a/n: Posting this chapter a few hours late today because this was the first time I did a COMPLETE overhaul of a chapter ON posting day *insert smiling emoji with a bead of sweat. With that in mind, please note that parts of this chapter have not been edited by my alpha or my beta, so those mistakes are all mine! Once again, though, I want to thank my alpha, Helene, and my beta, Noodar, for all of their work on the pre-overhaul version of this :) They are absolutely incredible and I love them so much.

I want to give a huge BIRTHDAY SHOUTOUT to reader gingergrace! Sorry this was posted a little later than usual, love, but hopefully it was worth the wait! And I hope your day was wonderful despite the crazy year we are in!

Chapter Eight: Team

Hermione didn't know what compelled her to do it. Maybe it was the remnants of the Lovebomb. That's what she told herself, at least. But regardless, she couldn't just sit around while Draco writhed and mumbled agonizing pleas on the couch. She stalked over to him and grasped his hand, pulling him along to the only bedroom in the suite.

"Come. You're clearly not well," she said.

He followed her in a trance, holding onto her hand tightly until she helped him climb under the covers. She pulled his shoes off immediately; she was incensed that he would have left them on while he laid on the couch in the first place. But once she got them off, she realized she couldn't leave him in a suit, so she nudged him.

"Malfoy. You should change."

No response.

She hesitated for a few moments, then resigned to searching his clothes for his wand. Her fingers shook as she ran them over the fabric. She was worried that if he woke, he would attack her, thinking she was one of the terrors in his dream. The other aspect of the search steadfastly sent a warmth to her cheeks as she patted up and down his body. God, she thought. What was she doing?

Once she felt the hardness she was looking for, she hastily pulled it out of his side pocket. She stared down at the wand. It was longer than hers; darker and more pliable. She felt her magic buzz within her, though the connection to the wand was distant. She could feel its resistance. But regardless, Draco was fast asleep, and her mind spun with the reality of the situation. She could get out. She could free herself.

She backed away, eyes glued to him until she stepped into the main sitting room, turning around and releasing a held breath. Her hand tightened around the wood as she stood there in the dark.

What would happen if she left? She was sure she could get outside, but where would she go first? Where could she go? She couldn't make it to Shell Cottage easily. Apparating that far wouldn't work. She would have to find a broom or an international portkey, which she was positive she couldn't access, especially being in another country. The Floo Network was being monitored, so that wasn't an option. It occurred to her that there was possibly a trace on her. Regardless of all of that, she would be condemning Hagrid to certain death.

When she was first brought into the Ministry, they had pulled her into a room where Hagrid was held, chained to a table in the center of the tiny space. It had been less than a minute, but it was enough time for him to tell her, "Don't do it, Hermione! Whatever it is! Don't give in!" through deep sobs. Words couldn't leave her; only sobs that echoed his. But as she was dragged away, the image of his blood-soaked beard and matted hair was etched in her mind. He had fought back. He had fought back hard.

That was the last time she had communicated with him in any way; the last bit of evidence that he was still alive. For all she knew, she was doing all of this for nothing. But with any sliver of hope that her role in all of this was protecting him, she just couldn't risk it. He meant too much to her. He had been there for her from the very beginning; from when she first entered the wizarding world. He was there for her when both Harry and Ron weren't. And he was the kind of person who would risk anything for the people he loved. When she had learned that he was still alive and being held captive, she had vowed to herself that she would do the same for him.

She needed to bide her time longer to find a solution to all of this. She was starting to see some promise in Draco. There was another side to him that she wanted to explore. And if she left like this - with his wand in the middle of the night - she would be condemning him to death, too.

Returning to the bedroom, she took quiet steps back to him, stopping beside where he lay. Her eyes roved over him, savouring the sight of him in this state. He was so peaceful; so different than how she had known him for years. It was strange to see him this way. He was still except for the slight rise and fall of his chest. She had never imagined him asleep before; had never imagined someone as cold, reserved, and guarded as Draco Malfoy in a vulnerable position.

She swallowed and pointed his wand at him. "Multicorfors," she whispered, transforming his clothes into pajamas. She placed his wand on the table next to him and retreated to the other side of the room. Curling up into an armchair that matched the one on his side, she opened a book from the shelf nearest her. She read about French tapestries until her eyes drooped nearly closed and she was drawn to the comfort of the bed.

Hermione shook her head as she sat up, realizing the bed beside her was empty. That was probably for the best. The sequence of events from the last few days whirled through her mind as the shower in the nearby washroom turned on. Pulling the covers back, she got out of the bed and quickly changed into a sensible outfit Lottie had sent to the room.

She didn't wait for Draco. In the kitchen - which she was happy to see was cleaned up - was a room service board on the wall near the fridge. A quill without a tip sat atop the item, so she used it to scrawl the order on the board, watching the letters appear despite there being no ink. The words faded after she finished writing out the order: espresso with cream, a black coffee, and an assortment of fruit and pastries.

Hermione leaned against the counter and attempted to process everything that had happened. The events of the night before were certainly unexpected, though they were admittedly more welcome than anything that had happened before the Lovebomb dropped.

First, she had prepared in every way possible to practice and get ready for their outings. She had worked diligently on her own lists, and had created blank ones for him to easily fill out. In the late hours of the night - after finishing Beauxbatons: A History - she had outlined the theatre tactics actors would use to prepare for romantic roles. She had read extensively about these years before, but was reminded of them in her reading of the school's history, as proper presentation was a major aspect of its structure. Sure, it had been slightly embarrassing to talk to Draco about utilizing the senses and physical connection, but it wasn't nearly as embarrassing as having to practice with him. It didn't matter, though, because she knew how important it was to get things right, especially after seeing the skeptical reporter's article.

The Janvier visit had been particularly challenging, considering that they could see right through Voldemort's propaganda, and that they had her well-being in mind. She had sat on their sofa running through possibilities on how to get the information to the family that Voldemort was holding Hagrid hostage without Draco noticing. Even if they didn't know who Hagrid was, they could have given the information to the Order. But there hadn't been an opportunity, and the sight of Harry and Ron in the Quibbler photograph had thrown her out of sorts.

Later that evening, she had cried. She had surrendered to her emotions in the shower again. There was no way to stop the tears from flowing at the thought of the smiling emerald-eyed boy from the photograph. She had just returned to her room when Draco appeared before her and clapped his hand over her mouth. The fear that struck her in that moment hit like a bolt of lighting, but he had been there to warn her. Shh, he's here…Stay calm, it'll be over soon enough.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed her elbows into the countertop and covered her temples with the palm of her hands. The memory of his warning and what had come after it would forever be etched in the corners of her mind, much like the memory of the events in the Malfoy drawing room.

The warning from him hadn't changed anything about the situation apart from her clothes, but she was thankful for it. Why he had done it, she had no idea. But he had given her extra seconds; seconds she utilized to mentally prepare. Stay calm. It was what he had told her. When Lucius rushed in and gripped her wrist, yanking her with him, she had grit her teeth and felt a flash of fire within her. She had kept quiet until the Cruciatus hit her; didn't want to give them the satisfaction of a reaction until the involuntary screaming. There had been nothing she could do about that.

My lord. It had been Draco's voice. His cool, sharp drawl was the last thing she had heard before everything went dark. She had awoken in the middle of the night to darkness. The image of Voldemort standing in front of her, then towering above her as she writhed on the floor was too fresh. She released choked sobs for the second time that night.

Hermione had spent the rest of the night curled up in a chair. She had pulled it to the window and stared outside, catching sight of a faint shadow twirling through the sky at some point. The figure dipping into the trees every so often.

By sunrise, Hermione had returned to her bed and read back through the schedule for the weekend. With nearly a whole day free before going to Paris, she had mainly spent her time relaxing and recovering. She had wanted to find something to read in the sitting room, but couldn't bring herself to go back in there, and contended to stay upstairs until she met Draco for their departure.

She had almost looked forward to her interactions with him. He had surprised her more than once; made several moves in their practice sessions that were almost kind. He had thought to warn her. He had asked her how she was doing after recovering from the curse. And their eyes had connected in a fleeting moment even before the Lovebomb went off.

The Lovebomb. She hadn't realized what was happening on the dance floor until his body moved closer to hers and his scent filled her with a sense of longing she'd never had before. She had glanced down at his hand, moving towards her waist with purpose. It slid around her body and pressed lightly against the small of her back as the other twisted through her hair. She had never been touched like that before. Fingers had combed through her hair and strong hands had gripped her body, but not like that. Her lashes had felt heavy under his spell, eyes drifting closed as she touched him back. She had needed him; needed to be closer to him. And when his head lowered beside hers, her breath had caught. He was intoxicating. She had swayed with him and relished the heat of his body against hers. Mmm. She hadn't realized the moan had left her. It was involuntary, but as natural as breathing. A whisper of her name in her ear; shortened. No one had ever said it like that before.

The heat crept up her neck to her cheeks as the memory of his words ghosted through her mind.

No holding back, right? His hands had gripped her jaw, holding her steady.

Number four. Her fingers had found their way to his abdomen.

Her thoughts skipped to ten minutes later.

Fuck.

He had murmured it under his breath, but she had caught the sound. She had moved through a daze after Theo had pulled them out of the room. She hadn't wanted it to stop, and she hadn't cared that it was all because of a stupid Lovebomb. As they left, she had imagined his touch again; hoped he was watching her arse as she walked ahead of him.

The moment he had said it, she had whipped around - breathing unsteady - and moved with him as he gripped her again, his touch electric. She was pushed against the brick wall. The cold on her back overshadowed by the warmth of his body, the heat of his kiss. She hadn't been able to stop her hands from roaming every inch of him she could reach. His hands had buried into her hair again, and though she had only wanted him like that for fifteen minutes, it had felt like she had been wanting him for years. If the crack of Apparition hadn't sounded, she wouldn't be surprised if they had both willingly woken up in bed together.

Stop, she told herself, standing straight from the counter. She wouldn't think about any of that anymore. No. She would think about how he had healed her. There hadn't been any hesitation from him. One second she had been rushing into the kitchen to scold him for whatever it was he was doing. The next, she was lying on the bed, following his movements as he had fixed her.

A ding in the next room jolted her from her thoughts. She shook her head and released a sigh. In the main area, the lift door was closing as a large cart wheeled itself in, carrying her order, a stack of papers, and a pile of wrapped boxes on its bottom shelf. Just as she passed under the archway, Draco passed through the opposite one. They briefly connected eyes, but she tore hers away, busying her hands with the coffee she had ordered. He approached the cart, as well, and went straight for the papers. Out of the corner of her eye, she scanned them as he flipped through the pages.

Her eyes roved over his hands, the same ones that had touched her the night before. The same ones she had watched in the bookshop. Stop.

On the top of the stack was a small hand-written note signed by Theo stating that he had sent along the Prophet article, as well as other recent papers about them he could gather. His note also mentioned that Draco had just missed Blaise, but that a letter from him was included in the stack of papers. Hermione waited for Draco to rip it open, hoping she could find out what was going on with the two of them, but he pocketed the letter. She didn't dare ask about it; didn't want to break the tension.

The articles she caught glances of were all lies, as she had expected. False accounts of her and Draco's experience at the Janviers' were riddled throughout the pages of many eastern European countries' top wizarding papers. News was spreading about Voldemort; her and Draco's falsified story at the forefront of the dark wizard's propaganda.

She picked a banana from the assortment of fruit and turned away, opting to sit at the formal dining table near the wide windows opposite the lift door. The view outside was calm and beautiful, a stark contrast to what she had recently experienced. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stood amongst the many buildings, the morning clouds passing its tip as the minutes ticked by. She tried to stay cool and collected with him in the room.

Draco dropped an open box holding a birthday cake on the table. She had just peeled her banana and was taking her first bite when they made eye contact. Fuck. She hadn't meant to meet his eyes. He lifted his brows, then gestured towards the dessert; the movement a question. She nodded, trying to finish her fruit quickly as he sliced a piece for her with a flick of his wand and summoned a plate. When he slid it to her, he made to leave, but she caught his wrist and gave him a look, despite the blush that rose to her cheeks.

He took the seat next to her, summoning a plate for himself and starting on his own slice of cake. They sat in silence for several minutes until Hermione chuckled to herself.

"Something funny?" he asked, though this time, his tone was void of any malice; so different than when he had first said it after they signed the marriage document.

She looked up into his eyes and lifted the corner of her mouth in unison with her brows. "You're having chocolate for breakfast again."

He huffed a tiny laugh and looked back down, continuing to eat. She searched his face for any blush; any sign that he had ran through the events of the previous night, too. If he had, he didn't give anything away.

They finished their drinks and food in near silence again, and just as Draco was about to get up, Hermione cleared her throat. "So…what was that last night?"

The blush she was looking for finally appeared. "What was what?"

"You were shattering glass against the wall," she said.

His features sharpened, and she immediately regretted speaking up at all.

She kept going. "I appreciate your help after I fell, but why did it need to happen in the first place?"

He stood from the table and cleared it of the remnants of their breakfast, averting his gaze from her. "I believe I apologized last night-"

"Malfoy, I'm not mad, I'm just-"

"Hermione, please, let's drop it," he said.

The words died in her throat at the sound of her name. "Okay," she said, her voice small.

He retreated to the bedroom, and for the next fifteen minutes, she waited at the table, staring out the window.

When he returned, he didn't look at her. He waved his wand at the lift door and gestured for her to accompany him. She swallowed and followed him into the lift, keeping herself pressed against the opposite wall. Neither of them spoke the whole way down. As a disembodied voice announced their arrival at the lobby, Draco led her down the hall, halting when he saw an exasperated employee explaining to several people with large cameras and notepads that he could not give out the personal information of guests.

"Come." He pulled her the opposite way towards a rear exit of the building.

She followed a pace behind him through the back alley, trying to remember that they had to play their parts today. They would have to touch again; hold hands and smile at each other. She quickened her steps to catch up with him, reaching out her hand. He flinched at her touch, but let her lace her fingers through his. They were cold, and as they walked together, she could feel the tension in his grasp.

"So," she started, "we're meeting with Leon Laurent and Yamis Fournier from the Bureau des Magicommunicationsnow?" She already knew the answer. She had memorized the schedule for the day.

"It's Yanis, but yes, we are meeting them at Sûre Cerises. It's a few blocks from here." His tone was sharp; businesslike.

She nodded and searched for something else to say. Nothing came to mind, and she had waited too long to continue, so she stayed quiet.

They made it to Sûre Cerises - a low-key wizarding pub - a few minutes later, managing to avoid the wizarazzi completely. Draco flung the door open with a flick of his wand. Despite the brightness of the morning outside, the pub was dark and windowless, concealing the time of day with a constant evening feel. Upon their entrance, the few people that were scattered around the room glanced in their direction. She was led along the row of stools at the bar and past the barkeep, whom she caught inclining his head at Draco. In the far corner of the room, Draco guided her to a circular booth where five men and one woman sat, looking at the pair of them walking their way. In their meetings prior to the one with the Janviers, Hermione had stayed quiet and smiled politely, as she was meant to do according to her schedule. She was instructed to do the same in this meeting, but got an eerie feeling at the additional heads at the table.

The closest man stood and greeted Draco. "Monsieur Malfoy, bienvenue."

"Monsieur Laurent." Draco gripped the man's hand, then addressed the whole group. "Messieurs. Mademoiselle. Good to meet you. This is my wife, Hermione."

As he gestured to her, she smiled and offered a slight bow of her head. Most of those at the table were noticeably uncomfortable with her presence; one man lifted his brows at her, one smiled, and a couple others others nodded her way. She followed suit as Draco took a seat. As she crossed one leg over the other, he placed a hand on her thigh, and the image of him gripping her there the night before and pulling her into him flashed through her mind. She shoved the thought aside.

"Now, Laurent, I appreciate you and Monsieur Fournier agreeing to meet me, but I did not agree to meet with any more than the two of you." Draco's voice was polite, yet commanding. He could hold attention with ease, and added to the already thick air of tension simply with the ring of his tone.

Several of the people at the table shifted where they sat, though the only other woman present showed no discomfort.

"Monsieur Malfoy," she spoke up, holding a hand out to Draco. "Odette Roux. C'est un…plaisir."

Did she have to say "pleasure" like that? Hermione stiffened slightly as an immediate displeasure of this woman grew within her. It wasn't solely the woman's overly flirty interaction with her fake husband that did it, though that definitely contributed to the problem. It was the combination of that action with her plunging neckline and complete dismissal of Hermione's existence that forced her to concentrate extra hard on maintaining a pleasant expression.

Hermione's eyes followed Draco's movements as he shook her hand. "Likewise," he said.

Odette smiled at Draco and gestured to the three men he hadn't yet been acquainted with. "Zis is Vincent, Paul, and Augustin. We work at JLL, ze real estate firm across ze street from ze Ministry. I 'ave known Yanis for years, and when 'e told me zat 'e was meeting with Draco Malfoy," her eyes glistened as they ran over Draco, "I couldn't miss ze opportunity-"

"I 'ave to admit," the man Odette had pointed out as Paul interjected, "zat it was interesting to learn of ze famous Malfoy 'eir's involvement with a née de moldus." He glanced at Hermione. "Muggle-born, as you call them."

Hermione's smile dropped, and the whole table waited with bated breath for several beats.

Draco finally spoke up. "And? Your point?"

"Well…" Paul looked to his companions, silently asking for help.

"If I may," Odette said. "For years, Lord Voldemort and 'is sympathizers were strong supporters of pure-blood ideals and blood supremacy. But now-"

"This is not the time to focus on outdated beliefs that only encouraged revolt from dissenters," Draco cut the woman off and launched into his well-rehearsed speech.

Hermione had heard various versions of his spiel several times now. At the apothecary in Place Perenelle, Draco had run through a quick pitch to confirm the owner and longtime Voldemort sympathizer, Jean-Pierre, was in full support. The meeting after that had taken longer because it was with four recent graduates of Beauxbatons whom Voldemort had sent Draco to recruit for new Defence Enforcer positions in France. The recruits had many questions, but were excited about the prospect of playing a vital role in the expansion of Voldemort's efforts. Hermione had felt sick the entire time, and was feeling similarly in this moment as he ran through his talking points.

"Lord Voldemort has made great strides in the United Kingdom since the Resolution of Hogwarts, and he only wishes to continue these efforts further across Europe. His first three Advancement Decrees have already made Britain's wizarding community stronger. The first replaced the seriously failing Auror Department of the British Ministry with the Department of Defense Enforcers. The second disbanded the Muggle-born Registration Commission, which was an unfortunate, yet necessary step during a time of war. In the aftermath of the Resolution, however, Lord Voldemort saw it more important to focus efforts on promoting a community of love, unity, and acceptance. That is what led to the third decree, without which Hermione and I would not be sitting here with you now." Draco squeezed Hermione's knee, turning to her and offering a warm smile.

She smiled back, and raised a hand, placing it on his cheek, pushing aside any notion of unease at his speech. He turned his face to press a soft kiss to her palm, and she did her best not to start at the intimate gesture.

Turning back to face the group once more, he continued. "Lord Voldemort is planning on implementing his Decrees here and is looking for some inside support to make the transition run smoothly. Of course, those who show public support will be given a little incentive to ensure their loyalty."

The group exchanged glances.

"This will be negotiated between you and a select member of Lord Voldemort's trusted Enforcers, if you so choose to support the cause," he said.

Vincent cleared his throat. "You will not be ze one we deal with?" he asked.

Draco laughed. "I am but a messenger at this time. With our honeymoon being here in France, Lord Voldemort felt it would have been a wasted opportunity if I didn't make the rounds on his behalf."

The group collectively nodded with raised eyebrows, seemingly impressed with the exclusivity of it all. Hermione was quickly learning how tailored these pitches were to the individuals Draco met with. He was clearly meant to hit the major talking points, but the approach was specific to the wants and needs of the meeting attendees.

"Well, Monsieur Malfoy, I think I can speak for all of us when I say zat Voldemort's work is monumental. I look forward to seeing what he will do for ze French wizarding community and beyond," Yanis Fournier said.

"Je suis d'accord," Odette agreed.

The rest of the meeting flowed with pleasant conversation. Hermione stayed quiet, laughing with the others when appropriate and feigning interest in the ramblings, though her mind was focused on the way Draco absentmindedly played with the hem of her dress.

At the end of their second hour at the table, Draco told the group that a liaison of Voldemort's would be stationed in France in the coming weeks and would be in contact with them soon. He stood, and the rest of the table followed, all wishing him and Hermione a lovely rest of their honeymoon. As they set off towards their next destination, Hermione ran through every new bit of information she had heard in his spiel. Voldemort was planning to station someone in France. Sooner than later, he would have "liaisons" in countries all over Europe, and would be implementing his Advancement Decrees anywhere he could. He was bound to continue creating such Decrees that easily fooled the reader. On the surface, they seemed to be great steps towards a better world, but she knew first-hand how much of a farce they truly were. Wherewas the bloody International Confederation of Wizards? How could they and countless others let him get away with this?

Her furrowed brow must have given it away that she was in deep thought because she found herself jolting to Draco speaking directly to her.

"I need you here with me right now," he said.

She shook her head and rubbed her temples. "Sorry! Yes, I'm here."

No response.

"I just have a lot on my mind," she added.

He closed his eyes and took a slow breath. "Number five." His steel eyes connected with hers again.

"Huh?"

"Number five. 'Think as a team,' right?" he said, his voice as soft as the breeze that swept across her face.

After all the tension between them that morning, it was strange to hear him speak to her so intimately. "You're right. Number five." She laced her fingers through his left hand. "So, next we are headed to Place Cachée?" Again, she knew the answer, but she wanted to keep up the conversation.

"Yes. I have been there many times, so I'll Apparate us to a spot just near the entrance to Montmotre," he said.

He spun them away.

They landed near the bronze statue of a woman sitting on a pedestal. As they climbed a set of stairs and approached, the woman moved her flowing skirt aside, allowing them entrance through the pedestal to the wizarding district, Montmartre. They emerged into a street bustling with hundreds of people. Hermione clutched his arm and smiled as heads turned in their direction.

The whispers started as Draco led her down the stone street. She wasn't phased by the attention they were getting, though for the first time since this whole charade began, she received several glares. She didn't take them personally; she would've glared, too. Well, she probably wouldn't have glared, but she would have been equally as confused and disappointed as the people giving her the dirty looks if she was looking at herself from the outside.

Their first stop was a Quidditch shop in which Draco and the owner spent a significant amount of time talking details of the game Hermione had no interest in. The following few shop meetings went smoothly until the pair headed back into the street towards the sweets shop, K. Rammelle's Enchantée. The word must have gotten out that they were in the area because a number of reporters had shown and were clearly searching for them in the streets.

"Zere! Ze Malfoys!" one of the photographers shouted.

"Here we go," Draco muttered under his breath.

Hermione squeezed his hand as they halted in the center of the street and the various reporters and photographers caught up to them. His fingers had warmed under her grip, and she had to keep herself from focusing too much on his firm grip.

"How is ze honeymoon so far?"

"There are rumors that Voldemort seeks to expand his regime into France and neighboring countries in the coming weeks. Can you speak on this?"

"¿Puedes contarnos sobre tu cumpleaños?"

"Is it true zat ze Janviers may face charges for ze attack on you?"

The small crowd all spoke at the same time, but Draco spoke over them. "My new wife and I are having a wonderful time in France," he said as he slipped his arm across her shoulders. The eager reporters quieted and listened intently as Draco continued in his smooth voice. "The people have been incredibly welcoming and supportive of our union." He smiled and directly addressed the Spanish reporter. "Mi cumpleaños fue bueno, gracias." Turning back to everyone, he continued, "Without the implementation of Advancement Decree No. 3 in the U.K., Hermione and I would still be struggling to be together in secret. This Decree was the catalyst that allowed for us to share our relationship with the world. Our only hope is that one day, forbidden lovers everywhere will have the privilege of leaving behind hate and prejudice, no matter where they live."

Lovers. She knew his word choice was planned and calculated, but it still sent an odd feeling through her when it left his lips. When he had finished, they both smiled and waved as he led her to the next shop.

The rest of their busy day whirled by, Hermione's performance on par with Draco's as they moved through it with increasing ease. When he stepped right, so did she. When he ran a hand down her back, she leaned into his touch. They were in sync.

As daylight turned to dusk, Draco Apparated them to an alley a few blocks from the Eiffel Tower. Since their encounter with the press earlier in the day, the reporters had left, but the photographers found them wherever they ended up. She fully anticipated the feeling of eyes on her as they walked closer to the famous landmark. The feeling nearly unnerved her as she thought of a Voldemort watchdog following them, but she was pulled from her concern by the cotton candy skies behind the tower. She stopped in the grass, taking in the view.

He stepped closer to her, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "Bozo's here," he said.

His breath was warm against her neck.

"Skeeter's photographer?" she breathed back, attempting to match his seductive presentation.

"Yes," he said.

She nodded and pulled back, smiling up at him for the camera, wherever it was. He slid his hand around her back, just as he had done the night before, and she tried to process what was happening. She was so present now. They had been under a spell before; entranced in its effects. But in this moment, she could really feel his movements, as if they were happening in slow motion. His fingers wound into her hair and he pulled her close to press his lips to hers. Her back arched as she leaned into his body, touching his abdomen as she had before. A flash popped somewhere in the distance.

He relaxed his grip in her hair and pulled his lips away from hers, resting his forehead on hers.

"That should do," he said quietly.

She nodded, forcing herself to remember herself and the situation she was in; who she was with.

"That was good," she said, looking into his eyes. "Good for the paper, I mean."

He made a little sound of agreement.

"Beautiful," a voice from a few paces away said.

They both parted and turned towards the sound. A couple around their age was standing in an embrace nearby, meeting each other's eyes with an electric energy.

"Sweetheart, the moment I first saw your golden eyes, I knew you would be something special to me," the man said. "Ever since that night at the little bar in Olympia, I knew I wanted to be with you for the rest of my life. You laughed so hard, you spilled your Tequila Sunrise on my favourite jeans." He nervously laughed as he took his partner's hand in his and lowered to one knee.

"Oh, Lawrence!" the woman breathed, pulling her free hand to her mouth.

Hermione couldn't take her eyes away from the couple. The man held onto the woman's hand. She held her breath as the scene unfolded before her.

"Gayle, will you marry me?" he said.

The woman cried through a wide smile and accepted his proposal, jumping into his arms as he stood and whirled her around.

"That's sweet," Hermione said, turning back to Draco.

The look in his eyes made his indifference known.

"Oh, come on, Malfoy. It's really sweet. Doesn't it make you…" she considered whether to continue or not, pausing for far too long.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish.

"Doesn't it make you sad?" she asked.

"Sad? Why in the bloody hell would-"

"Because we'll never have that," she cut in. "We went through a war and now we're in this mess. We may never get the chance to really have what those people have." The words stumbled out of their own accord.

Draco was silent. He kept his eyes on hers, but his expression was blank, yet she could see that something was spinning within his mind.

"You hadn't thought of that yet, had you?" she breathed.

His brows slightly furrowed. "Not really."

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as they watched the newly engaged couple take photos together with a disposable camera.

"Can I ask you something?" she said. She was feeling quite bold. Seeing another flicker of real emotion from him reminded Hermione of the wedding reception and the speech he had given. If it wasn't for her smile, it was for her wit. If it wasn't for her wit, it was for her laugh. If it wasn't for her laugh, it was for her cry. And if it wasn't for her cry, it was for her heart. At the time, she had wondered if he had written it himself. She thought maybe he had written it with someone else in mind.

"Go ahead," he said.

"Who inspired your speech at the reception?"

His eyes flickered with surprise. "Who inspired-? What are you asking?"

The heat grew in her cheeks. "Nevermind."

"No, Granger. What is it you want to know?"

Bloody hell. "Was it written with someone in mind? I joked about you thinking of me as Pansy before, but I suspect she's more of a friend to you. Is there someone else?"

The hand that had stilled on her arm dropped to his side. "That speech was from my father."

That was unexpected.

"He had written it for part of his vows to my mother on their wedding day, but Voldemort found it in a drawer in the Manor and insisted it was the 'perfect rubbish' for our narrative," he said.

His expression was unreadable, but she knew - just knew - that it was hard for him; that talking about his mother was painful. She regretted bringing it up.

"So, to answer your first question," he continued, "it was technically inspired by my mother. And to answer your second question, there isn't anyone I would have thought of to write something like that." He paused. "I don't have a Weasel to give me inspiration." The corners of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

"If you are referring to Ron and implying that he would be my inspiration in writing about my supposed love for you, that wouldn't be the case," she said, an eyebrow raised.

"Is that so? I always thought if it wasn't Potter, it'd be the Weasel," Draco laughed.

Hermione's chest clenched at the mention of Harry, and bringing up Ron didn't help, either. "Stop calling him that," she said. She turned her body away from him and tried to remain calm. She closed her eyes and sighed a heavy breath. "Can we go now?"

"Yes," she heard him say as his hand gripped hers.

She was pulled along for a few minutes until he spun them away, landing just outside Le Royal Monceau. Neither of them spoke the whole way. She walked alongside him and kept quiet.

"Are you alright?"

Hermione nodded. "I'm fine," she said, then walked past him to the kitchen and downed a glass of water.

After twenty minutes of searching the cabinets for food and only coming up with boxes of chocolate-covered strawberries, heart-shaped lollipops, and a number of other perishable romance-themed sweets, Hermione decided to take a shower. On the way to the washroom, she picked up her bag and passed Draco, who was lying on the bed reading a well-worn book.

She stopped in the doorway. "I'll take the couch tonight, so you are fine to sleep there." She turned before he could answer and snapped the door shut.

After a much-needed shower, Hermione left the bathroom in her pjs, only to find Draco fast asleep on the bed with the book he had been reading lying open on his chest. She hesitated for a moment, wondering whether or not she should move it, but realized it was ridiculous to teter on the thought. She carefully lifted it off him and set it on the side table. Nineteen Eighty-Four. Hermione stopped in her tracks. He was reading Nineteen Eight-Four. By George Orwell. A Muggle author. And the book was tattered; it had clearly seen several read-throughs, and had countless dog-eared pages.

Draco was far more complex than she had thought he was.

She shook her head and fled the room, her mind spinning. Curling up on the couch, she glanced at the grandfather clock. 11:11 p.m. Make a wish. Her mind kept spinning as she searched for something to wish for.

"I wish…" she whispered to nobody. She searched for something to say. "I wish…" but she thought for too long. The clock hit 11:12 before she could decide, and she gave up. Of course.

The following hours passed by without event or any sleep. Hermione rotated between sitting up to read, laying down to watch the clock tick, and closing her eyes to try to sleep, but her insomnia prevailed. As she watched the clock hands hit 2:28 a.m., she heard a mumbling from the bedroom that grew with every minute that passed into intervaled, incoherent yelling. She flung the blanket off her legs and climbed off the couch, shuffling sleepily across the room and under the archway into the bedroom. Draco's face was pained.

"Malfoy," she said, but there was no answer. The moaning and mumbling continued, and he jerked and thrashed every few seconds. She repeated herself louder, but again, he didn't wake, so she walked to the other side and climbed onto the bed, sitting up next to him. She hesitated to touch him, but ultimately placed her hand on his arm. It jerked at her touch, then relaxed against the sheets.

"Hey," she breathed, "it's alright."

Beads of sweat slid down his forehead as he whimpered, mumbling nonsense, though his writhing slowed and minimized.

She ran her hand up his arm and over his shoulder, and his body calmed. "It's alright," she said softly as she touched his cheek with her fingertips. The warmth radiated off of him; his skin was hot, and any feelings of frustration with him from earlier melted at his touch.

"'Mione."

A pounding in her chest hilted at the whisper. She jerked her hand away from his face and breathed for several seconds, unable to stop a hard swallow. When she looked at him again, his face was fully relaxed and he had fallen into a comfortable sleep. No thrashing. No screaming. No mumbling. He was calm, and it calmed her.

She leaned her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes.

Next update: December 30, 2020

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