being saved all at once.
But there was nothing apologetic about the way Draco kissed her.
His hands lifted to cradle her jaw, tilting her head just where he wanted her. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, demanding and insistent. She parted for him, without hesitation, meeting him stroke for stroke.
He walked her backward until her spine met his bedroom door with a soft thud.
Her fingers found his hips and tugged him flush against her. It gave new meaning to the phrase between a rock and a hard place. The unmistakable press of his desire against her belly sent a thrill rippling through her.
He ground his hips into hers, pinning her harder to the door.
And she might have been mortified by the needy sound that escaped her, if she weren’t so utterly, breathlessly turned on.
What was happening? Any minute now, Hermione expected to startle awake from yet another dirty dream.
“Please, don’t be a dream. Please, don’t be a dream,” she chanted in her head.
When they finally came up for air, Hermione let the back of her head fall against the cool wood behind her, lungs heaving as she tried to steady her breathing.
Her chest burned with lack of oxygen. But unlike the pool, she didn’t mind. She’d give up breathing altogether if it meant she could keep kissing him.
When she looked at him, she found a lazy, almost disbelieving smile tugging at Draco’s lips. The kind of smile someone wore at the end of a long, punishing run when their chest ached, their legs turned leaden, but the adrenaline still sang in their blood. He looked relieved.
“I think we’re overdelivering on our wedding pact,” she teased, breathlessly. “The deal was just to be civil. We’re quite the overachievers.”
“I’ve wanted to do that for a very, very long time,” he rumbled, the words landing squarely between her legs.
She hummed.
“Since this morning?”
“Longer.”
She gives him a dreamy, lopsided grin.
“Since the stag night? When you flew me home and I stole your bed?”
“Longer, Granger.”
This made her straighten a little.
“Blaise’s birthday last year?”
He’d smoked too much dingle weed at Blaise’s party and she might have caught him staring at her a little too appraisingly.
He smirked, dragging two fingers lightly across her lips. She fought the urge to bite them. To pull them into her mouth and suck.
“Granger,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since we were in fourth year. When you came down those bloody stairs in that blue dress.”
Her heart squeezed.
“And here I thought you hated me.”
“Oh, I definitely did,” he admitted with a tight smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “You walked in with no magical background and were somehow better than me at everything. You made me question every bloody thing I’d been taught to believe about Muggleborns. And I was a prat, so of course I resented you for it. But I was a prat with eyeballs—so I could also see you were beautiful. Which only made it worse.”
“Not too squirrelly and wild-haired for you?” she asked, rolling her eyes at the memories of all their childhood barbs.
“Oh, you were absolutely squirrelly for a few years,” he said, his grin stretching more earnestly on his face. “But we all looked a bit tragic in the beginning, didn't we?”
No. He’d never looked tragic. He’d always been infuriatingly aristocratic and stupidly good-looking. It was just that, back then, all that potential had been completely eclipsed by the fact that he’d been a monumental little tosser.
But she’d keep that bit to herself.
“I suppose,” she shrugged.
He tilted his head, gaze softening. “And you grew into your smile quite radiantly. As for your hair…”
“Go on, then,” she said, bracing herself for the inevitable jab.
“You do have a lot of hair,” he smirked, taking one of her still-damp curls and letting it spring back into place between his fingers.
“But I can’t tell you how many times I imagined taking all this hair—” he slid his hand around the back of her neck, gently gathering her curls, “and twisting it up—” he demonstrated slowly, “just so I could kiss you…”
He dipped his head, brushing a trail of sensual kisses along her jaw, up to her ear, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Just like this.”
“Draco,” she breathed, the butterflies in her stomach morphing into agitated bees.
A groan tore from his throat.
“Fuck. I’ll never get used to you saying my name like that.”
She smirked, high on the knowledge of how to work him up. “Draco… ”
He shook his head with a grin—until she arched into him.
The grin vanished and his pupils blew wide, swallowing the galaxies of silver in his eyes like a black hole.
Then, they heard the laughter. The shrieks and voices coming up the stairs.
Their eyes darted to his door, a grimace passing between them.
Hermione wasn’t ready to let him go. She wasn’t nearly done with him yet.
“Help me out of this dress?” she murmured. “I can’t reach the clasp.”
A wicked smile bloomed across his face. Without a word, he turned the knob beside her and gently pushed her backward into his room.
The second the door clicked shut behind them, they crashed into each other again.
She shoved his damp linen jacket off his shoulders, and he shrugged out of it in one fluid, impatient motion.
His hands flew to the clasp of her dress, unfastening it with expert precision before dragging the zipper down in one rough pull.
The dress was probably ruined, but it could burn for all she cared.
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, frantic to reach the warm, smooth expanse of skin beneath.
They were like teenagers—reckless, breathless—biting and nipping through messy kisses, tangled in want and half-formed moans.
It wasn’t until her hands dropped to the waistband of his trousers that he suddenly stilled. His fingers closed around hers, holding them in place.
An impatient whine slipped out of her.
“We should slow down,” he mumbled against her lips, breath ragged.
“I don’t want to,” she protested, fighting his grip.
“Granger,” he said more firmly, pulling back just enough to look down at her. His tone was admonishing, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at his beautiful mouth. “I’ve waited forever to do this. I’m going to take my time. And if my thoroughness feels like punishment…” he leaned in, voice maddeningly smug, “well, then you’ll just have to endure it.”
Her words! He was throwing her own words back at her!
She glared at him, not sure whether to fall to her knees at his mercy, or throttle him.
His hands reached for the straps of her dress and slowly—with the kind of pace that could melt glaciers—eased them off her shoulders. His touch sparked along her skin, sending jolts of electricity up her spine.
The fabric slipped, pooling at her waist. And Hermione gasped as cool air kissed her bare skin, her nipples tightening almost painfully in response.
Draco hummed in approval.
With that same devastating slowness, he dipped his head, lips closing around one of the pink peaks, and sucked gently. His hand found the other, rolling her nipple between his fingers.
Hermione whimpered, her hand bracing against the warm plane of his stomach, fingers exploring the hard ridges and valleys there.
“This isn’t enough,” she gasped, as he gently bit down on her breast. “I need you to touch me,” she begged, squeezing her thighs together, already slick with need.
He let out a dark chuckle. “Some things never change,” he murmured, dragging his mouth to the other breast and lavishing it with nips and sucks. “You’ve always been so fucking impatient.”
“Guilty as charged,” she mewled, her hands falling on his belt buckle once more. This time, he didn’t stop her.
She undid it, fingers nimble, tugging the zipper down and slipping her hand beneath his waistband.
The hiss he let out nearly undid her.
And when she wrapped her fingers around his length, thick and hot and heavy in her hand, it was her turn to smirk.
“Doesn’t seem like you mind it, though,” she whispered.
Her smugness was short-lived, though.
In a flash, everything seemed to happen at once.
Draco reached for his wand tucked into the back pocket of his trousers, and with a silent flick, their clothes vanished.
Hermione’s jaw dropped, momentarily stunned as she gawked at him.
She knew he was fit, but bloody hell. Nothing could have prepared her for naked Draco.
He looked like he’d been carved from marble—sharp lines, lean muscle, sculpted perfection. Like he belonged next to the statue of Fortuna herself.
He smirked, and it was clear he knew exactly how good he looked. Normally, she wouldn’t feed a man’s ego. But denying his beauty would be like denying the earth was round.
He, in turn, was drinking her in, hungrily. His gaze roamed over her with such intensity it made her skin flush. She fought the urge to cover herself. A ridiculous notion, perhaps, but it was automatic. Suddenly, she became painfully aware of her softness in contrast to all his sharp definition and perfect symmetry.
“Bloody hell, witch,” he muttered appreciatively.
Then, with a kind of effortless strength that only a body with that musculature could manage, he dipped down, gripped her by the thighs, and hauled her into his arms. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist and felt him, thick and ready, pressed right there. Exactly where she needed him most.
They both groaned at the friction, and in that moment, Hermione forgot every insecurity she’d just felt.
He moved toward the bed in three determined strides and deposited her onto his sheets. She could see his veins straining beneath his skin, jaw tight with the effort of his restraint.
“Just let go,” she thought.
She opened for him, making space between her thighs, pulling him closer. But he resisted, hovering, looking at her as if he wanted to take his time devouring her.
She let out a frustrated groan, her core fluttering around nothing. Every nerve ending begged for him, demanding relief.
“Patience, little witch,” he murmured with a tsk, wrapping his hands around her ankles and dragging her to the edge of the bed.
Hermione propped herself up on her elbows—and her heart nearly stopped at the sight of Draco Lucius Malfoy folding to his knees before her.
“This isn’t going to be quick,” he said, brushing a trail of kisses from her knee to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. His fingers slid slowly down her center—just enough to tease—and the gasp she let out was a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.
“I’m going to make you fall apart, piece by piece until there’s nothing left but my name on your lips.”
Hermione wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a promise. She was, however, eager to find out.
And finally—without giving her a second to brace for it—he dipped his head and replaced his fingers with his mouth.
His tongue circled her clit once before locking down with a firm, possessive suck.
“Fuck,” she whimpered.
Constellations exploded behind her eyelids.
Hermione arched off the bed and he groaned in response.
Her fingers twisted into the sheets as waves of pleasure crashed through her, firework after firework igniting beneath her skin. She trembled, her hips moving instinctively against him, chasing more.
She’d fantasised about this. Had dreamt it—more than once—since walking in on him touching himself. She’d made herself come, over and over, to the image of him between her thighs. But now, with his mouth on her, she realised just how pitiful her imagination had been.
His tongue was relentless. Practiced. Confident in a way that made it impossible to think. He’d clearly done this before. Many, many, many times—and the thought sparked a bitter flicker of jealousy she couldn’t and wouldn’t unpack now.
“Gods, your mouth,” she gasped, releasing the sheets to thread her fingers through his hair as another pulse of pleasure raced up her spine.
His fingers slid inside—first one, then two—until she was filled with him. And he curled them in a way that coaxed the most unintelligible sounds from her. Each stroke sent shockwaves through her, building her higher, winding her tighter.
“That’s it, love,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “Let me hear how good it feels.”
His arrogance. His maddening confidence. His voice.
They undid her completely.
She shattered around him. Hard. Her body convulsing, her voice a broken chant of his name.
“Draco…Draco…Draco…”
And when he’d drawn the last tremors from her, and finally pulled away, she nearly sobbed at the loss.
But she didn’t have to wait long, because as soon as he withdrew, he was climbing up onto the bed, his body moving over hers, using his knees to nudge her legs wider apart.
She didn't know if she could take another one so soon, but Hermione Granger was nothing if not up for a challenge.
Half-delirious, she watched as he sat back on his heels, casting the contraceptive charm with one hand, fisting himself with the other. The sight alone nearly made her dizzy again.
Then, he set his wand down, and something shifted in his face.
A flicker of softness. Of something that almost looked like… affection?
He leaned down, pressing the gentlest of kisses to her mouth, and brushed the damp hair from her face with a tenderness that threatened to kill her.
“We don’t have to go further tonight,” he murmured, voice rough. “If you’d rather just rest… I’m perfectly content just holding you.”
Hermione looked up at him, breath still shallow, pulse still stuttering.
“I’m not,” she said simply.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever be satisfied when it came to him. Doubtful she could ever get enough.
She met his gaze with an openness and vulnerability that slightly frightened her. Maybe this was more than she’d bargained for. Maybe it would all blow up spectacularly tomorrow. Maybe it was reckless, or foolish, or something she’d regret in the morning.
But tonight, she was choosing the version of her life where she was in Draco’s bed.
“I want to know what it feels like to be yours, Draco.”
And that, apparently, was all the confirmation he needed.
Chapter 7: The Wedding
Chapter Text
Chapter 7 Podfic
Draco hovered over her, caging her in with his body. His fingers wrapped tightly around her wrists and pressed them into the mattress above her head.
But it wasn’t his grip that had her trembling—it was the look in his eyes. Dark. Hungry. Wild. His pupils were blown wide, irises barely visible.
She’d just asked him to make her his, and it was clear he fully intended to deliver on that promise.
“Careful what you ask for, love,” he hissed, sliding his hips between her thighs. “I’m not ashamed to admit I am a territorial man when it comes to what’s mine.”
Hermione arched her back, chasing the heat, desperate for more friction. Her nerves felt like frayed wires, every part of her aching and throbbing for him.
He ground against her with just enough pressure to make her gasp. But it was nowhere near enough to satisfy.
She let out a needy moan, her core clenching around nothing.
She was soaked and ravenous for him in a way that felt primal. Now that she’d come undone on his tongue, she needed to know what it felt like to break apart with him buried inside her.
Draco bent lower, lips brushing against her ear.
“Are you sure you want to be mine, Hermione?” he whispered, his voice like sin and smoke.
“Yes,” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut as her thighs gripped his hips. “I need to be yours.”
She could hardly believe the words leaving her lips. Just days ago, the idea would’ve been laughable. And yet here she was, pinned beneath Draco, trembling with want.
She felt the hard press of him twitch against her at her words.
“I want to hear you beg for it,” he growled, eyes dark as night. “I need to know you mean it.”
Hermione’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. He might have been the one on top, pinning her down. But she could see the way his chest rose too fast, the way his jaw clenched, the way his cock strained between them. She was the one actually calling the shots here, and she’d never felt so powerful.
Still, she’d play his game. Because, ultimately, she’d be the one winning.
“Please, Draco,” she rasped, lifting her chin to brush her mouth against his, teasing. Then, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and tugged gently before letting it slip free with a soft, wet pop. “Please fuck me.”
Something inside him snapped.
With a rough, guttural curse, he dove into her with one hard, punishing thrust.
Hot, white pleasure thundered through her, and for a moment, she didn’t just see stars. She saw entire fucking galaxies. She cried out, the stretch and heat of him almost unbearable and not enough at the same time.
Gods, she’d been right—she would never get enough of this. Enough of him.
Her ankles locked around his waist instinctively as he shifted his hips, angling deeper. And just like that—he found it. That spot that short-circuited her entire nervous system. An off-switch for her brain.
“Draco,” she moaned.
She’d never been particularly vocal in bed. It wasn’t that she was shy—Merlin, far from it. And it wasn’t for lack of vocabulary. She’d read far more than just Hogwarts: A History. She was, after all, an intellectual. As such, her bookshelf held enough well-written smut to make her mirrors fog.
She simply hadn’t had partners worth using it on.
Most had been too fragile for feedback, too mediocre to inspire praise. And frankly, not one of them had earned the breath it would’ve taken to coach them.
But Draco Malfoy?
Hermione had always told him exactly what was on her mind, and she wasn’t about to stop now.
“Right there,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Right. Fucking. There.”
Unsurprisingly, he was very receptive to her demands.
He growled low in his throat, as if her words had poured petrol on something already smouldering. He dropped his hands from her wrists to her hips just and his rhythm shifted, turning as relentless as it was precise.
Pleasure crashed over her in waves, drowning out all thoughts, leaving only raw sensation in its wake. The room was filled with the unfiltered sounds of their bodies. Skin meeting skin, moans, and the slick, shameless rhythm of their bodies demanding the other.
Sweat coated her skin in a sheen. His hair had fallen loose and unruly across his forehead.
He looked devastating—flushed, undone, and with lips swollen from her kisses. His jaw was clenched in near-painful concentration.
She could feel every inch of him—every thick, maddening inch—stretching her, filling her so deeply it felt less like pleasure and more like possession. She’d never felt so whole. As if something had always been missing and had finally locked into place. A phantom limb restored. An ache she hadn’t known she’d carried, finally relieved.
Her fingernails raked down his back, dragging crimson lines into his skin. She wanted to claim him as much as he was claiming her. To mark him as her own.
And she’d never known him to be delicate, so she wouldn’t treat him as if he were.
As if reading her thoughts, he dipped his head and bit into the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. Not enough to injure, but enough to brand. A growl rumbled against her throat.
She wanted him to come undone inside her, with her name on his tongue, just as he’d promised she would for him.
“Fuck, you’re perfect like this—like you were made for me,” he groaned against her skin between thrusts.
And maybe she was.
She was close. So fucking close. And she was so turned on she could’ve unravelled with penetration alone. But Draco wasn’t anything if not thorough.
His hand slipped between their bodies, fingers merciless as they found her sensitive clit and began to circle.
“Such a good girl,” he rasped, watching her, “You want to finish don’t you?”
She whimpered, nodding frantically.
“Say it.”
Damn him.
“I—I need to come,” she gasped, voice shaking. “Please, Draco.”
The sin etched in his smirk alone could have guaranteed him an eternity in hell.
“Go on then, love. Make a mess of me.”
And she did.
She shattered beneath him with a cry so guttural it barely sounded human. Her entire body locked tight, and then shattered—violently, exquisitely. But his fingers didn’t stop. He kept working her through it. Every flick and circle drawing out the last shockwaves of violent, euphoric pleasure.
And then she cried out his name and that was his undoing.
He groaned, movements growing erratic. With one final, desperate thrust, he spilled inside her, his body shuddering as he collapsed onto her, breath ragged. She wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him there, her nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder blades. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could feel it echoing against his own.
“Sweet Salazar,” he murmured once he caught his breath, slumping beside her with a lazy, stunned sort of reverence. “You’re incredible.”
Hermione was still staring at the ceiling, dazed, trying to remember how to breathe. Her limbs felt boneless, like they no longer belonged to her. Her pulse still throbbed between her legs.
Then, she felt his fingers brush her cheek, sweeping damp curls from her face.
“Hermione… are you alright?” he asked, voice laced with concern.
She blinked at him slowly, trying to reconcile such gentleness with the way he’d wrecked her just moments ago. “I think you broke me.”
He let out a disarmed, breathless laugh. Then, leaned in to press a kiss to her mouth. Once. Then again, slower.
“Good,” he murmured. “Then we’re even.”
He withdrew carefully, murmuring something unintelligible before getting up and disappearing into the bathroom. She whimpered at the loss of him. But seconds later, he was back with a warm, damp cloth.
He knelt beside her, gently parting her thighs, and cleaned her up.
Hermione watched him through heavy lids, her chest aching for reasons that had nothing to do with the heart-stopping sex they’d just had.
“We should sleep,” he said softly, slipping under the sheets beside her.
For a moment, she stilled, feeling her heart sink. Was this her cue to leave? A polite dismissal? Familiar insecurities rushed in, making her question the wisdom behind letting her precarious feelings for Draco cloud her judgment and make her vulnerable.
But then, his arms wrapped around her, tugging her close and tucking her under his chin, and her tensing body relaxed.
She let herself melt into him.
His heart was still thundering in his chest, but it was slowing now, steadying.
“After all, we’ve got a wedding tomorrow, and you’ll want to be rested,” he added into her hair, “I hear you’re Maid of Honour.”
She smiled into his skin, fingers drawing lazy patterns on his forearm. “Funny. I heard you were Best Man.”
“Well,” he said, voice low and smug, “hopefully after tonight’s performance, I’ve proven I am.”
She shook her head, biting back a laugh. But she didn’t argue.
After all… he had.
A few hours later, Hermione awoke with a start.
“Signorina, wake up! You must come quickly!”
Gigi was at the foot of the bed, wringing her tiny hands, tennis-ball eyes wide with panic.
Hermione jolted upright, the sight of the frantic house-elf nearly sending her into cardiac arrest.
“Merlin’s sake, Gigi!” she yelped, clutching the bedsheet to her chest, trying—and failing—for a scrap of modesty. Her and Draco had fallen asleep unclothed in each other’s arms, and she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of exposing herself to the small elf. “You nearly scared me to death!”
“Gigi is sorry, Signorina!” the elf cried, already pacing across the room and clearly indifferent to Hermione’s state of undress. “But Gigi didn’t know what else to do! Signorina Ginny is very upset. She says she doesn’t want to have the wedding!”
“What?! ” Hermione gasped, lurching out of bed, modesty be damned, and sprinting to the bathroom. She grabbed one of Draco’s fluffy bathrobes and tugged it on as fast as her shaking hands would allow.
Draco, also stirred by the sudden raucous, propped himself on his elbows and tried blinking against the assault of sunlight, his hair a tousled mess. “What in Salazar’s name is going on?” he mumbled groggily.
“It was beginning last night!” Gigi squeaked. “Signorina Ginny and Signorina Portia was having a terrible fight. Oh, such shouting hurt Gigi’s ears! And Signorina Ginny, she was saying Portia is not to come to the wedding no more! Then this morning, Mistress Chiara is bringing a new gown—very grand, very shiny—but when Signorina Ginny says no thank you, Mistress Chiara begins crying most terribly and telling Master Blaise that his fiancée is being ungrateful and dishonouring the whole noble house of Zabini!”
“Oh no,” Hermione whispered, one hand over her mouth as she listened in horror from the bathroom doorway.
“And then Master Blaise and Mistress Chiara were shouting, oh yes, very loud! So much shouting! Now Signorina Ginny is saying she doesn’t want to be the reason for all the fighting, and she’s thinking the whole wedding is spinning out of control, she is!”
Hermione’s heart plummeted so low she was fairly certain it landed somewhere around her kneecaps.
“This isn’t Ginny’s fault! It’s all my fault,” Hermione exclaimed, stepping back into the bedroom, pale and dazed.
Draco, who’d sat up to dress, looked at her like she’d grown an extra head. “No, it isn’t,” he said firmly, pulling on his trousers. “We talked about this last night. The Portia thing isn’t on either of us.”
“No, but it was my job to shield Ginny from the likes of Portia and Chiara! To support her. To stand up for her. Oh Merlin, I’ve been so selfish! I should have been there last night and this morning. Not…” Her voice cracked. “Not off having a tumble with you!”
“Granger, don’t be daft. How were you to know Portia and Chiara would go completely barmy?”
“I suppose I didn’t,” she admitted, looking away, her face twisting with guilt. “But this,” she motioned vaguely between them, “is just so badly timed.”
Draco stilled. “Are you saying you regret us?” he asked quietly.
Her stomach turned. “No. Of course not,” she said quickly.
It was the truth. Not only had she experienced some of the best sex of her life, but also the best sleep. For the first time in years, she’d drifted off easily and slept straight through the night. No nightmares, no bouts of insomnia, no tossing or turning. And minus Gigi’s rather dramatic wake-up call, she’d woken up feeling better than she had in ages. Deep down, she knew the blonde wizard was to thank.
“But that doesn’t change the fact we’re here for them. For Ginny and Blaise. And instead, we’ve been… completely self-indulgent!”
Oh, gods! She had to go to Ginny—now! She had to make things right!
“Hermione, stop,” Draco said, more gently, taking a step toward her.
Her name on his lips made her pause. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to how intimate it sounded coming from him.
“You have to stop carrying the weight of the bloody world on your shoulders. You did it for Potter and Weasley for years, and now you’re doing it again. You can’t protect everyone, you must accept that.”
She wanted to agree with him. To put herself first. To fall into his arms, and back into his bed, and have a repeat of the previous night.
But Ginny was hurting, and that mattered more.
“I have to go to her,” she said. “And… you should find Blaise. He’ll need you.”
“Hermione, wait—” He crossed the room and caught her by the hand. With the other, he tucked a curl behind her ear, his touch maddeningly tender. “Just… tell me it wasn’t a mistake,” he pleaded. “Tell me that we’re alright.”
She hesitated, just for a breath.
“We weren’t a mistake,” she said finally. “But right now, we have a wedding we need to make sure happens.”
And with that, she slipped from his grasp and disappeared out the door, not daring to look back should her already fragile resolve splinter completely.
When Hermione finally found Ginny, she was crumpled on the floor of her bedroom, tear-streaked and all alone.
“Oh, love,” Hermione murmured, sinking down beside her and pulling her into a comforting embrace.
Ginny immediately buried her face in Hermione’s chest and let out a jagged sob. “I can’t do this,” she gasped, clutching at her like a lifeline. “Ever since the engagement, it’s just been one endless fight. I didn’t even want some elaborate wedding. I’d have been happy with something small at the Burrow. But Chiara just had to turn it into a bloody spectacle!”
Hermione ran a soothing hand over Ginny’s copper hair, making quiet shushing sounds. A protective fury flared in her chest at the thought of anyone making her best friend this upset.
Ginny, after all, was a simple soul. She had strong opinions about the things that truly mattered. But unlike Hermione, who never quite knew when to pick her battles, Ginny usually went with the flow. Hermione had always suspected it was a consequence of being the youngest in a household of loud, larger-than-life personalities. But this—this performative pageantry Chiara had foisted on her—was clearly pushing Ginny far beyond the bounds of her comfort zone.
“Where’s your mum? The girls?” she asked, glancing around the empty room. The thought of Ginny being left alone to spiral through all these emotions without someone there to comfort her sent a pang of guilt through her chest.
“I sent them off to get ready,” Ginny said, her voice thin. “Didn’t want to worry anyone until I figured out what I’m doing.” Her voice cracked. “Gods, what am I supposed to do? If I call the wedding off, Mum will be gutted.”
“She’d understand,” Hermione said softly, knowing there was nothing the Weasley matriarch cared about more than the well-being of her children. “But… is that what you want? To cancel it?”
Ginny let out a long, shuddering breath. “I just want to get married without feeling like I’m disappearing. I want Blaise—not a life sentence of being shackled to his completely unhinged mother.”
Hermione’s eyes landed on the mountain of tulle haphazardly thrown across a chair. She winced. “Is that the dress Chiara brought you?” she asked, remembering what Gigi had said about the surprise gown.
Ginny sat up, glaring at it. “Yes, it’s awful.”
Hermione gingerly picked it up, inspecting the detailed lace bodice and dramatic train. It was, objectively, stunning. But it was definitely not Ginny. Her best friend lived in either Quidditch kits or slinky black dresses—nothing in between. This wedding dress didn’t reflect her tastes at all!
“You still have the original dress? You could still wear it. To hell with what Chiara wants.”
Ginny nodded miserably. “But what does it matter? This is just the beginning. First, it was the bloody doves—yes, doves!—then she replaced Mum’s treacle tarts with some absurd twelve-tier cake. And now the dress!”
As she ranted, Hermione moved about, straightening pillows and discarded clothes more for the sake of giving Ginny space to unravel than anything else.
“Next thing you know,” Ginny huffed, “she’ll demand we name our firstborn after her—boy or girl.”
Hermione let out a laugh, then dropped down beside her, her voice turning gentle. “Is that all that’s bothering you? Just Chiara?”
Ginny’s mouth twisted, clearly wrestling with how much to say.
“I’m scared,” she finally whispered. “What if I hate America? What if the Thunderbirds realise I’m not as good as they thought and decide I was a waste of money? I had a good thing going with the Harpies, after all. What if I’ve buggered it all up?” Then, more quietly, “What if I miss you too much?”
Hermione shook her head, incredulous. Oh, if only Ginny could see herself through her eyes.
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” Hermione teased, nudging her with a shoulder. “First of all, you won’t have time to miss me. I will be Floo calling you everyday. And more importantly, you’re brilliant! You were the youngest woman ever drafted in the league, and you’ve won the title of Most Valuable Player for three seasons in a row. You’re the best—no question.”
A watery smile appeared across Ginny’s face. “I’m alright, I suppose.”
“The best,” Hermione insisted, throwing an arm around her. “You’re just overwhelmed, which is perfectly normal. I mean, I’ve personally been managing all this change with flawless grace—”
Ginny snorted.
“But you’re Ginny Weasley. If you survived growing up with your brothers, you can handle a new team, a new country and even a new mother-in-law. And besides, Blaise adores you. He’ll always take your side.”
Ginny sniffled again. “It’s bloody annoying how you’re always right.”
“Brightest Witch of My Age, remember?”
Hermione tugged nervously at her bottom lip, hesitant to bring up the wedding again. Before she could press Ginny, a knock at the door made them jump.
“Ginevra? It’s Draco. May I come in?”
Ginny’s eyes lit up with mischief, as if suddenly remembering something. She turned to Hermione, grinning wide. “Wait. What happened last night with you two after the pool?” she whispered.
Hermione shot her a silent “I’ll tell you later” look, and both burst into quiet giggles.
“Come in, Ferret!” Ginny called, quickly composing herself.
Draco stepped inside, brow furrowed. “I just spoke to Blaise. He’s… a bit of a wreck. Thinks you might call off the wedding. Wanted to come down and talk to you himself, but I told him seeing the bride before the ceremony was bad luck, and that I’d check in first.”
Hermione turned to Ginny, trying to appear steady. “Well? What do you want to do, Gin?”
Fresh tears welled in Ginny’s eyes. “I love him. More than anything. But everything’s happening so fast.”
Hermione shot Draco a panicked look.
Draco, the picture of calm, crouched beside the tearful redhead. “Whatever you decide, Blaise will understand. But you need to tell him. Because, maybe not today—but that man’s wanted to marry you since the moment he met you.”
“He has?” Ginny sniffled.
“Red, he’s utterly mad about you,” Draco glanced at Hermione, his gaze loaded. “He knows his family’s difficult. But once you say ‘I do,’ you’ll be his family. His priority. And if you give him a chance, he’ll spend every day trying to deserve you.”
Hermione dropped her gaze, afraid her face might betray that her heart was fluttering like pixie wings.
Ginny sighed, and then—just like that—her whole posture shifted. She squared her shoulders, swiped away the remaining tears, and cleared her throat with newfound determination.
“You know what? You’re right. To hell with Chiara Zabini. Blaise and I are getting married today—on our terms.”
Hermione and Draco exhaled together.
“And now that that’s sorted,” Ginny said, giving them both a pointed look. “Are you two still being idiots, or have you finally realised you belong together too?”
As Hermione walked down the aisle later that day, Maid of Honour bouquet in hand, she felt like she was floating—light, untethered, and entirely relieved. Fleur’s harp music wafted across the garden where the ceremony had been positioned to look over the lake. At the gorgeous sight, Hermione allowed herself to smile, thinking how close they’d come to losing this moment. To Ginny walking away and having it all unravel.
But her friend hadn’t. She’d stayed. And now, they were all walking toward her forever.
Hermione’s cheeks flushed as she neared the altar and caught Draco watching her—openly, unashamedly, just her. She offered him a small, timid smile, and his eyes sparkled in response.
She tried not to think of how devastatingly handsome he looked in his dress robes. Tried not to imagine what those robes might look like rumpled in a heap beside her bed.
With a guilty grin at the thought, she finally slipped into place beside the other bridesmaids. Luna, Parvati, and Lavender met her with eager glances. And the four of them turned in unison toward the top of the aisle, breath held, anticipation coursing between them like a current.
Then Ginny appeared, and the entire crowd gasped.
On the arms of both Molly and Arthur, the bride descended the aisle, looking as dazzling as the sun.
Her gown, sleek satin and perfectly tailored, clung to her rollercoaster curves. Her copper hair was swept into vintage waves. And her lips were painted her signature sultry red.
Her beauty was understated, timeless, and all-consuming. Most importantly, it was all Ginny.
Hermione caught the moment Draco gently clapped Blaise’s shoulder as the groom blinked back tears.
And when Ginny finally reached him and their hands met, Hermione saw Blaise lean in, heard his whispered, “You’re beautiful,” and watched as her best friend lit up with unfiltered, radiant joy.
She scanned the crowd, eyes landing on the row of Weasley brothers seated at the front. Moments later, Arthur and Molly joined them—all beaming with pride at the youngest Weasley. Each of them misty-eyed. Even Percy.
Across the aisle, a subdued Chiara Zabini sat, spine ramrod-straight, her expression composed and dignified as she waited patiently for her son to bind himself to the woman he loved.
And all around them, Hermione took in the mosaic of guests. Different bloodlines, different cultures, different stories.
Some wore elegant dress robes, others came in Muggle fashion.
There were Quidditch stars, and artists. Healers and homemakers. Faces she’d grown up with, and others she didn’t recognise.
A hundred different lives.
All gathered for one thing.
Love.
Hermione smiled, her heart full—realising, not for the first time, that if anything had the power to bring people together, it was that.
The ceremony, per Ginny’s uncompromising request, remained short and sweet, officiated by a striking Bill Weasley in deep navy robes.
When it came time for the hand-binding, Hermione and Draco stepped forward, wands raised in tandem.
From their tips, threads of golden light spilled forth like spun sunlight, weaving in elegant loops around Blaise’s wrist, then Ginny’s, binding them forever as they recited their vows.
“I do,” Ginny whispered.
“I do, always,” Blaise replied.
Bill grinned, then with clear delight, pronounced for all to hear, “You may kiss the bride.”
And as Ginny and Blaise’s lips met, the entire gathering erupted into raucous applause and cheer. Even Chiara joined in, clapping with quiet grace.
As the wedding party turned to make their exit, Draco offered Hermione his arm. She took it without hesitation, and the two of them moved together toward the cheering crowd.
She quickly became acutely aware of the warmth radiating off him. How it brushed her skin, burning everywhere it touched. And as they walked side by side up the aisle, her mind betrayed her, slipping down dangerous, forbidden paths. Paths like: This feels right. Or, worse: This could be us someday.
“No need to be civil anymore,” he murmured in her ear.
She blinked up at him, disoriented. “What?”
He smirked, eyes glittering. “We’ve fulfilled our wedding pact, Granger. Congratulations.”
“Hello, my name is Hermione Granger, Maid of Honour, but most importantly, sister of the bride.”
From the sweetheart table, Ginny let out a loud whoop, clapping with dramatic enthusiasm as Blaise lounged beside her, his arm draped easily around the back of his new wife’s chair.
Hermione looked up from her trembling notes to shoot her an adoring, if slightly nervous smile.
She stood in the centre of the Villa’s ballroom—a grand space encased in floor-to-ceiling windows, jutting out over the water. Behind her, Lake Como glittered in the moonlight, so breathtaking it hardly looked real.
All around her, tables of happily fed guests waited with indulgent smiles. No doubt hoping the speech would be brief so the dancing could begin. She would happily oblige.
“I realised recently that I have a tendency to make myself an authority figure on things I know absolutely nothing about,” she continued. “In third year, I was called an insufferable know-it-all by a rather surly professor, and I haven’t quite been able to live that down.”
Soft laughter rippled through the crowd. A few of her former classmates craned their necks toward the man in question.
Hermione offered Snape a cheeky smile, who responded by arching a mildly amused eyebrow.
Beside him, Narcissa smacked him lightly on the arm and shot Hermione a conspiratorial eye roll as if to say, “Ignore him.”
“So I felt a bit ridiculous standing here to talk about life, marriage, and love. After all, I’m not much older than you, Ginny, so I don’t have a wealth of knowledge as far as life experience is concerned. I’ve also never been married. In fact, the longest relationship I’ve ever had was with Ronald—and as much as I love him as a brother, I figured that didn’t exactly qualify me to give a speech on romantic love.”
Laughter now erupted earnestly through the room, and Ron feigned offence for a moment before breaking into a wide grin.
“But then I remembered that, as always, I was being too hard on myself. Because I do know about love. Quite a lot, actually.
I know what it means to love fiercely. To love friends who became family. To love a sister, even when neither of us were born with one.”
Her voice grew softer.
“And I’ve learned from watching others find love. Like the love between you two,” she said, turning to give Ginny and Blaise a teary smile.
“I’ve had the privilege of witnessing your love unfold. A love that—by all odds—shouldn’t have worked. One shaped by different upbringings, different houses, different expectations. A love that, a decade ago, might’ve seemed impossible.”
Hermione paused, breathing through the lump forming in her throat.
“But that’s the thing about real love—it defies odds. It grows in unlikely soil. It doesn’t care about bloodlines, or old wars, or the labels we’re given. It just… finds a way. ”
Her brown eyes flickered to a familiar pair of silver ones.
“So here’s to Ginny and Blaise—for showing us that love isn’t about where you come from, but where you’re going. For proving that light finds light, no matter how dark the path. And for reminding us that love isn’t black and white—but rather the most brilliant shades of silver.”
She raised her glass, and the room rose with her.
Ginny pressed her hand to her chest, mouthing a heartfelt “I love you” to her chosen sister, just as the room lifted their glasses in a boisterous “Cheers!”
Then, soft music swelled, and Ginny and Blaise moved to the centre of the dance floor for their first dance.
Hermione felt more than saw Draco appear at her side. The first thing she noticed was his scent—clean and warm, with a hint of spice. The same scent she’d woken up to.
“Nice speech,” he murmured.
“Yes, well, I had a tough act to follow.”
She turned to him, meeting his steady, disarming gaze.
“I especially liked the part where you admitted you don’t always know everything,” he said, lips twitching with a smile. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step toward recovery, I hear.”
Hermione huffed, downing the last of her champagne. A dozen witty retorts hovered on her tongue, but as she glanced around—at Ginny and Blaise swaying close, radiant with marital bliss; Narcissa and Snape locked in intimate conversation as if they were the only two people in the room; Molly and Arthur, watching their daughter with proud smiles—something inside her shifted.
All she wanted now, she realised, was to be a part of it. To belong to that kind of happiness. The kind of happiness her parents had shared.
So instead of banter, she did what she’d done last night—what Hermione Jean Granger always did when it mattered the most: she chose to be brave.
“Are you going to stand there and be a prat, Draco Malfoy? Or are you going to kiss me?”
His smirk deepened, and something in his eyes flickered—surprise, tenderness, and something that closely resembled love. He searched her face for hesitation. But he wouldn’t find any.
When he finally kissed her, Hermione melted.
As they pulled apart, she caught Ginny grinning at them from the dance floor, flashing a double thumbs-up. Blaise, for his part, looked entirely unsurprised—as if it had only ever been a matter of time.
Hermione laughed, cheeks flushed, and turned back to Draco, who was still looking at her like no one else existed.
Then the music changed, and the unmistakable opening notes of Gin Fizz—Ginny’s favourite song—filled the ballroom.
“Gin fizz, kiss this, drunk on love draughts,
Moonlit lips, don’t care what it costs.”
For the first time, Hermione truly understood the lyrics. She was completely and utterly drunk on love draughts.
“Let’s dance!” she cried, already tugging Draco toward the dance floor.
When he hesitated, pulling a mock-grimace, she turned and shot him a playful glare. “Draco Malfoy, don’t you dare be a spoil sport, or I’ll have to push you in the pool!”
He burst out laughing, grabbing her hand, and let her lead him into the joyous chaos.
And together, they danced into the night.
Chapter 8: Epilogue
Chapter Text
Epilogue Podfic
6 years later
Draco stood at the altar, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the top of the aisle.
He tried to focus on the beauty around him instead of the anticipation pulsing in his bones.
It was an undeniably gorgeous summer day. Wildflowers bloomed in bursts of colour around the ceremony site, the breeze carried a hint of salt from the sea below the Scottish cliffs, and the sun glinted off the waves like scattered diamonds.
He couldn’t imagine a more perfect day for a wedding.
Adjusting the cuffs of his robes, he drew a slow, steadying breath. His heart was thudding insistently in his chest.
Any moment now.
Would she be nervous? Would she change her mind at the last minute? Turn away and run?
He could picture her now, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, curls sparking with anxious energy as it often did.
No, he realised, smile twitching. She was brave.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
Then—at last—she appeared.
And the world stilled.
She looked almost mythical in her white dress, with a crown of wildflowers atop her head. Golden curls tumbled down her back, catching sunlight as she walked. In one small hand, she clutched her woven basket.
But the most beautiful part of her—without question—was her smile: wide, gap-toothed, and stretching across her whole face like it could hold all the joy in the universe.
Lyra Helena Malfoy.
His daughter.
Draco’s heart squeezed painfully, watching the little girl who was living proof that magic existed far beyond wand-waving or potion brewing.
Lyra paused at the top of the aisle, eyes wide as she scanned the sea of smiling faces. For a moment, she hesitated—her fingers tightening around the basket, clutching it close to her chest. And, of course, Draco noticed.
He immediately stepped forward, crouching just enough to meet her eyes across the aisle before giving her a steadying nod.
“It’s alright. I’m right here,” he promised silently.
Lyra blinked, then nodded back with renewed determination—her spine straightening and shoulders squaring in a way that reminded him uncannily of her mother.
And then, with a confident flick of her wrist, she began tossing the flower petals into the air like stardust.
A delighted murmur rippled through the crowd. Draco couldn’t blame them—she was adorable. The best parts of her mother and him, stitched together into something impossibly perfect.
He smiled adoringly as his four-year-old fulfilled her flower-girl duties—looking as serious and determined as a child of her size possibly could. Definitely her mother’s child.
When she reached the altar, Draco knelt to meet her.
“Well done, Little Star,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to her forehead.
Lyra grinned, revealing the gap from her missing front tooth. “Did I do it right?”
“You were perfect.”
“I didn’t even drop the basket!” she beamed.
“I saw,” Draco grinned, “I'm very proud of you.”
She kissed his cheek and skipped off toward the front row, where Hermione welcomed her with an arm around her shoulder and a kiss to her curls.
His wife looked radiant in soft lavender robes, her other hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of her growing belly. She looked up to meet Draco’s gaze, eyes shining with pride as she mouthed, “She was amazing.”
He nodded, his chest warm as he thought, “Just like her mother.”
It had been five years since Ginny and Blaise’s wedding. Five years since Hermione had grabbed him by the collar and kissed him senseless on that dance floor. Five years since they’d finally stepped out of their snarky banter and into something real.
They hadn’t rushed anything. No whirlwind elopement. No tabloid scandals. Just long walks, late-night talks, shared books and coffees, and months of getting to know who they were as adults. As the people they’d grown into.
And, somehow—because the universe had mercifully decided he’d finally paid his debts—she let him put a ring on her finger.
A year later, they’d married in the gardens of Malfoy Manor, under the same rose arches he’d helped his mother plant as a boy.
Ginny had cried so hard she barely made it through her Matron of Honour speech.
A year after that, Lyra had arrived—loud, golden, and utterly perfect.
Now, with a second child on the way, Draco often caught himself marvelling at the quiet miracle of it all. Wondering, more often than he’d admit, how any of this had become real.
They didn’t know the baby’s sex yet, though Hermione was adamant it was a boy. Naming had become a nightly debate. Draco had campaigned for Scorpius, while Hermione was partial to Leo.
Lyra, for her part, voted confidently for Pickle and was still furious no one was taking her seriously.
In truth, Draco didn’t care what name they chose. He was just awed by the privilege of calling them his.
He often thought back to his Best Man speech at Blaise’s wedding—about alternate lifetimes. About the different paths he might have taken, the different men he might have become.
But this version—the one standing on a sun-drenched Scottish cliffside, heart aching with love, watching his daughter beam and his wife glow—this version made all the others worth surviving.
Suddenly, the music shifted, and Draco turned toward the aisle just as Theo Nott stepped into view.
Theo and Potter’s love story had also blossomed after the Zabini wedding—slower than his and Hermione’s, but every bit as beautiful.
To Draco’s right, Potter stood waiting at the altar, blinking rapidly, visibly struggling to keep it together. The Weasel gave his best friend’s shoulder a supportive pat.
The crowd rose to their feet, and Theo began his slow, certain walk toward the man he loved.
Draco felt his chest swell—so full it almost hurt. With joy for his friends. For his daughter. For Hermione, who still rested a hand on over their unborn child as she beamed from the front row.
For the strange, stitched-together family they’d built.
He looked again at Hermione’s face, at the pride and peace shining there. Then, back at Theo’s soft smile as he approached Harry.
And Draco thought—for perhaps the millionth time—
This was the best version of his life.
By far.
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