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When Hermione and Ron broke up in the summer after the war, they’d expected Molly to be very upset, maybe even to the point of crying. They’d often joked that his mum had the details of their wedding down to a tee a week after they’d told her about their relationship.
In an extremely surprising subversion of all their expectations, Molly had crushed Hermione to her chest and patted (pounded) her on the back in what she supposed was a reassuring way to go about comforting her youngest son’s long time-best friend and short-time girlfriend.
“Oh Hermione,” she’d lamented, clutching Hermione tight and smoothing down her hair. “You don’t have to worry about me. Neither of you do. You will always be part of this family, no matter what. What you and Ron decide to do is none of my concern. I just want to see you happy. The both of you.”
And that, Hermione figured, was that.
How horribly wrong she was.
In the weekly Sunday dinners at the Burrow that followed, Molly had apparently decided that it was her personal mission to find Hermione a boyfriend.
Every week, Hermione would hear some variation of “Hermione, dear, have you met old Mrs. Weston’s nephew? I ran into them at Florian Fortescue’s yesterday. Such a wonderful young man!” or “I happen to know Anthony Goldstein is, ahem, quite unattached at the moment.” or “Whatever happened to that old friend of yours—Seamus, wasn’t it?”
New men, all earnestly brought up in conversation that tried too hard to be casual and instead sounded anything but.
After three years, Molly’s constant attempts at getting Hermione to date had shifted from a source of quiet exasperation to a source of great entertainment, especially for Harry and Ron and the rest of the Weasley siblings.
“Heard Dean and Padma broke up a few days ago,” Harry remarked as they were setting up the long Sunday dinner tables in the garden of the Burrow. “I bet you 50 galleons he’s tonight’s prize bachelor.”
“Neville and Hannah called it quits last week, so my money’s on him,” Ron said, taking Harry up on the bet.
“Time for our weekly wager, hey? Step right up and place your bets, Weasleys!” George called, grinning as he levitated the chairs.
Hermione shook her head, used to their antics at this point. “You’re incorrigible, every single one of you.” Then, after some thought, “I do think she’s more likely to bring up Neville, though. Seems like she’s more familiar with him.”
Ron pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. “Yes! You all might as well give me your money now!”
He gave her an easy, lopsided smile. Their breakup had never been a source of sadness or any sort of shift in their relationship. Truthfully, Hermione suspected it was actually a source of relief, not just for her, but for Ron as well.
As everyone moved around, placing bets and dodging flying cutlery, Hermione considered her conversation with Molly earlier on in the evening, when the older woman had pressed her on the matter of Hermione bringing a plus-one to Charlie and Luna’s upcoming wedding.
She could just tell Molly that she wasn’t looking for a relationship right now. Somehow, though, she knew that particular course of action had very little chance of stopping the Weasley matriarch’s meddling.
Molly Weasley, all good intentions and exasperating bull-headedness—no wonder all her children ended up in Gryffindor, Hermione thought wryly. The apple truly does not fall far from the tree.
She mulled over her situation all throughout dinner (Molly did bring Neville up, much to the dismay of Harry and the delight of Ron) and the following morning as she got ready for work.
Everyone else in the family was paired up. Harry and Ginny, Ron and Lavender, George and Angelina, Percy and Audrey. She supposed Neville would agree to be her plus-one, though she couldn’t, in good conscience, subject her friend to the maelstrom of overbearing maternal instinct that was Molly Weasley.
As she sat at her desk at work, going through her options over and over again. The door to the office opened, and in walked salvation in the form of one Draco Malfoy.
Harry, with an adamance to rival Molly Weasley’s matchmaking attempts, had been very insistent on playing the part of champion for Draco Malfoy’s return to respected society. Hermione speculated that, even after all these years, the memory of Regulus Black and his true nature weighed on Harry still. The Boy Who Lived had turned into The Boy Who Believes Everyone Deserves a Second Chance.
Including gloomy blond Slytherins who really would have preferred to live a quiet life of relative anonymity and only occasional looks of disgust in the street.
Hermione knew his schedule by heart, being his partner. She knew he had no particular work or personal obligations on the day of the wedding. It was perfect.
“Granger,” he greets.
“Good morning,” she replied, before quickly blurting out. “Malfoy— Ihaveafavourtoaskyou .”
He raised a brow in response. “Is this about the Newbury case? I actually finished the report over the weekend and got it to Robards just this morning.”
“No, it’s—wait, you did? Oh, thank Merlin. I’ve been stuck on that for ages! You’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah, it seemed like you had a lot on your plate lately.” He said, waving her gratitude off as he made his way to his desk. “So, a favour?”
Here goes nothing, then. “I need a date. A wedding date. To Charlie Weasley and Luna Lovegood’s wedding.”
He stopped in his tracks. “A date.”
“And we’d have to act like we’re—like we’re actually dating. Because Molly, Charlie’s mum, well, she keeps badgering me about getting a date or a boyfriend, and I know she means well but I also don’t really connect with anyone she brings up and if I don’t bring a plus-one to the wedding then I’m one hundred percent sure she’s going to set me up with one of Charlie’s groomsmen and—”
She was rambling. She was rambling and he was just standing there looking at her like she was speaking an entirely different language. “You could just think of it as going undercover. Playing a part, that sort of thing. We do it often enough and we know each other w—”
“And how exactly are we supposed to convince Potter and Weasley and the rest of your merry little crew that we’re dating?” asked Draco, brows still sitting high up on his forehead in incredulity. “We see each other constantly in the office. I doubt they’re going to believe we’re suddenly in a relationship without them noticing beforehand.”
“We could say we wanted to keep it private,” she suggested. “Avoid the media circus.”
“So, essentially, you want me to pretend to be your secret lover?”
“I’ve thought about it, and it’s plausible—”
“Us being secret lovers?” replied Draco, slowly walking towards her and taking a seat on her desk.
She blushed. “Think about it, we spend so much time with each other, we’ve been partners for years, we both always work late, we’ve gone undercover as a couple before—Who’s to say there were never any feelings involved?”
“And were there?” asked Draco suddenly, eyes bright. “Feelings involved, I mean?”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed deeper at the directness of the question. “Well—I suppose—Hypothetically, yes—”
“Sure, Granger. I’ll be your date.”
The relief and astonishment overcame her enough that she failed to catch the way his eyes flicked nervously, the way his voice came out just a pitch higher than usual as he gave his answer.
*
Back in the early days of their partnership, Hermione never gave much thought to Draco Malfoy, aside from Harry’s ongoing efforts to befriend him.
“He’s nice — Well, he’s Malfoy, but he’s really not so bad. A bit surly, sure. And I think it stings his pride every time I try to play nice and be friends with him, but that’s fine. Seems like he needs a little humbling every now and then.” Harry said with a quirk of his lips. They had been getting coffee after she received the news of who her new partner would be.
After the war, Hermione watched as the weight of the world fell off of Harry’s shoulders. The semi-permanent, eternally beleaguered expression he wore melted away as time passed, and for the first time in years she saw the carefree, bright boy he was when they first became friends.
If there was anyone who deserved to be happy, it was him. If there was anyone who deserved to get a little kick out of messing with Draco Malfoy even with only the best intentions in mind, it was him.
“And his role in the war? In everything that happened?” asked Hermione. Her fingers unconsciously brushed over the scar on her left arm, the one that no magical or Muggle healing could seem to erase.
Of course Harry noticed. His face softened, and he reached out to hold her hand.
“You know I do my best to make my peace with it all, to look forward. That’s how I’m dealing with it,” he replied quietly. “But that isn’t something I can ask you to do. I can’t just tell you to forget it all and let bygones be bygones. That’s not fair to you. I can annoy Malfoy and make friends with him all I want, but I’m not about to force you to do the same, if it makes you uncomfortable. If he makes you uncomfortable.”
Hermione smiled. “Who are you and what have you done to Harry Potter?”
“Got him to take his sorry arse to see a Mind Healer, that’s what,” said Harry, before squeezing her hand tight within his own. “You’ll be fine. He doesn’t—He doesn’t subscribe to all that blood supremacy rhetoric anymore. Not for a while now, actually. I wasn’t kidding about him being not so bad. But if he ever does start acting out, just tell me. I’ll give him a hug in public. I’m pretty sure that’s his worst nightmare.”
Hermione mulled over this for a few moments. She deduced that Malfoy was no longer loyal to any of the beliefs he’d been brought up on, suspected he never truly was, if his readiness to tell Kingsley and the DMLE all he knew was anything to go by. He never showed an ounce of hesitation when told that he would be required to be dosed with Veritaserum throughout the investigation.
He was a child playing soldier, like the rest of them. Just on the opposite side.
On the night she got her scar, she vaguely remembered seeing him through the haze of pain. How equally horrified he’d looked as he watched her writhe and scream on the floor under his aunt.
She looked back up at Harry. “Fine. But I’ll want pictures of that hug. The look on his face would be priceless.”
As it turned out, Harry never needed to hug him in public. At work, Malfoy kept to himself, only speaking to Hermione regarding work and offering cordial banalities like “Good morning” or “See you tomorrow, Granger.”
She couldn’t reconcile the Malfoy she had known with this newer, quieter version of himself that preferred to recede into the background, robotically going about his day with his head down and dull eyes that rarely showed even an ounce of emotion.
It went on like that for months. While Hermione grew accustomed to their working relationship and constant proximity to each other, he remained mostly distant and reserved. They never talked about their years in school, the war, or the long months of trials that followed. Theirs was a strictly professional working relationship that only existed within the walls of the Ministry.
Which wouldn’t have bothered Hermione if she didn’t see how he was with other people. Harry dropped in occasionally to ask Hermione to lunch. He’d badger Malfoy as Hermione put away whatever she was working on, and she’d hear the exasperation in Malfoy’s voice, a hint of that old snark coming through as he told Harry that no, he didn’t want to join them for lunch because he’d rather die than be pictured with Harry Potter in public again that week.
Blaise Zabini would stop by their office sometimes near the end of their shift so he and Malfoy could get drinks, and Hermione would see how Malfoy’s features instantly relaxed at the sight of a friend. Even Zabini would give her a little smile and nod as they left, while Malfoy merely swept away with nothing more than a “See you tomorrow” called over his shoulder.
It wasn’t a question of whether or not he still hated Muggleborns or subscribed to any Pureblood supremacist ideology. Of that Hermione was sure. He got along well with Justin, especially when it came to Quidditch-talk.
When they were on the field, they would sometimes have to go undercover and follow a suspect through the Muggle world, and he wouldn’t even flinch. In fact, he would ask her questions like how the tube worked, or what the little handheld mobile devices people talked into or tapped furiously on were.
He never asked anything about her. It was like he kept her, and only her, constantly at arm’s length, never quite crossing the line that distinguished coworker from friend.
Until one day he’d found her on the floor of their shared office, with a Howler just on the tail-end of a long, winding speech about how she would never amount to anything, not truly, because she would always be inferior, in blood and status. You’re not even worth the dirt your disgusting blood is made of. Nothing you do will ever change that.
Sometimes, perhaps out of a morbid curiosity, Hermione opened the mail she received that was so obviously not from her usual pile of mail from people wishing to thank her for what she’d done in the war, praising her and sending her pictures and writing her letters talking of the new life they’d built for themselves ever since. There were envelopes that didn’t make it past her screening spell that she used to scan her mail for anything cursed or poisoned. Those were typically sealed in expensive envelopes, sealed, unsigned, and instantly disposed of.
Then there were the Howlers. Tell-tale red envelopes that could contain nothing but the foulest vitriol. She knew they were better off going to the trash or to the fire, but every once in a while her curiosity got the better of her, and she ended up opening the Howler anyway, bracing herself.
The Howler that she’d opened that day suddenly burst into flames, and there he was, wand out and seething. Pulling her up from the floor and shaking her shoulders and conjuring a monogrammed handkerchief (which she would tease him for later) for her to wipe away the tears she hadn’t even known she’d shed. You are Hermione Granger, and you can do fucking anything. Do you hear me?
She did. Those words, silly as they seemed, and coming from the mouth of a boy who’d once sooner choose to eat his own shoe before saying them, were spoken with such raw conviction that they shifted something in her, in the very dynamic of their relationship. He looked properly incensed. So she asked him why.
“Why are you so angry about this?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’m used to it.”
His nostrils flared. “You shouldn’t have to be.”
An anger, years in the making, rose up in her chest. He had shot her down with words just as barbed, twice as venomous. He was one of the very first to do so. Her reply came out derisive and cutting. “And do you think you had no part in that? In my being used to it?”
This seemed to sober him, and shame clouded over the anger in his gaze. “I know I did.” He replied, quiet and subdued. “And I regret it every day because I was wrong. So wrong.”
He straightened up, dusting himself off before looking at her again. Openly, determinedly. His eyes held none of the closed-off guardedness that they usually did when he spoke again.
“No apology will ever be enough, and mine is definitely way past its due, but I’m sorry, Granger. For the way I treated you and the way I spoke to you, and an entire decade’s worth of grievances, petty and severe. I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life for a lot of things and to a lot of people, but you… you’re at the top of that list.”
She could have imagined it, but his eyes flickered briefly to her arm, the one with her scar.
Hermione sat there, words failing her. There was something overwhelming in the display of vulnerability. She could see it affected him too, the way his pale face turned red and he quickly averted his gaze, turning to leave.
At the threshold, he spoke again. “I mean it, Granger. You can do anything you set that bleeding heart of yours on to do.”
Before the door could shut, she called out: “Coffee.”
The door swung back open. “What?”
“You can get me a coffee. As a way to start making amends, of course. I can do anything, right? I assume asking you to buy me coffee is within the bounds of ‘anything.’” said Hermione, cracking a small, hesitant smile.
He stood there, seemingly uncertain of how to respond at first, before finally straightening and nodding. “Alright. You assume correctly. Coffee it is, then.”
*
In the weeks that followed his agreement to be her date, they worked out their backstory.
They had been dating for two months, keeping the whole relationship a secret until they figured out how to handle telling their family and friends, before deciding that they were now both ready to share it with them all.
“I could tell you our entire relationship timeline backwards twice over now at this point,” said Draco over a shared dinner in their office, around the fourth time that they’d rehashed the finer details of what she was supposedly wearing on their very first date.
“I’m being thorough!”
“And I’m being the voice of reason,” retorted Draco. “What’s a story without a show?”
Hermione cocked her head to the side. A corner of Draco’s lips lifted up in response. “It’s high time we practice actually acting like a couple.”
“How do you mean?” asked Hermione. They had their story down, ready for anyone who might ask them questions about the nature of their relationship. What more was there to prepare?
“The physical aspect,” said Draco, shrugging lightly. “Holding hands, for example.”
“Like that needs practice. I can hold your hand just fine.” To prove her point, she took his hand, intertwining her fingers with his and holding on firmly. She tried not to think about how nice it was—how his hand was soft and warm and how it wrapped around hers so completely.
His eyes flickered down to their joined hands, lips twitching before he looked back up and regarded her with mock seriousness.
“There’s also the little things. Small touches here and there. Like this,” he leaned in and tucked an errant curl back behind her ear, smile growing when he registered the quiet shock on her face. “Or this,” the same hand came down to cup her face lightly, thumb smoothing over the apple of her cheek in a faint caress.
Hermione swallowed, hoping the action escaped his notice. Then, with a boldness that seemed to only ever come out in times of danger ( and wasn’t this such treacherous territory? ), she said, “I can do that, too.”
She held his hand to her cheek before he could pull it back, turning to press her lips to his palm, sweet and featherlight. He looked positively floored at the display, and she tucked in her chin to hide the triumphant smile on her face at having rendered him speechless.
“You know,” she remarked, glancing up to see him watching her closely. “I’m Hermione Granger and I can do anything.”
*
On the day of the wedding, Draco knocked on the door of her flat at precisely 10am, half an hour before the ceremony. They’d agreed to take the portkey to Romania together.
She’d made sure to time their arrival just before the ceremony was due to start, so people would have as little time to question them as possible, and they’d have more time to prepare for the real challenge: the reception.
“Not bad, Malfoy,” said Hermione appreciatively. His charcoal-grey suit fit him superbly, of course; tailored to perfection. Underneath he had on a black shirt, two buttons undone at the top.
It was unfair how effortlessly put-together he looked.
“Not too shabby yourself,” quipped Draco, no doubt taking in the deep green of her dress. “Give us a twirl, Granger.”
She laughed but did as she was told.
“It’s alright, isn’t it? I’m not sure green is my colour, really,” murmured Hermione, mostly to herself.
“It is,” replied Draco quickly. Too quickly? “You look—divine.”
Divine.
Of the two of them, Hermione wasn’t quite sure who was blushing harder.
“Thank you,” she said with a shy smile.
He smiled at her slightly, before biting his lip and seemingly steeling himself to speak again.
Just then, the alarm Hermione had set went off, effectively breaking the moment. It was the alarm for the portkey, and whatever Draco had been about to say was forgotten as Hermione’s nerves returned in full-force, storming about her flat for anything they could have forgotten before rushing to make their portkey.
Frankly, Hermione was surprised at everyone’s reactions to her arriving hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy. More accurately, their lack of reaction.
From Harry: “I knew it!”
From Ron: “Huh. Somehow, it checks out actually.”
Most peculiar, however, was Theodore Nott: He’d given Draco a proud grin and a firm pat on the shoulder. “Fucking finally ! I knew you had it in you, you stubborn prick.”
Before long, they’d made one complete circuit about the reception area, and no one suspected a thing, not even Ginny, who was known within the Weasley family as a human lie detector.
Still, Hermione couldn’t let her guard down.
They were standing by the dance floor when Draco leans in and pulls her gently to him by the waist. “Breathe, Granger, I don’t know why you’re so nervous. We’ve done perfectly fine so far. Have a little faith in me, would you?”
Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. She did, in fact, have faith in him. Draco Malfoy had all the confidence and suave one could ask for in a situation like this.
A situation that called for blatantly lying in the face of her loved ones, that is.
“I do have faith in you. It’s me I don’t trust.” she whispered. Her partner (at work, and now apparently in premeditated acts of deception, as well) chuckled and squeezed her hand once, looking at her with a familiar, teasing glint in his eye.
“What? Afraid you can’t act like you’re in love with me for a few hours?”
“What if something goes wrong? What if we—What if I slip up about our story and—”
“Everything,” he cut in, nudging her chin up and giving her a look of gentle, if somewhat exasperated, admonishment, “will be perfectly fine. Now calm yourself. If anything goes wrong, we can cover it up.” Then, as an afterthought, “Or cast a quick Confundo.”
When she opened her mouth to remind him (as she often found herself needing to do) that they’re Aurors with a certain integrity to uphold, he quickly followed up with a teasing, “You are Hermione Granger, and you can do anything, correct?”
“Right. You’re right. Except use magic on unsuspecting friends.”
“Of course you can. Repeat after me, ‘I am Hermione Granger and I can do anything.’”
She knew he’d never drop it if she didn’t say the words. “I am—”
“ Hermione Granger! I’m so glad you could make it!” Just like that, Hermione found herself wrapped in the arms of Charlie Weasley.
“Of course I’d come, Charlie! How could you ever think otherwise?” she replied, hugging Charlie back. He gave her a boyish grin, poking her side teasingly.
“Figured Mum would threaten you with the groomsmen if you didn’t come with a date. Then you’d finally hit your breaking point.” At this, Hermione gave Draco a knowing look, which Charlie catches as they pull away from each other. “Though I see now that you did.” He proffered Draco his hand with a firm nod. “Charlie Weasley, good to meet you.”
“This is Draco,” said Hermione, her lips shaping themselves around the syllables of his name, a little awkward but in no way unpleasant. She pulled him closer with a tug of her hand. “My—boyfriend.”
“Draco Malfoy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Congratulations on the wedding,” replied Draco cordially, shaking Charlie’s hand.
“‘ Sir’! I’m only a few years older than you, you know. Are all married men meant to feel this geriatric an hour after their wedding?” Charlie joked. A loud barking caught his attention, and he turned to pick up an overweight but surprisingly agile crup. “Hey, Alfie.”
Alfie was Charlie’s familiar, he explained. The little dog had on a white bowtie, and quickly scampered out of Charlie’s hold to run around the reception area.
“You look plenty young to me, Charlie,” Luna assured him, appearing just over her new husband’s shoulder.
Hermione reached out to embrace her friend and congratulate her on the wedding, and was shocked when Luna also pulled Draco in for a hug.
“I knew you two would find your way to each other,” she said simply. Hermione gave Draco a curious glance, to which he only shook his head with a small smile.
Between Theo and Luna’s words, Hermione found herself feeling that old thrill of an unquenched curiosity. A mystery to be solved. Something new to be learned.
And somehow, she knew Draco Malfoy held the key.
*
At some point, Draco had gotten caught up with Luna’s distant cousins, who were French and who’d excitedly inquired into the history of his family’s roots in their home country.
Later, he found her by the dance floor, having just finished being whirled around by both Harry and Ron, who were well past deep in their cups and who both repeatedly reminded her to give them a heads-up if Draco ever hurt her.
He gave her a bit of a tired, incredulous look as he approached. Lovegoods, it seemed, tended to have this very effect on the majority of people. “They all kept talking about babies and weddings and dragons and—and nargles! I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
“How’d you manage, then?”
“Having looks like these,” he explained with a vague gesture towards his (stupidly, unfairly handsome) face, “and being practically a stranger to most these people helps me maintain an air of quiet, mysterious charisma that excuses me from having to speak to be included. Very useful if I do say so myself.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you ever think about what you say before you actually say it.”
“You love it.” He winked at her, leaning in to place a swift kiss on her cheek, and Hermione outright squeaked because—however much she teased him about being a self-absorbed narcissist—well, even she could admit that his confidence in his looks wasn’t entirely unfounded. And here he was, showering her with a quiet and intimate affection at every turn, inevitably throwing her off her game. For a fleeting moment, she’d forget that this was all just pretend. That they weren’t really together.
But of course, she’d remember soon enough why they were really here. The very reason for all this plotting bustled toward them now, with red hair in rolling curls and a wide, motherly smile.
“Hermione!”
Reluctantly, she pulled away from Malfoy, because it was Molly, and Hermione realised with a sinking heart that of course he wouldn’t just flirt with her and kiss her without an audience, without a purpose. He must’ve seen Molly coming from over Hermione’s shoulder.
“You must see the gardens! Have you already been? Oh, it’s all so lovely. And there’s this beautiful fountain by the edge of it. Part of a legend around the grounds, apparently. Come on, I’ll show you. You come too, dear.” She beckoned them over and smiled wider when Draco offered her his arm as they met her halfway.
They followed her onto the footpath to the gardens just by where the band was playing and Draco took Hermione’s hand with the one not currently being squeezed and patted to death by the Weasley matriarch..
As they walked around the gardens, Molly excitedly told them about the property and other wedding preparations, occasionally throwing in an overly-casual but obviously-excited question on the nature of their relationship.
Hermione would nod and smile and reply with her perfectly rehearsed answers, while Draco gamely answered each and every one with details that she didn’t even remember going over during their ‘practice’ sessions.
He told Molly about her supposedly charming nervous ticks, like rambling or nibbling on her lip or twisting her hands. He described how Hermione supposedly came in to work with her impossibly curly hair contained in neat, sleek hairstyles but would usually end the day with her curls free from the confines of any potion or charm. He explained that he’d fallen in love with her dedication, with her wit and her talent, but most of all, with her kind heart.
As he told Molly all this, Hermione became increasingly distracted. She couldn’t shake that sinking feeling seemingly rooting itself in her centre every time she looked at her and Draco’s intertwined fingers, or watched him interact comfortably with her friends and family, or felt his little touches and the easy way he played the part of affectionate boyfriend.
She realised with a start that it was a feeling of dread . Of ending this, whatever this was, with Draco, even before it was over, because she didn’t want it to, and—
She’d miss him.
Not the him that showed up every day at work, always punctual and ready to tease her for some inane thing or debate with her about a case they were working on. She’d miss this Draco, the one who reached for her hand and tucked her hair behind her ears and kissed her cheek.
There was a light squeeze on her hand. He was looking at her, mouthing “ Alright? ”
Hermione smiled and nodded, because what else could she do? She couldn’t very well tell him that she was not, in fact, alright. Because of him. Because her feelings for him were anything but platonic, and now she was fully dreading the end of the reception, when they’d have to go home and go back to their lives as good colleagues and nothing more.
The fountain sat in the middle of a clearing, a little ways into the forest at the edge of the village. In the centre of it, four nymph-like beings standing as pillars held up a more prominent, yet equally weathered, stone statue of a deity wielding a bow and arrow.
“It’s supposed to be a fountain of love, you know. The caretaker once mentioned it. It used to be really popular around here, because if two people fell into the fountain, legend has it that they’d fall in love too! Isn’t it just magical?” Molly’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she told them this, taking one of Hermione’s hands in her own.
Hermione replied with “But who just falls into fountains?” while Draco, very diplomatically, answered with a “Quite magical.”
Molly, bless her heart, didn’t seem to notice how very amused Draco looked, instead opting to amiably chastise Hermione. “I know you’re not the magical, whimsical sort, love. But there’s something rather romantic about it, don’t you think?”
“On the contrary, I think Hermione’s plenty magical. I think she’s magic herself.”
Molly looked like she was on the verge of melting right there on the spot, her hands held over her heart as Hermione and Draco smiled at each other. Then Arthur was calling her over, and she rushed off, telling them to come back soon for the bouquet and garter toss. She said this with a none-too-secret wink at Hermione, who felt her face growing hot for what seemed like the millionth time that day.
Once they were alone, Hermione turned to Draco. “Excellent line about magic there. Use it often?”
“Only on the witches I like.”
“Ah, and I’m part of the lucky few, I suppose? It’s an honour, truly.”
“Let me correct myself: I use it only on the witch I like.” He paused, searching her face as if to gauge her reaction to the words. “There’s no lucky few, Granger. Only a lucky one.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he echoed, smiling at her and looking half-nervous, half-hopeful.
There was no one else around. Not that she’d notice anyway. Her entire world seemed to shrink to this singular moment. The laughter from the guests, the music of the band, the trickling fountain water and the distant bark of a dog all faded into the background.
He was all she could see.
Except—
Except the barking was getting louder.
And closer .
There was a loud rustling, and Hermione yelped as Alfie the crup leapt up onto her unsuspecting form and tipped her off balance.
Her eyes widened, as did Draco’s and in a frantic twist of limbs, she tripped up and over the base of the fountain, accidentally pulling Draco down into the water after her.
There were a few seconds where nothing except the sound of splashing water, coughing and sputtering could be heard.
The look on Draco’s face as he regarded his drenched clothing was one of absolute horror. As if that wasn’t enough, one of his hands shot up immediately to his hair, making a strangled sound as he pulled out a small clump of moss from his head.
That did it. Hermione burst out into laughter.
They sat side by side in the water, catching their breath. Draco laughed and looked at her with a playful twinkle in his eye. “I suppose this means you’re meant to fall in love with me, then?”
She shook her head and gave an incredulous laugh, not quite able to look him in the eye, and so she watched as Alfie ran off back towards the reception, without a care in the world about what he’d just done, the untimely confession he’d unintentionally set into motion.
Smiling down at her hands, she told him, “I don’t need a magic fountain to make me fall in love with you, Draco. You managed to do that all on your own.”
(He’ll never find out because she’ll never tell him, but when the department decides to arrange casual pick-up games on their rare free days, she observes him. She watches the way he looks around the sky in astonishment when he’s up in the air, with bright eyes and a small smile on his face that she’s not sure is even a conscious action on his part. It’s an expression that suits him well, that brings out the very life in him—though it was often shuttered behind masks of cool indifference and dispassion.
It’s the expression on his face now. He’s looking at her, her hair dripping with stagnant fountain water, like she’s the sky. Like she’s something wonderful. Something marvellous.
She wonders how she’s never noticed it before.)