A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. I will be posting a chapter on Tuesdays each week (next week I will be posting two chapters, as they are both shorter) from now on. Hope you enjoy this latest installment :)

October 23rd, 1999 - Saturday Early Morning

Hermione wakes to sunshine on her face, streaming in from her dark navy curtains. She stretches luxuriously, the entire weekend looming in front of her. Her bedroom feels lazy and gentle, and Hermione feels at ease in her haven. She purchased the cottage only a month after the war — staying in her parents' empty muggle house had almost driven her mad with grief, and when she sold it she converted nearly all her muggle money into galleons and moved herself into the wizarding world fully. She'd bought the cottage, not too far from London, and settled in, intending never to go home again.

The cottage is small, just a single bedroom and bathroom with a kitchen and living room. The living room is the largest section of the house, with oversized couches and bookshelves lining the walls. The backyard opens to a small back porch, wild vines and flowers growing abundantly. It's safe — warded to the teeth with every protective magic she's ever come across, and that's the most important part.

She's halfway through making some eggs for herself when a tapping at her window startles her. It's the same tawny owl she had seen nearly three months ago, orange eyes still glaring at her. She opens the window and feeds him a piece of bacon she had cooked. He lingers on her kitchen windowsill, and Hermione realizes that this time he won't be flying away from her empty-handed.

His master expects a response.

She leans against her counter and opens her letter, the daunting Malfoy crest familiar under her fingers.

'Granger,

I am hoping you are free this evening for coffee. I am fond of the muggle coffee shop 'Java Corner' off of Russell Square in London. Would you be able to meet me there, at 5PM?

If it does not suit, I am open to other days or times.

I await your response,

Draco Malfoy'

Hermione rereads his words three times before she realizes that Draco Malfoy has asked her for coffee - in Muggle London, no less. She glances up at the intimidating owl, wondering how on earth she will answer his letter.

Hermione flips her eggs and pulls them off her grill, levitating a new piece of parchment over as she does so. She takes only a moment to scrawl a response to Malfoy, and she feeds another nibble of bacon to the owl before he takes off.

She eats her breakfast, barely tasting anything. She has agreed to meet with Draco Malfoy at the coffee shop he named — she wonders if he truly has ever frequented the coffee shop before, or if he just pulled a name out of nowhere, thinking she'd prefer Muggle London.

Hermione takes her time showering, and instead of charming her hair, she allows it to dry in the sunshine of her backyard, book on wizarding marriages in hand. She doesn't expect to find anything interesting in this particular tome, but she's already owled Minerva to see if she can pull anything from Hogwarts that could be of use, and until she receives a response she's stuck with what she has.

It's only 3:30 PM when Hermione bundles herself into her nicest jeans and a comfortable sweater. Admittedly, she has put more effort into her appearance than she normally would — it's not a date, of course, but it is the first time her future husband will see her since the day he was on trial for Azkaban.

Hermione also desperately wants the comfort of her favourite sweater.

With mostly cooperating hair curling around her shoulders, Hermione digs out a few bills of muggle money from her hidden away safe and locks up her cottage.

She apparates near Russell Square and allows herself the chance to meander through the crowds. It's been ages since she's been anywhere near muggles, and the chaos comes as a comfort in a small way. It reminds her of days long gone past, her father's booming laughter, and her mother's perfume.

She ducks into a small bookshop and spends a few minutes perusing the selection, and when she glances down at her watch it is 4:58 PM. Hermione scrambles to purchase the book she had been looking at and dashes towards the coffee shop, arriving exactly six minutes late.

Draco Malfoy is already there, standing in the lineup to order. He's wearing a dark charcoal coat and black pants, his white-blonde hair standing out even from the back. Hermione sucks in a wild breath and approaches him, half considering running away before he notices her.

He turns before she gets close to his back, silver eyes locking on her with the same intensity his owl had shown only that morning.

"Granger," he drawls, and Hermione is suddenly 14 again and ready for him to tear her down with every icy word.

"Malfoy."

Draco lifts a blonde eyebrow, "Want a coffee? I'm partial to the vanilla lattes myself."

Hermione nods, "Umm, sure. That sounds good. I'm sorry I'm late."

"I see you found a bookstore, so I'm unsurprised," Malfoy gestures at her bag, stamped with the shop's logo, "you always did love books."

Hermione frowns; his words come too close to sarcasm, and she is tired of constantly being mocked for liking to learn. Reading has saved her life on more than one occasion — in fact, she has literally saved the entire wizarding world. She's not ashamed of being smart.

A cutting remark is on the tip of her tongue, but Malfoy turns away from her to order two vanilla lattes, and when he turns back he says, "It's not bad, you know."

"What?"

Malfoy gestures at her bag, where the cover of the book she has purchased is sticking out. "That book. I rarely go for wizard fiction, but the characters are likable and the author's description of the intricacies of Centaur society was interesting."

Hermione stammers for an answer but is once more saved when Draco Malfoy pulls out a chair for her at a small table by a window. He sits across from the chair he had graciously offered her, and Hermione tries to reconcile the absolutely horrid child Draco had been with this courteous and polite man. This man who is apparently wanting to discuss literature with her.

"I'll read it and get back to you," she finally says, "I've heard good things."

Malfoy nods and stares out the window for a long moment, the silence falling somewhere between introspective and awkward. She takes the time to study him; the way small white scars speckle his knuckles on both hands, and the knee she can feel bouncing under the table. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he was nervous.

"Granger, I didn't write my own name on the warning I penned you because I never imagined we'd be found compatible," he sneers the word, "but just so you know, I'm not like them."

Hermione narrows her eyes on him, taking in his words. His tone seems sincere, although he'd practically spat the word compatible. She supposes it's a hard pill to swallow to discover your most hated classmate is your 'perfect' match. Admittedly, she's having some trouble with the thought herself.

"Not like them?" Hermione asks, scathing, "Do you mean that you won't hunt me for sport? Won't chain me in a dungeon - a mudblood wife that you are ashamed of? Won't watch as I am tortured on your floor, screaming for help?"

It's a low blow, and Malfoy recoils as though she has struck him. Hermione takes no pleasure in her victory — words she has said in haste and fear. She had been planning to be civil, to try.

"I'm sorry — I shouldn't," she says, "I shouldn't have said that."

Silence reigns at their small table and Malfoy's stone-faced expression doesn't crumble. Hermione thinks about apologizing again for her venomous words, but she's tired of saying sorry for the truth.

"I suppose it was a fair statement," Malfoy sits back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. It draws her eyes to his shoulders, broader than they had been only two years ago.

"It wasn't," Hermione admits, "I appreciated your apology and your warning. I also realize you're trying to be civil. I'm just — I'm just scared."

He stares at her, shock warring with his icy demeanour. "You Gryffindors. Always so blunt. Always saying what you feel."

Hermione shrugs, "I don't know how to be anything but what I am, Malfoy."

He sips his latte and stares her down, and Hermione forces her fingers to stop trembling long enough to pick up her cup, sipping the drink he has paid for. It's warm, and Hermione is grateful for its comfort and sweetness.

"Look," Malfoy's voice is soft, "I realize we aren't friends."

"Understatement," Hermione snorts.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, "Yes, okay. We've hated each other our entire lives and now we are being forced to marry."

Hermione swallows, "I'm just shocked the ministry would allow the Malfoy line to marry a muggle-born."

"The Malfoy line has nearly no sway with the Ministry any longer," Draco says, "and if they had inquired, I would have told them my wife's blood status meant little to me."

It's the second time he has alluded to his changed perspective on blood purity. The second time he has tried to distance himself from all the horrors of the war, and his role in it. Hermione can hardly begrudge him the opportunity to change.

"That's probably good, considering I'm to be your wife." She jokes, her humour falling flat between them. They sip at their lattes, watching each other over the rims of their cups in the wake of her words.

"Tell me," he says, breaking their silence, "were you still dating Weasel when the WPG was announced?"

Hermione snorts a laugh, "His name is Ron Weasley, not weasel. And no, Ron and I ended not long after the war. We're still good friends, though."

"Great," Malfoy mutters sarcastically, "suppose that means I'll have to see him around."

Hermione smirks at his obvious misery, "If we're to marry, yes, you will. Were you dating anyone? When the WPG was announced, I mean."

Malfoy waves her question away, "No. Tell me, how did your golden group fair in the lottery? Potter pull a new name?"

Hermione smiles, genuinely, "Harry got Ginny. They're thrilled."

"Pity," Malfoy drawls, but Hermione swears he's saying it only out of habit and not malice. There's no heat behind the word.

"Percy Weasley got Daphne Greengrass. You know the Greengrass family, don't you?"

"Oh, god," Malfoy lets out a chuckle, "my condolences to Percy Weasley. Daph's great, but she makes Professor Binns look positively enthralling."

Hermione snorts, "Actually, that might work out. Percy's a dear friend, but he's not exactly… well… he's boring as dirt."

"A match made in Ministry heaven." Malfoy's voice is pure scathing scorn, and for the first time, Hermione doesn't flinch at his sneer. She doesn't mind his humour when it's not directed at her.

"Yeah. His eldest brother Charlie got Astoria Greengrass, actually. They'll marry the sisters."

Malfoy frowns, "Hmm, the Greengrass family is a staunch pureblood family. Their father will not accept those matches to blood traitors."

Hermione snarls, "Weasley's are pureblood!"

"The Greengrass family is older than even the Malfoy's, and their father might have accepted one match to the Weasley family, but both daughters? He'll be at the ministry as we speak." Malfoy replies, "It doesn't matter if the Weasley's are technically pureblood, he believes they're blood traitors."

Hermione desperately wants to pick at the comment, tear it apart. Malfoy looks spooked, his knuckles white against his coffee cup. It hasn't escaped her notice that Malfoy had purposefully not spoken against the Weasley's status, just relayed the Greengrass patriarch's opinion. So Hermione bites her tongue, wondering how long she can silence herself in this sham of a marriage before she explodes.

"So you know them well?" She chokes out, letting the subject change.

"I know Daphne alright," he explains, relief washing over his face, "she was in my year in Slytherin, after all. I was actually betrothed to Astoria for many years — our parents arranged it. After the war, the betrothal fell apart, mostly because my father was… not there to sign the final contracts."

Hermione's brain swims with the information, "I — I'm sorry. Did you… did you love her?"

"Love her?" Malfoy scoffs, "I hardly knew her. She was simply an appropriate wife in my father's eyes."

"An appropriate wife," Hermione swallows, "I suppose I don't fit that description."

Malfoy's laughter is unexpected, "Oh, Granger. Sorry, but no. My father is rolling in his grave as we speak."

"Good," Hermione snaps, vicious. "I'm not sorry for that."

He eyes her battle-ready expression, a lazy half-smile flitting about his lips, "I didn't ask you to be."

Hermione scowls, his words are unexpected. She had hardly imagined a scenario where Draco would spit in the face of his father's ideals. It's a welcome thought, but it doesn't align with the boy she thought she knew.

She gives herself a small shake and focuses, leaving Draco's comment along for now.

"I hope Astoria and Charlie get on well, though," Hermione insists, "Charlie is nervous because he's so much older than her."

"His age will hardly be the thing her family will protest," Malfoy mutters darkly, sipping at his drink. Hermione is almost finished hers, and she's shocked that she's tempted to get another to prolong this meeting.

"Do you know Padma Patil?" Malfoy asks, changing the subject. "My mate Blaise Zabini got her."

"She's nice. I know her sister Parvati quite well, she was my roommate in Gryffindor for years, but Padma was in Ravenclaw. Blaise might be interested to know that he'll have a Weasley as a brother-in-law. George got Parvati."

"Blaise'll have a meltdown over that, I'm sure," Malfoy's eyes are sparkling with humour, "but at least he got the good Weasley. George — that's one of the twins, right? They were legendary, even in Slytherin."

Hermione's face must ripple in shock; no one has mentioned Fred in so long it hits her like a slap. She swallows hard — it hadn't even occurred to her that Parvati is a twin, and she paired with George. Perhaps it will be a suitable match — something in common.

Or perhaps George will have to watch his wife and her twin, all the while his twin is gone.

"Is he dead?"

Hermione blinks herself into focus, staring at Malfoy's artfully mussed blonde hair. "What?"

"The way you reacted," he says, "did the other twin die?"

Hermione nods through the lump in her throat. "Yeah."

He waits patiently while she gets herself under control, and when she no longer feels like screaming, he clears his throat.

"Luna Lovegood."

"What?" Hermione is lost again, "What about Luna?"

Malfoy scowls at the table, "I don't know her. In school… well… perhaps we were mean. She was always so weird."

Hermione bristles. "Mean?! She spent months in your dungeon as a prisoner, and you call it being mean?"

Hermione can feel her thighs shaking, memories of a chandelier hanging above her, maniacal laughter and screaming in her ears. She can picture the only time she and Luna had ever even talked about the Manor, laying face to face in Shell Cottage, the first and only time Hermione had ever seen Luna cry.

Malfoy's expression is bleak. "I didn't… go into those rooms. I never spoke with her. I only… I only remember her from school."

Hermione watches his grey eyes bore holes in their table, signature sneer on his face, and sucks in a breath. She's so tired of all the damage the war continues to cause. She's so tired of being angry. She wonders if Malfoy's tired of it, too.

"Luna is odd," Hermione breathes, fear and fury roiling through her. It is Luna — the memory of how forgiving Luna is, how she has tried so hard to be more than the sum of the war, that prompts Hermione to share. "She loves radishes and made-up creatures and the colour blue. She's smart, though — smarter than half the people I know. She's vicious in a wand fight, and curious about the world, and she paints these beautiful pictures… you can't even imagine how beautiful."

Hermione is lost for a moment, briefly recalling the day she had first seen Luna's room in the height of the war, golden lettering labelling them all as friends on her wall. Luna is… the best of all of them.

Malfoy drags her from her thoughts, "well, my best friend pulled her name."

For one horrible, horrible moment, Hermione imagines Malfoy is talking about Vincent Crabbe. She pictures Luna — her free spirit and laughter, and sees it as though it's a prophecy in her brain. Slowly, Crabbe's meaty fists and cruel words would chip away at everything that made Luna unique, until all that remained was a pretty shell.

"Granger," Malfoy snaps, "focus."

Hermione chokes, "no, please Malfoy, she can't. She can't! Crabbe will destroy her."

"It's not Crabbe," Malfoy growls, "I don't even see Crabbe. It's Theo. My best friend is Theodore Nott."

Hermione sucks in air, "Nott was a Death Eater."

For the first time Malfoy's face mottles in rage, and his voice, when it comes, snaps across her like a whip. "Theo wasn't death eater. He isn't his father."

"Okay," Hermione holds her hands up in surrender, "okay. I'm sorry. I don't know him."

Malfoy scowls, thunder and fury, "No, you don't."

They stare at each other, poison on the tips of their tongues. Hermione realizes that this moment will be the deciding factor — how much can a Malfoy change?

He heaves a breath and the anger fades from his eyes. Hermione realizes he looks more like his mother than he does of Lucius. It's a blessing for both of them.

"Listen, Granger. I don't care if she's weird or what. He probably won't even care either. Just… tell me… tell me she won't hate him. Tell me she will see more than his name."

Hermione can't help that she rocks backwards in her chair in surprise at his demanded question. Malfoy isn't looking at her anymore, his eyes trained out the window. Still, he looks vulnerable in a way she hasn't seen since the fifth year when she had watched him slowly fall apart from afar.

She wonders if he feels the same way as Theodore Nott obviously does: pigeonholed and judged by a name and persona his father created.

Hermione nods slowly. "Luna Lovegood is the kindest person I know. She won't care what last name Theodore carries."

He huffs, dragging his eyes back to her, "well, at least there's that. Theo's had enough shit, he deserves someone nice."

Hermione watches him from under her lashes; he is fiddling with his cup, his expression shuttered. All the vulnerability that she had seen is gone again, and Hermione wonders if she had imagined the whole thing. She never would have guessed that Draco Malfoy would be someone who cared about his friends.

"Can I ask you something?"

Hermione blinks at him, "um. Sure?"

"Why didn't you try to get your name changed? Why didn't you beg Shacklebolt for whoever you wanted — the Weasel, even? You're the golden girl, he owes it to you."

The way he says 'golden girl' is snide, and Hermione frowns. "There's nothing he could have done. His hands were tied. He would have received his own name yesterday; even Kingsley wasn't exempt."

Malfoy shakes his head, "Granger, don't be a fool, it doesn't suit you."

"What does that mean?" Hermione snaps.

"It means," Malfoy sneers, "that you are supposed to be the brightest witch of your age. Don't you think it's just a little suspect that the Ministry has placed the wizarding world's most famous and beloved muggle-born into a marriage with not only a well-known ex-Death eater but also one of the most staunchly blood prejudiced wizarding families?"

"Not really," Hermione snaps, "I don't think they care. I don't think it's some sinister plot, Malfoy."

"Then you're an idiot," Malfoy tells her, matter-of-fact. "The ministry doesn't do anything without a purpose."

"I believe they say the purpose is to increase the magical population," Hermione says flatly, "I disagree with their methods and this stupid WPG Act, obviously, but it stands to reason that if you force people to get married and conceive children you will in fact increase the population. It's barking mad and barbaric, but here we are."

Malfoy lifts a hand and rubs at his chin, "I truly doubt that's the only reason we're suddenly all being manipulated like lab rats, Granger."

"Honestly, I really think they just didn't take any of our histories into account. We're not the only insane match. Did you know Ron got Hannah Abbott? She's wonderful, but she's been dating Neville Longbottom for almost two years. The Ministry doesn't care about anything except rebuilding the population."

"The Ministry," Malfoy murmurs darkly, "doesn't care about anything except power, and it never has."

Hermione doesn't have it in her to disagree again, especially when all evidence proves he is correct.

Malfoy reaches into his coat at her silence, drawing out a small box. He slides it across the table to her. Hermione stares at it as though it is a bomb meant to explode in her face.

"Granger, it's customary in my family to enter any engagement with a gift," he taps the velvet box gently, "I know this is hardly a traditional engagement, but I… I feel I should still follow my customs."

Hermione stares first at Draco Malfoy's face, searching for any sign of mockery or danger. Then, slowly, she reaches out and grabs the black box. "You really didn't need to get me a gift. I know you don't — I know it's not… real."

Her words, though not a lie, are also not true. They don't love each other — they don't even like each other. Still… it is real. They will be married within the month.

"I know that." Malfoy snaps, then sighs once. "It's yours, though."

Hermione frowns at him, "I didn't get you anything."

Malfoy rolls his eyes, "Bloody hell, Granger, open the damn thing."

Hermione dubiously opens the box, expecting some hideous prize with a deeper mocking meaning, and finding only a simple bracelet. The stones are a deep azure on a delicate silver vine. It's tasteful and lovely, clearly Goblin made and worth a fortune.

"This is too much," Hermione insists at once, "it's beautiful. I shouldn't… it's yours — "

Malfoy waves her stumbling words away, "It holds some magical properties. I had it inspected for dangerous curses when I pulled it from my vault, and they informed me that it has been charmed. If you are ever in danger, you can simply touch it and call for me in your mind. I will apparate to you — no matter if I've never been in the location before. It will be like a beacon for me, apparently."

Hermione frowns suspiciously, "Can you tell my location by it?"

Malfoy rolls his eyes, "I hardly think you'd accept such an invasion of privacy, and I definitely have no desire to keep tabs on you."

Hermione bites back a smile — not only is the delicate bracelet beautiful, she knows such an object would have been priceless in the war. Yet, it had been sitting in the Malfoy vault, unused all this time. "This is incredible. Does it do anything else?"

Malfoy shrugs, "The inspector said besides the apparition beacon it holds no other magic, but my mother did once tell me a legend that this bracelet would allow the wearer great protections. Probably not true, as she never wore it."

"Not quite her style?" Hermione asks hesitantly.

To her great surprise, Malfoy chuckles. "Definitely not flashy enough."

"It's very lovely, though," Hermione insists. Realistically, she knows that Draco Malfoy could have clothed her in diamonds and not flinched at the cost, so she supposes the bracelet is hardly anything to gawk at, but it was only a few short years ago that Malfoy would've rather seen her dead before he put a family heirloom in her possession.

Malfoy watches her holding the box, and Hermione knows he is waiting to see if she'll throw it back in his face or accept it. She glances down at the bracelet and decides.

The Ministry may have taken her choices from her, but that doesn't mean she can't approach this in her own way. She pulls the bracelet out of the box carefully and then holds out her wrist to Malfoy. It feels very similar to laying her head upon a guillotine.

"Will you put it on me?" She asks. He stares at her extended wrist as though it is a viper unexpectedly ready to tear him apart at any moment. She's about to withdraw when he catches her fingers.

His hands are softer than she would have expected, and he lays the bracelet carefully over her skin. He fastens it gently, then pulls her sleeve over it. Hermione realizes as it's happening that this is the first time Draco Malfoy has ever willingly touched her. The last time she had felt his pale skin was when she had punched him in the third year at Hogwarts.

"Thank you," she mutters, feeling her cheeks turn a burning scarlet.

He nods, "I have to go."

Hermione blinks at his abrupt announcement, "Oh, um, of course."

Malfoy takes her cup to the garbage, and Hermione gathers her beaded bag beside her. He unexpectedly waits for her, and they walk outside together. He gestures down a small abandoned alleyway and only pauses once they are hidden behind a dumpster.

"This is a suitable spot to apparate," Malfoy mutters.

Hermione nods, "Makes sense. Okay. Well… shall I owl you?"

The silence stretches, and Hermione snaps her gaze to Malfoy to make sure he hasn't somehow silently apparated away. He's still there, but he's staring at her with steel-grey eyes and far closer than she expects. She barely comes to a stop in time without crashing into him.

"You said you were scared." Malfoy's voice is low.

"Yes," Hermione answers, "I just — aren't you scared?"

He reaches out, startling her with the sudden move, and Hermione prepares to flee or fight, tensing. Instead of attacking, he lays a single finger on the bracelet, just peeking out past her sweater.

"Don't be scared," he commands, then withdraws his fingers.

His apparition crack sends her careening into the alleyway wall, clutching at her wand so hard she fears she could break it, a spell for mass destruction on the tip of her tongue. The space where Malfoy once stood is empty. Her wrist still tingles. She takes more time than she'd like to admit standing up straight again, forcing her legs to stop shaking before she apparates home.