"Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, take this woman, Hermione Jean Granger, as your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"Do you, Hermione Jean Granger, take this man, Draco Lucius Malfoy, as your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

"Well, now by the power that the state of Nevada has given me, I pronounce you man and wife."

"HA! I won the bet!"

—

Twenty-four hours earlier
Las Vegas, Nevada

Draco can feel the pulse in his temples even before he opens his eyes. Going out was a bad idea—he should've told Theo to shove it up his arse and let him be. He should've told Kingsley to shove the mission in America up his arse back in London so he could avoid this all together. Growling, his shifts on his back, throwing his head back on the pillow, letting out a sigh. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, using his fingers to rub his sore eyes and probably swallown temples. He faintly remembers falling off the chair last night. "Ugh," he grunts once more before rolling on his back so he can finally stand up.

Even standing on his feet is extra painful, making him stagger. "Shite," he hisses as his knees hit the drawer in the corner of the ridiculously white hotel room. Fucking America and its fucking sun , he thinks as the blindingly bright rays of sunshine make their ways into his room through the curtains. We get it, you are so fucking bright, he hisses in his head. He closes his eyes, sewing his eyelids shut. "Fuck you," he mumbles under his breath to no one in particular as he throws himself on the mattresses again. He should be in the Manor now, sleeping under heavy blankets and the deadly silence of the house he's accustomed to. But no . Kingsley saw him fit to carry on international policy.

This is how it works then—Potter and Weasel get all the action and Draco gets the scraps in a foreign country. Why not send The Chosen One in good faith? Before he can go on further, cursing any alive human being in London and then move on to the dead, there's a knock on his door. "Go away," he growls but the other person has probably not heard the weak growl as they keep on knocking. "Fuck off," Draco hisses louder, reaching for his wand to either charm the hang over away or hex the person on the other side of the door—whichever comes first to him.

"Open the fucking door," a grumpy voice says from the other side of the door. "How the fuck have you charmed it shut? Alohomora doesn't work," Theodore Nott shouts and Draco presses his temples down on his pillow.

"Fuck off, then," Draco hisses but the headache has drained to the point he can't find his voice to let them out louder. The knocking becomes more rapid, more impulsive. "Fuck you," he hisses, standing up and staggering toward the door, swinging it open only to face an even more fucked Theo Nott on the other side of the door. His shirt is untucked, the buttons closed wrongly, his trousers unzipped and his hair a brown mess. His eyes are unfocused, flinging his wand around like it's a sword. "What do you want?" Draco deadpans, standing between the door frame and door so he can't force his way in.

"Why doesn't your door open with my wand?" Nott slurs, pointing his wand at Draco. Draco throws him an unimpressed look, fixing his mouth in a straight line.

"It's upside down," he says dryly, already beginning to close the door. "Also, I don't lock my doors with Alohomora. Good thing you are not a first year student that only knows Alohomora."

"That's the only one I can remember," Nott whines, his shoulder slumped down as if he's about to cry, putting his toe between the door and frame. Draco hesitates for one second, debating if it's worth crushing Nott's foot only to heal it later. He decides against it—he's too tired to do so. "Let me in," Theo says, leaning his head on the grey door of his room.

"What do you want?" Draco asks, his temples buzzing, running out of patience every passing second.

"I want to grace you with my company," Theo growls, staggering past Draco with a force he didn't expect and making his way into Draco's room.

"Are you still drunk?" Draco asks, huffing his breath out, slamming the door shut. "I'm already in too much misery without you, thank you so fucking much."

"Don't be so grumpy," Nott hisses, throwing himself on Draco's bed. "Do you have some firewhiskey lying around by any chance?" he asks, licking his lips mischievously, making Draco roll his eyes.

"Yes, because the answer to every problem is just filling yourself up with firewhiskey," Draco growls, beginning to unbutton his shirt. "I am going to take a shower. I want you out of here before I come out. Armadillo Bile Potion is in the left corner pocket of my suitcase. Down a gulp and them fuck off, will you?"

But Theo is rubbing his face to the soft sheets, oblivious to any word that is leaving Draco's mouth, talking to the sheet. "You are so soft," he whispers affectionately as if it's the first time feeling the soft fabric. Draco almost chokes on his saliva as Theo winks at the pillow playfully before burying his face into it.

"Fuck," he cruses, shaking his head when the soft snores of a still-drunk Theodore Nott fills the room. He walks to his suitcase, his head slightly better now that he's fully awake and takes a gulp of the Potion before taking his shirt off, throwing it on the pile of laundry and taking out his towel, walking to the shower to wash off the reek off himself.

It's going to be a long day , he thinks as water runs down his body, touching his skin delicately and yet leaving it burning. He takes his time washing every corner of his body, touching his pale skin and studying it in the mirror for any sign of bruises that might've been left from the previous night. There isn't any so he finally puts his wand away, turning off the water to wrap the towel around his waist.

When he's out, Theo is still asleep, making him roll his eyes hard. "You big daft," he hisses, shaking Theo's numb body forcefully. "Wake up. We have a meeting with Britain's ambassador in this hellhole in an hour." But Theodore remains motionless, his snores getting louder. "I hate you," he deadpans but Theo doesn't show any sign of discomfort for the words leaving Draco's mouth. If he were any less exhausted—or late—he would kick the living hell out of him.

"Arsehole," is the last thing he growls before walking to his closet and changing into his black suit, deciding that it will take too much time to slick his curls back and too painful to perform a drying spell with his still lingering headache so he lets it fall, just running a hand through his hair. He looks good, he concludes. Not overdressed or like he has spent the entire night drinking.

When he steps out of his room, it takes as much as two second to disappear and reappear in England's embassy. He looks around to feel a glimpse of home he's missing so much. It's only been a week since he flew to the States and yet he feels like America has drained him beyond fixation. A week of stallation and finally he is able to see the fucking ambassador.

"Mister Malfoy?" a voice calls, making him turn to look at the girl with a thick American accent. "You are late."

"Am I?" he scoffs. "It isn't twelve just yet."

"It's half past twelve, Mister Malfoy," she says with a scowl on her face. "Miss Ambassador has been waiting for you for a long time."

"Oh fuck," Draco hisses under his breath. Fucking Theo , he thinks as he remember the son of bitch fiddling with his clock the last night—probably to make him believe that he still had time to drink the living hell out of himself. "Fucking Nott."

"Did you say anything, sir?" the young girl asks and Draco raises his eyebrows, running a hand through his messy hair and shaking his head with a fake smile. "Please do note that she might not be very satisfied with the fact that you are late."

"I know I am not," Draco says, shrugging. What can he do? The harm has been done. The girl nods, quirking an eyebrow as if to say duh before stopping before a door, patting his pen against the board in her hands before knocking on the door. "Miss Ambassador, your guest is here."

"Show them in," she growls, making the girl in front of Draco shudder before carefully turning the knob and letting both of them in. Miss Ambassador 's back is to them, fury radiating off her back. "Glad you finally fancies showing up," she says with a venomous tune and Draco's heart misses a beat for a split second.

It can't be .

Not her. Anyone but not her!

"Miss Granger, this is your guest from England, Mister Malfoy sent by Mister Kingsley," the girl explains, making Hermione fucking Granger turn to look at him with widened eyes. "He is—" She starts but Hermione holds a hand up, making her shut up at once.

"Malfoy?" she hisses, looking at him with wide eyes before turning to the girl. "This is the Ministry's messenger?"

"I prefer the term envoy," Draco deadpans, trying to keep his stoic face on at the sight of Hermione Granger—the devil itself.

"Yes, ma'am," the girl chokes out the words, feeling the tension in the room as her eyes jump from one to the other. "Should I—"

"You can go, Sarah, thank you," Hermione deadpans, not looking at the girl, staring at the man in front of her. Draco's silver gaze doesn't falter either, burning like fire, going on like a hot knife in a butter. "I didn't think I'd see you again," Granger finally says when the girl is out of the door.

"Well, what can I say? Between you and me, you were the one moving to another continent to avoid seeing me again, Granger," Draco says with a dry tune, taking out one of the seats, sitting on it, carefully putting one knee on top of each other, making a show of sitting just for the sake of pulling his thoughts back together.

A year and half since they last met and yet now that they were in the same room, it didn't feel all that surprising—all that grand—at all. He always thought if they saw each other again, one of them would snap, scream or make a scene at the first sight and none of them has done so so far. Draco is glad because he always thought he'd be the one to snap. After all, Hermione Jean Granger had been the one to leave him at the altar with his dick in his hand, forced to say "The Wedding is cancelled." for more than a hundred times.

"Draco—" Hermione starts but before she can say anything, Draco clears his throat, his temples buzzing again. He wonders if it's because of the hungover or because the thoughts are rushing back in.

"Can we get to the work, Miss Ambassador?" Draco says finally, avoiding her eyes. "Kingsley has filled me in for the most part but I would like to hear the full story."

She throws him a pained look as if she's filled with words she wants to get out but she can't. Finally, she clears her throat and sits before clearing her throat, fiddling with her hair. "There have been signs of Death Eater movements here—in the States. People with European heritage are being killed in their houses, always a painting of the Dark Mark up in their living rooms."

"After six years?" Draco asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Why start the movement once again now that the Dark Lord is gone?"

"We suspect it's not the real—the first generation—of the Death Eaters. Just people who think they stand a chance, thinking they are smarter than Voldemort," Hermione sighs. "But ten wizards and witches have lost their life in the past two months so I thought it best to involve the ministry as well… though, I expected an Auror to—"

"Kingsley saw me fit for this mission as it is a matter of International Law Department," Draco interrupts, venom dripping off his voice with his eyes burning, his heart pounding in his chest. Oh, Merlin, he would give anything to be able to throw a hex at Granger's perfectly still demeanour.

"Of course," Hermione simply says, licking her lips slowly. Draco knows that face too well—he hates himself for knowing it, though. She is thinking deep, trying to get herself out of this situation, to get back the control of everything. Draco would've smiled two years ago—at her flushed face and thoughtful expression. He would think it's endearing.

He doesn't anymore.

He wants to wipe it off her face. He wants to scream and shout and rip her to pieces. "Unless, you want to run away," Draco can't help but add eventually. "I am sure I am more than capable of handling this by my own."

"Well, there it is," Hermione hisses, huffing out her breath, looking at Draco like she's been waiting for this. "Say it. Whatever you've been waiting so long to say."

"I haven't been waiting to tell you anything," Draco hisses. "I said all I had to say before our wedding day and you shoved it all in my face, coming to this continent. I have nothing else to say to you, Granger."

"Granger is it, now?" Hermione huffs. "Very well, then, Malfoy . I will say it. You think I ran away."

"Fuck yes, you did," Draco says, losing his temper. He was never like this—he wouldn't get angry. He would smirk and look at people's tempers burn them down, allowing them to drown in their own self pity. These past months, he's been the one drowning in his rage all over again. Every day. "You ran away and I was the one left behind to pick up the pieces!"

"I didn't ," Hermione hisses. "You know what? Never mind. I know what you are trying to do and I am not falling for it again. I will let another person handle this because I know we will not be able keep it civil and—"

"And there you are again, running away!"

"What?" Hermione scoffs. "You are a petty, petty, bloody small man," she hisses, taking a dangerously aggressive step towards him with fire in her eyes.

"Salazar's sake," Draco curses, standing up. "Okay, Granger. Hook me up with some other American in this big place of yours but please, don't ever try to face the mistakes you made and try to explain them. Merlin forbade Hermione Granger ever made a self-conscious decision." He's already on his feet, trying to straighten himself out, running another hand through his platinum blond hair to pull them out of his eyes. For fuck's sake, he knew he should've brushed them backwards. "I would say it was nice seeing you but I'm not the one to lie." And with that, he's out of the door, leaving Granger in the middle of her office with her face flushed and her eyes unfocused.

Fuck America.

He should've stayed home and shown the finger to Kingsley.

—

It takes forever until they are done with scamming through evidence and reporting back to the English back at home before Draco's out of the bloody embassy. He feels choked with all the news and guiltily, he realizes that the Death Eater running loose is the least of his worries at the moment. He shakes his head aggressively, trying to forget everything like he has for the past year. As soon as he gets home, he promises himself, he will take out his memories and throw them in a pensive and drink a Death Drought Potion to cut himself off.

Fuck Granger. Fuck her gorgeous brown hair and eyes. Fuck the way she looks when she's flushed. Fuck her and her attitude. Fuck the wedding dress that's still hung somewhere in the Manor. Fuck the way Narcissa looks at the room that was supposed to be theirs after they got married and its door is now shut tight.

"Fuck her," Draco mutters under his breath, hiding his hands in his pockets, pushing as down as he can. He considers apparating for a split second but he needs to take a walk to clear his head. To push down whatever nonsense that is going on in his head.

"Draco," a voice stops her before he can take more than three steps. The blood freezes for a split second. He wants to jump out of his skin as blood crawls near the surface. He wants to turn and tell her to fuck off and leave him alone. "Wait, I want to talk to you."

"Talk then," Draco says with a deep breath, still not turning back to face her. He doesn't know what he'll do if he does look her in the eyes—kiss her or kill her.

It takes Granger a few minutes to get to Draco and make him look into her eyes. Typical Hermione—gets anything she wants without giving two flying fucks if you are down or not, if you get hurt or not. She just comes off forceful, destroying everything in her wake. "Let me take you out for a drink, Malfoy. You're right, I should explain. Let me do that."

Draco scoffs. Is she fucking serious ? He wonders but the determined look in her eyes tells him that she's very much serious, making him shudder. He should tell her to fuck off, ask her to come off her fucking high horse and get the fuck out of his way. But he doesn't. He just sucks in a sharp breath and rubs his hands on his trousers. "Okay," he simply says.

He doesn't know why.

No, fuck that, he does know why.

Because he needs answers. He needs to know what happened at last. He needs to know what made her leave him.

That's why they are in a bar—Granger chose; apparently, you will know the bars in Vegas when you have been living here for the past year and half. They don't talk until they are both three beers in and Draco is moving onto his first vodka with a grumble. "Fuck," his hisses at the intensity of the liquor but downing another shot nonetheless.

"You are drinking too much," Hermione remarks but shuts the hell up when Draco throws her an unimpressed glance, downing another gulp of vodka before coughing the bitterness away, looking at her eventually with careful consideration, studying her every feature. It's like she hasn't changed at all—like no time has passed. Hermione blushes under his heavy look. "What?"

"Nothing," Draco shrugs, clearing his voice. "Well, you wanted to talk, didn't you?"

"I did," Hermione admits. "But I don't know where to start."

"How about you start by the fact that you decided you wanted to move to America on the day of our wedding ceremony, leaving me—and what seemed like the half of the Wizarding World—waiting with our cocks in our hands?" Draco says, quirking an eyebrow with an overextended smirk on his face that feels almost painful. Hermione sucks in a breath, taking a big gulp of her drink. "Or, you can start with light stuff, like how are you? You know, if the first option make you want to run away ." Draco adds sarcastically.

Hermione, though, stays silent for a second, evening out her breath, a faint flush under her skin before she raises her hand to grab the attention of the bartender. "Sorry, can we have eight shots, here?" she asks, glancing at Draco who's raising an eyebrow. "I need a couple of drinks."

The man nods, slipping them eight shots soon, making Hermione down two of them in a gulp. If she's still a lightweight, Draco assumes she'll be drunk after two other shots. Draco, himself, downs three of them, his head starting to feel lighter slowly, alcohol pumping through his veins in no time. "Ready to talk yet?" Draco slurs when Hermione's cheeks are eventually unnaturally red and her breathing surprisingly relaxed.

"Oh, shut up," Hermione hisses but a smile creeps on his face as she locks eyes with Draco. "You know, you're still so pretty," she says dazed, reaching up to touch his face. Everything in Draco tells him to pull away, to tell her to fuck off but he stands still under her touch. "You have always been so handsome, Draco…" she says words like uttering them are hard for her.

Well, fuck that. It's been hard for him . She has no right to act like she's had it hard.

"Well, they do tell me I'm a charm," Draco shrugs, still not jerking her hand off—which makes him wonder if he's a little drunk just yet.

"You are," Hermione agrees, taking another shot, coughing forcefully after. "Merlin, it's been ages since I drank this." Draco only sighs, shrugging. "Anyways, how have you—"

"Why did you leave?" Draco asks, cutting her off mid sentence.

"What?"

"You could just tell me we're over. You didn't have to leave me hanging out to dry."

"I know," Hermione whines, hiding her face in her palms. "I didn't want to…"

"Didn't want to do what?"

"To tell you that we're over," she admits. "I didn't want us to be over."

"We weren't ," Draco insists, feeling everything that he's hidden for so long resurfaces. He is scared he might even start crying. "I was in love with you. We were getting married and you decided you just didn't want it."

"I didn't!" Hermione argues. "You never contacted me or anything. You just let me—"

"So, now it is my fault?" Draco hisses. "I was supposed to be humiliated and embarrassed and reach out to you all the same? Fucking good logic, if you ask me, Granger."

"I wanted to marry you—I just couldn't ," Hermione gulps, her voice a mix of sorrow and pain. "I loved you and I just—"

"You just what?" Draco asks forcefully, his hands grasping her wrists strongly, crushing her delicate bone slightly as he feels himself getting out of control.

"I couldn't bear you to change and you would if you married me," Hermione growls, laying her head on her arms, looking at Draco with bright eyes, shining with something Draco can't quite place. He used to be so good at reading her—at knowing her. He isn't sure if he can do that anymore. "But you are so pretty and I kind of regret what I did," Hermione giggles wetly, sniffing her nose on her sleeve, rubbing her eyes. "Great and now I am crying."

"I wouldn't change ," Draco scoffs, feeling his mouth running more freely, not knowing how many drinks he's had anymore. " You did. You developed new fucking fears and—"

"You wanted us to live in the Manor," Hermione hisses, a laugh that is more like a sob more than a laugh escaping her throat. "I— I couldn't go back there. Not to live there, I just—" Hermione takes a few shaky breaths, shuddering through the words. "I couldn't keep hearing the screams in my head in England—in the Manor!"

"You could've told me," Draco growls at last, breaking the silence that's been settled between them for the past few minutes as Draco's eyes widen with surprise and hers clench with tears forcing their ways on her cheeks.

"And force you out of the place you loved ? To change you?" Hermione whines, pressing her forehead against the cold surface of the counter, shaking it forcefully. "You have no idea how many times I wanted to do it. I just couldn't. I couldn't bear to make you change after all the struggles you went through after the war—after all the changes you had already gone through."

"It wasn't your decision to make…" he hisses and a silence falls on them.

He isn't sure how many minutes pass as they sit in silence heaving on their shoulders, downing one drink after another, both thinking about things the other had no idea what they were. Draco knew what he was thinking about—her. Always her.

"Were you scared of me?" Draco asks finally, after struggling with the question for so long. It jumps out of his mouth before he can even register it, before his sober side of mind can stop it and he can take his pride and get the fuck out of there.

"What?"

"Were you scared of me? Is that why you didn't marry me? Because I am… a monster still?"

The words kill him. Every single one of them makes him want to disappear. He wishes he could stop the rush of words but he can't—not when alcohol is running through his veins instead of blood. He's all vodka and sorrow now—he's all her now.

"No," Hermione huffs out the words, shaking her head. "Never scared of you," she slurs, looking at her drink with a smile he can't quite decipher what it means. "Just scared of myself…"

"What?" It's Draco's turn to ask, raising both his eyebrows.

"'M scared of myself," Hermione repeats, shrugging. "Of what marriage could do to us."

Draco lets out a laugh—and his sober part of his mind wonders what on earth is going on. He hasn't laughed like this in a long time—and points at Hermione like he's a small boy who's just found the piece of puzzle he's long been searching for. "You are scared of marriage!" he exclaims. "A blood Gryffindor, scared of the simplest task. So much for being the brightest witch of our generation, Granger."

He can't quite understand what he's saying anymore as a lazy, prudish smile fixes itself on his lips, looking down at the girl in front of him who is visibly growing impatient with his gloating.

"I am not," Hermione hisses. "In fact, I will marry you right now to show you that I am not!"

"You wouldn't," Draco says with a smirk.

"Wanna bet on it, Ferret?" Hermione hisses, leaning closer to Draco so their eyes are only inches away, making Draco feel her breath on his skin. He'd notice that she's reeking of alcohol but he's too drowned in too many bottles to do so. The reminder of the old nickname makes him scrunch his nose in disgust before leaning back, running a hand through his hair.

"I will," he finally growls, standing up and staggering nearer to her. "Marry me and you'll win the bet."

"You will admit that Gryffindors are superior to the Slytherins," Hermione says with a childish grin, standing up, puking him in the chest with an absentminded look on her face.

"You are on ," Draco growls.

—

Present time,
Las Vegas, Nevada

Draco wakes up with a headache he has no doubt will be the end of him. His eyes are on the verge of popping out of his skull and his vision is blurry, his mind even foggier. What the fuck has happened? He thinks, shifting in his bed.

Not mine , is the first thing he notices as he faintly hears the creaking of the bed. Naked , he notices next as a shiver runs down his spine. He moves, trying to open his eyes without destroying the little sight he has left. Not alone , is the next thought, filling his heart with horror as he suddenly jerks his eyes open to see the companion in the bed they are sharing.

Her—or his, if the boy's hair shall be long—face is hidden in the pillow so he can only see the brown curls and the creamy skin of the person next to him. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingertips to his temples, trying to recall the tiniest bit of the day before. Think , he urges himself, shaking his head forcefully as if in doing so, he can recover his memories.

Well, I went to a bar with Hermione fucking Granger of all people and then we drank and…

"You are scared of marriage!"

"In fact, I will marry you right now to show you that I am not!"

"Wanna bet on it, Ferret?"

"You are on !"

"HA! I win!"

Fuck.

Hermione Granger—brown curls, creamy skin, a girl, a girl in his bed, a marriage bet in their drunken stupidity.

Did he get married to Hermione bloody Granger last night?

Fuck.