Hermione knocked on Draco's door when she got back to the Manor. She'd checked the gardens first, then the kitchen, then wandered the corridors until, finally, she'd realized the only place he was likely to be was holed up inside his own room. She knocked once quietly then, when he didn't answer, with a much firmer rat-a-tat-tat.

He opened the door and looked her up and down. She clenched her jaw under that cool appraisal but he stepped back and let her in. "I think your package was misdelivered," he said. "I assume you've come to fetch it."

She didn't answer at first. She'd never been in his room. They spent all their time alone in her suite, and, as she looked around, she could see why. Her rooms were a veritable apartment. The bedroom and toilet were separate from the living space. She had seats, a desk, a fireplace. His room was just a bedroom. Oh, there was a door off to one side that probably led to a private bath. Merlin forbid any child should have to share. But the room was a child's room. A narrow bed sat pushed against one wall, a bookcase held what she recognized even from the doorway as old Hogwarts textbooks, a Quidditch poster of Victor Krum was stuck to the wall.

A row of glass birds sat on a shelf.

"No," she said as he held out the package of practice Snitches for her. "I mean, I got those for you."

His raised his brows. "Why?" he asked.

She hated this. The words wanted to choke her and she felt like a child being marched back out to the playground by her mother. She still had to do it. "I wanted to apologize," she said.

Draco's hand shook almost imperceptibly. It might have been emotion. It could have been after effects of all the torture he'd endured. Some things could never be wholly undone. Some things you lived with forever. "Oh?" he said. His voice was still cool.

"I have been unkind," she said. "I have been snippy when you are trapped here, even more trapped than I am, and you have been nothing but gracious and I am sorry."

"Please think nothing of it," he said. His hand still held the Snitches out toward her. He didn't plan to make this easy.

She sucked in a breath and wished she could close her eyes and not have to do this but she did. "Also," she said, "At the bar. I know I was… somewhat intoxicated."

"Somewhat, yes."

"And you had every reason to think I was just… reacting… but I wasn't. I wasn't thinking of Ron or being angry at him or… just that you were there and you were so perfect looking and -." She gave up. This was more humiliation than she had bargained for, and she turned to go. "Anyway, the Snitches are for you."

"You think I'm perfect looking?"

The arrogant lilt that had crept into his voice made her smile. He was such an utter prat but she'd take this over the cold courtesy. "Well," she said. "You're no Veela, but you'll do."

She could hear him laugh at that. "Poor Weasley," he said, and she twisted back to face the room. Draco had set the package back down on his schoolboy's desk and was crossing his arms. The smirk on his face reminded her of the miserable wanker she'd known at school, though time had shifted it into a bit less smug and a bit more wry. She liked the change.

"Oh?" she asked. "Why poor Weasley."

"The insecurity," Draco said. She didn't follow him, but he was clearly delighted to have the chance to explain so she let him. "A man who's always been inadequate in his head. First, he couldn't measure up to his brothers. Then Potter. He always thought no one really wanted him around."

Hermione knew it wasn't nice to take pleasure in this. She'd loved Ron, and they'd been friends longer than they'd been lovers, but as she saw where Draco was going, she couldn't stop the mean tilt to her mouth. Draco saw it and smiled back.

"Now he's gone and married a Veela," he said softly, "and he'll be miserable forever, always sure she doesn't really want him, that she's only with him because he got her pregnant. He'll be haunted by all the men who'll be drawn to her magic. It's the most beautiful bit of self-sabotage I've ever seen."

"Poor Ron," Hermione said.

"I want to go back to that bit where you said I looked perfect," Draco said. He took a step toward her. "Care to expand on that?"

"Not really," Hermione said. She shrugged as elaborately as she could. "I mean, I was pretty pissed. My judgement was off."

"Fair enough," he said, but he still looked unbearable pleased with himself. "And you bought me a present."

"Well," she said, "You always liked Quidditch."

"I did," he said. "It might be fun to go chase a Snitch around the back of the Manor. And I know you like Quidditch players."

"I… what?" she said. It was half a stammer.

"Ron Weasley," Draco said, ticking them off on his fingers, "Victor Krum. Cormac McLaggen."

She blinked at the last one. "You noticed who I went to Slughorn's party with back when we were 16?" she asked.

"Well," Draco admitted, "I might not have at the time. Pansy went on about it for a bit after. It was an item of gossip."

Hermione moved into the room, and picked the package of Snitches up. She'd been so irritated when she'd gotten back and discovered the present had been automatically sent to Draco's room. It made sense, of course. Who else in the Manor would want Quidditch supplies? It had ruined her plan to present them to him as part of the grand apology she'd been planning since she'd seen them but she supposed it had all worked out. She weighed them in her hand. "I do like watching the players fly," she said. "Always have."

He smiled at her. "I can fly," he said. "I can take you flying."

"That's all right." She realized she'd taken a step back without meaning to. What was with Quidditch players all assuming that because she liked watching the game she had any interest in playing it? People were meant to walk on the ground and that was where she planned to stay. Draco was trying not to laugh and her mouth twisted down in a frown when she realized he knew perfectly well she hated flying. "Prat," she muttered.

"On that note," he said, "while you were out shopping, I decided to do a little reading." He reached behind him to accio a sheet of paper from the desk. She took it, afraid of what she'd find. She skimmed for a bit, then focused more carefully on the third paragraph.

The Order of the Phoenix appears to be fully contained. Other than graffiti that continues to sporadically appear, there have been no reports of traitorous activity since the bombing of the Daily Prophet building. Antonin Dolohov's belief that Hermione Granger was the brains of the remaining operation would seem to be validated by the lack of any coordinated campaigns since the Malfoys suborned her loyalty. Loyal citizens report sightings of both Harry Potter and multiple members of the Weasley family in France but they have made no attempt to repatriate themselves.

It went on, but the rest of the meeting notes concerned itself with some tedious business a Death Eater had raised about lowering the age at which children should purchase wands to give them more time to practice fundamentals before attending Hogwarts. Hermione found herself in uncomfortable agreement with the high-level view that the wizarding education system was in bad need of an overhaul so she handed the note back before she ended up agreeing with these monsters on anything else.

"So," she said.

"The Ministry has driven the last naysayers away," Draco said. "Everything will be peaceful now."

"It will be great," she muttered.

"A return to traditions," he said. "Old values."

"I can hardly wait."

He cast a muffliato and said, very carefully, "You know what comes next, right?"

She looked at him. "Dictatorship," she said. "At the hands of a man who uses torture as a policy tool."

He nodded. She rubbed her hands against her pants. "About that," she said. "I may have made a bit of a side trip today."

"Oh?" Draco asked. "It did seem to take you an awfully long time to buy some Snitches."

"I think we might need to write off most of the Weasleys," she said. "I'm not sure they're doing much over there in France." She didn't feel like mentioning that she'd had it with Moody. She wouldn't believe for a moment that Molly had had any idea Percy had been sacrificed until the deed was done. She'd never have stood for that. Hermione she would throw to the wolves, yes, but not her own child. Never her own child.

The difference between Moody and Dolohov seemed slim at best. He might not be quite as horrid – quite as evil – as Yaxley, but Moody was more than willing to use and discard tools. She remembered when a Death Eater in disguise as the man had turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret and crashed him against the pavement over and over again. Even at the time, even when she'd hated him, she'd objected that he could have been really hurt. No one had been surprised, though. No one had said, "Wait. That's not like Alastor Moody at all."

If you acted like a Death Eater, how were you any better? Did fighting for the right side excuse any atrocity?

"Does that mean we can skip the transcription sessions?" Draco asked.

Hermione glanced at the meeting notes he'd snagged. "I think our time would be better spent working locally," she said. "How do you feel about art?"

"I like art," he said. "I've been considering starting my own collection."

"Hobbies of the rich," she said.

"Get used to it," Draco advised. "Your days as a member of the middle classes are numbered."

"Right," she said. She'd briefly forgotten her future as the bonded Madam Malfoy, magically tied forever to the blond standing in front of her. She tried to smile but he wasn't fooled.

"It shouldn't be that bad," he said. He waved his hand around indicating the room. "Big house. Lots of galleons."

"Oh, yeah," she said. She rolled her eyes. "The big house with the endless parade of unpleasant visitors – and I still don't understand why they are doing so much business here instead of in conference rooms at the Ministry –, the alcoholic father and the scheming mother."

"Hey," he said, "your background's not going to win any prizes either."

She bristled for a moment, then caught the 'either' and studied that too casual face. He still had bags under his eyes. He was too thin. There was a point where sharp bone structure passed what was usually considered beautiful and his did. And yet. "Still," she said, "if it were just you and a cottage, I wouldn't be able to find any real objections to a romance." Maybe not marriage, she thought to herself. Let's not be ridiculous. But, all things measured out, would she consider falling for this man who risked everything to give Harry Potter a chance to get away, who stood steadfast in the face of her rage and grief, who slammed a fist into Alecto Carrow's face for her? She thought she would.

"I -," he began.

"You are sort of a hero," she said.

"I'm not."

She took a step forward and cupped that chin in her hand. "You are," she said. "Not the flashy kind, maybe, but you are."

"You're insane," he said but there was a desperation in his eyes. "The strain of living here has finally broken you."

"Maybe," she said. "But if we're going to get married I think you should take me on a date first."

"A date?"

"People do that, I understand," she said.

"We've been on dates," he said. "We've gone out for ice cream. We've gone -."

"Not on a real one," she said. Her hand still rested on his chin and now it was awkward to remove it. If he'd been any other man she would have leaned in for a kiss but, given how badly that had gone last time, she didn't want to risk it. She ended up just lowering her hand and rubbing the palm against her hip and immediately fretting he'd take that the wrong way and think she was trying to remove his tainted touch from her skin.

He reached his own hand down and laced his fingers through hers. "In that case, Miss Granger," he said. "Would you go out to dinner with me tonight? On a real date?"

Why was her pulse suddenly accelerating? Why was it hard to get the words out? This was just Malfoy. This was just Draco. "I'd love to," she said.

. . . . . . . . . .

A/N – Much love to salazars for beta reading.