A/N: Chapter Forty-One!

Here's the thing:

The last time I had a one night stand, I, in the most cliched sense, became attached and because of that, vowed never to have a random hookup again. I mean, most single, career-driven women my age would probably have been with at least fifteen or sixteen men — whereas I had been with four.

I had every right to go out there and knock boots with the best of them.

But I couldn't.

But I wanted to.

But I couldn't.

But I did.

Seven Months Later

It was October, which meant the leaves were changing colours and the nights grew longer. I quite liked October. I liked bundling up in scarves and enormous coats. It made me feel protected, not only from the cold but from everything else. I found it easier to blend in with the greater public under various layers of clothing.

That in mind, I entered the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and made a bee line for the Auror Office, located on the second level of the Ministry. It was a quiet morning, as most people had already thrown themselves into their work. I, on the other hand, had woken up late. Though, for some reason, I didn't panic the way I usually did, after having made such a massive, irreversible mistake.

If there was one thing I could've said about myself, it's that I was never late.

"Hermione, thank Merlin you're here!" Sinead hurriedly entered my office, having noticed me in the corridor and closed the door behind her.

I set down my things, tossing her a curious look. Sinead, as I had predicted, joined the Auror Office as soon as she graduated from Hogwarts and, as I had hoped, was more than willing to join the task force Head Auror Potter had appointed to me. It was nice having another woman in the Department, as there were so few.

Sinead paced the office, breathing in and out, muttering things under her breath.

"Something wrong?" I voiced, breaking her concentration.

She swallowed hard and then looked at me, dark circles under her eyes, as well as a certain birds nest look about her hair. "I think I'm pregnant."

Fifteen Minutes Later

If there was one thing I had learned from my own scare roughly nine years ago, it was keep the questions to a minimum. I did that, and traveled through London, with Sinead, straight to St. Mungo's. It would probably have fared better, time-wise, to pop into one of the shops and purchase one of those disposable pregnancy tests — but something else I had learned from my own scare, was that those things were far too nerve wracking to handle. Plus, they were usually inaccurate.

I sat with Sinead in the Healer's office, and waited, noting the manner in which her hands had been shaking since she told me.

"This — This is so embarrassing," she voiced, squeezing her eyes shut, humiliated and scared and everything an eighteen-year-old girl should have been, due to such serious circumstances. "I'm so sorry for involving you. I just — I didn't know what else to do and —"

"Sinead," I interjected, thoughtful. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I'm honoured you felt comfortable enough to come to me."

Her bottom lip twitched, as though she were trying to smile but couldn't muster the courage. "Please don't tell anyone."

"Don't worry," I said to her, feeling like more of an adult than I had since nagging Harry and Ron during our school days. "No one will hear it from me."

It was difficult, being there, watching her unravel under the pressure of what those results could be. I felt for her. She was a bright, brilliant witch with the world at her fingertips, and, yet, there she was, victim to biology, as I had once been. Men had it simple. Have sex as much as possible, and, in the end, humiliate your partner by demanding a paternity test — or simply, vanish off the face of the planet.

Men didn't have to carry the evidence around for nine months. Men weren't judged for their experiences. Men were applauded.

"You're probably wondering about the father…" Sinead vocalized, shooting a look at me that answered the question in my mind. "…maybe why he isn't here."

I could've cried for her, right then. "Does he know?"

She glanced down a moment, and then shook her head, once. "I need those results before I can tell him. I need to know for sure."

I understood her disposition, and although I was more than willing to help, during such a confusing, difficult time, I couldn't help but wonder about the father. To my knowledge, she had no boyfriend and rarely, if ever, went on dates. She had more than a few admirers at the office, but none of them sparked her interest. Last I had checked, she was holding out for someone in particular.

Both of us looked to the door, as it swung open.

"Sinead? Sinead! Oh, my God — there you are!"

A tall, dark-haired gentleman, dressed in clothes that would suggest he worked as a banker or something practical, entered Healer Greengrass' office and wrapped his arms around Sinead, practically suffocating her under the pressure of his embrace. If I were forced to venture a guess, I would've pegged this man to be the illusive father we had been discussing not a moment ego — and the second I caught a look at his face, I recognized him.

It appeared he was in remission.

Sinead separated from him, the moment she remembered I was there. "Why are you here? How did know where to find me? What — What's going on?"

Corvus opened his mouth, words caught on his tongue. "I was at the bank and then I heard from someone that works here —"

"Shen," the young woman interjected, arms folded. "Go on."

"Yes, Shen —" he confirmed. "Shen owled me saying you bustled into St. Mungo's with your boss and I — I thought you might've been hurt on a mission or — or — I don't know. I just — I panicked and got here as soon as I could and created a huge fuss at reception until they told me where you were but — but it looks like Shen was mistaken and that you aren't hurt — are you?"

Sinead didn't speak a word, for about a minute, adding to the tension in the room, before looking to her surprise visitor. "I'm not hurt."

"Then what's wrong?" Corvus asked, hesitating.

I stared between them, rising from my chair. "I'll — erm — I'll give you two some privacy."

"Thank you," Sinead said to me, able to smile this time around. "For everything."

"No problem," I assured her, then redirecting my attention on Corvus and without an ounce of doubt, flashed him a warning look, a look that told him I would have his arse under fire if he mistreated her in any way, shape or form.

Four Hours Later

Back in the office, there were rumours spreading about the reason behind mine and Sinead's swift exit earlier in the morning — but none of them were true. I, against more than a few rules, decided to give her the day, even though the results came in and were negative. She was not pregnant. Just late.

Though, from the manner in which Corvus had surged into St. Mungo's, panicked and worried and there for her, something told me they were probably recreating the events that led up to her little scare.

Amused and a little tired, I continued to sift through paperwork.

"Hermione?"

I glanced to the door, expecting to see Sinead or Harry, and shocked to find Ron. It appeared he had come straight from the Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, where he now worked, as he was dressed in their purple apron and had confetti stuck in his hair. I motioned for him to enter, surprised, and waited as he closed the door.

"Another ring for me to try on?" I asked, joking.

Ron cracked a smile at this and dragged a chair, seated across from me. "Just here to make a delivery," he said, handing me a package. "An Eagle Owl flew into mine and Daphne's kitchen this morning, and dropped this. It has your name on it."

I shifted my attention to the package in his hands — a large rectangular box — and arched an eyebrow. " — and do you know who sent it?"

He shrugged. "No note. Nothing. Just your name."

"Strange," I remarked.

"D'you think it's jinxed or something?"

"Could be," I shrugged, withdrawing my wand, performing several anti-jinx spells to realize the package was not jinxed — simply anonymous. "Should I open it?"

Ron nodded, reminding me of his younger, adolescent self, eager to see the random things delivered to Harry during our time at Hogwarts. He leaned over, practically on the edge of his seat, undoubtedly expecting something great, perhaps an ancient artefact or one of those vintage wizarding record players that Bill and Fleur had in their home or a shrunken broomstick or a highly coveted spell book or — anything other than what was really inside.

He grimaced. "A dress? I sprinted all the way here from Diagon Alley to give you a dress?"

I lifted the garment from the box and tissue and ribbons and spread it out, standing with it. It was a draped bustier gown, vintage rose, silk chiffon, beaded line around the middle to gather the fabric around the waist, something particular to my shape and size. I breathed in, a little dazed, until laying eyes on the card inside the box.

"I'll give it to him," Ron admitted, folding his arms. "He's trying."

The card, as I soon came to realize, was marked with the initials DM.

I wasn't surprised. How could I be surprised? Was there anyone, apart from Draco Malfoy, with both the means and the fashion sense?

Still, I scrunched my mouth, confused. It made no sense to me that he would gift me something so gorgeous and and so expensive and so irreversibly tailored to my measurements, without a reason. It made even less sense that he would send it to Ron and Daphne, instead of me.

That's when I had a proper look at the card.

Your driver will arrive in the evening.

DM

Ron scoffed at this. "Someone's looking to get laid."

Four Hours Later

I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know where I was headed, only that I had, against my better judgement, gone home, dressed in the gown, struggled with my hair and makeup for about an hour, only to be whisked across London in an Aston Martin and taken to a hanger, where there was a private plane — waiting for me —destined for Paris.

It had been ages since the last time I'd been on a plane, and the first time I had ever been on a private one.

I was nervous, so nervous that I couldn't take full advantage of the perks — and do trust me when I say there were tons.

Needless to mention, I drowned my nervousness in a quick shot of vodka, downing one of those tiny bottles and feeling my nerves begin to settle.

Later into the journey, the plane arrived in Paris, where another driver was waiting for me, a smile on his face and an adorable French accent that made me feel like I was living in a fairytale.

Let me assure you, the surprises were far from over.

I had my eyes glued to the window, as the limousine drove through the sights and sounds of Paris. The driver, a man called Louis, spoke through the intercom and highlighted various attractions, providing a mini tour for me before another smartly dressed man opened the car door, as we arrived at the set destination, and ushered me into what I remembered was Carrousel du Louvre.

It was a shopping centre in Paris — not the typical shopping centre that I was used to back at home, but a magnificent, beautifully designed shopping centre, home to the breathtaking inverted pyramid, made famous by The Da Vinci Code.

I did nothing but follow the man, called Gerard, noticing several posters and signs that would indicate there was an event being held there. Gerard's pace was a little on the faster side, which made it difficult for me to get a good look at those posters but I eventually did.

From there, the truth settled in.

It was Paris Fashion Week.

More than that, I had front row seats to the closing show.

I swallowed hard, following Gerard as he ushered me inside, and then sat there, in the midst of some of the most important people in the industry, as well as various entertainment moguls. I recognized countless faces, but none of them recognized me, as I was Hermione Granger, an Auror.

Before I knew it, the show began.

There was music and lights.

I absorbed it. I absorbed everything, the sounds and the visuals and the models as one by one, they walked on the runway, dressed in Christian Dior's designs. For a moment, I was surprised, expecting a lesser known designer. It made no sense that I should have seats to Christian Dior — right?

"Nice dress," someone whispered to me, slipping into the seat beside mine.

I turned.

Dressed in black, with his blonde hair messily coiffed and his smooth, smoky grey eyes washing over me, was Draco Malfoy. I returned his smile, nudging him for his cheeky comment, before watching him watch on. I knew that look. It was a look of hopefulness, as though he hoped to one day have his own designs premiere at Paris Fashion Week.

I smiled deeper then, and sat with him, aware that our hands brushed together here and there, and that a long forgotten sensation erupted within me whenever they did.

Soon, the show was over and there were dozens of after parties to attend, but Draco didn't take me to those. Instead, we went to a restaurant, one I remembered from the last time I had been to Paris. It was expensive and had a thousand of those tiny dishes that I loved to hate. I looked to him every now and then, expecting him to say something, to explain why he dressed me in one of his designs and whisked me from London to Paris.

But he didn't say anything.

Instead, he smiled at me, catching my curious looks, ordering us dessert and being completely unlike himself.

This was not the Draco Malfoy I had grown used to.

This was not the Draco Malfoy to tease me in Benoit's dress shop nor the one to hit it and quit it as the children loved to say.

This was not the Draco Malfoy to send me that preposterous letter.

But the longer I looked at him, the more I realized.

He was older, and so was I.

His eyes crossed mine, and finally, I said something.

"Thank you," I told him, holding his gaze. "I — I'm not sure why you did this but — but thank you."

Draco smiled at me then, with his eyes and his lips. "I like being around you."

"You like being around me?"

He nodded, as though it were simple, as though it had always been simple; for him, anyway.

A/N: Does he have ulterior motives, or does he simply enjoy being in her company?

Cheers

xo.