a/n: longest chapter yet!

Chapter 7: Queen of the Wards

"I was invited, darling. You don't have the authority to kick me out," McLaggen said. He adjusted his dress robes and straightened his back, as if he were exaggerating his importance to compensate for his lack of confidence.

Draco could have interjected at this point and said that he had the ultimate authority to throw anyone he wanted out of his building, but he sensed that this was Granger's battle to be won. He was just there for… safety. To make sure nobody burned down the building, of course.

"I don't give a damn that you were invited. If I told Harry what you did to me, do you think that would still be the case? Do you think you'd still have your bloody job, McLaggen? I did you more than one favor since that night."

Draco was surprised to hear her swearing so much. It was both unlike her and completely expected. He felt like an intruder on information that wasn't his. It didn't take much to figure out what McLaggen did to her. The thought made his jaw clench and his blood boil, and he very badly wanted to give him a bloody nose.

This also meant Draco had information on Granger that her own best friends didn't have. It felt… wrong to be a person in her life that knew something others didn't. Unnatural. But because he was the only other person who seemed to know about it, he felt almost protective about the information. Of her. Like he was part of some fucked up inner circle that deserved to know any personal details about her.

"I didn't do anything you didn't want me to do," McLaggen said self-assuredly. The arse then turned toward the reception hall with his shoulders poised and chest out. Draco sized him up and imagined dislocating his arm. "Now, if you excuse me, since you are not worth my company—"

"You are worth nothing to me. Don't flatter yourself," Granger said.

McLaggen smirked in a way that made the hairs on the back of Draco's neck stand and his fists clench, ready to fight.

"Don't pretend like you don't still think about me, darling," McLaggen said in a low voice. Would he stop fucking calling her that?

Granger flinched and the color drained from her face. Her recollections of McLaggen didn't seem to thrill her. Draco's knuckles turned white. How did she fall for this arsehole? And why didn't she report him? Why did she let him control her? She was the one who created the protocol to report sexual assault in the workplace!

"Don't call me that," Granger snapped. She pointed at the front doors. "You're no longer welcome. Leave now or I'll report you, McLaggen."

He sneered at her. "You can't tell me what to do, Hermione. Why don't you go and take it up with Harry and ruin his wedding day? Go ahead and embarrass yourself on one of the most important days of his life."

To Draco's surprise, tears shone in her eyes. He desperately wanted to know what she was feeling. He wanted to know why she was so fucking broken that she couldn't stand up for herself. He hated it. He started to get mad at her and her act and the way she criticized him for being disingenuous while she hid all of this away from the world.

His mind healer, he recalled, would call this projecting.

Then Granger fashioned her wand from the sleeve of her dress. McLaggen's eyes widened and he backed away from her slowly. "What are you doing?" he asked, swallowing hard.

She turned away from them and put her hands up, moving her wand slowly and easily through the air. She muttered the incantations to… adjust the wards?

Abnormalities in the air blurred around McLaggen, putting him out of focus for a moment before the spell took course and the image of him cleared. Granger's arms dropped and she stared over at the very still, very scared man expectantly.

At last, McLaggen's expression contorted in discomfort. Pus-filled boils formed on his cheeks, rapidly increasing in size and decorating his face in red blotches. He emitted an anguished noise as he scratched at them desperately, looking wholly pathetic.

"What the fuck did you do?" he yelled, looking about ready to cry as he ran his fingers roughly over the sleeves of his arms and scratched at a leg with his left shoe. All of his exposed skin reddened in color, a rash forming all over his body.

"I believe you've just breached the wards, McLaggen. It looks like you're no longer on the guest list," Granger said. "You should probably get going otherwise they'll scar."

Draco would've personally delivered a beating to this fucking arsehole for revenge, but Granger was much cleverer than that. Adjusting the wards? Boils and a rash all over his body? Without laying a single finger on him? Elegant. Impressive. Endlessly impressed.

McLaggen looked as if he could strangle her. He glared at both of them between the swelling that started to occur around his eyes. Draco enjoyed the pathetic show of him grunting away immaturely while itching helplessly at varying parts of his body.

"Fuck you," was the last thing he said, looking straight into Granger's eyes, before he whimpered in discomfort and slapped at an especially large boil on his forehead. He Apparated away with a CRACK.

"I knew you wouldn't fuck it up, Queen of the Wards," Draco teased. The anger bubbled up inside of him again like lava.

Her entire body changed. Her shoulders slumped, eyes fell, lips curved down. The magic that had emanated from her faltered into something grey and cold and gone.

"That was a compliment, by the way," Draco continued speaking. His own fists were clenched in concealed rage that he couldn't hide in his voice. "You're pretty good at putting up wards. Maybe too good, Granger — in more ways than one."

She finally turned to look at him and it may as well have been a shell of her former self. Her face was blank with no emotion. Her eyes were the only part of her alive, an open book – fearful, tired – but even they were shutting down.

No. McLaggen didn't deserve to be the one to break her.

"Tell me — if that oaf was invited to the wedding, does this mean you haven't told any of your Gryffindor herd that he treats you like a bloody piece of meat?" Something tells me the happy couple would never invite somebody who treats their Maid of Honor like shit."

He knew he should stop. He knew the last thing she needed was him criticizing her, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to see her empty. He needed to see her mad and fiery and shooting words back at him. He knew this wasn't his problem and he knew his words wouldn't land on her dead ears, but he didn't like seeing Hermione Granger's spirits broken. It was unnatural. The thought made the world feel wobbly and uncertain. And Draco was fucking mad about it.

She looked up at him with emotionless, drunken eyes and said, "I'm going to get another drink."

"Seems like you've had enough, Granger," he said seriously, attempting to conceal the hint of worry in his voice.

She turned and walked away without another word.

Draco didn't know what to do. Was he supposed to continue to persuade her to stop? Argue with her in the middle of the wedding reception of the most famous wizard in the Wizarding World and his wife? What right did he have to tell any of her friends what just conspired? He had no say in her life or how she foolishly handled her problems.

If anybody asked him what he would do four years ago, he knew he would've done absolutely nothing. Not even a second thought. But his cowardice didn't mean he wouldn't have cared or thought about it. Draco and Granger had several brief encounters during Hogwarts that he was almost certain neither of them had ever talked about outside of his trial. He only just admitted to himself that she impressed him, but that belief didn't just start this week. It started — when he tried to trace it back — after she broke his nose third year.

It was a good fucking right hook. That was the first time Draco realized his excuses for her inferiority began to fail him. Hermione Granger was the catalyst to his belief that muggleborns were inferior.

But now, she wasn't asking for help, was she? She was sad and upset and traumatized and wanting to run. Much like he felt in sixth year.

Except it didn't even seem like a second thought for her to decide to try and help him that year. In all her little ways — her awareness, her attempts to persuade him to decide differently, and her ability to keep his secret, despite the fact that she didn't know what it was or owed him anything less than spite.

\\\

Draco found her crying in a deep, dark corner of the library, curled up in front of the exact bookshelf he needed a textbook from. He figured the Weasel pushed her limits again – what, with the obvious way he showed off Lavender Brown as an accessory to piss off Granger? What an oblivious and inconsiderate log. As a result of his callousness, Draco assumed Granger, as usual, sought solace in the library. She didn't seem to know he was there, so he made his presence very known.

"Could you stop depressing over your dreadful life for a second so I could retrieve my book?" he seethed, towering over her pathetic form.

Granger gasped and looked up in surprise, fervidly wiping her tears away as she stood to face him in a more confident position. This small action brought their bodies dangerously close and Draco did not dare step back in efforts to appear nonchalant. Her eyes were puffy and the young Malfoy came to the realization that he saw her cry once before at the Yule Ball. Why was it always him that found her in this condition?

"Come to kick someone when they're down? That's rather low, even coming from a snake like yourself."

Leave it to Hermione Granger to insult him just as passionately in a vulnerable state. In the back of Draco's mind, he remembered that that was probably one of the reasons why she was more interesting. More of a challenge. She had the wit and stamina to keep up with the arguments they so often put themselves through. Potter and Weasley pulled out their wands or curse words whenever he said something degrading. Granger was the one with the way with words.

"Are you deaf as well as pathetic? I have to retrieve a book, but since you're here too, might as well have some fun with the likes of you."

At that point in his life, he couldn't bring himself to understand why exactly he was raised to despise people like her. She was smart, strong, independent, and probably knew more about magic than he did. Was this really what this whole war was based on? Something as foolish as the purity of blood?

Something sparked in her eyes and she let out a laugh that shocked him. What could possibly be so funny at this moment?

"The likes of me? Not your best, Malfoy. I think you can do better than that."

She was provoking him?

"You do know that you are — what's that ludicrous Muggle phrase — adding fuel to the fire or some rubbish like that?"

"Is the phrase so 'ludicrous' that even you know about it? Now, now, I thought you were higher than us 'mudbloods'. Why are you stealing our phrases?" She did that eyebrow raise she always seemed to do whenever she questioned him wittily.

"There's nothing more degrading than Muggle metaphors."

"So you admit that you're degrading now? Seems to make you feel more superior when you act like a pompous brat. I don't see the superiority in acting so wretchedly."

He saw something in her eyes that almost made him jump back in astonishment. This arguing made her feel better. He was making her feel better. Was he supposed to be revolted or glad? Fighting with him took her mind off —whatever was going on, got her brain working, and filled her with a sense of accomplishment. Her eyes were an open book.

"Then what are you doing associating with a pompous, wretched brat as myself? You think you're so high and mighty just because you're part of the Dream Team? You and your brainless friends look down on me — and the rest of Slytherin for that matter — because you think you're better than us," he ranted as she stared back defiantly with no trace of fear or weakness. A fire might as well have been ignited in her eyes. "So much better to not even accept a harmless, eleven-year-old boy's extend for friendship, in fact."

What in Merlin's name was he doing telling her that? Her expression morphed into some form of horror, realizing that she was just as bad as him for not seeing this. For six years, the only reason they were nasty to each other was because of a stupid first impression — the ultimate first impression. Things could have been different if they hadn't been so shallow and difficult. (Though if he wasn't a downright bully and sore loser, none of this would even be a problem.) She cast her eyes away, feeling too ashamed to keep looking at his accusing stare.

Draco inwardly rejoiced at the fact that he finally shut her up for once. He actually won an argument against the all-knowing Hermione Granger!

"Stop being a coward and do something about it then," she said finally.

The witch put a hand on his chest and shoved in efforts to push him away so she could lead herself out of this encounter. She had hit a sore spot where he was punished by his own father. Draco sucked in a breath and clutched at the area she just shoved as he let out the air he inhaled shakily. Hermione looked at him curiously. Damn it.

"Did I hurt you? But I didn't even—" She widened her eyes in realization when they fell on his healing black eye, as well as some dark bruises that peeked out from his neck that his shirt failed to cover. He watched her eyes focus in and trace the faint slash of a scar at the side of his face and another on his left hand. He watched her look at his cheekbones, noticing the way they hollowed and thinned from his severe lack of appetite the past few months.

"Malfoy…"

He started backing away from her. "Don't you dare tell me to stop being a coward. You don't bloody well understand at all what he can do to me if I fail."

Granger walked over to him again. "Fail what?"

Draco didn't answer. His eyes were dark.

"Fail what, Malfoy?" she repeated more urgently.

His heart beat into his ears.

Her realization displayed all over her face and eyes.

Draco stormed off.

\\\

But what now? Not knowing if he had the role in her life to tell her what to do, he figured the next best, least intrusive way to make sure she didn't drop dead or do anything stupid, was to keep an eye on her. Stay close. God, why did he have to actually turn into a good person the last few years? It was exhausting to care about any person's well-being, let alone hers.

He followed further behind her into the hall and spotted her, as predicted, at the bar, sipping at another drink and facing the dance floor. He saw Weasley walk over to her and put an arm over her shoulder.

Good. She should be safe now, Draco thought, though his stomach turned at Weasley's ease in touching her. Still feeling protective, he made his way over behind the bar, unbeknownst to the pair. He checked in with his employee and poured the entirety of the overflowing tip jar into his magicked work wallet.

He watched Granger laugh at something Weasley said and put her head on his shoulder. He suddenly had the urge to tear him to shreds.

The newlywed Potters eventually found the pair and they all engulfed each other into a sloppy, vomit-inducing group hug that made Draco's face contort in disgust. When they separated, the Weasley girl noisily insisted that the four of them take a shot. They all turned around and noticed Draco for the first time.

"Well, hello, Malfoy," the Weasley girl – he could not think of her as anything other than a Weasley – said, looking slightly pink with pieces of her hair coming out of her elegant updo.

Draco held in a laugh at Potter's slight trip as he walked up to the bar.

"Enjoying yourself then, Potter?" Draco asked, his eyes flitting toward Granger before focusing on the groom.

"We are, Malfoy. Thank you for asking," Potter said easily, not at all embarrassed by his drunken stumble.

He and Potter came into contact several times over the years at the Ministry. The Malfoy family held some of the Wizarding World's oldest secrets and most valuable knowledge about dark wizards across history — all information that came in handy when preventing a new war. They had fallen back into their usual sneers and distrust when they first made contact post-war, but the weariness dissipated after each meeting. They never went out and got drinks, but they were friendly enough to let bygones be bygones.

The Malfoy name was a death sentence. Draco had an arsenal of information to offer, but any advice from him fell to the abyss. The Ministry trusting a Malfoy's word? He couldn't blame them.

Potter, however, ever the foolishly forgiving saint, was one of the only people who heard him out. With Draco's permission, any of his intel were deemed as anonymous tips. Apparently being in mandated therapy and his life being a simple "guilty ruling" away from being sucked out by a Dementor humbled him.

Draco supposed he saw Granger hurriedly running out of Potter's office a few times from afar over the years, but she had always been running around, only focused on her current task. They never actually made contact and she never noticed him approaching Potter's office after she scurried from it. He remembered the few instances Potter mentioned Granger's name and his ears would perk in curiosity. He didn't know what that was about. He had absolutely no reason to need intel on her life.

Despite the fact that Draco did not formally work for the Ministry, Potter let him come on a mission in Bulgaria with him three years ago. A cursed artifact needed an actual pureblood's blood to be opened, and Draco was the only one who could perform the complicated countercurse. Most of the Aurors thought Potter was off his rocker for trusting him.

They shared a handshake after their successful mission that brought their entire lives full circle. They reached an understanding, a certain trust. After that, the acceptance from the Weasleys standing before him now followed suit.

"That lobster carbonara was gooooood," Potter said, slurring his words. His wife giggled beside him.

"A work of art, really!" the Weasley girl exclaimed, bringing her hand to her lips in a chef's kiss. He was reminded of Astoria, who always complimented his food in the same way. "Your recipe?"

"Correct," Draco answered simply, feeling very strange to be in this friendly interaction with the four of them. Despite the fact that they were nice to him, he didn't want to converse with them like old school friends. Being nice to Granger was enough of betrayal to his inner child.

"No way, Malfoy," Granger said disbelievingly. His eyes immediately shot to hers, surprised to hear her speak and craving more words from her.

"Afraid to enjoy my food, Granger?"

"That was the fastest I've seen Hermione eat anything in my life. Still slower than me, of course, but still. She's a bit of a slow eater, you see…" Weasley said, earning a slight smack on the shoulder from Granger in embarrassment. He flinched away from her with a hand over the spot she just hit, pretending like it hurt more than it actually did. "Hey! What was that for?"

"It wasn't that great. I was just hungry!"

Draco smirked. Granger liking his food was the only opinion that mattered.

"Don't be embarrassed to like my food. Good to know you have a little bit of an appropriate flavor palette."

"Oh, get over the sherbet, old man!" she said back, her face getting pinker in irritation.

"In case you forgot, Granger, you're the oldest one here," he said as he cleaned some liquid off the bar top.

"Didn't realize you kept track of her birthday, Malfoy," Weasley said, looking straight at him in suspicion. He felt exposed being analyzed under the ex-boyfriend's gaze.

September 19th. He didn't realize he knew her birthday either.

Icing on her face. Another memory unlocked.

"You smashed a birthday cake in her face one year and she was fuming, Weasley. The entire Great Hall saw it," Draco said, trying to recover. Everyone saw it, so it wasn't so strange to remember that, was it? "Anything that pissed Granger off was a cause of celebration for the Slytherins. We couldn't do all the work now, could we?"

Granger scowled.

He remembered that look almost every year – when she entered the Great Hall for breakfast and the entire Gryffindor table sang her happy birthday. She didn't seem to like attention.

The bride put an arm around her Maid of Honor as she pointedly looked at Draco.

"Now Harry and Ron told me about an interesting observation of theirs—"

"Don't," Granger said through gritted teeth.

Draco's interest piqued.

"Ah, ah, Ms. Granger. This is my wedding, I am the judge, and my wife now has the floor—"

"Honestly, this is not the court room, Harry!" Granger snapped. Weasley chuckled into his fist.

Years of watching this trio argue and tease each other flooded Malfoy's mind. He remembered the slight curve of Granger's lip upward that signaled she wasn't actually mad at her friends, even if the tone of her voice suggested otherwise. He remembered the way she'd playfully push Potter and Weasley off of her when they engulfed her in a disgusting armpit-filled hug at breakfast following their early morning Quidditch practices. He remembered the way Granger cast flowery perfume charms on them that were so strong, the scent sometimes wafted toward the Slytherins two tables away. He remembered the way she'd wipe dirt off of Weasley's face when he sat down and the way she blushed when he smiled at her.

"But it is my wedding," Potter responded, pointing at Granger as if he just made a groundbreaking point.

"Yes, we get it, mate," Weasley said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "As your Best Man and your wife's Maid of Honor, I think we got the point, don't you think?"

"You'll have to excuse my husband — he may have had one too many," the Weasley girl said, leaning against Potter with a laugh that suggested she may have also had "one too many." She leaned in and kissed Potter. Draco busied himself with the glasses in his hand, feeling awkward.

Weasley scrunched his face as if he had just smelled something bad. Granger playfully slapped at Weasley's shoulder again like he said something offensive.

"Don't be so immature, Ron. They're married for goodness sake!"

"They're my sister and my best mate! I am allowed to think it's disgusting!"

"Oh, please, as if you and Hermione were any better during your first months of dating," Potter said.

Draco pretended to be counting the money in his work wallet as they spoke easily about their previous relationship. He didn't want to hear this. He also didn't want to imagine Granger and Weasley being cutesy and close.

Now Granger's face contorted as if she had just smelled something bad. This strangely made Draco feel better.

"Please don't bring up images of me kissing my ex-boyfriend."

"Oh, so the thought disgusts you now?" Weasley said, feigning offense with a hand on his chest.

"Yes, because can you imagine?"

After a moment of staring off into the distance, Weasley shook his head. "You're right. Never doing that again. How about a couple drinks to make that image go away?"

Granger smiled. His chest suddenly ached as he stared at the way her lips raised.

As Lovensky dried cups and tidied up the other side of the bar, Draco prepared shot glasses for the four of them and poured into them their finest whiskey. He inconspicuously filled half of Granger's shot with water. She noticed this, of course, because even in a drunken state she didn't miss a beat. She said nothing and accepted it without question.

Weasley, the only relatively sober one of the group, dispersed the shots to each of them and exclaimed, "Cheers!" as they clinked their glasses.

Draco watched Granger carefully as she swallowed the shot. The little bit of alcohol in it still managed to have her sway slightly and shake her head, as if she were trying to shake herself sober. She made eye contact with Draco when she put the glass back down before letting herself be pulled away toward the dance floor by the bride and groom. Weasley stayed behind at the bar.

He looked at Draco and said, "Oi, Malfoy."

"What is it, Weasley?" What could he possibly need to say to him? And why did he feel irritated? Draco supposed he still felt quite annoyed from the image of him and Granger snogging.

"She's got Harry and Ginny fooled for now, only because they're all giddy about being married, but she hasn't fooled me and she hasn't fooled you either."

"What are you saying?" Draco asked stiffly.

"Whatever's wrong with her – you know," he said. "Hermione doesn't drink like that. What — am I supposed to believe you just decided to help at the bar while she was here? And I saw the way you looked at her when she took that shot. You're watching for her."

Merlin's balls, did this man pay attention. He guessed being previously in love with the woman would make him more aware of her behavior, but did he have to be so annoying about it?

"I just don't need a disaster by Hermione Granger happening at my establishment. That would be news for the headlines, wouldn't it? What would you know, Weasley?" He knew the argument was weak before he finished saying it. Of course he knew everything about her.

Well, not everything.

"I know her more than anybody," he responded, narrowing his eyes. "And I know that look on your face too."

"There is no look on my face. I'm purely looking after my business. Speaking of, you should probably mind yours," Draco said coolly, cleaning the shot glasses and levitating them back to their shelf.

Weasley huffed. "Don't be a prick, Malfoy. By all means, carry on with your business." And then he added as an afterthought, holding Draco's gaze, "Don't be an arse when it comes to it, yeah?" He turned around and walked off to find his friends.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Who knew Ron Weasley would have the upper hand in anything? He felt old grudges creeping back up and felt dirty. He actually wanted to call him "Weasel" again like a damn moody teenager.

"Don't be an arse when it comes to it."

What the fuck did that mean?

Toward the end of the night, Draco walked out into the foyer to find Granger again. She stood in front of a very large painting and stared at it as if she were examining and analyzing it. She held a half-full mixed drink in her hand. He trusted that Lovensky put more juice than liquor in it.

He couldn't stand it. He walked over and stood next to her with his hands in his pockets.

"For the second time, Granger, what are you doing out here?"

She turned her head to look at him, not looking at all surprised at his presence, and turned away again. "I'm looking at the painting. I hoped that was obvious."

Her speech slurred and her eyes were glazed over.

He decided to play along. "Are you familiar with her work?" he asked.

"Whose?"

Draco gestured toward the painting in front of them. "Aimee Lucien Thibault."

"I have no idea who that is."

"Neither do I," Draco admitted easily. "I just said the first three French names I could think of."

And then she laughed. She shouldn't have because it wasn't at all funny. Draco wanted to punch himself for finding it endearing. He desperately wanted to figure out how to make her do that again, but he forced himself to calm down – she was drunk.

"You should probably go home, Granger," he told her seriously.

She completely turned her body to face him and he fought himself to look no lower than her eyes.

"I'm fine, Malfoy," she said slowly, swaying slightly from her decision to turn herself. She reached out a hand and caught his arm to balance.

Draco looked at her hand and felt thathyper awareness he experienced when she mended his bones the other day. "I'm sure you are. Why don't you go to Weasley and ask him to Apparate you back home? Clearly you'd splinch yourself and leave behind an arm if you tried. Or maybe your mouth — actually, why don't you go ahead and try Apparating and we can all hope you splinch your mouth off?"

Granger weakly glared at him and then laughed.

He did not want her to splinch her mouth off.

She began laughing so hard that she grabbed her stomach with her free hand as she tightened her grip on his shoulder with the other.

When she calmed down, she said, "He told me to wait out here. Said someone would take me home."

Draco looked up amd saw a flash of red hair far behind Granger. Weasley stood there, pointedly meeting his eyes as he dipped his head in a slight nod. As if he were giving him permission. Draco's eyes widened slightly in panic. No.

Ron only nodded again and lifted the drink in his hand in cheers before walking away.

"Don't be an arse when it comes to it."

What the fuck was Weasley playing at? He wanted him to see that she got home safe?

"Damn it, Granger," Draco muttered.

"He told Harry and me that you and I were flirting," she said drunkenly and laughed. "Isn't that funny? Why does everyone think we're flirting? Even Matteo—"

"Matteo… you mean the tailor at Malkin's?" he asked curiously, surprised to hear the tailor he'd known since childhood come from her lips.

"Yes! He not only altered my dress, but also tried to alter how I view you. Isn't that funny? Oh, I saw what he was doing. D'you know people were talking about us after our last interaction? Said they saw chemistry. How ridiculous—"

Draco did not want to even entertain the thought of people referring to the two of them in this way.

"First of all, being caught flirting with me is not on the top five worst things you could be caught doing—"

"But it's definitely in the top ten."

Little shit. Drunk and still conjuring up those comebacks. Did she ever rest?

When she tried taking a step again, she fully fell into him and laughed at herself. He put her arm around his shoulders as he wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her up.

"Bloody hell. Just tell me where you live and I'll Apparate you home and leave. The Maid of Honor acting this way at Harry Potter's wedding — how embarrassing, Granger, really," he said. "Not one of your brightest moments."

"I am not telling you where I live!" she said defensively, pushing herself away from him as if he burned her.

Draco quickly caught her around the waist again when she stumbled.

"Granger, you're the one who's good with wards," he said with an impatient sigh. "If you don't want me to stalk you and bring you homemade cookies, just block me from your wards when you're sober again."

"Too good with wards," Granger said distantly with a yawn. Draco felt her getting heavier and heavier in his arms. "Maybe… I am too good… at putting… up… wards… I'm so tired, Malfoy." And then she slumped into him slowly. He had to use increasing energy to keep her up.

"Shit," he said. He turned Granger and saw her eyes droop.

"Don't pass out on me, Granger. What is your address?" he said urgently, lightly patting at her face at a meek attempt to keep her attention. She struggled to keep her eyes open halfway. "Granger, tell me your fucking address otherwise everyone will see this embarrassing scene. Do you want them to get the wrong idea?"

She looked slightly more lucid after that.

"46 Gossamer Road. London," she said finally. And then she laid her head on his chest.

He heard the music stop and the reception come to a close. Before anyone could see Granger slumped into him like this with his arm around her waist, he Apparated both of them to her flat.

"Merlin, Malfoy, that hurt!" Granger groaned when they arrived, clutching at her aching head. Apparating while drunk was nasty business.

"Bathroom, Granger," Draco said, leading her toward a door that looked like a good place for a bathroom. He turned out to be right, thank Merlin. He didn't need to know if Granger was a projectile vomiter or not.

He helped plant her in front of the toilet and lifted the seat as she slumped over the bowl. He conjured her hair into a low ponytail as he would do for Astoria and then walked out of the bathroom to let her puke out her insides in private.

He helped himself into her quaint kitchen, where he almost had a heart attack. An old, ruddy orange cat sat atop the kitchen counter looking at him attentively.

"Merlin, I thought you were a murderer," Draco said to the cat, who leaned his head to the side, seemingly wondering who this mysterious man was.

The cat gracefully hopped off the counter and approached him slowly and suspiciously. Draco squatted down in an effort to look less threatening and the cat seemed to feel more comfortable to approach him. He slowly put his hand out to stroke the cat's neck, which he was apparently okay with because he leaned into his touch and nuzzled against his hand.

Feeling satisfied and confident that this cat wasn't going to scratch his eyes out, Draco summoned a glass and magicked water into the cup. He didn't have to be this nice. He could've Apparated himself out — but he felt some reluctant need to make sure she was alright. And because it was rude to just leave somebody's home without saying goodbye. Of course.

Besides, he now had information on the inner workings of Granger's life. He felt a sudden pull to keep it safe.

He took a moment to look around and noticed multiple muggle kitchen contraptions sat atop her counters. He wondered what they all did.

He left the kitchen to walk toward the living room. Her house felt welcoming and warm. It looked the type of place her friends would frequent for dinner with fall color hues of browns, deep maroon, and mustard. She evenly fused her wizarding and muggle lifestyles in her decor — moving pictures of she and her friends throughout the years and still muggle photographs of she and her parents were framed sporadically on her walls.

It was clean, of course, and predictably overrun with books. She dedicated one large wall in her living room to an impressively sized shelf. He assumed her employment at Flourish & Blotts was responsible for the overwhelming collection. She had one of those Muggle telly things in her living room perched across from her sectional couch. He never used a television and he could not fathom how this piece of Muggle technology could work without some form of dark magic. Seemed spooky.

Before he could walk around more, Granger exited the bathroom looking a little more sober and less wobbly. Everything seemed to stop for a moment, silence suspending loudly in the air as they looked at one another from across the modest flat. They walked toward each other awkwardly. Draco could hear the slight sounds of each of their footsteps on her hardwood floor.

"Hello there, sunshine," Draco drawled, holding out the glass of water. She looked at him groggily as she weakly accepted the glass and drank from it in silence. It was so quiet, he could hear her swallow the sips of water.

God, he couldn't stand this awkward fucking silence, so he leaned into the muscle memory of being argumentative and irritating.

"Have you just about vomited out that horrendous encounter with DickLaggen yet or did you still need another go?"

"I…" she started to say as she attempted to take steps and still swayed. Draco immediately stepped forward and grabbed her by the waist again. How many times did he have to do this tonight? "I told you your lobster carbonara wasn't that great."

He almost smiled, but smiling was too friendly, so he arched an eyebrow instead and entertained her insult.

"Damn, do you ever take a break, Granger? A thank you would have sufficed, though that's proved to be difficult for someone like you. Come on then… to the couch, you useless woman."

She let him lead her to the living room, where he sat her at one end of the couch. He remained standing in front of her, slipping his hands into his pockets, not knowing what to do now. The way he stood over her gave him an excellent view of her cleavage and he hated himself for lingering upon the sight like a pubescent boy.

Very aware of the thoughts he had about her all evening, he fought to be a decent man.

"Malfoy?" she asked him in a small voice.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Why are you doing this?"

"You mean getting you home in one piece? Because I'm not a fucking idiot. You couldn't be at the Potter wedding looking like this. I thought that would be obvious, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt this time. You're quite hammered."

"You're being nice," she said, ignoring the rest of his words. She fiddled with the fabric of her dress.

"Why are you surprised that after all these years I learned how to be a decent enough person? Anyway. It looks like you're now home and safe — thanks to me — so don't worry. I'll make my way out now."

Draco had shifted his feet to walk away when she urgently grabbed his forearm. Though the Dark Mark never hurt anymore, he swear he could feel it crawling under her touch.

"Wait—" she said.

"What now?" he asked, flinching his arm away from her grasp. This woman had to stop touching him.

"Can you—" she started, then stopped herself. "Can you stay here? For a little bit, I mean. I just… don't want to be alone while I'm still… like this."

"Drunk?"

She feebly nodded, unable to make eye contact with him.

"You trust me to be alone with you in your flat while you are drunk?"

"What — am I not supposed to?"

"You Gryffindors are too trusting for your own good. Have you heard of self-preservation?"

She paused, eyes glazing over in thought. "One of your nice things."

Draco stiffened. Echoes of their fifth-year conversation filtered through his mind.

"What did you say?" he asked, looking straight at her, hoping he didn't imagine her words.

"Self-preservation was one of your nice things," she said sleepily, leaning back on the couch.

Sometimes he felt like he imagined all their conversations at Hogwarts. Her referencing one of them now was strangely validating. It almost felt like they were both in the same dimension.

"You said all those years ago that everything you do is to protect yourself," she said. "How does taking me home relate to your sense of self-preservation?"

"It doesn't," he said. He knew she wanted an explanation, but he wasn't sure he knew it himself.

Being nice to Hermione Granger was a new concept to him. He had never fully tried it before. Helping her choose a tie and fight the magical disasters in her damned bookstore did not, by any means, benefit his deep Slytherin value of self-preservation. If anything, coming into contact with her felt almost dangerous. Stupid.

"Hmm." Her eyes drooped. She snapped them open again, looking almost scared. "Make sure I don't fall asleep like this. I'll get nightmares."

He didn't think she even realized she said this. His chest sank at this other bit of private information he didn't deserve to know. He just nodded, feeling guilty about the fact that she wouldn't have told him this if not for the alcohol.

He picked up the barely-drank glass of water and pushed it into her hand again. She jumped as she looked up at him, tilting her head in confusion.

"Drink up, Granger," he said. He slipped his hand into his pocket again, fiddling with the monogram on his handkerchief. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he snapped his eyes back to her. "Do you have a piece of parchment and a quill? And an owl?"

"Yes, but why?" she asked curiously as she brought the glass to her lips.

"I just left the bloody Potter wedding to make sure you got home safe and I'm not returning. I should probably let my staff know."

"Oh. Right," she said, looking down at glass in her hand, embarrassed. "Kitchen counter. Edison is out on the balcony."

Clearly this woman was not good for business because she made him completely leave his work with hardly a moment's hesitation. Draco found the parchment and quill and scribbled a note, leaving Lovensky as the person to report to, and sent it off with her owl. He helped himself back in her kitchen. Manners be damned, he opened up a loaf of bread without consulting her and casted a toasting charm. He smeared some jam he found in her refrigerator on the piece of toast.

What was happening right now? Did he really toast a piece of bread for a drunk Hermione Granger at her flat after the Potter wedding?

He walked back into the living room, toast in hand. Granger had already lain her head down over the arm of the couch, apparently asleep, with a thankfully empty glass in her hand.

He caught himself looking at her sleeping form for too long before he walked loudly in front of her in an attempt to awaken her. He had not just done the heroic act of making this toast with jam for nothing. He not-so-accidentally dropped the plate down on the glass coffee table with a loud clank that made her eyes softly open halfway. It didn't seem like she could hold them open for long.

"Eat," Draco said. "You'll feel better."

She looked up at him looking slightly sad and he wondered what he said to evoke that from her. Then, the sadness wiped from her face and she slowly sat up, weakly taking the toast from the coffee table.

Draco took a seat in the armchair next to the couch with a sigh.

They sat silently for several minutes as she took the world's smallest bites. Five minutes passed and she had only finished half of it. Weasley was right – she was a slow bloody eater.

He felt so awkward, he didn't know what to do with himself. He heard her cat crawl into the room, jumping easily into her lap. The furball purred, pleased to be reunited with his owner. He could hear the sounds of the city outside – slamming doors, steps against the sidewalks, the occasional cracks of people arriving home from a night out.

He could hear the crunch of the bread when she took a bite. He learned that she didn't like the crust. She ripped it apart slowly into agonizingly small pieces that crumbled between her fingers.

This was fucking insane! What was he doing here? He hated the silence, but her drunken state hardly registered this as a ridiculous situation.

His skin prickled – the way it often did when he felt like he was in danger. He knew logically that he wasn't in any actual mortal peril, but every time he was near this woman, he simultaneously felt he needed to leave and stay. It was fucked up.

Every interaction they had alone changed everything that came after. This moment — her eating a piece of toast he made for her after she threw up tonight's menu in her toilet — felt as all their other meetings felt. Purposeful, intense, and catalytic.

He could almost feel the world tilt unnaturally on its side. He braced himself for the impact.

a/n: fun, fun. a review would absolutely make my day. thanks for reading! :)