31.

A new routine established itself almost effortlessly. Hermione stayed at her father's for another week, before Harry deemed it safe to go home. There had been no more threats, and no more flowers, and her father's small flat had started feeling crowded. Claustrophobic. So Hermione had gone back home, and then she'd just had the opposite problem of rattling around in a quiet, too-big house that felt dusty and lonely. Empty. She began looking at real estate online, although she didn't say anything to Ron. And she started to wonder if the anonymous flower sender and rabbit killer had lost their nerve. Hermione hoped so.

Harry hadn't managed to uncover any evidence of anything nefarious, although he was trying to finagle a meeting with Usbourne, who was still the most obvious suspect. But the unfortunate part of stricter, fairer rules in the Ministry was that a prisoner couldn't be forced to take part in an interview against their will except in particular circumstances, which this situation didn't yet meet. Malfoy and Harry were both equally infuriated by that, and oddly both seemed to think they should just be able to bend the rules. Hermione disagreed. But as it was, it meant it would take some red tape and time for Harry to get to talk to Caritas Usbourne.

Malfoy was convinced it was Usbourne; Hermione wasn't so sure, and Harry seemed like he leaned toward Usbourne but didn't want to outright agree with Malfoy, refusing to make a judgement yet. But there was no evidence. Since his imprisonment, his entire family had closed ranks and retreated to their estate, no longer attending society functions, an appointed family representative handling the restructuring of Usbourne Potions and bringing the business practices up to standard. Harry had hit a dead end, until he could get in to see Caritas.

Hugo wrote and told her that he got detention for eating a gobstone, and Rose wrote twice, mostly to remind her mother about shopping for the ball, which they got done one Saturday, buying Rose a beautiful golden confection that should fit in with the wizarding gowns the other girls were mostly wearing, but would still stand out. It made Rose look like a Disney Princess; like a redheaded Belle, almost. Beautiful, and so elegant.

Hermione and Malfoy still had their lunches Tuesdays and Thursdays; Tuesdays at the Muggle pub near the Ministry, and Thursday's at The Veela's Folly. They had five lunch dates before the Ministry's Halloween do, which fell on a Thursday and meant they'd have to reschedule lunch for Friday. Hermione quietly planned on spending the afternoon of the 31st taking off work and having her hair and nails done, and just a touch of professional make-up. She had a secretive urge to have a fantastic transformation she could stun Malfoy with. Like the classic movie makeover. Or what Rose called a glow up.

With Rose's help she'd already bought a criminally expensive chiffon maxi dress in a rich chocolate colour that made her look warm and glowing, with a deep v neckline, full layered skirt and panelling that somehow made her waist look more defined. Except it had no sleeves; that made her nervous. She would manage, though.

In the meantime, there were no more wild kisses or rule-breaking, even though they'd taken Rose and Scorpius out to Hogsmeade again and walked past the stone circle, new memories joining the old. An unspoken agreement seemed to have settled between them to try to keep things above board after the press dredged up another completely harmless photograph of them and tried to create scandal out of it.

So instead they talked. Mostly casual conversation about the minutiae of their individual lives, like windows into each others worlds; Hermione's dad, Scorpius's ball robes, Hugo's tendency to accept every dare, the school at Ilkley's latest fund-raiser, Christmas plans, and Malfoy's appearances at his parents' dinner parties – "I'd rather have dinner with Weasley, that's how much I hate them, Granger." And then there was the more general small talk; new wizarding and Muggle novels, interesting advancements in magic, and discussion of Ministry policies, alongside Malfoy's new-found enjoyment of Muggle movies, and Hermione's attempts to explain why people wanted to watch reality TV. And those topics had a tendency to twist and tangle, segueing from one thing into something entirely different.

And now and then innuendo would creep in. Or Malfoy would whisper something blatantly filthy against Hermione's cheek when he kissed her hello or goodbye, sending trickles of delicious heat through her. And there were plenty of meaningful looks, and feet bumped together under tables, and arms pressed together as they leaned side by side on the balcony railing at the Folly and stared out over the stark sea, birds wheeling over the cliffs.

Sexual frustration became the backdrop to Hermione's life; mostly an ignorable hum, but occasionally a gasping, ravenous beast. And when she touched herself in bed at night – which happened more often than usual – it took just a quarter of the time before she had to bite her lip on the exhalation of a moan as climax broke over her in waves.

"You look lovely this morning," Malfoy murmured one Wednesday morning when they were alone in the lift at work amongst a flurry of interdepartmental memos, as he stood very close behind her. She was being brave by wearing her new black pencil dress to work, forearms partially exposed, the neckline putting her necklace and a hint of cleavage on show. After all, she wore her robes over top during a hearing. Malfoy's fingers just grazed down the base of her spine, and skimmed across the small of her back. "You're killing me, Granger.

Her breath shuddered in, her body very still as prickling tingles washed over her. "Malfoy," she protested, her lips barely moving, not sure whether she wanted him to elaborate or hush.

"As soon as you're free of these ridiculous rules, I'm going to –" And then with perfect – awful – timing the lift rattled and dinged to a halt on Malfoy's floor, and he broke off. "I'll see you tomorrow for lunch, Granger," he murmured, lips nearly touching the shell of her ear and then walked out smoothly, brushing past Hermione with a faint whisper of fabric and catching the lift door just before it slid shut again. Leaving her standing alone in the lift, her chest rising and falling too fast and hard, and her pulse whooshing frantically.

Hermione began to count the days until Christmas.


"Last we heard from James, he said he'd apologised to Rose and Scorpius again," Ginny said over the music, champagne flute grasped delicately in one hand as she wrapped an arm around her middle, relaxed in her seat, high heels kicked off casually. She looked fantastic, her hair long and loose, her lean, athletic form draped in a deceptively simple black satin gown. "Which is bullshit," she added bluntly. "I'm sure he thinks he had his reasons, or that Scorpius contributed, but until James admits why he did it, it's all a bit crap, really. Shirking responsibility. Ugh. It's not like him to act like this. I don't understand it."

Hermione shrugged, sitting more stiffly than Ginny despite two glasses of champagne as social lubricant; not half as at ease as the younger woman and slightly envious of Ginny's innately elegant unselfconsciousness. Ginny sighed, shaking her head over her eldest son. Much like Molly, and Hermione herself – she hoped – Ginny was not one of those mothers who believed her precious child could do no wrong, and she could be hard on them at times.

"I know," Hermione said. "It was just so cruel. And I know that he's not like that normally. Then again, he is a teenage boy, Ginny. They're not known for being rational, and maybe he thinks he had a reason."

Both women turned to look at Harry, who sat across from them at the round table – one of many small tables that dotted the edges of the atrium, theirs positioned near one of the entrances to the atrium.

"Mm," Ginny acknowledged. "True." She grinned as Harry protested, and Hermione snickered as the two of them playfully bickered for a moment and she spectated. It had been a relief to arrive at the party and find that Ginny didn't want to talk about Ron, or Hermione's marriage, and hadn't acted awkward at all. She was just the same old Ginny as always – sharp, funny, and chatty. They'd chatted easily; whether Ginny wanted to do another season with the Holyhead Harpies, and about the recent love potion case – the witches involved had gone to the papers, and several shops including Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had 'temporarily' taken love potions off the shelves. And then of course, the incident with James, Scorpius, and Rose had come up.

"Really though, it seems like any of the three of them could explain what happened and why, and none of them will. So they're all to blame for that," Hermione said, although secretly she thought James was really the only one at fault – she didn't see how Scorpius could have provoked what had happened. But it might be unhelpful to say that, even if she thought it. "Hopefully James is genuinely truly sorry, and Scorpius seems to be coping better now, as far as I know." Hermione tried to be positive. "Who knows – as awful as what James did was, maybe the reason behind it was just some silly teenage tiff and nothing serious, and it'll blow over on its own."

"Fingers crossed. Merlin, teenagers can be tricky sometimes. I don't know why my mum insisted on having so many. Three will be more than enough."

"Ha, yes, two was enough for –" Hermione broke off as she suddenly caught sight of white-blond hair out of the corner of her eye, and her head turned before she could stop herself, alcohol in her blood making her slow. Her breath stuttered as excitement surged through her, followed by a horrible, sudden deflation as though she were a balloon someone had jammed a needle into. Malfoy, in a dark Edwardian influenced suit she'd seen him in before, looking elegant, sleek, and ridiculously attractive to Hermione's eyes. And Astoria on his arm, petite and delicate in a dress that dripped in crystals and beading and hugged her body, her hair in an elaborate up-do, her features and skin so perfect that Hermione suspected a glamour charm. She clung to Malfoy as they entered the huge, vaulted space, her dress sparkling in the light.

Hermione wanted to be sick as the two of them approached, Malfoy stiff at Astoria's side, his expression frozen and blank. She looked away, at Ginny, searching for words. There was no covering up this slip; from the look on Ginny's face the redhead knew exactly what had just gone through Hermione's head. "Erm, what was I saying?" she asked limply, and Ginny shot her a look; a flat-lipped half sympathetic smile, half grimace.

"She is his wife, Hermione," was all she said, flatly, a silent judgement in her eyes. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Hermione swallowed hard. She could hear Astoria's shoes now, clicking on the marble floor as they drew nearer.

"Ginny, I –"

"I know you and Ron are done, and you're going to divorce and that's fine. Whatever. He seems happy shacking up with Chastity, so no harm no foul in my opinion, with whatever it is that you're doing with Malfoy," Ginny rushed on, distaste in her voice as she said Malfoy's name, "but he's still married. It's hardly a surprise she's here."

Hermione wanted to argue that it wasn't like that; that Malfoy and Astoria had been separated for years, that they were married in name only, that they likely only hadn't divorced because of the stigma of it in the wizarding world. Except there Astoria was, glittering and chic, and draped all over Malfoy as she tugged him to a reluctant stop in front of the table. Hermione lifted her eyes to the pair of them. They didn't look very separated with the way Astoria leaned into Malfoy's side, his arm around her waist. He wasn't meeting her eyes. Hermione had been feeling beautiful and confident even with her arms bared, and now under Astoria's cool, almost feline gaze she felt suddenly very exposed. Exposed, mousey, and plain, in her unadorned gown, with her skin, hair, and make-up all less glamorous and perfect than Astoria's – and this close, Hermione could see it probably wasn't even a glamour charm; there was no tell-tale shimmer.

"Mrs Weasley. A pleasure to see you again," Astoria said, honing in on Hermione like a predator scenting blood, with a smile that was more like bared teeth. Hermione got the impression that the witch was marking her territory, and Malfoy was very clearly part of that. And Hermione knew that Astoria knew her name was Granger-Weasley. Her breath came fast and her pulse raced, feeling trembly as she forced a return smile, her last glass of champagne threatening to make a reappearance.

"Mrs Malfoy," Hermione said as smoothly as she could, and hated that Astoria was a Malfoy, the name like ashes on her tongue. Malfoy himself was still studiously avoiding her eyes, his jaw clenched and his eyes cold as he stared off into the middle distance, and it made Hermione want to slap him. The only meagre consolation was that Hermione was fairly certain he wanted to be as far away from Astoria as possible, his body language stiff with discomfort, his poker face itself a tell. Or maybe he just wanted to be away from the embarrassment of having her and his wife in the same place. Doubts crept into Hermione's head.

"And the famous Harry Potter and his wife. I don't believe we've ever formally met," Astoria enthused, the beading on her dress clicking softly as she moved. "Draco, darling, introduce me to the Potters."

"You clearly know who they are," he ground out flatly, unamused, but Astoria just laughed, tinkling and unworried.

"Manners, darling. This is a formal occasion, after all. I'd like a proper introduction."

Malfoy gritted his teeth and perfunctory formal introductions ensued facilitated by him, with cheek kisses and faux smiles, Astoria playing it up sickeningly. It culminated in Hermione having to stand and force herself to kiss the air beside Astoria's cheek, coldly furious and dangerously close to tears – before she came face to face with Malfoy. His eyes were tight, a mute misery and apology in the steel grey as he looked down at Hermione, and his jaw was clenched so tightly with suppressed anger that she feared he might snap his teeth off at the gums. She wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse. She was still filled with swirling doubts, in addition to her mortified misery.

"Ms Granger-Weasley," he greeted her expressionlessly. He'd never called her that before and Hermione immediately despised it. The name struck a great gulf between them – as if they were different people, strangers – and when he went to take her hand to brush his lips over her knuckles she hugged her middle and took a step back without even thinking. An instinctive retreat that was both rude, and blatantly broadcast her emotional state. Malfoy froze and then pulled his hand back, a brittle anger etched into his features. Astoria made a quiet, amused sound and Hermione wanted to sink into the floor.

"Malfoy," Hermione said shortly, inclining her head in acknowledgement instead, and his name came out sounding far too raw. Her tongue felt too thick in her mouth and her blood sluggish in her veins, a kind of impotent, ashamed anger seething through her. Self-loathing was muddled up with humiliation in a potent cocktail. Astoria's presence here like this made Hermione feel as though what she and Malfoy had was some tawdry little secret; as if she were a mistress, and the horrible thing was that technically that was true. She was. The woman currently standing at Malfoy's side, cool and graceful, was the one who belonged there. Hermione was the interloper.

Oh Merlin.

All the time they'd spent together so far suddenly felt like a lie, all the magical moments tainted and turned bitter, and Hermione felt tears prickle her eyes. She blinked them back, worried her mascara would run and just heighten her embarrassment even as she shuffled back a step and nearly bumped into Harry. He put his hand at the small of her back, and then made up for all the times he'd taken Ron's side recently by dipping his chin to murmur in her ear. "Chin up, 'Mione. You're better than either of the fuckers." It was clear he didn't quite fully understand the dynamics of the situation, but that encouragement gave strength to Hermione's spine and she straightened, looking over her shoulder to wobble a smile at Harry, whispering a thanks.

Ginny and Astoria exchanged a few pleasantries as Hermione stood rooted to the spot like a tree stump, arms still wrapped around her waist as Harry stood silently beside her. She got the distinct impression that all persons present couldn't wait for Astoria and Malfoy to leave, save Astoria, who looked very pleased with the effect she knew she was having. Hermione seethed inwardly as she tried not to look Malfoy in the eye. Was she angry with him? She decided she was, as she forced herself to drop her arms and pick up a champagne glass, so she didn't look like an upright log propped against Harry. Surely Malfoy could've at least told her that Astoria had decided to tag along, so that she could've been prepared for it.

"You both look lovely," Astoria said then, including Hermione in her statement and driving home a masterfully passive aggressive jab with a sweet smile on her lips. Her eyes swept cuttingly over Hermione. "Where did you get your gown, Hermione?"

Hermione inwardly cringed, her heart compressing and her gut lurching. Astoria was embodying the epitome of a Mean Girl right now, and Hermione wasn't equipped to handle it. She had no clever comeback, just the truth. "It's a Muggle design, actually," she said, feeling like a lamb to the slaughter, just knowing she had to be exposing herself to some kind of horrible criticism. In her peripheral vision she saw Malfoy stiffen and look away. She suddenly hated everything about her dress. The cut, the lack of sleeves, the way the chiffon on the bodice layered, and even the colour. Who bought a brown dress? It could hardly be more boring if she tried. Her fingers clenched on the stem of her champagne flute.

"Oh," Astoria said delicately, eyebrows lifting just slightly, mouth making an 'o' as she drew the sound out faintly. "I see. That explains it."

Hermione walked right into the trap without even thinking about it, too flustered to stop and think before she filled in the horrible, awkward silence. "Explains what?"

Malfoy groaned aloud, the sound just barely audible, and Hermione glanced at him in time to see him pinch the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply as he exuded a frustrated anger. Astoria's smile grew and twisted into faux sympathy. "It's..." She eyed Hermione, who felt like a bug under the other witch's eyes. "Well, I suppose what's in fashion in the Muggle world is very different to wizarding fashion," she offered, a mortal blow, and then twisted the knife by adding patronisingly: "It looks very nice on you though."

"Tori!" Malfoy snapped as though he couldn't bear another second, and in a way his intervention on Hermione's behalf just made it worse. More humiliating. Especially the familiar way he said Astoria's name. It rushed over her sickeningly that as special as it felt to her, Malfoy called Hermione by her last name, and Astoria by a shortening of her first.

"What, Draco, darling? I said Hermione looks nice," Astoria emphasised, laying her hand over Malfoy's wrist. Hermione saw his fingers curling up. "Don't you think she looks nice tonight?" Malfoy was silent, a muscle in his jaw twitching as Hermione met his grey eyes and saw a dull, hopeless fury as Astoria played them both. "Draco?" Astoria prompted sweetly.

"I suppose so," Malfoy grated, the words clipped and pained, and totally insincere. His eyes were shuttered; unreadable. Hermione stood motionless and wordless, feeling as though he'd slapped her full across the face, her breath caught in her throat, her free hand pressing flat against her diaphragm. There was a knot behind her sternum, aching and tight. There had been no way for him to win that, Hermione knew. No right answer, given that he couldn't just be honest in front of Astoria, Harry, and Ginny – it would be akin to removing both of their hearts from their chests and holding them out for examination. And yet Hermione still felt as though he'd struck her. She still felt like a plain little mouse compared to Astoria.

"And such a lovely necklace. Why, it looks just like the one you gave me for our fifth anniversary, Draco," Astoria added, and that was it. Hermione couldn't take anymore. She found herself wondering if Astoria was telling the truth, even though she knew that surely Malfoy wouldn't have done that – and was currently quietly disagreeing with Astoria – and Hermione couldn't take another minute of it. She broke, setting her champagne glass down too hard with a dull chink and gesturing toward the other side of the atrium where she could see Mariska.

"I should go – I have to..."

"Of course. Lovely to see you, Hermione," Astoria said swiftly, as Hermione made her fumbling excuses and shot Harry and Ginny apologetic looks, while Malfoy just stood there silently, looking oddly defeated. Then as Hermione walked past Astoria, the witch laid her fingers on Hermione's forearm, the soft, cool touch briefly halting her. Astoria tapped the inner skin of Hermione's arm, right over the nearly invisible scarring. "You know, a glamour would do wonders for that," she said with a sly pointedness, and Hermione squeezed her hand into a fist as fury struck through her.

Malfoy made a short, dismayed noise, and then Astoria's grip on her was tugged away as he pulled his wife firmly against his side. "Come on Tori, dear, let's get you some champagne," he said, his tone deadly, and Astoria – perhaps wisely – didn't argue, letting Malfoy guide her away without protest. But then she'd already done the damage she'd aimed to do Hermione thought dully, as she scooped up her champagne and plopped back into her seat. She didn't scurry off, not now that Malfoy and Astoria had.

"That right there, is part of why getting involved with Malfoy is a bad idea," Ginny said as she resumed her seat, not unkindly. "She may not want him, but she won't willingly give up his name and the position in society it gives her. And she can be nasty." Hermione was starting to realise that; she still felt ill, on the verge of bursting into tears, her forearm pressed to her middle to hide it, like an idiot. Still, she'd looked into it – if Malfoy filed for divorce, there wasn't much Astoria could do about it. Not legally, at least. Hermione wondered again how much Malfoy actually wanted to be divorced, or whether he was expecting her to put up with being his mistress because she was a Muggleborn and not bound by tradition. Merlin.

"Plus, Malfoy's an ass," Harry added sympathetically as he stood behind Ginny's chair, absently kneading his wife's shoulders. Well, Hermione wouldn't disagree with that right now, as tears from the ambush glistened in her eyes, and anger and distress twisted through her. Astoria had won; Hermione felt small, and frumpy, and undesirable, and she was angry at Malfoy for half a dozen different things. She scooped up her champagne and downed it in three gulps.

"I need the loo," she said shortly, and then fled after all.