Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the kind feedback on the first chapter! I'm so excited that *y'all* are excited for this story :) I hope you like this next chapter and would love to hear your thoughts when you're done!

Love as always to my dream team of LightofEvolution and mcal who keep me sane on a daily basis.


Hermione woke that Sunday morning to a loud roar echoing from the kitchen. She swung open her bedroom door, prepared to chastise Malfoy for making such a ruckus that early of an hour, only to find him staring irately at a crimson red envelope.

"HOW DARE YOU BESMIRCH THE MALFOY FAMILY NAME WITH THAT DIRTY MUDBLOOD? YOUR ANCESTORS WOULD BE SO VERY DISAPPOINTED. MAY YOUR MARRIAGE BE CURSED AND YOUR CHILDREN BE SQUIBS!"

Malfoy's lips were stuck in a deep sneer even after the parchment had torn itself up and fallen in pieces at his feet. He remained silent as he scooped up the remnants and discarded them into the rubbish bin.

"And who do we have to thank for such a delightful letter?" Hermione asked.

Malfoy shot her a quick side-eyed glare before brushing his palms against one another so the last traces of parchment left his hands. "The Parkinsons," he said with a grimace. "I suppose they aren't pleased to learn that the wizard who dumped their daughter is now engaged to, well, you."

Hermione folded her arms across her chest as she stepped towards him. "What happened to you saying that our engagement would sway the opinions of pureblood holdouts?"

Malfoy scoffed. "You know better than to expect that to happen overnight. I'm sure the Parkinsons aren't the only ones unenthused by our little announcement. Don't act is if you truly believe your friends are taking too kindly to the news either."

Hermione hated that Malfoy was right. She could only imagine the shock her uninformed friends had experienced when they had opened that morning's Prophet. It was precisely the reason why she had fought so hard to be able to tell Harry and Ron the truth; otherwise, they would have been pounding on her flat door the instant they read the news.

"As much as neither of us want it, this further proves that my mother is correct in insisting that we have that blasted engagement party," Malfoy said with a resigned sigh, taking a seat at one of the chairs around the kitchen table. He picked up their copy of the Daily Prophet and tossed it Hermione's way. "People will need to see us together to be convinced, so trust me when I say that this article is just the beginning. You and I have a long way to go before we're finally free from one another."

And just the beginning it was.

From the moment Hermione stepped foot at the Ministry Monday morning, she could feel every pair of eyes directed at her. Curious eyes. Surprised eyes. Enraged eyes. Everyone seemed to have an opinion about her and Malfoy even if no one said it to her face.

At lunch, Dean and Seamus had expressed their half-hearted congratulations and then resorted to uncharacteristic silence the rest of the meal. During the afternoon, Terry Boot had delivered a report from the Department of International Cooperation and lingered longer than necessary as he failed to hide his obvious staring at the ring on her left hand. Towards the end of the day, Marcus Flint had passed her in the corridors and glared at her with the utmost disgust, a snarl on his lips that reminded her of the expression on his face during that skirmish on the Quidditch pitch her second year.

A spark of resentment ignited in Hermione's chest remembering that afternoon from over a decade ago. She was now supposedly engaged to the wizard who had started that confrontation, her first taste of real prejudice in the wizarding world. It was only fair that friends, acquaintances, and adversaries alike were hesitant to accept the alleged couple. She and Malfoy had a lot of work to do if they really expected anyone to believe their charade.

After a draining day at work, Hermione wanted nothing more than to go home to her flat and lay across her sofa. But instead she was heading to a still foreign flat where she was left to face him.

And as much as she would have preferred not to interact with him, they had something they needed to accomplish that evening.

...

It was already half-past seven when Malfoy finally came home.

"Where have you been?" she demanded the moment the green flames died around his feet.

Malfoy stepped out of the fireplace, brushing the lingering Floo Powder off of his robes. "I work, too, you know."

Hermione concealed her surprise. She honestly assumed that with all that famous Malfoy wealth, he didn't bother with a job.

Temporarily setting aside her curiosity, Hermione delayed no longer. She outstretched the four inch tall stack of notecards before Malfoy had the chance to set down his briefcase.

"Would it kill you to let me relax for even one moment?" he chastised, but Hermione didn't waver.

"If we want this to be even semi-believable, you and I need to know a lot more about each other, so no, there's no time to waste."

Malfoy paused, for the first time, actually looking at the stack in Hermione's hand. His eyes grew wide. "You expect me to memorise all that?"

"Yes," Hermione answered indignantly. She set the cards on the table before glaring at Malfoy expectantly. "And where is your stack?"

His briefcase clicked open and Malfoy pulled out what couldn't be more than thirty notecards.

Hermione snatched them into her hands and quickly skimmed through them, her frustration growing with each passing card. "Just how do you expect me to get to know you when there are hardly any cards here?"

Malfoy closed the briefcase and returned it to the ground. "It's ample," Malfoy contended. "I only bothered with important things. For example, I didn't bother sharing with you-" he flipped through Hermione's deck and scoffed. "Do you really believe I need to know the name of your first stuffed animal?"

Hermione felt her cheeks flush red. "Unlike you, I actually put effort into these!"

But Malfoy's taunting didn't let up. "You couldn't think of a better name than Mr Cuddles?"

Hermione yanked the card out of Malfoy's grasp and ripped it in half as the chuckles of his amusement rang in her ears.

"In my defence, I was four," she said with a huff.

Malfoy's laughter continued as he flipped through her cards. "And what other embarrassing things am I going to learn in here?"

Frustration raged higher inside Hermione, her right eye starting to twitch. This is what she got for being foolish enough to believe he would take this seriously!

Having already had enough of Malfoy's taunts for the evening, Hermione dropped her dirty dinner plate in the sink and charmed the sponge to clean it before once more picking up his stack of cards and storming into her room. She was only in there for a few moments, however, before she barged back into the sitting room.

"These don't even tell me what you do for a living!"

Malfoy, now lounged across the sofa, merely smirked at her. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

She released an aggravated groan before slamming her bedroom door shut.

...

The rest of the week didn't fare much better.

Tuesday presented much of the same, as did Wednesday. People continued to whisper at work, but Hermione had long ago learned to ignore the gossip of others. What concerned her more was how she was going to tell her parents about all this.

Even after learning about the engagement party, Hermione made excuses to herself as to why she couldn't tell them then. Sunday she had to write her notecards. Monday she had to give the notecards to Draco. Tuesday she had to start studying his notecards. But when Wednesday came, she had already read his measly twenty-six cards at least two dozen times and had them all memorised word for word.

She couldn't delay it any longer.

So after getting off work that Wednesday, instead of Flooing directly back to Draco's place, she took the Muggle exit from the Ministry and found the closest working telephone booth.

Thus began the most painful phone call she'd ever had with her parents.

As expected, they had plenty to say on the matter. Hadn't she already sacrificed enough? Couldn't he ask someone else? Did she really believe it would have that great of an effect on pureblood holdouts?

By the end of the conversation, Hermione's mother had her promise to bring Draco to their place some time before the engagement party so she and her father could properly meet him. Hermione had tried to protest, but Jean had insisted. She now understood Draco's plight about giving into his mother's demand that they have an engagement party. Sometimes it was just easier to say 'yes' to your mother.

How exactly she was going to convince Draco to visit her parents in Muggle England, however, was an issue for a later time. Right now, she was too focused on making sure he did his part in helping maintain their facade for the wizarding world.

Which brought her to Thursday.

"I need more notecards from you."

Draco ignored her as he stepped out of the Floo, once again staying at his office until long after Hermione had finished dinner, and attempted to walk straight into his bedroom.

Hermione was quicker, though, and was able to cast an intricate locking spell on his door before he could slip away.

"What's the matter, Granger?" he said, dropping his briefcase outside his closed bedroom. "Upset they didn't regale you with whimsical tales of my childhood?"

"Well, yes!" Hermione fumed. "You obviously took no care when writing these, while I spent hours writing mine. And I bet you didn't even bother to properly read them as soon as you decided they weren't worth your time. But if you sincerely want this to work, Draco, then we-"

They both startled before she could complete the thought.

Draco. She had just called him Draco. And not in public.

"I didn't mean to say that," she apologised before he could berate her for breaking one of the core conditions of their agreement. She scrambled to make sense of her mistake. "I remember mentally practising calling you 'Draco' when reviewing your notecards, and at some point, I must have unconsciously switched over. But believe me, it won't happen again."

Draco merely stared at her before he snapped to life. "It's fine," he grumbled, surprisingly not upset. Instead, he just sounded resigned. "Call me whatever you want. I suppose it doesn't actually make a difference."

He turned his back to her and began to attempt to undo Hermione's locking charm, but Hermione wasn't done with their conversation just yet.

"Then what about me?"

Draco paused his movements and shifted back around to face her. "What about you?"

"I've noticed you still haven't called me Hermione once since asking me to do this. Not even in Rita Skeeter's office." The observation hurt Hermione more than she expected. "Is that because you don't want to utter my Muggle name or-"

"Hermione," Draco said, his voice loud and clear so there was no missing the use of her given name, "derived from the name of the Greek god Hermes. Also used in Greek mythology as the name of the daughter of King Menelaus of Sparta and Helen of Troy. Then used by Shakespeare as the name of the wife of Leontes in his play The Winter's Tale." Draco dug into his robes pocket and threw a stack of Hermione's notecards on the ground. "Yeah, I've been studying. Happy, Hermione?"

Hermione watched him blankly as he spelled the doorknob until he was able to open it. Long after he had slammed it shut, she continued to look at the wooden grains, dumbfounded that Draco had actually taken the time to pay that close of attention to her cards.

...

By the time Friday rolled around, Hermione was grateful for it to be the weekend. Five days of enduring endless whisperings was more than enough. Now she could enjoy her time off away from the judgment of others.

Or rather, that's what she would have preferred.

That desire was promptly spoiled when Draco arrived home from work - of which she still didn't know what he did - and approached her in the kitchen where she was once again making her own meal.

"These came in the post today." He dropped an envelope on the counter. "Lucky us. It appears as if we have our first official outing as an engaged couple."

Hermione paused her cutting of vegetables. She opened the flap of the envelope to reveal two tickets to tomorrow night's Falmouth Falcons versus Tutshill Tornados game. Tucked next to the tickets was a thank you note from Rita Skeeter.

Excuses were already forming in Hermione's head, but she knew it was pointless. If anyone was going to believe they were seriously engaged, they needed to be spotted spending time together. She just would have preferred it not be at a Quidditch match.

Draco began to walk back to his room, but Hermione spoke before he could disappear for the rest of the night.

"Your favourite team is the Falcons," she recited. It was one of the few pieces of information she had actually learned about him from the notecards.

Draco stalled. He twisted back around and simply looked at Hermione. "And I noticed that in your massive stack of cards, you didn't mention a favourite team."

Hermione shrugged. "That's because I don't entirely care for Quidditch."

"Claims the witch that has dated how many Quidditch players?'

"Depends," she quipped right back. "Are we counting you?"

He didn't bother responding to that.

...

As anticipated, it had been a long, vexing week living under the same roof as the insufferable Hermione Granger.

After she had handed him the stack of blank notecards, Draco had spent nearly all of Sunday night contemplating what to include. How much detail would he go into? How deep and honest would he get? He still wasn't enthused with Granger's little game and wasn't sure how much he wanted to reveal.

Instead of addressing it then, Draco delayed his decision as long as possible. It wasn't until after work hours on Monday that he actually began writing something down, at which point, he only had minimal time before Granger would chide him for making her wait. So Draco played it safe and stuck with the basics. Nothing more than necessary. A few simple, foundational facts for them to pass public questioning.

But then he received her stack of cards.

He may have initially mocked her, but as soon as she closed her bedroom door on him for the second time, Draco had spent the rest of the evening on the sofa, reading through every word on her notecards.

True, he had originally been looking for additional fodder for future taunts, but after just a few cards, he had forgotten all about that mission. To his utmost surprise, there were some semi-interesting pieces of information about her in there. Some were completely unnecessary (he could have guessed for himself that the Sorting Hat nearly put her in Ravenclaw), while others were unexpected (she successfully brewed a Polyjuice Potion in second year, a potion he hadn't even attempted until fourth). But for as much as he resented the fact that he was stuck reading the self-curated history of Hermione Granger, he couldn't deny that he actually was curious to uncover it all.

From that night forward, Draco stayed at work later than usual, studying her notecards in the solitude of his office. He may have submitted to her plan, but he wasn't keen on giving her the satisfaction of knowing just how much effort he was putting into memorising what he estimated to be at least five hundred minuscule factoids all about her.

Each night he'd come home after several rounds of studying, only to have the latest tidbits of information flash across his mind the moment he stepped into the flat and saw her standing there.

Her favourite colour was plum.

She preferred fall because that was when the school year began.

Her greatest fear was losing her parents.

For so long, it had been easy to maintain his resentments towards her when he didn't know much about who she sincerely was. But after all he had learned the past week, that was no longer true. Yet he hadn't let his attitude around her shift.

She was Granger. They didn't like each other. It was as simple as that.

All that began to change, however, in those moments leading up to their departure for the Quidditch match.

Although, not before one last argument.

"I need something to borrow to wear to the game."

Draco didn't even bother lifting his head from the book he had been reading while waiting for her to finish getting ready. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he drawled, "but you have plenty of your own clothes to wear."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." Granger tore the book out of his hands and dropped it onto the coffee table. "I need something from the Falcons to wear."

"Shame," he returned with an unsympathetic tsk. "If you wanted a shirt, then you should have gone to the store and bought one yourself."

He leaned over to reclaim his book, but Granger grabbed it first.

"Give me back my-"

"Not yet!" she snapped, evidently not going to let the topic go. "I'm not asking for something major. Unless there's something wrong with me borrowing one of your shirts?" She raised an eyebrow. "Afraid I might make it dirty?"

Her harsh, challenging glare pierced into Draco, but that only caused his own irritation and ire to boil. His hands sank into the cushions and he pushed himself off the sofa, a deep scowl setting in. "I'm growing tired of repeating myself," he growled, withholding his anger as best he could. "I no longer see you that way, so I would appreciate if you would stop assuming the worst of me!"

"Then why are you still so abrasive, huh?" Granger's chest began to huff as her own frustration began to match Draco's. "You want to prove to the rest of the Wizarding world that your opinions towards Muggle-borns have changed? Then start by proving it to me!"

"And you think now is the time to bring this up?" Draco demanded. "Minutes before we need to leave?"

"I wasn't planning on it until you refused to even let me borrow a shirt!"

"You want a shirt so bloody bad?" Draco fumed. "Then, fine! Take my jersey if it means that sodding much to you!" Draco grabbed the hem of the black and grey jersey he had selected for the evening and yanked it over his head before throwing it towards Granger. "Happy?"

Draco made to storm past her and get some distance between them, but the witch darted after him.

"No, I'm not happy!" she cried, knocking her hands against his back through the thin layer of his undershirt.

Draco whipped around and was prepared to bark at her for touching him, but she didn't give him the chance.

"I don't know what else you want from me!" Granger bellowed, her voice echoing throughout the sitting room. "You're the one who approached me with this ridiculous plan, and let's be honest, you're the one getting something directly out of it, not me. Yet every time I suggest something that would help us add validity to our so-called relationship, all I'm met with from you is resistance!"

Her final words rang throughout the space. They stared at one another for several passing moments, the room silent except for the asynchronous releases of their shallow breathing.

Eventually, Draco was the one to speak.

"I did memorise all those notecards."

Granger's agitation seemed to lessen, although only mildly.

"Yes, you did," she conceded after a slow intake of air. A faint scraping noise echoed in the room as she drew back one of the kitchen chairs and sank into it. "Which is all well and good, but I'm no closer to actually knowing anything of value about you." She sighed. "And if that's all you're going to give me, fine. I'll make it work. But we can't keep fighting like this if we're going to survive these next two months."

Draco released his own sigh. No, he supposed they wouldn't.

Silence perpetuated between them as Draco retrieved his jersey off of the ground. He tapped his wand against the fabric so a second jersey appeared in his hands.

"Here," he said, dropping the jersey on the kitchen table. "We can be one of those disgusting couples that have matching shirts if that's what you really want."

She looked at the jersey, up at Draco, and then back down at the jersey before snatching it off the table and proceeding into her bedroom to change.

When the door closed behind her, Draco ran his palms down his face. If this meant no more arguing with Granger on a daily basis, then he'd bloody take it.

He yanked his original jersey back on over his head, and by the time his head peeked out of the top, Granger was back in the sitting room, ready to go. But then the oddest thought struck him…

"You look good."

Granger blinked at him, apparently in disbelief at the sentiment. Truth be told, Draco was in a bit of disbelief himself. But there was something about seeing her in a Quidditch jersey, sporting his favourite team's colours that was… alluring.

"I said we need to stop fighting. Not that you need to start lying," she quipped.

"Don't make a big deal out of it, Granger." Draco waved a dismissive hand. "It was just a comment."

"Hermione."

Right. He was supposed to be calling her 'Hermione' now.

It was a direct violation of their agreement, but he supposed there was no harm in this amendment. Plus it would lessen the chances that he might slip and call her 'Granger' in public. If this is what it took to satisfy her, then he'd do it. Besides, it wasn't as if calling her by her first name actually changed anything between them.

"Fine. Don't make a big deal out of it, Hermione," Draco accepted. He glanced at the time. "Now, if that's all settled, I suggest we leave, or we'll miss kick-off. Unless there's something else you want to yell at me about first?"

She shook her head.

"Good." He grabbed Hermione's hand. "Then let's get this over with."