Blaise had always been the smartest person in any room he had been in from the time he was four years old. He had been a smart, precocious boy who had grown into a sharp, brilliant young man, and it was a mystery to him and to most everyone who knew him why he continued to live with Draco. It's not as if either one of them needed to share rent. The blame for that, as for so many other things in Blaise's life, could be laid squarely at Pansy's door ("Explain to me again why I'm doing this." "Because one of us needs to make sure he doesn't get himself arrested or killed, and Theo is the entire cheering section, so he's out." "I fail to see how it follows that it should be me." "Because if it's me, I'm going to end up murdering him, and I'm far too pretty for jail.")

Living with Draco had never been easy — not when they were both boys at Eton, not when Draco had dragged him half way around the world during their gap year, and not in the few years since they had both moved into Bradford House. Draco could be difficult, capricious and unpredictable, and was far too fond of baiting a tabloid press that had never needed much in the way of encouragement to become a bloody nuisance.

The last few years had been a trial for Blaise, but that was nothing compared to the last few days. His home — the stately, august building that had once housed the brightest minds of their time — had been overrun by peasants. It was bad enough that there was a baby in the house — though as sure as he was standing there, he was getting extremely tired of being woken up at all manner of uncivilised hours by the spawn of Narnia-dwelling Draco — but now not only did he have to contend with the barmaid Draco had insisted move in to take care of said spawn, he had to deal with all her friends, who, while not technically living there, certainly spent enough time on the premises that he should be charging them rent.

"Do you intend to do anything about this?" he asked, pointing at the drawing room, where two identical gingers were busy putting on a puppet version of Hamlet that would have had Shakespeare rolling in his grave, for the amusement of a baby who didn't know any better, and a different ginger and a bespectacled fellow were carrying on about a calculus problem that was manifestly incorrect from what little Blaise had cared to listen.

Draco stopped on the way to the door and glanced at the room. "Would love to, but unfortunately I have a class and I'm late."

"You don't go to classes."

"I'm trying to mend my ways. Personal growth. It's commendable, really. You should be proud."

"Draco—"

"Blaise, come." Luna Lovegood moved like the fay — silent and mysterious and never there until she was. She tugged at his sleeve and smiled. "Draco is trying to sneak out and he can't if you insist on paying attention to him. Come. We have pizza." They had pizza on the French Heritage coffee table. Such was his life now.

Knowing an opportunity when he saw one, Draco turned away and walked out before Blaise could redouble his efforts to get him to deal with things he was far happier ignoring. Draco might not be crazy about Granger's friends, but while they or she were babysitting, he didn't have to. It worked out great for everyone, even for Blaise. Zabini might complain copiously and loudly to anyone who would listen, but it had not escaped Draco's notice that his friend had taken to working in the drawing room instead of his personal study, particularly when Lovegood was there.

Draco did not complain — not to Blaise, not to anyone — but he wasn't around for much of it, either. He could deal with the Weasleys, and Potter, and Lovegood. He could even deal with the fact that any comparison between himself and the other Draco would always be less than flattering — he had, after all, lots of practice at being a disappointment.

What he couldn't deal with, as it turned out, was Hermione and Scorpius. And it galled him that that was the case. It irritated him that they got under his skin, that he looked at either one of them and cared. It irked him that his heart twisted in his chest whenever Scorpius was upset. It vexed him that he knew Granger spent most of the nights wandering the halls like a ghost, unable to sleep. It bothered him that he worried.

In a perfect world, he would have spent the last few days in a drunken stupor, too far gone to know or care that his devious doppelganger had put all these things in his head that had no business being there. That was, alas, not realistic, because while he could afford a drinking problem, he was pretty sure he didn't want one. So he was going to classes, because it got him out of the house and out of his head, and away from the circus that was now his life. It was the perfect plan. Denial was as valid a coping mechanism as any. It also had the advantage of keeping the paparazzi off his back at a time when he didn't want them sniffing around. Draco Malfoy passed out in a ditch made for good copy and better pictures. Draco Malfoy showing up for his Constitutional Law class interested no one but his Constitutional Law professor, who was still expecting it all to be part of some elaborate ruse.

By the end of the afternoon, he decided to continue his new-found thirst for knowledge by heading to the library. That's what normal students did, right? They went to the library and did research or studied or some such. He could absolutely do that. He had gone to classes; he knew things. He had books and a pen, and god only knew he had plenty of assignments due. Overdue. Going back years. That was bound to take a couple of hours, at least.

He was looking for a quiet corner when he saw Hermione sitting by herself at a table by the window, surrounded by textbooks and notebooks and papers. She was frowning at a large tome, the tip of her pen motionless against the notebook next to it. For a few minutes nothing happened, and then she flung the pen at the notebook and buried her face in her hands with a frustrated sigh.

It was his cue to leave, and a smarter man would have. A man with any sense of self-preservation would have, and he had been doing a stellar job of keeping his distance. But Draco had never been big on self-preservation, and he had more than a few gossip columnists to back him up on that.

Hermione looked up, startled, when he pulled up a chair next to her.

"What are you doing here?"

He picked up one of her textbooks, flipping through the pages. "Word on the street is that I actually have to do some course work if I want to pass any of my classes."

"And me thinking you could just pay off your professors." She grabbed the book back, putting it away on a pile just out of reach.

"I thought so too, but apparently the university's ethics board frowns on that."

"Will you stop making a mess?" She took back the copy of The United Nations: A History he had just picked up. "I have a system. Stop screwing it up."

"My bad. Carry on." He emptied his book bag on the table, next to her.

"What are you doing?"

"Fulfilling my potential as a student of this school. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Go pretend to work somewhere else."

"Granger, I resent the implication." He opened up his notebook, trying to decide which of his subjects seemed the least dull. "I'll be quiet as a church mouse. You won't even know I'm here." He could do quiet. He had done quiet on at least two separate occasions.

Seemingly deciding the best course of action was to ignore him, Hermione rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her task. They were silent for a few minutes. Draco opened up a book at random and started to read what he had no doubt was extremely exciting material on the history of the legal system. Really. Hollywood had nothing on it. He was engaged. He was interested. He was on the edge of his seat.

Hermione's hand fell on his, stilling the pencil he had been drumming on the table.

"Sorry," he said, letting it drop.

They were quiet again, but not five minutes had passed before Hermione sighed and put down her pen.

"I can't focus with you here. Please go away."

He kept his eyes on the inspirational tale of a small-time legal system that had gone on to conquer the civilised world.

"You didn't seem to be doing a great job of focusing before I arrived. It seems rather unfair to blame it on me."

"Malfoy—"

"Let's go have dinner." He closed the book. That was enough inspiration for the day.

"What? No. I'm working."

"You're not working. You've been staring at the same sentence since I arrived. Let's go. I'm hungry."

She bit her lip, looking at the paperwork in front of her. "I can't." He wanted to reach out and smooth the lines on her forehead; to nudge her chin so she was looking at him. He wanted to strangle Other Draco for being a meddlesome prat.

"You can. You just won't because you are unconscionably prejudiced against the one per cent. And let me tell you, I resent that." That got a smile out of her. "I am a lovely chap and I can produce character references to that effect."

She looked at him then, her eyes bright with humour. "Character references, is it?"

"Numerous. And only half of them forgeries. Two thirds, tops."

"I really should finish this." Her smile faltered, but she was no longer looking at him as if he were the anti-Christ, so that was progress. "And one of us needs to go home soon. Scorpius—"

"Scorpius has a small village looking after him. He won't miss us."

"What sort of parents—"

"We're not his parents." It came out harsher than he had intended, and he made an effort to soften his tone. "His parents are off being heroes somewhere. We're glorified babysitters, and he has lots of those. We can take an hour to go get dinner." She didn't look convinced, but Draco was nothing if not persistent. "Come on. You look about ready to set the books on fire, and I have it on good authority that schools tend to frown on that sort of thing."

Her smile had a wicked edge to it when she asked, "Harrow?"

He burst out laughing. "Yes, Harrow. Let's go."

"Fine." She got up, gathering her things. "But you're paying."

"I'm already giving you room and board. You're paying for dinner."

"Would you really make a penniless student pay for dinner?"

"Yes, I would. That's how the one per cent remains the one per cent. Through the shameless exploitation of the lower classes."

"You got that right."

Nan's Home Cooking was a small family restaurant that was popular with the university crowd because everything on the menu was both extremely cheap and absolutely heavenly. Everything on the menu was also likely to give them a heart attack by the age of thirty, but that was not something that tended to worry most twenty-year-olds. It was good, hearty food at low, reasonable prices, and Hermione was more than a little shocked that Draco knew it.

"I'm a regular 'man of the people', Granger."

"You have a Velazquez on your foyer."

"That's Blaise's. I was always more of a Goya fan myself."

It was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the much smaller dinner crowd. There was no one in the restaurant but them and a lanky fellow who was splitting his attention between his shepherd's pie and a comic book open on top of Vol. I of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Malfoy hummed appreciatively when the waiter brought them their food.

"There's a universe," he said, "where you didn't come to dinner, and let me tell you, that Granger is missing out."

"That Granger is not terribly behind on her schoolwork." Or maybe she was. Maybe that Hermione had passed on dinner and was still behind, still staring hopelessly at a book that made less and less sense the more she looked at it.

She wasn't sure whether the notion that she might not be the most messed up Hermione Granger out there made her feel better or worse.

"As someone who's been behind on his schoolwork since he was six years old, my advice is not to worry too much."

"Some of us don't have a fortune to fall back on."

"Yes, I'm sure that if you fail a class you'll be cast out onto the streets and left to starve."

She rolled her eyes, focusing on her food. "I don't expect you to understand." No one ever did. Not really. Not her parents, not her friends, not the students who gave her sidelong glances in the corridors. When the walls closed in, they closed in on her alone.

His feet came up on either side of hers under the table, a steady pressure that was solid, and reassuring, and grounding.

"So explain it to me." He stole a fry from her plate.

It occurred to her that it was easier to deal with Malfoy when he was being a prat. For that she had a script. For this she was cast adrift, hoping she wasn't too far from land.

"Academic achievement," she started, trying to find the words, "is important in my family. My grandfather won a Fields Medal. One of my aunts is a Rhodes scholar. Both my parents have PhDs. Growing up, I was always sent to the best schools — schools my parents couldn't really afford, but they made an effort, because it was important. And I always did well. I worked hard, and I always did well. Because it was important. And then I came here, and suddenly I couldn't manage anymore." She forced herself to smile. It didn't matter. It was fine. She was fine. Everyone else seemed to manage, but it was fine that she couldn't. Really. "I guess I'm not as smart as I thought I was."

Malfoy's face was an unreadable mask. "Is that why—"

"I don't want to talk about that." She took a sip of her drink, trying to ease the knot in her throat. He increased the pressure on either side of her feet, not so much that she couldn't move them back if she wanted to, just enough that it was oddly comforting.

"Tell you what," he said, stealing another fry because he had no morals and even less shame. "We don't have to talk about it. But if you tell me, you get to ask me something in return. And let me tell you that my scandalous life has led to some pretty good stories."

Hermione snorted. "If I want to know about your scandalous life, I only need to open the paper."

"Well, sure, but they never get the good bits right."

She smiled, despite herself. What did it matter, anyway? It had happened. She'd have to be able to talk about it at some point.

"I couldn't— Everything was falling apart." She was no longer looking at him, because if she did she'd start crying, and what a pretty state she'd be in then. "It was— It felt like drowning. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't think, I was barely eating, and— It seemed like a good idea at the time." A little peace. A little quiet. No longer having to worry. "Harry found me. He needed to borrow a book and he came in and found me on the floor." She didn't remember much, but she remembered how scared he'd been, how utterly panicked. She hadn't felt scared then. Just numb. Scared had come later. "In hindsight, it might not have been the best decision I ever made."

"You think?"

She gave him a look, but there was no real heat behind it.

"It's your turn, Mr Good Decisions. So, about that sex tape—"

Malfoy groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

"Not that!"

"You said I could ask anything. I was promised scandalous stories."

"I feel like I've been played. Fine. What about the sex tape?"

Hermione smirked, stealing one of his onion rings. "Some people think you were the one who leaked it. Were you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That's two questions."

"Don't give me that. I told you what you wanted to know. Fair trade."

He sighed, putting down his glass.

"Fine. But only because you're all upset and pathetic." She threw a fry at his head, but couldn't stop the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He got back at her by stealing yet another fry. "Daphne and I were together on and off for a couple of years," he said. "We were young and stupid, and really good at being bad for each other." His tone was light and easy, but his smile was brittle. "We argued a lot, because we were both jerks and not shy about showing it. One time we had a really bad argument — I don't even remember what it was about anymore. She got back at me by sleeping with Tom Riddle, who was the CEO of Malfoy Enterprises at the time, so I broke up with her. A while ago, she contacted me saying she wanted to get back together. I told her to take a hike. She said that if I didn't take her back, she'd send a tape of us having sex to every newsroom in the country."

"So you did it instead."

"Yeah."

She wasn't even surprised. It was just the sort of rash, self-destructive, devil-may-care decision she'd expect from him.

"That wasn't very sensible," she said only.

Malfoy shrugged, saying with a rueful smile, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Touché.

The waiter came by just then to check if they needed anything else, and Hermione asked for the bill. Village or no village, they should really get home soon.

"I propose a toast," she said while they waited, grabbing her glass.

"To what?"

"To making this one the universe where we get along."

"It's bad luck to toast with water." He picked up his glass anyway, smiling when he touched it to hers.

Hermione snorted. "Do you really believe in luck?"

"I didn't use to believe in magic either."