Draco allowed his eyes to wander down the length of Granger's curves before snapping them up to meet her bottle-brown irises. Fear radiated through her motions as Granger gulped and adjusted the beaded bag on her shoulder. Her eyes flitted towards the doors, likely calculating if she could outrun him. She must've come to the correct conclusion that he'd overtake her before she reached the exit, and she remained rooted to the floor, resigned to their inevitable confrontation.

"Somebody's going to recognise her," Theo hissed.

Moving on instinct, Draco marched across the room and grabbed his wife by the wrist, dragging her out of the waiting room and onto the street. Rush hour was still a ways off, but he glanced around for passersby just in case. As luck would have it, the area surrounding the hospital lay deserted.

"Unhand me right now, if you know what's good for you," Granger seethed.

"Draco," Theo scurried to follow. "You may as well have thrown her over your shoulder! Can we be civilised, please?"

Draco grunted and tugged Granger into the alleyway. Theo followed, wringing his hands and muttering about the legalities of kidnapping.

They reached a dead end and Granger wrenched her arm from his grip, rubbing her wrist and glaring at him. Draco crowded her against a pile of abandoned medical waste bins. Knowing Granger, she already had a plan to hex him and flee, and he'd need every advantage he could get. He moved in even closer, catching a sweet aroma. Honey.

"What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here? I wrote your solicitor here — " Hermione turned her fury on Theo. "And explained I had to be here today."

Draco ignored her pitiful lie. Theo would have told him if his wife intended to be here today. He knew how much it mattered to Draco. "You made a promise not to come back to the city. I trusted you enough not to put it in the Vow. Merlin and Morgana, I was so stupid. Worst decision of my life."

"Same," she spat back at him.

He towered over her, leaning in for full effect. "Well, dear wife, why are you here reminding us both of it now?"

The bold witch in front of him faltered. "My parents," she stumbled over the words. That wasn't like the Granger of yesteryear. "They need more care than I can provide at home. I planned to take a tour of the memory care rooms, but… what happened to St. Mungo's? I remember it being the best."

Her lips trembled as they returned to a close. Draco realised how closely he hovered over her and stepped back. "Yes, well, the donations aren't exactly rolling in these days. Shit's fucked at the Ministry, Podmore's in over his head. He's so concerned about prosecuting Death Eaters and getting the public behind his crusades-of-the-week, all our other institutions are crumbling."

"It's been years! How many more of them can there be?" Hermione pushed off the wall. The stench of the alley replaced the decadent scent of honey as her curls retreated over her shoulder.

"You, Potter, and the Weasel cut one head off a hydra. The Dark Lord's loyal soldiers haven't given up their ideals, especially since the Ministry seized most of their assets."

"If they've seized so much, surely they could spare some for St. Mungo's. It's not fit for even a Death Eater in there!"

"On the contrary, I thought it a fitting place to see my father for the last time," Draco drawled.

She looked stricken. Didn't she hate his father as much as he did? "Lucius is dead? Draco, I —" Hermione reached out to him. Draco yanked his arm away.

Theo broke the tense silence that followed. "That's why we ran into you today, Hermione. I got your letter, but I completely forgot about it when I got the identification request from Azkaban. Also, as your family solicitor, please try to remember you're in a public place right now. Anyone could walk by and see —" He waved his hands dramatically. "All of this. You. And you. Together."

"Fuck, he's right," Draco swore. He locked his eyes on Hermione. She looked to be hyperventilating. "Don't come back here. I mean it."

"Trust me, you'll never see or hear from me again after this." Draco held her gaze for a moment as if to confirm she told the truth.

"Good. I can't say it was pleasant running into you, Granger, but I do hope you find the best place to help your parents. I've heard Muggles age more quickly, but I didn't realise they're already needing that level of care." He didn't know why he offered the olive branch. A twig, really.

She gave him a confused look. "Um, yes. I've never been more grateful for the exemption from the Ministry. No Statute of Secrecy for the war heroine's parents and all that." Her cheeks flushed as she fumbled with the pockets of her Muggle denims. Circe, what made her think she could simply stroll into London today with that pathetic excuse for a glamour? Gryffindor bravery. Stupidity, more like.

"It's a good thing they're receptive to magical healing. If you need additional funds, write to Theo and I'll make sure they're made available to you."

He watched her swallow hard. "Thank you." Ah, some manners. They could be civil once in a blue moon.

His ears picked up on a faint snapping sound nearby. Draco whirled towards the other end of the alley, wand at the ready. They'd overstayed. Had someone seen them?

"Theo, will you escort Granger here to the nearest Apparition point, or have you forgotten where that is as well?" He smirked, signalling he hadn't forgotten Theo misplaced Granger's missive. Perhaps they should have a little heart-to-heart later.

Hermione jumped in before Theo could reply. "Actually, a Floo-connected fireplace would be better. It's been a long day." It dawned on him that she looked exhausted. That explained a lot — she must have emptied her magical reserves Apparating here. Is that why she acted so strangely? Surely she'd have calculated the distance between Cyclamen Cottage and St. Mungo's? The Granger he knew would have every detail of her travels planned down to the minute. It didn't add up.

Yet he was convinced it was indeed Hermione Granger — rather, Hermione Malfoy — in front of him and not some Polyjuiced pretender. Unfortunately, he knew far too much about his wife.

"Well, goodbye then." It was better for her not to get any ideas about Draco being a gentleman, and he detested waving — so awkward and floppy — so he simply nodded and walked past her as Theo offered her his arm.

His boots hit the main street when he heard her strained voice for what he hoped would be the last time. "Goodbye."

Draco felt the wards welcome him back, warm and familiar. His housekeeper had already left for the day, and the spacious penthouse flat was silent.

Perched in the poshest section of Wizarding London, this particular building had been in the Black family for only a few generations, which meant it had few portraits and no house elves. Its white 19th-century exterior boasted black shutters and large windows of varying sizes that moved about during the day in order to capture the best light. It had taken some getting used to, but it was much nicer than the moving stairways of Hogwarts. Draco lived on the eighth floor, the only occupant and sole beneficiary of sweeping, unobstructed views year-round.

It was a beautiful house. But it was not home.

Draco, never one to allow himself to get too comfortable anywhere after his stay in Azkaban, stocked only the necessities. Committed to his life of solitude, he kept one set of bedding, one set of utensils and plates, and two bath towels. The second towel was for emergencies only.

But he was far from ascetic. His sheets were spun from black Acromantula silk. His cutlery was silver, and the dishes were bone china. The towels, two of a kind, exuded luxurious softness because they'd been bestowed with pure unicorn tears.

Over the last nine years, he'd travelled extensively, mostly to follow any new leads, but also to broaden his horizons and escape the temperamental English weather, especially in the dead of winter. It was once his favourite season — all the jewel tones were in his colour wheel, after all — but now Yuletide hung about his neck like an albatross. It had to be endured, but it did not have to be endured in Britain.

In the empty bedroom joined to his by a jack-and-jill bathroom, he stockpiled all manner of treasures from the many countries he visited. Eschewing chintzy souvenirs, Draco preferred to acquire oil paintings, statuettes, vases and other fine art. He gravitated not towards investment pieces or appreciating goods, but instead to the pieces that made him feel something. Anything at all. And lately, he struggled to find anything that could move him. So he turned to the things from his boyhood that offered escape — books.

He'd always been rather bookish. Most Purebloods were invested in books detailing family history and accounting, but Narcissa insisted Draco have exposure to modern magical texts as well. Lucius disapproved, but he said nothing against Narcissa when her mind was made up. She read to Draco every night, using her magic to illustrate exciting dragon fights or Quidditch matches. He would never have admitted it to anyone, but those first few nights at Hogwarts he found it difficult to drift off without the sound of his mother's gentle voice. When he did sleep, he dreamed of one day being a Seeker, and cosying up with a wife and child after a game to replay the best bits for them.

Although he outfitted the Slytherins with brooms and kits, Lucius assured him that a Quidditch career was out of the question. It was one thing to play while at Hogwarts — it was prestigious and spoke of good health, which would attract the right sorts of Pureblood families with the right sorts of daughters. But he was expected to hang up his broom after marriage, provide grandchildren, and learn estate management.

Young Draco said nothing, like every other time he disagreed with his father. Defiance was unthinkable. A tiny piece of him whispered that perhaps he would earn his father's love someday, there had to be a way. What a fool he'd been.

He entered the room that served as his personal library and approached one of the many shelves. Each of them was laden with books, organised by genre and then author. Draco smiled to himself as he ran his long fingers across their spines. Granger would absolutely hate his cataloguing methods. He couldn't help but picture the girl he knew at Hogwarts, frizzy-haired and obstinate, scolding him and beginning to reshelve them mid-tirade.

Having taken nothing from the library at the Manor, these books were all newer and in pristine condition. Many of them he had yet to read. In fact, he'd been in the middle of choosing his next book last night when the figure appeared outside his window.

Draco didn't need a pensive to recall the fresh memory. He played it back in his mind with stunning detail.

The window had moved with the moon, but at that late hour, he'd lit the lamps as well. He'd caught the faintest flicker out of the corner of his eye, accompanied by an eerie wail. It was too low pitched to be an owl, and too close to be a Kneazle on the prowl. At first he dismissed it. Not altogether of course — Draco's caution increased tenfold after the events of nine years ago. His wand stayed strapped to his hip in a holster of his own design. His fingers ghosted over the wand's outline in his jumper. But before he could commit to retrieving it, the room was plunged into total darkness.

Blinded by a flash of green light, he stepped backwards into the bookcase and fumbled for his wand. He drew it, eyes adjusting, when to his astonished horror he discovered the source of the disturbance. A Death Eater in full regalia hovered right outside the glass, its wandtip glowing a menacing green. It wailed again from beneath the mask, then shot into the sky and out of sight.

He snapped back to the present, shaking his head, even less certain of what he saw. He rolled his shoulders, like that simple action could shake off the memory. After all, hallucinating a grieving Death Eater could be written off as a premonition that his father had died. As strange and terrifying as the encounter had been — the echo of that strangled sound sent shivers up his spine even now — it wasn't worth mentioning to Theo. Not worth another sleepless night.

It unsettled him, seeing his father laid out like that today. They'd had no communication since Draco assumed control of the vast Malfoy inheritance. It had once been far more vast, but spending was the least of his worries. However, with Lucius dead, he felt lighter than he had in years. It struck him that it wasn't how most sons felt when they lost their fathers. But then again, most sons didn't commit the atrocities he had for his father. Draco left that frigid room hoping he would never think of the man again.

And then he'd run into her. Granger. His wife.

He supposed it was only natural that the only woman he'd ever slept with still captivated him. The Golden Girl. Nearly a decade had passed since they wed, but she was no less golden, no less beautiful. He'd always thought so, since the Yule Ball their fourth year when she made her grand entrance. But it wasn't her gown or her curves that set his mouth to watering. It was her scent. He knew the truth as soon as it invaded his senses, that someday he would brew Amortentia and it would smell like Hermione Granger. It was sugary but not cloying. It was summer and haze and hours lost out on the lake. Clover, moss, honey. Not for him, of course. She could never be for him. But Draco Malfoy coveted all things beautiful, and so he longed for her all the same.

Draco approached the mirrored bar cart and poured himself a finger of Firewhisky, then thought better of it and added another finger. He settled into one of the wingback chairs and thought back to the day he approached Hermione Granger to marry him.