Archive of Our Own

However, you may be surprised to discover that these assumptions have no basis in fact. Surprising as it may be, the well-kept property is almost idyllic, with it’s thriving gardens and wide-open windows.

Stories of this manor and its inhabitants over the generations have long been a topic of controversy. Many who have had the misfortune of making the family’s acquaintance wholeheartedly claim their lineage has been cursed with depravity. These people are often observed reiterating the point with mindless raving about guilty wands, dirty fingerprints and crime scenes. 

I have no patience for any of it, for if a curse in fact was inflicted upon the family by a vengeful soul, it certainly has lost all influence. Come. Take a closer look behind those intimidating gates, and, dearest reader, you may just find yourself agreeing with me. 

The sounds of laughter echo through the arching hallways as we approach the library. Clumsy footsteps patter across the dark wooden floors, two young girls running rampant, playing a game which far exceeds my understanding. The game is an intricate practice in imagination, involving mermaids, alchemy, kings and no fewer than two dragons.

A tired grandmother sits in her wing-back chair, smiling at the sight. The crackling fireplace drenches the alcove in a warm glow as twilight transforms to dusk. She readjusts her spectacles, glancing down at the book she has spread across her lap. Narcissa Malfoy fondly traces the looping images held within the photo album. 

I think we all agree the incessant marching forward of time is a bittersweet epiphany that strikes one at the most inopportune moments. It creeps over us subtly as we note the few extra grey streaks in our mother’s hair or the wrinkles at the corner of our father’s eyes. Narcissa Malfoy, however, smiles lightly as she flips through the album, welcoming the nostalgia.

It seems like it was only yesterday when the girls had been babbling infants, unable to support themselves. Now, they cause ruckus as they zip across the room, enacting scenarios that only they understand. 

A clock chimes, announcing the late hour. The deep noise reverberates through the cavernous room and the sisters come scrambling to their grandmother’s side. Cassiopeia, the second youngest constellation of the family tapestry, immediately crawls up onto Narcissa’s lap, snuggling into her side.

Narcissa adjusts the open album, wrapping her arms around Cassie while Miss Lyra, the elder of the two, takes a place on the floor by her feet. 

“Oh Grandmère, will you tell us a story?” Cassie asks, looking up at her grandmother with pleading eyes.

“A story?” Narcissa muses, never able to resist the children’s whims.

“Yes Grandmother, please tell us a story! You always have the best ones!” Lyra chimes in.

Narcissa purses her lips, “How about Babbity Rabbity?” she suggests.

“But I've heard that one so many times before,” Cassie whines.

“Well then, how about the Witch in the Wardrobe?” 

This suggestion is met with yet another chorus of complaints. Contemplating this new predicament, she flips the album closed, moving to place it on the nearby table. A lone photograph falls out from between its pages, fluttering down to the worn rug underneath.

“Grandmère?” Lyra gently picks up the wayward picture, handing it  over. “Won’t you tell us a story about a prince?” 

Narcissa hums, as she takes the worn photo from Lyra’s hands. The looping image is terribly creased in the center; as if it had been folded up only to be unfolded many times before. The corners of her mouth pull up as she examines the image. 

“A prince, you say?” she says wryly, eyes never straying from the young couple in the capture. Her eyes brighten as her resolve strengthens, the perfect story coming to mind. Adjusting Cassie on her lap, Narcissa takes one final deep breath before beginning her tale.

——Once upon a time in a kingdom far away on the outskirts of a sleepy village, an old witch finds herself stranded in the middle of the forest. She frowns up at the greying skies, and as if sensing her displeasure, thunder rumbles overhead. She spots a lonely castle beyond the hills, and scurries over to seek shelter.——

Ah! It is a wondrous choice, a personal favorite of mine. Undoubtedly, these girls will adore it. Are you familiar with it, reader? It wouldn’t astonish me in the slightest if you were. After all, it is a tale as old as time itself. 

A simple narrative with an elegant premise, teaching the younger generations about the importance of looking past appearance. Narcissa knows better than most that all that glitters is certainly not gold (which is perhaps why she prefers to forgo precious metals and stick to diamonds.) 

——The Prince that greets her is striking with hair the color of moonlight and skin soft enough to rival the first snow. There is an elegance apparent in his manner and stance. However, his uncommonly handsome features are distorted by the unforgiving sneer he bestows upon her.——

Now, maybe Narcissa’s choice is a simple matter of convenience; a result of a familiarity with the story's nuances and intricacies. Maybe the story is a childhood favourite of hers as well but I can’t help but marvel at the striking parallel between this story and another. 

——Glancing at the worsening weather around her, the witch ignores his harsh tone. With a delicate cadence, she asks permission to spend the night. The Prince presses his lips together in a frown, looking at her up and down——

Perhaps the fault lies within me for reading between lines that don’t exist. Maybe I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it is; an old fool trying to connect dots that no one else can see. Yet still, I am reminded of another story, one far more recent and with characters far more precious.

——Aghast at his superficial nature and the petty grounds of his rejection, the witch looks at him with disbelief. Her heart fills with rage at the blatant disrespect from a Muggle of all people! She glares at the Prince, grip tightening on her wand.——

As Narcissa entertains her grandchildren, let me indulge you in another tale. Let me introduce you to another story, one as dear to me as that of Beauty and her Beast.

——He claws at his face as his skin stretches and morphs, turning him from a Muggle to a great hairy disfigured Beast. With a simple flick of her wand, she dooms him to a life of solitude and isolation forevermore.——

Draco still visits his mother at the Manor every week. It’s an awkward sensation, feeling so out of place in his own childhood house. He had thought it would become easier with time and distance, but the place still haunts him with memories he’d rather forget. 

“You need to reply to your owls, dear.” 

He hums non-committedly, letting his eyes wander across the estate. It’s the same as it always has been, the place of his youth. He doesn’t know how his mother can stand it.

“Theodore, precious boy, he visited me just the other day. He was inquiring after you, he’s planning a little…”

Draco nods along absentmindedly, not paying much attention to his mother’s ramblings.

A movement in his periphery catches his attention. The corners of his mouth tug down as he sees the wretched peacocks strut into his line of vision. 

“Harry popped in during the visit. They are adorable, always doting on each other. They can hardly stand to be apart…”

The freakish white birds have a nasty habit of making a mess of the roses. The bastards wouldn’t leave no matter what he did. He was responsible for helping with the upkeep of the Manor, though he refused to reside within it. It was part of the understanding between him and his mother; one intricate arrangement involving the gardens, a direct Floo connection to his flat, a trip to their French chateau and countless reassurances that Draco didn’t despise her. 

“Do you mind explaining what you said to Astoria?”

After all, it wasn’t her wand that dug into his skin, branding his arm with the heavy black fog. 

All that unpleasantness aside, one thing is for sure—the peacocks have to go.

“Draco, did you hear me?” 

Draco’s eyes snap back to his mother at her sharp tone. He blinks, as she looks at him expectantly. His mind races to find a suitable reply.

“Yes, Theo and Potter.” he clears his throat “Wonderful truly, hadn’t seen that one coming, I admit.”

His mother’s eyes narrow. “I got the strangest letter from Armand Greengrass.”

——The curse was only to be broken by an admission of a love most ardent. A spell to teach the Muggle that true beauty lies within. The Prince, nay the Beast, weeps, for no lady would want a disgraced soul.——

Draco swallows, carefully setting his teacup on the table and leans back in his wicker chair, bracing himself.

His mother’s voice is cold, a testament to the anger simmering underneath. “Very apologetic, bemoaning that an advantageous match was broken,” she scoffs. “Assuring me that they wouldn’t hold any hostility toward the Malfoy name.”

He looks down, not daring to meet his mother’s eyes for fear of the accusation that’s assuredly in her gaze.

“You aren’t going to say anything?”

“Astoria is a respectable woman. I wish her all the best for her future, even as I no longer have a part in it.”

She lets out a disbelieving laugh, “I should’ve known better than to trust you. Tell me Draco, how long do you intend to do this?”

“Pardon?”

“This!” She gestures a hand toward him in accusation. “You wanted to leave the Manor, I let you. You wanted a longer engagement, I helped make arrangements. Salazar help me, why are you so intent on self-sabotage?”

“Technically, I am not the one who broke off the betrothal, Mother. Your anger is misdirected.”

“You expect me to believe you had no hand in it? I know you don’t leave that horrid little flat of yours, in Muggle London.” She spits out the last words like a horrible curse. He winces.

“You don’t respond to your letters. Your friends hardly know where you are half the time—”

“Not true, Pansy came over last week.” Or perhaps it was two weeks ago. Maybe three, now that he thinks about it.

“—You don’t even have a job!”

“It’s not like I need one,” he mutters.

“Astoria is a charming woman—“

“And she can do a hell of a lot better than me!” Draco raises his voice to match hers, the confession hanging in the air between them. The abrupt silence is deafening.

His mother’s eyes go soft at the admission but Draco is in no mood to entertain her pity. He gets up, smoothing out invisible wrinkles.

“Draco.”

He ignores her, already turning around. 

“ Draco, ” she says, but he's already starting the long walk back up to the Manor. 

“I’ll see you next Wednesday, Mother,” he calls out, not once looking back.

——A curious traveller finds himself wandering the grounds of the old castle. He was an inquisitive old soul and had thought the massive estate was abandoned. He walks through the wild, unruly gardens.——

Draco throws the Daily Prophet on the table between them, a silent accusation. He had been confused at first, and then rather angry. Pansy sighs, uncrossing her legs and loosening her rigid posture on the settee across from him. 

A picture of her smiling with her arms around Ronald Weasley loops on the front page. Draco frowns at the sprawling headline that takes up the majority of the Daily Prophet’s front page. 

With a great sigh, she drops the hasty glamour, revealing the simple band on the third finger of her left hand.

“Cheapened out, didn’t he?”

Her eyes narrow in warning as she places her coffee on the table, forceful enough for a bit to splash out. “Not everything is about money.”

“Never thought I’d hear those words leave your mouth,” he says, using his wand to vanish the mess.

“You’d be shocked to learn that I’m capable of change, just as much as you.”

“As much as me?” he muses.

“Did you expect me not to notice the anonymous donation to the Muggleborn Integration Project? Draco, I am in charge of the finances for that charity, or did it slip your mind?”

He blinks. That fact indeed had escaped him. “Actually...” he draws out the word, fiddling for an excuse. “That’s why I donated; it's important to support your friends.”

“And the complete renovation to the St. Mungo’s Children Wing? There aren’t a lot of people who could handle that kind of expense.”

“What? You think I did? I’m flattered—”

“Theo did some digging during his break and he knows it was you.” 

Draco mutters an oath under his breath.

“Why are you so determined to keep up this facade?”

He shakes his head. “I’m the one supposed to be asking questions today, Parkinson.” He leans forward, placing his own cup of tea beside her coffee. “You said Weasley was a fling.”

“It was...” she flips her hair over her shoulder, “...at the time!” 

He raises a hand up to his forehead, trying to stave off the inevitable headache. “Flings don’t end in matrimony , Pansy!”

“Semantics,” she shrugs, “Anyway, you’ll stand witness for the wedding?” If he didn’t know her so well the slight waver in her voice would be undetectable.

Draco sighs, dropping his hands to his lap before standing up. He maneuvers around the table between them, shuffling over to sit beside Pansy. She drops her head on his shoulder, leaning against his side.

“Is this a yes?” she murmurs.

“I’ll be damned if I let Theo be your man of honor.”

The quip elicits a chuckle. “In my defense, you really should’ve seen this coming.”

“You really like him then? Weasley?”

“I’m marrying him!” she exclaims, turning to look at him.

“Just making sure.” He smirks, raising his hands in acquiescence. “You could’ve visited beforehand, just to let me know it was getting this serious.”

“Or you could’ve visited me . Leave this blasted flat for once.”

“I leave my flat plenty!” he grumbles.

“Your little Muggle adventures don’t count, nor do your scheduled visits to the Manor. Why do you insist on...” she waves a hand, trying to search for the word “...living in exile like this.”

Her accusations lay heavy on his shoulders. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this argument. It probably won’t be the last.

Instead of indulging her with the same inconclusive conversation, Draco asks the most important of his questions. “Are you happy, Pansy?”

He watches the corners of her lips tug into a smile, a dreamy look washing over her face. It’s enough to appease him. Draco drops his head atop Pansy’s, tucking his most beloved friend closer to his chest. 

“Thought it was bad enough I had to make peace with Potter.” he mutters “Pansy Weasley, tch.”

She makes a sound of contentment. “It’s a different world now, Draco. The Weasleys are good people, forgiving and kind.” 

Draco squeezes her hand. “Unfortunately, I’m not exactly the sort of man who can be forgiven.”

——“I have a daughter waiting for me at home! She will worry and you must let me go!” The Beast’s ears perk up at the promise of a daughter. A fair maiden with whom he might settle a compromise——

The sound of bells blares through his flat early Sunday morning. Draco rubs the sleep from his eyes and drags himself out of his warm bed. Squinting against the streaming light, he blindly reaches for his robe. The ringing seems to amplify as Draco throws it on, shuffling toward the Floo, grumbling under his breath. 

He drops the wards with a few choice words ready on his tongue. The words, however, die on his lips and he freezes as a familiar head of chestnut hair ducks in from the hearth. Draco blinks, not daring to believe his eyes. The last time he saw her was a few months ago as he was desperately trying to find an excuse to leave an ill-advised brunch. 

It was a valiant effort from Theo to unite his new friends with old. The strained luncheon included Theo’s shirt being ruined, Weasley nearly choking, and Pansy losing her earring, all within the first twenty minutes. No amount of alcohol could fix the disaster. Having no desire to make a further mess of things, Draco politely excused himself, only to quite literally crash into Hermione Granger on his way out. 

“ Granger? ”

“Malfoy,” she responds, a nervous hand tucking an errant curl away from her face.

He blinks, rubbing at his eyes to make sure he isn’t going insane. Maybe his mother was right after all. She did warn him that he would go insane after years of living surrounded by Muggles.

“How on earth—no, why are you here?” he hisses, keenly aware of his disheveled state.

“I guess this means Pansy forgot to tell you.”

“Forgot to tell me what?”

Ignoring the question, Granger brushes past him. Draco practically leaps out of the way, crossing his arms across his chest. He watches her rummage around in her purse and pull out an alarming stack of binders. 

“Granger?” His voice is strangled as a pamphlet titled Wedding Traditions and More! flutters down onto the hardwood floor. Draco catches his reflection in the mirror above the mantel and winces at the sight. Carefully, he tightens the cincture on his robe, grimacing at his wayward hair. He looks like he’s had an unfortunate encounter with a banshee.

Draco glances back toward the unwelcome intruder only to find her gaze already fixated on him, or rather his state of disarray. Her lips quirk up at the edges, the faintest hint of a smirk dancing across her features.

“Green silk. Why am I not surprised?”

Draco scowls, raising a hand to pat down his hair. “What do you want?” His effort was in vain.

“Is the robe monogrammed too?” she asks, sashaying to settle in on his couch in his spot. “It’s not like I want to be here, Malfoy. You can stop glaring at me.”

“It’s my damn house, I’ll do what I bloody please.” 

Granger shrugs, “Look, Harry is going to be standing witness for Ron, but Harry, bless him, doesn’t really have an eye for all the things a best man is supposed to do.” She summons a stack of color swatches from her bag.

“So I stepped in to help. Harry can write his little speeches and I get to help the happy couple step into their future.” She starts to spread out the samples, transforming his mahogany table into a messy artist’s palette. “Merlin knows if it was up to Harry, he’d have Ron elope!” 

“ Thrilled as I am to learn of your eagerness to butt into others' responsibilities,” he sniffs, “it fails to explain why you’re here at the crack of dawn, Granger.” 

“It’s nearly noon!”

He blinks. A quick glance at the clock confirms she isn’t lying, “ Yes, well, only lunatics start their days before noon on the weekends .” 

“You’re standing here, barely dressed, and you have the audacity to call me, ” she points at herself, “a lunatic.”

Draco huffs, a defense ready, but Granger interrupts before he can answer her quip.

“Look Malfoy, I’m Ron’s friend, and Pansy is his fiancée—“

“Earth shattering news, what’s next? Let me guess, your name is Hermione Granger? ”

“—You’re Pansy’s friend and so now we’ve—” she taps the teetering stack of papers she pulled out “—got our work cut out for us.”

“ Our work ?”

“The friend of my friend is my friend”

“I wasn’t aware the old adage had changed,” he says flatly.

This isn’t how he wants to spend his Sunday morning. Draco bites the inside of his cheek, checking the knot keeping his robe closed and his dignity safe. He strolls over toward her, glaring at her sitting in his spot.

He plucks the first binder off the stack slowly, lest the precarious tower meet its demise. Draco flips through it; images of grandly decorated halls and close ups of intricate flower arrangements flood his view. “Are these colour coded? ”

“ Obviously.” She rolls her eyes. “ Do you take me for some kind of heathen?”

“Pardon me!” he stretches out the two words, sarcasm dripping relentlessly from his lips. “Let me guess, alphabetical order too?”

Granger snatches the binder from his hand, holding it close to her chest. “Look, you don’t need to worry your pointy little head—”

“ Pointy? ”

“—over anything. I’ve got it all sorted anyway. Honestly, I’m only here because Pansy told me I had to be. You don’t need to worry about a thing, I’ll take care of all of it.”

——They find some semblance of common ground, at last settling on an agreement for the release of the weary father. ——

Draco snatches another binder from the stack, storming over to sit in the settee— which was decidedly not his spot.

“And let you ruin everything?” He opens the binder. Draco’s eyes roam over the daunting list of tasks. “Suck it up, Granger. This is my best friend's wedding too, I’ll be damned if I let you mess this up.”

Granger lets out a long huff of air. “We want the same thing, Malfoy.” She outstretches a hand toward him, her palm hovering over the table in the air between them. “I wish I could say I’m looking forward to working with you but…” 

Draco sneers, even as he moves to grab her hand.  “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”  

They shake on it.

——Unfortunately, the maiden’s soul is one of fire. Her scathing remarks do not hide her displeasure at the circumstance.——

Her eyes snap shut. “Malfoy,” she says through gritted teeth “We don’t get along as it is—”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“—do you honestly think planning two events is feasible?”

The Witch’s Wedding Weekly magazine threatens to rip from the grip Draco has on it. “It’s not about feasibility, Granger.”

Across from him, Hermione Granger slowly opens her eyes, scowling with frustration. “The engagement ceremony is redundant, it’s just going to be another headache to plan. They’re already engaged, for Godric’s sake!”

“It’s tradition, Granger. When a witch is to be wed, she hosts an announcement ball,” he argues. “To have a wedding without it—it’s like trying to fly a broom blind.”

“You can fly a broom blind, actually. It’s entirely plausible,” she sniffs.

“Plausible, yes. Foolish, undoubtedly.” 

“You make it sound like she’s some object to be handed away! The practice is outdated and ostentatious.”

He slams the magazine down beside him, “You want ostentatious? It’s wanting ice sculptures for an outdoor spring wedding.”

“It was in Pansy’s journal! I’m just throwing ideas on the table.”

He picks up the mock invitation designed to follow the guest around until they RSVP to the event, shoving it in her face in accusation. “Oh, and was this abomination another one of your ‘ideas’?” Draco glares at her. “Then I suggest from here on out, you should keep all such suggestions entirely to yourself!”

“Ah yes, obviously. I’m the problem here when you’re the one suggesting the wedding be in Greece !”

Draco hums, flicking away the floating invitation. “You’re right, Italy is much better for these sorts of things anyway.”

——The Beast and the maiden found a way to bicker over everything and anything they could. Their shared dinners often dissolved into arguments with disastrous results.——

“Get out of my spot, Granger.” She ignores him, flipping through the catalogue of bridesmaid dresses. A spread with groomsmen’s attire was spread upon her lap. The happy couple had left them in charge of booking appointments. 

“Didn’t you hear me? That’s my spot.”

He taps an impatient foot and she looks up, a challenging gleam in her eye. She drops the catalogue, folding her arms across her chest. “Fine, but then we get to order the flower arrangement with the pansies.”

Draco levels her a disgusted look. “Pansies for Pansy?”

“It’s charming! She liked my idea!”

“She also liked my idea of snapdragons. Besides, didn’t Weasley favor that one? It’s his wedding too, I’m just keeping his choices in mind.”

“Oh, yes that’s why you’re being stubborn. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Pansy and Ron favored my choice for the invitation stationery.”

“Au contraire, you forget they agreed with my proposal in regards to the pixie lights.”

“And they liked my idea for the candle wedding favors.”

“Though they didn’t disregard the wine option.”

“That would only make sense if the venue—”

“Just shove over, Granger.” He cuts her off.

Granger narrows her eyes. “No, I don’t think I will.” She wiggles, settling further into his spot on his couch in his flat. Draco scowls, fighting the urge to stick out his tongue in response.

Stomping over to the settee, he asks  “Have they decided on a proper wedding date, then?”

“The twelfth of October.”

He sniffs, “I still think they should have kept on with the spring wedding. June is a lovely month.”

Granger rolls her eyes. “June is such a cliche.”

“I like June. I was born in June.”

“No wonder.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

——If the house was granted a moment of peace, the servants swore the pair tried to find the best way to ruin it as quickly as possible.——

The Floo rings, announcing her prompt arrival. Draco straightens up, already prepared for the inevitable argument. She storms in, brushing stray ash off of her clothing. There’s a stiffness to her gait as she seats herself across from him.

“You bastard,” she seethes, hands clenched into fists on her lap. 

Draco makes a show of examining his cuticles, “Such vulgarity, and so early in the day.”

“You cancelled the appointment at the bakery,” she accuses. She stretches a smile across her face, one that doesn’t meet her eyes. “I got ready, took time off of work, gathered the couple and walked in for an appointment that didn’t exist.” 

Draco feigns nonchalance, even as her detached tone sets him on edge. “Maybe you ought to have checked with them beforehand. Busy witch like you might have gotten the date mixed up.”

Her smile stretches wider, and her eyes gleam with uninhibited fury. “I had to rearrange Pansy’s dress robe fitting. Do you know what a nightmare that was?” Her voice grows soft and Draco hesitates. Perhaps his idea wasn’t the best course of action.  “I don’t even know when we can snag another appointment with that bakery.”

“A shame.” He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ll find someplace else.”

Granger’s eye twitches and Draco decides it’s best to reveal his play before she can take drastic action or he loses something important like his hair.

“Have you heard of Vanille?” Her eyes widen as she recognises the famous chain situated in the heart of Paris. Weasley expressed his desire to book them multiple times but they weren’t able to secure an appointment. Lucky for him, Draco knows the owner. “You know, I could pull strings.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine then, go on.” He shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll find a better confectionery.”

“What’s the catch?” she asks flatly.

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Draco leans forward. “We plan a proper engagement ball for Pansy and Weasley without you fighting me tooth and nail every step.”

She bites her lip, debating his offer. Draco knows it’s not one she will refuse.

 “How quickly can you arrange a portkey to France?”

“I already have one,” he says smugly, flicking his wand to summon an innocuous looking book off the shelf.  “Don’t worry, Granger. I’ve already got half of the ball planned.”

“Funny, since you're not the one getting married,” she snaps

He hums, giddy at winning the battle. “Nor are you, but here we are.”

——Instead of being remedied over the course of the shared weeks, as one would expect, the arguments seemed to grow tenfold.——

“This engagement ball, it’s much more relaxed than the actual wedding, yes?” Granger questions. She’s currently situated in his spot again, having stolen it when he got up to fix some tea.

“Ideally, yes,” Draco says, balancing two cups of Earl Grey on a tray. “Unfortunately, between our bride and groom, the collection of close family and friends is rather large indeed.” 

“The woes of being a socialite.”

“Don’t put this on Pansy, not when Weasley’s family is large enough to fill a Quidditch stadium.”

“She’s going to be one of them soon enough.” Granger graciously accepts her cup, taking a delicate sip.

“And what a sad day that will be when I can no longer poke fun at the boogle of weasels.”

Granger rolls her eyes as Draco reaches over to grab two swatches. “Pearl or Porcelain?” he asks, holding them up.

She tilts her head, considering the samples. “Is this a test of some sort?”

“Pardon?”

Granger narrows her eyes in suspicion, “They’re the same damned color, Malfoy.”

Draco blinks, looking down. He turns them over, examining the two drastically opposing shades for tablecloth. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“They’re both white.”

“You’re joking, right?” he says, sounding pained. He pushes one forward, “This is obviously porcelain, look at that striking blue undertone. It’s crisp and cold, almost like—”

“Spare me the poetry, please.”

“— a winter morning. On the other hand, this,” he exchanges the swatches in his hand, “is clearly pearl. Much more a subtle green undertone with this one, a sister to alabaster.” Draco puts down the swatches, picking up another stray sample, “Though I personally think, Alabaster is nauseating. Don’t know what Pansy was thinking by sending that over.”

Granger holds out her hand and Draco places the samples in her palm. She takes a moment, squinting her eyes to examine them. The contemplative expression is one Draco is getting well acquainted with; the furrow in her brows and the way her upper teeth press little indents into her full bottom lip. 

Vaguely he notes that the expression might even be considered endearing if it graced anyone’s face but hers.

After much deliberation, she straightens up, clearing her throat. Draco raises an eyebrow, awaiting her answer. She pauses, dragging out the moment before she finally says, “They’re the same color.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake—” 

—— Until one day, the maiden tries to escape her gilded cage. The Beast roars, having finally reached his limit. Disheartened and disgusted by her willingness to break her word——

With a flick of his wand, four silver ribbons cascade down atop the table covered with brochures and lists. Granger blinks, looking at them in confusion.

 “For the Binding ceremony,” Draco elucidates. “The Binding Ribbon?”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” she says, shoveling papers off to the side to make room.

“I told you to go research the engagement ball. You said you would,” he accuses.

“I’ve been busy!” she says defensively.

“The ribbon will be used during the official ceremony during the ball. A promise of faithfulness and loyalty; a vow of fidelity before the true marriage binding Pansy’s magic to her husband’s.”

“Ron won’t take the same vow?” she asks, voice lilting up. “Doesn’t seem right somehow.”

“Well traditionally, it’s the woman’s promise—”

“Woman’s promise?” Her voice is deceptively light.

“You’ve got to be joking, Granger.”

She sniffs, tilting her nose up “It’s the principle of the thing! The female binding herself to the man while he has no such obligation! Do you truly not see the issue?”

“It’s just a rite, an age-old custom. It’s how it’s always been done. I’ve never found reason to question it before.”

“It’s always about tradition with you, isn’t it?”

“What’s wrong with tradition? It’s our heritage and birthright!”

“ Your heritage,” she corrects him, standing up with blazing eyes  “I have no patience for it and it has no room for me.”

He stands up, matching her glare. “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill!”

“No, I’m not! I see the way you desperately cling on to traditions and old values.”

Draco takes a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists. “Please Granger, do tell me more about myself. I’m dying to know.”

“You want to know what I think?” she shoves a finger at him, waving it about in front of his face. “I think you’re terrified now that your beliefs don’t have a place in our world anymore. I think you’d rather stay cooped up in this flat than admit to yourself that no one gives a damn about purebloods or their traditions anymore.”

He hates this. “You don’t know anything, Granger,” Draco hisses through clenched teeth. 

He hates the way his heart races. He hates the way his blunt nails dig into the palm of his hand. 

He hates the way that Hermione Granger can cut through everything and strike where it hurts most. 

“I bet it infuriates you that Pansy chose a Blood Traitor, ” she says, disgust painted across her face. “Malfoy, I think you’re just a little boy who is scared to grow the hell up!”

Most of all, he hates the fact that he has been right all along. 

Draco Malfoy is nothing but the shadow of the Mark on his skin. With shaking hands and a clenched jaw, Draco glares at her. He sharply tilts his head, gesturing towards the fireplace. 

“Get out.” he snarls.

——The maiden, fearing she may have overstepped to the point of no reconciliation, talks to the servants. Startled by discoveries of his kindness, she finds herself the victim of immense guilt. The Beast, however, wallows in the knowledge of her true opinion of him——

Draco frowns as he looks toward the ravaged rose bushes. He really needs to do something about those damned peacocks. 

“What’s wrong, Draco?” 

He straightens up, turning towards the voice. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You know better than to lie to your own mother, dear.” His mother holds out a hand without looking at him and Draco obediently places the new Antona seedling in her hand.  “You've been different these last few visits.”

“Pardon?”

“Happier,” she says, matter-of-factly, leaning back to admire her handiwork. “There. It’ll be in bloom by mid-winter. Antona leaves are plenty useful.”

“I could’ve simply bought some and had them shipped to the Manor. You needn’t have bothered.”

She waves away his offer, getting up and brushing stray dirt off her clothes. Draco trails behind her as she treads toward another section. He fidgets with the handle of the basket his mother handed him when he arrived.

“Now, what were you saying earlier, Mother?” he asks.

She conjures up a new cushion, leaning down on her knees as she starts to trim her namesake. “Nothing dear, I simply thought the wedding planning with Pansy was doing you some good. Did you get into an argument of some sort?”

He stiffens, pressing his lips into a thin line as he recalls Granger’s scathing words. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before. Whispers and accusations were an unshakable shadow,  the shroud of his past always looming over his future.

It still hurt—more than he had expected. For all those weeks spent together, he had perhaps thought that Granger was smarter than that. Surely, she of all people would’ve realised that he wasn’t that naive boy anymore.

“Draco?” His mother looks at him  with an arched brow, making it clear this isn’t the first time she’s tried to get his attention. 

“No argument,” he says softly, looking down at the collection of potion ingredients in the basket. “Never with Pansy.” 

“Oh, is that so?” A small smile tugs on her lips, a knowing gleam in her eye. “In that case, I’ve heard Miss Granger is a lovely young woman. I’m sure both of you will work through this.”

Draco’s head snaps up. His mother’s eyes twinkle at his misstep. “It seems there was some truth to Pansy’s words after all.” She smiles, handing him a lone bloom to add to the collection. 

He bites his tongue, quietly accepting the flower. He won’t give his mother the satisfaction of pleading with her for elaborations. Draco twirls the daffodil between his fingers. A narcissus—for new beginnings and rebirth.

——The maiden apologises to him for her misconduct. Surprised, the Beast accepts it and they silently come to a peace. Both parties try their best to fabricate some genuine cordiality——

Draco startles as two sharp knocks sound at the front door early Saturday morning. He glances up to the clock, wondering who it could be. Pansy and Theo were at the Weasleys’ for their family luncheon and Draco certainly wasn’t expecting anyone else. 

He slips out of his study, walking the small path to the front door. He swings it open, only to reveal none other than Hermione Granger, hand raised up poised for another knock.

Draco slams the door shut. The knocking returns with a frantic urgency. 

“Open the door, Malfoy! I’ll break in if I have to!” her muffled voice calls out.

Scowling, he swings it open again. “I thought it was clear, you aren’t welcome here.”

She clears her throat, straightening up to her full height. “You live in a charming neighborhood.” 

“I’m aware,” he says dryly, noting the flush that blooms across her cheeks.

“It’s Muggle.”

“Your astute powers of observation never fail to astonish me.” He raises an eyebrow, watching her intently as she shuffles her feet.

“I owe you an apology.”

Draco crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the door frame. Some part of him recognizes he ought to step aside and welcome her in. They could resolve this like adults. “Get on with it then.” Another more petty part of him takes delight in watching her squirm.

“Right.” She clears her throat, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’m sorry.” 

“Well.” He straightens up, stepping back. “Apology not accepted. See you never, Granger.” He starts to swing the door closed. 

“Wait!” She nudges a foot inside, preventing him from shutting it. Granger purses her lips. “I may have been too… hasty in my judgments.”

“Hasty, indeed.”

“Pansy may or may not have hexed me.”

“Some may argue you deserved it.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

He blinks, once then twice. Draco notes she looks far more haphazard than what he has come to expect. Her hair is piled carelessly atop her head, unlike the usual braided affair. Her wide eyes are tinged with red, as if she’s been a victim to a sleepless night. Slowly, he swings the door open.

Draco sighs, “I’d hoped for more groveling but I suppose it’ll do.” He turns around, gesturing at her to follow.

“You could’ve told me, you know,” she says from behind him, as they march through the small foyer toward the living room. 

“You could’ve let me.”

“I am sorry.” She pauses. “Though you’ve got to admit, Draco Malfoy in a Muggle residence?”

“Will wonders never cease?” he says wryly.

——After that particular row, The Beast finds within the fair maiden, a kindred spirit. As they start spending more time together, it becomes apparent they have more in common than what one would expect——

“I’m glad this ball will take place at the Parkinson estate. Saves us having to scrounge through more potential venue options.”

Draco shudders lightly. “I love Pansy dearly but…”

“Godric help whoever dares to refuse her.”

“The place they chose is rather lovely though, quaint even.”

Granger snorts,“If Ron hadn’t been there she might’ve hexed the poor attendant.” She tucks her feet under her, leaning on the other side of the sofa. The proximity is strange, but not entirely unwelcome. “Tell me more about this ball.”

“Well, you already know about the Binding ceremony,” he says pointedly. She bites her lip, the faintest hint of red creeping on her face. “Not much else, just the usual stuff. Dinner and speeches and whatnot.”

“Sounds too informal to be true,” she muses

Draco shrugs. “I’m sure there will be a few rounds of traditional dances before the illusion of formality inevitably breaks as the night trails on.” He tilts his head, “You might want to get familiar with them.”

She freezes, eyes widening. “No, no.” Granger shakes her head. “I’m rubbish at dancing.”

“You’re one of the closest friends of the groom. Don’t be surprised when they ask you to help open the first dance.”

Her face sours at the revelation, head dropping down to look at Pansy’s planning journal. “Anyway, Ron wanted shades of blues for the ball. I’m thinking we go with a deep navy. What do you think?”

“Forgive me, if I don’t trust your eye for color, ” he says, reaching out for the journal.

She rolls her eyes, her fingers brushing against his as she hands it over. “To be fair, Ron couldn’t tell the difference between the whites either.”

“Not exactly a point in your favor.”

The corners of her lips tug up into a reluctant smile. Draco notes that she’s been doing that more often, unexpectedly revealing the little dimples under her eyes. It’s a welcome change from the days past. Draco starts to flip through the worn journal, running a hand over the broken spine.

“Pansy told me about the donations.” Draco stops, slowly looking back up to her. Granger’s warm eyes soften as she tilts her head. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he says stiffly.

There’s something he can’t quite discern in her expression, a foreign kindness that has always been reserved for her friends. “You’re a better man than you think, Malfoy.” 

He feels his face flush at the admission, the tips of his ears burning.  It’s a sentiment that has been repeated by Theo and Pansy on multiple occasions, but it feels different coming from her. 

“Periwinkle,” he blurts out, eager to change the subject. Draco clears his throat. “Periwinkle would be better than navy.”

——though they aren’t entirely without differences. Strange as it seems, they manage to uphold their cordality and the lines seem to blur into a realm of true friendship.——

Granger nudges a box from Madame Malkin’s with her foot, leveling a questioning look at him. “Did Pansy change her mind for the groomsmen’s ties?” 

Draco’s head drops back as he groans. “Merlin, don’t even say that. It took her forever to settle on them. The last thing we need is for Weasley to tell her that the bow ties look better after all.”

“I hadn’t expected them to settle on this more modern cut. It’s very Muggle, isn’t it?” She hums, pulling her wand from the mess of hair atop her head. With a neat swish, she opens the box and Draco gets up to join her.

“I suppose it is.” He shrugs. “I think Pansy chose it partly because her father would’ve hated it.”

“Maybe.” Granger pulls out the tie from its packaging, holding it up. “I still think she should’ve gone with that lovely pale grey.” 

“Save it for your wedding, Granger,” he teases. “Though Salazar help the poor bloke who ends up with you.” 

——They exchange pleasantries instead of quips over their shared meals. The other inhabitants of the estate are immensely glad for this new development; exchanging whispers and sly glances.——

“Has Pansy shown you the heels yet?” Draco says, fiddling with the stem of an apple. He stretches, sprawled out across his couch. His feet ache, the large collection of bags in the corner a testament to yesterday’s success.

“Not yet. Ron had his final suit fitting for the Ball. I reckon the wedding robes need one more though,” she says, shuffling through the shopping haul.

“Weasley went with a grey suit, if I’m not mistaken?”

“He did!” she giggles. “Ron said it would compliment Pansy’s burgundy dress. Can you believe it? Honestly, it’s like I don’t even know him anymore!”

Draco chuckles, before taking a bite of his apple. “I know what you mean. The other day Pans got excited over Quidditch. I almost checked her for curses.”

Granger walks up to join him, frowning slightly at the lack of space on the sofa. Draco fights a smile at her pout. 

She makes a show of dragging herself to the settee. “You need to get more comfortable furniture.”

“Pansy’s never complained.” Draco crosses his legs, throwing an arm over his head.

“Last I checked, I wasn’t Pansy.”

Draco’s head swivels to her. With her hair done up in two braids and her red sweater, she looks much more like the Granger he remembers from his youth. She’s certainly smaller than his best friend. Her hair is much warmer and Draco thinks he might prefer the riotous curls to Pansy’s sleek black.

He feels his face burn with the turn his thoughts have taken, and Draco knows he’s been quiet for far too long. Granger tilts her head in question. Draco’s eyes fall to the shelf behind her. A lone yellow daffodil stands proud in its lonely vase.

He clears his throat before meeting her eyes, “No, you most certainly are not.” 

——-The newfound friendship slowly starts to shift into something more. The light teasing gives way to feelings previously unknown.——

“Granger.” Draco bites the inside of his cheek, stifling a laugh. “You can’t learn a dance from a book.”

“Well excuse me! Not all of us grew up with weekend ballet lessons!”

“Exotic tap dancing, actually.”

She blinks, blowing a curl out of her face. It’s a stubborn little thing, refusing to stay in its place.  He clenches his hands into fists at his side, not daring to submit to impulse. It would be so easy to reach over, twine the strand between his hands and tuck it into place.

“Joking. I’m joking, Granger.” A warmth of pleasure swells in his chest at her exasperated smile. Draco finds he quite enjoys doing that, finding little ways to make her laugh. He’s treading on dangerous territory; forbidden even.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” Pansy’s voice calls out from the kitchen. “He isn’t that good either.”

“Excuse me? “ He pries his eyes off Granger. “You’ve never had any complaints before.” 

“I wasn’t getting married before.”

Granger smiles, getting up to grab one of the trays of biscuits from Pansy’s hands to help bring it over. “I’ve danced with Ron before. Godric help your toes, Pansy.” 

She rolls her eyes, “I’ll have you know Ron is a perfectly adequate dancer.”

He turns toward Granger. It’s strange, his eyes always seem to wander to her without his permission. To his surprise, she’s already looking at him. He raises a brow as if in accusation, ignoring the warmth blooming in his chest with the knowledge of her attention.

“In fact, Ron and I have been practicing for our first dance and I have to say…”

Her eyes flit to Pansy in the midst of her ramble and then back to him. He tilts his head, in silent conversation, the slightest quirk to emphasise his confusion. 

Looking to make sure Pansy wasn’t paying attention, she mouths ‘Delusional’, crossing her eyes to emphasize her point. A chuckle escapes him, and he quickly disguises it as a coughing fit.

Pansy raises a brow in question, not buying his performance. “What’s so funny?” she asks, eyes shifting between them.

“Nothing!” they both say simultaneously, their synchrony condemning them.

“Perfect,” she sighs. “This is exactly what I need. Merlin bless my soul, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy are on the same team, how will the world handle it?” 

Granger looks away, shuffling toward the edge of her seat. Draco clears his throat and pretends not to notice the knowing smile dancing on Pansy’s face.

——The Beast is drawn to her as she is a most peculiar sort of woman. Nothing at all like the women in the circles he had previously been acquainted with. Her curious nature lends itself to enthusiastic conversation——

“Why don’t you call me Hermione?”

“Why don’t you call me Draco?” he retaliates.

“Touche.” They’re sitting across from each other in Draco’s seldom-used dining room. All of his best cutlery laid out in front of them as he attempts to give Granger a crash course in dining etiquette.

“Anyway, this—” she points to the fork closest to the plate “—is for dinner.” Draco nods. “While the one next to it is strictly for salads.” She reviews as if she’s expecting to be quizzed upon it at a later date.

“Don’t know why you’re bothering, no one will care.”

“I’d rather not embarrass myself at the formal dinner, thank you very much. Besides, Mrs Parkinson scares me.” 

Draco shudders. “Won’t argue with you on that one.”

Granger shakes her head. “So, the utensils at 12 o’clock; those are only for dessert, right?”

Draco hums, leaning forward to rest his chin in the palm of his hand in a way abhorrent to all etiquette practices. He can practically sense his mother’s disapproval at the informality even with her nowhere in sight.  He observes Granger, who is studying the arrangement with a frightening intensity. He doesn’t try to hide his grin.

“Have you figured out what you’ll be wearing to the ball?” he questions, trying to distract her “It’s only a few weeks away.” 

She pauses in her effort to find the answers to the universe within his collection of wine glasses. “I have, actually. What about you?”

He pauses, having no answer. He hadn’t expected her to actually be prepared, he ought to have known better. “I’m sure I’ll find something that works,” he says, waving a hand.

“No doubt about it, considering you lounge around looking like you’re minutes from a business meeting,” she teases. “Though I personally think you should go with something green. That silk robe of yours favors your complexion.”

“Spend a lot of time considering my wardrobe, do you Hermione? ” Draco hopes she doesn’t notice the way his voice dips; her name like velvet on his tongue. 

“Maybe I just spend a lot of time considering you, Draco, ” she says cheekily. 

He stares at her; he never knew his name could sound so melodious. He wants her to say it again, just to hear the two syllables drip from her lips but she’s already gone back to meditating upon the finer points of formal china.

——He is enchanted by her intricacies. He doesn’t know what to call the joy she brings forth in him.——

Hermione slumps down beside him with a dramatic sigh. “This is stupid.”

“A lot of things are, but would you care to elaborate?” 

With the engagement ball just a week away, they really don’t have much to do today. The peace is welcome after the bustling last few days. It’s bittersweet, knowing that his time with Hermione is nearing a close. There would be no obligation for her to ever return. The last of the confirmations and reminders were finally taken care of but she, to his delight, hasn’t left. He couldn’t quite fathom why, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn her away.

Draco flips to the next page of the Daily Prophet , continuing perusing the headlines.

“Pansy insists my dress needs something else.”

He glances up from the paper. “I’m sure it's fine, Hermione.” 

“That’s the thing though, I think she’s right,” she groans “The outfit is missing something.”

“Maybe it just needs an accessory of some sort.”

“I tried, Draco.” His heart skips a beat at the sound of his name. “Nothing feels right.”

“Maybe I can help,” he says, mind racing through the pieces collecting dust in Gringotts. It’s a dangerous place to go to, and not the first time he has considered the thought. A growing dangerous desire to present a delicate piece; to drape her in diamonds and emeralds and rubies. A proper declaration of his intentions, of the feelings it;s getting harder to ignore. 

“Tell me about your elusive dress,” Draco asks, already knowing the answer.

“You know it’s a surprise!” Hermione says, shaking her head. “Besides, if you really want to help me, you’ll hex me so I don’t have to dance next week.” 

Draco blinks, considering her words. A hazy idea forms, a way to extend their acquaintance; a way to keep her here. He folds up the Prophet , throwing it off to the side before getting up. 

“What are you doing?” 

He ignores her as he grabs his wand. With a simple flick, the furniture flies to the edges of the room. He hears Hermione yelp as the sofa zips towards the back wall.

Tucking his wand into his sleeve, Draco turns to Hermione with a hand outstretched. “Come now, Granger. How uncoordinated can you really be?”

⸺Though he knows better than to hope, The Beast can’t help but think that she may be the cure to his curse. She will be the one to end his misery.⸺

Quite uncoordinated, is the answer. Their impromptu dance lessons continue on throughout the week and Draco finds himself looking forward to her company. His flat seems more cheerful with her presence.

“Ouch!” He winces as she steps on him again. 

“Sorry!” 

Draco sighs, twirling her as the last notes of the waltz ring through the room. It should feel odd, having her there so close. A pleasant satisfaction hums through him with her in his arms. His hand dip a bit lower on her waist without his permission. “There.” he beams. Draco finds he’s been doing that more often than not; an unknown yet not unwelcome airness in his demeanor “You're certainly better than when we started.”

Hermione makes no move to leave his embrace, instead leaning forward to rest her head on his chest. Draco desperately hopes she can’t hear the way his heart speeds up. He wraps his arms around her more firmly, holding her to him as they gently start to sway to the new number starting up. He can smell faint notes of vanilla, something sweet and addictive. It takes everything in him not to lean down further, burying himself in the tresses of her hair. It’s undoubtedly soft and he aches to reach out and ensnare a strand between his fingers.

The next tune is a slower song, not one of the usual. A satisfied hum escapes her as she slowly looks up at him recognizing the starting notes. Her doe-like eyes seem to shine, reminding him of the swiss chocolate he coveted as a child. Deep, rich, and intoxicating.

He doesn’t quite realise when they stop moving. Draco doesn’t know how long he’s stood there, staring into Hermione’s eyes, trying to imprint the feeling of her in his arms into his memory. He may just have to invest in a pensieve.

Her arms move up his shoulders and the next thing he knows is her soft lips pressing against his. 

Hermione Granger is kissing him. 

Hermione Granger is kissing him . 

Oh, he’s definitely investing in a pensieve.

Draco tightens his grip around her waist, closing the distance between them. His other hand slips up into her hair, his fingers tangling into the curls. He smiles against her lips at the sigh that escapes her.  

Draco’s pleased to find that her hair is much softer than he had ever imagined. Her lips are incessant against his and he’s only too eager to return the gesture. He shivers as her hand plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. His nose brushes against hers as he loses himself in the kiss; loses himself in her. 

He traces the seam of her lips with his tongue, begging entrance but she freezes in his arms.  Draco stiffens, heart sinking as she pulls back.

——One day she receives word that her father has grown terribly ill. Seeing her distress, the Beast has no option than to let her return home. With a heavy heart, he watches her walk away from the castle, away from him——

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” Hermione takes a hasty step back, nearly tripping over her feet in her hurry to move away. “I—I shouldn’t—”

She turns away and Draco watches, heart sinking as she frantically gathers her things. He clears his throat. “Wait, Hermione. Stop—”

“I don’t know what came over me. I—” 

“Hermione, just listen,” he pleads. 

“I—I should go.” She gives him one last look then disappears through the Floo before Draco can beg her to stay.

——His heart pangs with a new revelation that comes with her absence. The Beast is infatuated with the maiden and will have no other for a wife. Soon, his curse will reach the point of no return. ——

Draco paces the floor in front of his fireplace, glancing up at the clock. She doesn’t show up for their last dance lesson, not that he had particularly expected it. Draco has spent entirely too long replaying their last encounter. The memory of her against him threatens to haunt him for years to come. 

He knew she wouldn’t come and yet foolishly, Draco had chosen to hope. A yearning for her presence, even if companionship was all she could offer. He had no business coveting Hermione Granger. Women like her were not meant for the likes of him. 

Though it did get terribly lonely sometimes, here in his muggle flat. This blip in time had been so much more than he could have ever imagined. She had been so much more than he ever knew.

With a sigh he marches off to his study, snatching the innocuous box on his nightstand on his way there. Summoning a quill, he hastily jots down a note. Tying the letter and the box to his beloved familiar, he sends it to her before he can think too much of it.

——She isn’t what he was expecting, but no one else would ever compare. Resigning himself to his fate, the Beast locks himself back in his lonely room. It’s foolish to hope for her return.——

——The maiden finds herself missing the companionship of the Beast. She dreams of him alone in his castle with no one to keep him company. As soon as her father’s health allows it, she rushes back to the man who has become so important to her.——

Draco tugs at his collar, trying to pretend he doesn’t notice everyone’s gazes burning into him. He leans against the wall in the shadowy corner of the dressed-up estate. 

The Parkinson manor looks like something out of a children’s tale, done up in periwinkle with blush accents. 

The man and woman of the hour stand in the middle of a swarm of people, eager to give their congratulations and wish the merry couple well. He watches Weasley bend down to whisper something in Pansy’s ear. Her resulting expression can’t be mistaken for anything other than blissful adoration. He’s the gentleness to Pansy’s harsh sting; the anchor in turbulent waters. 

His heart twists in his chest as his own solitude weighs heavier than it ever has before. 

“They’re perfect aren’t they?” a sweet, melodious voice calls from behind him. He pushes off the wall, turning toward the woman who has been in his every waking thought. He swears his heart skips a beat as he takes her in. Draped in a dress fitted at the bodice before falling to the floor in waves of gold, she looks celestial.

“Can you believe it?” she prompts.

He swallows, trying to find his words. “Fate is strange like that.” He clears his throat. “She’ll be Pansy Weasley in two weeks.” 

His eyes trail down, following the elegant slope of her neck to her exposed shoulders and down to her cinched waist. He has to force his eyes back to her face, only to get distracted by the seductive red painted across her lips.

Hermione steps forward with a challenging smirk as she reaches out  “I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday.” She runs her hands over the lapel of his suit before reaching up to straighten his bow tie. Draco stands still as a statue, feeling everyone’s curious gazes burning, but for some reason, he doesn’t mind them. 

“You clean up nicely. Though I must admit, I was hoping for a bit more green.”

“A man can hardly go wrong with a classic black and white ensemble,” he chokes out, eyes drawn to the intricate headpiece woven in her hair. “You wore it.”

The smile drops from her lips. “I suppose I did.” 

The golden wreath suits her, and something possessive in him hums in triumph. The accessory is quite literally the crowning part of her ensemble, emphasising her allure. 

She wraps a curl around her finger, fidgeting with it. Draco thinks he’d give her every last piece in his vaults if she would let him. 

Hermione lets out a shaky laugh, “Aren’t you going to tell me it looks pretty? And to think, I thought you were a gentleman.”  

“A gentleman you say?” he murmurs.

——“I find myself terribly in love with you, sir.” The words hang between them as the Beast takes a hurried step back. Wisps of golden magic start to wrap around him and the maiden gasps.—

A quick glance around the room confirms eyes both familiar and unknown trained on them. Draco looks back at Hermione's expectant face and they all blur into inconsequence. “I suppose I am.”

With that, he takes a swift step back, increasing the distance between them. Draco reaches out, taking her delicate hand into his grasp. Dropping into a bow, he brings her hand to his lips to place the faintest hint of a kiss on her knuckles.

“Miss Granger,” he whispers against her skin, eyes flicking up to catch her gaze. Draco doesn’t let go of her hand as he straightens up, instead entwining his fingers in between hers. Her nonchalant facade drops as she squeezes his hand, welcoming him. An acceptance he had not expected.

Draco steps back in, closer than proprietary mandates.  He leans down to whisper, “Though I think a gentleman ought not have such wicked thoughts, my lady.” 

She looks up at him through her impossibly long lashes, “Wicked thoughts, Mister Malfoy?” The soft breath of words plays at innocence. Her other hand reaches up, settling on the perch of his shoulders with a seductive smile.

He sniffs, following her lead by encircling an arm around her waist. “I’m afraid men stronger than me would fall when faced with you.” He brings their laced hands up, positioning them into a stance they’ve come to know so well.

“You’re insufferable.” she teases, though her face flushes prettily. 

“And you’re incandescent.” 

——The maiden, eyes sparkling, laughs in delight as she catches the first glimpse of the man he had once been. His eyes are soft with adoration. The fair Prince outstretches his hand. “Shall we my dear?”——

“And then what happened?” Lyra demands, eager to reach the conclusion. Beside her, Cassie yawns, eyes drooping with sleep. The roaring fire has long since dulled to a faint crackle, flooding the entire room with its warm hue. 

It is at this precise moment, reader, that a low chuckle sounds from the entryway of the sitting room. A familiar blonde head of hair slowly comes into view. “Well, I believe they get married.”

Look closer and you may see that the fair hair is littered with grey and white, a point I’m sure is the cause of endless teasing from his beloved wife. The wife in question appears, gently rocking the youngest of her children. 

The two daughters scramble up from their seats to go welcome their father. Draco scoops Cassie up, and pats Lyra’s head absentmindedly in greeting. Hermione walks over to Narcissa, who is only too eager to coo over little Scorpius.

Unfortunately dear reader, as I run out of time, the rest of the story will have to go untold. I’m afraid the conclusion to the Parkinson-Weasley wedding will be left to your own imagination. Frivolous details about the eventual Malfoy-Granger nuptials will have to be omitted.

Let’s walk back, leaving this young family to their devices as they rekindle the fire. I won’t bother telling you about how the family gathered over the photo album, laughing and smiling at the days past. I won’t mention the way Cassie eventually fell asleep in her father’s lap nor the way Naricissa rocked Scorpius to calm him when he woke up. 

Here is what I will tell you: Malfoy Manor is still here after all these years. Behind those wrought-iron gates is a welcoming home and a happy family. The darkness it once held is nothing but a distant memory. The gardens are still flourishing and the windows are open. If one looks closer on lazy Sunday morning, they may even spot a couple slowly swaying to music only they can hear, content in their happily ever after.