A/N: Friends, THANK YOU for liking Theo/Luna so much. I'm very pleased with how they're turning out and they'll be a few more little snippets of their lives coming up. But for today, I am pleased to present one of my fave chapters so far :) Please review if you enjoy!

Also, a small warning, there is a mention of suicide in this chapter regarding a non-central character.

October 26th, 1999 - Tuesday Evening

Draco arrives outside of Java Corner at exactly 5 PM to find Hermione Granger already standing there.

She's wearing a black dress that hangs to the knee, with long lacy sleeves and pink flowers. Draco realizes the only other time he's ever seen her wear a dress was at the Yule Ball in the fourth year. Her hair is free around her shoulders, curls somewhat tamed, and she has makeup on. He's suddenly glad he wore his best dress shirt.

"Granger," he greets, and he watches her gaze find him. She smiles, which takes him by surprise. He doesn't think she's ever smiled at the sight of him before.

"Malfoy," she replies.

They stare at each other for a moment, awkwardness settling in between them. Distantly, he realizes he should probably comment on her outfit; tell her she looks nice, or that he's looking forward to the evening. Whether or not it's true, it still grates on him to say the words — at every passing moment he expects Hermione Granger to turn on him.

Her smile falls slowly, and he knows he's missed the window when she's once again looking at him the way one would a feral dog. Caution, hope, terror — an arm half outstretched, whether to shield or pet.

"Shall we go?" he finally says.

She squares her shoulders, but instead of nodding, she blurts, "I was sorry to hear about Tracey."

Draco can feel every muscle in his body tense infinitesimally — he had almost forgotten he had sent her the letter. The letter only one night prior, so full of information and hope and secrets. He had sent it before he could think twice — and now here he was, his sworn enemy turned soon-to-be wife armed with ammunition.

He recalls how he had greeted her: Dear Miss Granger.

Dear.

"She hung herself," he says. His tone is biting — it's not Granger's fault, but he spits the words at her as though she was the one who tied the noose.

She goes pale, "Tracey… killed herself?"

"Do you blame her?" He sneers, "they matched her with Marcus Flint."

Granger's brown eyes furrow and Draco watches as her overly large brain goes into overdrive.

"I… don't understand," she finally admits, "I thought… I thought Tracey and Marcus were friends in school. They were both in Slytherin together."

Draco wants to shake her. It's a familiar feeling; how many times in their childhood had he wanted to strangle her just to silence his father's voice in his head?

His father is silent, now, though. Forever.

"Tracey's mum was a muggle." Draco snaps.

Granger stills, her brain coming to a halt. Draco watches her put the pieces together; the way he had said was. She knows better than most which wizarding families were involved with the Dark Lord, and they both know Marcus Flint walks free only because he never received a brand to his arm.

Not for a lack of wanting, though.

"She was scared," Hermione murmurs, "why didn't she just… run?"

Draco lifts a careless shoulder, "Marcus wasn't the only reason. She'd tried to off herself only six months before."

Hermione stares at him, mouth a grim line cutting through her expression. Her brown eyes are pure fury and despair, and Draco finally, finally thinks they have something in common.

"This fucking war."

He jumps at her words, the sheer surprise at hearing a curse come from Hermione Granger's mouth rendering him speechless. He likes the way she puts the war in the present tense. Despite ending over a year ago, Draco knows it's not over. Might never be over for him. He supposes Hermione Granger might understand the sentiment. He watches her jaw clench and her hands ball into fists, and for the first time, he notices her legs are trembling.

Crucio — his own thoughts mock him.

"Let's walk," he says, extending his arm to offer his elbow.

Her shaking stops and she stares at his arm the way one would a snake — yet still, she takes it. Looping her arm around his and pressing herself closer as he takes the first step towards the restaurant.

Draco thinks about that — the fact that Hermione Granger is pressed close to him, hanging on his arm. He wonders what his younger self would have said. Reacted with disgust and hatred, probably. Still, Draco may be a liar, but he's honest to himself in his own mind. He may have been taught to hate what Granger was, but he could never quite shake her, not even as children. She'd always intrigued him; the muggle-born who beat him in every subject for years. Well-loved by all, the brightest witch of her age, muggle-born; a complete paradox. He knows what word he would have once called her, and the silent thought burns his tongue.

He can't see her scars through the lace of her sleeve, but he knows they're there all the same. Watched his own aunt carve the letters into her skin in front of his eyes. He need not see them to read the word — it mocks him in his nightmares.

"I brought you that book," he says, throat dry, "Scamander's one."

He watches her light up from beside him. "Oh, thank you! I was really looking forward to reading it."

He realizes she's wearing the bracelet he gave her, still clasped on the wrist where he had put it. The sight of it against her skin eases something in his chest he didn't know was there.

The Italian restaurant he'd chosen is nothing fancy, but he holds the door open when they arrive. The hostess asks if they have a reservation, and he issues his name without hesitation. Malfoy. How he used to pride himself on it.

They follow her back to a booth tucked into a corner. It's lovely, with colourful paper menus and a flickering fake candle. Hermione slides into the booth easily, resting her elbows gently on the tabletop. Draco smirks at the movement, thinking for a moment how horrified his mother would be at the sight of her elbows sitting where the food would go.

Granger sniffs and removes her arms, tucking them tightly against her abdomen, and Draco lifts his eyes to find her watching him, hurt dwelling in her eyes. He's offended her — and he hadn't even opened his bloody mouth.

He knew he should have brought flowers, but at the time it had felt so conniving. So fake, to present his once sworn enemy with flowers. He didn't even know her favourite kind.

They sit in stony silence while Draco casts about aimlessly for topics. He has a thousand things he'd like to say to her; ideas for conversation that he'd been brewing for the past few days. Now he is a blank slate — watching her watch him.

Granger, however, is not tongue-tied. "I hated the book."

"What?" He flounders.

"Centaur society and their lives were described absolutely atrociously," she continues, as though he hadn't even asked a question, "and it was completely incorrectly! And to think — the wizarding world thinks this is good and accurate information!"

Draco finds his footing and admits, "I know very little about Centaurs."

"Well, you can forget anything that book taught you," she proclaims, "I've never read such rubbish in my life. You must read 'Hooves and Hands' next — Firenze's cousin wrote it, and it's a delight. I'll loan you my copy."

"Firenze?" Draco rubs his chin, "wasn't that… the Divination professor?"

Hermione nods. "Yes, and although he's a bit… well, he's a pretentious ass if we're honest, but his cousin is an excellent writer."

Draco finds himself on the verge of laughter at her words and restrains himself. "I've never heard you curse so much."

Granger stares at him, eyes narrowed. "Did you expect me to be a proper lady?"

"No," he tells her quickly, "I didn't. I just also expected you to be the same as you were in fourth year. You know, the golden girl of Gryffindor who never gets in trouble."

Granger laughs as though he's said something hilarious, and Draco watches as she lifts the hand with her new bracelet on it to wipe at her eyes. He can't think of what is so funny, but she's not laughing at him, so he lets her be.

"Never gets in trouble," she chuckles, "I admit, I was a bit of a teacher's pet, but come on Malfoy, I was constantly breaking every school rule they ever had!"

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Name one."

"How about when I purposefully brewed Polyjuice potion in the second year? Illegally, I might add. Or perhaps when I snuck out of Hogwarts at every opportunity? Or perhaps when I purposefully created a secret group whose entire purpose was to learn magic we weren't supposed to?"

Draco sighs, "I should have known you were the one behind that."

"Yes," she agrees simply, "you probably should have."

He stares her down, watching her arms tight across her stomach. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Scamander book he had brought for her. He plunks his elbows on the table in solidarity and slides it across the wood of the table. Hermione reaches forward hesitantly, letting her body relax for the first time since she sat in the booth.

"Thank you," she murmurs, "I've been looking forward to reading this. Luna met him this summer, you know? Oh! I forgot to tell you — Luna owled me today."

"What for?"

Hermione smiles, and it's a genuinely sweet smile that Draco has never seen before from her, except maybe years ago, watching the Gryffindor table from the Slytherin side. "She sent me this beautiful letter and some lilies. They're my favourite. Anyway, she mentioned that Theo is nice."

"Told you," he mutters.

She rolls her eyes at his words, but her smile doesn't budge. "I was thinking… well, I was thinking maybe we could meet up with them one night. Like… a date. I guess."

"Are you asking me out, Granger?" Draco can feel the smirk on his face, and he knows she hates when he does that, but he can't quite make his expression go flat.

She frowns, "I'm marrying you."

Draco chokes on the water he'd been sipping, shock coursing through him. He should have known; should have remembered how brave she was. Hermione Granger said whatever she damn well pleased, and Draco both envies and hates her for the ability.

She doesn't let him reply, she just plows on. "I mean… I am, aren't I? That's what this means?" She shakes the bracelet at him, "that we're engaged, right?"

The server arrives to take their orders and spares him from answering. He's hardly looked at the menu, so he orders the first thing he sees that has seafood, and Hermione asks for ravioli.

When they are once again left alone, the silence is nearly unbearable with the weight of her question, and Draco draws his spine tall and channels every ounce of manners and diplomacy his mother had instilled in him.

"Yes," he agrees, "that is what that means. I just… never expected you to be so blunt."

Her eyes are warm in the glow of the odd, fake candle. "You should get used to that, perhaps."

"I suppose if I'm to marry a Gryffindor, I will."

She smiles down at the table where the book he had brought her is sitting. He's never joked with her before. He can't even remember the last woman he joked with. Perhaps Pansy, in the fourth year. Now, Hermione Granger, smiling at an old book across the table from him.

Draco wonders if she's trying to make the best of an absolutely impossible situation. He wonders if she still hates him, if he's still the worst thing that's ever happened to her. If she replays his cruel words from school in her head on repeat the way he does; if she's haunted by his actions in the war.

Suddenly, he needs to know. "Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

He sighs, "I'm not an idiot, Granger. I know you don't want the WPG to succeed. I don't blame you. Aren't you trying to fix it?"

Her small hand reaches towards her water glass, and he waits impatiently as she takes a long drink. The condensation runs down the side and makes a ring on their table, and they both watch it happen as though it may contain all the secrets of the universe.

"I am," she finally allows. "I do plan on trying to take down the Wizarding Population Growth Act."

"So why?" He asks, "why even bother pretending we're going to be married?"

Her scowl sets in, expression dark. "Because I'm not an idiot either, Malfoy. I can't fix this in thirty — no, twenty-six — days. It could take me months. It could take…"

"Years," he finishes for her.

The word hangs over them. He's right, and they both know it.

"The Ministry won't allow their law to be overturned so easily," Draco says, "and in five years when the birth rates inevitably rise, they'll abolish the WPG Act themselves. Get all the glory for freeing us."

Hermione nods, and Draco watches as her right-hand shakes on the table. It's slight, but it's there. He's used to looking for the signs; he had watched his mother's long, pale fingers as they had trembled. Watched as she pressed them against her thighs to stop the shaking. He wonders briefly if Granger knows why it's happening, then decides she must, since she's never been able to leave a question unanswered, even when they were children.

"I have to find a loophole within the year," she announces, drawing him out of his thoughts.

He smirks, "I take it you don't want to have children, then."

Their conversation is once again interrupted when their meals arrive, and he gives her time to collect her thoughts. The pasta is delicious, and he savours it.

"It's not just that," she finally whispers, spinning her fork aimlessly in her bowl. "It's that… it's that there's going to be a lot of marriages that are…"

"Like ours?" His words are acerbic, and he wishes he could claw them back into his mouth.

Instead of tensing for battle, Hermione's shoulders sag. "No. Worse. At least we're talking. At least I don't think you're going to murder me in my sleep. Tracey… she didn't even get this. She's not the only one."

Draco sets his fork down, meal suddenly unappetizing.

"A muggle-born girl… Terry Boudreau or something? Went to Beauxbatons. Anyway, she got paired with Dolohov's nephew." Draco offers quietly.

Hermione flinches when he says Dolohov's name, and Draco narrows his eyes at the movement.

"Is he… is he like…" She can't even finish the sentence. A still-healing wound.

"He wasn't a Death Eater," Draco answers, "but he believes the same things. He was in America for the war."

Granger wraps her arms around herself again, her food is nearly untouched. Draco wonders if he shouldn't share these things with her, if he should discourage her from taking on the Ministry. If he's supposed to shield her from this. Isn't that what a husband should do? Isn't that what a good man would do?

Merlin, how he misses his mother. She would have known.

"I know you said he wouldn't help but have you already tried talking to Kingsley?" Draco asks, swallowing hard.

Hermione glances up, brown eyes looking hunted. "He won't help me. Or he can't. Either way, he's a dead end."

"He's the Minister." Draco practically snarls, and he watches as she shrinks back. Her hands fist into her ribcage tightly.

He sucks in a breath and forces his temper down. "Sorry. Eat your food."

Granger's mouth falls open at his apology, and the urge to attack at her surprise is strong. Before he can, she closes her mouth with an audible snap and uncoils her body, reaching for her fork.

She takes three bites in heavy silence, and Draco follows her lead. All the words they're not saying hang above them; a guillotine awaiting.

Hermione grabs her water glass and takes a long sip, then sets it down with an audible thunk.

"It's because I already called in my favour," she whispers to him, as though sharing a secret.

Draco can feel himself frowning and fights to pull his expression back to neutral, fighting for any composure.

"What do you mean, Granger?"

Her chin lifts, and Draco watches as she shakes off every moment of insecurity that had plagued her over her dinner. She stares him down, unafraid, and he's somehow flooded with an unfamiliar pride.

Brave Gryffindor.

"When the WPG was first announced, I went to Kingsley."

Draco isn't stupid. Although he wants to accuse her of trying to change her name, something about it doesn't sit right with him. It takes a moment before he realizes what it is, and when he does, he's furious.

"Granger," he spits, "tell me you did not sacrifice yourself for fucking Potter, again."

Her eyes flicker in surprise, "How… how did you know that?"

"It's so bloody you," Draco scowls, "I don't know why I'm surprised. You're the reason Potter got his beloved She-Weasel when every other Gryffindor got matched with other houses. Potter is the reason you got stuck with me."

"Well, I'm sorry you got stuck with a mudblood, Malfoy." Granger hisses her words through her bared teeth, and Draco can feel himself rear backwards as though she's struck him.

He learned long ago that he had no interest in fighting a losing war. There is nothing more to say. He presses the crisp hundred-dollar bills flat against the tabletop and stands slowly, weariness seeping down to his bones. Regret passes over Granger's face, but he doesn't give her the chance to speak.

Draco doesn't raise his voice, just stares straight into her brown eyes. "I did not say that. Do not put words in my mouth, Granger."

"Malfoy, don't—"

"Owl me when it's time to get married." He interrupts her, not looking back as he strides away from the table.