Hello, if you're reading this, thanks for being patient as I update! I was on vacation and then I got covid.
If you're enjoying the story please let me know! I appreciate it very much 3
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Draco bid a confused Granger goodnight outside her door. The wards shimmered as she stepped through the portal, and something unknotted in his chest. He couldn't shake the idea that something, or someone, had been lying in wait outside the pub tonight.
It was ridiculous. Probably just some Muggle drunkenly staggering home.
The alcohol had long since faded from his system, but he still felt drunk himself.
Granger positively glowing under Christmas lights. Granger's tongue slipping out to wet her lips as she contemplated her next move. Granger as she triumphantly lifted her honeyed eyes to his every time she won a game or got in the last word.
Draco didn't want to think of her this way. Well, that wasn't true. He couldn't allow himself to think of Granger. Granger and the way she hummed after he said something that pleased her.
He was doing it again.
It didn't help that he admired her more and more each time they spoke. When he'd had a chance to think about why she might've Obliviated her parents, it all made sense. She was protecting them in the only way she knew how. She'd known the Death Eaters would become desperate for any way to draw her out and her Muggle parents would be entirely vulnerable.
Hermione Granger was no monster, just as she was no fool.
There was only one fool under this roof. And he needed to remind himself why this business between him and Granger was just that — business. Nothing more.
He'd protected her the only way he knew how. Like he wished he could've protected Astoria.
Draco slid his arm out from underneath the covers and opened his bedside drawer. He didn't look, simply patting his hand across the litany of items that tend to gather in bedside drawers until he felt the familiar stack of letters. Pulling them to his chest, he opened the first one. The letter that started it all.
Draco,
Thank you for the tour of the hedge maze yesterday. I confess that the subtle art of topiary design eludes me, but your mother assures me that with practise, I will become as deft a hand as she. I hope to live up to her expectations, and yours.
Do you hope to have a most traditional wife? Where would you like to honeymoon? Do you wish to reside at Malfoy Manor together, with your mother? I know so little of you, and you so little of me. Tradition instructs us that this is the way it's always been done. But aren't you scared, Draco? To magically bind yourself to someone you hardly know?
Please don't misunderstand me. I'm flattered beyond belief to be your intended. It's only that our courtship is so new, and we've never been alone together. There's so much about me I want my husband to know. Since our correspondence is our own, might I tell you?
I look forward to tea next week. Daphne takes her role as chaperone quite seriously, so perhaps be more subtle this time if you want to steal a moment alone. I still haven't gotten the wine stain out of my gloves.
Sincerely,
Astoria Greengrass
Gods, those satin gloves. Spilling the red wine had been a true accident, but it'd launched their friendship. He'd bought her a new pair just to see her smile.
He couldn't stop torturing himself. He flipped the pile over and brushed his thumb across the last letter he'd received from her. The stationery, bordered with tiny blue hyacinths, was thin and soft from almost a decade of folding and unfolding.
D,
Cissy's been acting off this week. She's been rather cagey about dinner tomorrow night, and she can't keep a smile off her face. Does this mean what I think it means? I promise I'll act surprised.
If I'm right, and I suspect I am — just think, in a few weeks we'll be married and cavorting around Venice. I'll twine my fingers through yours whenever I like. Do you think you'll be able to snog me on every bridge in the city in just one week? I'm told there are over 300.
I've bought my Solstice Ball dress. Don't ask me what colour, because it's a surprise. And I can hear you worrying already, but Cissy says you've something in your wardrobe to match. No man has ever cared about fashion as much as you, Draco Malfoy. It's one of the many reasons I adore you.
I also picked up a few things for the London flat. You're sure? We can always move back if you miss Wiltshire too much. I ran into Pansy while I was there. She said she's asked Luna on a date. We should all get together after we unpack.
About my last letter… I've never been so scared in my life as when I posted it. You deserved to know, but D, I want to be with you more than anything in the world. The thought of losing you because of something I can't change almost destroyed me. I believed deep down you'd accept me, after all our conversations and trips to Muggle London, but I doubted you'd continue our courtship. I promise you, I'll be a devoted wife and mother, and we'll be happy together.
You're the only one I've ever told. Not even Daph knows.
Turns out even a half-blood Squib like me can fake it pretty well at Hogwarts if her family greases the right palms. Father couldn't stand for anyone to think he couldn't keep my mother in line, and so despite everything, he's propped up this lie. And now they think they're getting one over on you and your family. They don't know you at all.
You've changed so much.
I may not be a Greengrass by birth, but our future children will be Malfoy through and through. There's a chance they'll have your magic. You can say you don't care all you like, but I know you want to fly any child of ours up on a broom as soon as they can sit up independently. I want to see it, too.
One day, maybe we'll tell the truth. Maybe our love will change the world.
Yours,
Tori
Draco flung his arm over his face and silenced the room. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he pressed the letter into his chest as if the words weren't already stamped across his heart.
Hermione winced at the excruciating pain radiating through her entire arm. She threw her bag on the bed and went to look at herself in the bathroom mirror, patting her clammy hands into her face.
"You're okay, you're okay," she whispered to herself, trying to believe it.
What happened back there? One minute she was in the pub, the next she was transported somewhere she'd never been before. Somewhere awful, dank and dark. She closed her eyes in an effort to recapture the vision. Looking back, certain details made even less sense than before. Why would Death Eaters drink to Potter's Mudblood? Why didn't the snake, who must've been Nagini, constrict itself around her ribcage to crush her? Mostly she remembered her hands, the prominent veins scrunched and black underneath her skin.
Was it her, or was she someone else in the vision?
Her brain almost refused to process it, reverting back to the memory of walking to the Apparition point with Malfoy.
A sharp lance of pain encouraged her to roll up her sleeve. She quickly cast a silencing charm in case the pain was even more acute when she assessed the injury — in case she screamed.
She didn't have to roll it up far before she broke into a sweat. The bubbling burn had taken on a familiar shape. A banded snake emerged from a human skull, onyx-eyed, tongue flickering to taste the fleshy part of her wrist.
The Dark Mark.
It slithered a sinister greeting, and she yelped and shuddered as if someone had just walked over her grave.
Hermione staggered back from her reflection in horror. This couldn't be happening. Surely this was a nightmare? She pinched her upper arm, the way Muggles do in movies. Chiding herself for her foolish reaction, she pulled her wand and cast a litany of detection spells. Stay calm. You have to stay calm.
Within minutes, she arrived at the unfortunate conclusion that she was awake, and this was all too real.
A loud squawk sounded from the window and Hermione's heart threatened to pound out of her chest. She spun around and nearly hexed the owl that swooped down and landed delicately on the window ledge. The creature bore such distinctive cream colouring that Hermione surmised she could only belong to Pansy. Hermione invited the bird in, dispensing her of her note, and offered a treat. If beaks could be turned up haughtily, the proud owl would have raised hers as high as possible. Without waiting for a reply, it ruffled its long, brindled feathers and took to the skies once more.
It was not an invitation so much as a summons.
Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,
I received an owl from The Daily Prophet this evening revealing their intent to go public with your marriage. They invite us to submit a photograph and offer comments.
As soon as you receive this message, come to my office to discuss next steps.
Best,
Pansy Parkinson
Parkinson Public Relations
Hermione glamoured her arm in a panic, but to her dismay, the Mark resisted, just as it had before when she'd thought it was a burn. No no no.
Had she somehow accessed Voldemort's memories when she performed the rehabilitation spell? The explanation didn't quite fit — the Death Eaters in her vision weren't cowering like they usually did in the Dark Lord's presence, and the hands she saw were her own. So not a memory, then.
If only Harry was here. He'd been inside the Dark Lord's mind. He'd know what this was. But what would she even say to him?
"Hey Harry, I know it's been awhile. Sorry I stopped writing to you — turns out I couldn't reverse my parents' Obliviation and lying to you was easier. In the meantime, I married Malfoy, who actually isn't so bad after a couple drinks. Oh, also, I unintentionally took the Mark because I've been wielding ancient dark magic. Could really use your help with that. Anyway, how're the kids?"
That wouldn't do at all. If any chance remained of restoring their friendship, she certainly couldn't turn up on Harry's doorstep like this. She took a deep breath in an attempt to quell her rising terror.
Only a few hours earlier it felt like things were on the up and up. She and Malfoy had exchanged secrets, and actually got on well enough. Blaise now shouldered some of the immense pressure of caring for her parents. Pansy retracted her claws long enough for Hermione to ponder friendship, and her relationships with Luna and the Potters seemed the perfect way to reintegrate herself with the friend group.
All that progress dissolved in the wake of the writhing brand on her arm, wearing her Mudblood scar like a tilted crown.
A crown. A leader, power-hungry and mad.
It was entirely obvious. She should've seen it all along. That book wasn't an original text from centuries ago that just so happened to be at the Riddle House. It might have been worn, but it wasn't rotting or falling apart. Someone had copied from other texts, compiled it all together. And that someone was Tom Riddle himself.
What that meant exactly, she couldn't be sure of yet. Terror rose in her chest, her heart banging aginst her ribs like a desperate prisoner rattling their cage. She had to keep her wits about her. This was no time to unravel.
A quick Accio guided gauze and ointment into her hands. Hermione paused, afraid to press into the Mark. Would she summon someone? Could she somehow be summoned? She reasoned her jumper applied light pressure throughout the day, and so she coated the affected area with ointment and wrapped her arm from elbow to wrist. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she'd need Blaise's help. She'd show him in the morning and formulate a plan.
Tugging her sleeve down over the bandage, she composed herself as best she could and tried the bathroom door that led to Malfoy's room. Expecting to find it locked, she stumbled into his room only to find him adjusting his clothing. He shoved something in his bedside drawer with a loud bang.
"Sorry, I didn't expect —" she swallowed and tried again. "Pansy sent for us." She waved the note in the air like a white flag.
Malfoy marched across the room and snatched the note from her. "You really ought to knock, Granger. You've no idea what I get up to in here."
A flash of embarrassment followed by heat swooped through her. She had some idea. Probably the same thing she got up to, since they'd agreed all those years ago to abstain from seeking release with others.
He crumpled Pansy's note and took a fistful of Floo powder, cocking an eyebrow at Hermione. "You coming?"
His question fanned the flame within her, and she was fairly certain he'd done it purposefully, because a knowing smile curled his lips. She stepped onto the hearth next to him, and moments later, they found themselves at Parkinson Public Relations.
Despite the late hour, an assistant met them in the lobby, where a large Christmas tree glittered in the corner. Someone had charmed it to redecorate itself every few seconds, strands of ribbon and light wrapping themselves up and around the fluffy branches. Hermione couldn't help but smile as the lights switched from a soft white to multicolour.
"I used to have those same lights growing up. My dad made popcorn and we'd thread a bit of fishing line through it. Usually we ate most of it so not much actually ended up on the tree."
She looked up at him awaiting his response. Maybe he'd share a memory of his own. But Malfoy said nothing. Hermione's smile dimmed as she followed the assistant through a set of double doors. She noted he didn't walk beside her or offer her his arm as he had earlier. Instead, he trailed behind, his footfalls and the faintest hint of lavender the only evidence he was there at all.
A sharp loneliness lanced through her. In such a short time, she'd come to rely on his presence. She brought her hand across her chest and clutched her right upper arm. It did nothing to soothe the worry bubbling up inside. She hadn't meant to walk in on him earlier — maybe he valued his privacy after living with Voldemort for so many years, and she'd rattled him. Or maybe in the afterglow of their outing he regretted their frank conversation. Surely he didn't know about the Dark Mark developing like a Muggle photograph on her skin.
The assistant left them in Pansy's immaculate space. Hermione sat on the far end of a tufted settee, leaving plenty of room for Malfoy. But he remained standing near the door like a sentry awaiting orders.
Before she could inquire what spurred this change in him, Pansy strutted in. Everything about her spoke of flawless poise and limitless energy, as if it wasn't past midnight and she always wore sheath dresses and sky high heels. She nodded to both Malfoy and Hermione and took her seat behind a glass top desk.
"I appreciate you both arriving so quickly. I hope I didn't wake you."
"No, I couldn't sleep," Malfoy said with a frown.
"You both finished your assignment?" Pansy asked. Hermione suddenly regretted not looking more closely at their answers.
Hermione walked the parchment over and, feeling unsure of what to do with herself, remained standing by Pansy's desk. Pansy, unruffled by the awkward hovering, set a Quick-Quotes Quill to work recording their answers. When it finished, she returned the pages to Hermione who stuffed them in her beaded bag indiscriminately. "Excellent. This'll come in handy if we need to give the article itself more colour. I haven't received a draft yet, but I'm sure they'll take as much editorial licence as the law allows. But there's no need to worry, we'll have the final say." Pansy, missing nothing, clocked the distance between them and continued.
"I couldn't get the intimacy coordinator out tonight, but you both need to practise a few poses before the photographer gets here. You'll need to look natural holding hands, arms around each other, kissing…" Pansy prattled on, but Hermione felt the world melt away. Unlike the hallucination, which enmeshed itself so thoroughly with her mind that she was transported, this was the absence of all sensation. A tsunami of anxiety gathered its forces at the edge of her thoughts, threatening to wash away her sanity.
"Granger," Malfoy's voice calmed the waters, smoothing them back towards the shoreline of her mind. "Are you still with us?"
Hermione gulped. "Now?" She darted her eyes towards Pansy and then to Malfoy.
Malfoy seemed to follow her line of thought. His eyes locked on hers, but when he spoke, it wasn't directed at her. "Pansy, do you think you could give us some privacy?"
"Draco, it's almost midnight. The photographer will be here any minute."
As if pulled by an invisible string, he walked over to Hermione and flattened his palm against the small of her back, steadying her. Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and allowed herself to relax into him. Malfoy, seemingly unaffected by their new proximity, stood firm. "Please. Just a minute to get our bearings."
Pansy issued a glare to rival Medusa. "Fine. Do what you need to do. But don't play games, Draco. It's not my head the public will want on a spike if we don't get this right."
Pansy exited the room, and Hermione waited for the click-clack of her heels to fade before she dared meet Malfoy's eyes. They seemed to glow in the lamplight.
"Thank you," she sighed. "I know we don't have much time."
"Your comfort is paramount. This doesn't work without you," he paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. "We'll take all night if you need it."
She nodded, and he moved his hand upwards, applying light pressure over her spine all the way up to the nape of the neck. He squeezed gently, reassuringly, before pulling away, taking his lavender scent with him.
"I won't do anything without your permission. Do you trust me?"
Merlin, she couldn't explain it, but she did. He'd turned the tide, kept her dark thoughts from swallowing her whole. Already she felt the absence of his warm hands. "I trust you, Draco."
His eyes blackened at the sound of his name on her lips. "Close your eyes, Hermione."
She let her lashes flutter shut. Tempted though she was to open them again, she pushed down her hesitancy and focused on relaxing her body.
"We're at dinner, a fancy place in Diagon Alley. There's a white tablecloth, a single camellia in a crystal vase surrounded by tea lights. They've just cleared away our main course. We're celebrating, and we've both had a few glasses of champagne. Can you taste it?"
He must've used his magic, because fizz danced on her tongue and heat coiled in her belly. "Yes," she sighed.
"Ah, there's our dessert. Chocolate mousse for you, in a martini glass. You bring the spoon to your lips, but I make you laugh, and you miss your mouth, just a bit. A dollop of mousse lingers on your perfect little cupid's bow."
Unthinkingly, Hermione opened her watering mouth to lick the imaginary chocolate away.
"Ah, ah, wait. May I?"
She nodded, shutting her eyes even tighter. Would he kiss her now?
Before she finished the thought, the rough pad of this thumb swiped across her lip. A sucking sound followed. "Delicious."
He'd just pretended to lick the mousse off his fingers. Gods. The suggestion of champagne was really hitting her now, the warmth lighting up her veins.
"Do you want to try mine?"
"Macarons? How are you going to manage that? Gamp's Law —"
"Do you ever turn that brilliant brain of yours off?" His chuckle sent a spike of desire through her, cutting through the floaty, bubbly feeling he'd induced in her earlier.
"We finish dessert, and the other patrons have slowly filtered out. There's no audience. It's just you, me, and a little dance floor in the middle of the place. All night I've hoped to spin you out, then pull you close. Would you do me the honour?"
He didn't move to restore contact. He simply waited for her answer.
"I'd love to," she replied, lifting her right hand into the air as gracefully as she could manage.
One palm met her hand, the other cradled her elbow, gently guiding her to somewhere in Pansy's office. Hermione tried to picture the dance floor and almost opened her eyes.
"Keep them closed, I've got you," he reassured. "May I hold you?"
The fragile quality of his voice had her leaning towards him, anxious to soothe and be soothed. "Yes."
He wasted no time wrapping her in his arms, his hands skimming up and down her pyjamas as if they were a silk ballgown. "You're breathtaking tonight. We're dancing to your favourite slow song. Everything in me wants to kiss you, but the moment's not quite right yet. And it has to be perfect."
He spun her out, somehow in time to the soft music playing in her head, but never let go of her hand. Hermione should be scared, she knew, blindly tumbling down into this fantasy with a dangerous man. But her heart raced with adrenaline, drowning out all logic and reason.
Malfoy drew her back in, silencing further thoughts as he clutched her to his chest. "The song is ending now, Hermione. The choice is yours. Shall I dip you, and drag my eager lips up your throat?"
Here and now, she had a choice. She could open her eyes, gather her wits, and give him a perfunctory kiss, just enough to pass muster. Surely they weren't expected to glow with passion after almost a decade of marriage. Or she could submit to the fantasy. Her body cried out for the second option, her thighs aching with the first blush of arousal.
His mouth hovered just above her ear, his raspy words meant just for her. "I will be grateful for whatever you grant me, Granger."
Her stomach flipped at the way he said her last name, tumbling from his lips like an endearment sacred between just the two of them, and the last of her resolve crumbled. "Kiss me, please."
She expected him to move like lightning, but instead he was like thunder rumbling in the distance. He brought them to a stop and brought his hands to her jaw, massaging slightly. His fingers charted a course for the base of her skull, where he gently tugged her hair. Hermione gave a small, involuntary gasp as his hot, slightly minty breath ghosted across her cheek, blazing a trail to her mouth. Every inch of her skin erupted into flame, waiting for Malfoy, no, Draco, to press his lips to hers.
Just then, Pansy burst in, followed by a parade of staff.
