3.

Her parents had gotten married straight out of school. It wasn't a big deal. They were both from financially stable backgrounds and they both had similar goals in life.

Their parents had dissuaded them, telling them to wait a few years (and what were a few years really?) But they didn't listen and Daniel and Emma Granger were married a week before they were to start at university.

It was perfect, it worked for them.

Though, her mother assured her that it wasn't an expectation they had for her.

They were happy enough that she had friends in Harry and Ron, but their hopes of a romance like theirs were decidedly less so. They liked her friends fine but, even with the usual "no one's good enough for our daughter" routine, Hermione suspected that they knew something she didn't.

When she told them about Ron's proposal a day after it happened, their reaction was similar to Neville's, "He did what?"

"Honestly, it's bad enough that it happened," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Don't make me tell you twice."

In the midst of watering one of the exotic (and deadly) plants that were scattered around his office, Neville defended, "You can't blame me, Hermione; the only reaction Ron's given you for the past few weeks was when Cormac peacocked around, talking about how he popped your cherry."

"You know I wasn't a virgin before him."

"Yeah, but you'd think you were considering the way Ron blew a gasket about it," he said, looking over his shoulder with a grin. "Plus, it suggests that he never satisfied you."

"Trust me, I was pretending just as much with Cormac as I was with Ron. Fortunately, I enjoy scheduling my headaches," she allowed, sipping her coffee.

"Be honest, though," Neville laughed, "between the two, who was bigger?"

She looked thoughtful, balancing her mug in her hands. "Ron, but Cormac at least knew how to start the engine."

Neville made a Really? face. "He wasn't an in-and-out kind of guy? That's unexpected."

"I think he was hoping that I'd divulge his prowess in the ladies' bathroom. Granted, I did mention it to Lavender when she asked if he was thoughtful in the bedding department," Hermione allowed, though her face pinched at what had constituted foreplay before the disrobing – a kiss that made her mouth feel like the rinse-cycle of a washing machine.

"Ah, look at the pair of you. Exchanging notes on lovers; never thought I'd see the day when you had that in common."

"She's not entirely awful," she admitted, "though she's still a slag for sleeping with Ron when he was still with me." At least Lavender had apologized. Hermione even pitied her when she admitted she was still in love with the boy she'd dated in school.

It was a pity that Ron was more in love with Ron.

"Is that why you agreed to go with her to the benefactor's ball?"

"She encouraged my petty side," she sniffed.

Neville snickered. "It worked, though; Ron threw a considerable fit in the men's room about twenty minutes after you showed up. Harry had to stupefy him and take him home before he embarrassed himself."

She smirked. "I'm impressed he made it twenty minutes."

"Only because he was looking at the two of you like you'd make his dreams come true," her companion said, fluttering his lashes. "Via ménage à trois?"

"I wouldn't even give him the pleasure to watch."

"Lavender made that clear," he agreed, laughing now. "I think it was when you were trapped in that conversation with Cormac; I escorted her to the bar and Ron decided to bring up how good you'd all be together."

"And what did she say?" Hermione asked, intrigued because the woman had said nothing about the encounter. Granted, Lavender was more concerned about how much Hermione propped her up to Cormac as his next conquest; the joys of playing wing-woman.

"She told him he could barely keep up with one of you, let alone two." He paused. "And she may have also insinuated that you'd sooner invite a troll into your bed."

"She wasn't wrong -"

"And that the two of you had plans with Cormac," Neville added.

Her coffee almost made an undignified exit through her nose. "Merlin, I love her."

"Also another thing I was sure you'd never say," he admitted. "But back the original point, he proposed?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Neville. We've been through this, twice."

"I mean what for? It can't be a pride thing; you'd literally destroy the ground he stood on if he thought, for even a second, you'd take him back. You were in love him and all, but…"

"I wasn't in love with him," Hermione corrected slowly. "I owed him. He offered me friendship in a difficult time and he was there throughout the war; choosing him was convenient." In a perfect world, perhaps it would have even worked out; maybe she wouldn't have talked his ear off about being more thoughtful or ambitious or having fights about him expecting her to be exactly like his mother; maybe he'd actually grow more mature, wouldn't let his temper run away with him and didn't let her bully him when he disagreed with her methods. In a perfect world, it could have worked out. But they weren't living in a perfect world. "Maybe I loved him, but I was not in love with him."

"Suppose that's fair," Neville allowed. "But that still doesn't explain where he grew the balls to ask."

Sighing, she crossed her feet at the ankles, practically sinking against a nearby pillar as Neville turned back to focus on the herbs he was tending. He was endlessly patient as always as if she were a flower that he was waiting on to bloom.

Ron had dismissed him as a gardener.

Even if that did make up almost eighty percent of Neville's job description at the Ministry, it was far more than that - everything from researching plants for medicinal and recreational use to petitioning for the protection of certain species that were useful to creatures and not wizards. Neville was clever and kind, and he lost so much in both wars but still remained to smile about it, his unerring positivity would be annoying if it hadn't gotten Hermione through more than enough days on the run.

Though, if she hadn't liked Neville before when they were in school, her esteem increased with Ron's belittlement of him.

If only Neville could be just a gardener, and she just a bookish workaholic, maybe Ron wouldn't be a washed-up Auror riding out Harry-Potter-Is-My-Best-Friend wherever he went, even if it was a ploy that worked.

She had to hand it to Ron, he knew his audience. "He had a point." Neville's brows rose in interest and when he said nothing further, she sighed again. "About the pure-blood elite club."

"You mean," he said slowly, "the club he isn't a part of? You do know his family is on the blood traitor spectrum, don't you?"

"When it mattered; the game is different now considering it's not socially acceptable to be bigoted; not in public anyway."

He hummed, "But the crème de la crème…"

"Exactly," Hermione allowed. "They may look down their noses at the Weasleys but, at least with their name, I'd get through the door." It wasn't like she hadn't considered it before they had broken up. They could have lived in a perfect world. She had long ago accepted that she could never truly be herself, only play the role people expected her to; be the Hermione Granger they could put on a pedestal, listen to and accept.

Ron could be insufferable, but she knew how to deal with him: how to work around his ego, how to handle his messes, how to account for his deficiencies. But then he had to blow that plan to hell, fortunately before he grew a pair to propose to her at all.

The papers had been ugly enough when more than just Lavender stood up to say that Ron had bedded them behind Hermione's back. If she had been Mrs. Ronald Weasley, she had no doubt that the backlash would set her back so far she'd have to beg for mercy at the Prophet's feet and be forced to grin and bear the embarrassment of choosing a partner that couldn't even choose her.

"Doesn't mean you'll get to sit at the table," Neville reminded.

She smiled and tipped her head. But, no matter; there were always other options. Hermione learned to be adaptable. "Which is exactly why I told Ron that I'd marry you."

"You want to be my beard? Miss Granger, I'd be honored," Neville exclaimed, placing his hand over his heart, falling effortlessly into the role of the gullible and clueless schmuck that she remembered so well in school; non-threatening, innocent; harmless.

"Wouldn't be a good idea, though," he continued with some regret. "The Longbottoms may still be one of the Twenty-Eight, but how would it look on you? What would the public think if it gets out that the husband of our future Minister of Magic entertains male company?"

Sweet looking wallflowers were dangerous in their own way.

"Minister," she repeated, amused. "You have big dreams, Mister Longbottom."

"Who else could I possibly throw my hat in the ring for?"

"Perhaps I should just marry you after all."

"There are better options. Even you need to be properly bedded on a regular basis; it provides an enthusiasm that is sorely lacking in the department of Right-Hand Connoisseurs. For example," he continued casually, "with a glow like yours? I'd think you, Lavender, and Cormac actually did make good on that arrangement."

Of course, he'd notice, Hermione thought with a flush as she flicked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "So I got laid last night."

He hummed again, lifting his brows suggestively. "And?"

"What?" she stressed, "Are you expecting me to dunk my head in holy water?"

"Why," he probed a devilish twinkle in his eye. "How much did you sin, my child?"

She shook her head, chuckling. "If there was anything wrong in the world with that, I don't ever want to be right."

"Well, you know the lay was good when Hermione Granger doesn't want to be right." He whistled in appreciation. "Am I going to find out who this man is?"

"Draco."

Neville's brows rose but no accusation coloured his tone. "Malfoy?"

"We know another Draco?" she countered, and he allowed with a tilt of his head that they didn't.

"It makes sense though, he eye-fucks you a lot."

She gaped. He couldn't – they hadn't spoken in – what? "He does not."

"Yeah, he does; all the way through Hogwarts, on the battlefield, and whenever you guys happen to occupy the same courtrooms," he said with a snort, tone still nonchalant, like he was talking about the weather or mentioning that one of his plants had tried to swallow Rita Skeeter whole (which while true, did not get the chance to digest the bint).

"What the hell, Neville?"

"What? I thought you knew!"

She gave Neville a look, causing his hands to shoot up in defense. "Fine," he admitted, "I figured you wouldn't know what to do with the information and, since you didn't know period, I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable. It was kind of hot, anyway, like he wanted to…" To her horror, he started using hand gestures and accenting it with hip thrusts.

She rolled her eyes. "You're terrible, and I hate you."

"No, you don't," he laughed, "especially since I have the answer to your Ron problem."

"I have a Ron problem?"

"A somehow-he-has-a-point Ron problem," he clarified. "Despite your sheer brilliance, Hermione Jean Granger, you are still Muggle-born. An outsider. A fact that would be fine and dandy if political change didn't require the support of the pure-blood elite."

"And," she continued, "as you said, I can't just marry anyone – they'd be under a microscope as my husband. Anything he does would reflect on me. Ron would be the safe choice."

"Safe, as in you'd get in, but you'd be standing by the door alongside a disapproving portrait of someone's prejudiced pure-blood relative, which means you need to marry high – like Sacred Twenty-Eight high – and not on the blood traitor spectrum," he added, "which leaves former Death Eaters and the ambiguous neutrals."

"Or I could just charge in alone?" The thought was tempting, but also held a very steep chance of succeeding; Neville was as honest as always:

"Yes, I'm sure those archaic old men would love to hand over the reins to a modern Muggle-born woman. Your aim is change and, because we live in a democracy, change is voted in by popular demand. You, Hermione, have never been the popular type."

Not a surprise. She was a puppet that danced around and existed on their stage because she had to – she was the proof that both wars achieved their aims; that death and destruction were paid in full with blood and demons aplenty so Muggle-borns could exist in their world. Hermione didn't need to be liked to succeed as propaganda. Still, she dryly interjected, "Remind me never to go to you for pep-talks, yeah?"

Neville valiantly continued on, "Which means you need someone so fucking pure that they're not only sitting at the table, they own the fucking table."

She clicked her tongue. That was a possibility. Granted, she hadn't thought about him too much in regards to her ambitions, Ron was suitable for so long that she hadn't seriously thought of others, but the more she mused on it, the more the idea had taken root in her mind. Would it possible to have it all? "What could I possibly offer him in return?"

"Oh," he whined, "don't make me do all the work. You know how cranky I get when I'm tired."

.

Hermione was a combination of impulsive and deliberate, a fact that Draco could appreciate.

She was all business despite the friendly, almost cajoling, note she had sent through Blaise that she was coming to see him.

Regardless of his response, she used the portkey to get back into his building; clever witch.

Then again, he'd made sure it was still activated for her to get in so, technically, she was doing what he had planned. When she entered, the look on her face said that she knew exactly that.

Instead of looking guarded, walking into as it were – the dragon's den, Hermione enquired, "Did I play that part right?" Of course, she'd figure it out.

"That you would come back?" he asked, setting aside his paperwork and leaning back in his chair. "Rather perfectly, down to the day and the hour."

"I do like to get things perfect," she informed him primly, removing her outer robes and tossing them onto the nearest empty chair. He admired what lay beneath – a soft white blouse, with a neat bow caressing her slender neck, and a grey figure-hugging pencil skirt that ended a few inches above her knee; she was practical, professional, and deceptively prudish.

"Did you already know about this law? I'm sure Zabini must have told you."

"It might have come up."

Her lips thinned for an instant, the reminder of Ron's declaration about connections and ties whispering impatiently in her ear as she approached his desk. "Then, I suppose you know why I'm here. Although I imagine you planned that too?"

"No, actually," he replied, "the party that brought you here originally? Down to a T. The law, however, was not up for my consideration."

"Why is that?" She knew why. He highly doubted she ever approached a situation ill-prepared but he got a thrill at how well she played the innocent – all big brown eyes and luscious lips protruding slightly in a pout.

"I was on the side that lost. Granted, I never really got the chance to choose but, nevertheless, I played the hand I was dealt and got out with the chips I could. It was a loss but the damage I incurred was minimal compared to others. Why would I risk playing again?"

"Because," she dragged out, "you didn't have me playing with you. Besides, if it really wasn't up for your consideration, why would you have planned me coming to see you again at all?"

"What can I say? I'm an excellent shag."

"I'm flattered that you find me worthy enough to entertain a second time. But, you planned that ball far too elaborately to just want sex from me."

Pushing his chair back to marvel at her, he smirked. "You think you're so clever."

"I am," she replied, walking around the desk towards him. She rested her hands on the armrests of his chair and leaned towards him. "I'm brilliant."

Draco clicked his tongue, his lips still raised at the corners in a semblance of a smile. "I've gotten some of my fortune back; nothing the Ministry could give me would be worth the trouble of coming back into society."

"It's not about what the Ministry can do; it's about what you can do." He said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She readily obliged. "You and yours chose wrong and I won't apologize for winning. But, as far as progress goes, your contributions are some of the few that actually change things. The Ministry is more than happy to prop me up as their sterling example of We-Won-The-War-Against-Blood-Purists and then do nothing further about the things that actually caused the problems in the first place."

She smiled down at him, both admiring and knowing at once. "The changes for the education system in Hogwarts? Helping the children left behind during the war?" It was so plain to see how much he wanted to change, how much he wanted to fix the world that he helped break. "The marriage law is good for treating at least some of the issues on the ground but you're tackling it on a larger scale; a scale that impacts far more than what can be hoped for within a single household."

"Call it redemption; call it being a good loser," Draco conceded graciously, conscious of the way their lips were just barely brushing.

"You don't lose, Draco," Hermione murmured, her lips ghosting past his, "at least not on purpose."

"No."

"You need my help as much as I need yours."

"What do I need from you?"

Noses brushing, her eyes wandered down in suggestion at the obvious tent in his pants. "The same thing I need from you, only I want to be on the other side." She paused, adding seriously, "I want to make sure the laws happen, to ensure that things actually change."

"I'm not so angelic," he reminded her, keeping perfectly still as Hermione's fingers tugged at the zipper of his pants, making quick work of releasing his cock from its material prison. "They think I'm a monster; they'll think I cursed you." He paused to swallow as her fingers caressed him. "You want a hero and, despite what you think, I'm not one."

"Despite what you want everyone else to think," she corrected, seeing right through him as easily as if he confessed his thoughts to her daily, the reminder of such a time tore him up. The cabinet; the ring; Dumbledore.

"You have a legacy already," he reminded. "You needn't taint it with me."

She laughed humorlessly. "Ah yes, my legacy. My role in the Golden Trio; the boy-hero that was raised as a Muggle, the pure-blood traitor, and the Muggle-born witch; we're the Ministry's wet dream to remind everyone how far we've come."

Admiring the structure of him as one would a sculpted piece of art Hermione decided that yes, some god really did create Draco Malfoy to tempt sin and who was she but a human that was tempted?

"It would be easier, wouldn't it? To play along and pretend I'm happy with how it looks on the surface?" She traced his leaking tip with her thumb as she spoke. "They made me bleed and, now that they find my blood convenient, they'll keep cutting me."

"Ask Potter... Weasley, I'm sure they'll be more than happy to play hero again," he said, an edge to his voice that almost begged her not to ask this of him, as if he were happy to be their victim in all of this whilst still trying to pull them through the dumpster fire that was their society.

"They don't want to be heroes anymore," she murmured, tracing her tongue along the smooth skin, making him gasp. Oh, how beautiful that sound was but the hint of euphoria was tarnished by the reminder of her friends with their perfect lives; a family for orphaned Harry and a hero's parade every day of the week for Ron. "They got what they wanted, they got their legacy."

He forced a laugh. "You're insatiable, aren't you? You're Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Our Age, war heroine, Ministry official. They're on their knees for you." It's why he hadn't tried to get her back, not when she'd come so far – but he'd heard about McLaggen, growled to himself how none of them deserved her – and he had to try, even if he could only have her for one night, knowing what she knew now.

"But they're not," she whispered, the brown of her eyes nothing but a halo around the black of her pupils. "They're waiting to cut me down with the broken pieces they turned me into." Hermione was always under their thumb, they'd groomed her by giving her Harry and Ron – giving her friends – and then used her loyalty and famed brilliance to keep the heroes standing: The Boy Who Lived that was promised to slay the villain, and the pure-blood wizard that would lay his life on the line to make it happen.

The three of them were the perfect propaganda, and after? After it ended, the Ministry could use them still, and use her they did.

"Well then, there's only one thing for that," he soothed, reaching over to cup her face in his palm, sliding his thumb across her lips, and hissing as she took the digit in her mouth. "Take your heroes, Granger," he continued, "and stick to your golden legacy."

Eventually, she'd crack it.

Eventually, she'd get them all to stand in line. It was within her grasp, within her capabilities; Gryffindor or not, she had the ambition, the smarts; the potential. She could do whatever she wanted, and he – he would atone where he could and try and be worthy of it.

"What if I don't want my legacy? What if I still want more? What if," she trailed, nipping the appendage resting against her lips, "I want you?"

"Me," he repeated, almost amused, "or my connections? My last name?"

"Your cock?" she enquired, brows raised mischievously.

"You'll have to do more than get on your knees to make them accept me," he cautioned, even as his eyes burned into hers in perfect sync to the fingers she curled around the length of him.

"The only person I'm getting on my knees for is you." Her luscious red lips wrapped around him, his grip on the armrest a vice, as she licked his length with excruciating slowness. The hand he cupped her face with just moments before came to rest at the nape of her neck.

Draco seriously doubted it was Hermione's first time giving head - her sheer skill at the task was proof to that - but he was confident she had never given as enthusiastically as she did now. If she did, then Weasley was even more brain-dead than he thought.

She took his whole head in her mouth. His grip tightened around her neck as he swelled to twice the size within the moist heat behind her cupid's bow lips.

Hermione varied her speed and pressure, relying on Draco's breathing and moans to judge what he liked best. He, on the other hand, was struggling to hold out for as long as he could. Looking down on her infamous head of curls, now free from her conservative bun, he gripped her hair in both hands as he guided her forward and back along his length. He could hardly control himself as he slid in and out of her torturous mouth. Her own moans and breaths only served to fan his lust.

Just then one of her hands cupped his balls, introducing a perfect balance of timid and daring as she worked his shaft up and down, making his legs tremble with every deft flick of her wrist.

"Fuck."

She hummed approvingly, the vibration travelling up and down his thighs as she worked him with dedication and purpose, coaxing him with promises of ruin and salvation with every brush of her tongue, every skillful movement of her hands.

In that moment, Draco knew, with absolute certainty, that the saying was true; there wasn't a spell this witch couldn't do.