Thank you very much for the kind comments and reviews. I hope you enjoy this next installment.
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Hours later, Hermione finished hanging her new clothes in the armoire and ran her hands across the variety of lush fabrics. She'd insisted on everything being cruelty-free and ethically sourced so she could truly enjoy each piece. She had to admit it felt nice to have new clothes, and most of them proved practical as well as beautiful. Not that there wasn't room for the strictly beautiful. Her heart gave a tiny leap as her fingers brushed the bodice of her Solstice Ball gown.
The leap turned into freefall when Malfoy rapped gently on the open door. "I know better than to try entering without your permission again."
She slammed the armoire door shut, drawing her wand. He held up both hands and turned them in front of her twice. "I'm unarmed, darling."
"First of all," she said, keeping her wand between them. "You might be unarmed, but I'm sure you're still quite dangerous."
That earned her an eyebrow lift.
"And secondly, don't call me darling."
He remained in the hall, but dared to lean against the open door. "You're in no danger from me, dearest."
Hermione wasn't sure what to make of Malfoy's playful side. He'd always loved games, to be sure, but only if they served him. More likely he behaved this way because he'd shown too much of himself earlier. It worried her that she was enjoying it. "Somehow I doubt that. What's with the nicknames?"
"Now kitten, you very well know I can't say Granger anymore. What will our adoring fans think if they overhear me talking to you and I call you by your maiden name? We need them to suspend their disbelief. They have to be transported into an alternate universe where we've been feathering our love nest over the past decade. Hmm, maybe lovebird will work."
Hermione gave an exasperated sigh as she lowered her wards and allowed him entrance. She tucked her wand in the waistband of her new trousers. "Do I have any say in this?"
He strolled in as if he owned the place, which, to be fair, he did. But it still raised her hackles to have Malfoy in the only space she called her own. She held her ground as he glanced around the room. "Of course, pet. Any of these striking your fancy?"
Pet. Her father's name for her. She struggled to maintain her composure, firing back with all her ire instead.
"None of the above. And definitely not pet. Do you want them to think you locked me in a cage all this time?"
"Don't kink-shame, Grang— my dove. A lot of women would love to spend some time behind bars with me. I got a lot of letters in Azkaban, you know."
She let his latest endearment slide. "I'm sorry you served time."
"It would have been more if you hadn't spoken up," he said, shattering the moment by abruptly clapping his hands together. When he spoke again, his voice boomed. "So, Pans is going to have my head if we don't have our assignment done before we see her next."
"I fail to see the problem here, Malfoy," she smirked.
He sat on the edge of her bed, tucking one fist under his chin. "Malfoy, hmm. No, I don't fancy that one. How about hubby?"
"Malfoy."
"Not cutesy enough? Maybe snookums. That's one you don't hear often."
" Malfoy. " She infused his name with all her annoyance.
"Ah, so you want to go the other direction with it. Master, " he said darkly.
Heat swept across her cheeks. "Absolutely not."
She hated to admit it, but joking around with him awakened a side of her she thought she'd lost. It was almost fun, if one could forget they shared a life raft with a vulture. He'd be fine with or without her. With her, he might get justice for Narcissa. Without her, he would be free of their vow. He was a scavenger, a survivor. If she didn't plan her moves carefully, Malfoy would feast on her until her bones lay bleached by the sun.
Or worse, he'd trap her here with him forever, playing the dutiful wife, let out for good behaviour on special occasions.
"We'll keep workshopping. For now, I think we should work on these," he held up the spelled parchment. "Together."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "I need a drink."
He grinned. "I have a wide selection. What's your poison?"
She shook her head. "Not here."
"Biscuit, we can't go anywhere public. Probably not even Theo or Pansy's offices. You never know who we might run into in the corridors, ready to sell our information to the highest bidding rag."
"We could go to Muggle London." She held her breath.
Malfoy tilted his head. After a moment, he said, "Lead the way, sweetheart. I'll get our coats."
She let Malfoy Apparate them. Even though Hermione's magical strength resurged since she hadn't brewed the potions recently, she didn't trust herself to Apparate them unscathed. Her scarred arm still throbbed from the ritual she performed not even a week ago, and the black veins in her hands stubbornly remained. It was nothing a little makeup couldn't hide, but usually the effects of dark magic had worn off by now. She shivered, trying to convince herself it was the chilly night air.
"This place looks good. Not too crowded," she said, pushing in the door of a ratty pub. Laughter rang out from their fellow patrons who sat in cosy booths with maroon leather backing. Strings of Christmas lights twinkled around numerous miniature Union Jacks and other bric-a-brac. Malfoy took her coat and they made their way to an empty booth in the back.
"I'll order for us at the bar," Malfoy volunteered.
Hermione scanned the drink menu. "You'll probably want a whisky. They've got a few varieties."
"I know what I like. I'm not new to Muggle nightlife."
She paused and caught his gaze for a moment before returning the menu to the holder between the mustard and brown sauce. "I'd like to hear the story behind that."
He shook his head, and she saw him build his walls again. "Another time. What would you like? It's on me."
She resisted telling him whoever paid, it was his money. "You have Muggle money? You're full of surprises. Alright, alright, I'll have a Poinsettia."
When he returned with their drinks, she turned his attention to a nearby shelf and wandlessly checked her drink for any alterations. "Look, they've got Muggle board games."
She found none. The lip of the glass passed hers, and bubbly bravery ran down her throat, cold and delicious.
Malfoy eyed the games as he sipped his drink. "Let's play something. You pick."
"We've got work to do."
"Well," he said, picking up Monopoly. "Maybe this will help with our work. You can learn a lot by playing games."
"Not that one. It's classist rubbish. How about…" Hermione scanned the boxes. "Connect Four! Oh, I used to love this one when I was a little girl. Used to play it with my— my dad." She stumbled over the last words as she remembered her dad, younger and jollier, pulling the blue and yellow box from the game closet.
They scooted back into the booth and Hermione unpacked the game. The plastic pieces had seen better days, but all were accounted for.
"How do we play?"
"The idea is to connect four of your discs — these red and black pieces — either vertically, horizontally, or diagonally. Whoever does this first is the winner. We take turns dropping discs into the slots, one per turn. I'm always red," she said, sliding the red pieces towards her side of the slightly wobbly table before continuing.
"So I drop a disc into this middle slot and you can see it falls all the way to the bottom. Now you would drop one of your discs into a slot — either above me or in one of the slots beside me to block one of my paths to connecting four. And if neither of us can connect four, it's a stalemate, although that doesn't happen much."
She slid the plastic tab on the bottom of the game to release the little red disc. It bounced to a stop on the tabletop, landing in front of Malfoy. He picked it up and squinted at it.
"And you loved this game? It's obvious that the first to move has a clear advantage."
Hermione stirred her drink, sending cranberries floating up to the fizzy surface and back down again like miniature ping pong balls. "I played hours of chess at Hogwarts. Ron always liked chess. He'd set it up in the Gryffindor common room, and when the weather was too bad for flying or visiting Hagrid, and I'd finished the homework for the next week, we'd play. It's got strategies like any other game, but after your opening moves, so much depends upon the players' demeanors. I was never very good at it, mostly because I could never figure out a sure path to victory." She took another drink before continuing.
"Theoretically, chess is solvable, but the number of possible moves is so vast that it would be incomprehensible to any human. Muggle computers could calculate it if they were powerful enough, I suppose. But it's not considered a solved game, and I enjoy true solved games, even if a lot of people find them pointless. Tic Tac Toe, for instance — you can map out all possible scenarios and it's clear that in perfect playing conditions, the first to move, X, will always win. Unless you're playing with a child or someone inexperienced, you know exactly how it'll play out. There's something about it, you know. Knowing exactly how to trounce your opponent. You just have to move first."
Malfoy met her eyes. "And if you move second?"
Her throat was suddenly dry. "Then they have to make a mistake, and more importantly, you have to capitalise on it."
He made something of a humming sound. "Let me guess, ladies first?"
"Don't mind if I do."
She picked up a red disc and initiated the game. Malfoy responded quickly, cutting her off vertically. They went back and forth until, as Malfoy had predicted, Hermione won. It had taken her less than 2 minutes to defeat him.
"Maybe let's ask each other these questions between moves. Might stretch the games further," Malfoy said, subtly casting a Notice-Me-Not charm. Hermione pulled out a quill for each of them.
She decided to start with an easy one. "What is your favourite dessert?"
"Lavender and honey macarons."
She scratched down his answer. He told the truth: Her handwriting didn't disappear.
"Yours?"
"Chocolate mousse," she admitted. "I have a terrible weakness for all things chocolate. I've always got a few squares stashed in my bag."
"Maybe we'll tell the press I surprised you with homemade chocolate mousse on our first anniversary."
She shot him an incredulous look. "There's no way you know how to make chocolate mousse, Malfoy."
"Yes, but I'll let you in on a little secret about reporters. They don't have magical lie-detecting parchment," he said, dropping one of his black discs into the centre slot. "They'd never get anything published. Also, it's Draco."
"You still won't call me Hermione," she countered, blocking his assault with a disc of her own.
"Another astute observation, dear heart." Another piece fell into place.
Hermione calculated her next move and confidently dropped her red disc into a slot left of centre. "You're in zugzwang."
Malfoy froze with his glass halfway to his lips. "Are you attempting Parseltongue?"
"No, I'm telling you you're in zugzwang."
His grey eyes shone with concern. "I regret to inform you that either you're having a stroke or your only drink of the night has gone straight to your head. Either way, we should probably get you some medical attention," he said as he rose.
Hermione jumped up and pressed his shoulders down forcefully, seating him back in the booth. "I'm perfectly well, Malfoy. Zugzwang is a situation in which the obligation to make a move puts you at a disadvantage — usually one you can't come back from."
Malfoy squinted at the game. "I see. It's like checkmate. No matter where I drop my next disc, you win. Here," he pointed, "you'll put yours on top and win horizontally. And here, diagonally. And in the other direction as well, if I fill the gap here."
"Ten points to Slytherin."
"That does me no good and you know it. You'll award fifty bonus points to yourself at the last minute and take the cup," he joked, a hard-won smile crossing his face. Hermione smiled back without thinking.
They went back and forth, falling easily into gentle ribbing as they answered the remaining questions. By the time they'd shared their favourite songs ("I'll write down 'some Muggle tripe' — will that cover it?"), best friends ("Buckbeak is one word, right Malfoy?"), and how they liked their coffee ("How interesting; we both prefer it unsweetened.") their drinks were nearly empty and Connect Four long forgotten.
Last call rang out as they came down to the final question. Hermione held up the parchment and read aloud. "What is your favourite memory with your partner?"
Draco said nothing as he plucked the parchment from her hands and wrote his answer on it. He signed it at the bottom, rolled it up and handed it back to her.
Hermione couldn't guess his game. She gripped the scroll in a tight fist, unsure whether she should open it and read it. Would his answer embarrass him? Or worse, would it embarrass her? Nervousness bubbled in her chest. "Alright then. Mine is watching you scurry around after Crouch Jr. turned you into a ferret," she bluffed. She regretted it as a long silence unfurled between them.
Malfoy finished his drink and turned the tumbler in his hands, the green and red Christmas lights refracting through the diamond-patterned glass. He stared at her for a moment. "Is it?"
He'd caught her out. While she previously recounted the memory fondly, with time she'd seen it for what it was — cruelty draping itself in justice. "No."
She fidgeted in her seat. Malfoy looked at her like he was searching for something, but evidently he didn't find it, because he broke eye contact to give her his own parchment. "Here, you don't have to say it aloud."
The nervousness was replaced by crushing regret. They'd had such a nice evening together, she and Malfoy. Now she'd ruined it, first with a joke that went too far and then with her reluctance to tell him the truth, which is that her favourite memory with him had been made tonight.
Hermione hastily scribbled her answer, rolled up the parchment and put both scrolls in her bag. When she withdrew her arm, she cried out, clutching at her forearm.
"Hermione, what's wrong?"
"Ahhh," she hissed through gritted teeth. "This happens sometimes," she curled in on herself, rocking gently in the booth.
"Let me see," he said, a worried edge in his tone. He reached for her hand but she pulled her arm tighter against her chest.
She shook her head. "It's just a chemical burn. I must have agitated it somehow. It'll pass."
"Chemical burns don't come and go."
"I said it's fine!" She jumped up out of the booth. "Let's just go."
But even as she put on a brave front, she stumbled as a new symptom hit her. Hermione could only watch as the world fell away and she found herself transported to a nightmare.
She sat at the head of an endless dining room table. Curls of smoke, heady with the scent of incense, strangled her nose and mouth. Hermione clawed at the ornate silver chair, but found herself pinned down by heavy coils of a giant snake. Shrouded figures, their bodies obscured except for their skeletal hands, raised goblets overflowing with blood into the air. With horror, she realised they were toasting her, chanting something ancient and arcane. Unable to escape or scream, she finally looked at herself. Her hands were translucent and veins fully black, accentuated by peeling fingernails.
Hermione snapped back to reality outside the pub. Malfoy walked alongside her, his arm supporting her good one. The pain in her other arm dulled, but only minimally. What the fuck was happening?
His lips were moving, but she couldn't focus. The concern in his eyes ratcheted her heart rate right back up.
"What?"
"I said, I'm glad you're feeling better. Have Blaise take a look at it, though, don't slap one of your homemade poultices on it and call it good."
How much time had she just lost? What had she said while she was in the throes of the hallucination?
She swallowed her questions to digest later. "I'm glad I'm better, too. I'd hate to ruin our date."
"Is it still a date if we're married?"
She hoped he mistook her shaking for a silent laugh. "I think so." She hadn't intended to let that truth slip, but he rewarded her with a smile that brought out the subtle crinkles around his eyes.
They stopped in the middle of the street, deserted at this late hour. Malfoy wore a halo woven by the dim light of the streetlamps, and though he looked down at her with genuine warmth, she'd never felt further from heaven. A deep sense of wrongness claimed her heart. His smile faded, and they resumed walking towards the Apparition point.
"Can't believe I'm going to agree with Weasley on something, but I much prefer chess to Connect Four. Solved games might suit you, muffin, but I need more intrigue."
"Oh?" She still didn't feel capable of conversation, but she nudged her brain along.
"I like to know that whatever's behind me, there's still a chance to win. There has to be a chance. And nobody has to make a grave error to give me that chance."
"You want to make your own luck."
"Technically, we can," he smirked. Felix Felicis. Of course.
Hermione had to laugh at that. "Would you rather be lucky or good?"
"Why not both?"
"Say you had to choose." Teasing him made her feel more like herself.
"If I have you by my side, I'd choose good."
His answer unmoored her. She'd been so certain he'd choose lucky. Luck usually brought fortune, success, renown. All the things she'd known him to covet.
"Why?"
His grin rivalled the devil himself. "Because if that's the case, I'd have already used all my luck."
Was Malfoy flirting with her? She pushed the ridiculous idea from her mind and focused on the road ahead. "What's our plan, Draco?"
She didn't miss the upward quirk of his lips at the sound of his first name. "Our plan for what?"
"Finding out who killed your mother. Bringing down the Ministry."
"Whoa there, my Gryffindor girl. Let's start with solidifying our story with Pansy. Once the world knows about our marriage, and we're more comfortable with each other, we'll go out. Gather intel, find allies, etcetera. Aren't you the one who has experience with this sort of thing? Bringing down evil and all that with your meddling crew?"
Hermione didn't bother stifling her laugh. She tucked her hair behind her ears and raised her head to get a better look at him. She hadn't seen it before, but he'd grown out of his pointy boyish features. He was solid and clean cut but the raw undercurrent of his magic gave him a mysterious edge. In fact, Malfoy could be quite handsome when he was joking.
"Aye aye, captain," she mocked with a salute.
"Am I a piratical sort, or one of those stodgy types? If you're taking my preferences into account —"
He stopped, reaching inside his coat where she knew his wand lay snug in its holster. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from something.
"What?" She had the good sense to whisper her question.
"Quiet." He issued it not as a warning but a command.
All the warmth and humour they'd kindled during their outing vanished from his face. He was tense, poised to strike. If he had fangs, they'd be bared.
He turned from the darkness and pulled her to his chest, and the unease that crept up Hermione's throat was forced back down by the familiar pinch behind her navel as Malfoy Apparated them both away.