August

After that day in early July when they came together again—relief soaked in sweat, pressed against skin, apologies traded with forgiveness in the quiet spaces between affirmations of love and adoration—Draco simply never left. She'd invited him into her home under the pretense of forever, and they'd both taken it rather literally.

They didn't start trying to cram his furniture in the flat until a month of relearning each other had passed. July had somehow managed to become simultaneously the most intense (sex, apologies, forgiveness, understanding, sex) and most cautious (fear, hope, fragility, healing) month of his life. But being able to work through those things, sequestered in a tiny little flat with just her (and Crookshanks), could not have been more perfect. He couldn't have imagined a better outcome to the months he'd spent without her.

I'm sorry I never explained how bad it really was with my parents, from him.

I'm sorry I tried to decide what was best for both of us, from her.

I don't think I'm ready to vanish my Dark Mark, from him.

I don't think I'm ready to vanish my scar, from her.

I love you, from both.

I want kids.

At least two.

Being an only child was lonely.

It was.

We're doing this.

We're doing this.

Towards the end of the month he asked: "What are we doing for Potter's birthday this year?"

She stared at him with open astonishment, quickly supplanted by affection. "He's out of the country with Ginny and James on holiday. Perhaps we can spend that week moving your furniture in."

In a reversal of how it had once begun, he moved his belongings into her flat. And by moved, he meant crammed. And by crammed, he more accurately meant barely fit. He had to leave several pieces in Theo's ballroom for Pansy to sell. Moving, too, took more time, more effort, and a lot more energy, it seemed, when one had a regular job to attend.

By the end of the first week of August, Draco vowed to himself that he'd never move again. At least, not unless absolutely necessary; he did not care how tiny Hermione's flat was.

In the corner of their newly cramped living room, Hermione sank into a black leather wingback.

"I've missed this one." She said it with a sigh and a smile and something so simple and content it stole Draco's breath. She pulled her favorite crocheted blanket from where it lay, draped over the back of her armchair, and cozied herself up. "One of my favorite places to read."

Draco tapped at one of their coffee tables with the toe of his shoe. "Two coffee tables seems a bit much," he said.

She smiled, breathed a small laugh. "Well, as it's presently covered in several stacks of books, we clearly need it. We'll figure out what to do with it once we have the book situation sorted."

"We have more books now than the last time we lived together." He stepped around the tables, avoided a small book tower, and leaned against the arm of her chair.

"Speaking of, perhaps we can move some potions texts into the spare room." She leaned and looked up at him as she spoke. "You could put together a brewing set up in there." She poked her fingers through the crocheted holes in her blanket, grazing the side of his thigh.

"You don't want to use it as an actual guest room?"

She shrugged. "A guest room would be lovely, but you like to brew outside of work and I"—she dragged her teeth across her bottom lip—"I do enjoy watching you work." He smirked as she rushed an explanation out, barely allowing him a blink to savor her compliment. "It's relaxing, seeing you work. And I've been doing some experimenting of my own. I—well, I had a sudden abundance of spare time this year so I started fiddling with charms."

Draco's cheeks strained from his smirking. She'd be furious at how self-satisfied he looked, but he couldn't help himself. He lifted the blanket from her lap, draped it across the back of her chair, and pulled her hand into his. With a fond sigh, she stood when he tugged at her, walking around the arm of the chair and lining herself up against him.

This sort of casual embrace ranked high on his list of ways he loved to hold her. Conversations had against curls, hands holding waists, fingers trailing spines: easy touches he now counted himself lucky to have.

"You didn't blow through the rest of the biographies at your little book shop, did you?"

Her fingers flexed at his stomach, twisting his shirt. When she peeked up at him through a cluster of curls, the tiniest flush of pink spotted her cheeks. She cleared her throat before she spoke, steadying herself.

"I'm up to the J's now, actually." She leaned harder against him, chest pressed to his. Draco had to push back in order to prevent himself from tipping over the arm of the chair. "I had a lot of time, and fewer meddlesome prats trying to interfere with my progress."

That could have hurt, could have been intended to hurt, but he didn't take it that way and she didn't mean it that way. They were past the hurting, determined not to have any more of it.

"Who? Me?"

She rolled her eyes and breathed a laugh, eyes fluttering as he dropped a kiss at her temple.

"I've finished unpacking the kitchen, by the way," he said, fully invested in earning as much goodwill from her as he could. "I've organized all our tea strainers right next to the kettle."

She hummed a noise that bordered between acknowledgement and distraction. Her fingers played with his shirt fabric, knuckles brushing his stomach. It almost felt like she might start unbuttoning his shirt. Additionally, like she had zero interest in tea strainers.

Crookshanks hopped onto the chair, perching himself on the arm and forcing his head into Hermione's hands.

"Crooks seems happy to have you back," she said with a smile, and with almost no evidence to support that statement. Draco assumed she simply believed what she wanted to believe about the cat's affections; she did have a bit of blind spot where the orange menace was concerned.

"If anything," Draco said, twisting to offer a few scratches along the cat's neck, "Crooks is pleased because my presence means more Theo. And more Theo means more treats, since he's apparently physically incapable of visiting without giving Crookshanks at least four or five."

"We may need to hide the treat jar."

Draco smiled. "How old is Crookshanks now? Maybe we just let the old man enjoy himself."

Hermione dropped her head against his chest as if he'd showered her in a storm of his most romantic words. She sighed against his placket, one arm around his waist tightening.

Draco entered a haze. Was this what they called domestic bliss? Was this why someone, somewhere, idiotically happy, had coined such a term? The serenity of it sparkled in his veins, settling like a shimmering Floo powder in his soul that transported him instantly, easily, to his calmest, to his most at ease.

He almost didn't hear the owl tapping on the window. Almost.

He held Hermione tighter, just for a moment, before allowing her to break away with a grin, greeting their interloper.

The owl landed on a stack of books next to him. At first glance, Draco thought his parents had written him, heart plummeting. But the eagle owl presently skewering him with an unamused stare didn't belong to the Malfoy Estate, at least, not as far as he knew.

"Is that?" Hermione began, vocalizing the same concern that had just seized him.

He shook his head. "No, not theirs."

She nodded and walked to the kitchen, presumably to acquire a treat for the rather imperious winged creature now presenting its leg to Draco. He removed the parchment, which unrolled and flattened into a crisp envelope in his hands.

Hermione returned, treat prepared as payment, which the owl took with a snap and flew off.

Flipping the envelope over, Draco found a sigil for the Greengrass estate stamped in the wax seal. He sank into the armchair, baffled in the next moment to find Hermione crawling into the chair with him, curling up with a smirk.

"Welcome to my lap," he said, cracking open the seal.

Her words coasted against his neck. "Happy to be here."

A puff of shimmering silver confetti burst from the envelope, followed by a glittering invitation.

Draco didn't intend to vocalize his "huh" out loud, but evidently did nevertheless. "Astoria is getting married."

"In October," Hermione added as she leaned forward to read the invitation. One of her wild curls brushed the side of his face. He rounded his lips and blew, sending the curl out of his line of sight. Hermione squirmed. "Two months? That's quite short notice."

Draco rested his chin on her shoulder as she continued reading the details on the floating invitation. First he smirked, then he smiled, then he laughed.

She twisted, wearing her own smile. "Why are you laughing in my ear like that?"

"She's pregnant."

A small jolt of surprise, followed by recognition.

"Astoria?"

"Two months' notice for a pureblood wedding? She's pregnant. I have no doubt." His chuckling subsided, leaving only a grin.

"And you're—pleased about that?"

"It certainly suggests she's going to be marrying someone she actually likes."

"Someone who's not you."

Truth be told, Draco's thoughts about Astoria in that moment had centered exclusively around his happiness that she'd found someone she wanted to be with. He'd mentally sidestepped their history of being betrothed. The edge of possessiveness in Hermione's tone told him that she hadn't. Further, it ignited a supreme sense of smugness deep inside his chest.

That smugness spilled into a smirk.

"Don't start," she said, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to speak. "I heard it, too." She scrunched up her face, looked at him, and said, "I'm not jealous."

"Of course not." He was glad she didn't smack him for smirking again.

She did roll her eyes, though, and he definitely deserved it. She plucked the invitation from the air, gave it another read, then set it aside on the table.

"I suppose this means we're going to your ex-betrothed's wedding."

August passed lazily. Sex on the sofa. Sex in their bed. Attempted, though unsuccessful, sex in their tiny shower. Sex on brewing benches, against doors, and pinned to walls. Many and varied ill-advised places, all things considered. But Draco found himself struggling to resist the voice in the back of his head that reminded him of every surface, every place in their flat, that he hadn't had her yet. He had a whole new world, small as it may be, to have her in. And once he'd pointed out the potential achievement in it, in a literal fucking tour of their flat, well, that was the day he had her on the kitchen table.

Thank the gods for scourgify.

But more than the sex and the persistent muggy heat and the new routines involving his own regular working schedule now, Draco truly lazed with her. He spent tired evenings after a long day at the shop reading a book on the sofa while she and Crookshanks sat and cuddled nearby. Or he spent a weekend fiddling with new potion variations while Hermione watched, or experimented with magic of her own. Or they simply talked, whether it be nose to nose in their bed or across from each other at the kitchen table, negotiating over the scar she wasn't ready to vanish. Not until he was ready to forgive himself for the Dark Mark. They caught each other up on six months lived apart and made cautious, hopeful, wild plans for their future.

On one such lazy evening, Draco sat with The Count of Monte Cristo open in his lap, squinting at the fine print, and cursing its reintroduction to his life. Hermione laid on the sofa next to him, cold toes wedged beneath his legs as she worked her way through a journal on magical beasts sent to her by Luna Lovegood, all the way from South America.

The Floo flared bright green, blinding Draco for a moment, before he recognized Pansy Parkinson standing in their living room.

Hermione jolted up in surprise; Draco merely closed his book.

"Gods, you two are boring. Really?"

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked with a meaner edge to her tone than he'd heard from her in years. Perhaps since school.

Pansy swiped several green cinders from her sleeve. "You're just"—a vague gesture around the living room—"reading together? Like your bodies have already given out and the sofa cushions soothe the ache in your old rotting bones?"

Draco nearly told her all the ways his body was still in perfect working order, specifically in the form of a list of all the places he'd fucked Hermione within his current line of sight. Pansy's exaggerated shock stalled his tongue.

"Granger. What in the ever living fuck are you wearing?"

Draco glanced sideways, forgetting what she had on, finding his interest piqued over Pansy's horrified outburst. Hermione looked down at her pajamas.

She wore her red, plaid pajama bottoms. Drawstring style, perhaps a bit big on her, but Draco had no complaints. She had on one of her sleeping camisoles, a simple white cotton. Sure, it wasn't the finest nightgown or pureblood dressing he'd seen his mother don when he was a child. But that was part of Hermione's charm: her unassuming, humble, simplicity in some things. Fashion choices being one of them.

"I'm dressed for bed, Pansy." Draco watched with rapt fascination as Hermione's face and tone alternated between something genuinely offended, tentatively amused, and surprisingly exasperated. All of it coated in a strange cover of fondness.

What an absolutely bizarre thing to witness.

"It's seven on a Friday evening." Pansy uncrossed her arms, pinched the bride of her nose and lifted her shoulders as she dragged a deep, dramatic inhale. "Alright. This is a lot to unpack. First of all, you need new sleepwear. Ideally something silk, or satin. The camisole isn't a terrible idea but don't you want his"—a gesture at Draco—"hands to be able to glide over you and not get caught on cotton or flannel? And gods, give him a little skin to touch below the shoulders. Merlin, Granger."

Hermione's reaction to Pansy's general Pansy-ness seemed to favor genuine offense as a bright red flush crawled up her neck and over her tightly clenched jaw. Pansy, undeterred, battled on.

"And further, you should not be in your sleeping clothes this early in the evening." She shook her head, tutting. That grated on Draco's nerves. His mother liked to tut. "I'm appalled, honestly."

Hermione sat straighter, red flush slowly settling into pink before fading out. "I've gathered your general distaste, yes."

Pansy loosed a derisive snort and set off down the corridor, slinging words back at them as she walked. "I've come to collect you two. We're going to Theo's."

Draco lifted his voice, hoping it carried to wherever Pansy intended on going in their flat. Hermione just looked baffled again. "I believe we're reading, actually, Pans. Hermione catches up on her reading on Fridays."

That earned him a fond smile from Hermione that pierced through her confusion.

Pansy reappeared from the corridor, head peeking around the corner. "Well isn't that just disgustingly domestic." She glanced back down the hall. "One of these is the bedroom, I assume? I'll just pick your outfits, then."

Pansy dipped out of sight again as Hermione shot to her feet. She lifted her hands, a confused, searching sort of posture, as she turned to Draco.

"Is she just going to—rifle through our stuff?"

Draco finally set his book aside, sighing, and resigning himself to the change of trajectory being forced upon his evening.

"Yes." Then, with even more resignation. "But she'll pick something nice."

"That's—that's not the point. She can't just go through our stuff."

Hermione took a single step away from the sofa, clearly intent on putting a stop to Pansy's plans, only to find Pansy barreling back into the living room, fringe jostled.

Wide, disgusted eyes scanned their living room. "You two must have a copy of Fantastic Beasts here somewhere, right? There's an unidentified creature in your bedroom." She drew a finger through her fringe, resetting it to its perfect, pre-jostled position. "I do believe I've barely escaped with my life."

"That'll be Crookshanks."

Pansy arched a brow. "Is that the species name?"

"No Pans, it's"—he stumbled, caught for a moment between words: her cat or theirs?—"he's a cat. I said the same thing at first, but he grows on you."

Hermione simply glared at the both of them. At Pansy, he assumed, for insulting her best feline companion, and him, for admitting to ever having had disparaging thoughts about the beast.

"Pansy," Hermione began, leveling her tone into something calm. "You can't just—I don't know what to call this. Does it count as breaking and entering?"

Before he could stop himself, Draco found his hand at the back of his neck, massaging tense muscles.

"I added her to the wards."

Hermione sighed. "Of course you did. Blaise and Theo, too, I assume? Should I acclimatize myself to unannounced entry?"

"Probably," Pansy said. "If we're looking for crime designations, we could call this attempted kidnapping." She turned and pointed a perfectly lacquered nail at Draco. "You, take the orange monster. Granger and I need some girl time."

Evidently, Hermione's confusion prevented her from putting up more of a fight. Instead, she allowed Pansy to loop her beneath the elbow and pull her down the corridor, a deep line carved between her brows as she looked at him with a sort of What is happening? expression. Much as he should have had sympathy for her, Draco chuckled, rolling his lips between his teeth in an attempt to hold the sound at bay.

He heard what he assumed was the door to their bedroom slam shut with a touch more aggression than he might have liked. A moment later, Crookshanks came slinking into the living room with a disgruntled meow.

Draco sank back onto the green sofa and invited his fellow outcast to join him. Apparently girl time meant no cats, either.

Crookshanks settled, curled up beside Draco.

"I suppose it's a good thing I hadn't changed yet, isn't it Crooks?" He offered the cat a few scratches behind his ears, generally a safe bet to earn a bit of goodwill from him. Crookshanks's tail unwound from his curled position, gave a swish, then returned to his bundle.

A thump from beyond the darkened corridor drew Draco's attention. The cat seemed rather unperturbed.

"You have better hearing than me, right? You'll let me know if there's an emergency in there, won't you?" His scratches migrated from ears to neck to tiny orange shoulders. "Of course you will, you're a good boy. But you mustn't tell Hermione I've admitted that."

Several minutes later, wherein Draco absolutely did not carry on a conversation with the cat attempting to sleep beside him, Hermione and Pansy emerged from the bedroom.

Hermione wore a pair of tight fitting, dark denims and a rather silky looking blouse—neither of which he'd ever seen before.

"Was that already in the closet?" he asked.

Pansy ignored him.

"Granger owns an offensive amount of denim. I'm definitely taking her shopping. Tomorrow, ideally. This can't stand."

Behind Pansy, Hermione shook her head silently, eyes rolling, as she suppressed an exasperated smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"I was surprised to find she had a few nice bras, though," Pansy added.

Hermione's good natured amusement fizzled, replaced by a faint blush.

"Alight, let's go." Pansy marched to the Floo with barely a glance back. "I need to make sure Theo and Blaise have followed my directions in party planning. If you two don't come through within five minutes I'm coming back and dragging you."

"What? No critique of my outfit?" Draco asked, not entirely sure if he meant to goad Pansy or impress upon Hermione that he was, indeed, acceptably stylish.

Pansy made a disgusted, annoyed sort of sound as she crossed her arms. "Your ensemble is perfectly adequate as always, though a touch boring. You could really do with some variety." Deliberately, her gaze tracked from his head to his toes. He smirked when he saw her finally land on his feet and the snitch-printed socks Hermione had given him. Pansy sighed as if mortally offended, then sneered. "Wear a brogue—a wingtip, preferably. Cordovan, if you have a matching belt."

She turned without another word and disappeared through the Floo. When Draco looked at Hermione, he felt as if he could see the words brogue and wingtip and cordovan creeping across her face. Words she probably knew in other contexts, but stringing them together under the lens of men's fashion seemed to momentarily debilitate her.

He grinned as he walked by her, letting his fingers graze her silk blouse, finding her waist as he bent to kiss the top of her head. She wore perfume, too, something more floral than she usually opted for.

"I'll be right back," he said. "I need to change my belt before we volunteer for our own kidnapping."

That seemed to snap her out of it.

"I can't decide if I like Pansy or not." She shook herself, as if seeking to throw off unwanted or unwarranted affection. "Perhaps I'll teach Theo about Stockholm Syndrome this evening."

Spending a Friday night at Theo's, drinking and gambling and having an all around good time, despite lectures on Stockholm Syndrome and Pansy's lack of boundaries, was a vastly preferable way to spend time, in Draco's option, than finally having to face Hermione's friends again the following week.

Seeing James, that Draco was excited about. The rest of it? Weasleys, former Weasleys, Potters of both the scarhead and married-in variety? That he could do without. He didn't much look forward to his awkward reintroduction to Hermione's friends. No easy explanation existed to acknowledge that something terrible had happened between them, they'd both realized it and moved forward, and now were just as deeply involved, even more so, than they had been before.

"Are you nervous?" Hermione asked, stepping to the living room in a sundress Pansy made her buy the week before. Draco walked a fine line between effusively complimenting her—because truly, she looked divine and Pansy had excellent taste—and downplaying his interest in her new wardrobe pieces so as not to offend the way she normally dressed.

But this particular outfit, a tight bodice with little straps and a flaring skirt in a pretty cream color? She looked sun-kissed and good enough to eat. Which he might have tried getting away with had she not just pointed out the nerves he'd been so diligently ignoring.

"No, I'm fine."

She didn't exactly roll her eyes, but the knowing quirk at the edge of her smile felt like it conveyed much of the same idea. She wound a few curls around her fingers, twisting and pulling and repositioning them.

"Is my hair alright?"

She fought this war every year when humidity made its appearance in the summer, when muggy afternoons puffed up her curls and left them looking even more wild and untamed than usual. Draco was truly, devastatingly honest when he said, "It's perfect."

That time she did roll her eyes, but took his arm regardless.

"You do seem a bit nervous," she added as she reached for a pinch of Floo powder.

"I haven't seen any of them since—well, I did see Potter for a few minutes when he stopped by the shop a couple of months ago."

Poised to toss the powder into the fireplace, Hermione stilled.

"Harry did what?"

"He was worried about you."

"He never mentioned going to see you."

Draco gave her arm a light squeeze. "We didn't exactly uncover any great truths about the nature of sadness. We mostly just—threatened each other. Or perhaps I was the only one doing any threatening?" He tilted his head as Hermione finally tossed the Floo powder down. "Honestly, I can't remember."

On the other side of the Floo, stepping into Grimmauld Place, the pressure on Draco's arm drew his attention back to Hermione.

"Ron and Lavender are engaged. Did I tell you? I don't think I did."

"You did not."

She wore a distant expression as she scanned the living room, perhaps waiting to be greeted. When she looked back up at him, Draco had difficulty discerning the meaning behind the way her brows drew together but lifted towards the middle, muscles around her eyes tense, but visibly forced to remain neutral.

"Well—they are," she said.

Draco blinked, taking a shot at what her expression might mean. Divining it, perhaps.

"Are you wanting me to be jealous? Or to expect you to be jealous?"

"What? No. Of course not."

He arched a brow.

"Well, maybe a bit. Just in the way that makes you a little"—she made a couple of unintelligible gestures—"handsy, I suppose."

His other brow joined the arched one, both lifted in a sort of amused surprise.

"At your godson's first birthday party?"

With all the faux scandal he could muster, and an overwhelmingly pleased sensation bloomed behind his ribs, Draco leaned to her ear. His hands wandered, clinging to her waist, sliding around to her back, finding her spine.

"You don't want me to get handsy, do you, Hermione? Were you hoping I'd mention how there's no way you're wearing a bra with this tight little bodice and these very thin straps?"

She sucked in a breath, but swatted at his arm.

"Not—right now." A hint of pink rose high in her cheeks, just enough that he felt successful in having had some effect on her. "Social engagements do happen to be a lot more entertaining with you around, though. Even those that involve my adorable godson."

"Speaking of"—he pulled her towards the corridor, as it became clear that a welcome to the Potter's house was too much to expect—"where is he, do you think? I've quite missed him."

"You did?"

"I have a gift with children, remember?"

Ginny found them in the corridor. She was panting and a touch out of breath, with the child in question perched on her hip.

"Just barging in without waiting for a greeting? I thought your pureblood sensibilities were above that, Malfoy," Ginny greeted with a smirk, still a bit winded.

It was as if nothing had changed, no time had passed, and they hadn't slipped oddly out of touch after being thrown into each other's orbits for so long.

"Making guests wait an offensive amount of time before you'll deign to grace them with your presence? How gauche, Weaslette."

Ginny snorted and handed James off to him without preamble. Hermione made a disappointed sound from beside him.

"Enjoy your insults while you can, Malfoy. Harry and I are trying for number two."

Draco couldn't bring himself to sneer, not while smiling at James and how absurdly large he'd grown in the months since Draco last saw him. He looked so much more person-shaped now.

"That is far, far more information than I ever wanted to know about Potter's sex life. Thank you for the nightmares, Weaslette."

"Speaking of Harry, I need to go figure out where he and Ron have run off to. You two are in charge of the birthday boy." She gestured with a pointing finger between them, as if assigning responsibility with a look, and took a single step away before faltering. She turned back and looked directly at Draco.

"I already caved and let him have cake. I'm well aware of your cake sneaking reputation, Malfoy. Don't give him any more sugar."

Draco didn't. Though he very seriously wanted to the moment they stepped into the bustling kitchen filled with far more red hair than he generally liked to expose himself to. James's grabby little hands immediately started reaching out towards the long central table, laden in cakes and cookies and other general confectionaries that Draco wanted for himself and would have been very pleased to share with James.

Hermione steered them to the far end of the table instead, eyeing him with a far too amused smile that told him she knew exactly what he was thinking. Frankly, he didn't appreciate it.

"It's not like I can have some in front of him," he said as a sort of defense. "I will resist." James babbled in his lap, occasionally stumbling onto real words but mostly distracted by the transfigured spoons Hermione charmed into dancing on the table for him.

"You poor, suffering soul. How will you survive without your sweets?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Such little sympathy."

She giggled, smiled wide at James, and chatted happily with the birthday boy until Molly Weasley came to take him away.

Draco didn't miss the strained, almost twitchy expression on Molly's face as James changed hands.

"I might have expressly forbidden her from interrogating you today," Hermione said.

Draco spared very little thought for members of the Weasley clan, as a general rule, so he hadn't put much consideration into whether the matriarch might want to have words with him. Belatedly, he now realized he owed Hermione a debt for preventing such an unpleasant eventuality from unfolding. Perhaps he could eat his dessert off her later. She might enjoy that, and it would be fun for him, too. It felt like an appropriate thanks.

Neville found them in the corridor, on their way to escape some of the hustle and bustle that a kitchen full of Weasleys easily dissolved into. He offered a harried "hello," something about not being able to stay long, and hoisted a large, poorly wrapped gift beneath his arm.

Draco carried a slice of cake on a small plate in his hands. He nearly dropped it when Neville added before he left, in a completely casual tone, that Hogwarts had a temporary potions position needing filling for the upcoming year, and that Draco should consider inquiring.

Draco didn't know what to think of that, had never really thought about something like that, before. Hermione simply smiled at him, didn't disagree with Neville's assessment, and led them into the living room.

Sinking onto a large sofa, Draco set his plate on his knee just as Hermione turned to him. Potter and Weasley walked into the room, throwing a knowing sort of look their way.

"I might have forbidden Molly from interrogating you. But the boys insisted."

"Please tell me that was a very poorly executed attempt at a joke," he said, glancing over at an approaching bespectacled menace and his ginger sidekick. Draco looked down at his slice of cake. Well fuck.

Potter sank down onto the sofa next to Draco. Weasley followed suit on Hermione's other side. A snug fit, the four of them. Hermione leaned in, whispering quiet words in his ear.

"Please remember that I love you, and I really couldn't stop them, and I honestly think this will be good for the three of you."

Draco turned his head, nose brushing up against her cheek. "You're a beautiful, terrible traitor."

She laughed, placing a hand on his chest for a moment as she looked torn, chewing at the inside of her lip. Slowly, she stood, took one large step away from the sofa, and then several more in rapid succession until she slipped out into the corridor.

Weasley rose enough to scoot into the space she'd formerly occupied, leaving Draco rather distastefully sandwiched and abandoned. Weasley blew out a breath, fingers drumming on his knee.

"Ginny was looking for Hermione."

"I'm sure she was," Draco said. "This is it, then?"

"Seems necessary," Potter said.

"Is it, though?"

From Weasley, "She was depressed for months."

"It was rather unfortunately mutual, if you must know."

From his periphery, Draco saw Potter's face screw up: mouth and nose and brows all fighting to form some kind of unknowable expression. Potter continued to stare straight ahead when he spoke again. "Well, we just wanted to make sure that it's not going to happen again."

"It's not."

On Draco's right, he felt—and saw, just a touch in his peripheral vision—Weasley turn towards him. Potter did the same, a smile inexplicably planted on his face.

"You've got a rotten poker face, Potter. How do you perform your duties as an Auror with a shit-eating grin like that?"

Weasley sighed and slapped Draco on the shoulder with far more familiarity than he'd earned.

"She's already made us promise not to be too hard on you," he said.

Draco snorted before he could withhold the derision.

Potter pushed his stupid glasses up. If he'd just get a pair that fit properly, he wouldn't have to touch them all the fucking time. Draco resolved to convince Hermione to get him new glasses for Christmas.

"Look, we've accepted it, alright? We're pretty much stuck with you, yeah?"

Potter's words were a strange echo, bridging memory and time and conversations long since concluded between completely different parties. He'd heard that before, when Hermione had said it about his parents. He'd been hopeful, then, struck by the implied permanence in her words. Now, that permanence didn't have the same novelty. It had become a fact. But that it could be acknowledged so freely, and by the likes of Harry Potter, debilitated Draco for a moment.

"Yes," he finally said. "Unfortunately, we are stuck together."

"Don't look so put out about it, Malfoy. We're fun," Potter said, smiling again, annoying again. Draco indulged in an eye roll. "You like my wife, at least."

"And Lav says your tea leaves are always interesting." Draco didn't so much appreciate Weasley's input.

"I know you like Quidditch," Potter continued. "We could try playing sometime."

Draco found he'd much prefer lancing boils off the victims of gruesome potions accidents.

Weasley clapped him on the shoulder again. "I'm not even going to try to convince you to like me," he said. "That should count for something."

Oddly, it did.

He looked up to find Ginny and Hermione standing in the doorway, both failing to suppress smiles. Something about his face must have tipped them over the edge, because when Draco made eye contact with Hermione, she doubled over in laughter. At the same moment, one of the other gingers—George—snapped a photograph from behind Hermione, forever cementing in history an image of Draco stuck on a sofa between Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.

He'd have that photo burned. Camera dissolved in an acid potion. And if obliviation wasn't such a sore subject with Hermione, he'd probably have the lot of them forget this day ever happened.

As it stood, Draco could do none of those things. Not if he wanted to keep watching Hermione laugh so freely, clutching Ginny for support, and wiping the happiest sort of tears from the corners of her eyes.

Thank you so much for reading! This story is 48 chapters long and I will be posting a chapter a day all week until we conclude on 12/26!