The meeting with the partners of Malfoy Industries was going so well Draco could see those creepy, heinous old bastards practically orgasming in their chairs when he and Cristobal Rivera gave the estimated earning the company would make in the investment with Tierra Pura. Draco was so sure he had convinced the partners, he even pulled out the legal documents for them to sign so the presentation could conclude and a round of bourbon could be had after giving a speech promising success. That, of course, was before the main, heinous bastard of the lot cleared his throat.

"You are a modern thinker, Draco," said Wulfric Macnair, the eldest son of one very imprisoned Walden Macnair. While daddy dearest was executing wild beasts for the Ministry as a very interesting hobby (as one could do when they were worth millions of galleons), Wulfric was in America, working for the Magical Congress. What exactly he did there, of course, was a mystery to all. He remained there even when the Dark Lord came back from hell to lead his servants to war. When Walden Macnair was caught after the Hogwarts battle, Wulfric returned to Britain to step up as the patriarch of the family. That job description included being a despicable, headache-inducing twat Lucius and Draco Malfoy had to constantly deal with. He was particularly less of an arsehole to Lucius, seeing as a history of early friendship now made them passive-aggressive acquaintances, but as for Draco—well, he was positively certain Wulfric wanted to destroy him.

Draco tightened his fingers on the thin stack of folders. "Well, unlike yourself, Macnair, I am young. Modern. And definitely more attractive," he added with a smirk, though his silver eyes burned black with hatred. A few partners chuckled, but Lucius narrowed his gaze at his son. "It's my job to think outside of the box."

"I have heard of outside-the-box thinkers making their fortunes with innovative ideas these days," continued Wulfric, grinning back as if the banter being exchanged was one with a friend. "Of course, if we look at the statistics of their success, the numbers are relatively small. These thinkers are rare, lucky—el señor Rivera one of them, naturally, or he would not be standing before us." Cristobal bowed his head in gratitude, but Draco saw him ball his hand and stuff it into his pocket. "However, the people sitting before you come from old money. We are businessmen who invest in traditions and family. We have maintained our fortunes because security permits it."

"Security?" Draco questioned with a laugh. "That's another word for comfort, is it not? Gentlemen, statistics also show that values of a stock can plummet if that company refuses to revolutionize. We live in a world that is fast changing, the consumers with it. If we do not provide quality and up-to-date products and services we will lose our standing as a multi-million galleon company. Of course," he added with bite, "we can follow tradition and see how far along that can take us. But if history is anything to go by, remaining selective and narrow-minded does not always work out for the best. If it did...well, it would be Wulfric's father that sat among us."

It was completely uncalled for to aim so low, even Draco was aware of that, but in the fight against Macnair nothing was off limits. It should be petty for a fifty-something year old man to go head to head with someone half his age, but this was just how things were. One had to have the upperhand. Tierra Pura was dear to Draco's heart, and Macnair knew that all too well. He would find any loophole, any weakness to hit and inject doubt so the partners would withdraw their consent of investment. Naturally, Draco had to protect this business venture by any means.

"Now we deliberate," Lucius Malfoy's voice rung firm and low throughout the meeting room. "Those who are in favor of investing in Rivera's potioneer company please vote now."

There were fifteen partners, including the Malfoys, and they were almost equally in divide on whom to follow. Some of them were businessmen who had a hold in Malfoy Industries simply to make money despite loathing the family. Then there were those who were old friends still latching on to a history of pureblood mania and superiority that kept them loyal. Still, in the end, like most things in the corporate world, it all came down to money. They would look past Draco leading the march so long as their vaults were generously filled.

Seven voted no. Seven voted yes.

"Macnair," called Lucius to the man at the opposite end of the table. "Your vote."

All eyes turned to the man. Draco gritted his teeth, fingers twitching for the wand in his pocket. He was hardly surprised the deciding vote would rest in Macnair's hands. He was a sadistic fucker that way, of course.

"One month," said Wulfric. "We give a month of a trial period to prove that our investments will be fruitful. I will sign Rivera's lab to our company today if in the following month, Draco, the numbers you just swore by check out. If not, we pull out completely."

When all legal papers were signed by the fifteen partners, Macnair was the first to saunter off. As the room began to empty, Lucius called for Draco to remain in his seat.

"I hope you have considered what we discussed yesterday," said Lucius.

An automatic frown creased Draco's forehead. "I told you once, Father, I am not going to use my current misfortune to gain standing with the partners. I will do my work as I've always done so, and let it speak for itself."

"That's a lovely sentiment," rebuffed Lucius with snark. "I am sure it will win over the board."

"Father—"

"You heard Macnair. Regardless of present circumstances, of the blasted past, we are men with family values. We are hardworking, ruthless, overachieving men. You are a boy. Macnair will not tire of convincing the partners of such. Be as bold as you want, but you will have to learn to compromise to get what you want in the real world."

A growl was simmering in Draco's chest, desperate to get out and release venom. It would have, too, if it not had been for Cristobal lingering in the corner of the meeting room, giving the Malfoys privacy to discuss their personal matters while he gathered his lab's documents. His presence did not go unnoticed by Lucius, either.

"Why don't you take the day off," added the elder Malfoy. "You and Rivera can finish the remaining details over lunch. In fact, you should ask your wife to join you, Rivera. That way she can get to know more of my son and his wife. It is important, after all, for both our families to be well acquainted now that we will be doing business with each other."

"Draco," said Cristobal, his brows furrowing in surprise, "I wasn't aware you were married, amigo. My apologies."

With gritted teeth (and a loud fuck-you playing in his eyes meant for his father), Draco turned to the Mexican man and attempted to smile courtly. "It happened recently, Cristobal. I have been so caught up in finalizing this affair there has not been much time for talk of anything but the future of Tierra Pura with Malfoy Industries."

"Of course. I do admire you for your dedication. Still, your padre is right. We have neglected this friendship for business for far too long. I will love to meet your wife, just as I'm sure my Kisa will, too."

"For this lunch it will be impossible. Gra—My wife is a Healer. All of her time is spent in the hospital."

Cristobal clapped Draco on the back, nodding once in understanding. "Well, next time I am back in the country we will have to get together for dinner, then."

Draco helped his friend gather the documents before leaving the meeting room. As they did, he did not miss his father's plotting smirk take over his pale features.

X

"I don't really understand why I'm here," Olive said with an exasperated sigh as Draco handed her a bottle of red wine. "This is very inappropriate."

Draco snorted back at her as he walked out of the wine aisle, her trailing behind him with a trolley. After having lunch with Cristobal, Draco realized there was so much his friend was waging by partnering up with Malfoy Industries. If it was any other endeavor, he would gladly let it fall apart than to lower himself to Granger and their unspeakable sin. However, Cristobal was Draco's friend for some years now, someone he admired for his compassion of earth's elements and how to use them in their purest forms to create remedies for diseases. Cristobal had offers from all over the globe, especially in his beloved Mexico. He knew Cristobal wanted to keep Tierra Pura strictly local, an essence of his culture and his people, and Draco made promises of keeping that even if he signed with Malfoy Industries. Cristobal saw something in Draco (so he said the night he agreed to the latter's proposition), so he gathered all the money in his possession to shine and wrap Tierra Pura in a bow in order to present it to Malfoy Industries. For his sacrifice, Draco would have to bite the bullet.

When he returned to his office, he called Olive in, ordering her to cancel all meetings for the day and to grab her coat. She was to accompany him to Muggle London and assist him in purchasing items that can sweep any girl off her feet. She, of course, called him an idiot for thinking chocolate and wine would help him woo someone, but Draco knew that it would take even the smallest gesture to breach the gap between him and Granger.

"How is this any more inappropriate than you telling me about your sex injuries the night of your honeymoon with Cyrus?" returned Draco.

"Okay, first off," huffed Olive, "I was giving you advice. It's not like I was drawing you detailed pictures of how it happened. Secondly, that conversation only came up because I walked in on you banging some random girl on the balcony of your office. She could've easily fallen off and gotten killed and you'd be in prison—most likely as someone's bitch."

"You've been around Muggles for too long, Olive. Azkaban cells are individual and minimize contact with other prisoners. I would know, I was in one for two weeks, remember?"

She rolled her dark eyes at him. "You only get to use the Azkaban card once with me, remember? I sure hope this was worth it." He made a noise that sounded almost like a chuckle, so she knew they were moving past that uncomfortable subject. "Honestly, Draco, you're not going to get anywhere with pretenses. Just be yourself—your stubborn, ambitious, smarmy self. Someone is bound to fall in love with that, and who better than your wife?"

Draco stopped looking at stuffed animals to give his secretary an offended, slightly disgusted look. This was not about romance in any way, shape, or form. This was about business (about the consequences of his drinking, but he really was not going to start pointing a finger at himself). He just needed to play the part long enough for it to be believable.

"Well, well," came the voice of a woman both Draco and Olive knew all too well. While Draco sighed, Olive groaned and contemplated taking out her wand to Avada herself in the middle of a muggle shop. They both eventually turned to the opposite end of the aisle, and sure enough, in her sleek, glamorous style, Daphne Greengrass smirked at the two.

In the past three years no one had seen Daphne without her photographer shadowing her every move. It was no surprise, then, that he was also present, pulling out a small camera and snapping a picture of Daphne's current target.

"Are you personally following me around now, Greengrass?" Draco asked with his famous haughty attitude underlining his words.

"Well, I haven't seen the reporter that usually does the dirty work—dirty meaning anything involving you, of course—since he went to Greece to write about the party you and Nott were throwing there last month. Any idea where he is?"

"Definitely not Obliviated and chasing his new dreams of being a drag queen with expensive tastes," returned Draco, malice glimmering in his eyes.

"You know," added Olive, "this can be considered harassment. Draco does have an in with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As much as you like to think so, Greengrass, you are not technically considered press—on account of ninety percent of Witch Weekly articles being used to wipe arseholes."

Daphne did not lose her smirk despite her blue eyes darkening to a navy. "You're always so lovely, Olive. I must tell your mother as much next time I see her for tea. Oh, no, wait. You're dead to her. Hmm, pity."

Olive reached for the bottle of wine in the trolley. Before she could smash it over Daphne's head, Draco grabbed the base of it to pull it away. Olive glared murderously at him, her chest heaving, but he did not acknowledge this. Instead, he said to Daphne, "why are you here? It's not like you to be in Muggle London."

Daphne put a hand on her photographer's shoulder, silently ordering him to stop snapping away. "For charity a reader challenged me to live a day as a Muggle would, so that's exactly what I'm doing. I'm looking for necessities in this circus—"

"It's called Sainsbury," corrected Olive, but she was ignored.

"—and I just happened to stumble upon our very own Draco Malfoy in what seems like an affair with his secretary? Take a picture, Ramond," she commanded to the photographer as she delightfully laughed at the reaction Olive and Draco made. "Obviously I know this is not the case. You have far better tastes than Olive Crabbe. And she, well, has a fancy for Muggles, doesn't she? What's your husband's name? Cyrus Amal? Not really important, now is it, but gossip is gossip. It sells like freshly baked bread—especially when you have incriminating photos."

"I'm going to kill her," said Olive to Draco as she started pulling her long, dark hair up at the top of her head. "Cyrus is an officer in Kensington. He can smuggle me out of prison."

Draco reached for her wrist, keeping her in place. For a brief second he had to inhale deeply, his mind buzzing with protest at the words that were forming and piling at the tip of his tongue. "We aren't having an affair. Olive is helping me buy things for a surprise I'm preparing for...my wife."

Olive turned to him, appalled. "Malfoy, what the—"

"Your wife?" squeaked out Daphne. "Who the hell would marry you?"

"Haven't talked to Astoria, then?" asked Draco. "She knows all about it."

Daphne frowned at the information of her little sister knowing the biggest piece of gossip since Millicent Bulstrode started transitioning to become a man earlier this year. "Don't you lie to me, Malfoy," she hissed threateningly. "If I run this and it is completely false, I will ruin your life."

"You've got tickets to the Holyhead Harpies match, don't you?" He could not believe he was selling himself out right now. "Because that's where you will get your exclusive."

X

After an incredibly long day at the hospital, Hermione Flooed into Malfoy's flat in hopes to find him asleep on the couch, protesting against her stay as usual. She was not in the mood to argue with him, nor to hear how she needed to go back to her own place, her own bed, how they needed to get a divorce—blah, blah, blah. Instead, her purse fell from her grasp when she saw him sitting at a table in his living room, waiting for her.

The light of the room had been dimmed to give just a soft glow in order to let the candles strategically placed on the table shine like tiny stars collected in a jar. Red roses filled three intricate vases, and in the middle rested a bucket of ice with a bottle of wine cooling inside. Food had been served, and its aroma filled the room, lacing in with the gentle melody being played by the record player.

"What did you do?" Hermione demanded, approaching the table both warily and upset. "I swear, Malfoy, if you really did sacrifice Crookshanks to a pack of hippogriffs—"

A frown briefly took over Draco's face. He had forgotten she owned that blasted, furry beast until it leaped out from behind the couch earlier that morning, sinking its teeth into his shin and refusing to let go. He had been about to slam it against a wall to knock it unconscious, but Granger had calmly called it from the bedroom and it sauntered off like it had not been intent on eating Draco alive, the fucking bastard. He, obviously, threatened to sell it to the questionable meat pie restaurant near the Ministry, but his vows were now void of any actual immediate action. He needed to put up with the animal—and her cat, too.

"Relax," he begun to say, "it's fine. Delta set up a little nest for the thing in the laundry room."

Her brown gaze was still narrowed in suspicion. "Then?"

Draco had to bite down on his own tongue to keep him from vomiting at the blasphemy he was about to spill. After a stretched second of collecting courage (that three shots of tequila may have given him before she arrived) he said, "I thought about what you've said. Maybe there's a reason why we ended up together. Granted we've been trying to destroy each other since we were children, but we can move past that to see what's here, can't we?" He stood from the table at the center of his living room, walking over to hall where she had remained. He reached for her hands, uncrossing her arms from her chest. "And if you really are pregnant, then we owe it to the baby to try."

Draco slid his hands up her arms, around her shoulders, and then closed his eyes when they carefully landed on her waist. He leaned in, pulling her flush against his chest in order to press his lips on hers, but she immediately tugged away from him. When his eyes fluttered open hers were agape, shock and bewilderment flustering her all at once.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"What are you—just wait, Malfoy!" Hermione squeaked when he held on to her again, burying his face in her neck. She felt him breathe her in for a fleeting moment, but then his mouth was warm against her skin.

"Wait for what, Granger? You wanted me to jump on board with this. Well, now I am on board."

She wiggled her way from his grasp once again, putting a hand up to keep him at a distance. She took in a deep breath, trying to get her ideas in place. When her famous determination flashed in her warm eyes she said, "I do want you to try. For the baby. But there has to be rules. Boundaries."

Draco scoffed loudly. "You mean before or after we shagged all over this flat? Or when you moved in without so much as a bloody invitation?"

She frowned at him. "This—your mood swings—is my next point. How do I know this isn't just some ploy so you can reel me in and then murder me? Maybe you've finally convinced Delta to poison the food."

"Murdering you would be far too exhausting and time consuming, Granger. I have a business to run. I don't have the time to plan it all out, and believe me, if I was planning it, it'd be spectacular. However," Draco added quickly when she started turning red from anger, "I am standing here before you at two in the morning with dinner and wine as a peace offering. I'm trying to show you that I'm willing to try. Now, the question here is, are you going to take it? Or are we going to argue for the next month—or possibly for the rest of our lives if we really are having a baby together?"

Hermione was not often confused in her lifetime, let alone by other people. But here she was, standing before the one person that was her constant second at wits and brains. He was also the same person that would take any presented opportunity to humiliate her, to win at any costs so long as she stayed down. But he was right. They were married now. And he was offering his acceptance to a truce she had asked him to make when all of this began.

With a deep sigh, pushing back her suspicions, she said, "Okay, Malfoy. But there will be rules."

"Of course there will," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"First of all, we will respect each other. That means no more of your foul language. Secondly, we assimilate to our living arrangements as best as we can. So no more sleeping on the couch. And lastly," she whispered as he took her hand, leading her back to the table he had set out for her. He pulled out the chair with his free hand, about to help her to her place, when she added, "no sex. At all."

Flashes of their night spent together resurfaced for Draco. He felt her warm, shivering body flush against his, her heart pounding inside her chest as he slipped inside of her, connecting them both in a way neither ever thought possible. He heard her call out for him, a sound close to the perfect song—but he stops himself from thinking up more images. That was a one time thing. A mistake produced by the influence of the devil's drink.

Draco smirked at her. "I'm sure I can contain myself for a month, Granger." He pushed her chair in, about to return to his, when his sense of arsehole-ness kicked in and he found himself placing a delicate kiss on her neck. "I hope you can, too."

He didn't miss the way she gasped and shivered.

AN: Hey, guys! So sorry for the VERY late update. I have been swamped with work. This chapter seems more like a filler to me, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway! Much love to you all. And I hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving. :D