It was 8 A.M on a Tuesday morning, and Draco had already tried to kill her three times.

The first time occurred right before dawn, when two extremely apologetic house-elves gently shook her awake. Master Draco, they whispered, peering at her drowsy form with something akin to embarrassment, wanted her dead. Immediately.

Hermione groaned and, after wiping the sleep from her eyes, croaked, "How?"

"Strangulation," one of elves replied helpfully, and then added: "Unless Mistress has other orders? Linny and Tippy would be happy to oblige."

Hermione took one look at the magical alarm clock near her bed and grew thoroughly annoyed, because it showed five in the morning. This crossed a line. The attempt on her life she could forgive, but disturbing her slumber on a work night? Draco would pay.

And so she grinned nastily and sent the elves away with her own set of instructions, but when they disappeared with a pair of barely audible pops, Hermione's lips turned down into a scowl. This whole thing made her feel disrespected. It was offensive, even! Sending house-elves to do the deed – who did Draco take her for, some helpless Hufflepuff? Grumbling, Hermione spent the next hour tossing under the covers, unable to fall asleep. Her mood was shot.

Thankfully, it did manage to improve later on, when she discovered two highly venomous vipers within her bathroom's plumbing. Hermione, who never entered any room without magically scanning it first, banished the reptiles to Draco's side of the Manor with the hope that at least one of them would bite him in the arse. Wouldn't kill him probably, but what a joy would it be watching him sit.

Finally, completing the murderous trifecta, she found a completely non-magical trip-wire tied to some TNT erected at the entrance to her room. That was actually a bit ingenious, thought Hermione, as she spent ten minutes dismantling the darn thing. Draco was inventive. A complete bastard, yes; one she'd like to see buried six feet deep, but he kept her on her toes.

Although, this could signify a worrying shift in their conflict. If Draco was willing to step away from his comfort zone and adopt more muggle means of assassination, then she would need to double her wariness, else Draco would end up the widower, and she the dearly departed.

In Hermione's opinion, an unacceptable outcome to their situation – which was that they were married. Oh, yes: Draco and Hermione Malfoy, webbed together by unholy bonds of matrimony, in what must have been the cosmic joke of eternity.

Neither of them had wanted it. Neither had asked. But the Ministry, in all its neverending wisdom, had enacted a Marriage Law, and they were to be the prime example. If a Death Eater (a reluctant one, but a Death Eater, nonetheless) could peacefully cohabitate with Harry Potter's best muggleborn friend, then anyone could make it work. Or so the logic went. Of course, no one had actually requested their opinion on the matter, which she, personally, was more than willing to share. Vocally. Very vocally.

For a time, before the marriage itself, Hermione was on the verge of abandoning the Wizarding World. She was loath to surrender her dignity – as well as her virtue – to the Ministry's machinations. But then, looking at Malfoy's pasty, gloating face during the marriage negotiations, she reconsidered. It was people like him that had tried to drive her out, making her fight a war just to prove her place in society. She'd endured hardship and torture. She was a victor! Leaving now would have turned her triumph to ash.

And so she refused to capitulate. She'd stared into Malfoy's narrowed eyes and smiled nastily, resolving herself to face just one more trial, because it was never going to last. And it may have been evil or dark or whatever people called that which had begun to fester within the depths of her soul as friend after friend fell to Avadas in battle, but she was not going to let Malfoy live. He just didn't deserve it. He was a wretched brat, a Death Eater, and this marriage would end with him in the ground, freeing her from the Ministry's oppressive stance.

One month, she thought, during their marriage vows. One month, and then he'd have a nice, fatal accident and she'd be free to change this world as she saw fit.

Little did she know, Malfoy, who went into marriage under threat of Azkaban, was thinking exactly the same thing.

And so one month after their "honeymoon" Hermione discreetly placed some arsenic into her dear husband's dinner only to discover a dab of polonium in her tea.

The. Game. Was. On.

The years went by. On the surface, Hermione and Draco presented the ideal couple. They attended Ministry galas together, hosted parties, and were so adoringly, obviously in love. But behind the scenes, life had turned into a deadly, cutthroat competition with winner-takes-all.

And so, this Tuesday morning, while Draco's murder attempts had numbered three, she had reciprocated with four. His elves – the same ones that came to strangle her on his order – had been reassigned to kill him, the oxygen in his room had been replaced with carbon monoxide, his bathrobe was spelled to break his neck when he donned it, and should he touch the handle of his door, then it would transport him to the very bottom of the Marianas Trench, where he would be crushed into atoms.

Overkill? Maybe. But Draco had become extremely adept at avoiding her assassination attempts, and, besides, Hermione was growing desperate.

Almost three years had passed since their marriage date, and, by Ministry decree, they had to show pregnancy within the following month, or it was Azkaban for the both of them.

And Hermione did not want a child with Draco. It would...complicate things. Killing him would become much harder. Probably. And babies should have a father, anyway. So, Hermione dressed and descended to the Yellow Room for breakfast, hoping that one of her traps had succeeded and dispatched her beau into the great beyond. Alas.

"Hello, darling." Draco, already at the breakfast table, greeted her with a genial smile, as if she was his truly beloved.

"Thank you, dear." Hermione's voice, as she took the seat across from him, was pure molasses, sugary-sweet. "Did you sleep well?"

"Wonderfully," Draco answered, and then paused in thought. "Although, I did have some trouble breathing halfway through the night."

"Oh, no!" Hermione theatrically gasped. "Are you alright? Should we go see a doctor?"

"No, no, my dearest. Don't worry. It wasn't my health, but rather an external factor. Somehow, all the oxygen in my room managed to simply vanish. Can you even believe in such a misfortune? I almost choked! Thankfully, I resolved the matter in time."

Batting her eyelashes, Hermione presented the very picture of innocence. "You always do."

"Indeed. And you? Was the morning...to your satisfaction?"

"There were some issues, but nothing I couldn't handle."

"My wife," Draco said, proudly. "Always so able. A toast!" He poured them both wine and handed Hermione a full glass. "To you, love. Because where would I be without you?"

In a ditch, tortured to death by Voldemort's minions, Hermione thought, but declared instead, "You are too kind, pumpkin! And I–Oops!" Just as she was raising the glass, it 'accidentally' slipped through her fingers and shattered loudly on the table, splashing its contents all over the tablecloth, which suddenly began to dissolve with a loud hissing sound.

"Oh, would you look at that," Draco commented without a hint of surprise. "The wine's gone bad."

"Yes, darling, it's turned all acidic," Hermione blandly agreed, as she watched it start eating through the wood. "It's a good thing I didn't drink it! Oh– it looks like you've a spot on your robes."

"Huh, where? Ouch!" Draco turned and accidentally burned his finger on the spot she had indicated. Swearing loudly, he hastily stuffed the injured digit into his mouth and glowered in Hermione's direction as if this whole incident was all her fault in the first place.

"Are you alright?"

Draco didn't let the worried intonation fool him; he knew she was just being catty. "It's nothing," he mumbled, still sucking on his finger. "Just a little prick."

"Something you're more than used to then," Hermione, who couldn't just let a comment like that go, muttered darkly.

Thankfully, Draco didn't hear, or else there would have been a row. And Hermione hated rows. She'd rather face the continuous murder effort.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, darling," Hermione replied with a warm and caring smile. "Be well now! I'm off to work!"

"I'll go too. You have a good day, love!"

Draco waved animatedly over the fragmented remains of the breakfast table (which had begun to quietly smoulder), and desperately hoped that his 'dear wife' would forget about the trap panel next to the exit. Sadly, his low hopes were to be quashed: Hermione not only cheerily skipped over the charmed bit for floor that would have cut her into two, but waved back as she did. Draco cursed. There were a number of such traps strewn throughout the Manor now, although most were primarily sequestered to the private areas. Would be poor taste to have a guest split in half, after all. The bad publicity alone would turn his life into a nightmare – more than it already was, that is.

With Hermione gone and heavy thoughts burdening his mind, Draco sighed and sagged down into his chair. Three years he'd been trying to get rid of her. Three years, with nothing to show for his efforts. Every action was met with an equal and opposite reaction; every move checked; every attempt dashed; every plot foiled. They were unstoppable force and immovable object, and, truthfully, it had been going on for so long that Draco had no idea what his life had been before Hermione, nor what it would be like after. The future seemed murky and unclear to him; and only a single objective burned bright in his mind, like a beacon in the night, just as it had for these past three years.

But it would have to wait. Sadly, it would. Because during the public hours, the Malfoy family presented a happily united front. Their self-image was of vital importance to the both of them, and so neither could afford getting caught in something as banal as murder.

Although, time was running short now. Because if the Malfoys didn't conceive within the next month, then they'd be carted off to Azkaban quicker than Weasley could stuff a pie in his mouth. And Weasley not only held a world record in pie-stuffing, but had claimed the second and third places too.

Thinking about Weasley would put him in a bad mood though, so Draco sighed again and went off to work.

. . . .

The week passed slowly. Hermione tried to bury him alive; he almost dropped a boulder on her head. She slipped a portkey to the moon into his robes, and he found that rather cute. Later that evening, when he turned the floor into lava, Hermione hopped around from sofa to sofa, much too amused for her own good.

Honestly, by this point, neither knew why they tried. It was just something they did. Other couples went out for dinner and had long walks under the moon before slipping under soft velvet covers to find warmth in each others' arms. That was them. But for Hermione and Draco, normal was waking up in the morning, covered head-to-toe in protection charms. It was checking every room and hallway before entering it, and then making catty remarks over dinner, privately finding the verbal sparring stimulating and something they were rather fond of.

Their mutual struggle of attempted murder had taken a life of its own now; it was a force in perpetual motion, with enough built-up momentum to overpower even their own wishes, should they ever consider to stop.

They played at murder. It was just what they did, how they worked. And so life went on.

. . . .

There was something different about this morning. It was in the air: an energy that whispered in his ears, sent tingles up his spine. Something would change today. He knew it.

Draco went about his daily routine as usual: avoided Hermione's traps, had breakfast, went to work. He was the manager of a private equity fund, and today he would announce the investment of 300 million galleons into the MEI Foundation. MEI stood for 'Muggleborn Education and Integration', and it was Hermione's baby through and through. She'd designed the venture in her off days from her post at the Ministry (and in-between their little murderous spats). Finally, after three hard years of work, it was ready. All she needed was the funds, and here Draco was happy to oblige.

Not because he cared, of course. No. It was just good for the image. Nothing more.

At 6 P.M., Draco donned his most luxurious dress robes and headed out for the gala where the announcement of the investment would be made. This is where the first oddity of the evening occurred. Hermione, who had obsessed over the entire affair, couldn't be found anywhere.

Confused, Draco quickly did a quick mental check of all the traps he'd set today. The transfigured T-Rex had been dispelled, the poisoned toothpaste had failed, and the venomous tarantula he'd placed in her heels had somehow found its way under his pillow.

Hmm.

His perplexity must have shown, because within moments the burly figure of Marcus Flint cast a shadow over the floor next to him.

"I wouldn't worry, if I were you, Drake," he said.

"Oh? Why's that?"

"We, ahh…" Marcus looked around to ensure no one was listening in and lowered his voice. "We're handling the mudblood. We know you've been trying to get rid of her for years now, but we couldn't help out before, sorry. The Ministry, you know. Keeping eye."

Draco nodded with a very peculiar expression. Marcus must have took it for worry, because he rushed to reassure. "Nothing will lead to you. There'll be no loose ends. She'll just, poof, disappear, and you'll be a free man, as you should."

"Poof," Draco repeated slowly, his heart hammering in his chest. "Just like that."

Smiling widely, so that Draco could see his teeth, Marcus agreed. "Just like that."

Draco nodded again and gazed around. The party was in full swing: champagne was flowing, pairs were dancing, an orchestra played. He could disappear into the fray right now, lose himself in the luxuries of the night. He could take it all, have it all. And, tomorrow, when he woke up, there would be no more traps, no further attempts on his life. Hermione would be gone. And he would be…

Alone.

"How will it… How will it happen?" he asked, with just the tiniest hitch in his voice.

"Avada to the heart," Marcus replied. "It won't hurt. We're not animals."

"And there's still time? Until it happens?"

"'Bout an hour or so. Why? You wanna say goodbye?" The former Quidditch captain roared with laughter, as if his last comment had been the height of comedy.

"No," Draco scowled. "But I would like to see it happen. I've been trying so long, you know? Seeing her perish...it would bring me closure, I suppose."

"I can see that." Marcus paused, and then grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter. He downed it in one gulp. "I can imagine how hard it was living with her. A mudblood. Potter's best friend. Know-it-all swot. Probably drove you mad, didn't she?"

"She did," Draco agreed easily. "Does. But how did you know…?"

"That you weren't the ideal couple you were pretending to be?" Marcus laughed. "I've got to say, Drake, you almost had us fooled. You're a good pretender. Some of us thought you'd fallen for her for real, and so we even considered taking you out along with her! A double deal, would've had a discount."

Draco smiled crookedly and raised his glass in a mock salute. "Of course."

"But then we started watching you," Marcus continued, grabbing another glass. "Spying. We saw you trying your best to off her, and we realized we had to help you out. So here we are." Marcus spread his arms and added grandly, "The end game! Freedom, at last!"

"Freedom." Draco said the word with reverence, as if tasting the bouquet of an exquisite wine. "To freedom, then."

"To freedom, my friend." The two wizards clinked their flutes and drank. The party swirled around them; flashes of pretty dresses and expensive jewelry and smiles as fake as fools' gold.

"So," Draco said, when the people had passed. "My request?"

"You wanna see her go?"

"I do."

Marcus shrugged and finished off the rest of his drink. "Then come along."

Draco took his hand without hesitation. In a moment, they were gone.

. . . .

The cellar was small and moldy and occupied by two other individuals. In the dim light of a flickering lantern, Draco could barely make out their faces: Pucey and McLaggen.

"You?" he asked, surprised. "A Gryffindor?"

McLaggen shrugged and said, "What? Only Slytherins can hold the monopoly on Granger hate? I've despised the swot for years. "

"But you fought for them. In the battle."

"Well because some of us aren't idiots and know which way the wind is blowing–"

"Please!" interjected Pucey. "Let's not quarrel. Why is he here?" His finger was pointing accusingly at Draco.

"Said he wanted closure," Marcus explained, his words reverberating harshly between the rough stone walls. "Maybe he'll even do the deed. Eh, Drake? You up for it?"

"Sure," Draco agreed, but Pucey grumbled, "We had a plan. We should stick to the plan and not make last minute changes."

"Ah, shut yer gob, Pucey! You know he's fine. You've seen him try to murder her for years! He deserves to see this."

Pucey grumbled some more but then fell silent. Draco didn't say anything either; he just waited, watching the flame in the lantern flicker with the draft. Time seemed to stretch to eternity, and he kept asking himself whether he was doing the right thing. If he went through with this – would be able to live with himself, later? Would he be able to live at all?

Finally, a sound echoed from upstairs: the clink of steel-toed boots against wood. The men in the cellar all drew themselves up, reaching for their wands in the process.

"Who is it?" called out Pucey.

"'Who, who'" a low voice mocked. "Your goods, that's who! You lot got the coin?"

"100,000 galleons, as agreed."

"Good." Slowly, with loud grunting and huffing, a figure descended into the small cellar. Draco couldn't see who it was – the features were concealed beneath a low-hanging hood – but he could not miss the large bundle the man was levitating in front of him.

Hermione.

There were multiple bruises on her face, and smudges where lines of tears had tore into the make up. She'd obviously been preparing for the gala, going all out, but now she just looked desperate, her eyes darting around fervidly until they settled on Draco. She recognized him in the darkness, lighting up with an almost frantic conviction. She couldn't say anything – she was silenced – but in the depths of her gaze, Draco saw a fervent plea, an almost burgeoning hope, as if she thought that he was here to save her.

He watched her struggle against the bonds of hostile magic...and didn't respond. He didn't move at all, just stared back, colder than a marble statue, and witnessed the moment when Hermione finally understood, and the hope slowly drained out of her, leaving behind a frigid, empty void. She smiled crookedly then, as if she understood, and then exhaled, a lost and beaten sound.

She knew it was over. Her battle was over, the victor her foe.

A few tears leaked out of her corner of her eyes, which had turned dull and completely lifeless.

"Well, Drake?" Marcus asked, after the unknown individual had departed, leaving the wizards alone with their prey. "Here it is. The moment we've all been waiting for!" He laughed, his voice jarring and loud. "You gonna do it?"

"Sure," Draco said, taking out his wand. Hermione looked up at his words, and, as her lips twisted into a second pitifully crooked line, Draco suddenly realized that she'd accepted her fate, but that she wasn't afraid. Of course, she wasn't afraid. Hermione didn't fear death – she'd been flirting with it for years. But Hermione, his wife, was just sad that all her hopes and dreams would never pass. That she'd never see the Muggleborn Education and Integration Fund take off, nor welcome its first class of students, eager as she was, at eleven years old. She'd never have kids, nor sit with her friends again, laughing at bawdy jokes. Never read another book. Or argue. Or laugh. Or even try to murder her stupid ferret of a husband.

They say, when you're about to die, life flashes before your eyes. But it's not life – it's regret. Rue for the wealth of missed opportunity, and Hermione was aching for every single bit of future that she would never get to touch.

It took Draco only the span of a single heartbeat to see all this. He knew his wife, after all – probably more intimately than any other person on the planet.

"Well?!" yelled Pucey. "What are you waiting for?! Do it!"

"Do it!" echoed McLaggen.

Draco raised his wand.

"MORSMORDRE!" The sound tore through the small cellar, and the world turned a vivid, shocking green, blinding everyone except him. The Skull and the Snake rose high into the night, and the men responded quickly with a flurry of curses, aiming for the traitorous Malfoy, but in the ensuing confusion their efforts were fruitless, as Pucey hit Flint, Flint grazed McLaggen, and McLaggen managed to stun Pucey. Draco used the brief moment of total chaos to dash forward and grab his wife. "Hold on!" he whispered, and then swept them both away, apparating to the safety of the Manor.

...Forty miles to the west, two dozen Aurors were rapidly converging on a small house where the Dark Mark had been cast. Flint, Pucey and McLaggen were all apprehended, but Draco, at that particular moment, didn't care, because all of his attention was devoted to something very precious in his arms.

Carefully, he laid his treasure down on a sofa and dispelled the stun charm. When it was gone, Hermione gasped, crying out loudly. "Linny!" Draco called out to a house-elf. "A soothing draught, now! And something for the pain! Are you hurt?" He turned his attention towards his wife. "Where does it hurt?" Gently, he brushed his hand through the curls of her hair, which had frizzed out into a tangled mess. "Hermione?" he asked.

She looked up, confused, shocked, exhausted, utterly, hopelessly relieved, and uttered just a single word. "Why?"

Draco looked at her like it was the silliest question he'd ever heard.

"Because you're my wife," he answered.

Hermione let the words sink in, and then smiled.

"I guess I am," she agreed, nestling her head in the comfort of his lap, where she suddenly felt completely safe and protected. "You should probably dismantle the trap in the chandelier right above you," she added, and then yawned. "Would be a shame to bury my husband's decapitated body."

Draco's heart skipped a beat.

"I'll look into that," he promised. "But not now. You rest now. We've got time."

"We do," Hermione agreed sleepily. "That we do."

Draco waited for a few minutes until her breaths became steady and only then muttered something which had been bothering him more than any assassination attempt over the past...year.

"Just so you know, it is not a small prick."

Hermione heard, and smiled slyly without opening her eyes. "Maybe you'll show me," she purred into his lap. "And I'll be the judge."

Draco, still running his fingers through her hair, only smirked in response. It looked like his life, finally, was turning out alright.

Thanks for reading! If you liked this story, check out another short one of mine: Just Take The Long Way, where Harry Potter decides to play matchmaker, bringing the two opposites together!