Thank you for reading and for the reviews, especially MsAwesome2U who has written a review for every chapter and put a smile on my face. Enjoy!
The room Hermione had been given at Malfoy Manor felt like something from another world—grand and imposing, with tall windows framed by heavy silver and green curtains that allowed only the faintest moonlight to seep in. The bed, with its towering, intricately carved posts, loomed over her, the velvet hangings casting shadows that shifted in the low light. It was beautiful, no doubt, but there was an air of distant coldness to it. She felt out of place, as though the room itself were assessing her, waiting to see if she truly belonged in such an ancient, pure-blooded space.
She had tried to sleep, but her mind kept wandering. The manor was steeped in history, but it wasn't the kind that welcomed her. Even with Draco's warmth earlier in the day, the house itself felt like it held secrets she wasn't meant to uncover. And then there was Narcissa—a constant, poised shadow that followed her every move. Even when Narcissa wasn't in the room, Hermione felt her presence lingering, as though the very walls were judging her under the weight of pure-blood scrutiny. She was a guest here, but under constant evaluation.
A soft creak drew her attention to the door, and her heart leapt into her throat as the handle turned. Draco slipped through the door like a shadow, his pale features softened by the dim light that only made the sharp edges of his cheekbones more prominent. There was a quiet intensity in his movements, as if he was both cautious and determined. Hermione's heart raced as she sat up quickly, clutching the blanket to her chest, the weight of his presence filling the room.
"Draco, what are you doing here?" she whispered urgently, her voice a mix of surprise and concern. Her eyes darted to the door, half-expecting Narcissa to appear at any moment. "You can't be here. If your mother—"
"I know," he interrupted, his voice low and calming as he approached the bed. "But I couldn't sleep. I needed to see you."
"Needed to see me?" Her voice wavered with a mixture of concern and confusion. "Draco, if we're caught…"
"We won't be," Draco assured her, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers brushed against hers, sending a small spark of warmth through her that grounded them both. "It's just us. No one will know."
Hermione bit her lip, still glancing toward the door. "But what if they—"
"They won't," Draco repeated, his hand moving to cup her cheek. "It's just me, Hermione. Just us."
The weight of his words made her heart stutter, the intensity in his eyes holding her in place. Slowly, the tension began to drain from her shoulders, though the flutter of nerves still churned in her stomach.
Draco leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. It was familiar and comforting, and yet, there was something different about it tonight. He was closer, more deliberate. She returned the kiss, letting the warmth of it wrap around her, but when his hand slid to her waist, and then lower, she pulled back, her pulse quickening.
"Draco… I—" Her breath caught as she looked away, her voice lowering with hesitation. "I've never… gone that far before."
Draco's brow furrowed slightly, and his hand fell from her waist. "You've never…?"
"Had sex," she clarified in a rush, her face burning. "I mean, I've kissed before but… I've never gone any further. And I thought… well, I thought maybe that's what you wanted."
Draco's expression softened immediately, and he shifted so that he was sitting beside her on the bed, facing her fully. "Hermione," Draco's voice softened, his gaze steady on hers. "I didn't come here for that. I wouldn't… I care about you too much to push you into something you're not ready for." His hand found hers again, squeezing gently. "I'm here because I want to be with you, not because of what I expect."
Hermione exhaled slowly, the knot in her chest loosening. "Really?"
"Really." He smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "We're not on anyone else's timetable. Just ours. I'm not in any hurry, and I don't want you to feel like you have to be, either."
Relief washed over her, and she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. "Thank you."
Draco pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Of course. I'm not going anywhere."
The library at Malfoy Manor was a sanctuary—an unexpected reprieve from the swirling expectations of the house. Tall, dark shelves reached up to the ceiling, filled with ancient tomes and delicate scrolls, and the air smelled of parchment and polished wood. Hermione had spent what felt like hours wandering the room, her fingers brushing reverently over the spines of books she had only ever read about in passing. The weight of history pressed down on her, but not in a way that suffocated; it was more like a quiet invitation to get lost.
Now, settled into one of the deep armchairs near the hearth, Hermione felt herself relax in a way she hadn't since stepping foot in the manor. Across from her, Snape sat in a similar chair, his face mostly obscured by a thick tome he held open in his lap. They had been sitting in silence for some time, each absorbed in their respective readings, and for once, the quiet felt comfortable, almost like companionship.
Hermione allowed herself a moment to drift, her thoughts wandering. She hadn't expected to feel this at ease in such a place. After everything that had happened—Draco's sneaking into her room, her own conflicted feelings about it, and the undercurrent of tension that seemed to follow them both around—this was a welcome moment of calm.
She thought of Draco, about their conversation the night before. Was he as uncertain as she was? Did he feel the same knot of nerves that sat in her stomach when they were together? She shook the thoughts away, refocusing on the pages in front of her, but her mind kept slipping back to him and the peculiar comfort she found here with Snape.
The crackle of the fire filled the room, punctuated only by the quiet rustle of turning pages. It was peaceful, almost serene, and Hermione found herself thinking that, in another life, she could spend weeks here, losing herself in the endless knowledge of the Malfoy family library.
"You've been quiet for too long," Snape's voice broke the silence, smooth and dark, like the whisper of old parchment. He didn't look up from his book, but the teasing lilt in his tone was unmistakable.
Hermione smiled to herself, closing her own book softly and leaning back in her chair. "I was just thinking."
Snape's lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement crossing his face as he turned a page. "Dangerous pastime."
"Please," Hermione shot back, her smile widening despite herself. "You, of all people, should know a thing or two about brooding and endless thinking."
He finally looked up from his book, one brow arched in mock challenge. "Touché, Miss Granger."
They lapsed back into silence for a moment, the banter adding a sense of warmth to the space between them. Snape, for all his sharpness, had become an unlikely ally since she had arrived at the manor. The once-intimidating figure had softened slightly—though he would never admit it—into someone she could share these moments of quiet understanding with.
"You've taken to this library rather well," Snape observed, his voice tinged with mild amusement as his eyes drifted over the growing pile of books stacked around her. "Practically making it your own. You seem quite at home."
Hermione gave a small shrug, feigning nonchalance. "It's hard not to be, with a library like this. I could spend years here and never get bored."
Snape smirked, a rare expression that softened his usually stern features. "And here I thought the Ministry was more your speed these days. You don't strike me as someone content with dusty old tomes."
"Don't underestimate me, Professor," Hermione replied, leaning forward slightly, her grin mischievous. "I can be both."
Snape chuckled, his eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Of that, I have no doubt."
Before she could respond, the door to the library creaked open, and the cool presence of Narcissa Malfoy filled the room. Her gaze flicked between the two of them, her expression unreadable, though there was a slight narrowing of her eyes as they settled on Hermione.
"Severus," Narcissa greeted smoothly, her tone perfectly controlled, though there was always a trace of something unspoken lurking beneath the surface. She had a way of making every word feel like a test, and Hermione braced herself for whatever came next. "Miss Granger. I trust you are finding everything to your liking?"
Hermione straightened slightly, feeling the weight of Narcissa's scrutiny. "Yes, Mrs. Malfoy. The library is... remarkable."
Narcissa's lips curved into something resembling a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm glad you think so. Our collection has been curated for generations. I do hope it provides you with all the knowledge you seek."
There was something in her tone, a veiled implication that Hermione couldn't quite unravel. Narcissa was always playing a game of subtlety and social manoeuvring, and Hermione could never shake the feeling that every word was a test.
"Indeed," Snape added smoothly, rising from his chair. "I believe Miss Granger has already made good use of the resources available. She's practically glowing with excitement."
Hermione shot him a sharp look, but Snape's smirk only widened, clearly enjoying her discomfort.
"Is that so?" Narcissa's gaze lingered on Hermione a moment longer before she turned to Snape. "Severus, might I have a word? There are some matters I wish to discuss with you."
Snape inclined his head, his expression shifting back to its usual inscrutability. "Of course."
As he followed Narcissa toward the door, Snape shot one last glance at Hermione, his dark eyes gleaming with something like amusement, though his expression was as neutral as ever. And then, with a sweep of his black robes, they were both gone, leaving Hermione alone once more in the quiet sanctuary of the library.
Hermione had only been at Malfoy Manor for three nights, but the experience had been strangely... pleasant. The Christmas meals with Draco, Narcissa, and even Professor Snape had been formal, but far warmer than she had expected. She had found herself sitting next to Draco more often than not, exchanging glances and touches when no one else was looking, and their garden walks had become a regular escape from the weight of the house's history.
Still, Hermione had avoided the west wing of the manor entirely. She knew exactly what lay there: that part of the manor still felt oppressive and unwelcoming, a lingering shadow of her past that she wasn't ready to face. But the rest of the house—particularly the library—had begun to feel almost familiar, and she found herself warming to Narcissa, despite her initial wariness.
On the last day of her stay, Hermione found herself walking once again through the manor's gardens with Draco. The frost-covered grounds sparkled in the winter sunlight, and the quiet between them was comfortable. But Hermione's mind was turning over the complexities of her time here, and the undercurrent of tension between herself, Draco, and his mother.
"It's strange," Hermione said softly, her breath fogging in the cold air, "how comfortable I've felt here, considering everything."
Draco glanced at her, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Comfortable? That's not usually a word people associate with Malfoy Manor."
"I suppose not," Hermione admitted, returning his smile. "But… your mother isn't what I expected."
Draco gave a small, knowing nod. "She has that effect on people."
Hermione hesitated before speaking again. "She's been... kinder than I thought she would be. I didn't expect her to warm up to me so quickly, especially after... everything."
Draco's smile faded a little, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his gaze turning ahead. "She's been planning this for a long time," Draco admitted, his voice dropping slightly. "Ever since the trials. She saw something in you that she thinks belongs here."
Hermione frowned. "The trials?"
Draco stopped walking, turning to face her fully. "After you helped with our trial, and Severus'... she saw something in you. Your determination, your relentlessness. She thinks those are Malfoy traits." He paused, his expression awkward. "She wants us to... end up together."
Hermione blinked, her stomach fluttering with unexpected nerves. "End up together?" The words felt heavy in the cold air, and her voice wavered slightly as she continued, "As in... married? Is that the theme of my visit?"
Draco winced slightly, clearly feeling the awkwardness too. "Yeah. That's... what she's been hoping for."
Hermione felt her cheeks flush as the realisation settled in. "That letter... the one she sent me? It wasn't just about helping you, was it? She's been planning this all along—testing the waters for something more."
"Yes," Draco said with a small laugh, though it lacked humour. "She's been playing matchmaker this whole time."
The weight of the conversation settled awkwardly between them, and Hermione's mind raced. Marriage? That was not something she had thought about—not seriously, anyway, until she'd come here. And now, here she was, standing in the middle of the Malfoy gardens, discussing love and marriage like it was a foregone conclusion. She wasn't sure she even wanted that. And Narcissa's pushiness? It added an unexpected layer of pressure.
"I'm... not sure what to say," Hermione admitted, her voice quiet.
Draco sighed, his eyes softening as he took a step closer to her. "You don't have to say anything. I know it's... a lot. She's always been like this—pushing, planning, trying to control things. I don't want you to feel pressured by any of it."
Hermione looked up at him, her emotions swirling. "Do you want that? I mean... is that what you want?"
Draco hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice low. "But I know I don't want to lose you."
The honesty in his words made her chest tighten, and despite the awkwardness, she reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "You're not going to lose me, Draco."
Before either of them could say more, the unmistakable sound of a scoff came from behind them, and they both turned to see Snape standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and his expression full of sardonic amusement.
"Touching," Snape drawled, clearly unimpressed. "Shall I leave you two to your... heartfelt discussion, or will it be over soon?"
Draco groaned, rolling his eyes. "Must you always be around, Snape?"
"I'm here to escort Miss Granger. Though shortly I will return her to Grimmauld Place," Snape replied dryly. "The Ministry presentation won't wait, and neither, I suspect, will your mother's patience."
Hermione sighed softly, turning back to Draco. There was an unspoken heaviness between them now, a shift in the air since their awkward discussion of Narcissa's plans. But there was also something she couldn't ignore—a pull toward him, even if everything wasn't fully clear in her mind yet.
"I suppose this is goodbye, then," Hermione said softly, the words lingering uncomfortably in the space between them.
Draco's eyes flicked over her face, his hand slipping back into hers, holding it just a little tighter. "For now," he murmured, his voice low, almost private.
Hermione hesitated, feeling the pull toward Draco. The instinct to close the gap between them, to maybe even kiss him, was strong—but just as she began to lean in, the faint sound of footsteps on the gravel path halted her, and she turned to see Narcissa gliding toward them with her usual grace. The interruption felt perfectly timed, as if Narcissa had sensed the moment was drawing too close to something intimate and had decided to intervene.
"Hermione," Narcissa greeted, her tone formal but not unkind. "I understand you'll be returning to Grimmauld Place now. I trust your stay has been... comfortable?"
Hermione straightened, releasing Draco's hand reluctantly. "Yes, Mrs. Malfoy, thank you. It's been..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's been enlightening."
Narcissa's lips curved into a small smile—barely more than a twitch. "Good. I'm pleased to hear that. I expect you'll return soon, of course?"
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the expectation in Narcissa's voice. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. Narcissa fully expected her to come back, as though her involvement with the Malfoys was now a given.
"I... I'm sure I will," Hermione managed, her voice a little tighter than she intended.
Draco, standing beside her, shifted slightly as though he wanted to say something, but before either of them could speak further, Snape stepped forward, his presence looming in that familiar, imposing way.
"If you've said your goodbyes, Miss Granger," Snape interrupted, his voice cool and controlled, "we should leave. The Ministry will not delay on your account."
Hermione turned to Draco again, feeling the weight of the unsaid things between them. She moved as if to hug him, a quick, impulsive gesture, but before she could close the distance, Snape cleared his throat pointedly, and Narcissa's sharp gaze caught hers. The weight of their expectations hung in the air—no need for displays of affection in front of Narcissa or Snape, it seemed.
Draco, sensing the tension, offered her a small, almost apologetic smile. He reached out, giving her hand one last gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Until next time, Hermione."
Hermione nodded, her heart fluttering strangely. "Until next time."
Narcissa stepped forward then, inclining her head slightly in a manner that was as close to warmth as the Malfoy matriarch seemed capable of. "We will look forward to it."
Snape's presence remained a shadow over them, his patience visibly thinning as he stood nearby, waiting. With a final glance at Draco, Hermione turned to follow Snape, her footsteps lighter but her thoughts heavier as they left the manor behind.
Hermione paced the corridor outside the Ministry chamber, her footsteps echoing in the vast, cold space. Her mind raced, replaying her presentation over and over, dissecting each argument, each carefully chosen phrase. She had focused so heavily on framing the proposal as a way to preserve wizarding traditions, all while modernizing the curriculum to include practical knowledge of Muggle life. That had been the key—showing them that this wasn't about upheaval or revolution, but about preserving the very traditions they held dear.
But had she sold it well enough?
Did I make it clear how this would benefit the pure-blood families? she fretted, her heart pounding. Did they believe me when I said it would strengthen tradition, not erode it? The Ministry was terrified of change—that much she knew—but she had hoped to present it as a way to safeguard their values, rather than as an overt attempt to help Muggle-borns integrate. If they thought it was about Muggle-borns, they'd balk. Maybe I leaned too much into the benefits for everyone and not enough on how it could uphold wizarding heritage.
She wrung her hands as she paced, her nerves buzzing with anxiety. No, I was clear. They had to see that this would keep traditions alive. Yet, as much as she tried to convince herself, doubt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. The Ministry had a way of twisting even the most logical arguments into a reason for inaction. The proposal was free. She hadn't asked for a single Galleon from the Ministry, and with Narcissa Malfoy and the new Muggle Studies professor both agreeing to teach without compensation, there was no reason funding would ever become an issue.
Her stomach churned as she stopped in front of the chamber door, taking a deep breath. I presented everything. I showed them how this would preserve our culture, how it wouldn't cost them anything. It should be enough... right?
The door creaked open, and Harry stepped out, his frown deepening as soon as their eyes met.
"Harry?" she asked, her voice tentative but hopeful, though the look on his face told her everything.
"It didn't go through," he said, sighing.
"What?" The shock hit her like a physical blow. "But... why?"
Harry glanced around the corridor, hesitating. "They said no funding."
Hermione blinked, momentarily speechless. "No funding?" she repeated slowly, the disbelief clear in her voice. "But I didn't ask for any funding. It was free."
Harry nodded, his face full of frustration. "I know. But they said because you didn't formally request funds, there wasn't a budget allocation. And without a line item for it, they used the lack of funding as a reason to block it."
Hermione stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. "But I... I didn't need funding. I glossed over that because it was completely irrelevant! Narcissa Malfoy offered to teach the course for free. How can they reject something that's free?"
"They found a way," Harry said wearily. "They used the loophole."
Hermione's fists clenched at her sides, anger bubbling up. "But this wasn't about money! It was about preserving wizarding traditions, about protecting the values they're always going on about!" Her voice rose in frustration. "I thought that's what they wanted."
Harry gave her a sympathetic look. "They're afraid of anything that feels like too much change, Hermione. Even if it doesn't cost them anything, they'll find a reason to block it if they think it's too progressive."
Hermione shook her head, her mind reeling. She had been so careful to pitch the proposal as a preservation effort, not an overhaul. And yet, the Ministry had still found a way to twist it.
"It's absurd!" Hermione fumed, her pacing growing more agitated. "I bent over backwards not to push anything too radical! I didn't ask for money, and I even framed it as preserving traditions! Traditions! What else do they want? How can they possibly say no?"
Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping. "It's the Ministry. They don't want to change, even if it means they lose everything they're trying to protect."
Hermione stopped pacing, her anger simmering just below the surface. "It's like they're sabotaging themselves," she said quietly, more to herself than to Harry. "They're so focused on maintaining control that they'll destroy the very things they claim to care about."
Harry nodded, his expression grim. "We'll keep pushing. We'll find another way. They can't block everything forever."
Hermione nodded, though the sting of frustration lingered. "Right. We'll keep trying."
But deep down, she knew that it wasn't going to be enough to simply try again. The Ministry wasn't just afraid of change—it was actively working against it. And it would take more than clever arguments and good intentions to break through that resistance.
The kitchen at Grimmauld Place felt colder than usual as Hermione sat at the table, quill in hand, staring down at the half-written letter. The words were tangled, stuck somewhere between what she wanted to say and what she couldn't bring herself to admit. She had only seen Draco recently, and while part of her longed to share every detail of her time at the Ministry, another part of her couldn't bear to tell him that the proposal had failed. She didn't want to disappoint him—especially after all the pressure from Narcissa.
She sighed, dragging the quill across the parchment in frustration. "Draco—" she began again, only to scratch it out moments later. Why is this so hard?
The door to the kitchen swung open, and Hermione glanced up as Harry strolled in, bottle of firewhiskey in hand. He didn't even bother with a greeting, instead setting two glasses on the table with a determined look.
"What are you doing?" Hermione asked sharply, setting her quill down with a frown.
Harry gave her a pointed look. "We're drinking."
"No, we're not," Hermione replied, crossing her arms. "We didn't turn to drink when we were half-starved and living in a tent, and we're certainly not doing it now."
Harry raised an eyebrow, already uncorking the bottle. "That was different. Back then, we were fighting for survival. Now we're fighting something even worse—bureaucracy." He poured two glasses, his expression hardening as he took a sip. "You've been at Hogwarts. You don't know what it's like at the Ministry. Every day it's the same thing—one argument after another with a bunch of stubborn old men who can't see beyond their own robes."
Hermione hesitated, her frown softening as she watched him. There was something weary in Harry's voice, something that hinted at the endless battles he'd been fighting while she was away.
"I'm telling you, Hermione," Harry continued, leaning back in his chair, "fighting a crazy dark wizard? Easier than dealing with this lot. At least Voldemort didn't hide behind a desk and paperwork."
Hermione sighed, reaching for the glass he'd poured for her. "So now you're drinking your way through it?"
"We're older now," Harry said with a shrug, swirling the liquid in his glass. "Wiser, too. Trust me, battling the Ministry is a lot harder than we thought it would be. Stubborn old men? Tougher to break than Death Eaters." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Here's to that."
Hermione rolled her eyes but picked up her glass, clinking it against his. "To stubborn old men," she said, taking a small sip. The firewhiskey burned on the way down, but she welcomed the warmth it brought.
Harry smirked, watching her over the rim of his glass. "You know, even Severus would probably agree with me."
Hermione shot him a sharp look, her instinctual response ready. "Professor Snape, Harry," she corrected, but there was a slight waver in her voice, the firewhiskey already starting to loosen her usual restraint.
Harry chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Right. Professor Snape." He took another sip, his eyes twinkling. "It's funny, though. I still can't get used to calling him Severus, but it kind of suits him, doesn't it? Like he was always meant to be this brooding, mysterious guy with a name that makes him sound like some sort of gothic novel hero."
Hermione smiled despite herself, taking another, slightly larger sip of her drink. "Maybe. He certainly has the presence for it." She glanced down at her letter, her thoughts wandering. Severus had been more on her mind lately—especially since their time in the library. There was something about him that was... intriguing. But she quickly pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the burn of the firewhiskey.
"You're not wrong," she added with a grin. "He does have that... intensity. Like he's constantly three steps ahead of everyone else."
Harry laughed. "Exactly. Brooding hero. Who knew?"
The conversation drifted, and as the firewhiskey worked its magic, both of them began to relax. They teased each other, their words turning playful as they shared stories about their respective relationships. Harry recounted some of Ginny's more fiery moments—"She's basically her mum in disguise, you know that, right?"—while Hermione tried to downplay her own feelings about Draco, though the alcohol made it harder to mask the growing affection she felt.
After a while, Hermione poured herself another drink, the world around her starting to blur at the edges. The frustration from the Ministry, the tension of the last few days—it all felt distant now, dulled by the firewhiskey and the laughter she shared with Harry.
She picked up her quill again, her vision slightly hazy as she resumed her letter to Draco. "I need to finish this," she muttered, her words slurring just a little.
Harry watched her, amused. "Go on then. Pour your heart out to Malfoy."
Hermione snorted, dipping the quill in ink. "He doesn't need my heart... well, maybe he does..." Her words trailed off as she stared at the parchment, a sudden rush of boldness flooding her.
With her vision starting to blur and the firewhiskey swirling warmly in her veins, Hermione found herself laughing softly at the absurdity of everything. The Ministry, the pressure from Narcissa, Draco. Before she could stop herself, she dipped her quill into the ink and began scrawling messily on the parchment. "Draco," Hermione muttered to herself, the words blurring as the firewhiskey clouded her judgement. "I've decided… I'll marry you." She scribbled the words with a strange sense of finality, a decision that felt bold and reckless in her inebriated state.
She blinked at the words, her heart thudding in her chest as she realised what she had written. But the alcohol dulled any second thoughts, and before she could reconsider, she sealed the letter with a flourish.
Harry leaned over, trying to peek at the letter. "What did you write?"
Hermione giggled, pulling it out of his reach. "None of your business, Potter."
Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll make Malfoy's day."
Hermione clutched the letter to her chest, her head spinning but her heart strangely light. "Yeah... I think it will."
They raised their glasses one last time, the weight of the world temporarily forgotten in the haze of firewhiskey and laughter.
