There were times in a person's life and decisions to be made—often the most significant, pivotal, and life-changing—when a person simply felt their mind slip into a different dimension. One where wildly impossible alternatives felt almost… possible.
Chewing on the stale crusts of her toast, Hermione gazed at the blank space of her kitchen table, sequestered away in her small London flat, as her mind churned and threatened to utterly dismantle her life as she'd come to know it. Her gaze flitted back to the cover page of the Daily Prophet from two days prior. A full page of the black and white visage of Draco Malfoy blinked at her, and there was something other than disdain in those pale grey eyes. There was something elegant—almost regal—in the look of him.
The photograph—leaked, apparently—depicted his Ascension to the highest seat in the Nocturnus Order. So it was done, then, and there was nothing Hermione could have done even if she wanted to. And she had yet to decide if she wanted to—not if Malfoy's chief reason for Ascending was in line with her own goals.
A thick lump had accumulated in her throat when she first read the article and the dozens of times since.
Really, the idea was preposterous. She and Harry had joked about it the week before—about the very thought that she might attend his search for a bride…
She was only twenty-four, and the last thing Hermione needed was to even consider tying herself to her childhood enemy for the rest of her life. Beyond that, there was not even a sliver of a chance that Malfoy would select her, out of all the other beautiful, worldly, and high class women who were likely to attend.
But the situation in France was only worsening—and could Hermione trust a cunning, manipulative snake like Malfoy to do what was best for everyone involved? The question had hovered in the back of her mind, drawing her focus from everything else, since her conversation with Harry. But after the most recent article had been published, it had become all-encompassing.
Hermione didn't like Malfoy, and she knew it was mutual. That much was certain. And the only thing she had to offer the situation were her intelligence and her magical ability, which most certainly wasn't stingy, but it probably wasn't anything beyond the ordinary.
Even so… she couldn't fight the idea that she needed to attend.
Even if Malfoy would laugh in her face at the thought. If he was to be roped into a marriage of convenience, of duty—maybe compatibility wasn't at the top of his mind.
Of course, the entire situation was crazy on another level. Hermione wasn't even sure whether she could force herself to walk through the doors of Malfoy Manor—not after what had happened the last time she had visited his grand home. But that had been years ago, and she liked to think she was stronger now. The occurrences of the war had left deep mental and emotional scars, but Hermione had strove for years to move past them.
Maybe it was another reason—she longed to lay to rest one more skeleton. Of course, there were other ways than to marry the bag of bones.
Blowing out a long breath, Hermione dropped her face into her hands. She officially had two hours left to decide.
Cussing herself and the many righteous things she stood for, Hermione found herself waiting in a posh sitting room with what must have been close to a hundred others. The girl beside her with a nervous quake to her shoulders couldn't have been any older than eighteen, and across from Hermione, one leg crossed over the other as she examined her cuticles while snapping what seemed to be an entire packet of Droobles, was a woman who looked into her late forties.
Shifting in her seat, Hermione clasped her hands together, pressing her lips into a thin line. If not for the fact that she had already summoned the courage to attend the bloody sideshow, she would have already given up and gone back home, claiming temporary insanity to herself.
But according to the large, magical projection on the far wall, there were only four consultations left before it was her turn. Some had gone on as long as ten or fifteen minutes, while others returned after only a minute or two. A few ladies hadn't returned at all, and Hermione wasn't sure why the thought left an ominous twist in her stomach.
She found herself wondering what she would even say to the bloke. Whether he could see the list of attendees in advance as her name drifted up the list, or if he would be baffled and derisive upon seeing her.
Especially now that her childhood rival had risen to one of the greatest seats of power in the global wizarding populace.
Planting her feet on the floor to quell the nervousness threatening to make itself known through a shake in her knees, Hermione forced a long breath out and sucked in a slow inhale. She was already here, and there was no backing out now. All she could do was make the best of it.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, in case it suggested something about Malfoy's waning patience—each of the next four women returned within minutes. One sobbed uncontrollably as she was hauled past in the firm grip of a guard, dressed in what she had surmised to be the official livery of the Nocturnus Order.
And before she'd had the chance to make up her mind one way or the other, Hermione saw her own name blinking at her from the magical projection. Her hands were clammy as she pressed them to her skirt, and she rose from the elegant straight-backed armchair in which she'd been seated.
For a brief instant, her gaze flickered to the door that would lead to the exit of the Manor. She could escape to the grounds and do her best to forget this ill-fated decision. She wouldn't even need to tell Harry about the lapse in judgement.
The thought was terribly enticing—and fleeting. Because she had deliberated long enough on this moment, and she wasn't sure whether Malfoy would even be willing to hear her out. But if she didn't try and things in France continued to grow worse, she wouldn't forgive herself the indiscretion of walking out.
Summoning every ounce of courage she could manage, Hermione steeled her posture and nodded at the hard-faced guard waiting on her. He led her from the room, and with each brazen thump of her heart in her chest, she wondered what in the hell she was doing.
The walk to the throne room was longer than Hermione had anticipated—or maybe it was just her nerves playing havoc on her sensibilities. As the hallways of Malfoy Manor twisted like a maze around every corner, she forced herself to keep her breathing steady in the event that she were to pass through a room she recognized from her last visit during the war.
But nothing jumped out at her as familiar, and it occurred to Hermione how utterly massive the Manor truly was.
Finally the guard at her side stopped, pushing open an elaborate, midnight blue door with inlaid silver detailing. Hermione might have rolled her eyes at its complicated design if not for the desire to run coursing through her with every step.
She followed the guard into the room, her feet moving as if of their own accord, and when she glanced up from the centre of the room, Malfoy was ahead of her. He sat at a desk covered in papers, despite the two massive thrones looming to his right. Two others sat at either side of him.
Dressed in robes of deep blue, an intricate silver crown perched on his head, he looked as she remembered—only not. He was in conversation with someone who looked to be one of his advisers, dressed in a similar fashion as the guards. Hermione forced a swallow, keeping her gaze fixed ahead. She had worn one of her nicest outfits, after much deliberation as to what sort of image she wanted to present, and she fought the urge to fidget with her sleeves.
Then Malfoy glanced up.
His eyes widened; he blinked several times; his lips pursed.
A harsh silence hung over the room for such an extended moment as Hermione held his penetrating stare that she saw the guards shifting in her periphery.
Folding his arms flat on the table in front of him, Malfoy leaned forward in his seat, eyes squinted as if trying to determine if she was actually who he thought. The corner of his mouth curled with the slightest hint of a sneer before falling neutral once more.
Then he huffed, in a soft voice, "Next," and turned back to his adviser.
Hermione gaped at his blatant dismissal, heat suffusing her cheeks and throat as she stood, frozen to the spot. The long fingers of a guard coiled around her upper arm, preparing to remove her from the room.
She ground out through her teeth, "Malfoy."
The fingers around her arm tensed, the guard's expression hardening at the audacity that she dare address their leader in such a way.
But Malfoy's lips pulled into a smirk, genuine amusement darting across his face as he shook his head. "Granger—what in the name of Merlin would possess you to come here today?"
Releasing a soft breath, Hermione dropped her head to the side. "I have many thoughts on the situation in France—and on the strengthening of your dynasty."
Without missing a beat, Malfoy said, "Of course you do." As he lifted a hand, the guard retreated, and his searing gaze swept her once more, calculating and precise, the skin around his eyes tightening. He said something quiet to his advisers and then announced, louder, "I'll meet with this one in person after."
Hermione bristled. This one. When the guard stepped forward again, it was to gesture towards the door once more. She stared Malfoy down for one more moment before turning to leave—she could feel his stare linger on her the whole way from the room.
Draco could no longer concentrate. Hermione fucking Granger.
After hours of meeting with mild-mannered, insipid purebloods—in walked Hermione Granger, all wild hair and entitlement.
And while he'd initially been of a mind to dismiss her as the headache she'd always been, he couldn't deny his interest in actually hearing what she had to say. Away from the squadron of guards and advisers that had been lurking at his side ever since his Ascension.
There were still two dozen names on the list, and Draco sped through them, finding none he was interested in speaking with any further. One pureblood princess was like any other pureblood princess, and Draco desired a Lunae Amor who was more interested in ruling at his side than mindlessly producing his heirs.
Not that Granger would willingly do anything at his side—which made it all the more intriguing that she had shown up at all.
Years had passed since the pair of them had even interacted, and he couldn't deny her intelligence. Much like he couldn't deny the fact that she most likely had her own agenda—and Draco was curious how closely it aligned with his own. Even so, he knew she would be involved in the Order as a key adviser and strategist, as the role would ask of any woman he chose as a bride.
When accepting the idea that he would need to select a Lunae Amor, Draco had already acknowledged the fact that the partnership would be based more in duty than in compatibility. But if Granger was still as much of a swot as he remembered, he wasn't sure even her brilliance and power would be enough to persuade him.
A handful of women over the course of the day had caught his attention, and he'd asked each of them to stay for a preliminary meeting—but by the time he was through the last of them, Draco was weary from a long, trying day, and he still hadn't found any woman who met the specifications he was hoping for.
He'd left his meeting with Granger for last, for several reasons. For one, it would annoy her to be left to wait, and there was a small part of Draco that wanted to grind her gears for old times' sake. Secondly, he suspected speaking with her would be exhausting—and thirdly, he didn't want to be rushed, in the event that she did have something valuable to share.
Not that he expected she would be the one he would choose. But it was worthwhile to at least hear her out.
Frowning, Draco halted outside of the small room in which she'd been waiting. After what had happened the last time she'd set foot in Malfoy Manor, he supposed she would only bring herself to return with good reason.
Smoothing out his robes, he swung open the door and strode into the room.
As he suspected, Granger looked irritable, but her expression quickly dropped when she noticed him, and she jumped to her feet as she eyed his approach with caution.
"Granger." He extended a hand, waiting while she hesitated. If the meeting was going to devolve into a shouting match—which was likely—he wasn't going to taunt the beast by starting off on the wrong foot.
Finally she placed her small hand into his, giving it a firm shake. She was so unlike the flimsy pureblood girls he'd spent all day speaking with.
She returned his greeting with a crisp nod. "Malfoy. Or rather, what is it now? Lunae Ortus?"
Draco felt amusement tug at his features at her efforts. "Why don't we forego the titles, for now at least? After all, I surmise you're here in a bid to claim a title in this order."
Shifting on her feet, Granger looked uncomfortable. By the way her features tightened, Draco wondered if she was debating whether she still ought to make a run for it.
Softening, he waved a hand at the chair in which she'd been previously. "Take a seat, Granger." When she sat, folding her hands in her lap, Draco took the seat facing her. "Why don't you tell me—as plainly as you can—why you've come here today?"
Almost unnoticeably, her shoulders straightened, and she fixed him with a stare. Her eyes were a sort of warm melted chocolate colour, and it occurred to Draco he'd never been this close to her. And that he'd never paid any attention to the colour of her eyes. Her hair was uncontrollably curly as it always had been, but there was a tousled look to it now and the youthful frizz was gone.
Her outfit was nice, if a season old. The stylist team would have fun with her.
"Obviously," she began, her voice soft, "your call for a suitress has been highly publicized. My research on the Nocturnus Order has come up short, but what I have learned is that your influence is both vast and deep, and that for whatever reason, you've decided to Ascend in response to the situation in France."
Her voice grew more assured as she spoke, although her eyes didn't quite meet his as she went on.
"It is my great desire for the French Ministry to see reason, and to resolve the problem with Avance, but I have no means to do so on my own." Releasing a long, shuddering breath, she finished, "If you were to select me as your Lunae Amor, I would do what you ask of me so that we can work together to put an end to this situation."
Her words tugged at something in Draco's chest, but he found himself snickering. Then a chuckle burst from his lips. "Granger, you do realize this is a marriage bond, not a job interview?"
Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes tightened with affront. "I am aware there would be other considerations involved."
"Other considerations," Draco drawled, "such as bearing an heir, for instance."
"Yes." The word was bit through clenched teeth; her expression was hard as she wrung her hands in her lap. "Like that."
"Tell me," Draco went on, wanting to get to the heart of the matter. "Why do you care so much about the situation in France as to go to such lengths as marry me, surrendering everything as you know it for the rest of your life? Why does it matter so much to you?"
Granger stared at him for a long moment. "Does it matter? Why have you uprooted your entire life to Ascend in some ancient order over it?"
Scowling at her, he said, "It matters." When she wasn't forthcoming with a response, he continued. "It matters because you wouldn't be just my wife, you'd be my Lunae Amor—my partner. My most respected adviser. And if I can't trust your motivations now, how on earth do you expect me to trust everything to you when it matters most?"
Looking taken aback, she released a sigh. "I work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Malfoy. My job is to look out for marginalized magical groups—the same groups Avance is stepping over on their way to power in France." Pausing, she glanced at him, dragging her bottom lip between her teeth. "Furthermore… my entire existence in the wizarding world has been characterized by the marginalising prejudice I've received myself. It isn't about what I want, but what's best for the wizarding world. But still, creatures and Muggle-borns are not far apart, in a lot of estimations, and if we have a chance to cut off another war before it begins…"
Her words trailed off with a hesitant shrug, and Draco chewed his tongue for a moment while he stared at her.
He noticed she hadn't directly mentioned his own prejudice towards her when they were younger, and while a part of him was grateful, there was a gentle coil of shame in his stomach.
"I will mention," Draco said delicately, "that I wouldn't have asked you to stay today if I was still bothered over your blood status. That is a lesson I learned years ago."
"I appreciate that."
"My motivations are less noble," he went on, adjusting his tie. "Having foreseen the situation on the horizon for a long time, Ascending was my way of showing everyone the Malfoy line is not susceptible to being dragged through the wreckage of another war. As you've undoubtedly seen, I have the numbers to fight a war if I need. But ultimately, my aim is to check Avance's power, and hopefully, to force them to retreat into the dirt once more. We don't need another war, and if I have a say in it, there won't be one."
Granger gave a nod, and some of the tension deflated from her shoulders, as if relieved by his words.
"I have to assume," she said, her words careful and measured, "the fact that you're even willingly speaking to me suggests you're considering my offer."
After a brief pause, Draco responded, "I am considering it."
"You should know, in that case, I'll never be the quiet, doting wife," she mused. "I have opinions, and ideas, and I'll want to be involved. But if our goals are ultimately the same, which it sounds as if they are… I'm willing to do my best to put everything between us in the past in order to move forward."
For a long moment, silence hung between them. It occurred to Draco the conversation had gone significantly better than he'd expected—especially since they'd never spoken to one another for so long.
But then he chuckled, shaking his head. Granger lifted one brow.
"You should know," he said idly, "if I want a quiet, doting wife I could select one of the dozens of proper painted pureblood ladies who came by today and call it the end of the matter." Dropping his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward, meeting her gaze. "What I need is a partner. Didn't you see the thrones? Equal. The connection between the Lunae Ortus and the Lunae Amor is symbiotic—only as strong as the bond between them. Your ideas and opinions would be welcomed."
She stared at him for a moment; something in her expression set his heart racing.
"But I need you to really consider," Draco went on, his voice softer, "if you're so committed to your cause to spend the rest of your life with me. Because make no mistake about it, the Lunae bonds are forever, Granger."
Her face faltered with a hint of a grimace, but she nodded.
Draco rose to his feet, and she followed suit. "I will speak with my advisers and be in touch this week once I've made a decision. The Bonding Ceremony will take place under the next full moon, in a little over three weeks." Cursing the hint of colour that came to his cheeks, he added, "That does not include consummation. Just for the record."
"Oh," she said, surprised, "very well."
Merlin, the mere thought of intimacy with her made him blush like a virgin. But then, there was something about Granger that set him off-kilter—there always had been.
Quietly, he said, "Take care, Granger."
Then he strode from the room.
Author's Note: Thank you for the wonderful reception to the last chapter! I hope you enjoyed this one and I'd love to hear your thoughts as we move forward :)
Love and hugs to my pre-reading squad, Kyonomiko, LadyKenz347, and Ravenslight.