A/N: Hi all! Thank you for your patience with this chapter, and for all of the birthday wishes. I am hoping to get back to a regular schedule, and you can expect the next chapter, not this coming Sunday but the following (Feb 21). This chapter is a long one, and for the most part, it's fluffy, so enjoy that. As always, please mind the tags listed in chapter 1.

The awkwardness doesn't set into her bones until she has kicked off her torturous shoes and Draco has hung his outer robe on the rack. The cottage is chilly, despite the warm lights, and her stupid transfigured couch seems to mock her loneliness.

"Well, here we are." Hermione babbles into the sudden silence. "I'll just put on a cup of tea and mmf—"

Draco cuts her off by kissing her. He traces her mouth with his own, and she can feel their breath mingling. She lets herself sway into him unconsciously, stunned by the heat that races up her spine. His fingers tangle into her curls, and she gasps into his mouth. His tongue licks into her, and her body finally gets with the program and she clings to his broad shoulders, biting at his lips.

He pulls away after an endless amount of time. They're both panting. Her lips feel kiss swollen, and Draco's cheeks are flushed. Hermione can feel the blood pounding under her skin and prays she doesn't resemble a tomato.

"I wish I kissed you like that," Draco murmurs, as though it's a secret.

"You did," Hermione answers breathlessly.

He laughs, "No. I mean today, at the wedding. I was nervous, but it's no excuse. I should have kissed you like that."

Hermione grins, "Well, I hardly think our guests would have appreciated it."

"Potter nearly knocked the Weaselette off the damn altar trying to kiss her. They hardly have room to complain."

She laughs. It feels soaked in relief. "He did, didn't he?"

Draco presses his forehead to hers, and Hermione finds out her eyes have closed only when she opens them to silver. He's watching her intently. Draco Malfoy has never watched her this way before; all intensity and heat.

"Dance with me."

It's not a request, and though Hermione hates dancing, she finds she is already swaying with him. He's holding half her weight up, and the floor feels cool against her sore feet. There is no music, but the wind is gentle against the cottage roof, and silence, Hermione has found, is a blessed rarity.

"I moved things around for you," Hermione whispers.

Draco nods against her skin. "I like the couch."

"I thought… I thought we could sit on it." She admits. So fucking vulnerable.

"That's generally what one does on a couch, Granger." She can feel Draco smirking against her temple.

"I meant — together."

Draco pulls back only long enough to study her eyes. "I'm amenable to that."

Hermione lets her eyes close, his gaze settling into her bones. The moment stretches on — she is safe.

"Granger," Draco's voice is impossibly gentle, "I realize I owe you an apology."

She stills — he keeps holding her, his fingers tangling in her curls against her shoulder blades. He looks rumpled and soft in a way she never could have imagined Draco Malfoy being. Warm.

"Why did you write me that letter?" Hermione whispers. Curiosity burns inside of her; she has wondered for months.

The first shadow of a frown graces his face, "Honestly?"

Hermione nods.

Their swaying has stopped, but his hands have yet to leave her. She doesn't mind.

"My mother convinced me." Draco admits, "She was… not always lucid, at the end."

"I'm sorry," Hermione breathes. Narcissa has always hung between them; questions they both want to ask.

"Don't be. It's not your fault." Draco shakes his head.

Hermione swallows hard, "Was she… ill?"

"Not really," Draco whispers. His eyes fall shut, and he sucks in a breath. "She and my father were bonded. Like Potter and the She-Weasel are now— where they tie their magic cores together? It's very common with purebloods, and Malfoy's have always bonded with their spouse."

"Until now," Hermione breathes. Another thing she has changed for him.

Draco huffs, "That would have changed whether or not I married you, Granger. There is nothing on this earth that could convince me to bond."

Hermione stays quiet, but the familiar rush of curiosity eats at her. The corner of Draco's mouth curls up, as though he is almost unwillingly amused by her insatiable questions. She hasn't even asked anything yet!

"Well," she mutters primly, "I'm glad to hear it. Frankly, I think it's a bloody stupid thing to do, and I told Harry so, but he refused to listen. He never wants to be without Ginny."

Malfoy sniffs, "It's a nice thought, I suppose. The bond, iungo, is supposed to be about love, but in my experience, it's about control."

Hermione swallows, "What do you mean?"

"The bond does give a boost in power," Draco explains, "but it makes separation or infidelity of any kind basically impossible. There are no choices. Even the smallest doubts can cause your magic to falter."

Hermione nods, "I told Harry that there were cases recorded where one partner died, and the other followed not long after."

"Yes."

Hermione stills, her heart dropping in her chest. "Is… is that what happened?"

He nods, his palms pressing into the back of her wedding dress. They feel almost uncomfortably warm.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione murmurs. She hasn't heard him speak favourably of his father since fourth year, and the revelation that his beloved mother literally followed Lucius into the grave is unwelcome.

Draco rolls his eyes, "Once again, Granger, this is not your fault."

"You keep calling me that," Hermione replies mildly.

"What?"

"Granger," Hermione lets her fingers press into his shoulder blades. "It's Malfoy, now. Or Hermione."

"I somehow think I might have a tough time with that, Granger."

"Well, Malfoy," Hermione sniffs, fighting a smile, "turnabout is fair play."

Draco huffs a laugh and releases her. Her back feels cold without the weight of his hands on it.

"Come, I'll make some tea," He moves towards the kitchen cupboards.

"You didn't finish your story," Hermione protests, following him to lean against the counter. "Your mother… she convinced you to send that letter?"

Draco sighs, "I think she wanted me to repair the Malfoy name. It was… hard for her to see how my father's — well, how the war and our role in it reflected on me. I wrote the letter at her urging."

Hermione watches as he uses his wand to summon what he needs, his eyes tracking where they emerge from. She realizes he's learning her kitchen, taking stock of everything. His home, now.

"I kept it," Hermione admits.

Draco turns, his silver eyes landing on her. "What?"

"Your letter. I kept it. I still have it in my office. When the WPG was first announced, I used to read it over and over before bed, praying that you meant it."

"I did," Draco breathes, taking a hesitant step towards her. "I do."

She meets him in the middle, and they watch each other. Everything about this feels fragile — a marriage forced upon them, a friendship found naturally.

"Hermione, I am sorry." Draco's words are dripping with sincerity. "For both my actions in the war and in school. If I could take it all back, I would. A thousand times over."

Hermione swallows — her arm burns as though every hate-filled emotion Bellatrix fucking Lestrange forced upon her has bubbled to the surface. She stares at Draco Malfoy; the boy who made her cry for years, the son of a Death Eater and the nephew of the one who still haunts her waking nightmares.

Her husband.

She had forgiven him long ago — she had even told him, in the letter she had written after Narcissa died.

"Draco, I told you before. I forgive you," she says. "We were children. We were all just fucking children."

Draco stares at her as though she is some sort of arithmancy problem he cannot solve, but he is determined to try. The kettle's shrill whistle draws him out of his stupor, and he turns away to prepare the cups of tea.

When he hands it to her, it is exactly the way she likes it.

"You know, you never answered me." Hermione muses, sipping carefully at the steaming drink. "How do you know how I take my tea?"

Draco laughs unexpectedly, "Granger — I went to school with you for years. I know we weren't friends, but I'm not an idiot."

Hermione stares into her milky cup as though it holds all the answers. In some ways, she thinks it might.

"No, you're not." She agrees easily. "But I still think you might know for another reason."

Draco huffs, "What do you want me to say, Granger? That I paid attention to you, even back then?"

Hermione lifts her eyebrows, and Draco rolls his eyes in embarrassment. She sips her tea quietly, giving him a moment.

"For what it's worth," Hermione says, "I'm glad I got your name."

Malfoy's cup rattles in its saucer as he sets it down. He swallows hard, and Hermione tracks the movement. Every inch of him is devastatingly handsome, and despite the tarnished Malfoy name, Hermione is not fool enough to imagine that other witches didn't want him as their match in the WPG. If not for his looks, then for his money.

He clears his throat. "Yes, well, Granger, you're not half bad either."

Hermione laughs.

Draco steps closer to her. They are barely a hand span apart now, and her laugh dies in her throat. He reaches out and touches the emerald lace at her waist, tracing it gently until it folds itself into the champagne of the dress.

"Today," Draco swallows, "Weasley said something that upset you."

Hermione stiffens, "I don't want to talk about it."

His hand is still warm on her waist, and he curls it closer, wrapping his fingers against the curve of her ribs. Hermione sets her empty teacup down so she can use both hands to steady herself on his chest.

"Okay," Draco agrees, "But only because you look so lovely in your dress."

Hermione blushes, and Draco leans down to kiss her again. She can hardly recall ever being snogged so often, but she melts into him as though it is second nature.

This time, she is the first to pull away, and she smiles at his scowl.

"I have a wedding gift for you," she tells him.

Surprise flickers over his face, and Hermione steps away, letting her fingers tangle with his as she leads him from the front room. He follows her dutifully down their hallway until they reach their bedroom.

Their bedroom — the thought is intimidating, and Hermione shoves everything about it away so she can focus. She makes her way to the bed and pulls a small velvet bag out of the nightstand.

Draco is leaning against the doorframe.

"Come here," she calls, sitting primly on the bed. Her wedding dress splays over her bedcovers, and Hermione stares down at the fabric. It's the most elaborately beautiful thing she's ever worn. There is nothing she can ever give Molly Weasley to repay her.

Draco sits beside her gingerly, silent as she stares at her gown. After a long moment, she shakes her head and glances up at him, only to find him watching her with serious eyes.

"Here," she passes him the small bag.

He takes it from her hand and smirks. It's obvious by the square shape and weight what it is.

"Why am I not surprised that Hermione Granger buys books as wedding presents?" He asks with a chuckle.

"Oh, just open it." She commands impatiently.

He dumps the contents into his hands gently, a smaller leather-bound book tumbling out. It's very thin, with black leather and an embossed silver D. M. on the front.

He runs a thumb over the letters, the smallest smile playing about his mouth. He flips open to the first page, brushing his knuckles against the thick paper.

The first page is blank, other than a single quotation curled in gold letters in the middle of the paper.

"There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.' - C.S. Lewis"

"I've charmed it," Hermione explains nervously, "I've got the matching twin. Anything you write in there will appear in mine. I thought that we… well, I've enjoyed writing letters with you."

Draco's eyes raise to hers after what seems an eternity. They are silver and unfathomable, and Hermione fidgets anxiously. Can he see how much hope she has poured into this little book? Is it obvious that despite the fury with which she intends to fight the WPG, she has no intentions of fighting with him?

Hermione isn't sure whether she wants him to understand this gesture; isn't sure she's ready to be so visible.

"Thank you," He finally murmurs, "It's lovely."

"You'll write to me?" She asks. It feels as though her ribcage is contracting inside her chest.

Draco nods slowly. "Yes. Of course."

They watch each other — the tentative peace settling into them.

"I've also got something for you," Draco admits suddenly. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a small box, only to set it in her trembling fingers.

"Oh, you didn't have—"

"Potter's wife reliably informed me that the muggle custom of exchanging rings at one's wedding is now very popular amongst wizards and witches as well," Draco interrupts, "I didn't realize it was so, otherwise I would have given this to you sooner."

Hermione lifts the lid of the velvet box to find a ring sparkling up at her. The band is twined together like ivy, reminiscent of the bracelet on her wrist. The diamond sparkles up at her, oval-shaped and large.

"Oh my," Hermione breathes.

"I must admit, it is one of the more subdued pieces in the Malfoy vault," Draco continues, "but I assumed by your reaction to the bracelet that you seemed to prefer a less… flashy style."

Hermione gapes at him, "This is subdued?!"

The lightest of blushes grace Draco's cheekbones, and Hermione realizes she has not thanked him for her gift. He's been practically babbling.

"Sorry," she rushes, "sorry. It's stunning, I didn't—, sorry, I meant — Godric, okay. Put it on me?"

Draco's is positively red now, though he reaches for the ring in her palm. She holds out her hand and he slides it onto her finger. They both stare at it.

"I should get you one," Hermione says. Her heart is battering against her chest, and she wonders if this is what it will always feel like. Barely treading water but burning alive.

Draco shakes his head, "No. This is plenty. But I might put some of my clothes away and change out of my robes."

Hermione leaps to her feet, startled at his words. She can feel her skin burning with the force of her blush, and she rushes over to the dresser that she had half-cleared out.

"I made some space," she says, gesturing at the drawers, "And I cleaned out half the closet. I'll just take my pyjamas to the bathroom and let you unpack for a bit, shall I?"

She snatches at the first set of pyjamas she finds and disappears out of the bedroom, closing herself into the bathroom. The edge of the tub is cool and solid under her fingertips, and she stares down at the unfamiliar diamond glittering up at her.

She feels almost as though she's choking; unable to get the oxygen she needs. Panic chokes her, and Hermione forces herself to list the ways in which she is safe. She is home, safe inside her wards. Her wand is in her hand. Malfoy won't hurt her.

She gasps for air, forcing herself to count with each inhale. With a wave of her wand, the fastenings on the back of her wedding gown release, and Hermione lets it collect in a heap at her ankles. In only her underthings, she climbs into the tub and sits against the side. It's cool against the porcelain, and despite the lack of bathwater, she breathes in slowly and forces herself to relax.

Her heartbeat slows in increments, and for the first time since she shut the door she breathes.

She is married. To Draco Malfoy.

Hermione Granger has never been a fool — even in Hogwarts, Draco had buzzed around her brain more often than most other boys. At first, his initial taunting and torment had stuck into her like blades until she learned how to snap and snarl back. Later, despite her dislike of him, she hadn't quite been able to shake him. In fourth year, catching his gaze at the Yule Ball and finding no disgust or hatred in his eyes for the first time had left her breathless; and in fifth year, when she had helplessly watched as he had faded into a shadow of himself, she had dreamed of saving him.

When Harry had nearly killed him with that stupid spell, she had hovered outside the hospital wing until Madame Pomfrey sent her away.

When he had refused to identify them at the Manor, Hermione had nurtured the smallest coil of hope; one she had carried through as she testified at his trial in front of the Wizengamot.

Hermione muffles a half-hysterical giggle with her palm, half biting into the skin. She wonders if she's going into shock. She wonders what her younger self would have said if she had told her one day she'd be sitting half-naked in an empty bathtub panicking over the fact that Draco Malfoy was unpacking his clothing next door. In their bedroom. Her husband.

Hermione pulls herself together and clambers out of the tub, feeling slightly more stable. Her pyjamas are soft and familiar against her skin, and although she adored her wedding gown, it feels safe in the cotton of her sleepwear. She marches back to her bedroom, summoning Gryffindor courage along the way, only to find the room unchanged. She yanks open the closet doors and hangs her dress beside an abundance of unfamiliar black wizard robes, and focuses entirely on getting through her wedding night.

Malfoy is sitting on the couch with a green blanket around his legs when she finally gathers the courage to go looking. Steam curls up from the teacup in his hand, and he looks artfully mussed and unbothered. He glances up at her, a smirk decorating his lips.

"Finished hiding?"

Hermione scowls, "I was not hiding. I just… needed to change."

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow, and Hermione fights back what seems to be a permanent blush. She sniffs and plops down on the couch, as far from her husband as she can get.

"I assume that unlike a regular person, you didn't schedule a day off after your wedding and you're expected to be at work tomorrow?"

Hermione glances at him, eyes narrowed. "Yes, I have to work tomorrow."

"So I'll cancel the honeymoon to Paris, then?" Draco drawls, picking up his teacup and sipping at it.

Hermione splutters, "What? Paris?! You didn't even—"

A low chuckle stops her words, and Malfoy grins, "I'm joking, Granger, relax. I didn't book a honeymoon."

"Good," Hermione says primly, sitting more firmly back into the couch cushions. "For the record, if we were to take a holiday, it surely wouldn't be during the time the Ministry mandated marriage and population law came into effect, especially seeing that I'm intending to destroy it."

Malfoy actually laughs at that, and Hermione glances over to watch him toss his platinum hair back, the long line of his throat bare.

"Making plans to destroy the law, Granger? Or are you planning on taking on the Ministry itself?"

Hermione snaps, "Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Something akin to pride burns in Malfoy's silver eyes; it's not an unfamiliar expression, but Hermione has never seen it directed at her.

"No," Draco sips his tea, hiding a half-smile behind the rim of his cup. "It surely wouldn't. And I know better than to doubt the golden girl."

Hermione plays with the hem of her shirt, nervous in the face of Draco's teasing. His compliments. "Well. Good."

Draco is silent for a long moment before he announces: "Well if we must do without a honeymoon, I do have a request."

Hermione glances up. "What is it?"

"Tomorrow I'm going to retrieve Taffy and a few of my books," Draco says, leaning forward to set his teacup on the low coffee table in front of the couch. "I know Juney would love to have access to the cottage. She'd love it even more if you'd let her make dinner for us."

She tries to picture it — coming home to Juney with her ridiculously blue eyes and knitted hats. Fighting for the rights of house-elves while enjoying the indentured slavery of her own.

"Malfoy, I have been fighting for house-elf rights and freedom since I was thirteen. You cannot possibly think that I'd be okay with Juney's situation."

She can feel the weight of Draco's silver eyes on her, and his annoyance is palpable.

"And what exactly do you believe is Juney's situation?"

Hermione sniffs, "I know that the Malfoy's have had house-elves for years. I know Dobby was one of them, and he was treated poorly."

"Dobby was my father's elf—" Draco snaps.

"Stop," Hermione interrupts, "stop, please. I know you don't treat Juney poorly, Malfoy. I'm not saying that. I just… cannot have her as a slave in this house."

Hermione stiffens her spine and glances up, meeting Draco's glare with her own. His knuckles are white against the green blanket on his legs, and if she hadn't already guessed that she'd offended him, she is under no illusions when she sees his scowl.

"What would you have me do, Granger?" Draco's voice is cold. "Because if I were to set Juney free, it would break her heart. She's been with my mother and I for years."

Hermione watches as Draco sneers at her — the words unspoken: it would break Draco's heart. The very last connection to his mother. The last of his family.

"I like Juney," Hermione blurts, changing tactics. "She's lovely. And I'd love to have her here, and it would be very helpful to have someone to cook and perhaps do some gardening."

Malfoy blinks, narrowing his eyes as he calculates. "You want me to free her… and then hire her?"

Hermione forces herself not to smile, "Yes. I was under the impression that you were rich. Can you not spare a few galleons for a beloved house-elf?"

To her surprise, Draco Malfoy stares at her for a beat too long before he huffs. He stands suddenly, and Hermione barely conceals her flinch.

"Alright. You win, Granger." He concedes, tossing his blanket back onto the couch and picking up his teacup. "I'll speak with Juney tomorrow about adequate terms of employment if it will make you happy."

Hermione watches as her husband marches to their small kitchen, setting his teacup into the sink. He braces his hands on the edge of the counter and stares out the window into the darkness.

Hermione unwinds the tension from her shoulders and forces herself to stand, moving to the kitchen and sliding in beside him. There's not much space, her hips bump into his, but she doesn't pull away. Only a handful of hours ago they shared kisses and dances, and even though she's not exactly sure what this marriage is, she knows one thing: they're friends.

"It will," she whispers, sliding her fingers over his. "Make me happy, I mean."

Malfoy glances at her. The anger that had been present in his eyes gone, and he offers her a lazy smirk.

"Then consider it done."

She lets her lips curl up in a smile. "Hey Malfoy"

"Yes?"

"I'm tired," Hermione admits. Her heart is pounding again.

"Then go to sleep." His snarky tone is familiar; every ounce of her wants to recoil, and yet she is a Gryffindor.

Hermione sucks in a breath and summons her courage. "Aren't you coming?"

For the first time in her memory, Draco Malfoy is speechless. He gapes at her for a moment, and she watches as his brain snaps into overdrive, trying to keep up with her words.

"I can sleep on the couch," he finally says.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. The bed is big enough for two."

She spins and marches away, hoping that he'll follow, terrified that he'll follow. His socked feet pad lightly behind her, and she has her answer. They make it to the bedroom, and she slides under the covers on the side she prefers, as far from the open door as she can get.

Malfoy hovers beside the bed for an eternal moment before settling delicately on top of the covers. His wand is clenched in his fist.

"Granger," his voice is soft, "I… don't sleep well."

Hermione barks a laugh, "Do you think I do?"

He coughs. "Well. I guess not."

He slides into the bed, and Hermione waits nervously. The bedroom is dark and muffled, safe under her oppressive wards. The weight of him on the other side of her bed seems particularly heavy. The last person Hermione had shared a bed with had been Ron.

She swallows hard and pushes herself towards him, reaching forward and recoiling slightly when he flinches at her touch. Her hands are cold, and she imagines he's as nervous as she is.

"Are you going to kiss me again?" She whispers. His eyes are the only thing she can see, practically shining in the sliver of moonlight from the curtain.

"Do you want me to?"

She nods, not trusting herself to speak. She does want him to kiss her; it had felt so easy in the kitchen. As if there were no strings attached, and all the trauma of their childhood, and the war, and the WPG had just fallen away.

Malfoy's hand finds her jaw, and he pulls himself above her only enough to press a featherlight kiss on the corner of her mouth. Hermione breathes in the scent of him: peppermint tea.

Her barely open mouth is an invitation, and Draco seizes it. He kisses her deeply, running his teeth along her bottom lip gently, pulling at it. Hermione lets herself unwind, fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

She's never kissed anyone like this — he's got both hands wrapped around her jaw, and her own fingertips are scrambling for purchase on his shoulders.

It's only when his mouth leaves hers, travelling down her neck with suckling kisses that leave her breathless that Hermione freezes minutely.

It's as if she's doused him with ice water; he recoils quickly and absolutely, his hands retreating to his own space as though they had never been wrapped around her skin.

"Draco, no," Hermione half begs, reaching towards him. "I'm fine, let's just keep—"

He snaps a hand against hers and holds her at bay. It's gentle but unwilling to budge. His thumb traces a path against the back of her hand. Hermione isn't even sure if she is begging for him to keep stoking the fire he has ignited within her, or if some part of her is asking him to just get it over with.

She's never been patient. She doesn't like mysteries or unknowns; Draco is both, and she's desperate to unravel him.

"Granger." His voice is softer than she expects it to be, and his hand is still clasped in hers.

"Malfoy," Merlin — her voice sounds positively wrecked.

"This is good," Draco whispers. "We're doing good. Don't ruin it."

Hermione forces herself to think logically — she's good at logic. It's how she survives.

She has been married to Draco Malfoy for 9 and a half hours. It's been more good than bad. She has exactly 342 days before she is expected to have a child with him. Voldemort has been dead for 562 days. 854 days since her parents knew her name.

The last 9 and a half hours have been some of her better ones.

"Okay," she breathes. "You're right. Okay."

It's as though she's given him permission because he pulls her close once again and tucks her into his body. It's unfamiliar — he holds her as though she is breakable. He smells nice; peppermint and pine, and Hermione breathes deeply through her nose.

There is no rush.

She has 342 days.