First go at Dramione fanfic - long time lover. Of course, I do not own any of these characters.

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Hermione Granger was getting married.

Well, not right now. In 6 months, 4 days and 13 hours' time, she was due to wed. His name was Pierre Auclair and Hermione had met him during her last term at The Sorbonne in Paris. She had been studying art, both mundane and magical. After the war, she wanted to get as far away from London as she possibly could. She struggled to find her place, craved something new, something exciting and something far removed from death and destruction. Fascinated by the intersection between mundane and magical creativity, Hermione enrolled herself in muggle art school. Her talents truly blossomed after the war when it came to identifying magical artifacts and cleansing said art or artifact of any lingering dark magic.

Hermione had made a name for herself in the Parisian magical society, and she was a well-respected magical art specialist with her own little shop in the Marais. She dealt in high-value magical pieces and muggle pieces, bought and sold, refinished, restored, and, most importantly, cleansed.

It had been five years since she moved to Paris full-time and 2 since she had met Pierre. He had swept her off her feet, as was the French way, and she had let him. By their third date, he was asking her to marry him. But Hermione was never one to give into spontaneity, not even where romance was involved. Maybe especially not then. After one year, she had agreed to marriage, on the condition they had a longer engagement. They were currently halfway through their engagement period, and creeping closer to their wedding date day by day.

Pierre was a good man. Smart, ambitious, charming - everything Hermione had been looking for in a partner. When she first moved to Paris, she had dated around. It was liberating how little anyone knew of her. In Paris, she was just another British girl going to art school, just another pretty face in the crowd. She wasn't a decorated war hero. She wasn't chased by photographers or hounded by the press for interviews. She was just Hermione, and she quite liked it that way. She could really gauge whether someone was interested in her, rather than her story, and the attention that came with being associated with her.

Of course, Pierre found out eventually. His father was the French Minister for Magic, Gabriel Auclair. He had known who Hermione was immediately upon meeting her and hearing her name. Pierre had a lot of questions after that, and her first encounter with his family had been a slightly awkward one. But she was relieved to find that Pierre hadn't treated her much differently after her revelation, much to her relief.

It was dark outside the windows of her shop. She was closed for the night; the lights were mostly off inside and she had locked the doors and charmed all of the pieces out in the gallery to hex anyone who touched them overnight in the event of a break-in. But she found herself hesitating, still sitting at her desk, absently twisting her engagement ring back and forth on her finger with her thumb. The hour was late. She should go home to her apartment down the street. But so often lately, she found herself rooted to her desk. A heaviness began building in her chest, making it feel like her heart was pounding harder than necessary against her ribcage. And she was staring at the phone.

She told herself she'd wait just a few more minutes. Then she'd leave and whatever happened tonight, happened. Pierre was a grown man. He could —

The phone rang, the sound startling Hermione in the silence of the gallery. She stared, letting it ring once, twice, then reached for it with a steady hand.

"Yes?" She answered.

"There sh'is, voilà." Pierre's voice was slurred, hoarse. Hermione sighed.

"Where are you, Pierre?" She asked.

There was a shuffling on the phone, raised voices in both French and English. Pierre sounded as though he was being shoved, or shoving someone. Hermione listened numbly. She waited.

"My darling," he started, voice louder than before, accent thick, "they are telling me to go home. Will you come?" He asked.

"No, mate, you're not meant to invite more people," a muffled, distinctly British voice shouted from far away in the background, then switched to rapid French. Hermione thought the voice sounded vaguely familiar, but then, she always thought the sound of a British accent felt like home.

Pierre argued back in French, angry, loud. Hermione heard more shuffling, heard the phone drop to the ground, then get picked back up. "I am at La Ruche, chérie," he told her, voice garbled, then the line went dead.

She sat back in her chair after hanging the phone up on the receiver. In moments like these, she always considered not going. Just not showing up to apparate him home. He could walk, for all she cared. Or the French aurors could do it. They knew who his father was. That was probably who she'd heard in the background. If he was at La Ruche, he was in wizarding Paris, not muggle Paris, where her shop was. So often, to escape the watchful eyes of those that frequented magical establishments, Pierre opted for muggle brassieres or bars. But these visits typically led to magical slip-ups. Just a little spell here or there. Some unnoticed, but some noticed, which then led to the involvement of the Ministry to clean up. Underwraps, of course. Gabriel would never tolerate Parisian magical society getting wind of his son's…less than savory behavior.

Another minute went by, but the muscles in Hermione's legs were already coiling, prepping to stand, to lead her to the door and carry her to the apparation point down the street. She snatched her wand from the drawer in her desk and shoved it in her bun with a wince. Then, reluctantly, she stood.

She apparated directly in front of La Ruche and stared through the front picture window. There was a brawl underway inside. She could hear the muffled cries of outrage from onlookers and shattering glass as wine glasses and beer mugs tumbled from the bar. She could just spot the dark mass of curls from Pierre's head, caught in the crook of an Auror's elbow, cheek smashed against his hip. He had his arms around the Auror's waist, and was struggling to break free. Around him, Hermione could see two of Pierre's more debaucherous acquaintances, Luc and Ben, throwing wheeling punches and causing general chaos.

Hermione reached for the door as a group of young witches scrambled out onto the street to escape the scene. She held it open for them and sighed, stepping in once they were cleared from the threshold. Her black stilettos crunched on the shards of broken glass as she stepped slowly toward Pierre. He caught her gaze and smiled a rakish, drunken grin. He was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow and his hair was damp with sweat.

Satisfied he was largely unharmed, Hermione looked up to the Auror that had him in a headlock. She couldn't stop the little gasp that left her lips.

Draco Malfoy squinted back at her, as if he, too, was unsure if he was seeing correctly. Pierre's struggles barely affected him as he held his head in a vice. He gaped at Hermione, his steel-grey eyes sharp as knives. "Granger?" He said, his posh voice almost lost in the din.

"Malfoy?" She asked back, taking a couple steps closer as if to touch him. What in Merlin's name was he doing here? It was like looking into the face of a ghost, long forgotten in her past. Hermione jolted at the sound of Pierre's voice.

"Ah, chérie, you are here!" Pierre slurred, re-doubling his efforts against Malfoy's side. "Release me!" He cried, then slipped back into French. Malfoy peered down at him, his lip curling in disgust.

"Does this belong to you?" He asked derisively. Hermione pressed her lips together, rolling them between her teeth as she watched Pierre struggle fruitlessly in his grip. Her first instinct was to say no. No. The word beat at the back of her head like she had been hit with a sledgehammer. The thought surprised her, but only mildly. She had been thinking around it for a long time. But Draco fucking Malfoy didn't need to know that. So instead, she dragged her eyes from his white-hot gaze and snapped them to Pierre, clapping her hands together sharply twice to get his attention.

"Enough, Pierre!" She yelled. He froze in Malfoy's grip. Malfoy eyed her with obvious shock. "Malfoy, let him go."

He stared at her, eyes wide, then narrowing to slits. "Tell him to behave first," he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes and kicked away a half-shattered pint glass as she moved closer to the pair. Malfoy shifted his feet, but didn't release Pierre.

"Pierre, get ahold of yourself," she hissed under her breath. Malfoy could hear her, there was nothing she could do about that. He was just as close as Pierre was to her. "How could you do this again. Twice this week. It's Thursday," she scolded, leaning over slightly so she could better reach Pierre's gaze. He blushed, the redness creeping up his neck and staining his already rosy cheeks.

"My love —" he began but Hermione cut him off with a stern look. She was nearly eye-level with Malfoy's trim waist. She could see her reflection in the shiny silvery surface of the Auror badge clipped to his belt. Chief Auror, she read with a groan. No wonder she hadn't seen him break up fights like these before now. Petty assault and public drunkenness was way, way, below his pay grade.

"Say you'll compose yourself to the Auror, right now," she said, lowering her voice as much as she could.

"But —" Pierre started to argue, likely to tell her that it wasn't his fault. He didn't mean for it to get so out of hand. He really tried to be good. Hermione slashed her hand through the air from one side to the other, silencing him. "I will collect myself," Pierre said grudgingly.

Hermione straightened, eyeing Malfoy. He was still for another two beats, then finally released Pierre and stepped back. As Pierre collected himself further, straightening his dirty Oxford and combing his fingers through his tangled hair, Malfoy watched her curiously with his hands on his hips. And she watched him back.

He was dressed in finely tailored black robes, too finely tailored for an Auror, but she knew he had a substantial vault at Gingotts to make up for whatever he lacked in his Auror salary. He was pristine, despite having just wrangled a fully grown wizard into submission. He had broadened out considerably, Hermione could see the sturdiness of his muscled frame outlined through his robes. His hair was still the same shocking blonde, but it was longer, combed back more lazily, rather than severely. His features were older, obviously, but maturity had gifted him with sophisticated angles - full lips, high cheekbones, a razor-sharp jawline, a fuller, more masculine face than the one she was used to in her memories of him at school. Back then, he had been so lanky, pale to the point of sickliness, and the constant sneer he wore had given him an edge that made him appear almost hunched.

He was handsome, Hermione thought suddenly, blinking at him several times. The realization came unbidden, almost reflexively. Draco sodding Malfoy was handsome. No, more than that, he was beautiful. Aristocratic, poised to the point of perfection, carved by a master's hand from alabaster. Shit; a shiver went through her.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Hermione could only imagine the look on her face. She struggled to retain a more neutral mask as Pierre stepped forward and reached for her hands. She took a step back at his stumbling approach, almost on instinct. She didn't want him to fall into her or accidentally knock her to the ground. As she stepped back, Malfoy stepped forward, posture going even more rigid than before, his face a map of darkened angles. Pierre in his extraordinarily inebriated state, didn't notice her subtle retreat and reached for her in earnest. When his hands clasped around hers, Malfoy tracked the movement. The spark of surprise in his eyes told her that he had spotted her engagement ring, but it was gone before a second had passed.

"Hermione, my love, I am sorry," he purred, trying to pull her closer. He smelled of fire whiskey and sweat. And blood, she noticed with a start. She'd never forget the iron tang of blood as it crept up her nostrils. She felt herself freezing even more at the realization, blinking rapidly to try to keep the tears of panic at bay. "I won't do it again, please, I promise." Pierre's voice was muffled by the low buzzing in her ears. "Someone insulted Luc and you know we cannot stand for such talk," he was saying, but Hermione had gone numb, the smell of blood sticking to the inside of her brain like a leech.

Whatever else Pierre was saying was lost to the roaring inside her head. Every time he moved, the smell wafted closer, dug in deeper, and suddenly it wasn't his hands holding her, but Voldemort's. It wasn't Pierre's pleading voice, but Harry's, begging her to stay back while he sacrificed himself like a lamb on the altar of the wizarding world. She felt herself trying to pull away from him subtly. Her shoulders were climbing slowly toward her ears, her neck craning backwards. A crack in her mental walls felt imminent. The roaring between her ears grew louder. She couldn't focus so she closed her eyes - the lights were too bright, the air was too thick —

"Step back, Monsieur Auclair." Malfoy's commanding voice cut through the noise like a knife. The authority in it was enough to shock her back into herself. When she opened her eyes, Malfoy was standing beside her - how had he gotten over to her without her realizing? He glanced over Pierre's shoulder at one of the other Aurors and nodded his head. Pierre was forcibly moved back and placed non-too-gently on a barstool next to Luc and Ben. The other two were sitting with their hands magically bound behind their backs, heads lowered, swaying slightly on their stools. Pierre joined them and adopted a similar posture, but immediately began arguing with the group of Aurors in slurred, angry French.

Malfoy rounded on her and herded her backwards with slow steps. She was too disoriented to resist. He didn't have to even touch her. He simply walked into her space one step at a time, until her backwards steps matched his pace and led them to a quieter area around the corner. He paused and so did she. When she took her first deep breath to center herself, she was met with the smell of burnt citrus, peppermint, sage. The cloying smell of blood mixed with sweat was blessedly gone, and she realized what it was replaced with was the scent of Draco Malfoy.

The man in question glared at her down the line of his perfect nose. There was almost a curl to his lip, but the spark of concern in his eyes belied his frustrated appearance. Hermione drew in another breath and nodded slowly. "I'm fine," she said and winced at the shakiness of her voice.

Malfoy huffed a laugh through his teeth. He averted his eyes and ran a hand through his platinum blonde hair. He very much looked like he wanted to say something. Hermione could only imagine what insults he had brewing on the tip of his tongue. So she spoke first.

"What are you doing here anyway?" She blurted. He didn't seem surprised at her question, raking his hair back once more and dropping his hands to his hips.

"I'm the Chief Auror in the French office. I liaise with the British Aurors on international crises and incidents," he answered nonchalantly. In all of Hermione's trips to the French Ministry in the past two years, she had never seen him.

"Oh," Hermione said lamely. Malfoy watched her with his mouth in a hard line. His gaze dropped to her left hand at her side then back to her eyes.

"You're engaged to him." It came out as more of an accusation than a question. Again the word 'no' clanged through her mind like a gong being struck over and over again.

"I…am," she said after a long pause, looking over Malfoy's shoulder at the destroyed bar behind him. She felt shame and guilt. She knew the Auclairs would privately throw money at the bar to keep them quiet and have this all cleaned up by morning. But the reputation would still precede Pierre. The Auclair's couldn't silence every witch and wizard who saw Pierre acting like an absolute ass that evening. And they very well couldn't keep him locked up at the family compound, though they had tried. It was part of the reason him and Hermione still didn't live together. Which was completely fine with her. She valued her space and her quiet. Unfortunately, she was getting less and less peace these days.

Malfoy nodded slowly. His top teeth sank into his bottom lip, hard. He looked stricken with the words he was forcing himself to keep at bay. This…was surprising, she thought. The Malfoy of old would have scorned her, humiliated her, made her feel stupid or ashamed. This much more attractive, physically and conversationally, version of him was not partaking in any of those old practices. She found that she was having a hard time reconciling this new Malfoy with the old one.

"And does this happen often?" He asked the question through gritted teeth. As he waited for her response, he crossed his arms over his chest and Hermione watched his biceps shift beneath his black cloak. She could lie. She could tell him that no, this was the first time Pierre had ever been so out of control, so drunk. She could insist this was the first bar she had ever seen him and his friends destroy. That this was the first time she had ever had to intervene in such a way.

But he had heard her scold him. He had seen the way she spoke to him, like she was fed up with his behavior. Besides, the French Aurors would surely tell him that this certainly wasn't their first time breaking up a bar fight initiated by Pierre Auclair.

"It…does," she muttered sheepishly. Gods, of all the people, it had to be Malfoy that had been there. He took a deep breath through his nose.

"Granger —"

"Malfoy," an Auror rounded the corner looking for him, cutting off the rest of what he was about to say to Hermione. "Voulez-vous qu'on l'emmène au ministère?"

Hermione's French wasn't perfect, but she had a fairly decent working knowledge of the language. He was asking Malfoy whether they should detain Pierre at the Ministry. Before she could interject, Malfoy responded in perfectly fluid French.

"Je pense qu'une nuit en cellule de détention pourrait faire du bien à Pierre," he said. "Et ses amis."

It took Hermione a moment too long to recover from hearing Malfoy's lyrical French accent. The Auror was already turning the corner again and heading back to the three drunken wizards.

"You can't detain him," she said in a rush. Malfoy turned back to her, eyes hard and challenging.

"And why not?" He asked with a false smile. "Because daddy is the Minister?" Hermione drew up short, her mouth opening and closing, but not sound was coming out. "Don't look so surprised, Granger."

"He's never been detained before," she said and Malfoy barked out a harsh laugh.

"And it shows." This time, his lip did curl. He unfolded his arms and took a step backward, making to return to the scene. "Maybe a less senior Auror would have been more lenient. He's unlucky that I was having dinner next door and heard his little outburst." He straightened his robes.

"But his father —"

"Does not scare me. And he's not my boss, either." Again, he looked like he wanted to say more, like he was barely holding himself in check. His voice had taken on a harder edge, more like the one from her memories of him, though it wasn't necessarily directed toward her. He took another step away from her, half-turning, then paused. "Hard lessons are hard learned. Your fiancé must now learn his under my very rigorous tutelage. Goodnight, Granger."

He was gone in a swirl of black robes and left behind the fading scent of sage.

"If I leave him now, I will save myself from terrible things, but as the waves beat against the shore, I lie back and watch his arm move, like a cloud of butterflies rising and falling, and the bright sand dropping like diamonds in the morning sun."

- Beth Nugent, from Live Girls