A/N: Hello friends! Thank you SO much for your reviews. I read every single one and appreciate them so much. A small reminder that this story does contain exaggerations on canon (specifically, about the war and the characters' roles in it). I hope you enjoy this chapter :) The next one will be posted not this Sunday but the following.

November 19th, 1999 - Friday

She's glad Malfoy warned her of Juney's decorating since she arrives on her own doorstep to find the cottage transformed. Twinkling golden lights are wrapped around the eaves and a few of the trees. A bushy evergreen wreath hangs from her door, and when she pushes it open gently she is greeted with the smell of cranberries and balsam.

It's heavenly.

"Granger," Draco looks up from the couch. He's sitting in the corner, a book in his hand and his ever-present Slytherin green blanket tucked around him. The fire is roaring with warmth.

It's a cozy scene that Hermione had never allowed herself to imagine a few years ago, coming home to someone. Someone who was safe.

She tosses her bag on the floor and hangs her jacket up haphazardly, not daring to think twice before moving to sit on the couch, closer than she usually would.

Malfoy lifts one blonde eyebrow but says nothing. Hermione swallows and reaches out to grab a piece of his blanket and tugs it over her toes. Draco stares down at it, the way it's covering only up to her shins. He lifts a hand out of his lap and lays it slowly over the arches of her feet, over the blanket. The heat of him is scorching.

"Hi," she says. Her voice feels small.

His silver eyes take in her appearance, and Hermione pushes every hint of insecurity she has over her hair and her face and how she has always been too bookish, too smart, too much. He married her — even if he was forced, he didn't have to stay. Didn't have to live in her tiny cottage. Didn't have to fit himself into her life and compromise on so many of the things that made him Draco Malfoy.

"What's happening inside that brain of yours, Granger?"

She swallows. "You know, if I sat closer, you could share more of the blanket."

Surprise flickers over his face before it becomes impossible to read once again. He doesn't answer her, just tugs the blanket up and open. The invitation is clear.

Hermione moves into his space, tucking herself neatly against his side and letting her legs fall next to his. He lets his arm wrap loosely around her shoulder, the weight of it settling her further into the couch.

She ventures, "That's better. Much warmer."

"Yes." He replies slowly. The silence lingers after the word.

"It looks nice in here," Hermione says, half-heartedly gesturing at the decorations Juney has put up.

"It does."

She tries again. "What are you reading?"

"A book."

She swallows — he is making this so difficult. Every particle of her being wants to disappear into her office. Return to their hard-won routine of peace and distance.

Only… only… she doesn't want that.

With a slow inhale, Hermione glances at the cover of the book in his hand. Books — books she can do. Books she is good at.

"I've read that one, you know," Hermione tells him, settling her head closer to his collarbone. "It's absolutely worth reading. I won't spoil it for you, but the details of the Occamy are incredible. The author must have had first-hand knowledge. I had never realized how similar they are to dragons — apparently, they're totally unrelated, though! Did you know that the shell of an Occamy is pure silver? They've been hunted nearly into—"

The press of Draco's lips to her hair silences her as effectively as any words might have.

"Granger," he murmurs, "tell me."

Hermione wonders what he means — should she tell him of Kingsley? Of Rita Skeeter and her rage? Or that she plans to see Luna this afternoon and beg for her help? Should she speak of her plans to meet Harry and Ginny tonight for a publicity stunt, or should she admit she suspects the Ministry plotting her death?

Or how she likes it here — how she loves her cottage, and the fire, and the warmth of his body next to hers, how she wishes he would kiss her again, the way he did the night of their wedding. Like he meant it.

"I obliviated my parents," she says instead.

The words just fall out of her — Hermione swallows retroactively, as if she can take away the sentence she has just released. Words she's never said to anyone except Albus Dumbledore, who had simply nodded in acceptance. They were safe. What was the loss of a single daughter?

Her cheeks feel hot, and Hermione is mortified to find the fire is blurring with unshed tears.

"This may be of little comfort," Draco's voice is soft, "but you saved their lives, Granger."

Hermione turns to him, face close enough to feel his breath on her skin. His eyes are molten.

"I should have asked if they wanted another choice." Hermione hisses. "If it were me, I wouldn't want to be savedif it came at that cost. I would have chosen to fight. I did choose to fight."

Draco simply watches her. His words, when they come, fall like knives.

"Bellatrix crucio'd me for what felt like hours after you escaped that night. I told her everything I knew about you, which admittedly, wasn't much. She was fixated on you — spent days finding out every scrap of information on Hermione Granger." He swallows, his eyes turning aimlessly to the flames. "I watched as she returned to the Manor soaked in random Muggles' blood. I watched, both waiting for and dreading the day it would finally end."

"She was looking for them," Hermione breathes. "She was hunting my parents."

"She found the house, you know." Draco continues. "Damn near tried to raze it to the ground."

Hermione frowns — she had laced her parents' house with enough protective enchantments to withstand a nuclear bomb, but when she had returned to it after the war it had seemed untouched. She'd had no idea Bellatrix had ever been there.

Draco's hand is nearly white-knuckled on his book. It's the only indication that he is bothered at all by what he is saying.

"You cleaned it, didn't you?" Hermione accuses.

Draco glances at her. "What?"

"I've been there. After the war, I returned home. I thought I might live there. The house was immaculate. You must have cleaned it."

For the first time, Malfoy shifts uncomfortably. It reminds her how close she is, how easily she sits in his half-embrace.

"I did." He admits.

Hermione wonders when he will stop surprising her. Wonders why he would spend time and magic cleaning a muggle house for a girl he barely knew and distinctly hated. Wonders if that was his penance.

"They're alive, you know?"

He nods, once. "I know. She knew it, too."

"Good." Hermione nearly snarls. The satisfaction she gets from knowing Bellatrix Lestrange died a failure at something is primal. It almost makes the unbearable guilt she feels worth it.

"You might have taken the choice from them, Granger," Draco murmurs, "But you saved their lives. At least they get to be alive to make other choices."

Hermione sighs. "I know. I just wish I wasn't the one who has to live with the awareness of that choice."

They are silent, together, for a long time. The fire has fallen nearly into embers when Draco moves, letting the arm across her shoulders tug her slightly closer to him. Hermione doesn't fight it.

"You know, when I admitted I could cast an avada, you didn't ask questions."

Hermione nods, her cheek pressed into the softness of his shirt. She's reminded of Ron's woolly sweater today; of how she had defended Draco Malfoy.

"I could say the same for you." She replies. "You didn't ask how I knew I could cast one."

"Fenrir Greyback," Draco answers. "We both know that was no stunning spell you shot at the Battle."

Hermione flushes, "How… how did you know?"

"I saw it. Had a hell of a time convincing Trelawney it was a stunning spell she had seen."

Hermione wrenches her head back, her palm resting on Draco's chest. "You… you…?"

Draco rolls his eyes, "Well I knew Scarface and Weasel wouldn't rat you out, but an Unforgiveable is an Unforgiveable, Granger. You'd have been tried, same as any of us if anyone found out."

Hermione huffs, "And easily pardoned since he deserved — since it was Fenrir Greyback! I don't regret it, not for one second."

The image of Lavender Brown, bloody and defeated under the werewolf's hulking body, is one she's never been able to scrub from her nightmares. The flash of green that had sprung from her wand, poisonous words on her lips. The look in his eyes as he had fallen.

Many things haunt Hermione Granger from the war. The death of Fenrir Greyback is not one of them. She only wishes she had been faster; wishes she had arrived with enough seconds to spare Lavender Brown's life.

"That's why you could cast it, you know. Because you meant it." Draco murmurs. Hermione glances at him only to find he is staring at her. He drops the book from his hand and raises it slowly to her face. He rubs his thumb along her cheek, resting his palm against the hollow of her throat. He's never looked so intense before, and Hermione realizes she never asked about when he first cast an avada about a second before he pulls her close and kisses her.

It feels like centuries since she's felt his lips on hers, and she clambers onto his lap with an embarrassing lack of grace. Draco's palm sits heavily on the back of her neck, his other arm following her to her new position. It's thrilling to be taller than him for once. Words — so many things she wants to say to him — so many questions to ask, and yet her voice keeps failing her.

Draco does not have this problem. He kisses her fiercely, dragging his mouth away to make a trail to her neck, pressing kisses down her skin. She's gasping against the heat he leaves in his wake.

"Granger," he murmurs, "Granger."

She feels her own fingertips digging into his shoulders, scrambling for purchase. It seems as if they grow broader by the day, and Hermione lets one of her hands snake up the back of his neck into his blonde hair, encouraging his mouth to continue its path.

She startles slightly when she feels his palm on her breast, and he freezes — the same way he had done days before. Hermione forces herself to think and pulls back slightly, meeting silver eyes and the full weight of Draco Malfoy's focused attention.

"I'm not scared," she breathes.

"You told me you were," Draco argues. She remembers that day — in the alley. The weight of her new bracelet on her wrist, and Draco staring at her, telling her not to be frightened.

"Not of you," Hermione admits. It's like they're sharing the same air.

She's not entirely sure if she's said the right thing until Draco nearly lunges forward, turning her easily to land on her back on the couch. It's sudden, and she barely has time to recover before his weight is pressed against her, his mouth against the shell of her ear.

"Granger," he murmurs, "tell me to stop."

She ignores him, and scrapes her nails up the back of his shirt, "I want you to take this off."

It's as if her words have given him permission because instead of doing what she's asked, Draco Malfoy curls his fingertips into the hem of her sweater and tugs it up. She lets herself wriggle out of it and finds him staring down at her plain black bra. Which she barely fills out.

She can feel her blush spreading over her skin, increased tenfold when Malfoy simply presses his lips to her chest.

"Can I take this off?" He asks, the heat of his breath on her skin going straight to her head. Hermione feels like she could burst into flame — she's not sure if she's embarrassed or turned on. She's never been this turned on.

"Your shirt," she squeaks. If he's taking off her bra, he better be at least as naked as she is.

He reaches for the buttons on his shirt and nearly tears it in half with his impatience. The firelight has him glowing nearly gold, and some part of her feels nearly hysterical with the fact that Draco Malfoy is undressing on top of her.

He throws his shirt down, and Hermione reaches a hand up to trace at his skin. He's covered in scars — she's hardly one to speak. The puckered and pockmarked remains of her left side haunt her daily. Draco, however, is beautiful. His skin is pale as moonlight, with a line of thick scar tissue bisecting him from his left pectoral to his right hipbone; she follows its path with her fingertips.

"Sectumsempra," she whispers. "I could have killed Harry for that."

Draco's hand catches her own, pressing her palm further into his skin. He feels like he's burning up. She looks up to meet his eyes.

"Let's not talk about Potter right now, okay?" Draco quirks one corner of his mouth up, a crooked grin she's never seen from him before.

"Okay," she agrees easily, pulling herself up onto her elbows and unhooking the back of her bra. She drags the straps down her arms when Malfoy makes no move to help her, and swallows before throwing the garment away.

Silver eyes devour her only seconds before his mouth is on her — Hermione nearly writhes under him when he palms her breast at the same time as he pulls a nipple into his mouth. She feels ready to combust, and realizes that her hands are utterly useless at her sides, not even touching him back.

"Malfoy," she breathes, lifting them to rest against the heat of his ribcage.

"Granger," he answers, dragging his mouth back towards her own. His lips are shiny, and she kisses him easily, as though she's done it a thousand times before. He's got one hand wrapped in her hair, and she feels his fingers sliding towards her hip bones. He reaches the edge of her black underwear, and Hermione allows her own palm to slide against the front of his trousers, relieved to find that he is every inch as invested as she is in the proceedings.

Her wards ignite, the warning sounding mere seconds before a loud knock at the door startles them both. Hermione stares up at Malfoy, now crouched over her half-naked, his wand already somehow in his hand and fury written on his face.

"Granger," he hisses, "who the hell could that be?"

Hermione pulls her arms across her chest. "Erm, it's… it's either Ron or Harry."

"I'm going to hex them," he tells her resolutely, and then pulls away, tossing her the bra she had discarded. She dresses hastily, throwing her sweater back on and rushing to the door. Every fibre of her feels as though she could combust; either from embarrassment or from the lack of release.

She opens her door aggressively as Malfoy is tucking his shirttails into his trousers, and stares into Harry Potter's face.

"This better be important, Potter." Malfoy hisses from somewhere behind her.

Harry's green eyes take in her hair, and Hermione flushes all over again. She must look a fright. Harry looks disgusted momentarily.

"Sorry," he does not sound apologetic, and Hermione unwillingly releases the door so he can enter their cottage. He surveys the couch with distaste, the way the blanket is laying on the ground haphazardly. "Looks like I'm interrupting."

"You aren't," Hermione protests at the same moment that Malfoy confirms he was, in fact, interrupting something.

"Ugh," Harry groans, "Stop. I just wanted to let you know Fortescue's is a no-go this evening."

"Fortescue's?" Draco asks.

"You didn't even tell him?" Harry scowls at her, "What have you been doing for the past hour, shagging like bloody teenagers?"

Hermione is absolutely positive she is a colour of red no one has ever seen before, and she hisses Harry's name in a warning at the same time that Malfoy pins her with a stare.

"What were you supposed to tell me, Granger?" His words are accusing — as though she has tricked him, somehow. She rolls her eyes; she's hardly conniving enough to use sex to distract him.

"Rita Skeeter cornered me at work today to ask me how long my affair with known Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, had been going on." Hermione intones.

Draco's expression filters through disbelief and rage, and lands on very tightly controlled displeasure. "And what, exactly, did you tell her?"

"Nothing," Harry interrupts, "I simply threatened her into not asking her questions, and then dragged Hermione away. We made a plan, and she was supposed to go to the Nott Estate to speak to Luna to get a spot for an interview in the Quibbler. Then later this evening you were going to be purposefully photographed together with Ginny and me having a spot of ice cream. All acting friendly."

"And I'm going to dance at Blaise and Padma's wedding with Ron. You're going to cut in." Hermione adds into the silence after Harry's words.

"I am, am I?" Draco sighs.

"Yeah," Hermione agrees. She feels her bra strap twisted under her sweater, and it's mortifying, even if neither man in the room knows it's there. "He's going to let you."

Draco runs a palm through his hair, tidying the blonde strands. Hermione's mind naturally strays to where those hands had been only minutes before.

"As far as plans go, it's not the worst, Granger." He finally says.

Hermione frowns. "I know, that's why it's my plan."

"Yes," Harry interrupts again, looking very much like he wishes he could be anywhere else on the planet, "Hence why it's such a shame we have to cancel the Fortescue's part."

"Why?" Hermione and Draco ask at the same time.

Harry rolls his eyes towards the roof, as though praying for patience. "Gin has reminded me that we had… er — we have plans."

Malfoy suddenly looks quite cheerful, "Hmm, don't tell me you've forgotten some sort of anniversary with the Weaselette? Trouble in paradise, Potter?"

"Listen here, Malfoy—"

"Stop!" Hermione snapped, drawing the stares of both boys. "Harry, that's fine, honestly. Now get out. Say hi to Ginny for us, will you?"

Harry glanced over to Malfoy, standing looking rather rumpled and quite peevish. Hermione tilts her head towards the door when Harry's green eyes finally meet hers.

"Fine!" Harry concedes, "Fine. I'm leaving."

"Thanks for coming by Harry," Hermione adds, a thin vein of sarcasm in her voice. "Perhaps next time you could just owl me, yes?"

Harry opens his mouth to retort, but Hermione closes the door before he gets the chance. In some ways, Hermione feels vindicated — how many times had she rushed in and caught Ginny and Harry in some compromising position? He owes her. Still, the fire under her skin has abated, and Hermione doesn't know when she'll work up the bravery to kiss Malfoy again. Her forehead comes to rest on the wood of her door, and she breathes slowly until she hears the telltale crack of Harry's apparition.

When she forces herself to turn from the door, Draco is still watching her.

"I suppose we should go see Luna, then." She murmurs, somehow exhausted to the bone at the prospect.

Draco might as well be made of stone for all the emotion he is currently showing her. "We don't have to. Skeeter doesn't run the Prophet. She can be silenced."

"Oh, I know," Hermione scowls, "And I intend to deal with her soon. But it's time, don't you think? I'm sick of hiding. Let's just… get it over with."

"So eager to become a Death Eater's wife," Draco sneers; the expression is ugly on his face, and Hermione is so tired of the way they seem to move two steps forward and then leap backwards.

"I'm your wife." She snaps, her fists reflexively finding her hips. "Yours, Draco Malfoy. If you don't want me, then tell me now and we'll continue hiding."

She watches from only an arm's length away as Draco swallows but remains silent. As silent as she had been in the face of Ron accusing her of liking Malfoy. The silence speaks volumes.

"You do want me," she breathes, nearly startled at her own conclusion.

Draco is frozen; she has noticed he is good at being nearly invisible. Unnoticeable, unless someone was staring straight at him. A trick that had probably kept him alive in the war; old habits, and all that rot.

"I thought that was obvious." He finally says, voice low and heavy with heat. This time, he steps towards her, bringing his chest close enough to brush at her own. At his full height, he towers over her. Years ago, he had used this to make her feel small. Now, she's not sure what she feels.

"It wasn't," Hermione admits, raising her hand to rest against the silk of his shirt, the diamond ring on her finger glittering in the firelight. "Not to me."

Slowly, he tucks a single curl gently behind her ear. She wonders if she's the only person alive who knows how gentle Draco Malfoy is capable of being when he wants to be. "It should have been."

Hermione shrugs, "It's okay. I'm not very… good at this."

"Marriage?" Draco snarks, his hand slowly dropping from her face.

Hermione laughs, and snags his hand on the way down, clasping it tightly in her own. "No. Well, yes. But I meant sex."

She says it bluntly — as if the delivery of the word will somehow make it seem less terrifying to her. It's not that she's never had sex; it's that she's never had sex with Malfoy.

Surprise rocks across his face, closely followed by what Hermione realizes is desire. He folds himself downwards quickly, surprising her by pressing his mouth against the corner of her lips.

"How about we both go to Theo's and talk to Luna," He says, silver eyes boring into hers. "And then we can get a few pictures for the Quibbler. Then perhaps I could take you to dinner."

"On Diagon?"

He winces, "Granger, I wasn't exaggerating when I said they're going to turn on you. They'll hate you."

"Then it should be apparent to everyone how much we don't hate each other," Hermione concludes primly. "It's always better to be hated as a team, don't you think?"

Draco closes his eyes and heaves a sigh, as though she is the one causing him problems. She grimaces at the thought — she supposes she has complicated his life, though he has done the same to hers.

Hermione mirrors his sigh, her hand still clasped in his. "I guess now would be the time to tell you that Kingsley got paired with Rosmerta and is out of hiding."

Draco's eyes snap open. "Rosmerta? Like… Madam Rosmerta, owner of The Three Broomsticks?"

"Yes," Hermione replies, recalling his sordid history with Madam Rosmerta, and how he had imperio'd her. "The very same."

"Well, that's trouble," Draco mutters.

"Because she hates you?"

"No," Draco snaps, "because once again the WPG revolves around power, Granger. Don't you get it?"

Hermione gapes at him. "What… what do you mean? Rosmerta and Kingsley have nothing in common. She's pretty enough — but she's an innkeeper, and he's the Minister of Magic."

Draco sighs. "Granger, you are the brightest bloody witch I've ever met, and sometimes I wonder how you managed to survive all these years."

Hermione huffs, "Well, I apologize that while every last boy in Hogwarts was taking a crash course in all of Madam Rosmerta's particular charms, I was busy studying actual important information."

Draco laughs — it's such an uncommon occurrence that Hermione forgets to be annoyed. "Granger, no. It's not that. Rosmerta is a goldmine of information. Imagine how many people she knows; the conversations she's overheard. When she was under imperio, she was one of the Dark Lord's greatest assets."

Hermione blinks. "Are you… serious?"

"Deadly," Draco confirms. "If Kingsley planned this, it's because he's pairing her knowledge with his power."

The Daily Prophet article flashes through her mind again: 'Minister Returns from Romantic Honeymoon in Berlin.'

"It's her," Hermione breathes. It's like a lightning strike to her brain.

"What?"

"It's her — it's her — Draco, the matches!" Hermione can't get her sentences to come out in order, but understanding has lit up on Draco's face,

"You think Madam Rosmerta gave the Ministry the information to match people?" Draco's eyebrows have furrowed. "That's mad, Granger."

Hermione huffs, "But I'm right! You know I'm right. Who else would know that Neville is a bloody herbology genius, and Pansy's family has potioneering experience? Who else would know about Katie Bell and the Cleansweep—"

Malfoy seizes her cheeks in both hands and kisses her full on the mouth. He's got a grin on his face she's never seen before.

"Bloody brilliant witch." He mutters, and Hermione launches herself on her tiptoes to press closer to him. She's only kissed him for a handful of seconds before she pulls away.

"But why was she paired with Kingsley," she frowns, ignoring Draco's sigh of frustration. "Why would she give her information to the Ministry?"

"Granger, I hardly expect we'll get all the answers in one day. Let's go see Luna first, and then maybe Taffy could deliver a letter to Madam Rosmerta for us, hmm?"

Hermione can feel herself smiling at him, the one that she gets when she's finally had a breakthrough in her research. Ron had always told her she looked a bit mental when she did that. Draco doesn't seem to notice, since he's still watching her, the same grin on his lips.

"Alright," she agrees easily. He drops his arms from around her and steps back, but Hermione has conquered dark wizards and her N.E. ., and her husband doesn't scare her.

She twines her fingers into his gently, squeezing once, and tugs him towards their front door.