I was still riding the high of my orgasm when I saw the eviction notice on my door.

In fact, I was so distracted—with questions and flashbacks and the sharp reminder, in the form of mild soreness, of Draco Malfoy's presence between my legs—that I almost didn't see it at all. It was a green sheet of paper, pinned to the door with a thumbtack, boasting bold black lettering that read: "NOTICE OF EVICTION: THIS IS A NOTICE THAT THIS TENANT HAS 3 DAYS TO EVACUATE THE PROPERTY."

I scrutinized it for a moment, blinking a few times before reality hit me like a jelly-legs jinx. Underneath the notice was a letter— of course —filled in thin type print and handwriting respectively:

" The following Tenant: Hermione Granger has been notified that this flat: APT #713 has been purchased by an anonymous bidder at an auction. The tenant: Hermione Granger has been late on payment for a month, which under section 5 of the handbook implies a month of missed payments will result in eviction and the auction of the tenant's flat. Please be advised this sale is final, and the tenant may have 3 days to collect his or her belongings before the new tenant is permitted to move in."

I squeezed the notice in my fist until it was an unrecognizable, compressed ball of green nothingness. I resisted the urge to tear it to shreds—logic, over emotion, told me I might need it later if I intended to fight the eviction, though the pragmatism buried under that flawed logic told me there was little I could do to un-finalize a final sale. My hands shook with rage as I forced my key into the door and practically collapsed inside my flat once the door was open. I carried myself on wobbling legs to the single couch in my living room and

I had never missed a payment before, not once, the landlord should have known that. Financially, I always considered myself stable and highly dependable. I was frugal when I needed to be, which lately, was a constant necessity. My flatmate, a random muggle I'd been assigned upon application for the housing, had decided to pack her bags and move out without any notice, leaving me to pay both halves of the rent. I was struggling to find a second flatmate, and affording rent plus the monthly stipends I sent to my parents in Australia was growing difficult.

Obviously , as I was now being evicted for a missed payment.

I was depending on a bonus from Finborough Management two weeks ago. A bonus that never came. I'd informed my landlord—a sweaty, sticky stump of a man, who I somehow towered over at my measly 165cm—of the situation, and promised I'd have rent by the end of the month. Yet, alas, the landlord didn't appear to have much faith in my fiscal dependability, as he did not wait the full month.

I allowed myself to come undone, burrowing my face into the back of the couch and permitting heavy tears to fall from my eyes. The tears scalded my cheeks like a poorly brewed healing potion poured over a fresh wound.

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5…" I counted the seconds in my head, uncertain if I could suck enough enough air into my lungs to speak the numbers aloud. I counted all the way to 180—stumbling at 99, and again at 120—and promised myself at 179 I would be calm enough to approach the situation the way I always have; with a level head and a sound mind.

At 178, I decided to restart the count.

I believe I counted to 180 five times before I ran out of tears and had only choked sobs left to give. By the time my gargled cries turned into silence—my throat too hoarse and my shoulders too tense—I'm certain an hour had passed.

After the war, the Ministry had struggled to compensate those displaced by the violence for their good deeds, with all the reconstruction and reorganization that was taking place. It took them two years before they devised a plan to award 1,000 galleons to each of the witches and wizards who had fought in the war. I'd given up my allowance in the hopes that it could go to someone else in need, and that I would be able to earn my galleons through hard work and dedication. Additionally, I assumed I would be living with Ron for the rest of my life.

The older I got, and the more familiar I became with reality, I regretted that decision every second of every day. With Ron during those two years of reconstruction, I was financially supported enough to pursue an education. I studied Magical Law with a professor from Luxembourg, and was under the full delusion that by the end of my studies I would be permitted to participate in Ministry hearings and Wizengamot dealings.

When I applied, I was told my efforts would be better used elsewhere.

Harry by default was the best candidate for Head Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ron was on-boarded shortly after. Ginny managed to score a desk job at the DMLE, and through persistence and her marital ties to the Boy Who Lived [Twice], managed to wedge her way into the Auror force as well.

And I ended up at a Quidditch firm working under Draco Malfoy. The application was a last plea for employment, after almost every department at the Ministry stated they were unneeding of my assistance for the foreseeable future. I made 7 galleons and 12 knuts every hour, under the promise that in 5 years I would qualify for a salary of 4,000 galleons.

I wouldn't imply my friends abandoned me, per say, but rather the tension that arose from my departure from a relationship with Ron—Ginny's brother, and Harry's best friend and coworker—became so overpowering, I personally believed it was better if I stepped away altogether. Harry owled me biweekly, and we occasionally met for brunch or a pint at a pub, but I grew closer to Luna and Pansy than I could be with the others.

Thus it was with incredible discomfort that, upon wiping my tears and blowing my nose five or sic times, I wrote an owl to the Potter-Weasley household.

Harry,

Due to unforeseen circumstances, I have found myself in need of a place to stay for a few weeks until I am able to get back on my feet. I was hoping to see if you had an extra room. If not, I completely understand. I know you must be busy with a baby on the way.

Best Regards,

Hermione

Harry was the only person I could think to turn to. Luna and Pansy had one room in their flat, and Neville was newly dating Theodore Nott, and would likely welcome my intrusion, but I would feel awfully burdensome if I asked for his invitation. I began to spiral as the minutes passed, wishing I could call the owl back and simply handle my eviction on my own.

It took less than a quarter of an hour for Harry to respond.

Hermione,

You know you're always welcome here. Do you need help moving your things? We have a meeting tonight, but I can be over at 8am sharp tomorrow morning.

Love,

Harry

—-

As promised, Harry knocked on my door at 7:58am. I had yet to move from the couch, still dressed in yesterday's clothes—including my haphazardly reparo'ed blouse and slightly dented heels. I'd fallen asleep a few times, but for most of the night, I'd laid awake in the dark watching the way the colors from my small television reflected off my walls.

I felt mortified as I watched him help load my belongings into two chests equipped with an extension charm. It was a fairly simple task—I didn't have many belongings. My wardrobe consisted of perhaps ten casual outfits and five mismatched work outfits, and I owned three pairs of shoes total.

A comfortable silence fell between us as we worked, wherein he asked no questions, and I offered no explanations.

"You have fewer books than I expected." Harry said softly.

"I use the library here," I muttered, embarrassment reddening my skin. "Book prices have risen since the 90s. It's much easier to rent a book than to buy it."

"Hermione—" his eyes were too knowing for my liking. There was no pity within the sea of green, like I had feared I might find all night in anxious anticipation of his arrival—just the love you'd find from a father or a brother. Over the years I'd begun to believe Harry was capable of loving everything and everyone. He'd won the war with love.

I rarely felt love anymore.

"Harry, it's alright," I looked away. "I'm fine."

He didn't protest.

When the last of my clothes and books and blankets and pots and pans were shoved into the chests, he wiped his hands on his jeans and gave me a soft squeeze on the shoulder. "Anything else?"

I gave my living room a once over, internally mourning the loss of the home I'd attempted to find in the quaint muggle flat, and said "I don't believe so."

—-

Walking into the Potter-Weasley home was like taking a step into Honeydukes as a child. You never failed to feel welcomed. It wasn't too small or too large—Harry had boasted upon purchasing it that it would be the perfect place to raise a family. I'd been many times after the war, but in the past three years, I'd failed to attend any of Harry's home events, afraid I'd come into contact with Ron . I avoided many things in fear of Ron, actually.

Ginny, far more pregnant than I'd last seen her, was in the kitchen baking what smelled like chocolate chip cookies with a hint of something nutty. I held my breath as I walked past her, uncertain of whether there'd be animosity or discomfort if we made eye contact.

Instead, however, she threw her arms up, flinging batter off of her spatula, and ran—or really, waddled —at me with a speed I'd rarely expect from a pregnant woman, and tugged me into a firm embrace. "Hey, stranger. "

She seemed happy—both to see me, and in the general sense. I was grateful for both. I mustered a small smile, a hello and tried to stifle my sigh of relief.

Ginny then waddled back across the kitchen, grabbed a handful of cookies and thrust them in my direction. I took them and

Harry went up a set of stairs to take my two chests to whichever room he was willing to offer, and I watched him go, feeling his loss with each step. My heart beat irregularly. I was now alone with Ron's sister.

When I turned back to Ginny, she was eyeing me with what looked like a combination of amusement and curiosity. She put a batter-covered hand on her hip, leaving fingerprints on her apron and burst into deep, hearty laughter.

I chuckled nervously. "What's wrong?"

She smirked. "Would you like to talk about your neck?"

I threw my hand to my neck, immediately remembering that there would be millions of bruises there from Malfoy's sudden aggression. I'd glamoured them at the office, but glamours last six hours at most. The spell had most definitely worn off by now.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I opened and closed my mouth like a fish, capable of providing little more than a stammer of, "I… I…"

Ginny detected my panic before I could force out a proper excuse. "Whoever it is, Hermione, I'm very happy for you."

We stood in silence until Harry's footsteps approached the kitchen. He rushed to kiss his wife on the forehead and whispered something in her ear. She swatted her spatula at him, flinging cookie dough into his hair. He playfully tackled her, carefully, delicately, as if she was fine china—after all, she was holding his pride and joy in her womb. He ran his finger along the utensil she was attempting to hold out of his reach, before smearing the cookie dough on her cheek. They began to chase each other around the kitchen. Harry was intentionally slow enough to let his waddling wife keep up.

As I watched them—their joy and undeniable love for each other—I felt rather hollow.

—

Lunch and dinner that day were almost refreshing, aside from the few awkward moments where Ginny pointed out and emphasized that I seemed very happy. I wasn't… quite… exactly… at all really … but every time she suggested it, I couldn't help but think of Draco fucking Malfoy. I couldn't be happy with Malfoy—he was simply a regular hook up, a Thursday, and now a Friday fling. I was doing my best to ignore the things he'd said the day before. If I let myself focus on them too long, I'd give in to the absoluteness of hope that something lovely could brew from the potion we'd begun to stir. I couldn't afford another disappointment.

In between short naps and staring at my television, I'd made a resolution to avoid Malfoy for the rest of my time at Finborough Management. I'd wasted too much time and too much effort on him rather than paying my rent. I tried to focus all my anger and blame all my problems on him. I was now homeless, broke and crashing at the home of a married couple because of him. I pushed out the thought that he wasn't to blame for any of it. He had to be. He had to be.

I sat on the bed Harry had been kind enough to prepare for me and cupped my hand around my neck, feeling the warmth it emitted. I hadn't looked at it yet—I was still avoiding the various mirrors placed all around this home, to my utmost chagrin. Harry and Ginny had more mirrors in the house than the animated paintings, one of which almost sent me into sobs again. The painting displayed four boys, all of Hogwarts age but easily recognizable as Harry's father, Sirius and Lupin, all laughing in a quidditch pitch. James and Sirius were flying and Remus was cheering from the stands. There was the fourth boy, who somewhat resembled Sirius, wearing Slytherin robes whom I didn't recognize. When I stared at it for too long, they all waved at me in sync.

Before retiring to bed for the night, Harry told me they'd recovered the painting from Lupin's home after… after everything. On my way to my own room, I passed yet another mirror, catching sight of myself against my will. I saw the bruises, dark and purple, in the shape of Malfoy's teeth and spiraled—

I hate that you ruined sex for me, Granger,

I tried to fuck five women... I can't finish with anyone else because of you —

No, I told myself. I am not special to him, he is not special to me. Neither of us mean anything to each other, and it would be best for both of us if it immediately came to a halt. I rummaged through my belongings to search for a quill and parchment. I was in the middle of scrawling Malfoy on the sheet of paper when an owl tapped on the window to my left. I started and stifled a scream. I was absolutely not expecting an owl.

When I opened the window and took the folded up parchment from the bird's beak, I was shocked to see the name I had just been writing on the stamp holding it together.

Granger,

I believe I owe you dinner. Cibo di Moretti's will have a table for two on the balcony tomorrow night if you find yourself particularly in the mood for Italian. 6pm.

Regards,

DRACOMalfoy

He'd outlined his first name so intensely the ink had seeped through to the back of the parchment. At the bottom, he had added a sloppily scribbled postscript:

And please, Granger, for the love of Merlin, do not wear a skirt.