Archive of Our Own ^beta

— v —

the girl in your bed has a fine pedigree

There is an appropriate time for everything.

There’s the time to be happy, there’s the one to be sad. There’s the right time to ask an important question, there’s the right one to break up with your partner.

(Well, maybe not that one. There’s never a right time for that one.)

Draco Malfoy’s wedding, Hermione thought as she zipped her red dress on, was the appropriate time for chaos.

Turning left and right, she checked her gown out in the mirror. The fabric swayed noisily in the silence of her room, layers and layers of organza rustling against each other.

The skirt fell ungraciously down again when she let it out of her hands. Briefly, the thought of changing into a suit crossed her mind, but she chased it away, instead moving her hands into her hair to find out the best way to style it.

Up.

Down.

Half-up and half-down.

Ponytailed.

Braided.

She gave up with a groan and an annoyed eye-roll. Who cared, anyway? If she’d wanted to dress up properly, she would have forgone the red dress. But that was never going to happen—even in a billion years, it was not. If he’d wanted her to behave properly, then he wouldn’t have invited her in the first place.

Actually, now that she was thinking about it, she should have dressed even more improperly than this. She lifted her gown again, and analysed the lacquered shoes on her feet with a critical eye.

The only pair of bloody Louboutin’s she owned.

With a sniffle and a grimace on her face, Hermione kicked the heels away, heading straight for her shoe cabinet and pulling out a pair of trainers.

(Red trainers.)

She fell on an armchair in the living room and put them on, tying the laces.

Then, her eyes fell on the beautifully crafted envelope on the coffee table. She took it in her hands to look at it for what must have been the thirty-seventh time: the Portkey was going to activate itself in a matter of minutes, now.

Hermione flipped the eggshell white paper in her hands. For one thing, it definitely proved, without a shadow of doubt, that Hermione had been invited to the wedding of the season—nay, the wedding of the century.

The writing was slightly embossed. Just enough that she could trace the letters.

Astoria Isabella Greengrass & Draco Lucius Malfoy

are pleased to invite you to their wedding

…

Her finger went over that final y in an endless motion. When she realised it, she let the delicate card fall out of her hands with a muttered, “Bloody hell,” escaping from her lips.

She threw her head back on the backrest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

It was just a stupid wedding. He’d invited her. Was he expecting her to be the bigger person? Fuck him. He could have spared her the invite in the first place. He was practically asking for it.

Hermione set her jaw, still adamant in her resolution. 

When the clock in the kitchen ticked the full hour, Hermione shooed her thoughts away from her head with a deep breath and let her finger fall back on the card—almost as if it was happening by accident. 

Next thing she knew, she was in the Manor’s gardens. A ridiculous amount of witches and wizards were appearing all around her, all swaying slightly from the pull of the Portkey travel.

Hermione had to throw only a couple of glances around to find who she was looking for. Gathering her skirt again in her hands, she walked with clear intent towards the two most unkempt heads of hair in the whole garden.

Elbowing her way through the growing crowd, she felt the not-so-subtle glances people were giving her. They pricked her skin, but Hermione refused to let herself be bothered, and kept her head set straight, striding towards Harry and Ron.

Her fingers tapped on the latter’s shoulder when she finally reached him.

“Hi.”

Ron’s blue eyes widened comically when he took in her whole image. “Blimey, Hermione, you really came?”

She shrugged. “I was invited. As were you.”

“Yeah, but I thought…”

“Is that your dress?”

Hermione smiled as charmingly as possible at Harry. “Yes, Harry. This is my dress. Do you like it?”

Harry cleared his throat. Loudly. “It’s very… red.”

Hermione curtsied. “I know.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea…?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ronald.”

“I’m just—I’m just saying.” Her friend put his hands up. “There’s still time for you to go home.”

“And miss the biggest event of the month? Absolutely not, thank you.” Hermione smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of her skirt and pushed her curls off her naked shoulders. “Anyway. Where’s your sister?”

“I’m here,” Ginny said behind her, putting a glass of very pink wine right in Hermione’s hand as soon as she turned around. “I do not care,” she told Ron while raising a finger as her brother opened his mouth to say Merlin-knew-what. “We are going to get this woman properly wasted, because that is what weddings are for. Are we clear?”

“Fantastic idea.” Hermione’s glass was already empty when she nodded with a bright smile at her friend.

“Right, it’s your mess.” Harry rubbed his forehead. “I’m already tired. Let’s go.”

Harry was wearing a very polite navy suit. Ron was sporting a white shirt with grey trousers. Ginny’s dress was a pleasant shade of yellow. All around her, guests showcased almost every colour of the rainbow—blue, orange, green, violet… none of them were wearing white, obviously. None of them were wearing black, either.

And none of them were wearing red.

Except for Hermione.

She stood out pretty easily.

“Remember that Muggle film you made me watch?” Ron told her while offering his arm as Hermione grabbed her second rosé glass from self-levitating trays.

“Which one?”

“The one with the insufferable protagonist.”

Hermione squinted. “Hm. Which one?”

“Oh, come on. Where the daughter dies? Tomorrow is another day and such?”

“Ah, Gone With The Wind?”

“Yeah.” His eyes quickly surveyed her. “You look like her.”

“Oh, Merlin, Ron,” Hermione chirped with a hand to her chest. “Thank you!”

He wasn’t impressed, and he didn’t hide his glare as they crossed the threshold. “Why exactly did you come?”

The Manor’s architecture had been magically tweaked to host both the marriage ceremony and the subsequent reception in the family house. Almost every eye was caught by the austere place and its gorgeously juxtaposed floral arrangements—but not Ron’s. Ron kept eyeing Hermione warily as they crossed the threshold. They followed Harry and Ginny to the first seats they could find in the main hall turned to chapel-lookalike.

“I was invited,” Hermione told him matter-of-factly. “As were you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

People in front of them were standing and sitting alike, all of them chattering. Hermione turned to swap her empty glass with a filled one—and her eye was caught by a purple-dressed Pansy Parkinson marching down the hall looking straight ahead of her.

Instinctively, Hermione craned her neck, following her path.

When Pansy reached her destination, Hermione’s grip around her glass tightened just a bit. The coldness spread into her whole body through her fingers as she looked at the pretty and friendly scene of the brunette fixing the groom’s handkerchief in his jacket pocket.

When Draco’s eye-roll at something Pansy said made his gaze land on Hermione, he froze.

Almost imperceptibly, he straightened up.

Pansy, already too busy scolding the witnesses, a pair of very amused Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, didn’t notice.

Beside her, though, Ron did notice, and he tensed.

“Hermione…”

“Oh, yes, it does, Ron,” Hermione retorted chillingly. “He invited me.”

“That was probably manners.”

Hermione lifted her free hand, wiggling her fingers. The smallest hint of a smirk stretched her lips.

The glare Draco sent her was murderous.

“Same reason why I accepted.”

— i —

back when we were in love

“Oh, bloody hell, Malfoy, please, act normal.”

A playful grin danced on Malfoy’s lips. “I just pulled a chair out, Granger. I don’t see what’s abnormal about that.”

Hermione smiled with a shake of her head. “Okay, I’ll take it. But chivalry is a Gryffindor trait.”

He circled the table, sat down, and put the handkerchief on his legs. “Is it, really?”

Inside of her, something was begging to feel pestered.

Something else, though, was also tragically intrigued.

Hermione looked around with what she hoped was her most nonchalant expression. “This is way fancier than what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” There was a glint in his eyes.

“I don’t know. Kebab?” Malfoy huffed out a laugh. “What? I didn’t think you were going to take this seriously.”

“I told you to dress up, didn’t I?”

Hermione ran her palms down her pied-de-poule red blazer. “Well, I still feel like I kept it too casual.”

“I don’t,” he said, opening his menu. “You look great.”

The comment did absolutely not make her blush. It was just a stupid comment.

Hermione cleared her throat, picking her own menu. “Will you finally tell me why a date?”

As he flagged a waiter to get them started on the wine, Malfoy’s smirk kept lingering on his features.

“Are you objecting to it?”

“I can’t object to it while in the middle of it, can I?”

It had been a stupid office bet. The one who gets more paperwork done before the winter break wins. It was almost a no-brainer, since Hermione loved doing paperwork anyway and Malfoy complained every single time a new stack of work appeared on his desk. Much like Harry, actually.

Hermione was certain she was going to win. When they had shaken hands, she’d told him, “At least you’ve got time to say a proper goodbye to your Audi, Malfoy. You never really knew how to drive it anyway.”

“Get a nice outfit ready, Granger,” he’d smiled back coyly. “You have three weeks to get psychologically ready for a date with me.”

When he’d presented her with his victorious record, Hermione reviewed his work countless times to find something, anything, that could have proved she had won the bet. Much to her dismay, though, everything was just perfect. Not only had Malfoy completed his entire work, but he’d also taken care of assignments that were not originally his. Hermione had tried to use the detail as evidence of his cheating, but since there had been no clause against taking up someone else’s work, eventually she had to begrudgingly keep her word.

Long story short, the two of them were now sitting in a fancy restaurant in downtown London, and Hermione still had a hard time figuring out the how’s and the when’s and the why’s of the whole situation.

Malfoy ordered the wine and looked at her again. “Would you have agreed, had I asked you out in a more traditional way?”

Hermione’s face twisted in a peculiar mix of narrowed eyes and raised eyebrows. “Did you want to ask me out in a more traditional way?”

“Well,” Malfoy smirked. “What do you think, Granger?”

The waiter coming back to fill their glasses saved her from answering. 

The night passed pleasantly enough—much to Hermione’s surprise. Not that she generally hated Malfoy’s company: she just didn’t really care for it. At that point, she was well past the constant eye-rolls and the lingering distaste that he used to spring in her—but she couldn’t really say she actively sought him out in her day-to-day life. Besides, their social circles were still pretty different, even if the people involved kept coming across each other, one way or the other. Anyway, point was that she never had to really think about him, outside of work.

Things didn’t immediately change after that one night; but they got set in motion. Over the following days, Hermione kept replaying in her head the details of their date (even though she internally shuddered at the word every single time), and caught herself smiling like an idiot every time her mind lingered a second too long on the memory of Malfoy taking her hand and bringing it under his arm while they were quietly strolling down the Thames.

Odd, that she hadn’t hated it immediately.

Odder still, that when she’d closed her front door behind her, that same night, she’d brought her knuckles to her mouth, touching them right where his lips had, seconds before.

Who the fuck hand-kissed, anyway. The pretentious douchebag.

And yet, a little spark inside of her had yearned for that small and chaste kiss to evolve into something… more.

They kept it cool, back at work. And yet, Hermione couldn’t stop entertaining the idea of repeating the experience. When she realised she’d started thinking about the possibility in terms of when’s rather than if’s, she knew she was past a point of no return.

That night, she picked up a quill and parchment and sent him a message.

Fancy a pub night out? There’s a concert Saturday night and I feel like we need to balance this back.

Malfoy’s response had arrived immediately after.

I thought you’d never ask.

— vi —

now that we’re done and it’s over

The drawing room had been expanded to accommodate the two hundred or so guests, and they were now all sitting at their rightful tables as the apparently endless lunch courses followed one another.

At the head of the room, under the family portrait, there was the bride and groom table.

Coincidentally enough, Hermione’s placement was perfect for analysing them without drawing too much attention.

Without a single care in the world, she slouched back in her chair, legs ungracefully thrown one over the other, sneakers peeking from under her elaborate gown and did just that.

Astoria was, to have it simply put, preposterously beautiful. There was no other way around it.

Her dress was as ludicrous as it was stunning. The elegant cut of her white gown wrapped her curves in all the ways Hermione’s dresses never completely fit hers. Her dark hair was neatly styled in cascading waves, and she had bloody flowers in her delicate braids. The ring on her left hand was the size of a ridiculous peanut, and the new addition over it matched Draco’s: in case it wasn’t clear enough, the newlyweds intertwined their fingers together, golden rings shimmering under the photographers’ flashes.

From behind the rim of her glass, Hermione followed the way Astoria laughed her crystal laugh while swiping back a strand of Draco’s hair that had fallen on his forehead. He was holding her close with a hand on her back, a polite and camera-ready smile on his face. If it looked to her like it didn’t reach his eyes, that was certainly due to the outrageous number of wine glasses Hermione had already downed.

Nothing to do with the fact that she knew precisely the way his mouth would crook slightly on the left side when he was smiling in earnest, and that the beginning of a dimple showed on his right cheek every time his laugh was genuine.

“Well, well, well,” a deep voice announced, pulling her back to the present with the screeching sound of a chair being drawn closer. “What are you doing here, Granger?”

Hermione didn’t even pretend to hide her eye roll. “Same thing as you, I believe, Zabini.”

Blaise made a noise. He rested his arm on the back of Hermione’s chair, angling it so that his cheek met his palm. His head tilted towards her with a sly grin—one that completely succeeded in its intent of making her scowl.

“Can you fuck off back to your own table?” Ginny’s voice came from Hermione’s other side, and Blaise perked right up as soon as he heard it.

“Ginevra! I can’t believe I’m blessed with your graceful presence, too, today.”

“Piss off. Do I have to kick you away myself?”

“Salazar, I love this woman.” He turned his head around. “Don’t you love this woman, Potter?”

Harry turned his way exclusively to shoot him a wordless glare.

“The real question is why are you here,” Hermione said, words soaked in contempt.

“Came to say hi, Granger! Who do you think I am, some brute from the prehistoric age?”

“Actually, yes, that’s quite right.”

“You’ve always been so incredibly charming,” Blaise said emphatically. “I miss that, sometimes.”

“Oh, do you, really?”

“But still, my question remains unanswered.” When his dark eyes cut to her again, they were threatening. “What are you doing here?”

Hermione held his gaze for the whole time as she picked her glass back up from the table.

“I was invited.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed for a second. “Were you?”

“I wouldn’t be able to be here, otherwise. Would I?”

She felt the way he scanned her whole appearance—loose hair, bare freckled shoulders, red dress, worn-out sneakers—and she loathed every second of it.

He leaned in, just enough to toy with the line of her personal space.

“I hope that’s the sole reason.” A breath. “For you.”

Hermione’s teeth gritted together. “Blaise, dear, I’m enjoying a free lunch. Your friends over there are already married. If you’re here to act as a bloody watchdog, you’re only wasting your time and ruining my appetite. Get the fuck away from me.”

Blaise smiled, and it was precisely the kind of smile Hermione could picture on bloody Jafar.

“I hope you’ll enjoy the cake.”

— ii —

they sit ‘round talking ‘bout the meaning of life

“They don’t hate you, Granger,” Draco said with a resigned groan as he finished getting their tea ready. “You’re just being dramatic.”

“Don’t tell me I’m being dramatic,” she called from the bathroom, emerging with her jeans still on and her top halfway-pulled off. “I tried to make conversation countless times and every time I was met with half a laugh, an annoyed scowl, or a badly covered eye-roll. Do you really think I’m making it up?”

“Look, that’s how they behave, I don’t know what to tell you!”

“Yeah,” Hermione nodded vehemently, “they behave like they hate me!”

“Salazar help me.” He rubbed his eyes. “Why would they hate you?”

The day Hermione had started pitching Draco the idea of going out with her friend group, he’d opposed it instantly. His exact words had been, “Me? And Potter and Weasley? In the same room? Not for work?! You’re mad.” It had taken Hermione a bit of kneading and a lot of reminders that her circle was not just composed of the famous Golden Trio anymore to make him finally relent. Still, before agreeing completely, Draco had asked for something in return.

Easy, really.

One dinner for another.

If he was going out with them, then Hermione was to go out with his friends, too.

She hadn’t been elated at the idea. But, for compromise’s sake, she’d agreed without batting an eyelid. After all, hers was going to happen first: had it been a fiasco, there would have been time to renegotiate the terms of the accord.

Except that the night had turned out to be a massive success. Granted, Hermione had privately threatened both Harry and Ron—and especially Ron—but, still, Draco had put on his best suit (both metaphorically and literally speaking) and dazzled the audience away, leaving everyone to look at him as if he was an alien on Earth. Neville hadn’t shied away from actually asking him if he’d suffered from a severe concussion over the past few years, as if that was the reason why he’d suddenly become a pleasant person to be around.

Hermione had felt her heart swell with uncomplicated joy when she’d squeezed Draco’s hand under the table.

“How am I doing?” he’d whispered in her ear.

“You’re brilliant. I think you’re ready to meet my mum.”

He’d chuckled, leaving a quick kiss on the tip of her nose.

So, armed with the confidence the blazing and quite unexpected triumph had filled her with, Hermione was sure they were going to replicate the experience with Draco’s friends, too.

But the night didn’t really go as expected, and it mined every single one of Hermione’s insecurities.

“I don’t know why they would hate me, Draco, they just do! Did you see the way Pansy looked at me?”

“Pansy looks that way at everyone.”

“And bloody Theo with his bloody takes about the meaning of life and love and shit.” Her top was comically hanging off one of her shoulders, but she didn’t take it off, too busy gesticulating around. “What kind of bloody question is what is a relationship to you, Granger? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Draco served the tea. “Are you really taking Nott seriously?”

“Yes! I bloody well am! He’s not my therapist, is he? And why would he even want to know?! If anything, that’s something you should ask me—not him!”

“Okay,” he nodded, “what is a relat—”

“Sod off, Draco!”

“I’m joking!” He circled the island that separated the kitchen from the living room and got to take off her top entirely. “Nott is an arsehole. Ignore him.”

“Blaise glared at me the whole night.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest when Draco slid the piece of clothing off her arm.

“He didn’t glare at you. You were talking about books, weren’t you?”

“Ah, yes, hearing how my favourite author is just an idiot who ‘romanticises mental illness and doesn’t leave room for her female leads to improve’ was just the best—he doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s talking about. I bet his favourite book ever is, I don’t know. Portnoy’s complaint.”

“I like Portnoy’s complaint.”

“I like Portnoy’s complaint, too, but that doesn’t mean anythi—” She slapped him on the shoulder. “Stop laughing!”

“Granger, it’s in your head,” he said cupping her cheeks. “They don’t hate you.”

Hermione drew a deep breath. “I feel like I don’t fit in at all. They all—you have all grown up the same way, and you share a certain way of approaching the world that I simply do not have. And you’re all so fucking fancy and I felt like…” Draco’s eyebrows rose. “I felt like a fish out of water. Like I had to be bloody grateful that they were letting me sit with them.”

She sniffled, mostly angered at the fact that it was affecting her that much.

“Can I tell you something?” Draco looked for her eyes.

Hermione hummed.

“You know, hate or no hate… fuck them. I mean, okay, let’s say they hate you—which they don’t, but.” He shrugged. “So what?”

“Don’t be charming about this.”

“Granger,” he gave her a fake eye-roll, “I’m charming about—”

“No.” She put a hand over his mouth, and drew a second deep breath. “They’re your friends. I want your friends to like me.”

“They do,” he mumbled against her palm.

She took it off. “They don’t. ”

Draco sighed. “You’re impossible, Granger.”

“Maybe so. But your friends still don’t—they didn’t laugh at one of my jokes.”

“How can I break this to you…” His eyes wandered for a second around the room. “That could be because your jokes aren’t that fu—”

“For Merlin’s beard,” Hermione exclaimed, wiggling in his arms, “get the fuck away from me!”

“But,” Draco laughed back, tightening his hold on her, “I do not care.” He tugged her closer to him, lips hovering just a breath away from hers. Hermione forced a pout. “Can we talk about it another time?” His voice dropped low. 

“Yeah, okay,” she muttered, looking away on purpose. “The tea’s getting cold.”

Draco hummed. His fingers went to graze her back. “I’ll have to make it again.”

“Why?” Hermione teased. “We could just drink it.”

“I really like this bra you’re wearing, you know.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“Yeah,” Draco said, tilting her head and ghosting his breath on her neck. “I think I am.”

— vii —

glamorous, shiny, bright Beverly Hills

People always said that Draco looked like Lucius.

Not that they were wrong, obviously. But Hermione had always thought there was clearly something more Narcissa-like in him.

Slow music started and applause sprung from all the tables as the spotlight turned the whole attention to the heartwarming couples of bride-and-father and groom-and-mother taking to the centre of the ballroom, and Hermione found herself mulling over those similarities again.

There was something imposing about Lucius. Something cold and distant reflected the icy shade of his grey eyes. His gaze always cut glacially around the room, and Hermione had never found the trick to get past his closed-off-ness. Not that she was looking for her own sake, specifically: it was more of a quest to understand the kind of relationship Draco had with him. It intrigued her: it checked everything on the love/hate sheet.

Draco respected him deeply, even though he despised him profoundly. He seeked his approval, but at the same time he wanted to reject it. There was a peculiar ambivalence when it came to discussing the traditional values he’d been raised with: now a grown man, Draco had made his mind up about how the world spun. Despite that, he never got to the point where he could openly discard his family and his father. Draco loved Lucius too much, and it was a kind of twisted love Hermione couldn’t quite put her finger on, but that troubled him constantly, in a remote part of his soul.

The relationship with his mother was equally as complicated. And, even though they lacked an all-encompassing aesthetic likeness, Hermione’s eye had always been instantly caught by the subtle ways that gave away their connection. Chins lifted. Smiles crafted. Gracious walking. Precise swaying. He’d told her once that it had been his mother who’d taught him how to ballroom dance, and Hermione hadn’t been surprised in the slightest. Just like she wasn’t surprised now, as she watched them twirl around the room in perfect sync, like two figurines came to life right out of a music box.

Padma and Parvati shot right up as soon as it was possible for the rest of the guests to join the dance floor. Hermione kept watching with her glass in hand, glancing around as other people followed the twins. It was genuinely impressive how many of the guests she knew: a testament to the fact that the Malfoy’s had outdone themselves with invites. She was perfectly aware it was all for appearance’s sake, but still.

Dean. Seamus. Neville. Luna. Susan. Cho. Hannah. Angelina. George. Percy. Katie. Bloody Crabbe and even bloodier Goyle. Fucking Nott. Princess Pansy.

Ginny came back from the loo and fell onto the chair next to Hermione’s.

“You don’t dance?”

“Don’t particularly feel like it. You?”

The redhead shrugged. “I hate it when you have to switch partners. Who the hell knows who I’m going to get.” She poured herself some of the wine Hermione was already drinking. “Can I say I’m happy you’re not… I don’t know, spreading Hell everywhere?”

Hermione scoffed. “Oh my, Ginny. I would never ruin a white-veil occasion.”

Ginny snorted. “I mean, that dress says otherwise, but I’ll take it.”

The couples switched, and Draco took Astoria in his arms.

“I’ll be honest,” Hermione said, “I have thought about it.” Ginny turned to her with a mildly impressed look on her face. “But now I’m more like… meh.”

Astoria spun under Draco’s arm and her clear laugh echoed all around the room.

Hermione sent the liquid in her glass down her throat.

“I think I’ll go for a walk. Want to come with?”

“Ah, no, thank you, you go.” Ginny took her shoes off, massaging her heels. “I should have brought sneakers, too.”

Hermione grinned as she patted Ginny on the head. She headed towards the opened glass door and out to the balconies overseeing the gardens.

The sun’s course into the sky was unfurling to its end. Warm light spread over the vast green expanse, and Hermione closed her eyes as her head tilted slightly backwards, washed out in the golden hour. She walked down the stairs aimlessly, wandering around the large complex as the music coming from the inside still filled her ears.

The first time Draco had brought her to the Manor, she’d been properly terrified. They had to talk about it long and hard, and she’d felt completely cried out for the better part of a whole week. When they’d crossed the threshold, she’d gripped his hand so tightly that he had actually made a strained noise. And when Lucius’ eyes and then Narcissa’s had set on her, she’d felt her insides abandon her all at once.

But then Draco had taken her to the corners. The sun room. The piano one. The tapestry. He’d put his finger over hers as they traced the branches of his lineage. The reading nook in his bedroom. The heart of the maze in the garden. The orange tree behind the fountain. It still remained a foreign place, and it still left her filled with uneasiness—but then she’d look at him and she would feel a bit more welcome, a bit more wanted, a bit more needed.

“Miss Granger.”

Narcissa’s sudden voice pulled her harshly from her reverie, making her freeze in her spot.

“Mrs. Malfoy.”

“I shall be honest with you,” Narcissa said in a chillingly cold tone. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

She cleared her throat, fighting hard to keep her face straight. “Well. I was invited.”

“I am aware of that. I personally sent out the invitations.”

Hermione decided to momentarily ignore the implications of that, filing the statement away for later analysis. “Then I don’t see where your surprise should come from.”

“I had, maybe naively, thought you would have excused yourself from participating.”

“Again, I was invited. I don’t see how—”

“You see, Miss Granger,” Narcissa cut her off, “manners and general well-behaviour are the reason why people have respectful relations with one another in society. You have been invited because it was either everyone or no one, and since you’re included both in my son’s school group and in his work one, we simply had to keep your name on the day’s list.”

A scoff escaped her. “You invited me to save your face?”

Narcissa’s haughty features hardened. “I must confess, I was quite sure your perceptiveness would have suggested you to decline.”

“Ah, right, so you did not want me here, but it should have come from me! Because, obviously, had it come directly from you it would have a hundred percent looked worse.”

“What exactly are you here for?” Her eyebrows rose delicately. It was simply insane how much Draco looked like her. “I have tried to put myself in your shoes, believe it or not, and I still can’t see how you could get through this day with a serene heart.”

“Don’t worry about my heart, Mrs. Malfoy. I have a very resilient liver, and she’s having a blast today.”

Narcissa’s lips were pressed in a very thin line. Hermione almost hoped she broke her perfect character and started calling her names. At least that way she would have had an excuse to make her bubbling temper burst.

“Walking out of the room while husband and wife share a dance is absolutely ludicrous and completely irreverent, Miss Granger, as I am sure you’re aware. If you think you can pull a little stunt to—”

“Oh, for Godric’s sake, not you too,” Hermione snapped. “Your son is already married, okay? Did you go through the entire ritual thinking I was going to stand up and say, ‘No, Draco, don’t marry her!’? Your precious baby broke up with me. Do you really think I would lower myself to that?”

Unperturbed, Narcissa almost smiled. “Lower yourself, Miss Granger? No. I don’t think you’d need to do that.”

Before the words could completely settle in Hermione’s brain, the older woman turned around and walked back into the house.

— iii —

livin’ room dancing and kitchen table bills

Contrary to what Hermione had originally anticipated, her mother had instantly warmed up to Draco. She was usually the tougher one, and it had always taken her a long time to smooth her enough to make her stop glaring at her boyfriends. But, once again, Draco’s charm had come to the rescue and positively surprised her. He’d walked through the door with a bouquet of yellow tulips in his hand and he’d kept calling her mother Dr. Granger through the entire night. None of his comments were misplaced, and, sure enough, Dr. Susanne Granger’s face had melted in a warm and open smile that had left Hermione quite… shocked.

It had been Hermione’s father, instead, who’d kept sneaking suspicious glances at Draco the whole time. It didn’t matter that Draco kept asking questions and listening intently to each and every answer, throwing around comments like “Fascinating,” and “I read once that,” and “This reminds me of,” and “Can you tell me more about,” with little to no effort. Dr. Joseph Granger was not impressed, and the frown on his face as he dried the wet dishes his daughter was handing him after dinner didn’t look like it was going away any time soon.

“Dad?” Her father grumbled something in response. “Can you tell me what you’re thinking?”

“Right now? That tomorrow I’ll have at least half a dozen cavities to treat.”

Hermione smiled. “Of your own?”

He cut her a not-impressed glare. “Smart arse.”

“Oi, language!” She splashed some water from her wet fingers on him. “Seriously, though. Is something wrong?”

“No, honey. Nothing’s wrong.”

From the living room, the sounds of Susanne and Draco’s laughter echoed all around them.

Her father’s jaw set.

Hermione cut to the point. “You don’t like him?”

“I—” He sighed. “Darling, it’s not my place whatsoever, obviously, but… yes, I do have concerns.”

Hermione kept cleaning the cutlery. “Is it because of something he said?”

“No,” her father said very eloquently. “It’s because of something you said.”

Hermione decided to drag it for a bit. “What did I say?”

“Hermione.” Her innocuous glance at him was useless. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Hermione exhaled a resigned breath. “Dad, I get that you’re concerned, but…”

“I’m not just concerned, Hermione. Some things about this whole affair properly frighten me.”

“I promise you, that’s behind all of us.”

“Is it?” Her face fell a bit, and her dad reached out to caress her cheek. “Sweetheart, really, I hope you’re not taking this the wrong way.”

“No, dad, I get it, I just… I already made my peace with all this history. I don’t think you should let it worry you, since it’s not worrying me.”

“Hermione, darling, I hate to break this to you,” he smiled, “but, as your father, I will always worry about things that you’re not actively worrying about. I learnt to do that back when you magically climbed on very high trees when you were five.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have worried then either.”

He leaned in to press a kiss on her forehead. “He does seem like a nice bloke, I’ll be honest. But I can’t, in fairness, say that I’m completely at ease. For example, how will it go when you’ll meet his parents?”

“I won’t say that doesn’t trouble me,” Hermione confessed, “but I also think it’s more important to focus on him, rather than who or what he stands for.”

“I just find it a bit difficult. That’s all. You’re very different, you come from opposite worlds…”

“That was true for Ron as well, but you never had an issue with him.”

“Well, for starters, I’ve known Ron longer. And, second of all, I’m not just saying magic-wise. Putting that aside, he’s still old money. He grew up in a guarded and gated community, and he probably never used a plastic fork in his entire life. The Weasley’s are far more down-to-Earth like us than the Malfoy’s.”

“You sound a bit retrograde, dad.”

“Perhaps I do, you’re right. But I think the way someone is raised is important. The values they have known at a young age are difficult to… I don’t want to say eradicate, but maybe evolve. Has he ever seen an electricity bill in his entire life?”

Hermione cracked a thin smile at that.

“What?”

“I see where I get my overthinking from.” Her father shook his head, a tender smile opening on his face. “Dad, you’re definitely right, and it’s not like I completely disagree with you. But I also think we both deserve a chance. Don’t you?”

— viii —

reality crept in

She hadn’t technically planned it. Well, to be honest, she had planned it, at a certain point—hence the red dress and the whole appearance shenanigans—but then, after she’d sat through the bonding ritual, after she’d looked at Draco and Astoria’s arms wrapped in the golden thread of light that made them husband and wife, after she’d seen everyone throw rice and confetti at them, blanketing the pavement white as though it had suddenly snowed, after they’d walked arm-in-arm in the drawing room, after “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, for the first time ever, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy!”, after they’d danced together to a disgustingly sweet song, after she had to watch them fucking feed each other, after…

Hermione had changed her mind.

Chaos was too tiring, after all.

Which was why she’d mainly sulked on her seat, rejecting all invitations to dance and emptying one bottle of wine after the other.

But.

But.

But.

But then Narcissa Malfoy had decided to act like the self-entitled distasteful woman she’d always been.

And Blaise Zabini had kept ‘casually’ strolling past her table.

And Theodore Nott had sat for almost a whole hour next to Harry—his excuse was that he was “just pestering Saint Potter,” but Hermione didn’t miss the looks he’d thrown at her.

And Pansy Parkinson had analysed her from head to fucking toe during that split-second they’d met in the bathroom.

And she’d even spotted Lucius bloody Malfoy glance at her with a look that had pierced the entire room.

And then she had to sit through countless speeches that sang the praises of bride and groom—especially the bride, of course. Oh, how perfect was Astoria. Truly, the perfect, perfect woman. How generous. How kind. How compassionate. How selfless. How giving. Such a cheerleader for other people. What great friendships she had. What a wonderful companion she always made. What a good heart she had. How lucky Draco was. Did Draco know how lucky he was?

And Draco, oh, Draco, what a great man he’d turned out to be! What a wonderful husband he was going to make! No one could wait for the happy pair to have children because, ah, can you just imagine how absolutely flawless those beautiful babies will be? Draco was going to be such a gorgeous father, helping, loving, welcoming—are you already working on the dad jokes, Malfoy?

And when Hermione had tilted her bottle to treat herself to some more wine, she’d found it empty. And that had also been the moment when she’d finally read the label.

Superior Red. Malfoy Apothecary.

The steps that had brought her to standing in front of the bridal table with a microphone in her hand—well, it wasn’t exactly a microphone, but she was lacking the magical name for a pretentious thing that had been created exclusively to avoid using Muggle microphones—were an undefined blur, but it didn’t matter. Because her mouth was already open, and she was about to make a speech.

“Hello, everyone!”

At her table, Ginny was looking at her with her fingers buried deep in her hair. Harry was half-sitting and half-standing, unsure what to do. Ron’s mouth was touching the floor. Everyone was exchanging worried glances.

At a closer table, Daphne, Blaise, Theo, Pansy et cetera had all stood up abruptly. Most of them had their wand at the ready.

Dramatic.

Hermione turned quietly towards the newlyweds.

Astoria was giving her a soft smile, a slightly surprised look on her delicate face.

Draco looked like he’d stopped breathing.

His wife’s hand gently fell on his, and Hermione saw her give a tiny squeeze.

The laugh that escaped her sounded manic.

“I suppose you all already know who I am, so I won’t bore you with that information,” she started, twirling around on her heels and glancing around the room. “Since I’ve already had a couple of inquiries on the matter, I’ll answer your main question—why am I here?—straightway. I was invited! Just like all of you! Isn’t that absolutely fantastic? How many of you here have attended your ex’s wedding party, by show of hands?” She waited. “No one? Oh, this is an incredible milestone, then. I’m impressed with myself.

“Anyway, I’m being rude. First of all, let me join you in congratulating these two wonderful lovers!” Hermione clapped her hands, angling herself back to Draco and Astoria’s direction, and the audience tentatively followed. “This is an enormous step for you, and I genuinely hope you know what you’re doing.” A laugh snaked around the room, but all she could focus on was the way Draco’s jaw clenched immediately. It was like she could read the flipped question in his mind.

“Now, I was sitting at my table over there,” she went on, feeling slightly more deranged than a second before, “and as you all said these marvellous things about bride and groom, I told myself, Hermione, come on, now! You have to share, too! After all, I’ve known Draco for… uh… ever since I was about twelve. You do the math, thank you. But going on about how Draco was in school would be a bit, um… I think it would rather bring the mood down, wouldn’t it? He was a self-entitled prat, after all.” People laughed. She turned to him. “Weren’t you?”

Draco cracked a smile that looked every bit fake as most of his uncles’ new teeth.

“But, even then, I have to recognise the fact that he never stopped himself from telling you precisely what he thought of you. If Draco Malfoy doesn’t like you, you just know it. It’s not something he ever played around with.” She threw a side glance at him, and her voice settled a bit. “I always knew exactly what he thought of me.”

His eyes were still fixed on her. The knuckles of his fist were completely white.

“I mean that in every possible sense,” Hermione continued, switching back to her lighter-and-not-at-all-tipsy tone. “He’s so honest. No barrier between his brain and his mouth whatsoever. He’s the kind of man who will never pretend to laugh at your joke if it’s not funny—he’s just going to tell you that it sucks, and you don’t understand how punchlines work.” The tables laughed, and as Hermione turned around she saw Astoria chuckling, too. “Oh, Godric, hear that, Malfoy. Maybe I do know how to land a joke.

”In any case, as I was looking for inspiration about what to write in your congratulations card, I came across this saying from some country in continental Europe—I’m currently forgetting which one it was, but I blame that on the wine. Oh, about that, where’s—” Hermione pretended to squint around, turning in the direction of the parents table. “Lucius! Long time no see. The wine is fabulous. Superior Red. Fantastic choice. Is the name, by any chance, a subtle nod to…” She gestured vaguely in the air, feeling the cold eyes of Malfoy senior weighing on her like stones. “You know. Something else that’s also red and superior?” He was spinning his family ring on his finger—a gesture she’d seen Draco do countless times. Hermione smiled. “I hope not.”

She turned to the room again. “But I’m going off course. As I was saying, I found this saying that basically means ‘better the devil you know,’ but the wording was quite peculiar. Wives and oxen from your countries. Now, I’ll momentarily ignore the fact that women and cattle are put on the same level here, because what really piqued my interest is the idea that there’s a precise saying that tells you, marry people you know. You should take your oxen from your country because you know the soil there—you know the air, and the water, you know the grass even, and you know they’re good, because you’ve turned out good. And in a similar way, you should marry someone who grew up like you did. Who shares your values, your ideas about life, your way of seeing the world.

”I’ll be honest: personally, I don’t completely agree with this idea; but that’s probably due to who I am. I mean, I come from a world most of you here don’t know the first thing about, so it would be a bit difficult for me to, um… find ‘wives and oxen’ from there. But it is nice to see that you two are managing to continue this tradition! I guess the reason why this saying exists is that it will be easy to manage a relationship with someone you share so many things with.” She paused, bringing a finger to her chin in a thinking-like motion. “You see, I believe that the core to any kind of relationship, really, is being able to… stay.”

A brief flash of a memory passed in front of her eyes: her front door slamming shut, Draco’s frame disappearing behind it.

She swallowed.

“Through the good and the bad. To stay when there’s sunshine outside, and to stay when it’s pouring rain. To make the choice to stay, even when the other shows you their absolute worst.” She felt her heart beat too fast in her ribcage. “And if the other comes from a place you already know, all of that is easier to do, isn’t it? Because reality is tough, and it’s great to postulate about unbelievable love stories that can move mountains—but the real world is not a romance novel. And, in the real world, it’s good to have it easy. We suffer enough; why should we suffer through relationships, too? It’s good to feel fine, to be serene, to be… at ease. What more could you ask for the rest of your life?”

Hermione grabbed a champagne glass from a floating tray, and turned back to the bride and groom.

Astoria was still smiling, bless her soul.

Draco, instead, was taking very controlled breaths.

“So, that’s my wish for you. That… the easy love you were looking for puts you at ease. And that you’ll find your happiness.”

Briefly, her lips quivered into a sad smile.

Hermione raised her glass. “To Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy!”

“To Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy!” echoed the room.

— iv —

you can’t help who you fall for

“Draco.”

Hermione shook his shoulder, and he grunted in the pillow.

“Draco, come on.” She leaned closer to his ear. “Wake up.”

He groaned deeply as he opened one eye to look at her.

“What time is it?” His mumbled and groggy morning voice, still laced with sleep, was the cutest sound Hermione had ever heard.

“It’s early. But you need to see something.” She pressed a kiss on his cheek, lips touching the sharp cut of his bone. “Come on.”

With Hermione tugging on his arm, Draco finally relented and stood up, rubbing his still heavy lids and running a hand through his hair to somewhat fix his bedhead.

Hermione took him to the window, an excited grin playing on her face.

“Look,” she beamed. “It’s snowing.”

Draco squinted at her. “It’s late March.”

“I know,” she nodded, still smiling. “But it’s still snowing. Look.” She turned back to the window, pointing a finger against the glass.

He wrapped his arms around her as he got closer, and Hermione sighed contentedly when he rested his chin on the top of her head, leaning back into his chest. “Well, bloody hell. So much for the regular progression of seasons.”

London looked impossibly charming, all blanketed in white. The light of the rising sun made it look like it was wrapped in a shiny new robe.

“I don’t think it’s going to last.”

Draco hummed. The vibration reverberated through all of her bones.

“Did you drag me out of bed just to look at a sprinkle of snow?”

“Uh, yes, I did.” Hermione turned around long enough to flash him a sly smile. “I told you, I don’t think it’s going to last, and you had to see it.”

He buried his lips in her curls. On her waist, his thumbs were ghosting small patterns that made her shiver.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Draco murmured, “otherwise I would have thrown a tantrum, now.”

Hermione’s spine snapped straight, and she turned around immediately. “What did you say?”

Draco was smiling his coy smile. “Hm? What did I say?”

Hermione wiggled her arm to shove him on the shoulder. “Draco Malfoy. What did you say?”

He kept smiling. His lips crooked slightly on the left. The shadow of a dimple on his right cheek was showing. “That I’m about to throw a tantrum.”

Hermione, too, was smiling. “Did you say…?”

“What, Granger?” He leaned in, brushing his nose against hers. “What exactly did I say?”

Hermione’s hands locked behind his back. She bit her lower lip to stop herself from smiling too big, but it was a lost cause. “Say it again.”

Draco leaned down to catch her lips in a small kiss. “I love you.”

Hermione laughed, and she pushed on her toes when he drew back to kiss him again. “Do you really?”

“No,” he said as one of his palms went to rest on her shoulder blades. “I’m actually joking.”

“Oh, fuck, I knew it,” she replied against his lips. “My day is ruined, now.”

Draco huffed out a laugh into her mouth as he kissed her again.

“I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Another kiss.

“I love you, too, Draco.”

He tasted like happiness, and happiness tasted like freedom.

— ix —

the love that you had

Her breathing was fast-paced as her steps echoed loudly in the Manor’s halls. Hermione kept walking, and walking, and walking; the only sound clear in her ears was the one coming from her heartbeat, buzzing and hissing as the blood ran too quickly in her veins.

She realised she’d been aiming for the library only when she crossed its threshold and found herself looking for balance against the old book spines.

When she finally stopped, suddenly spent, her vision swimming in front of her, she felt the traitorous tears that had gathered at the corner of her eyes finally spill out, untamed. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them hastily on her closed eyelids, and her palms were cold as she wiped at her damp cheeks.

Her legs felt like jelly. The moment her back touched the books on the shelves, Hermione surrendered to the abrupt fatigue that had taken the best of her heart, of her mind, and of her soul, and she let herself slide down to the floor, dress pooling around her waist like a spilled puddle of red ink. Mostly, she was pissed that her treacherous body was actually shaking with stupid, small sobs.

Streaks of salty water were still running down her face when Hermione finally managed to take a deep breath and blink her teary vision clean.

Just in time to hear some frantic footsteps approach.

She could have recognised the stride full of intent in a crowd of thousands.

Hermione barely had the time to jump to her feet and slap her cheeks, before Draco marched in the library practically fuming, hair in disarray from the quick walk, jaw set and face red.

“What the fuck, Granger?”

“Wonderful ceremony,” Hermione replied without missing a beat. “I haven’t thanked you for inviting me yet.” She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

Draco drew a trembling breath. Out of all the things Hermione could have thought about doing, fixing his hair was definitely not the one her brain should have focused on. “What the fuck was that?”

“That,” Hermione replied, bringing her hands together in front of her, mostly to stop herself from doing something hazardous, “was a toast. To you, and to your wife.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not bullshitting you. It was literally a toast to the two of you.”

He looked one second away from properly throttling her. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—I was invited!” Hermione shouted. “You invited me, okay? If you did not want me here, you should have not invited me!”

“We invited you because—”

“Because it was either everyone or no one, yes, I know, your mother already made sure to tell me. But still, I was invited. Did you really think I was going to pass and act as the bigger person? Please.”

“You think this is a good look for you? Ex-girlfriend shows up at wedding rec—”

“I’m your ex-fiancée, Draco,” Hermione hissed through gritted teeth. His mouth snapped shut. “Mind your words.”

His fists curled tightly at his sides. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish with your pathetic little scene?”

“Oh, you think that was a scene?” Hermione scoffed unbelievably. “Believe me, Draco, I could have done a lot worse than that. Just off the top of my head, I could have, I don’t know.” Her hands disentangled, and Hermione held up one finger after the other as she counted. “Disrupted the cake. I could have spilled a drop of mood potion in every single glass in here. I could have organised a dance off at the children’s table. Can you imagine your mother’s face? I could have done a trillion ridiculous things to simply break the ordered control you’re keeping on today. You all look like tiny soldiers. Moving on schedule. One, two, three, march!” She got closer to him, her voice rolling to a menacing note. “I could have bloody well stood up in the middle of your marriage ritual. You would have panicked, your mother would have had a heart attack, your father would have called security, and then I would have just said, ‘What’s the fuss about? I just need to go to the loo’.”

Without thinking—or perhaps doing it exactly on purpose—Hermione dusted some invisible lint off of Draco’s shoulders.

“I actually entertained the idea, when I got the invite. Act like the psychotic ex. That would have been so fun, actually. You know why I didn’t do it?”

He blinked once. Hermione smiled.

“Because I couldn’t be arsed, Draco. Because I saw your face the moment you saw me, and I knew that was enough. You’ve been panicking the whole day anyway.” Her hands slid down his arms to check his cufflinks. “I saw it in the way you kept adjusting these, even though they’re spelled to stay perfectly put.”

“You don’t—”

Hermione tried to spin one, but it didn’t budge. “Lucky guess.”

She took his hand in hers, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I saw it in the way you kept tormenting your cuticles.” Her thumb swiped over his, where his skin had been reddened and torn by an obsessive nail. “In the way you drank three glasses of wine in total.” She still held his hand, twisting it in hers. Her fingertips traced the peaks of his knuckles, and then her index went to rest on his wedding ring. “Because I know you only want Firewhiskey when you’re agitated.”

Draco, probably unconsciously, curled his fingers around her hand—just so.

Hermione, mustering a strength she didn’t know she had, dropped his hand.

“And, besides, it would have been quite nasty for Astoria, wouldn’t it?” She turned and walked away, putting some much needed distance between them.

Behind her, Draco loudly cleared his throat.

When Hermione turned back, she caught the last seconds of him adjusting his bow-tie, despite the fact that that, too, must have been charmed to stay precisely put.

“By the way, I bet everyone absolutely adores her, don’t they? What was her answer to the meaning of a relationship, or whatever that was?”

Draco—finally—passed a hand over his hair, putting it back into place. “You don’t really care about that.”

Hermione brought a hand to her heart. “Do you think so little of me, Malfoy?” He simply glared, wordlessly. “Believe it or not, I am actually happy you found such a dashing woman. She’s everything I’ll never really be, isn’t she? I bet she doesn’t have the I’m-better-than-other-girls complex, and that’s probably the reason why she is, in fact, better than other girls. Isn’t that so?”

“I think,” Draco said, without dignifying her rambling with an answer, “it’s better for everyone if you just leave, Granger.”

Hermione smiled endearingly. “Oh, but what is that going to look like? Are you personally going to walk me out of here? How will that work with appearances and whatnot?”

“I don’t fucking care about appearances, Gr—”

“Oh, you don’t?” Hermione snapped, eyes widening in mock-astonishment. “Are you sure about that? Because I remember something very different—and, more precisely, I remember you breaking up with me because of some idiotic fucking reasoning that had nothing to do with you and me, and everything to do with saving your bloody family’s face!”

Draco kept clenching and unclenching his fists, uncomfortably staring at the tips of his shoes. “If you still think we broke up because of my family—”

“We didn’t break up, Draco,” Hermione exclaimed, already shouting. “You broke up with me! You gave me a fucking ring, after more than a whole fucking year, and then you still broke up with me! You can say whatever the fuck you want about what you want from the future, and from life, and about finding someone who should make your life more easy to live, less stressful, less complicated—but you and I both know that the real reason why you broke up with me is that, in the end, what was easy was leaving me instead of leaving your family.”

When he looked at her, Hermione almost hoped he’d kept glaring at the floor. Anything, rather than stand in the way of that cold gaze, full of resentment and ire.

“No, you see, Granger, that’s it—you still do that. You keep doing that.” His finger was trembling as he pointed it, accusatory, at her. “You constantly ask me to choose between you and my family, and I’ve ran out of words to tell you that it’s a no-brainer for me.”

“I have never asked you to choose between me and your family, Draco, are you insane? I would never ask you to do that, because I know how much that bunch of disgusting, sickening, egomaniacal pieces of rotting shits means to you.” The empty space between them felt like miles and like inches at the same time. “But what I hoped for you—and what I still hope for your future—is that you’ll find a way to make that love coexist with the life you want for yourself! I’ve always seen you just there, on the edge of finally saying, Mum, Dad, I love you, but this is my life, and you have to accept that I won’t stop loving you if I decide to put my own best interests first, but nooooo! It’s way better to live as their bloody puppet for the rest of your days. It’s better to sacrifice your own self and give up what you want, to settle for a life—an entire fucking life, Draco—of contentment and ease. I know you, and I know this isn’t what you want for your future.”

“You’re delusional, Granger,” he said, shaking his head and opening his arms. “And you’re projecting. You ’re miserable, and you hope I’m miserable, too. Well, flash fucking news: you might be wallowing in pain, but I’m moving on.”

“Yeah, you tell yourself that. And, you know what, perhaps I am projecting. But you know what’s the difference between you and me? That I already made my peace with the fact that I’ll never be happy. I already know I’m miserable, and I already know I’ll be miserable for the rest of my stupid, sad, fucking life. You, instead, are out there living a bloody lie and pretending you’re okay with it.”

When Draco scoffed, running his hands down his face, Hermione ignored him.

“And when, one day, you’ll wake up and you’ll realise that you never had a single fight with Astoria because she just gets you—because she’s from your country—and you’ll find yourself thinking, Is this all there is to it?, it’ll be already too late.”

“Do you really think I would rather spend my entire life fighting with you?” he asked menacingly, narrowing his eyes, hands on his hips. “Is that what you think love is? Do you genuinely believe that is the best relationship one could possibly ask for?”

“No, do you really think we would have fought forever?” His jaw clenched for what must have been the billionth time that day, and he drew a sharp breath that directly contrasted with the way Hermione was feeling her lungs clog up.

“You know,” Hermione went on, swallowing the biggest lump lodged in her throat, “the first time my dad met you, he told me he was worried because we came from too different places, and it would have been too hard for us to find common ground. But I told him I thought we deserved the chance to try. Because I thought we would have found our own stability. Our own world, our own compromise.” Her voice broke, and, in front of her, Draco’s figure blurred up.

“Because, from how I see it, loving someone is never really easy. It’s bloody hard, and it leaves you in shambles, and it completely destroys you—but you still do it because the other person is worth it. Because they’re going through that same thing for you. Because, to them, you are worth it, too. And it’s in them that you find your solace. It becomes easy, because it’s easy when you do it together.”

His grey eyes on her were as sharp as broken glass.

“So no, Draco,” Hermione exhaled in the silence of the library, fresh tears already running down her cheeks, “we would have not spent our entire lives fighting. Because I fucking loved you, and I know you loved me, too. And we would have had it so easy, if you’d just decided to stay with me.” Buried in the flounces of her red dress, her nails dug into her palms. “Is it an easy love that you are looking for? Well, there you go. We already had it.”

Draco blinked at her—once, twice. Hermione turned her head away, wiping her cheeks again, angrily.

“You think I don’t know?” came his voice, nothing more than a barely audible whisper.

She turned to him with her thumb still under her eye, a blank look on her face.

“You think I don’t keep asking myself if I did the right thing?” Draco went on, more steady.

He tapped his foot on the ground, and then angled his head to make their gazes lock. “You know, when I saw you this morning—yes, I did panic, but you know why? Because I felt relieved. Because I thought you were going to stand up. That you were going to throw havoc all around. And the only thing I could keep thinking was, Thank fucking Merlin. I’m out of here, because she is here. I realised in a split second that that was the only reason why I’d told my mother to keep you on the guest list—and that is the reason why I panicked. Because I’d made a choice. And I stand by my choices.”

“You didn’t stand by me.”

He smiled—a baring of teeth. “That’s the thing about choosing, Granger. Something will always be left behind. I can’t have it all.”

“But you can. You can,” she insisted when he shook his head, “you just refuse to try because it’s the most difficult thing you’ll ever have to do.”

The look he gave her was the most disheartening thing Hermione ever had to witness. “Can you really blame me?”

Speechless, Hermione turned around. Her arms wrapped around herself as she blinked her eyes dry, looking out the window.

She didn’t hear him approach her. She only felt his fingers brush against her bare arm, and she recoiled.

But only for a millisecond.

Without having to decide to, her eyes closed, and she took a small step back.

Her back met his chest.

Draco exhaled.

In the silence of the library, the noise of his hand sneaking around her waist and ruffling the fabric of her dress was deafening.

Hermione let him turn her around. Her chin trembled when his warm palm went to rest on her shoulder blades.

He leaned in just enough that their foreheads met. One of his hands—his left hand, his ringed hand—took hers. Hermione glanced at him, following his gaze as it moved back on her face from where their limbs touched.

Her heart was in her throat. When Draco brought their twisted fingers to his chest, she felt his beating to a maddening rhythm, too.

The confession escaped her lips, murmured in the suspenseful quiet.

“I loved you so much, Draco. I still do.”

His eyes flickered shut as the words sank into him.

When his lips hoovered a tad too close, Hermione, too, closed her eyes.

Complete nothingness claimed her mind, and she turned her face away from his.

The audible gulp of saliva coming from Draco echoed in the entire room.

“Granger…”

“I think you should get back to your wedding party.”

After a moment that burned like a lifetime, his warm palms let her go.

Hermione kept looking at the wooden floor as his steps creaked away.

— nil —

i bet you think about me

An elbow burying in his side made him startle with a pained groan.

Draco grunted, massaging his now sore abdomen. For all her gentleness and delicateness, Astoria punched like the devil.

“Ow,” he lamented, dazed. “What was that for?”

“Your mother is asking you something,” she replied through gritted teeth.

Draco blinked at Narcissa a couple of times, unfocused. “I’m sorry, I think I—”

“As I was saying, darling,” Narcissa drawled out, eyes scanning her son’s face with something like reproach in them, “maybe we should host the wedding at Manor. What do you say?”

Draco kept blinking.

The wedding.

At the Manor.

His wedding.

At the Manor.

“I…”

His eyes fell to his hands. He was holding the wedding planner’s card.

Crimson red.

“Um…”

Next to him, Astoria drew a deep breath. Draco glanced at her.

More specifically, he glanced at her hands.

Engagement ring.

No other rings.

“The Manor…”

“Yes, darling—of course, we would have to expand some rooms, but I think it could be easily done without too much of a fuss, don’t you agree? Actually, you know what…” She walked over to the wedding planner, presumably to share the new idea.

For a wedding that was yet to happen.

Draco flipped the card in his hands. What kind of wedding planner used red for their cards?

Astoria cleared her throat. “Your mother is about to lose it.”

Draco couldn’t even feel his tongue. He forced himself to gulp, driving his mind back to the question, searching his brain for an answer.

The wedding. At the Manor.

The wedding at the Manor.

He was going to get married. To Astoria.

For the rest of his life.

Wedding at the Manor.

Yes, he told himself, say yes. To the wedding at the Manor. To the wedding itself. Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, take this woman, Astoria Isabella Greengrass, to be your wedded wife, in sickness and in health, ’til death do you part? Yes—say yes, Draco—I do.

Hermione’s face flashed in front of him like lightning in the middle of a storm. It had felt so real.

His breaths became bigger, deeper.

It took him an herculean effort to tear his eyes from the small card and look at Astoria.

Before he could even speak, the woman tilted her head to the side, completely resigned. “Oh, Merlin. Please, don’t.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“No, please, don’t.” She brought her hands together. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I can’t.”

“No—yes, you can, Draco, you…”

“I’m sorry. I am. I am. Please, don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, don’t be absurd, I just—” Astoria groaned, distressed, and she buried her face in her hands. “We have already been through this, like, five times. You said you’d made up your mind.”

“Well,” Draco tried, “at least we won’t have to go through it a sixth.”

“Fuck off. Shut up. Oh, we’re never going to hear the end of this.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Piss off, Draco,” she replied, shrugging him off of her. “Go away before I decide to claw your eyes out with my own nails.”

“I’m really sorry. I mean it.”

“I know,” she said irritably, glancing over at Narcissa. “Now go away, before your mother understands what’s wrong.”

“You’re the best,” Draco said pressing a quick kiss to Astoria’s cheek, “and I promise, I promise I’ll make it up, I just—”

She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders were light with what Draco knew was relief. “For the billionth time, get lost.”

“Keep the ring. It suits you beautifully.”

“I hate you. Go.”

He smacked another kiss in the air, before running out the front door.

He had just enough time to get past the magical wards, before his mother’s shilling voice rose from the venue and reached his ears: “Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

Draco laughed—rather psychotically. He gripped his wand, and disapparated.

Once stable on his feet, he ran his hands through his hair to push it out of his face and threw a look around: Muggle London. Close to one of the Ministry entries. Hermione’s favourite café was just around the corner.

In complete disarray, Draco strode with growing urgency through the busy crowd on the street. In seconds, he was pushing open the café door, looking left and right for a head of curls he could have recognised anywhere.

He found her in mere seconds.

Corner table next to the window.

Momentarily, Hermione smiled, and time stopped.

Draco held his breath, mesmerised at the sight.

When he finally exhaled it, the clocks started ticking again, rushing the timeline on.

Flipping through a billion different things to tell her but incapable of making his mind on a single one, Draco neared her table—and that was when his exhilarated resolution faltered when he saw she wasn’t alone.

There was another man sitting in front of her, all flirtatious smiles and shameless looks. What was worse, Hermione was equally as shamelessly accepting them.

That is, until she noticed Draco approaching, and her smile fell, features hardening.

“Hi,” Draco said as he loomed over the table. To the stranger, he said, “And who the fuck are you?”

The man gave him a long and hard look, an irreverent smile lingering on his face. “I think the question is—who the fuck are you ?”

The love of her life, that’s who the fuck I am, now piss the fuck off, was the right answer, but before Draco could even utter the first syllable, Hermione said: “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Draco?”

He turned to her again.

Salazar save his soul, she was the most beautiful woman who had ever walked on the face of the Earth.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Uh, no, I don’t think you do.” She gestured to the café’s entrance. “Leave.”

Draco turned to the sitting man again. “Move away. I need to talk to her.”

“Nah, mate, you heard the lady,” the other one scoffed. “I think you should leave.”

Draco’s jaw set, and he drew a deep breath. He had just enough presence of mind not to draw his wand out before grabbing the nameless man by the arm with a fluid motion and making him stand up. Hermione’s indignant screams instantly reached his ears.

“Draco, what the fuck—Thomas, I am so sorry.” She ran between the two of them before the inevitable happened, and her palms met with both their chests. “I have no idea what he’s doing, or why he’s doing it.”

“Leave, Thomas,” Draco snarled, trying not to focus too much on the fact that Hermione was actively touching him right there and then.

“I swear, I had no idea he was coming here.”

“You look like a retrograde sociopath, mate!”

“Oh, trust me, I am a retrograde sociopath, mate. Want to try me?”

“Draco, for fuck’s sake—” Hermione shot him a murderous glare as he pushed against her hand to get closer to his prey.

“Oi!” All three heads turned towards the sound of the bartender’s voice. “Out! All of you! Now!”

Hermione blushed a violent shade of red. “Liv, I am so sorry, I swear, I—”

“I do not care, Hermione,” the other woman replied, pointing towards the door. “Get out.”

She practically shrunk in her spot as she collected her things and marched out. When Draco reached her outside, Thomas had—thankfully—already pissed off to Merlin-knew-where.

Except that Hermione wasn’t waiting for him, and was, instead, already walking down the street.

He quickly picked his pace up to reach her, and when he was finally at arm’s distance, he grabbed her arm.

“Let me go, Malfoy,” she snapped immediately.

“No,” he breathed out, tightening his hold on her. “I need to talk to you.”

“No, you don’t.” She tried to shrug him off of her, but Draco didn’t budge. “I swear to bloody Merlin, Draco, if you—”

“I made a terrible mistake,” Draco rasped out all at once, completely indifferent to the hoards of people that were walking past them. “I made a massive, fucking mistake, and I am so sorry, and I need to you to give me another chance.”

Hermione was looking at him as if he was a madman. “Have you gone totally bonkers?”

“Granger, I—” Fuck, he loved her. He’d never stopped loving her. He was never going to stop loving her. “I was location scouting with my mother and Astoria, and I… I had this… I don’t know, a fucking vision or epiphany or something of my wedding day, and you were there, and—and…”

“Draco, I don’t know what the fuck you ate for lunch, but it clearly messed with your insides.”

“I never should have left you,” he blurted out, and Hermione’s mouth snapped closed. “I never should have let you go. It was the biggest mistake of my entire fucking life, and you were right when you said I didn’t know what I was doing and that I would have regretted it forever—fuck, I was regretting it as I was doing it. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, or who the fuck I thought I was going to please—but all I know right now is that the only thing—the only person I want is you.”

He paused, catching his breath back.

“And I don’t care what’s going to happen to me next. I just know I want… I know I need you with me.”

He was still holding her arm. Her lips were pressed in a harsh line.

“I know none of this makes up for—”

“Nothing is going to make up for anything, Draco.” Her voice was harsh, and still unbelievably hurt. “We were bloody engaged.”

“I know,” he muttered, “I know—I know, you’re right, I was…”

“A fucking piece of shit.”

“Yes.”

“Of liquid shit.”

“Gross.”

“Just like you. Useless bloody prat.”

Draco nodded along. “Yeah—no, yes to all of that.”

He looked at her, and he felt his own face open up in a smile that probably looked a bit unhinged.

“Why the fuck are you smiling—what are you doing here?”

“Take me back.”

Hermione scoffed—loudly. “Oh, so you have gone insane.”

He took hold of her other arm, his grip on her firm and gentle. “No, Granger, I mean it. Take me back. I’m begging.”

“People usually beg on their knees.”

“Do you want me to get on my knees? I’ll get on my knees.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said hastily, pulling him back up before he could touch the ground. “You’re about to get fucking married, Draco.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oh, aren’t you?”

“No. No. I’m not.” His head shook vehemently. “I’m not marrying anyone who isn’t you.”

Hermione muttered a curse under her breath as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Wait, are you telling me you left Astoria with your mother after having ditched them to come here?”

Draco’s eyes scanned the air in front of him. “Yes.”

“You belong in Azkaban.”

“Perhaps I do.” 

Hermione was looking at him with animosity written all over her face. And yet, when his hands snaked to her back, and he drew her closer to him, she went willingly.

The rush of pure and uncomplicated relief that spread through Draco at that simple lack of resistance was impossible to explain with words.

“I’m sorry,” he exhaled, and if the passerby were eavesdropping—then fuck it. Let them. “I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up. Please, let me make it up.”

“You walked out our front door without looking back, Draco,” Hermione whispered. “You broke my heart into a thousand pieces.”

“And I will never stop apologising for it. But, Hermione,” he took her hand in his, bringing her knuckles to his lips, “I love you. And that’s the only thing that matters to me. I’ve never stopped. I never will.”

She swallowed visibly.

“You think that’s enough?”

“No. No, it’s not. But I hope it can be a starting point.” He kissed the back of her hand, and his lips lingered on her skin, drinking the slight cold coming from her. “Even if it’s terrifying, and even if it’s difficult—but it won’t be difficult, because we’re going to make it easy.”

Hermione looked at him for a second that stretched out for an entire lifetime. Her chestnut eyes scanned his face over, and over, and over again.

“I hope you know how pathetic you look.”

Draco scoffed. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Because I can’t for the life of me understand how this is possible, since you’re this pathetic, but apparently you’re also a very lucky bastard.” She fixed her eyes into his, and Draco felt his chest tighten in the best possible way. “Because I love you, too.”

He chuckled against her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “Yeah?”

Hermione sniffled. “Yeah. Sadly enough.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Piss off.”

He kissed each and every one of her knuckles. “I love you so much.”

“Fuck you.”

Hermione pushed on her toes, and when she caught his lips with hers and kissed him in that sweet, sweet way that was exclusively hers, Draco came back to life, smiling like an idiot against her beautiful lips.

She tasted like freedom.

And freedom tasted like happiness.