A/N: Thank you all for your reviews :) I hope you enjoy this chapter!

October 29th, 1999 - Friday

The fire roars across from her, a comforting crackling echoing through the living room every few minutes. It's a sound Hermione had enjoyed so long ago; safe in Gryffindor common room, wrapped up in homework and friends.

Now, her quill races across her parchment, writing notes about every pairing of the WPG she has heard of so far. The list is long, and there are absolutely no common denominators that she can see.

Draco and Ron had been correct in a way; the majority or pairings were between different houses. They matched very few couples within their own house. It seemed limited to George and Parvati, Harry and Ginny, and Tracey Davis with Marcus Flint.

She needs more information.

Hermione toys with the bracelet around her wrist, thoughts whirling as she does so. Malfoy has been silent; her windowsill empty of Taffy for the past two days.

Not only does she want a chance to apologize for being rude at dinner, but Hermione is also not above using Malfoy's connections for better information. The Malfoy library is vast, and it contains countless pureblood marriage contract books.

She needs to take down the WPG. Hermione feels it like a brand in her stomach — she can't sit by and watch the Ministry force wizards and witches alike into a glorified breeding program. It's hardly better than what Voldemort had wanted.

Her quill nearly creaks under the fist she's making. She's so fucking sick of fighting to be free, and every moment she thinks it's over, she's shackled again. Her magic quakes dangerously inside of her, and with every passing hour of each day, Hermione feels more like a volcano about to erupt.

Kingsley has been absent from the Ministry all week. Hermione is positive he's floo-ing straight into his office, but she hasn't seen him nor heard anything from him since the night she appeared on his lawn.

It's no surprise; half the wizarding populace feels betrayed by him (herself included), and half seem thrilled he finally took action. Something had to be done, apparently — businesses were failing, citizens were fleeing, birth rates dropping…

Hermione drops her quill and fists her hands into her stomach. It's an unpleasant habit she's picked up, pressing shaking fingers into her ribs. It serves a dual purpose since it calms her racing heartbeat and reminds her to take a breath.

Forcing herself to be logical — she's good at this. It's how she survives.

She has exactly 23 days before she must marry Draco Malfoy. She has exactly 359 days before she must conceive and be pregnant.

Hermione wonders if Draco sits in his house and calculates days and hours and minutes the way she does. It's not even something new; she picked up the habit before the war. 545 days since Voldemort died. 837 days since her parents knew her name. 2 days and 17 hours since she put her foot in her mouth and offended her future husband by assuming that underneath his handsome facade, a prejudiced death eater still lingered.

Hermione lets her quill drop and pulls her feet towards herself, curling back into her armchair. She sighs heavily; how quickly she had thrown venomous words back at Draco, when he had been acting somewhat pleasant.

The way he had watched her — especially after she had criticized the war. It had felt like she was staring in a mirror.

She knows what she has to do. She's been avoiding it because she's not entirely sure if she's brave enough to actually go through with it. Which is ridiculous because she has literally ridden on the back of a feral dragon without batting an eye, all while running for her life by camping across most of Britain, and scheming to take down a murderous megalomaniac.

But…

She swore to herself she would never, never end up in Malfoy Manor again.

Hermione forces herself to stand. She walks woodenly to her small cupboard beside her fridge that holds her liquor, and takes a shot of muggle whiskey, straight from the bottle.

"Bloody fuck," she mutters. Liquid courage. She turns to her door and just starts walking.

The door slams behind her as she storms away from her cottage, and before she can think too hard about it, she fixates her mind on the imposing iron gates she still sees in her nightmares.

For the first time since she first learned to apparate she lands on her hands and knees, nausea rushing through her. It's less to do with her apparition skills than it is with the location, and she glances up to see the gates she had hoped never to see again.

In the setting sunlight, the curled iron posts look somehow less frightening, and Hermione gasps in a breath until she can clamber to her feet. She'll be damned if she has to be dragged inside again; she'll go on her own two legs or she'll die trying.

Hermione only makes it halfway down the endless driveway before a small house-elf appears in front of her. She's wearing a lovely purple dress and a large grey toque, and she stares up at Hermione with nearly luminescent blue eyes. Her ears are huge and crooked.

"Hello Mistress," she greets, "I am Juney."

"Hello Juney," Hermione replies, pleased to see that Juney looks well treated. "I was hoping to speak to Mr. Malfoy."

Juney's blue eyes grow wide, "Master Malfoy is not expecting guests. Juney will take Mistress to the parlour for tea and let him know you have arrived."

Juney reaches a tiny hand out immediately, and Hermione forces herself not to recoil. She can vaguely hear herself gasping, as though from far away. "Juney… the Parlour… is that the… can I go to a smaller room? Somewhere different?"

Juney stares at her, and something in her voice must give her away because the tiny house-elf's face softens. "Mistress, Juney can take you to the library."

Hermione nods, and Juney's hand snaps forward before she can change her mind, spinning them away.

The landing is smoother than her last apparition, and Hermione finds herself in a cozy library room, smaller than she had pictured in her head. It has an enormous desk under a window, and a warm fire blazing in the corner. Every inch of the room is painted in shades of green, with shelves of dark wood all over. It gives the overall impression that she has just stepped straight into a forest.

"This is Master Malfoy's personal library," Juney breathes, "Mistress can sit over there. Juney will bring tea."

The house-elf disappears, leaving her alone in Malfoy Manor. Hermione finds her way towards the small armchair by the fire and lets herself sink into it slowly. It's only then that she realizes she has her wand clenched so tightly in her hand that it's leaving indents in her palm and shooting pain up her arm.

Malfoy appears within what feels like seconds, with an expression that Hermione has never seen on his face before. He somehow looks as though he's seen a ghost; sallow and paler than ever.

"Granger?" He murmurs.

"Hi," Hermione waves half-heartedly, "I came to apologize."

If anything, he only looks more shocked. He approaches her slowly, stopping at the edge of his desk. He's got his hands spread out, palms facing up in supplication.

"Granger," his voice is low and cautious, "you didn't have to come here."

"Am I not welcome?" She snaps without thinking.

He flinches, but instead of running this time he just stares at her, and slowly she realizes she's done the exact same thing as the other night.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, "I can't seem to stop."

"Stop what?" He laughs. "Assuming the worst of me? Seems like that's all I've ever given you cause to do."

Hermione swallows, "Yes, well. I still want to apologize. I do forgive you for all the years of being a prat, and now I am trying to start over."

For the very first time since Hermione met Draco Malfoy at eleven years old, he looks vulnerable and sad. He drifts towards her slowly and crouches down in front of her, closer than he's ever come. She's looking down into his eyes; something she's never done before.

"Granger," he murmurs, "we can't start over."

She flinches, "What? But I thought—"

"Granger, you're shaking."

Hermione scowls, "So what?"

"So," Draco explains, voice still unnervingly gentle, "you are obviously terrified to be here. I don't blame you. You're wearing your pyjamas, Granger. You don't even have that little beaded bag you bring everywhere. Did you apparate here without thinking?"

Hermione shuts her eyes so she doesn't have to stare at him. He sees everything.

"I had to apologize." Her reason sounds more like an excuse with every passing moment.

Draco nods, "I accept your apology."

"Then why can't we start over?" Even to her own ears, she sounds like she's begging. She wonders what Malfoy thinks of her, wearing her favourite pyjamas covered in tabby cats and trembling. She's hardly the picture of a brave Gryffindor. Hardly a war hero.

"Hermione, this war… we can't just start over. We are the people the war made us to be. We can only go on from here."

She opens her eyes to meet his. It's the first time she's ever, ever heard him say her first name. She likes how it sounds on his lips; a benediction hanging between them. She didn't even know Draco Malfoy could sound so gentle.

They are interrupted by a quiet crack to announce Juney's arrival. The house-elf sets a tray of tea and cups on the desk, complete with a small plate of cookies.

"Thank you, Juney," Hermione whispers. There's so little air inside the room.

Juney smiles at her, "Mistress is most welcome."

"Juney," Draco suddenly says, "if Miss Granger appears here again, you can bring her straight into my library. She's welcome."

Juney's wide blue eyes turn towards Hermione as if assessing her. She bows again and then disappears.

"You didn't thank her," Hermione says.

"What?"

"For the tea. You didn't thank her."

Malfoy huffs out a breath of air. "She's a house-elf, Granger. She doesn't need me to thank her."

Hermione frowns at his words. "It's still nice."

A smile spreads across Draco's face, and for a moment she thinks he might laugh at her, but he only stands up and moves to pour a cup of tea. He pours two cups and adds milk and one sugar to one of them, bringing it back to her.

"You should know by now, Granger. I'm not nice."

Hermione sniffs. "I don't believe you're as heartless as you say, Draco Malfoy. How do you know how I take my tea?"

Draco freezes for the smallest moment, then immediately summons a chair to sit beside her and plops down. "Granger, you're hardly the first person in the world to like milk and sugar in tea."

She scowls, but she lets it go. She sips at the cup of tea slowly, savouring the warmth and comfort. It seems ludicrous; less than an hour ago she imagined returning to Malfoy Manor and had barely been able to string a sentence together, and now she is comfortably enjoying a cup of tea inside.

"I didn't… I didn't want Juney to take me to the parlour." Hermione confesses.

Draco's eyes find hers, flickering silver in the firelight. "You could have gone to the parlour. It's quite nice… near the front of the house, with lots of couches."

"I was afraid… I was afraid that it was—" she can't even get the words out before Malfoy is interrupting her.

"It's not," he bites out. "That room… it doesn't exist anymore. After… well, we closed off parts of the Manor. Renovated everything else."

"You and your mother?" Hermione asks.

Draco's lips go pinched, but he answers her with a slow nod.

"I was very sorry for your loss," Hermione murmurs. It's true, even if there was no love lost between her and the Malfoy matriarch.

Draco sips his tea slowly, ignoring her for a moment. Silence reigns other than the crackling of the fire. Hermione wonders if she made a mistake bringing up Narcissa Malfoy.

"Thank you." He finally says. "I am afraid our wedding might be a bit on the small side though. I'm not very popular, you know?"

He says it deprecatingly, but Hermione learned to read between the lines in her second year at Hogwarts. He has no family to speak of, and the vast majority of the wizarding world despises the name Malfoy on principal alone.

"That's better for me," Hermione says softly, "as long as you let Ron and Harry come."

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but a small smile plays at his lips. "I suspect I'd never hear the end of it from you if half of Gryffindor wasn't able to attend."

His words startle a laugh out of her, and it seems to relieve Malfoy. He summons a chair to sit beside her, and does so quietly, watching her as she tries to reign in her chuckles. Tries to regulate her breathing, which has somehow gone a little sporadic.

"So we're still on, then?" He asks, finally.

Hermione nods solemnly, "I suppose we are."

Malfoy smirks and raises his teacup in a mock toast. "To the future Lady Malfoy. When shall the date be?"

Her breath catches at the words 'Lady Malfoy'. It's the first time she's ever realized she will be part of the Malfoy family. She's never even considered being anything other than Granger. Muggles often keep their last names, though it's not a practice the wizarding world has ever adopted. She supposes she could be one of the first… stay Hermione Granger forever.

Though Granger means nothing to her any longer. She is the last one — the final Granger. There is nothing to tie her to her surname.

Draco seems to hear her thoughts, "Granger… you don't have to be Lady Malfoy."

Hermione watches him, watches how it pains him to make this concession. He knows his name is tarnished; that no sane person would tie themselves to it. For a moment, one hysterical moment, she feels victorious. Now he must know how it feels for his name to be dirty.

She reigns her thoughts in; terror floats amongst her veins. How vicious her thoughts can turn in an instant. How bloodthirsty she has become.

Perhaps the name Malfoy suits her.

"Lady Malfoy is fine," she breathes, "the name is irrelevant, the person is what is important."

Draco says nothing, so Hermione summons her strength.

"I know who I am." She tells him, firm and proud.

Still, he watches, silver eyes taking in every atom of her being. She wonders if he can tell she's lying. If he knows just by staring at her fingers and her eyes and her stupid cat pyjamas that she's lost. That she's been lost for 932 days.

"As do I, Granger."

They stare at each other. Hermione wants to pick apart his statement; does he think he knows her?

Her teacup is empty and rattling a bit in its saucer, and though the library is warm and welcoming, she is suddenly hyper-aware that she is in Malfoy Manor. Draco must watch the emotions flicker over her face because he reaches out and takes her teacup from her gently.

"I want to go home, now," Hermione tells him; breathless and near-begging.

He stands and gently reaches for her hands, twining his long fingers around them. Her hands are clammy and she's almost embarrassed, but he pulls her up to standing before she can yank away from his grip.

"I don't know where you live, Granger. Can you apparate yourself safely?"

She closes her eyes; she's liable to splinch herself, but she's also not willing to share her cottage yet. Maybe not ever.

"Can… can you take me to the coffee shop?"

He doesn't question why she would want to go there; he doesn't even bring up the fact that it may not even be open and she's still in her pyjamas. Draco Malfoy, the childhood bully, and pureblooded Death Eater who had haunted her nightmares for years, gently lets his hands wrap around her elbows, drawing her close to him. He apparates easily, and they land in the alleyway that is becoming more familiar by the day, the smell of coffee permeating the air.

He steadies her and then lets her go, backing up a step.

Hermione breathes deeply and opens her eyes to see him watching her. His face is impassive; oh, but she is seeing him now, and there is a hint of worry.

"You can't come to my house." It's an apology and a threat, all rolled into one.

Draco says, "that's fine. We can meet at coffee shops and restaurants."

"Or your house." Hermione stiffens her spine and stands up straight, annoyed that she still only reaches his collarbone at her full height.

"Granger," Malfoy sighs, "I don't think you should come to my house."

Hermione scowls darkly, "I'm not some wilting damsel, Malfoy. I realize I didn't exactly think tonight through, but I'll be fine in future. Now I know what to expect."

"Granger," he snaps, "it's not because I think you're weak, or that you're not welcome."

"So what is it then? Why am I being banned from your Manor, if I'm to be your wife?" She spits the words like poisoned daggers.

Malfoy runs a hand through his white-blonde hair. "I was there, Granger. My house is toxic — it's bad for you. You don't have to go there. You never have to go there, not if you don't want to."

She sags briefly. Hermione realizes she's fighting with Malfoy for no reason. She hates Malfoy Manor. He's offering her an out, and she's arguing.

"Sorry," — she waves a hand through the air, exhausted at the idea of another fucking apology to Draco Malfoy — "I don't want to go there. You're right. I don't want to argue. What about when we're married?"

Malfoy steps towards her, still farther than he had been in the comfort of his own library. "Let's worry about it later. We'll live somewhere else. Your place, maybe. But for now, you need to go home. Do you think you can make it?"

Hermione summons her strength to nod. She waves goodbye half-heartedly, not even uttering another word before she disappears.

The last thing she sees is Draco Malfoy frowning, one hand slightly outstretched as if to grab her.