The morning came with a soft, gentle haze of orange and pink. Sunlight poured into Draco's bedroom, touching everything as it tickled his face, feathering over his eyelids. Doing what it set out to do, the sunlight reduced when his silver eyes came to life, blinking slowly until full consciousness had taken him hostage. With a silent yawn, he stretched his arms, turning over to fetch his first glass of water (with a squeeze of lemon) Delta always left on his nightstand. His morning routine was, of course, interrupted when he turned to his side and got a mouthful of vanilla-scented hair. Anger bubbled in his chest, ready to burst, but he held his tongue when his wife (oh, yes, he said wife) rolled into his arms.

It was to no one's surprise that Draco was not the cuddling type. He was never shown that sort of affection as a child, and he definitely did not adopt it as a grown man. He did not see the purpose of it; they were adults, why the hell did these cuddling sorts enjoy being held like they were infants seeking the safety of their mothers? No, no. Draco would not have any of that. Naturally, when one of his conquests wanted to canoodle after hours of passionate sex, he threw them their clothing while saying, 'if you want to hug something, there's a pet shop around the corner. Find a puppy. Goodbye now.'

But Granger was not a conquest. She was his wife—his greatest mistake to date.

Of course, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were synonymous with catastrophe—them being naturally inclined to destroy each other and all, but in that very silent, unnatural moment, disaster slept. Her guard was down, making her gentle to the eye. There was no judging, righteous glint to look down on him, or no pestering, all-knowing voice to remind him of his series of bad calls. It was just her, calm and strangely beautiful. Warm. Was that a thing Draco wasn't even aware people could be? Not in the sense of body heat, per se, but the feeling itself. It was almost like comfort.

It had been a few days since Draco announced to Granger that he wanted to try and make their current situation work. He thought it would be entirely impossible to feign such acceptance—bloody Brightest Witch of the Age being his wife and all—but it had been doable. Frustrating by all intents and purposes, but not to the point that jumping off the tallest tower seemed like the better option. Unsurprisingly, she was hesitant about it the next day. She kept tiptoeing around his flat like he planted death traps on every other tile, but when Delta assured her everything was perfectly safe, Granger stopped clutching on to her wand and released the suspicion in her brown eyes. She let herself be courted (in a sense) by him.

With her guard dropped, Draco was able to get her to adopt friendly (of sorts) conversations with him. He got to know a little more about her—dark secrets weren't revealed, of course, nor were there any trips down memory lane, but it was something. He knew the little things, like her favorite color, book, song, the way she ate her toast (peanut butter and slices of banana), the lamenting haze in her eyes when the skies were grey, and the mug of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows she had when it had been a tough day at the hospital. Nothing of it helped Draco crush her, but it was not intolerable all together.

Sensing eyes on her, Hermione woke up to him. It took her a moment to realize why he had been so close to her, to the point that she could count his blonde lashes, and immediately tugged away.

"Morning," she offered with a raspy voice.

Draco hummed in response, watching her as she stretched her limbs out. She yawned, eyes heavy with sleep, but she still pulled the sheets from herself and stood. She was in a nightgown, not entirely frumpy, but definitely boring; she opened the curtains to allow more of the rare sunshine in. She smiled at the rays, letting them illuminate her for a moment before turning back to Malfoy. She fetched the glass of water on her side of the bed and handed it to him.

"I feel like cooking today," she added, careful not to touch his fingers when he took the glass. "Anything in particular you might want?"

"You're in a good mood," Draco pointed out instead. "You're not usually a morning person."

Hermione shrugged. "It's the weekend. I have a day off. And I get to see Ginny play for the Quidditch semi-finals. There's a lot to look forward to today."

Draco scoffed. For her, maybe. For him? Well, today was the day the world would get a front row seat to TGGFO (The Grandiose Granger Fuck-Over).

"I know," she said with a smile, pulling him away from the internal groaning and skull-bashing he was having as she slid on his navy robe without realizing, "I'll make stuffed pancakes. You loved the ones I brought back from my parents' place, remember?"

She left the bedroom before Draco had a chance to respond. The way she glided past with her fluffed-out curls, her bright, warm eyes, and her sweet scent lingering behind made her become part of the room. Even if everything around reflected the cool, dark, unapproachable shade the owner was. It somehow worked. It shouldn't—not with how much he despised her, how they were opposites on every spectrum, and how this would only be a momentary thing. But it did.

He kicked off the sheets and made way to his kitchen. He pretended to be collecting the morning mail from the counter his owl Hamlet brought in. She did not notice him as she sang along to a tune in her head, mixing contents in a giant glass bowl. Delta appeared from the other end of the kitchen with a grocery bag, pulling out fresh strawberries and bananas for Granger to give her approval on. The house-elf also didn't notice Draco. It made him frown. Delta was always very dedicated to every move her master gave, but now that her work was split between two people she tended to prefer the new member.

Draco had gotten ready for the day while she finished their meal. Once he was immaculately dressed (as always), he sat at the end of the dining table. She took the one on his left, just as she had done when they first started sharing one-on-one meals. He still found it odd. His mother had never been that close to his father for meals; it was only proper she take the seat at the other end. But this was Granger, after all. She did whatever the hell she pleased.

Breakfast was somewhat of a silent affair before Hermione gasped, startling Draco from his place beside her. "I almost forgot," she ignored his frown, "your mother Floo Called while you were showering."

Draco rose a sharp brow. "And?"

"She asked if we could clear an hour for lunch next Wednesday."

"We?"

Hermione nodded, taking a casual sip of her tea. "I told her I could be free and she instructed specifically for you to choose the place."

"No," said Draco, frowning further. "We are not having lunch with my mother, Granger. This isn't a fucking—Sure," he stopped himself, gritting his teeth when annoyance started to cloud over her face. "Lunch sounds great. I'll look into something nearby St. Mungo's."

"Good," she said as she stood, something about her smile reflected off like a smirk as she walked away.

Draco dropped his head on the tabletop, banging it twice.

By the time Hermione strolled out from his bedroom she looked cozy and excited, completely unaware that Draco had gulped down three shots of vodka while he waited for her. He kept his lips pressed into a tight line when he followed her out of his flat to the nearest apparition point.

When they arrived to the stadium that would be hosting the Quidditch Semi-Finals, Draco kept looking behind his shoulder, scanning the crowd for Daphne Greengrass and the photographer that was never a step too far from her. She was missing, but what was not was the curious eyes of every onlooker as he trailed after Granger like he was lost (that, or they thought he was creeping up behind her just to kill her). There was a lot about himself that Draco would deny profusely because people were wrong, they judged him on speculations, but, regrettably, he was a fucking coward (sometimes). He kept wanting to turn back, to hide in his flat until this entire thing blew over, but he thought about bloody Mcnair, Daphne, Granger, his father—then he ran headfirst into Potter and the Weasel, and he knew spite would have to get him through this.

Granger marched into the viewing box, smiling bright and adoringly at the gathered group. Just as she was pulling away from Mrs. Weasley, she froze when all eyes drifted to the man behind her. The harsh, cold weather finally seemed to prickle her skin, turning her pale at the surprise she had brought along with her. Of course, like it was in her bloody nature, she was slightly better at everything than Draco was; she summoned her courage far quicker than he ever could, taking a step back, wrapping a hand around his elbow before leaning against his side.

"Family," she called confidently, "this is my husband. Draco, this is my family."

Draco didn't know what the hell Granger was expecting—he didn't even know what the hell he was expecting himself—but the pliable silence that formed between them and the group had not been it. In fact, he really expected some form of violence, something where he was forced to use his wand and get a good curse in at whoever dared to launch at him first (ehem, fucking Weasel), but all of them remained still. He thought this would be the gist of the encounter, but he was surprised when Mrs. Weasley broke the silence.

The plump woman approached them, placing a gentle, caring hand on Granger's cheek. There was something quite tender in her brown eyes as she scanned Granger's for any sign that she did not want to be beside Draco. When she did not find it, Mrs. Weasley turned to give Draco the best smile she could offer. "I'm glad you can join us, dear," she said to him, no form of dislike in her tone. "Come, come. Fleur and I have prepared a hearty meal for the occasion. I'll get you a nice hot cider."

Draco threw Hermione a look of panic as Mrs. Weasley pulled him in the direction of the table set up with all sorts of meats, vegetables, desserts, and alcoholic beverages for the adults (milk, tea, and water for the pregnant women also present). Hermione had to hide her giggle behind her hand before moving along to greet the gathered group. She knew they were all beyond incredulous at her news, but they all were gracious enough to avoid letting her know just how wrong they thought her choice had been. All except for Ron, of course. After kissing Pansy on the cheek as a hello, she moved to wrap her arms around him, but he took a step back, scowling.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "We've been through this."

"No," Ron scoffed into the beer in his hand, "you've been through it and I pretended to listen. I never agreed to condone her stupidity."

"I'm standing right here, Ronald," Hermione pointed out, eyes narrowing back at him. "If you've got something to say, then spit it out."

Ron opened his mouth, cheeks red in frustration, but Pansy placed a manicured hand over his lips. The warning in her dark eyes flashed dangerously, and he knew when to bite down on his tongue.

"The girls and I want to come around yours sometime next week," she told Hermione with a friendlier tone. "We have wedding gifts we want to give you and Draco."

Hermione wanted to frown at Pansy, but caught Fleur and Audrey's eyes from where they stood with their respective husbands. "Draco," she called, earning his attention as he nodded along to whatever story it was Mister Weasley had cornered him with. "It seems like we have wedding gifts to receive. What'd you say we have them over at ours for dinner as a show of gratitude?"

Draco made a deal with himself to handle Granger as best as he could, but he drew the fucking line when it came to the Weasley mob. He wanted to find the words to say just that, but Fate had a way of fucking him over. This came in the form of Blaise Zabini.

Blaise strolled into the box, immaculately dressed, pressing kisses to the cheeks of the first woman he saw, all while one Luna bloody Lovegood was attached to his hand. He staggered back a step when he saw Draco glaring back at him, but composed himself within the second.

"So," Draco hissed at his best mate when the latter approached him, carefully placing an array of snacks on a plate to avoid drawing attention to them, "seems like brunch with your mother was cancelled. Unless...Is that what you fucking call Lovegood? I mean, I know you have mummy issues, Zabini, but—"

"Fuck off," Blaise gritted out, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, smiling back at Luna when she joined Pansy in talking Hermione into getting together (he knew she had bought the new Malfoy couple the skull of a panther that was said to enhance the fertility of those who possessed it). "You weren't supposed to be here yet."

"You weren't supposed to be shagging my Evaluator, either," Draco returned just as harshly. "When the hell were you going to tell me about that, Zabini?"

Blaise jabbed the end of his plastic fork into Draco's chest before reeling it back. "My love life is none of your fucking concern, mate," he warned. "And I told you, you're on your own with this. You got plastered, you married Hermione, you deal with it."

Draco felt the urge to whip out his wand and curse Blaise down a peg, but the unmistakable voice of the Minister of Magic commencing the game echoed around the viewing box. Soon enough, cheers boomed throughout the stadium, spurring on those in the box who were present to support Ginny Weasley (all of it was like nails to a chalkboard, really). As they all shuffled over to the railing, waving flags with the Holyhead Harpies emblem, Draco found himself beside Granger again.

Wordlessly, she took his hand to lead them to their seats (right beside fucking Potter).

"We're betting on Gin getting disqualified," George Weasley chimed in behind them, pushing his head out between Hermione and Harry's shoulders to talk to that entire row. "Neville's got ten galleons on the first twenty minutes, Zabini on the first thirty, and Bill on the first ten. Charlie and Ron put down fifteen galleons for the next five minutes. Any takers?"

Hermione smacked a palm on George's forehead. "Don't be a prat."

"Oi, Granger," George swatted her shoulder, "It's just business. Merlin's balls. Watch yourself around this one, Malfoy," he then gave his attention to the blonde man focusing too intently on the match, "she'll rip off your bits without even lifting a finger."

"Hermione's right," Harry said as Malfoy scoffed at the comment, "it's wrong to bet against Ginny. This match is important to get the Harpies to the finals. She won't blow it."

George raised a brow at him. "So no bets, then?"

"Twenty on her whacking the opponent's Chaser with a beater's bat after the game," Harry grinned, pulling out his money from the pocket of his trousers.

"Smart man." George saluted him before sitting back down against his own chair.

Draco was not aware Granger was still holding his hand until he felt her fingers slip from his. With a quirked brow, he watched her reach into the pocket of his coat and pull out a few galleons.

"The Chaser and the Keeper after the game," she said, eyes locked forward, but her hand over her head.

George laughed, taking the money, and Draco almost let a grin tilt his lips upward.

As the match between the Holyhead Harpies and the Appleby Arrows raged on, Draco could not stop himself from studying the situation he was caught in. Of course, Draco had spent years proclaiming he would rather snog a Dementor than to be twenty feet in proximity to Potter and his entourage (he couldn't even stand being in the same fucking planet as them, but it was not like Mars was habitable, either), but there was something about them. It was like stepping into a different world, one he had not known existed. He liked to mock their get-togethers, insulting their poor tastes in everything (from food to company), but everything the moment possessed was entirely new to him (and curiosity killed the Slytherin).

Mrs. and Mister Weasley allowed their son Charlie (the bloke who people kept asking about his dragons) to paint their faces in green and gold; Mrs. Weasley had her left cheek marked with her daughter's number while Mister Weasley's forehead had the Harpies' golden claw. They laughed as Charlie worked, at each other and because the moment seemed to allow it. Beside them, Bill kept shouting at the Keeper of the Harpies, ordering her to block the damn posts better than she was allegedly doing. When his hands were not slapped over his face to muffle out colorful, explicit curses, they were on Fleur, caressing her swollen belly or rubbing a thumb over the base of her neck. Fleur found the sight of her husband all riled up far more entertaining than the actual match.

The pompous one (Percy Weasley) shifted his attention between the game, cheering for Ginny whenever the others did, and talking animately with Luna Lovegood about the Wizengamot's newest proposal on strengthening the Department of International Magical Cooperation. His wife, (Audrey Weasley), a quiet, mousy sort of woman, balanced a plate of cake over her pregnant stomach, chatting happily with Hannah Abbot about the curious wave of tourists the Leaky Cauldron was experiencing. While Lovegood was entertained (somehow) by the prim weasel, Zabini was off at the table spread, refilling his mug with Butterbeer; he and Longbottom were discussing the weaknesses in the Arrows' defense, hoping Ginny (as captain and fucking terrifying, competitive arsehole) would find and exploit them.

Still inseparable after all these years (though Draco wagered it was romance rather than friendship, even if Pansy did smack him over the head and told him to stop spreading that rumour around), Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan were about to throw themselves over the railing, one angry at the bad call against the Harpies that was just made, and the other trying to catch the attention of some young witch in the viewing box beside theirs. Weasel was sat at the furthest edge of the box, intent on keeping his distance from the new Malfoys (fucking shudder), actively ignoring them, but he was heavily invested in the game, too. He kept shouting at his sister, directing her to the snitch every time it swooshed by their box. Pansy sat on his lap, cussing out any player of the Arrows that crossed their line of vision (Draco wondered how long it took the Weasley circus to realize that having Parkinson insult someone in their favor was an expression of endearment and loyalty).

Then there was Potter. In the course of the match, he had only directed a few words at Draco, and that was to ask if he wanted another shot of firewhiskey; after Draco had accepted (because why the hell would he refuse alcohol given the damn situation), Potter had gone back to cheering for his girlfriend. He was not as loud or aggressive as the others, but his bespectacled eyes followed Ginny everywhere she flew to. Beside him, Hermione was vocal about her support for her friend, clapping and squealing at the right times. Draco observed her; he took in the way her cheeks flushed pink, the sound of her laughter that spurred on the others around them, and the way her fingers would grip his knee, squeezing like she was attempting to remind him about something (her presence or his word that he'd behave himself—Draco didn't know).

Something uneasy stirred in his chest, however. These people—this warmth they expelled out, it all made up who Granger was. He found pieces of her in all the people around them. He knew he could put them together, to decipher her more, to see the inner workings of that brilliant brain of hers and foolishly delicate soul, but then Draco found himself placing his hand on her thigh, his side pressing closer to hers.

This was how Pansy and Blaise were roped in; this was how they were stolen from him by Saint Potter and his Order. The cold disappeared within these people because there was no room not to see the sun. They all had lost and suffered tragedies far greater than anyone could imagine, but it did not allow the glitter of life to lessen. Among them, Blaise found the absolution he was seeking; that's why he defended the Golden Trio time and time again when Draco and Theo mocked and bullied him, never understanding the peace of mind he found. With the Weasel (and then his family), Pansy discovered a kind of love she could not find anywhere else. It was all light, and home—old friends like him—were darkness. Of course she would defend it with tooth and nail so people like him—people like her, too—could not destroy it.

Yet, despite all the fucking courses on how to reform after a life as the Dark Lord's servant, Draco was still darkness. He was still all shades of red; all fucking anger, resentment, blood, and grief.

Now he was married to Hermione Granger. Now he was married to Hermione Granger, war heroine, defender of all mankind and creature-kind, and she was possibly pregnant. Pregnant with his child. A half-Malfoy spawn.

Draco removed himself from the seat beside Granger to make his way out of the viewing box. His hands shook from something more than anger (something he was not brave enough to identify), pushing his way past a small huddle of teens sipping on flasks he was sure had more than water in them. When he reached the end of the corridor, he thought about heading back to his flat, owling the team of lawyers the Malfoys had at the ready, but someone called out for him.

He did not turn to acknowledge her, his back stiff and shoulders tensed, but that did not stop Hermione from stepping in front of him. Her brows were furrowed, not in annoyance, but in growing apprehension. She studied his face like he had done to hers, taking in every line and every flicker of eyes. Draco hadn't a fucking clue what she found (especially because he was sure his mask of perfect, solid blankness was firmly on), but it made her take his hand, offering him a small, care smile.

"Let's go back to yours," she said. "I can make us dinner and we can then pop in a film."

Draco looked down at their intertwined fingers, unsure of the sentiment in the air or the kind sparkle in her gaze. "Film?" was all he managed to say in return.

Hermione laughed, nodding. "A muggle thing. Kind of like their own magic."

He was not sure if she knew what she was doing, but her free hand moved to the side of his face, her thumb caressing the edge of his jaw. Regardless, Draco felt a knot form in his throat when thoughts—memories—of them in a similar position like this filled his head; instead of Quidditch stadium corridors, it was in a familiar Ministry office and the faint echo of someone reading out sacred text as he slipped a ring on her finger.

Draco was a millisecond away from pushing himself back a step, to put distance between them, but the flash of a camera startled them both. Hermione and he turned to the source, finding Daphne Greengrass and her photographer a few feet down.

"Smile, Mister and Mrs. Malfoy," Daphne cackled, "the world is about to lose their shit."

[AN: Guys! Guys! GUYS! It's me! Holy heck. I'm back. I totally apologize for the months of hiatus on this story, but I was completely drowning in work and other things, this story took a backseat. But I can promise frequent updates now! Thanks for hanging in there with me. As always, I love you all, my lovely readers. Til next time! xx