For those of you who didn't see the note I added to Chapter 1, I thought I'd re-post it here (sorry to those of you who did!):

All credit for the gorgeous "book cover" goes to the lovely and talented 2firstnames!

Shame had never been Draco Malfoy's strong suit. So it should have been no surprise to anyone when he returned to polite society after the war, as thick-skinned as ever, wearing a defiant expression on his face that challenged others to mention his Death Eater past—go on, I dare you.

His parents fled to France, fearing the way they might be treated by other wizards in their country, but Draco refused to join them. Instead, he resolved never to care what anyone thought of him ever again. He knew that his family's money and status still held power in the wizarding world. And when he resumed making public appearances, it was that arrogant, brazen look that became his signature.

He had suffered during the war—he had only been a child, after all, forced to see and do things that no adult ever should, things that could never be forgotten—but his trials had hardened, not weakened, him; and he almost preferred being on his own, without his parents nearby. He had grown deeply disillusioned with their beliefs, which he had once so blindly adopted as his own: he could not count the number of times his father had emphatically lectured him on the importance of blood purity, and, as it turned out, he'd been following the orders of a half-blood the entire time. The discovery that the pureblood rhetoric had been meaningless—a mere excuse for the Death Eaters' cause—had felt like an unspeakable betrayal.

What it came down to was this: Voldemort had been a strong leader when he ruled the Ministry as puppet-master, but he was dead now, and Draco could not have cared less who the new wizard in charge was. All he knew was that he would serve him. The only philosophy that mattered, he had learned, was that of whoever happened to be in power at the time. And Draco would never again follow a renegade if it was not to his own advantage.

The first thing she said when she saw him was:

"I don't remember inviting you."

"You didn't," he responded, with a sickeningly pleasant smile. "Your boss did."

Hermione's expression morphed into a grimace. "I don't need your money, Malfoy."

"Now, is that really the right attitude for a fundraiser? I doubt your little S.P.E.W. will get many donations with that approach."

"I'm not interested in donations from war criminals."

"Careful with that scowl, Granger. It makes you terribly unattractive."

She opened her mouth to make a retort, but he cut her off. "So I hear you're seeing George Weasley now. You seem rather stuck on that family, don't you?"

Too angry to speak, Hermione pursed her lips tightly and glared at him.

"I have to applaud you, though. Not for dating a Weasley—I don't think anyone would applaud you for that—but for your efficiency. When you want to accomplish something, you certainly get it done." He smirked devilishly at her. "And quickly, too. Color me impressed."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she fumed, "and I'd appreciate it if you held off on the inappropriate remarks about my personal life."

"Oh, drop the act, Granger. We both know exactly what I'm talking about. Or are you actually going to pretend that you're even the least bit interested in this new Weasley of yours?"

She desperately wanted to say something back—something cruel, something scathing—but she was too flustered to think of a sufficiently insulting response. Instead, she simply stared helplessly at him as he went on with fiendish glee.

"It was big news at Patil's party, you know. Right after you took off—everyone was talking about how he'd finally asked you out. Really knocked the wind out of the younger Weasel's sails." When she flushed at that last remark, he added, "That's what you were going for, isn't it?"

In spite of herself, she couldn't help picturing the look on Ron's face when he'd heard the news.

"It most certainly was not," she snapped defensively. "Stop acting like you know anything about me."

He looked at her thoughtfully then, as though he were considering her for the first time, and his lips stretched into a strange—almost pleased—grin. "You know, you're much more interesting than I'd thought, I'll give you that. I think I underestimated you."

Her voice was quiet and dangerously menacing as she replied, "My boss may have invited you, Malfoy, but rest assured that you are far from welcome at my fundraiser. So I'll thank you to shut up and stay the hell out of my business."

As she turned to walk away, she could hear him laughing behind her. "And so quickly, too!"

There was no avoiding Malfoy. He did not technically work for the Ministry, but he had made a serious effort to become involved in politics ever since the war had ended, and so, it seemed, he was everywhere. Malfoy had redeemed himself publicly through unmatchable contributions to sympathetic causes, and he had redeemed himself privately through strategic donations to key politicians. And now, with his wallet considerably lighter, he was an important figure in government—and thus present at every Ministry meeting of any significance.

Not to mention the charity events. Hermione would never in a million years have imagined she'd run into Draco Malfoy, of all people, at charity event after charity event—but he was unfailingly present at every single one she attended, as well as, she guessed, the ones she did not. Even when she organized a fundraiser for S.P.E.W. herself and made absolutely certain to leave him off the guest list, he still turned up.

And every time she saw him, he looked straight at her and flashed that irritating smirk—the one that said, "I know your deepest, darkest secrets. I know everything there is to know about you." If she tried to ignore him, perhaps by pointedly looking elsewhere or by moving to a spot where he was not within her line of sight, he would swoop in on her, ask if she was still with George, and then say something unbearably smug about just how much he admired her resolve.

Hermione had to go to the Ministry meetings. She had to go to the charity events. There was no escape to be had from Malfoy's unique brand of torture.

In the end, nothing had changed since the war. To the Ministry, Malfoy's money and status counted for more than anything Hermione had accomplished during the war. After all, she was not Harry Potter—just another Hogwarts student who had followed him in battle. People were willing to turn a blind eye to the scar of the Dark Mark if the Death Eater in question had paid his dues. And while it was no longer acceptable to make prejudiced remarks about Muggle-born witches and wizards, the fact was that purebloods still received more respect from wizarding society. The only difference was that that respect now needed to be silent in nature.

Perhaps there had been one significant change, after all: she felt as though she had lost her friends. Harry was living a glamorous life as a celebrity Auror, and Ron was having the time of his life making money off of George's silly inventions—while she was working her arse off in the Department of Magical Creatures trying to get the voices of the disadvantaged heard and getting nowhere.

The worst part was that with his fame and his fortune, Harry could easily have helped. But he had never taken her causes seriously, and they were no longer close enough that she could easily ask for his support—ever since things had gone sour between her and Ron, Ginny had developed an irrational fear of Harry and Hermione spending time alone together, and she hardly ever saw him anymore. Furthermore, it had become clear that when it came down to her versus Ron, Harry would never take her side.

Hermione sometimes took George to the charity fundraisers she so dreaded, but more often, she went alone. And that was how she felt: alone. So she put her nose to the grindstone and focused on her work, churning out meticulously-written policy papers and proposals for Ministry reform.

But she was still young. And she was Muggle-born, which meant she had no connections to speak of. It was not an easy thing to be a Muggle-born climbing the ladder that was the Ministry's hierarchy—Hermione could count on one hand the number of Muggle-borns who worked there. What did they know, officials whispered to one another behind closed doors, about wizarding society? Who were they to try and change it? She struggled not to let it discourage her as proposal after proposal went unnoticed.

When she saw Malfoy strutting around the Ministry, smirking and posturing as though he owned the place, she wondered what exactly it was they had been fighting for in the war. She found that she could no longer remember.

Mrs. Weasley was beyond delighted when George brought Hermione to their next family dinner.

"Hermione!" she beamed, squeezing her into a tight embrace as she welcomed her inside. "I'm so glad you came. It's been ages since we last saw you!"

"I'm sorry, I've been so busy with work—"

"Not to worry, dear. We're just happy to see you again."

The unspoken truth was that Mrs. Weasley was particularly happy to see her in the new role of George's girlfriend. It was not only that she considered Hermione a worthy love interest for one of her sons, but she had worried terribly about George's loneliness ever since Fred had died, and she was relieved that he had finally found a significant other (and such a suitable one at that). So she spent the night positively fawning over Hermione, asking her hundreds of questions about her work at the Ministry and making sure there was food on her plate at all times throughout the evening.

Even without his mother fussing over her, Ron was furious at Hermione and certainly took no pains to hide the fact. He barely spoke to her once the entire night, though he did send a steady stream of jealous glances in her and George's direction. Ginny, who had been cold to her ever since she had fought with Ron about his career change, spent the dinner eyeing her suspiciously, while Harry clearly felt far too awkward to address the obvious tension and did everything he could to ignore it.

George, for his part, seemed as blissfully oblivious as his mother to the hostile environment around them. He was in his element: happy to be at home with his family and proud to show off his new girlfriend; and he spent the evening teasing Ron as mercilessly as usual and cracking jokes that Hermione laughed at just a little louder than was necessary. Sometimes, when she could feel Ron's eyes burning holes in their backs, she would make a small, affectionate gesture—reaching out to gently touch George's arm, or wiping an imaginary crumb off his lip. And then she would have to fight the urge to look back at Ron and enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his face contorted with rage.

For all the calculated displays of affection, she and George had not actually spent all that much time together. She was still very busy with work—her undisputed top priority—and, more to the point, she had not quite wanted anything too serious to develop between them. He was sweet and funny and charming, and Hermione did like him—but Malfoy had been more on the mark than she'd wanted to admit when it came to her genuine romantic interest in George as a boyfriend.

But how could she resist the opportunity to stay near Ron and give him a taste of his own medicine? As she and George left the Burrow together that night, she smiled radiantly in Ron's direction and hoped that, for the first time, she had finally managed to hurt him as much as he'd hurt her.

Hermione was beginning to regret having come alone to the Ministry Ball. George was out of town on a business meeting, and she had thought that it would not matter whether she had a date or not.

She had been wrong.

The Ministry was holding a date auction—all proceeds were to go to the Auror Office—and all the single female employees, it seemed, were lining up to be auctioned off. The whole concept was outdated and sexist and terribly offensive, but even worse was the fact that it left Hermione virtually alone in a sea of couples. They stood around the beautifully decorated Atrium in pairs and chatted loudly about children and vacation plans and whatever else it was couples talked about, while Hermione faced an endless stream of questions about where George was tonight and did her best to ignore the icy glares that Ginny was shooting her over Harry's shoulder.

The band started playing a song with an upbeat tempo, and most of the couples stopped gossiping about upcoming weddings long enough to make their way to the dance floor. Hermione was ready to leave. She downed another glass of champagne as discreetly as she could and watched as Jenkins took his place behind the podium.

"Might I have everyone's attention, please? Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to start this evening's date auction!"

The crowd cheered. Hermione held back a sigh and began composing a mental to-do list for the following week (she had finished this week's while listening to Susan Bones' fiancé's interminable chattering about their new flat). Jenkins prattled on about the rules of the auction and then introduced the first "lot," a young woman Hermione recognized as a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. The girl blushed furiously as a co-worker bid 200 Galleons and then again as another outbid him, eventually winning with an offer of 250.

She still needed to get out that memo about anti-discrimination measures. There was that unfinished analysis of the efficiency of the Office for House-Elf Relocation; and she would also have to prepare for the visit of the head of Germany's Vampire Liaison Office, who was stopping by London that week. Charlie had asked for her support in filing a request to bring three Norwegian Ridgebacks into the country, and she had yet to respond to his owl.

As someone named Emily Appleton sold for 320 Galleons, Hermione suddenly remembered that her mother was having a family dinner next weekend. She grew restless. There was so much work to be done and so little time in which to do it. Would anyone notice if she snuck out early?

She began edging cautiously towards a nearby fireplace, hoping to disappear unnoticed, when a loud whooshing sound alerted her to the fact that it was already in use. Startled, she took a couple steps back—and then took many more when she saw who it was that had just arrived late to the ball.

Ron and Lavender stepped together out of the gilded fireplace, fixing their robes as they entered the lobby. Hermione had not known they were coming—Harry, who must have invited them, had neglected to mention that little detail. Yet another reason it had been a mistake to come alone. Would the humiliation never end? Spitefully blaming Harry for not having warned her, she backed away slowly, so as to not draw any attention to herself, while rejoining the crowd and hiding amongst the masses.

Leticia Snelling was bought for 175 Galleons; Cho Chang went for a cool 600. Hermione watched as Ron guided Lavender into the room, as they greeted other Hogwarts alums, as his hand snaked in a disgustingly sensual way around her hip and they whispered, playful and laughing, into each other's ears about the auction. That should be me, standing there with him. It was supposed to be me. She felt, at first, an uncontrollable urge to sob—but the urge was soon replaced by an overwhelming numbness, and she could no longer remember where she was or what she was doing. Lost in her thoughts, she was barely aware of the auction continuing around her until Ron began whooping loudly and she realized that Dean had just won a 400-Galleon date with Padma.

When Hermione finally tore her eyes off Ron long enough to look around at her surroundings, she suddenly spotted Malfoy, whom she had not noticed before, standing near the back of the Atrium and observing her calmly. Had she felt less numb from exhaustion, the embarrassment of having been caught tearfully gawking at Ron might have been too great for her to handle. But, as it was, she simply lowered her gaze and thought that perhaps it was better that it was Malfoy and not someone else who had seen her in her moment of weakness. Malfoy, after all, had learned nothing new—and he already mocked her mercilessly every time he saw her. Yes, better Malfoy than someone else.

But when she glanced back up at him, it struck her that his usual amused smirk was absent; instead, he was wearing an expression on his face that she had never seen before and could not quite place. And then, as Jenkins called Mandy Brocklehurst to the stage, Malfoy turned to face the stage and interrupted him to announce loudly,

"I'd like to make a bid."

All heads swiveled towards the back of the lobby. Malfoy's strange expression had vanished, and as he leaned against a pillar, he looked every bit his typical impertinent self. Hermione was somewhat surprised by this declaration of interest—Mandy Brocklehurst was not, in her opinion, all that pretty—but there was nothing extraordinary about the utterly characteristic way in which he had casually disregarded the protocol of the proceedings.

Jenkins, however, seemed taken aback by his impatience. "Er—very well, Mr. Malfoy," he replied. "I was about to ask for an opening bid of—"

"10,000 Galleons."

A collective gasp went through the room. Mandy Brocklehurst's jaw had now fallen halfway to the floor, and Jenkins was staring at him as through he were out of his mind. "Well—that's certainly very generous, Mr. Malfoy," he stammered. "I'm sure the Auror Office will be quite grateful for the donation."

Several Aurors began to applaud, and soon others joined in. The crowd was clapping enthusiastically and murmuring in pleasant surprise as Jenkins continued, "I doubt anyone can match that offer, so I think it's safe to say that Miss Brocklehurst is—"

"My bid is for Hermione Granger."

The room went silent.

This must be what Harry goes through all the time, Hermione thought as she suddenly experienced the discomfiting sensation of having all eyes on her. The exception was Jenkins, whose eyes looked about ready to pop of his head as he began to sputter, "But—but—Miss Granger is not participating in the auction."

"My bid is 10,000 Galleons," Malfoy repeated calmly, "for Hermione Granger."

She wondered briefly if she were dreaming—if this were some bizarre nightmare caused by too much time spent at the office and not enough sleep. It was the only explanation that made any sense. And yet it all felt so real that she could do nothing else besides stand there and attempt to conceal her bafflement as she puzzled out the inexplicable riddle of Malfoy's intentions.

Jenkins now appeared too shocked to speak. "She isn't single!" someone in the crowd called out. Malfoy didn't so much as bat an eyelash.

"Yes," said Jenkins, "unfortunately, I'm afraid Miss Granger is not single. But there is certainly no lack of equally lovely young women who have yet to be auctioned—"

"No, thank you," Malfoy said crisply.

"But—Mr. Malfoy—there's simply nothing to be done; Miss Granger isn't—perhaps you'd like to bid on Miss Brocklehurst instead—"

"If I had wanted to bid on Miss Brocklehurst, I would have done so."

"Please, I'll have to ask you to consider making a bid for one of the other women. A date with Miss Granger is out of—"

"All right," said Malfoy, completely unfazed. "If a date is out of the question, I'll settle for a dance." He turned to look at her, and she tried to remain composed as he continued, almost as if directly to her, "I think no one will object to 10,000 Galleons for a dance."

A million thoughts raced through Hermione's mind as she stared blankly at Malfoy, but to her own amazement, the one that rose to the forefront was:

At the very least, I would not be standing here alone, hiding from Ron.

"I suppose—I suppose if Miss Granger agrees," Jenkins relented, appearing both bewildered and defeated at the same time.

Later on, Hermione could not recall exactly why she had lost all her senses and agreed to dance with Draco Malfoy in front of the entire Ministry. Perhaps it had been the stress of the moment. Perhaps it had been the champagne. Perhaps it had been temporary madness brought on by invisible Nargles.

All she remembered was a blur of shocked gasps and whispers—the vague idea that it was a lot of money for a good cause, that it was just a dance—and the incredibly self-satisfied smile Malfoy wore as insanity overtook her and she nodded her acceptance with as neutral an expression as she could manage.

She had no memory of the rest of the auction except that, when it finally ended and the band started up again, Harry appeared out of nowhere and pulled her aside. "I don't know what he's playing at, but you don't have to do this. It's not your responsibility."

"I think she knows that, Potter. Now, if you'd kindly step aside."

They both turned to see Malfoy approaching. Livid, Harry whipped back around to face her again and continued, "You're not under any obligation to the Ministry or the Auror Office—"

"Excuse me. May I?" Malfoy stepped smoothly in front of Harry and extended a hand towards her.

She hesitated. She didn't trust Malfoy any farther than she could throw him, and she, like Harry, had no idea what he was up to. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Ginny and Ron and Lavender, watching them from afar and awaiting Harry's return; and she knew that she could not—would not—go with him. She looked back at Harry, who was now turning an unpleasant shade of purple, and swallowed hard.

"I'll see you later," she said quietly, and he stared at her in disbelief as she took Malfoy's hand and let him lead her away.

She had no idea what to say to him, a problem she solved by neither speaking nor looking at him as they walked out onto the dance floor. He tried to pull her close and she pushed him away, stiffly keeping her distance as she placed a reluctant hand on his shoulder. Undeterred, he pulled her towards him with greater force and firmly grasped her waist to keep her in place.

"Stop that," she snapped. "Everyone is staring."

"Oh, please. When has that ever stopped you from doing something?"

"Move your hand any lower and I will personally ensure you never walk again."

Malfoy chuckled. "Don't be so hard on me, Granger. I'm behaving."

He slid his other hand down her arm to take hold of hers, and it was warm and oddly comforting as it wrapped around her fingers. His face was so close that she could feel his breath blowing across the wisps of hair that had fallen out of her chignon. She angled her head in the other direction to avoid it.

They danced in silence until he asked, "Aren't you going to question my motives?"

"I'm assuming this is some twisted scheme intended to publicly humiliate me."

"To humiliate you?" he said incredulously. "How is bidding an exorbitant sum just to dance with you a humiliation?"

"I won't purport to know how your sick mind works, Malfoy."

"Then I'll tell you," he said, jerking her arm upwards so that she would be forced to look up at him. "I'm not one to pass up opportunities."

She turned away again. "I couldn't care less what your reasons are, as long as you make the contribution you promised."

"So you aren't even the least bit flattered?"

"No," sniffed Hermione.

"Then why are you dancing with me?"

"It's for charity," she said primly, and he burst out laughing.

"I like you, Granger. I think we're very much alike."

"Alike? How dare you—"

"You know, it hurts that you're so insulted by that."

"—for one thing, I'm not a slimy, evil, pointy-faced little—"

"I've been watching you, you know. I see how determined you are to get things done, at the Ministry and elsewhere. You aren't as scrupulous as you pretend to be, are you? Admit it, Granger. You'll do anything to get what you want."

"I don't think you even know what scruples are," she said indignantly.

"I know what they are. I just don't happen to have any."

Caught off guard by his bluntness, Hermione looked up and found him watching her intently. His face grew serious as he said, "We really are more alike than you think."

When she started to argue, he cut her off quietly. "Think about it. Be honest with yourself—why are you dancing with me?"

Her cheeks suddenly felt very hot, and she quickly averted her gaze. Her eyes landed across the lobby, where Lavender appeared to be consoling a now sulking Ron, and she tried to ignore the feeling of triumph that bubbled up inside her. Malfoy tightened his grip on her waist as he leaned in and whispered, "Relax, Granger. I like it, you know. The fire—I like that about you. I really do."

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