September
Draco found Theo leaning against the enormous stone walls that made up Gingotts's gleaming white exterior. Draco appreciated timelines, generally abided by them to a fastidious, almost obsessive degree. But he'd had trouble pulling himself away from Hermione at the Floo that morning. Nor did he have a good reason for his struggle to disentangle himself, quite literally, from her hair.
She had plans to meet her parents for lunch. He would have attended if he hadn't made this appointment with Theo two weeks prior. Something about saying goodbye to Hermione on a weekend, the time they usually spent together, had him holding on a little tighter. Threading his fingers through her curls, coiling them around his knuckles, tugging just enough to angle her mouth to his.
Objectively speaking, if one were keeping track of time and timeliness, one might say he kissed her for too long, crowding her against the fireplace and losing himself in the warm, lustful fog that descended like a summer squall whenever his mouth found her skin. He found it difficult not to lose himself in the wonderful, glorious ease that living with her again, having her again, brought him.
Before hadn't been bad, not by any stretch of the imagination. But only with the benefit of hindsight could Draco see the things that had been hanging over them: his parents' prejudices, her concerns about professionalism, the topics they avoided in an attempt to protect each other. But now, after, certainty silenced all that doubt. They'd picked, the two of them. Decided. They agreed, decisions in his and hers, that they were willing to pay what must be paid to have their happiness together. And sometimes that cost came in the form of extended kissing when one had other places to be. Other times, it came in the form of late night conversations about the things they expected of each other, needed from each other, and asked of each other. The kissing was enjoyable, but the conversation necessary.
He'd detached himself with just enough time for her to hop through the Floo to her parents' newly connected fireplace, perfectly on time, though not several minutes early as she'd planned.
Draco, on the other hand, had to Floo to the Leaky and then walk at a sensible pace down Diagon Alley in order to meet with Theo.
He opened his mouth to offer some kind of excuse, only to have Theo cut him off.
"I really don't want to know why you're late," he said, before turning to the doors. He paused, a half twist back to Draco. He tilted his head just enough to indicate he intended to point with his posture. "She's mussed your hair, mate."
Theo almost looked amused as he pushed open golden doors and entered the bank.
"Not off to teach youngsters this year, I take it?" Theo asked as he handed over his wand and coordinated a trip to his vault.
Draco snorted.
"Hardly. My inquiry about the open position was summarily rejected. Apparently they've temporarily filled the position for the year."
Theo shrugged, accepted his wand, and followed the Goblin to the vault carts. "There's always next year," he said. He made a grand, sweeping sort of gesture, inviting Draco into the cart first.
Draco folded himself into it. "Seems doubtful. Though I was rather blandly recommended to apply in full next March when they are accepting applications."
Theo sat next to him, another question, or comment, or something utterly exhausting but likely entirely well-meaning about to spill from his mouth.
"Let's not talk about my employment failures." He cringed, regretting the words as soon as he'd spoken them. He risked a glance at Theo: perpetually and eternally unemployed, it seemed.
"Oh, don't feel bad. I've stopped trying. I've decided to call myself an inventor. Gets people to stop asking and it isn't exactly wrong."
The cart lurched into motion.
"You're definitely an inventor."
Theo shrugged.
Several minutes later, their cart came to a screeching, unpleasant halt at the Nott family vaults. A bit unsteady as he rose, Draco allowed himself a deep, nervous breath as the Goblin accompanying them unlocked and opened the vault.
"Thank you," he said to Theo's back, standing a bit behind him. Theo turned. "For this. Thank you, Theo."
Theo just grinned. A huge, full-face consuming kind of grin. "I literally cannot think of a single better use for any of the junk I have laying around these vaults."
Draco followed Theo inside. The Nott heirloom vault looked similar to the Malfoy one. Of course, the Malfoy vault took several more minutes to reach, deeper in the Gingotts's cave system. But generally speaking, one vault crammed to bursting with jewelry, priceless artifacts, and rare art looked very similar to the next.
Despite the gray stone walls and the darkness trying to creep in from the caves, the whole space had a warm, yellowing glow about it: from the sconces to the glints of gold to the gratitude shining behind Draco's ribs. It all felt very warm.
"This way," Theo said, leading Draco towards the back of the vault. "We don't have a great deal of jewelry, but I swear I saw some—ah, yes. Here we are."
Draco joined Theo in front of a tray of rings in all variety of size, cut, color, and obscenity of price and historical value. Theo waved his wand and a fine, golden handwriting scrawled to life above each piece, only adding to the gilded splendor around them.
"So. They're tagged by century of acquisition, last known owner, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. My great grandmother Cecilia apparently enjoyed organizing and cataloguing the family jewels."
Draco lifted his brows, simultaneously impressed and amused.
"Not a euphemism, I swear," Theo said, smiling all the same.
Draco stood, staring at the rings for several minutes, long enough that Theo began shifting in place, weight transferring from foot to foot. Finally, tentatively, Draco gave into his impulse towards the first one that caught his eye. A gold band with an oval shaped ruby surrounded by an orbit of tiny diamonds. He picked it up, examining it.
"I was sort of hoping you'd pick that one. A bit of Gryffindor for her, yeah?"
Draco sighed.
"I've tried giving her rubies before. It did not go well."
Theo's head tilted. "Well, I suppose that's fair. But aren't you two living your lives to the fullest now, past be damned? I assume that's what all the sex is about, judging by how often your Floo is locked." Theo gestured to the ring. "I think that one is perfect for her. But if you want something more—classic? There are some diamonds."
Draco looked back down at the other rings. "The diamonds are all rather—ostentatious. She'd never want something that big."
"What about the sapphire, then? But that does feel like an ode to Ravenclaw, and while Granger is definitely the smartest person I know—no offense—she's still a Gryffindor."
"I got over her being smarter than me in the mid-90's."
"That's good. Best not be holding grudges against your future wife."
The word wife hit Draco square in the chest. His diaphragm seized, breath halted for the several seconds it took to reconcile that such a word had not been spoken in jest. But rather, it represented a very real, very likely future state in his life.
He looked down at the ruby ring again, still poised between his thumb and forefinger. He tried to picture it, imagine it. On her hand, nails dragging down his forearms, cradling a child's head, holding his hand, answering owls from Hogwarts. He liked what he imagined. It drew him in, a happy dream, a potential reality.
And strangely, it almost felt like a new opportunity. A chance to do jewelry right, a chance to succeed this time, where before he'd very much failed. More than that, the ring spoke to her tastes, too. The others were all too big and too gaudy and too offensively garish. She would hate them. But this ruby: it was smaller, understated, beautiful.
Theo must have seen his decision crystalizing, because he clapped his hands together, grinning that wide, foolish grin again.
He plucked the ring from Draco's fingers.
"I'll have any lingering wards or curses broken from it by the end of the day."
Draco's eyes widened, then neutralized. It shouldn't have been surprising information that Nott jewelry might be just as cursed as the sort available in the Malfoy vaults.
"When are you doing it?" Theo asked.
"Her birthday, I think. I'm finally going to take her to Italy. We've—never successfully made it there."
Theo sucked in his cheeks, head tilting. "And the wedding?"
"I don't—I don't know, Theo. Do you think we could get engaged first?"
"Just trying to figure out my timelines."
"Your—what? Timelines for what?"
Theo's grin shifted, more of a smirk, definitely something knowing, almost teasing. He lifted a brow, casually leaning against a suit of armor. It shifted slightly under his weight, but held. He popped the ring onto his pinky finger, teeth flashing as his smile broke again.
"Oh nothing—just a little something Blaise said." Theo waved his hand, dismissive. "All off-hand and ominous like he does sometimes."
Draco didn't know what to think of that. "Ok?"
"I can't decide if I should go to the Ministry or not."
"Excuse me?"
Ominous, indeed. Tension pulled his muscle fibers together, preparing Draco for bad news, or at the very least, something startling. Theo had a habit of dropping unusual, unexpected information on him at inopportune moments.
"I should probably just apply for a bonding license by post. I feel like they'd be more likely to approve—or at least not stall my processing—if they don't have to see my face. I'll have to brush up on the magic involved. I'm sure I have a book on marriage ceremonies in my library."
Draco's head spun, repeating the phrase marriage ceremony over and over and over again inside his skull.
"Shame I look just like my father, isn't it?" Theo continued, entirely unfazed by what he'd just said. "But you know all about that. Spitting image of Lucius, you are. Not enough to metaphorically bear their burdens, is it?"
Draco found his voice, pulled it from a tangled place at the base of his throat. "Could we back up for a moment? Bonding license?"
"Mmhmm."
"For our—are you planning on marrying us? Did Blaise say—"
"Of course Blaise didn't say. He never says. Never says much of anything, does he? Great prat. But there were implications, subtext between the two of us, if you will."
Draco snorted, inappropriately amused.
Theo lifted his pinky, ruby glinting in the warm light inside the vault.
"So, I'll make sure this is clean and then you'll be in the clear to propose to that witch of yours."
Draco grinned this time, matching Theo's ridiculous enthusiasm with his own.
"I'm going to hug you now," Theo announced.
Draco barely managed a faux roll of his eyes. "Must you?"
"Absolutely. My best friend is happy again and he's going to get the girl. Seems hug-worthy, don't you think?"
"You're so sentimental," Draco said as Theo pulled him into a genuine, heartfelt sort of hug that spoke to decades of friendship, of more history than they could navigate individually.
"No, mate. That's you."
Draco's frown only lasted a second, wrangled back into a smile by Theo's joy.
—
Hermione called to him from their bathroom. She'd spent the last half an hour doing far more primping and styling than her norm. "Are you really not going to tell me what we're doing for my birthday?"
She'd already asked him twice. He declined each time. He twirled his wand between his fingers, waiting idly in his chair at the kitchen table.
"No," he said, barely having to lift his voice to travel between them in their tiny flat. "I'm not. It's a surprise." He heard her groan, muffled between drywall and timber and paint. "I know you don't care for surprises, big surprises at that. But we're celebrating your birthday in style this year and you can't stop me."
She stepped into the corridor with a snort.
"You're a petulant prat, you know that? It's my birthday. Shouldn't I get what I want?"
"I haven't been able to give you everything I've wanted to give you. Please let me spoil you, just a bit. Just for your birthday."
"Is that wise?" She stepped forward, evidently finished with her preparations. "Doing something—bigger? What with adjusting to our new financial situation, and all?"
Draco's jaw tensed. He forced away the irritation, the annoyance, the subtle pang of embarrassment that flooded his veins. She'd prodded a fresh wound—gently, but a prod nevertheless.
He rallied, finding a smirk and planting it firmly on his face.
"I have wealthy friends."
"My birthday requires wealthy friends?"
"This one does."
She made a tiny, whining groan in the back of her throat.
"Am I dressed appropriately for something like that?"
She was. A navy dress he'd never seen before, probably another new addition from the 'Pansy redoes Hermione's wardrobe' project. It skimmed her hips and fell just above her knees.
She looked absolutely stunning.
"You look beautiful. Perfect. And I'm already wearing gray, so we'll look well-matched together."
"Well-matched? You sound so unforgivably posh when you say things like that."
"They can take away my money, but the habits remain."
It felt easier when he prodded the wound himself. A familiar pain he might desensitize himself to.
She reached a hand to the back of her hair, isolating a curl that spiraled away from a low bun. Her lips pursed as she tackled it, trying to force it in with the rest of her hair.
Draco could feel her nerves, radiating in tight actions and strained features, more than unease over a surprise. She had to know. Or have some kind of idea. They'd agreed on it, after all. Admittedly, he'd been buried in her cunt and kissing praises across her collarbone at the time, but they both knew—she knew—that he would propose. And soon.
He held up an ornate silver key. A portkey, specifically.
She paused in the battle with her hair, rolling her eyes as she realized what he held. Her hands fell from her hair as a smile finally forced its way onto her face, acceptance, perhaps, that he planned to give her one night of extravagance. If ever there were an occasion, this was it.
She reached for his hand as Draco activated the portkey, letting Theo's gentle, improved version of the device spin them away. And when they landed, he held her closer, hands winding in her hair, releasing it from its binds. It spiraled outward the instant he freed it.
"Stop fighting it," he whispered. "It's beautiful."
And even as the humidity in an unusually warm Italian September inflated her curls, he truly believed his own words. He loved it. Loved her.
She looked around the room they'd landed in.
"Are we in a winery?" she asked.
"Yes."
A pause.
"It's—empty?"
"We have the place to ourselves."
He placed a hand at her lower back, fingers acting as tiny pressure points bracketing her spine. He steered her towards a large window overlooking the rows of trellised vines on the hill below.
"It's beautiful," she breathed. Then, she turned. "Are we—where are we?"
His answer came out a touch more sly this time, unable to restrain how pleased he was with himself.
"At a winery, as I've just said."
Hermione's hands found her hips. She narrowed her eyes, mouth tight, expression holding for a beat. Then, a cautious amusement peeked through. He assumed she meant to look serious; she only looked kissable.
"What country are we in?"
"Italy." He grinned as he said it, placed his hands on her shoulders, and turned her towards the window again, encouraging her to take it in. He watched her eyes widen, smile growing, apples of her cheeks rounding as she exhaled.
"I've always wanted to see Italy."
"I know. That's why we're here."
She turned back to him. "Draco, it's a Monday. Don't you think international dinner plans are a bit much for a weekday? Even when it's my birthday?"
He laughed. The fact that he'd expected her to bring this up, and beautifully, predictably, she had, fluttered fond amusement deep in his stomach.
"Not when you have the whole week off, it isn't."
She frowned, forehead creasing as her brows bunched together.
"I voluntarily schemed with Potter to put in a time off request for you at the Ministry. Which, by the way, you took three weeks off for your parents earlier this year and you still have far too much holiday accrued. We're vacationing more, I've decided."
Her jaw hinged open, closed, then open again. "That was…very presumptuous of you."
"Yes, I know. And I knew that might annoy you a bit. But, I'm also presuming this evening is going to go well. And then tomorrow, I'm taking you on a tour of the country. Wineries, restaurants, museums: all the art and history and fine dining your heart can handle."
As expected, her indignation, her tiny swell of annoyance, melted with each promised activity, aimed directly at a holiday wishlist she'd shared with him on more than one occasion. She still looked a touch annoyed, but she looked excited, too.
"Draco, this is—a lot. Probably too much."
"Not for you." He found her hand, pulled it to his lips, kissed her knuckles. "Never for you. It's all planned out. Theo has prepared our portkeys, Blaise owns several of the wineries we're visiting—this one included—and Pansy stocked your tiny beaded monstrosity with a week's worth of outfits."
"Crookshanks?"
Draco couldn't decide if he ought to laugh or be offended that she felt compelled to ask. He chose to laugh; he chose lightness. With her, he would always choose lightness.
"Theo is overjoyed by the idea of cat-sitting," he said. "Hermione. I'm not a beggar. I run a business. I still have some connections. Let me spoil you. For this, please let me spoil you."
She turned to him more fully, winding her arms around the back of his neck, fingers anchoring her at his nape. She rolled her lips between her teeth, a pause as she thought.
"And what is this, exactly?"
"Your birthday."
"That's it?"
He leaned down, kissed her, poured every ounce of himself into it. "Not even close," he whispered in the tiny spaces between their lips. He pulled back and reached for her arms, detaching her grip around his neck. He led her away from the window, through the winery, and to a large, vaulted room with walls lined in enormous oak barrels from floor to ceiling.
Candles floated throughout the room, a table set for two in the center.
Supremely pleased with himself, Draco savored the breathy noise she made, knowing he'd quite literally stolen her breath. He led her towards the table; her clammy grip in his hand tightened with each step.
When he turned to her, he could see her nerves: a jittery sort of anticipation that would prevent her from truly enjoying their setting. Instead, her gaze darted around the room, taking in every detail, but with a sort of critical analysis, void of enjoyment.
Hermione Granger, generally level-headed, especially in a crisis, looked utterly debilitated by a romantic dinner.
He pulled her to him by their still-entwined hands, disentangled their fingers, and held her close, breathing against her hair. He smiled into her curls, trying to offer her comfort, confidence. "Relax, Hermione. This is going to be a perfect evening."
He could feel her breathing, tight and forced, expanding and contracting her ribs against his. "I don't know why I'm so nervous." She said it in barely a whisper, low and slow, words melting from her mouth like candle wax.
"Of course you know."
She tensed, a line from her fingers against his waist, up her arms, and across her shoulders. She rolled them back, trying to force that tight posture away.
She knew what was coming. And if Draco admitted it to himself, his whole body felt coiled tight, tension barely containing nerves of his own. He kept thinking, treacherously, traitorously, of how he'd never successfully given her jewelry before. What with the disastrous ruby necklace and the doomed ring in his valet box.
This ring though, the one in his pocket, it came from Theo's vaults. This ring had none of the Malfoy tarnish on it.
He pulled away from her hair and leaned in, holding his face close to hers, begging for eye contact when she seemed much more interested in divining the thread count of his cotton oxford. Lined up, bodies held close together, he almost felt like he might be dancing with her: a silent, motionless dance, just the two of them.
"I want you to enjoy our dinner," he said.
"I do, too."
"I don't want you to be nervous, Granger."
That rattled her breathing. He'd done it on purpose, slipped into a slightly cajoling use of her last name. Her front teeth sank into her bottom lip, a flush of pink and white as she held it there, held her breath.
He'd been planning on doing it during dessert, after a beautiful meal. But he didn't want her to suffer these nerves if she didn't have to, especially if she already knew. At a certain point, it only felt like prolonging the inevitable. Something about the simplicity of this moment, standing so close, not quite dancing, it felt right.
His dipped his head forward, just enough to skim past her cheek, to find her ear.
"Say you'll marry me." He unlocked her hands from their grip around his waist, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a velvet ring box. He put a cautious amount of space between them, enough to look at her directly, to make his intentions crystal, undeniably clear. "I said I'd give you more jewelry one day, eventually. Of all the jewelry I've ever tried to give, or thought about giving you, this is the one I hope you'll accept the most."
With his own nerves wound tight around his spine, Draco dropped to his knee. He took a fortifying breath, and restated it as an actual question.
"Will you marry me, Hermione?"
He'd expected her to cry; she usually did when her emotions overwhelmed her. Tears normally yielded annoyance, frustration over a thing she had little control over, furiously swiping at the offensive little things pouring down her face. But this time, she made no move to wipe them.
Judging from the quaffle-sized ball in the center of Draco's chest, he had to concur that there was something extremely, wildly overwhelming about their present circumstances. She reached for his wrist, pulling him to his feet. He'd barely straightened when she buried her face in his chest, arms wrapped around his torso.
Draco couldn't shake the buzzing in his ears, the pounding of his own pulse thrumming beneath his skin. The room around him seemed to roar with a wild, white noise that ignited his nerves, still ricocheting around his nervous system.
The roar dulled, tension finally subsiding, when he realized she was saying something against his chest, a little chant of yes yes yes he'd nearly missed.
They were quiet agreements at first, then louder, propelled by a wave of overwhelmed tears, then quieter again. She gathered herself, pulled her head back to look up at him, then immediately dropped her forehead against his sternum again.
"I didn't mean to make us wait so long."
"That's—not your fault. Hermione. You were right. We weren't ready." He lifted his hand, placed his forefinger beneath her chin, guiding her to look up at him. "For as ready as I thought we—I—was, I was still straddling two worlds."
He kissed her forehead, feeling something warm and soothing collapse inside his chest. It had fought for so long; now, it took its rest.
He led her to their seats, pulling his around the table so that he could sit directly across from her, face to face, without so much as a dinner table to obscure his meaning. "When I was my maddest at you, my most upset, I would think about how I'd always picked you and never really picked me. But that—gods, Hermione, that was so unfair of me, because by the end of last year it was just the opposite, wasn't it? You'd picked me entirely. And you were just waiting on me to pick you. And I'm sorry it took me so long that I didn't even realize I was doing it. I thought I'd already decided."
She nodded, finally wiping away some of her tears. "I know. We don't need to rehash this, not again, not right now." She reached out to brush his hair from where it had slipped from its charms, falling over his forehead. "I love you. I picked you, too. I want to marry you." Her voice failed, choked. "Can I see the ring?"
It seemed appropriate, in retrospect, that he'd fumbled something. Too perfect and it wouldn't have felt real. He'd never even opened the box.
His laughter came out as a groan, bordering on embarrassment. "Yes, of course." He cracked it open. "It's not a Malfoy heirloom, I promise."
She smiled, a touch wry and disbelieving, as she examined the ring he'd picked for her. "It certainly looks like an heirloom. It's beautiful."
"Oh, it is an heirloom."
She blinked, gaze shifting from the jewelry box in his hands to the mischievousness he knew hid in his growing smirk.
"It's from the Nott estate," he said.
"Theo?"
"He's given it to us."
He watched it happen, this time. Emotions winding their way across her face, finding a place behind her eyes, welling with new tears, equally overwhelmed.
"What did we ever do to deserve Theo?"
"Honestly, I don't know. I tortured him with peacocks as a kid. And yet, here we are."
She laughed and the dam broke. Her tears spilled again, but she smiled, so happy, so beautiful. The tension around them melted.
Draco pulled the ring from the box, setting its velvet cage on the table. He reached for her hands, watching her smile grow, her fingers a bit shaky. He ran his thumb down the back of her hand, over her knuckles, down the length of her ring finger.
"May I?"
She nodded, eyes fixed on the ring in his other hand. Between the flickering candlelight, the dreamlike setting in a winery reserved just for them, and the beautiful woman allowing him to slip a ring onto her finger, Draco barely believed his own circumstances. Unreal, impossible. As if this life couldn't be his, couldn't belong to him.
"Oh my gods," she breathed, surging forward to kiss him.
He could feel it. In a single kiss, the promise of a lifetime. And it was all worth it. Every last drop of pain and torture and uncertainty that brought him to that point. He'd do it all again, he'd spend those months miserable if it meant he ended up right back here, with her lips pressed to his, powered by the promise of forever.
When they broke apart, her hands on either side of his face, holding him there with her, she smiled, a bubble of laughter breaking through.
"I think I can enjoy our dinner now."
He kissed her again, not quite ready to relinquish the moment. But when he finally did, lungs burning, he smiled, too. "Good. We have authentic zuca di flora to enjoy."
And they did. Candlelight danced across her face again, one of his favorite sights. Whether over a meal in an Italian restaurant or in Italy itself, she looked beautiful. She looked like she'd promised to be his.
—
Returning to their flat after a week dining, and lazing, and fucking their way across Italy, the cramped space felt too cold, too dreary for the warm sunlight brimming between them. Draco genuinely thought he'd gotten an idea of what domestic bliss entailed; he'd had no idea. Now, though, after a week with nothing but Hermione and delicious foods and wines and sights, he had no doubt he'd finally discovered the meaning of that phrase.
He was disgustingly happy, truth be told. Theo would retch if he knew. Blaise would probably roll his eyes. Pansy might smack him, while looking reluctantly happy for him in an angry-Pansy sort of way.
Their flat felt very much the same, but also, so very different.
Hermione sank onto their green sofa, and he with her, wedging himself beside her as they lay together, inexplicably exhausted after such a relaxing week.
"Real life," she said on a sigh.
He hummed an agreement, or perhaps just an acknowledgement, into a patch of skin on her neck, nuzzled close and dangerously tempted to taste it.
"We're getting married?" she asked, voice quiet and wispy and barely there.
"Not a question. You've already agreed. I'm not letting you out of it." As if in proof, he tightened his arms around her midsection, hostage to a hug. She rolled her eyes, smiling.
"We're getting married." Not a question, that time. She touched his cheek lightly, two fingers, pressed and released. "You're a bit sunburned."
"Not all of us can tan as beautifully as you do. Some of us have very fragile, very fair skin."
"Poor fair baby."
"Your ongoing inability to sympathize with my circumstances is astounding."
Her smile only grew. He watched it reach the apples of her cheeks, teeth bright and white and gleaming at him. Her fingers twisted in the hair at the nape of his neck, sending a shiver shooting straight down his spine.
A cloud overtook her expression, nervousness peeking through. He thought he'd banished that look from her face back at the winery.
"What's wrong?"
She searched his face before she answered. Dread grew in the pit of his stomach. Finally, quietly, "I'm excited to tell my parents"—then faster, a rush—"but I don't want that to—hurt you."
That was all? He sighed, resigned. It did hurt, quite a lot, actually. Quite a lot more than he wanted it to. But he'd chosen it, so he shoved the hurt away. She deserved excitement, happiness with the family she'd put so much work into protecting, into pulling back together.
"Mine would never have been happy for us."
Her tight lips and look of pity grated on long-present nerves that wanted no such thing, not from anyone, not even her. He let it go, let it pass.
"Mine adore you. I didn't tell them much, about why we…weren't. When we weren't. I think they knew it hurt too much. But they're quite pleased you're back in my life."
A bolt of worry shot through him.
"They won't be offended, will they? That I didn't ask their permission for your hand?"
Draco didn't often get the chance to hear Hermione snicker, but she did, just then. As if the worry he'd expressed had been both hilarious and ridiculous.
"You're just flouting traditions left and right, aren't you?"
"This one was for you. You're your own woman, Granger. I know you don't need—or want—permission from anyone to do anything."
"Granger, is it? Granger-Malfoy soon, I suppose." Her grin shone like the Italian sun.
He buried his face in her neck, peppering tiny kisses on every inch of skin he traversed. She knew him too well, saw his diversionary tactic for what it was.
"Don't tell me you're surprised I don't want to drop my name entirely."
He laughed into her skin. "I'm not." He pulled back, looking at her. "Perhaps a touch disappointed."
"Hyphenation is a nice compromise, I think. I've already built a career as Granger, you know. Hyphenation will make it easier for people to re-learn my name."
He accepted her logic. He didn't mind, not really, not enough. "No one is forgetting your name, Granger. No matter what it is."
