Wednesday, December 22nd, 1999

It's the smell of coffee that wakes her. She rolls over to find that Draco's half of the bed is empty, though the blankets are mussed with the imprint of his body. She stretches her arms above her and feels all the familiar aches that someone her age shouldn't have.

Footsteps pad lightly down the hallway, and a familiar blonde head sticks his head in. Silver eyes meet hers, and though his expression remains inscrutable, heat licks down Hermione's spine.

"Granger," he greets, "how nice of you to wake up."

She rubs her eyes — she hasn't slept that well in years. "What time is it?"

"Ten-thirty. I thought you might never get up."

She blinks. Instead of answering, she gets to her feet and pulls back their dark curtains, a fresh coat of snow on the ground and sunshine greeting her.

"Coffee's ready," Draco adds, "Juney's bringing breakfast, come on out."

She nods but doesn't answer. He pads back down the hallway and Hermione stares out at the snowy world and tries to wake up. It's been 39 days since she married Draco Malfoy in the muggle church, and nothing about her marriage is what she would have expected.

Draco is affectionate. Not in the way Ron had been; there are no over-the-top declarations, public hand holdings, or jealous fights. Instead, he brings her coffee in the morning, and writes her notes all day long in their journals, even if she's only in the next room. He curls his fingers through her hair at night when he thinks she's asleep, and murmurs 'Granger' into her ear when he's wrapped around her in their bed.

It may be unexpected, but it's certainly not unwelcome.

Which makes it worse whenever she considers that, ultimately, she's attempting to destroy the very thing that has tied him to her. Hermione is many things, but she's never been stupid; she knows Draco is fond of her, maybe even likes her, but for every moment he spends with her he is spitting in the face of heritage. He's spent his entire existence being groomed for a life that she has no part in, and Hermione's not entirely sure she can compete with that. Not sure if she wants to wage another war, and this time against something she can't even fight.

She sighs and pulls his button-down shirt off the floor where he'd tossed it, tugging it over her own thin pyjama top for warmth. The cottage hallway is lit with sunlight when she leaves their bedroom, and the smell of Juney's breakfast cooking wafts over her.

Draco is sitting at their table; he's got piles of books clustered around his toast, and he's reading as he chews. If Harry were here, he would roll his eyes, because the only other person he's ever seen read through meals is Hermione.

"Lady Malfoy," Juney waves her hand, and a plate floats down and settles at the table in the only clear spot. "Juney has made your favourite breakfast!"

Hermione grins, "Thank you, Juney. And for the last time, you can call me Hermione."

"Of course, Lady Malfoy. Juney will return after her duties at the Manor." The little house-elf disapparates from inside the cottage; a task that is technically against all laws of magic.

"House-elf magic is truly extraordinary," Hemione says, pulling her chair out and settling across from Draco.

His eyes flick to hers, "So you have told me, Granger."

She huffs, "What is with all the people in my life not using my name!"

Draco smirks and snaps his book closed, focusing on her. "My apologies, Hermione,"

The way her name rolls off his tongue is nearly indecent, and Hermione can feel a blush rising despite all attempts to fight it back. He's staring at her hungrily, and Hermione knows exactly what happens when Draco Malfoy levels that expression at her.

Tapping at her window breaks their spell, and Malfoy tosses his last bite of toast in before standing to retrieve the familiar barn owl.

"Hello Julien," Hermione greets from her spot at the table. The owl coos at her and swivels his head to pin Draco with a distrusting glare.

"This bloody owl hates me," Malfoy complains, snagging the letter from his leg and narrowly avoiding a peck.

Hermione laughs, "He does not, he just knows you're scared of him."

Draco glares at her, "I'm not scared of a little owl, Hermione."

"I don't know," she says slyly. "He almost reminds me of a little hippogriff, and we both know how you feel about those."

"That bloody hippogriff nearly took my damn arm off!" Draco rants, "They're dangerous and not appropriate for children in the third year to learn about!"

Hermione takes another bite of egg and waits for the indignation to fade from Draco's expression. When it does, he simply rolls his eyes at her and heads towards the table, brandishing the letter he had taken from Julien, who still sat on their windowsill grooming his feathers.

Hermione unrolls it.

'Hermione,

Would you and Malfoy be free this evening for dinner? Ron is coming over, as is Neville. No need to bring anything, just yourselves around 5PM

- Harry'

"What does Potter want?"

"For the last time, Draco, his name is Harry!" She glowers, "You've been getting on better, and you still can't use his name."

Draco smirks, "Well, yes, I mean I didn't use your name until I married you, and I like you considerably better than I like Potter."

She flushes, her argument lost at his admission. He doesn't wait for a response from his words, simply waves his wand to send his plate to their sink and begins reading again.

"He wants us to come round for dinner," Hermione finally explains. "Ginny, Neville and Ron will be there."

"Oh, goodie," Draco breathes, flicking a page. "Into the proverbial lion's den."

She laughs despite herself, "Frightened of a few Gryffindors, Malfoy?"

He scowls at her. "Not on your life, Granger."

"Great, that means we can go," she says, scrawling a quick response to Harry. Draco doesn't contradict her, so she heads over to Julien and gently secures the letter to his leg. "Take this back to Harry, Julien. Thank you!"

The large barn owl bunts his head against her hand, and she gives him a few gentle strokes down his feathers. He hoots gently and takes off out the window.

Breakfast is quiet after that; Hermione is content to bask in the sunshine of their home, listening to Draco flipping pages and the occasional hum when he finds something interesting. It's peaceful.

Their newly decorated tree sits by the fireplace, covered in gold ribbon and silver bulbs, a bit mismatched since they had agreed to include both of their houses. Instead of an angel at the top, as Hermione had done with her parents growing up, they placed a large glittering star. Even with the odd decorating, the tree is lovely, and it's even nicer since it's the first Christmas tree she's had in her house since she lived with her parents. The first holiday after the war had been truly miserable, and Hermione's soaking up every second of peace she can get.

She's lucky — when the WPG announcement had first came out, she had never imagined this. There are hundreds of witches and wizards who are currently preparing to celebrate the holidays with a spouse they did not want, or worse.

Her looming Wizengamot meeting in the new year weighs on her — although she has been researching like mad, and Draco has been helping, they're not much further than they were the month prior. Partly because they simply haven't found any loopholes to the law, but she'd be lying if she said she'd been looking as hard as she should have been.

Ron's face at Luna and Theo's party only a few days prior weighs on her. Her best friend is unhappy — he's stuck between a woman who doesn't love him and a law that chains him to her. It's not that Hannah is a bad person; Ron has told her how Hannah spends her time making their new flat homey, and preparing dinners, and trying. He's said how she is kind, and sometimes when she forgets about how fucked up the entire world is, she sneaks in sly jokes and they laugh together.

"What is going on in that big brain of yours, Granger?"

Hermione blinks. Draco is watching her, and she has no idea how long he's been staring. She sighs. "I have no idea how we're going to get rid of the WPG."

"Our Christmas tree inspired that line of thought?"

She rolls her eyes at his snark. "Malfoy — I'm serious. We still don't know why Rosmerta helped Kingsley, or if Kingsley was even the instigator of this!"

"Hermione, we are working on it!" Draco says hotly, "We spend hours each night reading old pureblood marriage traditions and histories on families! We're prepared as we can be for your Wizengamot meeting."

Her eyes are burning with frustrated tears, but she absolutely refuses to ruin this lovely morning they've been sharing. "I know. I know."

"Go over it again with me," Draco's tone has gentled, "the matches."

She breathes out slowly. This is an exercise in futility, she's said these damn words so many times she could recite them in her sleep. "We know they based the WPG matches on prior knowledge of each individual's interests, business acumen, or family history. We know that someone, most likely Rosmerta, passed on this information she had gathered from years overhearing customers, though we don't know why she would do that. The most likely reason for this law, besides legitimate population growth, is to build our economy by growing businesses and investment."

"With the exceptions of…" Draco adds. He knows his role in this particular exercise.

Hermione groans, "We don't know why some matches were made — it's possible it was just randomized for those they had no information on. Typically, this means muggle-borns and half-bloods."

"So how do we discredit the process?"

She tugs on the end of her curls. "I have no sodding idea."

Draco's eyes catch on her bracelet, the one he had given her ages ago for their engagement. She rubs the azure stones and smiles. With each day that passes with no threat to herself or Luna, and no attempt to pin Tracey Davis' suicide on Marcus Flint, Hermione is more certain that she had been paranoid when she thought the Ministry might have been attempting to frame ex-Death Eaters.

"I want to show you something," she says. It surprises her even as the words fall out of her mouth. She's good at secrets — she always has been.

Draco narrows his eyes at her. "What?"

She stands and gestures for him to follow her. Her office door swings open, and the sight of her many bookshelves comforts her. Her office has been her domain for the entire time she's lived with Draco, and though he sometimes pokes his head in, he's never explored.

She walks over to her trunk, unlocks it, and throws the lid open, exposing the secret stairwell down and a glowing light at the bottom.

"So, I have an undetectable extension charm on my trunk," Hermione admits.

Draco lets out an exasperated breath, somewhere between laughter and disbelief. "Hermione, are you telling me that you cast not one but two illegal spells and somehow never got caught by the Ministry?"

"Two?" She asks innocently.

"Do you think I haven't noticed that beaded bag you've carried everywhere since the war? You once pulled out three books from there. Three, Granger. A bloody imbecile would know that's a spelled bag."

She shrugs, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smile.

"What am I going to do with you, witch?" Draco asks.

"Hopefully come into my illegally expanded trunk and help me find a way to bring down a government's stupid law?" Hermione grins widely.

"And here I always thought you were a stick in the mud in Hogwarts," Draco muses as he clambers down her stairwell.

She waits at the bottom and doesn't speak. Her patience is rewarded when Draco stares at each board, tracing her push-pins and string connecting each match. His finger snags on his own sombre face printed on a grey-scale newspaper.

"Where did you get this?" He murmurs.

"From the Prophet when they announced your mother's passing," Hermione says, coming to stand beside him. She traces her fingers lightly down his picture. "I thought you seemed sad. That's why I wrote to you, you know. I realized you must have known your mother was ill."

His fingers fall away from the board. "So you realized the Ministry might be trying to set up Death Eaters, then."

It's not a question — she'd expected anger, or surprise — instead, Draco is expressionless, his voice flat. It scares her more than rage would have.

"Yes," she whispers.

He breathes out slowly, evenly; Hermione nearly trembles with anxiety. He's avoiding her gaze, staring only at her messy penmanship, scrawling out: 'are they going to frame death eaters with their match's murders?'

"I'd expected you to realize quickly," he tells her. "I've been waiting for weeks for you to say something."

Hermione scowls and tugs at his arm until he faces her. His silver eyes flick down to hers, but the warmth she had been subjected to only a few moments before is hidden.

"You could have said something," she argues, raising her hand to shake her bracelet. "Don't think I didn't realize you'd given me this bracelet, knowing that there was a chance I'd be in danger — you could have told me yourself!"

Draco scowls. "Granger, you could barely look at me without flinching when I gave you that bracelet. You think me telling you your life could be in danger would have improved things?"

She deflates — he's not wrong. Her arm drops down by her side.

"I'm not mad," Draco announces.

She frowns. "You seem mad."

Unexpectedly, he leans down, pressing his lips to her forehead. He's warm, and he smells good, and Hermione is so fucking tired of not knowing where they stand.

"I'm not mad, Hermione," he says again, breath skirting over her skin. "You aren't wrong — I thought the Ministry might try to frame Theo and I as well. When Tracey Davis wound up dead, I was even more sure. I didn't even tell Theo, but I did tell Thelma. A house-elf, I've learned, is an invaluable protector."

Hermione pulls away and stares at Draco incredulously, "Did… did you just call house-elves invaluable?"

He laughs, "Granger — you have been extolling the value of house-elves and their incredibly unique magic for weeks. You are the one that convinced me to pay Juney… did it truly not occur to you that if you asked it of her, she would literally take on the entire Ministry herself for you?"

Hermione can't help the smile that blooms; she is standing in her tiny office filled with books and conspiracy theories, and Draco Malfoy, the boy who had once thought her worthless, is now tugging on one of her curls thoughtfully, considering the importance of house-elves.

Viciously, she wishes Lucius Malfoy were here to see this.

Though, if Lucius were here, Draco would not be — of this, she is sure.

"What I can't figure out is why Rosmerta gave up this information," Draco muses.

Hermione winces, "Maybe… maybe she's been imperio'd?"

Draco shakes his head, guilt flashing on his face. "No."

"Why… why do you say no?"

"She was… difficult to control." Draco admits, "I struggled with it, and not just because of my guilt. She's a very, very strong witch. It's why she got paired with Kingsley. I doubt many wizards could imperio her."

"Could Kingsley?" It feels like a betrayal even as Hermione asks — Kingsley is many things, but she has never imagined him as a wizard that uses dark arts.

"I doubt it," Draco muses, "He doesn't particularly strike me as the type. Maybe Hawksworth — though my father didn't tell me he was particularly strong magically, and he'd have to be to hold her."

Dread blooms in Hermione's chest. "What… what if it's not magical?"

"How do you mean?"

Hermione walks to Rosmerta's grainy picture. She's got strings connecting her to so many of the other matches — Rosmerta would have known about Katie Bell, and Neville's herbology talents, and Pansy's potion skills. There's almost nothing she wouldn't have heard about over the years.

Despite all the strings connecting her, Hermione has found no evidence of family. Rosmerta — until her match with Kingsely — had seemingly been unmarried, childless, and friendless. She was a complete enigma.

"What if… what if they're threatening her?" Hermione muses, settling her fingers on Rosmerta's smiling image. "I couldn't find any evidence of family or loved ones, but maybe she has someone she needs to protect?"

"I wouldn't know," Draco admits slowly. "Imperio is… a tricky spell. She would have answered or done anything I asked, but I never asked about her own life, only the people she saw or talked to. If she were clever — and I have no doubt she is — she'd specifically have avoided giving up any information about herself to me."

Hermione stares at Rosmerta's face longer, as if trying to divulge information from a picture.

"Granger," Draco's voice is gentle, "let's go back upstairs. We're not going to figure anything else out down here. Your meeting with the Wizengamot will tell us more."

She follows him with heavy feet and a heavier heart.

Harry is expecting them, and when Hermione knocks on Grimmauld's door, it flings open eagerly. Hermione enters with Draco following her, staring around a bit suspiciously. He'd never seen a townhouse simply appear when approached, and the strength of the Fidelius had shocked him.

"Come in! Neville's already here, but Ron's going to be a bit late," Harry gestures them into the sitting room, snagging their coats to hang on the hook.

Hermione grins at the sight of Neville and hugs him eagerly. "Neville, so good to see you!"

"You too, Hermione," Neville answers. He sits back in his chair and nods at Draco, "Malfoy — Pansy sends her love. She had a dinner with her mother she couldn't escape."

Draco grimaces. "You were smart not to go there, Longbottom. Pansy's mother is a bloody nightmare."

Neville winces in agreement. "I'm actually not allowed on the Parkinson estate any longer."

Draco's sour expression clears, and he almost looks impressed. "Longbottom, someday you're going to tell me how you managed that. I've been trying to get banned from the Parkinson estate for years."

Ginny interrupts their banter, entering the sitting room with two fire whiskeys and a glass of wine. She hands the whiskey to Neville and Draco and gives Hermione the wine. Ginny settles into the loveseat crammed in the corner, one of the few remnants of the old furniture since the remodel. Harry had been unwilling to part with some of Sirius' belongings, and the faded red couch was particularly mismatched in their new sitting room.

"How is that going, Neville?" Harry asks carefully, sitting beside Ginny with his own drink. "Parkinson, I mean."

Neville half shrugs and stares into his firewhiskey. "You want the truth?"

His expression is unfamiliar, and Hermione presses her free hand into her thigh to prevent any nervous shaking. She knows Neville — he's been wearing his heart on his sleeve since the moment he was born; he doesn't know how to be anything other than honest, and for him to give them the option frightens her.

"Yes," Hermione breathes. She'd been pleasantly surprised by her last encounter with Pansy, but if she's done wrong by Neville, Hermione won't hesitate to fix it.

Neville winces and lifts his eyes to survey the room. He heaves a sigh. "Pansy is difficult. Not in the way you might think, though."

"How so, then?" Ginny asks.

Neville hesitates. "Pansy is… loyal."

Harry's face twists in disbelief, but it's Draco's chuckle that surprises her. He's resting back on the couch, watching proceedings with narrowed silver eyes. His firewhiskey is almost empty already, and Hermione wonders if he was more nervous than he let on about coming to Harry's today.

"Something to add, Malfoy?" Harry asks, frowning.

Draco sighs. "I know that we didn't get on in school, but I assume you noticed in fifth year that I was having… not so great of a time?"

"Yes," Hermione answers instantly, "of course we did."

Draco glances at her, "I know you did, Granger. You notice everything."

Hermione watches him, understanding slowly dawning. "It wasn't just you, was it?"

Surprisingly, it's Neville that answers. "Of course it wasn't just him. It was most of them — half of the Slytherin families were either terrified of Voldemort returning and coming for them after their desertion, or they were already involved, which usually meant they were being tortured to control their families, or forced into becoming Death Eaters."

"Pansy?" Ginny asks, nearly breathless.

Neville shrugs. "Look. It's her story. But we've all done terrible things for the people we love, and I'm sure we'd do it all again. Pansy is… unexpected. It's good."

"Longbottom," Draco drawls, "when you took the head off that damn snake, I wanted to thank you. So did Pansy."

Neville smiles slowly. "I know. She told me."

"Do you know her middle name?" Draco asks suddenly, sitting forward.

Neville laughs. "I do. But there's not a chance I'm telling you, Malfoy."

Draco's eyebrows raise in surprise, and he lifts his fire whiskey towards Neville, who just laughs at the salute.

"Listen, don't tell Hannah, okay?" Neville says suddenly. "I just… I want her to be happy."

"She won't be happy if you're moving on," Ginny tells him. Her blunt words cut through the room, and Hermione winces; Ginny has always been fearless, but like Ron, she says what she means, despite who it might hurt.

"I thought Hannah Abbott was the love of my life," Neville grits his teeth, and matches Ginny's gaze. "But that doesn't change the fact that Pansy is my wife. Despite shit circumstances, I respect the hell out of her. I wouldn't hurt either of them, given the choice. But seeing as we had to choose, I chose Pansy. I chose this. So I guess you should tell Hannah whatever you think is best, Ginny."

Hermione's hand is suddenly covered with warmth, and she startles. Draco is pressing his palm gently over hers, and she realizes she's been nervously picking at a seam in her pants.

"I think perhaps another drink is in order," Harry says to break the silence. He stands and heads towards the kitchen.

Hermione stands, "Ginny would you like a wine?"

"I'm okay, thank you," Ginny answers easily, diverting her gaze to Draco. "So Hermione tells me you're out of the cottage most days. What is it you do, exactly, Malfoy?"

Hermione scurries to the kitchen, intent on avoiding catching up to Harry while also avoiding Ginny's intensive questions. She finds her best friend staring out the window above their kitchen sink. He's got his arms braced on the counter, and he's grimacing, the way he used to when his scar hurt.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

He sighs and turns to face her. He looks tired. "God, Hermione. I don't know. How am I supposed to navigate the fact that I'm happier than I've ever been while my two best friends are suffering?"

Hermione blinks. "I know that Ron is unhappy, but he's not suffering, Harry. He and Hannah are friends; it's not as if he's being tortured, and we'll find a solution!"

"And you?!" Harry nearly spits.

"Me?" Hermione repeats, nonplussed.

"Yes, you!" Harry hisses, stepping towards her. He grips her biceps gently, "Don't you think I know exactly how far you would go to reassure Ron and me that you were safe? Don't you think I lay awake at night, wondering just how fucked up it is that I told you to pretend to love Malfoy?!"

Hermione recoils as though she's been slapped — she remembers what Harry's talking about. He had suggested she pretend to be happy with Malfoy so Skeeter wouldn't continue to pass her off as some hysterically spurned witch. It's why they had done the photos at the Nott Manor and the articles with Luna — the happier they were, the more ground they had to stand on when they came at the WPG.

It's a throat-clearing that breaks their silence, and Hermione watches as Harry's green eyes flit over her shoulder and he winces momentarily. Dread washes through her, and she knows who it is before he even speaks.

"I've been called away, Theo is apparently in need of assistance," Draco says coolly. Hermione swivels to look at her husband. She can't read anything — his eyes are locked on Harry's, and he's staring right over her as though she isn't even there. "I'll see you at home, Granger."

He turns on his heel and strides away. Harry's warm hand is still on her one arm, and even though he's not holding her there, she feels tied to the ground.

"I'm sorry," Harry says. "I didn't realize he was listening."

Her eyes burn, and she pins Harry with her most furious gaze. "You think I'm capable of manipulating him like that? You think I've tricked him into thinking I care, and what? Am using him for political power? I'm faking everything I do and say!"

"No, no," Harry says, lifting his palms up as if to show her he's harmless when they both know the truth. "I know you like him, or whatever."

"Or whatever?" She hisses through her teeth.

"You know what I mean!" Harry insists.

Hermione yells, throat thick with fury and tears. "Harry James Potter, you don't know anything! I never agreed to pretend… I never agreed to anything except marrying him. And guess what — I like being married to him. He's — he's mine."

It's these words, snarled into the space between them, that makes Harry step back until the counter digs into his back. His mouth has gone slack with understanding, and even though it's well known that Hermione is the brain of the trio, Harry isn't a fool. He knows exactly what she's just admitted.

"Harry?" Ginny's voice, tentative and hushed, from behind them.

"We heard yelling, and Malfoy stormed out pretty quick," Neville says.

Hermione turns, "I have to go."

"No, wait," Harry pleads, "Hermione, you can't—"

"I can't what," Hermione snaps.

"Not now, Harry," Ginny interrupts. "Hermione — go ahead. We'll see you at Christmas dinner at the Burrow. Malfoy is still invited if he can play nice with my fool of a husband."

"Thank you," Hermione calls as she rushes to the door, summoning her coat as she goes. She's barely left the property before she's pulling herself into apparition, landing hard outside of her gate. She stumbles as she rushes up the footpath, and yanks the door open aggressively.

The house is silent.

"Draco?" She calls, "Draco — please, Harry is an idiot. Let's talk about this."

She kicks her shoes off and rushes towards their bedroom, sure he is sulking. It's only when the door opens to a dark room, lit only by her bluebells on the windowsill, that Hermione starts to panic.

There's a thick white envelope on the bed, and she snatches it up with shaking fingers. It's heavy, and she rips it open. There's a packet of papers inside, and when she yanks it out she sees thick parchment all bound together, with dark black writing. It reads: 'The Granger Foundation for the Welfare of Magical Beings'.

She flips it open to find pages upon pages of legal jargon, declaring her the sole executor of the non-profit. There are spaces to bring four board members into the Foundation, with substantial salaries reflected beside. The mission statement reads: "The Granger Foundation for the Welfare of Magical Beings is focused upon the betterment of magical society for all creatures, beings, witches, wizards, and others, through the promotion of industry, legal protections, and education for all".

Hermione is barely aware of her knees hitting her carpet — she knows these words, these arguments, these points. She's been telling everyone who would listen to her for years that this is important, that this is necessary, that magical beings and creatures deserve more.

A piece of yellow parchment flutters down to the carpet, and Hermione reaches for it — it's got a familiar scrawl on it, and her heart thuds.

'Granger —

You'll find your Christmas gift in the envelope, as I felt it shouldn't go to waste. The accounts are in your name at Gringotts already.

You want to change the world, Granger — it's what you've wanted to do since we were both eleven years old. While I was cutting you down, you were thinking of ways to make this world better. If anyone can take down the WPG, it's you.

And when you do, you'll never have to pretend for me again.

Malfoy'