A/N: The trainwreck of tropes continues. I have no explanation or justification for any of this. But I love y'all for reading and still indulging me. 3

CHAPTER 2 - Cohabitation

Hermione is only the slightest bit lightheaded as they leave the courtroom. She's dissociating, she thinks; she read about it in a psychology textbook during the war. At the time it seemed prudent to prepare, as if trauma was an exam you could fail or pass. It didn't help then and it doesn't help now. Although she finds it's a lot easier to analyze things when you're having an out-of-body experience.

She observes that Draco is close to his mother. He and Narcissa embrace after proceedings, when the Chief Warlock formally declares that they are free to leave (there are some specifics about changes to the terms of the Malfoys' probation and increased monitoring for Draco, but Hermione cannot hear so well; she can only see). Draco covers his mother's hand with his own as she holds his cheek. It's surprisingly intimate in a room with so many people, and floating Hermione watches her corporeal self hover awkwardly beside them.

Then Draco takes them both by the arm, leading them out into the atrium. They are swarmed. Her unruly mop of hair is tossed about like flotsam in an ocean of people. Draco's arm curls protectively around her as aurors fight to clear a path for them. Her face turns into his chest and she blocks out all the yells and taunts, lets her mind focus on his heartbeat.

"—I'll sue for ever last knut the Ministry has."

These are the first words she registers clearly. She looks up. They are standing in an elevator with Harry and six other aurors, all of whom are glaring at Draco.

"Darling, they'll be plenty of time for reparations," Narcissa says with a relaxed nonchalance Hermione supposes only a pureblood can attain. "I'm more concerned with the state of the Manor. I'm not sure it's currently habitable."

"It's not," Harry says.

"Well Granger, what about your place?"

Malfoy is looking at her expectantly. Harry is looking like he is going to burst into hysterical laughter.

"My place?" she repeats.

"Since we can't stay at the Manor. If the Ministry insists that we have to live together—"

The elevator's too small for so many people. Did the walls move closer? Where has all the air gone? This is a panic attack, she thinks. I feel like I'm going to die but I'm not dying, which is worse; this is happening.

"Oh god."

"Just breathe," Draco says. He has his hands on her shoulders. He guides her out the elevator and into the auror office and sits her on a chair. While she breathes into a paper bag, parchments are signed and Draco and Narcissa have their wands returned.

"I take it there's a secure floo network we can use?" Draco asks of Harry. He refills a glass of water and hands it to Hermione, wand casually twirling in his other hand as if he has run of the place.

Hermione soon learns this is because he has run of most places.

They take the floo straight to Gringotts and are escorted by a senior goblin to the Malfoy family vault. Entry requires a drop of blood from Draco. He also has the goblins take a drop of blood from her. "All this is yours," he tells her as the vault opens. "They have your blood on file as a Malfoy now."

Hermione stares into a vast cave of wonders. It looks like the room of gold coins Scrooge McDuck would dive into at the beginning of each cartoon. She doubts Malfoy would get the reference and giggles unexpectedly.

Well, shit.

He glances at her as he passes, smiling. "Didn't I tell you, Granger? You're filthy stinking rich."

He and Narcissa wander around familiarly, Narcissa searching out deeds to several properties that they might consider as temporary homes. Malfoy collects a large bag of galleons he dubs "spending money" then leads Hermione to an antique cabinet consisting of dozens of small drawers.

"Take your pick."

"Are you serious?"

"Are you daft? We got married. You need a ring becoming of a Malfoy bride."

She throws her hands over her mouth as she starts giggling again. She is daft. She's going to lose it.

"Here." Malfoy pulls open a random drawer. It contains a tray of eight rings of various precious stones, each most likely worth more than everything Hermione owns. "Sapphire. That's your birthstone, right?"

"Yes."

"Try this one and any of the next three drawers down. I'm going to go pay off the goblins to keep the Ministry out. Don't take too long."

He leaves her to ponder when the exact moment was that she ceded all control of her life and Malfoy took possession of it. Marriage shouldn't work like that, she thinks. But maybe it's just that work is the only part of her life she feels in charge of. Hermione day-to-day is a single homebody who likes to read and has deep and meaningful conversations with her cat. She hasn't dated since things with Ron ended amicably if passionlessly. That seemed to be the problem. No spark, just an ember that barely kept her warm and she let burn out into nothing. Six years ago now. She kept herself busy with her career and that was her friend and her lover; she left no time for anything else.

"Too much choice can be overwhelming," Narcissa says. She stands by Hermione's side, fingers toying with her own wedding bands. "Lucius tried so hard to make life easy in those early days. Draco should know better."

"I don't think our current situation and your marriage can be compared." Hermione folds her arms. "What am I even doing?"

"Honoring your promise. The rest can come later." Narcissa picks out a slim band in white gold with a single princess-cut blue sapphire. It is exactly the sort of classic, unfussy ring Hermione would have chosen. She takes Hermione's left hand and slides it on. "These rings are charmed to fit. It rather becomes you."

Hermione stares at her hand and thinks it feels more like a shackle.

After Gringotts, Narcissa and the newly anointed Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy part ways. Narcissa claims it is their wedding day after all and she is sure they want some privacy (which might as well have been a knowing wink). There is too much to do and she plans to survey the Manor then start to work on a rarely used townhouse off Diagon Alley.

It seems to Hermione that with the Malfoys you don't marry the man so much as become subsumed by the entire family, complete with its generations of history and tradition, ancient curses included. For Narcissa, being Lady Malfoy is a career. It is not one that appeals to Hermione and she wonders about Crookshanks and the leftover Indian takeaway in the fridge and the pulp thriller she planned to finish, spread forgotten at a crucial point over the arm of her sofa. Her life was very simple barely three hours ago. Now she stands inside a magical tailors she never knew existed as Draco pays more than her annual salary for a set of new bespoke robes.

"How tall are you?" he says, glancing over the head of the elderly hunchbacked tailor as he makes his final adjustments.

"Me? Five-four-ish."

"Five-four-ish? Does that mean five-three? I spent a good many years being six-foot-ish but Reginald here tells me that my measurements have changed. And you look smaller than I remember. Have I grown?"

"Six foot three, sir, and four more inches across the back and chest," Reginald says.

"Come here, Granger."

She does. She barely reaches his shoulder and he does seem somewhat broader as he looms over her. "I don't understand," she says.

"Perhaps you're shrinking."

"Hardly."

"Our children won't be gnomes, will they?"

"Children?!"

He has a set of robes made for her in midnight blue. He comes to stand behind her before a mirror once she's put them on. They look like a portrait together, his pale coloring and her darker skin and hair a striking contrast. A handsome pair, she thinks and watches as his hands run over her shoulders and down her arms. It makes her skin tingle beneath the silken fabric.

"Did Mother choose this?" he says, lifting her left hand to study the ring.

"Why?"

"It's perfect on you."

"So why didn't I choose it?"

"You didn't want to." He smiles at her ruefully in the mirror. "How about lunch then I'll book us a suite."

Her stomach grumbles. Hermione frowns. "Fine," she says. "But you don't have to woo me. And I need to go home at some point."

"Let me give you a honeymoon."

His thumb rubs across her knuckles and she's reminded of the feel of his lips, hot and insistent and surprisingly lush.

"If it's anything like the wedding, I'll pass." She manages to pull her hand free but fails to slow down her heart rate. "I am still hungry."

There's a knowing look in Draco's eyes and a flash of red. "The day's still young," he declares and leads her back outside.

They eat in a small exclusive French restaurant where the maitre'd knows Draco by name—"Monsieur Malfoy"—and a private booth is readied for them without prior reservation. The menu is in French and Draco orders in French and Hermione struggles with her school-level conversational best.

Champagne is served before the first course and Malfoy makes a toast. "Thank you. You saved my life today."

"I did my job."

"Do you marry all your clients? Is there a centaur ex-husband I don't know about?"

"Of course not!"

"It was above and beyond, Granger."

"I couldn't let them treat you like that. I had to win."

"At all costs? Then I'm still grateful, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Please don't call me that."

He waits until she grudgingly clinks her glass with his. "I'm not so archaic that I expect you to change your name. And honestly, I'd miss calling you Granger."

"What a feminist."

She thinks it's the first time that she hears him truly laugh.

They navigate the next nine courses with wine and a map of least controversial topics for two former enemies now spouses to converse on. Hermione's full by the fourth but Draco's appetite is voracious and he happily eats enough for them both or what she thinks would sufficiently feed a small family. After what must be close to a bottle's worth of lubrication, Hermione doesn't particularly mind when Malfoy ventures into the territory of Ron. She gives the same spiel that she always does, about how the flame ran out.

"Small wick," Malfoy says and laughs again when she kicks him under the table.

His own conquests make her face warm, though it must be glowing red from all the alcohol already. There were few potential serious marital prospects but brief company could always be found in the arms of a witch tempted by money, good looks and the cliched cachet of bedding a supposed bad boy. She's surprised by how many of the witches they knew in school he had time to sleep with, given the less than pleasurable activities that were being demanded of him back then.

"Why didn't you sleep with him?" he asks artlessly, those mesmerizing gray eyes focused solely on her, mouth parting to accept a small yet decadent spoonful of chocolate mousse.

"Ron?"

Malfoy has a sweet tooth or teeth set in perfectly straight and gleaming white rows, his incisors sharp but nothing like the fangs he had grown before. The dessert seems too rich to Hermione and so he is helping himself off her plate.

"Who else? How many men are there that you haven't slept with?"

"Hilarious."

"Are you waiting for something?"

"I don't know. It's like I forgot. And then I was too busy to remember. It's never been important, not like my work."

"You must be pent up."

"I… I can relax."

"Do tell," he says, the tip of his tongue dragging along the edge of the spoon.

Her eyes avert to her lap; her fingers toy with her napkin. "I've already said too much. And it's not a big deal."

"It is to me. Not like that," he adds when her face darts up in a scowl. "Your inadvertent chastity broke the curse. Thank fuck you stayed a good girl, Granger."

It's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard. She tries not to laugh but then she can't stop and then she doesn't want to. Tears are leaking from her eyes and she's shaking; the release is cathartic.

"I'm sorry," she manages.

"Don't be." Malfoy is studying her with an expression she might think adoration if they were sober and he was anybody else. He reaches across and wipes a tear from her cheek. "Invite me back to your place," he tells her then leaves to pay the bill.

Hermione touches her face where his fingers have been and concludes this has sadly been her best ever date.

She apparates them from the back of the restaurant to inside her building. It's late in the day but still light out and they want to avoid being seen. Hermione likes her apartment building for its quiet, her closest neighbor being a nonagenarian wizard who is deaf and never leaves.

Draco waits seemingly patiently as she lowers her wards and unlocks the door. But as soon as it is open he stops her.

"Allow me."

Thank Merlin for the deaf neighbor; she screams as he sweeps her into his arms.

"Tradition, Granger. My feminism only goes so far," he says, carrying her over the threshold. He kicks the door shut behind him then comes to an abrupt halt. "Holy fucking shit, is this it?"

"Put me down!"

He dumps her on the sofa. "I know I said you were small but I've seen house-elves with bigger dwellings."

"It's you who got bigger."

"Uh-uh. Don't pull that perspective thing. Even Potter would look like Hagrid in this place."

"You wanted to come here."

"I guess I did. So can I stay? At least until I can buy us somewhere we can both comfortably stand in."

"You're not buying me a new flat!" she cries as she struggles to her feet.

"No. I'll buy us a house. At least until the Manor's fixed."

"I'm not living in the Manor."

"Oh." Malfoy takes her place on the sofa. It does look rather pathetic when paired to his proportions. "I didn't think," he says.

"Something of a habit."

"Be nice." Just then Crookshanks rushes in, rubbing up against Hermione's legs and hissing at her guest. "What the fuck is that?"

"Be nice," she sing-songs and picks up her familiar. "We're a package deal, me and Crookshanks. I have to deal with all your Malfoy nonsense, you can learn to like my cat."

"You ask too much of me, Granger."

"You just expected me to live in the place I got tortured."

"Touché." He kicks his legs up and places his hands behind his head. "When you've deflead that thing, how about a cup of coffee?"

She acquiesces, feeling too tired and increasingly hungover to argue. She's in that vague purgatory between drunk and sober where all she wants to do is sleep but probably can't, and Crookshanks is clawing at her chest, clearly annoyed and hungry. It's only two steps to the kitchen as she leaves Malfoy sprawled across the couch. She can see the long pointed soles of his dragon-hide boots hanging over the edge from where she stands behind the counter. Crookshanks refuses his usual food since she ignored him all day and, since she did get married and they should be celebrating, she treats him to a tin of tuna. Malfoy gets a mug of instant Nescafe left black.

"I don't know how you take it," she says, slamming it on her wonky coffee table.

He opens one eye. "Usually not spilled and with a coaster." He sits up and lifts the mug, taking a sniff. "What is this?"

"Coffee."

"Is this the Muggle version?"

"Of a kind. Is that a problem?"

He takes a sip and pulls a face. "Delightful, darling." The mug is left to go cold and leaves a permanent ring on her table. He pats the empty cushion beside him. "Sit with me."

She does.

"How does it feel to be married?" he says.

"Strange. How does it feel to be a cursed demon trapped under Ministry supervision?"

"Well, I've got this pretty amazing lawyer who also happens to have this hot virginal librarian thing going on so—"

"Disgusting. You know I'm not sleeping with you, right?"

"Right. But I can still sleep here?"

"Be my guest."

"Is that any way to treat your husband?"

She throws her head back and leans against his shoulder. "Weirdest fucking day of my life."

"I like it when you swear."

"Don't ruin swearing for me. I gave you your sarcasm back."

"Fair is fair."

"What time is it even?"

"Almost six o'clock."

"I feel exhausted."

"Then go to sleep, Granger." He wraps an arm around her and she curls up more snugly against him. She can hear him talking softly and it's like a bedtime story, his voice a soothing lullaby. "I can't believe our wedding night is being spent in this pauper's hovel. I was always going to go to Portofino for my honeymoon. We have a house on the harbor. We'd wake up to that view, me and whoever it was. I don't know why I imagined my honeymoon before I imagined my wife. But I could take you one day. I can see you there, all ludicrous curls and scowling mouth, wearing nothing but my shirt, sipping cappuccino at breakfast. Real fucking coffee, Granger. I think you just tried to poison me with that shit. We'd drink real coffee and we'd swim and then we'd eat on the terrace and I'd watch you go brown in the sun while I hide in the shade. You don't want to see me go red; I look like a monster—"

When she wakes, she's suffocating. A crushing weight is pressing down on her chest and she can't move. It's like a bad dream but she's conscious and she's wheezing, arms pinned and legs kicking out.

She squints against the sunlight streaming in from a window. She's trapped in bed by a huge arm laying across her, a huger body resting by her side.

"Malf—" she tries.

The body stirs; the arm moves and she's gasping, rolling off the bed.

"Granger?" That voice again. She hears the creak of wood as he's shifting then a cracking sound as the bed collapses. "FUCK!"

Malfoy the seven-foot demon is standing amongst the wreckage of her bed. His wings unfurl and knock books off shelves and pictures from the walls. His eyes are red and wide and he's panting.

"What the fuck?"

She panting too. "Calm down." Even her deaf neighbor must have heard this. "You have to be quiet. There'll have aurors at our door. Let me figure this out."

"Figure what out? I'm fucked. I'm still cursed!" His fist smashes through a wall; luckily it adjoins with her bathroom.

"Draco, look at me."

She's still in her fancy robes from the day before and he's in the rags of his. Fractured pieces of wood scratch at her feet as she moves towards him, holding out her hand. "Maybe if I touch you like before."

He grabs her hand. The magic swirls between them but it feels muted. Nothing changes. Malfoy growls and tugs her towards him, wraps her up in his arms so that her feet leave the floor.

"You're going to crush me!" she mumbles against his chest.

"Sorry." He loosens his grip only slightly. He has her by the waist, hands spanning the circumference easily as he raises her to meet his eyes. "What do we do? Don't let them take me!"

"It must be part of the curse. We didn't break it fully. Your mother said…" She trails off. She tried to forget this part.

"My mother said what?!"

She's sure he doesn't mean to shake her but she is thrown around like a rag doll. "Be gentle, please."

"I'm sorry."

"Look at me." She holds his monstrous face between her tiny hands. "The marriage needs to be consummated."

"How?"

She glances down, trying not to imagine how in proportion certain parts of him must be. "You know better than me. But I'm not sure about the logistics. I don't want to do it like this."

"And you think I do? I'd tear you in half, Granger. I already broke the bed and not in the fun way." He draws her closer towards him. "I don't want to stay like this," he pleads.

"We'll figure it out." Her hands keep stroking his cheeks and she places a kiss to his forehead. Something sparks between them. His hold on her waist tightens but they are sinking. She wraps her arms around him and keeps pressing her lips to his face. Cold scales become warm skin and they are lying amongst a broken bed, clinging to each other, her mouth finding his.

God, how he kisses her. He rolls her onto her back and a piece of wood is pressing beneath the warped mattress but she can't care. His hands are moving from her waist along her sides, grabbing her hair, skimming the edge of her breasts.

"You're a miracle, Granger."

She can feel him hard against her, right there, between her thighs. He's grinding down and she moans.

"Not like this."

There's banging from outside where they aren't lying in a mess of splinters and lust. She tries to regain control of herself.

"Not like this," she repeats and kisses him again for good measure. He lets her up, and she tells him to stay where he is then goes to the front door.

Harry stands on the other side, along with Ron and three more aurors.

"There was another magical surge," Harry says. "The neighbors downstairs heard loud bangs and raised voices. What's going on, Hermione?"

She drags a hand through her hair, presses fingers to her lips. She feels disheveled. She must look ravished because she has been.

"Where is he?" Ron says, shoving past Harry and her.

"He's—"

"Right here." Malfoy emerges from the bedroom, a bedsheet wrapped low about his waist. There are scratches on his skin, from her or the broken bed, she's no idea, but was his chest always so sculpted? He looks like an illicit statue. He looks obscene. Everyone else needs to leave her flat right now.

"Can we help you?" He arches one aristocratic eyebrow. It's an infuriating, beautiful look, she thinks.

Ron raises his wand, appearing ready to cast an Unforgivable. "If you've hurt her—"

"I'm fine," Hermione spits out. She moves towards Malfoy, trying to place herself between him and harm's way, but he takes it as an invitation to snake an arm around her.

"Make them leave," he says, head dipping down to whisper in her ear (still loud enough for the rest to hear), "I'm not done with you yet."

Hermione's thighs squeeze together. "I promise we're good," she says, nails digging into Malfoy's forearm as he tightens his grip; he still doesn't budge. "I guess we just got carried away. Newly weds and all."

She wants to die of embarrassment at the incredulous look of Harry and the jealous sounds of rage from Ron and the awkward to leering expressions of the other aurors.

"Sorry to bother you," Harry says, now falling on mortified. He forces the rest of the men out, having to drag Ron by the collar with him. Her apartment's never felt so small but the echo is resoundingly loud as the door shuts behind them.

"Oh my god. Oh my god." Hermione sinks to the ground once Malfoy releases her. Her head rests in her hands. "What were you thinking?"

"It got them to leave." Malfoy has lost the sheet as he walks to the kitchen. There are scraps of his pants left but not much else. "Do you have actual coffee?"

"They think—"

"What? That we fucked? It's what married couples do, at least the newly married ones. Speaking of which." He turns, leaning against the counter, arms folded and muscles she never noticed before tensing as he does. "I think we should."

"What?"

"Do as the married couples do. I don't know how much time I've got left."

"I…" She stands. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's not how this works! I don't even love you."

"So what?"

"It's my first time, okay? You wait for this long, you want it to be special."

"What could be more special than helping me?"

"This isn't all about you!"

"Of course it is!"

"You selfish prat!" Arguing already; their marriage feels unnervingly authentic. "Kissing works," she says, slamming a fist into her palm for emphasis. "It works and if you change again we can snog, alright? I just… this is all so fast. I barely even know you."

"Well, get studying, Granger." He finds her jar of instant coffee and tosses it in the trash. "I'm about to give you a crash course."

Lesson number one: Draco Malfoy has no shame about his body.

He strips off what is left of his clothes and walks unabashedly naked to the bathroom. "Do you think we can transfigure these?" he says as he drops the fabric remnants to the floor.

Hermione squeals and covers her eyes. She keeps them half-closed as she works on repairing the hole in her bedroom wall, where she can see his silhouette through a curtain of steam from the shower. "This bathroom's not fit for a pigmy, Granger," she can hear him grumble. He at least has a towel when he emerges, but he's using it to dry his hair. "I smell like my grandmother's perfume."

"Here!" She hands him pants she transfigured with a wordless and blind incantation.

"Not bad." He's looking down at himself when she peers through her fingers, his most intimate parts now covered. He continues to dress, fixing the rest of his robes himself as she removes the detritus of her broken bed. She notes the faded Dark Mark on his arm as he slides it into the sleeve of his shirt but says nothing on it. Who are you? she thinks. It's hard to reconcile the gorgeous figure he cuts with the skinny conniving ferret of a boy she knew in school, but is the man he is now reflected in this perfect shell or the beast lurking inside him?

She starts to understand when she's showered and changed herself. He's browsing her shelves of books and poking at her knickknacks while Crookshanks hisses at his feet. When a paw shoots out and claws at his ankle, Malfoy looks down and growls. She sees a flash of red eyes and the snarl of fangs as Crookshanks flees under the sofa.

"Leave him alone!"

Malfoy blinks. He finds her watching him and frowns. "That thing's practically feral," he says without a hint of irony.

"Are you okay, boy?" Hermione is on her knees, trying to lure the quivering ball of orange fur out. "Crookshanks is an excellent judge of character," she says, the cat now cradled in her arms. "Ssh, you're alright, my love. Ignore the ugly brute. He's all bark, no bite."

"Ugly?"

"And vain and cruel."

"So you were watching?" Malfoy sneers.

"You will wear clothes in my presence. And you'll be kind to Crookshanks." She placates the aforementioned pet with a saucer of whole milk. "I'm going to make a list of ground rules," she says starts to gather her things.

"Of course you are."

"I need to go to work. What are you going to do?"

"Come with you."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Don't you have things to keep you busy? I don't know, like a job?"

"Jobs are for peasants."

"Oh my god. What have you done for the last six years?"

"What have I done? Shall I enlighten you, Granger?" He's pacing and running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. "They put me under house arrest for two years. We weren't allowed any visitors. I couldn't even fly my broom over our grounds. There was no correspondence with Father. We had aurors at our door every day. One tried to convince Mother that her husband was dead. They ignored our complaints. They kept our wands. When we were free from that prison, I spent the next two years fighting to get most of our assets unfrozen and transferred to my name. They'd removed my father from the board of Malfoy Industries. I was only let back in by a single vote. After that, Mother made me accept every social engagement, trying to find me a bride. Astoria Greengrass was our last hope. But I was already cursed by my blood and by the fucking Ministry. So don't ask me if I work. My only job has been survival. And now that rests on you."

"You can come with me," she says quietly.

Lesson number two: Draco Malfoy is a master of self-preservation.

He insists they disillusion themselves before apparating to her office. There are press waiting outside and at least one Ministry official. Several owls are all perched on the edge of a window. Hermione quickly lets them in then makes sure all the blinds are drawn and puts a locking spell on the door and a Muffliato charm over the room.

"I'm sure you think this whole miniaturized aesthetic is charming, but I've owned bigger shoeboxes." He has his feet on her desk. His legs appear incongruously long in the admittedly small space. Hermione tries to shove them aside as she starts to work through her owl correspondence. They have the give of refined lead. Is she really so weak?

"Just so you know, I'm going to ignore you while I focus on this mysterious thing I call a job," she says.

"Can I use your floo?"

"Go right ahead." She thinks she hears him talking to his mother then somebody else, maybe a house-elf. She'll have to broach that topic carefully but broach she will. She replies to the first few owls while she's casually eavesdropping, rescheduling a meeting with one of her werewolf clients and following up on the latest brief in a land dispute claim on behalf of a family of selkies. Then she opens a scroll from the Ministry.

"Granger, how much do you make?"

She's about to reply that she mostly works pro bono when the words on the page finally sink in. It is a complaint filed with the Magical Legal Council, the regulatory body for wizarding lawyers. Unlike the independent Muggle equivalent, it operates under the Ministry's jurisdiction. And she is a freelance employee of the Ministry in her specialized role.

Except now she has been suspended.

"Granger?"

She keeps staring at the parchment. It can't be so. Only one day and some spiteful dogsbody has taken it upon themselves to point out the conflict of interest in her marrying a client. The rules of probity have never been as strict in the Wizarding World and are even more murky when it comes to magical creatures. This act is personal and deliberate. She has been suspended from practice pending an formal tribunal. Her rebellious efforts on behalf of Draco might cost her her career.

"My life is ruined," she says.

"Let me see that." Draco snatches the paper from her, though she puts up no resistance. She watches him read, thinking you did this to me, the one who called me mudblood and watched me suffer and never cared a jot about me. And now you're my husband.

"Oh god." She starts to dissociate again.

"You can fight this," he says, not perturbed in the slightest.

"How?"

"Like you did for me. Take control of the narrative, Granger."

"It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is. There's a hoard of vultures outside. Go tell them what you want them to hear."

"You actually make sense."

"Well, I learned these things the hard way."

"But what do I say?"

He hands the fateful parchment back. "In this twisted world we live in, there's nothing more shocking than the truth."

He follows her down and waits in the entryway when she opens the front door. Cameras flash in her face and primed wands and readied quills are thrust forward. Hermione raises her hand and waits for a quiet that never comes.

"SILENCE!"

Malfoy's voice booms like it did in the holding cell. But she can see he is unaltered as she finds him standing right behind her. His hands rest on her shoulders as he tells the gathered crowd with his normal patrician drawl, "My wife would like to make a statement."

Lesson number three: Draco Malfoy is protective of what is his.

It's funny how this simple action has steadied her twice already. His hands are large uneough to ground her and keep her focused. Though the effect is lost as his thumbs massage the base of her neck and he whispers, "The floor is all yours."

"I…" Hermione takes a breath and wills her voice to stay calm. "As you know, I am married to Draco Malfoy. What you might not have heard is that the Ministry has turned this into a witch-hunt against me. I have been suspended from my legal practice for standing up for the rights of my client, a magical creature not only victim to a curse but victim to the prejudice and unlawful treatment of the Ministry. His situation is unique and the circumstances so happened to fall that the only way to contain his magic and meet the requirements of the Ministry for his release was to marry an unwed virgin. Well, as it turned out that was me. This is not about love because that is not why we are together. This is not about me breaching the code of conduct of my profession because there was no prior relationship between us. This is about a longstanding grudge against both the Malfoy family and me as the main legal challenge to the Ministry's continued denial of the rights of all magical creatures. And I'm going to fight them all the way on this. Any questions?"

The silence is broken by a roar of voices.

"Are you sleeping together?"

"No, we are not." Malfoy's fingers dig into her flesh as she continues on. "We are cohabiting and working together to ensure that the terms that the Ministry set for the Malfoys' release are met. We have been cooperating fully."

"What about a Malfoy heir?"

"Is Draco Malfoy still dangerous?"

"How can you defend a former Death Eater and servant of Voldemort?"

"That's enough," Malfoy says, dragging Hermione's body behind him. He moves to close the door when a Ministry official thrusts out a hand, pushing his way through to the front.

"I'm here to deliver this," he says and Malfoy takes the scroll from his hand.

Hermione peeks her head around Draco's elbow. "What is it?"

"The date of your disciplinary tribunal," the official says. "See you at the Ministry on Monday."

Malfoy grabs him by the front of his robes and lifts him off his feet. "Thank you for the ample warning," he says and throws the man back into the crowd, slamming the door shut behind him. "Parasites," he says.

"When did you get so strong?"

"I don't know. Maybe when I got taller?"

"Is it the curse?"

He turns to look at Hermione. "Do I look different? Am I changing into a monster?"

"Some would say you already are."

"But do you think that?"

"I'm trying to figure it out." She takes the scroll from him and confirms what the official said. She has less than a week to try and salvage her career. "I've risked everything for you," she tells him, her hands crumpling the paper. "This job is all I have. And now we're married and I don't know if you even care about me. You never liked me before. In fact, you wished me dead and actively hated my existence. I might have made a mistake but I still can't regret everything. Even with what I thought of you at school, I could never let them keep you for simply being something else. That's the right of all magical creatures and that's what my job means. Do you understand?"

"Did you have to tell them that we weren't sleeping together?"

"Is that it? That's all you care about? What on earth am I doing?"

She leaves him in the hallway and goes back to her office, warding the door and sitting at her desk. She doesn't cry, only stares at the ring on her hand for a minute. Then Hermione does what she does best and gets back to work.

When she returns to her flat that evening, she finds a small army of house-elves spread between the kitchen and sitting area. Some are cooking what appears to be an elaborate meal while others are rearranging her bookshelves and sweeping the floor and dusting furniture. One is even attempting to groom Crookshanks, who stands paralysed in apparent outrage.

"Malfoy!" she yells.

He appears from the bedroom in another set of expensive robes. "You're home already? I assumed you'd be working until some inhuman hour trying to bring the Ministry down. I wanted to have everything ready first."

"What are you doing? Why do you have enslaved magical creatures in my home? Why are they touching my things?"

"It was a surprise," he says and grabs her arm, leading her back to the bedroom. "See?"

The remnants of her bed have been replaced by a large mattress left directly on the floor and covered in luxurious sheets and pillows. A house-elf is artfully arranging throw cushions as they enter but stops when she sees them.

"Master Malfoy, is its to your liking?"

"Why don't you ask the Mistress, Lacey."

The elf, wearing what looks like a tasseled lampshade as a skirt, attempts a curtsy. "Most pleased to meet you, Mistress Granger. Master says yous not be taking the Malfoy name but we should treat you as his Lady."

"Thank you, Lacey." Hermione wants to kill her husband but the bed looks unfeasibly comfortable. The walls have been repainted too in a warm red that matches the color scheme of the bedding. Not a Slytherin green is in sight.

"Let me show you the bathroom," he says.

They step inside and she finds where the green has been hiding. Some kind of extension spell has been placed and now there's a clawfoot tub in aquamarine ceramic and with polished chrome fittings.

"When you've freshened up, I can show you what I've done with the closet."

"I don't have a closet."

"You didn't before." He steps out before she can punch him, poking just his head back in. "Dinner should be ready soon but take your time." And he closes the door.

She emerges almost two hours later, having cursed his name while stretched in the bath and plotted his demise while searching for a change of clothes in her new walk-in closet. The elves have sorted all her clothes by style and color and there are several sets of robes and dresses she has never seen before, along with a ridiculous amount belonging to Malfoy. She opts for sweats and a faded Gryffindor t-shirt, her hair still wet and pulled up into a bun.

Malfoy sits at a small antique but still new to her apartment dining table lit by candles and without any elves to be found.

"I was growing concerned you might have drowned in the bath." He pulls out her chair. "Hungry?"

"I'm furious," Hermione says as she sits. "My life is my own. You don't get to do this."

"I thought—"

"What? That a total disregard of personal boundaries would somehow make things right? That the way to my heart is through abuse of house-elves?"

"At least eat something."

"Fine."

"I don't understand you, Granger."

"That's the problem. You've forced yourself into nearly every aspect of my life but it's like you don't really see me."

"I see you fine."

"So what do you see?"

He pours them expensive vintage wine from a bottle with a dusty label hiding the year and raises his glass. It's made of crystal and obviously not hers. "My future," he says. "I don't know what to make of it. I spoke to Mother and she confirmed the only way to break the curse is to consummate our marriage and before I turn twenty-five. I have five months to prove my worth to you. And to earn your trust. And to get to know you better. I've made a hash of it so far, haven't I?"

"One might use the word clusterfuck."

"I still like the swearing." He allows himself a small smile.

"What do you want to do with your life?" she asks of him and he looks at her as if no one has ever asked him the question before.

"I don't know. I don't want to be a monster. And I don't want to be a victim of the Ministry forever. Beyond that, I've never really thought about it."

"Do you know something I admire about people?" She sips the wine. It tastes like heaven. "Ambition. Everyone's got potential but that doesn't mean much if you don't make the most if it. And you have everything at your fingertips, Draco. Why would you want to waste it?"

"Am I Draco now? For good?"

"It keeps changing in my head. It's not even based on any mood, just the two halves of you and the possibility of each. You can call me Hermione too, if you like."

"You make me feel like I haven't earned it. And it keeps you at a distance."

"Hermione Malfoy," she tries out. "That would sound too close."

"It would sound too perfect," he says and downs the rest of his glass.

They don't speak much for the rest of dinner. He clears up their plates and when she thinks he's about to do the washing up, a house-elf appears, this one wearing a napkin as a toga.

"Did the Mistress like dinner?" the elf says.

"What say you Mistress? Pob here's one of our best cooks."

"It was delicious. Thank you Pob." Hermione stands. "I'm going to bed." She hopes that her voice and expression convey her disappointment to the Master.

Malfoy crawls in beside her some time later. "I messed up," he says.

"Just go to sleep." Her face is partly muffled by the pillow and thus adequately hides her tears.

She stays staring towards the window as she feels him toss and turn and his magic change and the mattress sink.

"Hermione."

The voice is horrid and pained. She rolls over to meet the monster's face cast in faint moonlight. "You still haven't earned it yet," she tells him as she strokes his cheek and kisses him slowly back into being whatever version that this is. Yet she doesn't stop him when he's returning her kisses, his hands slipping under her t-shirt and over her bare skin.

"Let me touch you," he begs.

"Please."

She has never been touched like this.

Her breasts arch against his palms and his mouth presses along her belly. This is more than the snogging that she agreed to this morning. A fire is building within. It's too hot and not enough and she wants out of her skin like there's a monster inside her just like his.

He lowers down her shorts and fingers trace along heated cotton. "Here?" He kisses over her closed eyelids. There's another hand threading through her hair, teasing out ever curl. He might as well have ten thousand hands, she thinks. Sensation is coursing through her body and igniting everything.

"Please," she breathes and his motions grow and she burns like a dying star.

Please. Oh god please.

This isn't love, she thinks. But it's more than obligation. There's magic in the air and in their blood, somehow shared between them. Can he feel what she feels? Is he dying too? She keeps her eyes closed and waits for an answer.

It is quiet in the dark as he brings her to release.

"I promise you," he tells her as she lies like liquid in his arms, "it'll have been worth the wait. Whenever you're ready, love."

Hermione falls asleep after her first day of marriage trying to make sense of what she has learned.

Lesson number four: Draco Malfoy—her husband—appears to be a man of his word.