A/N: Thank you SO much for your reviews. I know everyone is excited about more Hermione/Draco interaction, so I hope this chapter delivers!
Warning: Please heed the tags on this story in chapter 1. Note that at no point will I explicitly write dub or non-con scenes, though the theme exists within the story.
November 11th, 1999 - Thursday
Hermione Granger has two pens stuck through the bun piled on top of her head, editing furiously through Donna's ridiculous Selkie proposal. She's half a mind to send Donna a howler over her thoughtless write-up and suggestions. The woman has been irritating all week — staring at her as though she's going to crucio her at any turn, simply because she's acquainted with Theo and Draco.
The only saving grace is that despite Donna being infamous as the office gossip, and nearly obsessed with Hermione's unexpected appearance in the department during Theo and Luna's wedding, she had been largely silenced after the Prophet had covered the wedding in an article a few days prior.
The Daily Prophet, for once in her life, had done Hermione Granger a favour. Her coworkers accepted the paper's statement that Hermione had been there for Luna's support, and Draco for Theo's. As far as the Prophet was concerned, Draco and Hermione were nothing more than schoolyard rivals, which suited her fine. Though many coworkers had brought up the WPG, Hermione has continually navigated the conversation away from herself at every turn.
She knows they're curious — the entire bloody world is curious. The Prophet headline today had been splashed across the entire page: "The Golden Trio: Matches & Marriages" with an image of Ron and Hannah walking through the Ministry together, Ron's hand splayed out as if to ward off the camera. Neither of them were smiling.
The article, written by none other than Rita Skeeter, had stated that Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived, had married Hogwarts sweetheart Ginny Weasley. The entire paragraph had been sickly sweet and hopeful, touting the WPG as the 'key that brought them together'; as if they hadn't already been dating.
Ron is not so lucky — the Daily Prophet has written that Ronald Weasley matched with Hannah Abbott. It details the entirety of her and Neville Longbottom's relationship, and has the audacity to state that 'with Weasley stealing Longbottom's girl, this might spell the end of a long friendship'.
Hermione's own section in the article is — thankfully — sparse. It says that her match remains a secret, and though the 'wizarding world waits with bated breath to find out who the war heroine will marry' there are no clues it could be Draco Malfoy.
Still, the ending line in the article burns her even though she knows it is untrue. It's a lie — one that Skeeter wrote to get under her skin.
'With Hermione Granger's long-time sweetheart Ron Weasley married to Hannah Abbott, we must ask ourselves: how far will the golden girl go for revenge?'
Skeeter has set her up to portray the hysterical woman — and worse than that, she has undermined Hermione's efforts to destroy the WPG with one fell sentence.
Her quill snaps in her fingers and Hermione glances up. It's the third quill today she's broken, and she has to cast a quick charm over the Selkie proposal before the red ink destroys it.
"Reparo," Hermione mutters, just as a knock sounds on her door.
It's Douglas, the head of accounting in their department, and he's holding a vase of flowers.
"Douglas, come in," Hermione invites, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk.
"Oh, don't worry, Miss. Granger, I'm not staying. Just here to drop these off — a delivery person accidentally brought them to me, so I said I could swing them over to you."
He places the vase on her desk, and Hermione stares at the artful arrangement. It's lilies detailed with baby's breath and absolutely stunning.
"Did they mention who they're from?" Hermione asks.
Douglas shrugs, "No, sorry."
"Oh, must be from Harry then. Thank you!" Hermione is under absolutely no illusions that Harry Potter sent her this bouquet, but better to plant that thought now.
Douglas nods and heads out, closing the door behind his portly figure. He's a kind man, and not prone to gossip. Hermione's glad the flowers went to him instead of Donna, who likely would have somehow spun it that a Death Eater sent them to her.
Which — to be fair — is not that far from the truth.
Hermione finds the small scroll wrapped almost under the flowers, nearly hidden. It comes away with a gentle tug, and Hermione unrolls it swiftly.
"Granger,
You mentioned lilies were your favourite. I hope you like French food — I thought perhaps something other than Italian tonight. You must share everything from your friends' visit yesterday. I'm especially intrigued about P&N since normally she would owl me news of that sort. We're… friends.
Anyway, I hope you like the flowers. Figured you may need cheering up; I heard that your 'long time sweetheart' married some other girl.
Relax — I'm joking.
See you tonight at the cottage. I'll be there at 6.'
It's the first letter Draco's ever sent her without signing who it's from. She knows it's just caution on his end. Anyone could intercept the flowers and know who he was, even from initials. His writing is almost as familiar to her as her own by this point, though, and Hermione stares at the bouquet, letter in hand.
The flowers are beautiful, but even more surprising, they're thoughtful. He remembered her favourite kind, and he'd even read her letter that Ron had deemed an 'essay' the night before.
Another knock at her door makes her flinch, and she barely chokes out: "Come in!"
Harry's face appears, and Hermione grins at him. He rarely drops by her office, though she had assumed since the Prophet had featured them he might today.
"Hey," he plops into the seat in front of her desk, taking in the bouquet. "Nice flowers."
"Thanks. Did you know lilies are my favourite?"
Harry shakes his head, "No. They're pretty, though."
Hermione sighs at Harry's cluelessness — ten years of friendship and she worries sometimes that he has no idea who she is.
Though she also remembers fighting beside him, countering his every weak point with her own hexes, and he doing the same for her. She remembers fitting into his arms and sobbing as though the world ended, and how after Malfoy Manor the only time she felt safe was when she was stuffed between him and Ron, sandwiched between two anchors.
Flowers do not a friendship make.
"You read the Prophet?" Hermione asks, pulling her wand out to cast a quick muffliato at the door.
Harry scoffs, "Yes, though it's rubbish."
"Of course it is," Hermione sniffs. "Still, it doesn't help our cause. I'll just look like some heartbroken witch scheming to get back her man if I do anything against the WPG now."
"Yes," Harry says intently, "which is precisely why I want you to pretend to be happy with Malfoy."
Hermione nearly chokes. "What?!"
"I'm serious, Hermione."
"You what — you want us to fake a happy marriage? Won't it look bad when I'm constantly trying to dismantle the WPG if I'm supposedly happy?"
Harry nods, "I thought of that, but do you think Malfoy would help you? If you two were a united force, and Ron and I backed you, imagine how much power we'd have against the WPG?"
"He's already going to help," Hermione admits grudgingly.
As far as plans go, it's surprisingly not Harry Potter's worst. It's a little known fact that Harry Potter is not the planner of the group — he gets by on mostly pure luck and wicked reflexes.
"What did the Wizengamot say when you sent them your request for a hearing?" Harry asks.
Hermione rolls her eyes and summons a parchment, sending it careening into Harry's face. He snatches it without flinching; office memos are the new snitches in his life.
"To Miss Hermione Granger," Harry reads darkly, "At this time the Wizengamot is completely booked for hearings until after the holiday season. I have tentatively booked you into an appointment on January 6th."
Hermione sniffs, "I thought about putting up a stink, but then I read Skeeter's stupid article."
Harry balls up the reply and tosses it towards the waste bin. Hermione frowns, knowing she'll have to dig it out of there later, but lets it go for now.
"Keep that appointment," Harry growls, "it gives us more time to research."
"That's almost two months away!" Hermione protests.
Harry shrugs, "It doesn't matter. We have nothing on them — we're just looking for their reactions. I'll start digging deeper into who is on the Wizengamot, and you keep doing what you're doing."
Hermione rolls her eyes — Harry has been instructing her to 'do what she's doing' since second year when it finally occurred to him that she was generally on the right track.
"Do me a favour," she says, "look into Ernest Hawkworth."
"The Chief Warlock?"
"Yes. His name was on the letter when they sent us our matches. And Babajide Akingbade might be worth a look, though he doesn't live in Britain, so I don't know if he'll be useful."
Harry shrugs, "I'll look into them. I know very little about Hawkworth, except that he's been on the Wizengamot for a long time and took over Chief Warlock after… after Dumbledore."
Hermione sighs, "That's what I figured, but it can't hurt. Anyway, you better get back to work — I know for a fact your lunch hour was over ten minutes ago."
Harry scoffs, "If Kingsley can hide away and never show his face, why can't I?"
Still, he dutifully stands and sends her a grin.
"Bye Harry," Hermione calls, and he shuts the door behind him.
For the next hour, she stares at the Selkie proposal and gets nowhere, so instead, she lists all the matches from the WPG she knows on parchment the way she's done a hundred times by now. There's still nothing that she can see that she's missed before.
Charlie is with Astoria; she can think of nothing to do with Dragons that might've inspired that match, and it is curious that Daphne is with Percy, pairing both Greengrass daughters with Weasleys. George and Parvati are both from Gryffindor house, which does seem to be rare within the pairings, but other than that Hermione can't see any other link. Ron is with Hannah, which is unexplainable; Harry is with Ginny, a match that Hermione had manipulated through Kingsley. Dean Thomas and Katie Bell have Quidditch in common, and Neville and Pansy have the potions connection, which fits into her business advantage theory.
She writes down Theo and Luna's name beside each other, then her own and Draco's, and finally, Marcus Flint and Tracey Davis. Her heart sinks.
As Hermione stares at her list she suddenly wonders if Ron's idea about them setting Marcus Flint up to kill Tracey Davis was true. She wonders if they matched her to Malfoy for the same reason. Did they think he was going to kill her? That they could then arrest him; ridding them of the Death Eaters that escaped Azkaban? Would it be the same for Theo?
She glances at the flowers on her desk, and the letter Malfoy sent her sitting beside them.
Hermione forces herself to breathe, forces herself to be logical. Draco Malfoy — admittedly a prat and a bully as a child, and then an unwilling Death Eater during the war — will not murder her. She knows this.
From the very first letter he had sent her before the WPG was even a thought, he has done nothing but attempt to distance himself from the villain he had been. He has acquiesced to every request she has made; from a muggle wedding to living in her cottage after their marriage. He has told her she looked nice, and given her a bracelet that is priceless, and perhaps most importantly, he has called her nothing but Granger or Hermione this entire time.
If the Wizengamot was planning some sort of elaborate murder of Hermione Granger by an ex-Death Eater, Draco will not give them that satisfaction.
She goes pale —
Stares down at the bracelet on her wrist, the twinkling azure jewels set in goblin-wrought silver. She hasn't taken it off except to shower since he had given it to her.
She pictures him; their very first meeting at the Java Corner, nerves playing across his aristocratic face: "it's customary in my family to enter any engagement with a gift," he had told her.
Hermione Granger knows that if the Wizengamot wants her dead and Draco arrested, they will set him up. They will murder her themselves and frame him for it.
What she is not sure about is whether Draco has realized this already and is holding out on her; why else would he give her a bracelet that could supposedly call him to her side in an instant? Sneaky bloody Slytherin.
Her bag is in her hand before she can think, and she throws everything inside. The letter Harry had thrown away flies to her fingers. A quick incendio reduces the scribbled words and matches she had written on the parchment to ash, and Hermione scrambles to toss her coat on before heading out of her office. She doesn't speak to anyone on the way out, striding with purpose to the Ministry Floo where she escapes to Diagon Alley.
She apparates to her cottage, rushing to feel her wards surround her. Safe — she is safe.
Work can wait — she may be home three hours earlier than usual, but no one will question the disappearance of a notable workaholic. They probably would think she's attending an out of office work meeting.
Instead, Hermione throws her coat on her hook and heads to her enchanted trunk, clambering down the stairs. She's finally got a small desk and chair inside the magically enlarged space, and taking up half of the wall there is a bulletin board filled with pins and notes.
Today, she adds three more pins — one to Marcus Flint, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott. The note she tacks to them states: 'Ministry set up to purge remaining Death Eaters?'.
Godric; she hopes she's wrong.
Tentatively, she's become almost fond of Theo. When he had accompanied Luna to the Leaky Cauldron to meet her, Ron, and Harry, he had been polite. Perhaps a little quiet, but friendly, and he had stared at Luna as though she was the only sunshine in his entire world. A part of Hermione had been jealous.
She sits in front of her board and studies it mercilessly. Tracey Davis is dead; but she killed herself, Malfoy had told her that. So far, there has been no move to frame Flint for it; though Hermione doesn't doubt the Ministry is still capable of it. Harry will know first — he'll let her know if the Ministry sends the Aurors for Flint.
Thinking of Harry reminds her of his idea.
Pretending — being happy as Draco Malfoy's wife.
She knows what Malfoy has told her: the public will hate her for getting along with him. They will vilify her for her betrayal; in their eyes, to care for a Malfoy is to support Voldemort's ideals. However, her support would also vastly improve his reputation.
For a heartbreaking moment, Hermione wonders if that is the reason Draco has been so tolerant so far. She dismisses the thought a moment later when she recalls how he had apologized before the WPG had come out. She's so bloody grateful he had the courage to write to her and say sorry. What a difference it has made in her opinion of him.
She sighs and plunks her head into her hands, her curly hair falling out of her bun and brushing her fingers. Her decision is already made, and she knows it.
Hermione Granger does the right thing.
It's practically a part of her; a trait stamped into her very genetics. She cannot abide standing by and watching others suffer when she could have done something. It was the whole idea behind S.P.E.W, the inspiration for her current career in the Ministry, and how she could withstand Bellatrix's torture all while giving away no information.
Pretending to be happy in a marriage with Draco Malfoy will protect him; give the public a reason to change their opinion of him while still allowing her to protest the WPG on the behalf of others.
It's hardly the most difficult thing she has ever done.
She drags herself to her feet and marches back into the upstairs, emerging from her trunk and shutting it tightly. She spends almost an entire hour in the bathtub, soaking in bubbles and pretending that the outside world doesn't exist. It's a habit she's indulged in since the war ended. The first bath she had taken after the Battle of Hogwarts had felt as though she had been reborn.
Her ribs ache when she gets out of the tub, and she takes a pain potion. The healers at St. Mungo's had informed her that extensive exposure to the cruciatus could cause a nearly arthritic type of inflammation, and every once in a while it flares up.
Her hair cooperates, and she leaves it down in curls around her shoulders; it feels like her armour. Her face in the mirror looks tired, and Hermione scowls. She brushes on some blush and a little eye makeup; she so rarely wears it, but it hardly seems acceptable for Draco to pick her up looking half-dead.
Wrapped in a plushy towel, she sits on the edge of her bed. She's holding her D.A. gold coin in her hand tightly, the edges biting into her palm. It remains silent. She doesn't know exactly how long she sits in silence, but by the time she finally drops the gold coin into her beaded bag, the cool air has chilled her skin.
It's half-past five when Hermione slips into her outfit. She'd borrowed it from Ginny ages ago and never worn it. The top is a blush pink that dips into a vee on her chest, with long sleeves that taper at her wrists. She tucks it into her knee-length black skirt and low kitten heels.
Her bracelet glimmers from her wrist, a reminder to a thousand questions she has for her future husband.
A knock at her door seems to echo through the cottage, and Hermione resolutely marches towards her door. She throws it open and comes face to face with Draco Malfoy. He's wearing a black wool coat and a Slytherin green scarf, and a corner of his lip tilts up when he sees her.
"Granger," he greets.
She nods, breathless. She summons her bag and slips her long trench over her outfit.
"Thank you for the flowers."
"You're welcome," he replies, "I thought after Skeeter's article you might need a pick me up."
Hermione laughs humourlessly as they head down her little cobblestone path and pass the gate. "The Prophet is filled with lies."
"Doesn't mean people don't read it," Malfoy sighs and switches topics. "Shall I side-along you?"
Hermione nods, wrapping her arm through his elbow. It's more comfortable now, easy to reach for him and trust that he'll take her safely to their destination.
They whirl away and land on a darkened doorstep in muggle London. He doesn't let go of her arm, and they head east together. His pace is sedate, and Hermione is grateful because although her heels are low she isn't used to wearing anything but flat, sensible shoes.
"You like French food?" Draco asks.
Hermione nods, "I do, though I don't speak French, so you may have to translate."
She assumes he speaks French — in every pureblood compendium he had sent her, the Malfoy's descended from France, and Hermione doubts that Narcissa Malfoy would allow any holes in Draco's education.
"Of course," Draco allows, stopping briefly and opening a door into a small restaurant. There's no signage beyond a single neon sign that reads 'open', but when she walks through the doorway, it's warm and smells like heaven.
The Maître d' greets them easily, and after a moment's conversation with Draco, she whisks them away to a small booth, a navy curtain enclosing the booth, and a flickering candle in the centre of the table.
It's unbearably romantic.
She slides into the booth and takes her coat off, folding it over her beaded bag, cheeks burning.
"I like that colour on you," Draco blurts, and Hermione snaps her eyes to him. His expression is closed, though a slight blush graces his cheeks.
Hermione clears her throat, "Thank you. I borrowed it from Ginny. I'm afraid I don't own many date clothes."
"Weasel not take you out much?" Draco drawls.
"Be nice," Hermione admonishes, but then smirks. "But no, not really."
Draco huffs a laugh, "Well, we can go out whenever you like. Though, admittedly, muggle places tend to be more comfortable. There's… less staring."
"I assure you," Hermione tells him determinedly, "that I am very used to staring. Perhaps we should brave Diagon one day."
Draco frowns, but the water emerges before he can contradict her. He orders flawlessly in French and then glances at her.
"Would you like a wine?"
Hermione nods, "Sure. Red, please."
He says something else in French, and the server disappears.
"How are Theo and Luna?" Hermione asks, desperate to change the subject from their public outings.
Draco rolls his eyes, "Well, Hermione Granger, it should please you to know that once again you were right."
Hermione laughs at his fake sarcasm, "Oh dear. What about this time?"
"Theo bought her Thestrals."
Hermione gasps, "What?! They are a Class XXXX restricted animal and under regulation 2.7A of the—"
"Granger, relax." Draco's face has gone almost fond. "Theo has all the correct papers. I told you, the Nott's used to breed Thestrals for decades."
Hermione feels her muscles relax, and she realizes that instead of mocking her, Draco Malfoy has calmed her. He's amused, sure, but he hadn't called her a know-it-all swot.
"Well, that's… good, then."
"Good, because you were right?" Malfoy laughs and leans forward. "About the Ministry possibly pairing them for their shared interest in Thestral breeding, I mean."
Hermione swallows. She's not sure if she should mention that she's currently working on a theory where Thestrals have nothing to do with it and instead the Ministry is planning on murdering Luna Lovegood and herself to set Theo and Draco up for Azkaban. Wonders if Draco already knows about this theory.
"What about Pansy?" She says instead.
Draco frowns at her topic change, "Pansy has mentioned nothing about Longbottom. You think they're living together?"
Then, Hermione tells him everything Ron and Harry had told her: tells him about how Neville is breaking Hannah's and his own heart but not spewing hate over Parkinson while doing it. Tells him that George and Parvati eloped and are friends, but Charlie and Astoria don't speak, and Percy and Daphne spend hours comparing boring texts that would drive anyone else mad, all while smiling at each other.
She tells him how the Ministry is prepared to deport, bankrupt, and jail any person who does not obey the WPG, and then she tells him how the Daily Prophet had mentioned Flint would be re-matched after Davis' death.
She does not mention Ron Weasley's theory or her fears.
Their wine arrives halfway through her talking, and she sips at it easily. It's full-bodied and delicious, and Hermione finally runs out of steam when her glass runs dry.
"I also booked a hearing with the Wizengamot," she finishes. "It's not until the New Year. I just want to get a sense of who supports the WPG."
Draco Malfoy listens attentively throughout her speech but frowns speculatively at this. "They won't help you. They're used to Hawkworth running everything; Dumbledore was Chief Warlock for years, but he was absent nearly the entire time since he was at Hogwarts. Hawkworth was almost always in charge, though he bent to whatever Dumbledore wanted when it mattered."
"I didn't think he was… bad." Hermione sighs. "I just don't know if he's behind the WPG."
"He probably is behind it," Draco states. "Though I doubt it's as villainous in his mind. My father—"
Draco chokes the words off, his eyes drifting away from her, as though he can't bear to speak of Lucius while looking at her.
"Tell me." She commands.
He glances back, surprise flickering in silver eyes. "My father always said he was a shortsighted fool, easy to manipulate. He thirsted for power more than anything else. He called him 'Dumbledore's puppet'."
The server reappears, and Hermione nearly scowls. They are always being interrupted at the most inopportune moments.
"Draco," she murmurs, "could you order me a seafood dish?"
His eyes scan the menu briefly, "Do you like sole?"
She nods, and he orders a dish she cannot pronounce, as well as something to do with lamb. The server doesn't write anything down or crack a smile and disappears as quickly as he'd come.
"You think he thirsts for power?" Hermione asks as soon as she's able.
Draco's flinty eyes find hers. "Doesn't everyone?"
Hermione flinches. "No. No, they don't."
Draco laughs, "Granger, don't be naïve. Everyone wants more power."
"I don't," She answers stubbornly.
He watches her with curious eyes. "Alright. What do you want, then?"
"To be safe," the words escape her before she can think to filter them.
Draco's expression softens infinitesimally, but his words fall like punches. "Okay. And how do you think you can make yourself safe, Granger? What do you need?"
Hermione feels her breath leave her — he's right. She doesn't thirst for power, not the same way Voldemort did. But she wants to be safe; she wants to have the power to make herself and those she loves safe. She wants to make a difference.
"It's not the same thing." She insists.
"No, it's not." Draco agrees, "Intention makes a difference."
They lapse into silence, and Hermione steels herself.
"And you?"
"Me, what?" Draco replies.
She narrows her gaze, hoping to convey the same piercing intensity he does so easily. "Why do you need power? What do you want?"
Hurt flickers over his expression before it becomes steely again; but it's too late, Hermione has seen the vulnerability. She's offended him, sure, but she's also learned something. Draco Malfoy wants to be good. Wants to be trusted.
"Don't you realize, Granger?" He smirks lazily at her, "Money is power, and I've got more money than I know what to do with."
She laughs, "So I suppose I'm powerful now, too."
"As of Sunday, sure." He agrees, humour once more twinkling in his eyes. Surprisingly, the mention of their upcoming nuptials doesn't dampen their mood.
Their food arrives, and their conversation flows into something lighter, something easier. She learns that Draco has both a passion and a skill for charms, and though the story of repairing the Vanishing Cabinet has an unhappy ending, he navigates away from it with finesse. She stares at his fingers, noticing silver-white scars across his skin. How many injuries did the repair cost him?
"I've been thinking of using arithmancy, actually," Draco muses, telling her of his newest project he's been tinkering with, "I must show you my calculations because I think if I invert the…"
Their food arrives as he speaks, and Hermione enjoys every bite in-between banter. Draco is smart — and she knew that, but she hardly thinks she's enjoyed a meal so much in years.
He orders dessert without asking, and Hermione smiles at his presumption. She brings up her newest potion research, and Draco asks if she tried newt toes or essence of murtlap instead of the issmigum plant she's having trouble sourcing.
Their plate of profiteroles arrive and every bite is like a revelation. They burst in her mouth with flavour, and when divided equally there is one extra piece that Draco lets her have.
He pays the bill in muggle currency, and Hermione is curious, but for once in her life she lets the moment pass. She has an entire marriage ahead of her with him to ask about his familiarity with the muggle world.
They stroll onto the street, and Draco leads her a different way than they came. Soon they are turning onto a cobbled square, and Christmas lights are shining in some shop windows.
"Can't believe Christmas is almost here," she murmurs in wonder. They stroll beside each other down the sidewalks, and though their conversation stalls, she is comfortable.
"I was hoping you would accompany me to Blaise Zabini and Padma Patil's wedding. It's next week." Draco mentions.
"Cutting it close, aren't they?" Hermione muses, remembering that there are now only 8 days until the WPG deadline. "I'd love to go with you."
Draco huffs, "I think Blaise is hoping the WPG will fall apart before the marriage."
"He doesn't like Padma?" Hermione remembers Padma — she had been Ravenclaw, quieter and far less flighty than her sister Parvati. She was smart and beautiful, and Hermione is almost offended on her behalf that she's somehow not good enough for Blaise Zabini.
Draco snorts. "Blaise doesn't like girls."
"Oh," Hermione gapes, her annoyance dissipating. "Oh. I see."
"Yes. The WPG puts a bit of a wrench into that preference."
Hermione feels her throat clog with tears for someone she hardly knows. For someone she previously didn't even think she'd ever like. Blaise Zabini had always come across as a condescending sneak; though Hermione now understands how much the label of 'Slytherin' had coloured her vision for years. Perhaps she has been wrong.
"That's… horrible. I'm so sorry for him."
Draco shrugs, "The WPG is horrible for many people. Blaise mentioned Padma is accepting of him and kind. She's worried about the pregnancy deadline, though."
Dread coils in Hermione's stomach. "What… what will Blaise do?"
"If it comes down to it?" Draco stops and glances at her, as though measuring how much she truly wants to hear the answer. "I suppose he'll get blind drunk and get it over with."
Hermione falls speechless. She had known; of course, she had known. The WPG mandated a pregnancy — and she wasn't ignorant as to how that would come about. Not every witch or wizard would be willing, or able. It was still horrible to face that truth.
"My mother," Draco swallows, and Hermione snaps her eyes back to him. He falters but continues in a wounded tone. "My mother endured a… less than ideal marriage for many, many years, Granger."
Hermione feels her throat go dry. She had always imagined that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had found each other through their mutual awfulness and pureblood superiority, bonding over a deep hatred of Muggles. Like a child, she had thought —
Well, every child thinks all parents love each other.
"My father was an evil bastard." Malfoy's voice goes dark and murderous, and fear ripples down Hermione's spine.
"I… I am so sorry." She whispers.
"No." He bites out the word, pinning her with a raptor's gaze. "No. I'm not telling you to be sorry."
"I don't know what you want, Malfoy," Hermione admits. It almost seems as if the smallest motion or word she may say could send this polite Draco Malfoy disappearing.
Tension radiates from him, and he exhales. "I don't want that."
Understanding hits her like a flash — Draco doesn't want her to be sorry, but more than that, he doesn't want what his parents had.
Draco Malfoy — the boy who had worshipped his father and emulated him at every turn — is nowhere to be found. Instead, all Hermione sees is vulnerability.
"I don't want that either," she tells him honestly. "And I know you won't be like… like him."
Draco stares at her as though seeing her for the very first time. Tentatively, he lifts a gentle hand up in a strange mirror of their first meeting and presses his fingertips to her cheekbone. Warmth spreads from where he touches, featherlight. Hermione suddenly realizes he could kiss her.
Suddenly realizes how much she wants him to.
"You should kiss me," she tells him, and his eyes grow wide in front of her. It almost looks as though he is going to protest, but at the same moment he curls towards her. She always forgets how tall he is.
His other hand finds her face, both palms hot on her jawline. Christmas lights twinkle behind him, and for a brief moment, Draco Malfoy looks like nothing more than a nervous boy kissing a girl for the first time. Hermione lifts up on her tiptoes and presses her lips against his.
It's like fire — a conflagration of heat and gentility. His hands hold her in place, and almost without thinking Hermione wraps her own arms around his back to pull him closer.
He sways away from her after only a moment; far too soon for her taste. His eyes are shadowed in questions. It feels like a secret, between them. Something sacred and unexpected. All thoughts of playing pretend seem to be thousands of miles away.
"I hardly think the first time you kiss me should be at our wedding," Hermione whispers before he can speak.
He doesn't let go of her, but pain flashes on his face.
Unexpectedly, he murmurs, "Why did you tell me at Potter's wedding that Molly Weasley was the most powerful witch in Britain?"
Hermione lets her arms fall slack from his back at his question, and he releases her as though she's burning him. She wishes she'd said nothing to him at Harry's wedding, but it's too late now. He'll never let it go.
"The Malfoy's have always been wealthy," she glances away. "But it's not their money or their purity or whatever that made them so powerful, both now and throughout wizarding history."
Draco studies her but doesn't reply. She wraps her arms tightly over her chest, whether to soothe the ache of her ribcage or to prevent her from reaching for him again, she's not sure.
She continues, less certain than before. "They're powerful. You're powerful."
"So what?"
"I had a theory when the WPG first was announced," Hermione admits.
Draco's eyes are glittering, "Something different from the possible benefit to the Ministry from fortuitous business or economic matches theory?"
She doesn't want to say it — it's not even really a theory. It's just what the WPG is. They had admitted it in that first black letter, and no matter what other reasons they may have for individual matches, there is always one outcome.
Draco knows it as well as she does.
"You think they're breeding us for power." His words loosen the knots in her shoulders; someone to carry this weight with her.
"We already know it's essentially a breeding program," Hermione tells him. None of this is a surprise.
Draco nods, terse. "Yes. It is. But you think they're matching people for power and interests to breed stronger magical lines. Stronger magical businesses and partnerships. It's about the economy, but it's more about power."
"Yes."
"They said in the letter that they matched based on personality and magical signature."
Hermione doesn't even deem an answer worthwhile to that — they both know the Ministry has lied before. Besides, what does magical signature even mean besides power?
"Who did Kingsley get?" Draco suddenly demands.
Hermione huffs, "We'd all like to know the answer to that. He's probably the most powerful wizard living right now, perhaps other than Hawkworth himself—"
"Hawkworth is strong," Draco interrupts, "but not in duelling magic. In a duel, he wouldn't last a minute against Kingsley."
She watches him, nervous to ask her next question. "Would you?"
Draco's jaw clenches, "I don't think I could beat him. He's experienced — he's been through two wars."
"But?" Hermione adds softly.
Draco grimaces, "I fought him once. In the war. We were in a skirmish, and he went after Goyle. Greg was never a powerful duelist, so I engaged Shacklebolt so Greg could escape."
"I remember," Hermione breathes, clarity rushing through her. "He thought there might be at least one Death Eater who sympathized with the Order because of that."
Draco's eyes flick away from her. "He made a mistake. It wasn't because of my skill, I just got lucky. I had a clear shot, and he knew it. He thought he was about to die — Death Eaters don't… well, they shoot to kill."
"You stunned him," Hermione says. She knows the end of this story without hearing it. Kingsley hadn't shut up about it for days, the Death Eater who had purposefully let him go. He'd only given up on it nearly two weeks later when Lupin had been in a battle and come home covered in blood, barely alive.
Malfoy looks miserable talking about the past, but he straightens his spine.
"Let's go find out."
"What?"
He shrugs, "You know where Shacklebolt lives — you must, otherwise, how could you threaten him over Harry Potter's match? Let's go there and find out who he got."
Hermione feels her jaw drop, "You want me to go to the Minister of Magic's house and just ask him who he got matched with, despite the fact that the last time I appeared there I threatened to destroy the Ministry?"
"Hermione," Draco looks like he might laugh, "don't tell me your precious Gryffindor courage has deserted you. Besides, aren't you curious?"
The mocking tone cuts her like a knife, and fury wells up inside her. She clenches his arm a little more tightly, and his smirk imprints on her brain as she apparates them away.
They land on the edge of a sidewalk, hard and stumbling. Hermione would have fallen to the ground, except that Draco's other hand has gripped her hip tightly enough for bruises. He looks sick.
"This is wrong," Hermione says when she can finally breathe properly.
Kingsley's familiar house is nowhere to be seen — there are a few other houses, but the one she had visited nearly a month ago is gone.
"He banned you," Draco growls. "He made it unplottable and got a new secret keeper. You can't find it anymore, Granger."
Hermione almost wants to cry — Kingsley Shacklebolt may currently be on her bad side for being a coward about the WPG, but she'd fought a war with him, and she had supported him as Minister of Magic. They were… friends, once.
A memory of hot rancid breath on her face in the forest hits her — she remembers holding as still as she could as Greyback smelled the surrounding air, sniffing her out by her perfume as she silently begged her wards to hold.
She may not be able to find Kingsley anymore, but she's still willing to bet he's watching for her.
"Kingsley," she says into the twilight air, her voice quiet but firm. "We know you're breeding us purposefully for more powerful magical lines — so we want to know… who out there matches you in power?"
She almost expects Kingsley to appear. Draco's hand is clutched in hers, and she's not exactly sure when it happened, but she's pleased that if Kingsley would see them right now, he would see nothing but a united force.
After an interminable silence, Draco sighs. "Let's go home, Granger."
It feels nice to let him wrap his arm around her shoulder and tug her into a side along, landing on the edge of the cottage property. He doesn't remove it when they arrive.
She turns to him, and he is already watching her with hooded silver eyes.
"I had fun tonight," she breathes, "despite our failed attempt at threatening the Minister of Magic."
Draco Malfoy laughs — his whole face transforms, and Hermione finds herself grinning along with him. He's so fucking beautiful, it's devastating.
This time, she doesn't press onto her tiptoes. He swoops down suddenly, kissing her harder than he had in the square. It's still fairly chaste; just a press of warm lips, but Hermione still burns.
He pulls away, lips still curled up. She feels a shaking hand press into her lips, swollen from kisses and cool night air.
"I'll see you on Sunday."
Hermione can feel her cheeks turning scarlet, "At the Muggle church?"
Draco nods solemnly, "I'll be the one at the alter."
Hermione turns to go inside her house, the weight of Draco's stare on her back and the thousand questions she hasn't asked hanging on her head. She glances back at him at the doorstep. He hasn't moved a muscle.
"Thank you," Hermione says softly in the night air. She's not really sure what she's thanking him for — perhaps for the pleasant date, or being patient, or the kisses he had bestowed upon her. Perhaps for being kinder than she thought him capable of, or his desire to make this marriage less awful for them both.
Or perhaps for being willing to walk into a possible battle with a man he had admitted was stronger than he was, simply because she needed answers.