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Draco was covertly trying to separate himself from the conversation he had gotten stuck in.
The summer day was hot, but not uncomfortable, and the small get-together was in full swing.
The start of the quidditch season was next week and the whole team was present to celebrate along with their significant others and extended family, the team owners and sponsors, and coaches.
“… going to be a wonderful season,” one of the witches in the semi-circle of people that had surrounded him said. Draco tried to remember which sponsorship she represented.
“Yes,” he replied on autopilot, scanning the open lawn of the estate they were at, looking for his better half. She had slipped away—ah, there she was. He couldn’t help his smile nor the fondness that burned in his chest every time he looked at her. “It’s going to be a wonderful season.”
“Of course, it is,” a wizard piped in, hitting Draco on the back like a sledgehammer, “especially with such a talented Seeker. The Catapults are lucky to have you, Malfoy.”
“Thank you,” Draco said, eyes flickering back to a head of curly hair across the lawn. “I’m happy to join the team. Please, excuse me, I have my eye on the refreshments table.” And the witch lurking beside it.
He politely bowed out from the group and made his way up onto the large patio that housed tables covered in snacks and drinks of all kinds.
“Is that Hermione Granger?” he asked in mock surprise.
She looked up from the bowl of punch she was investigating and rolled her eyes.
Draco came up beside her and wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her close. “No, can’t be. It’s Mrs. Malfoy now.” He kissed her cheek.
“Draco,” she hissed under her breath, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “You said this would be an intimate party. Casual.”
He looked out over the back gardens of the Catapults owner’s surprisingly expansive estate. “It is.”
Hermione pulled away from him and set about making herself a drink. “This is not intimate,” she whisper-shouted at him. “Intimate is anywhere from two to fifteen. Max.”
“Okay,” he whispered back across the table that now separated them. “So I didn’t expect Richton’s estate to be this big or the team to bring along every single cousin they have.” He paused as a few people stopped by to get some drinks, nodding and smiling politely until they left.
He turned back to Hermione. “How was I supposed to know? This is Whales, after all. This property takes up half the country and eighty percent of the total population must be here right now.”
She glared at him. “The word estate might have been a clue, seeing as you own one!”
“Do you think there is some club that estate owners belong to? Where we sit and talk about how grand our landscaping is once a week?”
“I’m sure there is. Did you really have to go to Paris last week, or was it some secret estate convention?” She sipped her punch, raising an eyebrow at him.
He grinned at her. “You caught me. Sorry I couldn’t take you, it was an intimate event and we already had fifteen attendants.”
She hid her quirking lips behind her glass, shaking her head.
Draco didn’t try to hide his amusement and laughed. “Really though,” he said with a sigh, looking at the practice quidditch pitch that sat behind the gardens, “maybe I should look into team ownership instead of playing.”
Hermione didn’t respond and he glanced back at her in concern. She never passed up on the opportunity to call him a poor little rich boy. Even though she was technically filthy rich now, too. It was a habit from their dating years, much like Draco still calling her Granger.
She was worrying her bottom lip, her fingers tugging at the charm on her necklace, and his skin prickled in alarm. Bad signs.
“Granger?” he said softly, setting his drink down. He skirted the refreshments table so he could turn her by the waist to face him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. And it’s Malfoy now,” she mumbled, staring at his chest, clenching her glass of punch tightly. “If someone hears you call me Granger, they will start rumors of a divorce.”
“Excellent, then I can marry you again in front of the world.”
She blinked up at him, small wrinkles forming between her eyes, and in the corners of her lips.
“What’s wrong,” he urged, squeezing her small waist, his hands spanning across her back as he stared down at her.
“It’s nothing. Today is about you,” she replied, fiddling at her necklace again. “You should go and mingle. Enjoy yourself.”
“Enjoy myself?” Draco repeated, deadpan.
She nodded. “It’s—a really lovely day and I’m so proud of you for chasing your dream.” She started to pull away from him. “You should—”
Draco removed her punch glass from her fingers and set it down on the nearest surface, then he walked backward, pulling her with him by the waist, refusing to stop touching her.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, eyes darting to some passing people.
Draco sat down in one of the outdoor chairs that were scattered around the patio. He crossed a leg over his knee and then looked up at Hermione, smiling. “I’m enjoying myself.” He curled his arm around her, keeping her close, hand resting on her hip.
“Draco …” she muttered, her cheeks flushing, both hands clutching at her necklace now.
“Do you want to go home?”
“No! You were having a good time—”
“Mrs. Malfoy, were you watching me?” he asked in a scandalized tone.
She pressed her lips together with a smile. “Stop it. Seriously, you should go and have some fun. Some of the wives of your teammates told me they were going to do a game on the pitch in a little bit.”
Draco glanced over the gardens again and saw how groups had formed, clusters of people mingling and laughing, sitting around tables chatting. There did seem to be a large group of witches that had assembled. He had been the only new teammate to join the team this year, so everyone in attendance most likely already knew each other.
Hermione should be down there, showing them all how brilliant she was. She was a damned war hero and Draco knew they would gladly welcome her into their fold.
But instead, she was …
Draco looked back up at his wife, face and voice serious now. “Are you hiding up here?”
She dropped his gaze.
“Hermione, darling—”
“I thought it was just a little summer gathering. A sports thing.”
“I’m sorry I got the size of the party wrong. But these are nice people, and even if they aren’t, no one would dare be rude to you. You’re Hermione Granger—”
“Malfoy—”
“Damn straight. Mine. So what’s the problem?”
He rested his other hand on his knee and waited, knowing it sometimes took his wife a long time to get the words out when she was internally struggling with something.
“I’m not dressed right.”
He blinked at her, then dragged his eyes down her body, taking stock of the thin long-sleeved jumper tucked into high-waisted trousers. She looked fit and comfortable, but also professional and classy. Charming as always.
He threw another glance at the crowd below where he noted the flood of cocktail dresses, slacks, and pressed robes amid the players wearing their fitted quidditch uniforms. Like Draco was.
“Darling,” he said, giving her his full attention even though she refused to look away from her necklace clutched in her hands. “You are the most stunning woman here.”
She shook her head slightly, unmoved.
He pulled her closer, making her knees press against his thigh. “Who cares what you’re wearing?”
“Everyone,” she admitted. “There’s a photographer out there and I know—”
“The headlines aren’t going to say anything less than, Hermione Granger—”
“Malfoy,” she corrected.
“Absolutely. Hermione Malfoy, war hero, youngest witch to ever have a seat on the Wizengamot, activist, and scholar, attended her husband—the handsome and rich, professional Seeker—”
Her lips quirked.
“—and his team’s intimate quidditch party—”
“And wore casual clothes,” she interrupted, her voice defeated. “They’ll say I looked like a Muggle—”
“Muggle clothes are fantastic. I can’t wait for magic fashion to catch up to tight jeans and bikinis.”
She groaned in frustration. “You don’t understand. It’s different for women, especially when the press is involved.”
Draco considered reminding her that he was brought up with a pureblood ideology of elitism and social prejudice. He absolutely understood what a fashion faux pas was.
But she didn’t need to hear any of that, it wouldn’t help her.
“What can I do?” he asked. “What will help?”
“I’m sorry,” she almost whined, yanking at her necklace.
“It’s okay,” he said, and meant it. “Let’s just take another minute to figure this out, okay?”
She took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Do you want to leave?”
She pursed her lips. “No.”
“Do you not want to leave just for my benefit?”
She shook her head, her face twisting with exasperation, and Draco knew it was with herself. Hermione struggled with making friends and that battle was partly his fault. The terrorizing he had subjected her to as a child … He would do everything he could to help her overcome this. As many times as she needed him to be patient and supportive, he would be.
“Okay,” he went on, starting to figure out the real issue. “Do you want to go socialize?”
She nodded, her soft curls blowing slightly in a gentle breeze.
He nodded too. “But you’re worried they will judge you?”
“Yes. And if they don’t like me … you were just drafted—I know, okay I know it shouldn’t matter.”
“But it does to you, and it’s okay that you feel this way. What will help you feel better?”
She bit down on her lip again, thinking, and looked out at the crowd.
Carefully, she dropped her necklace to her chest. The charm looked like a random piece of polished stone, silver thread curled around it like a cradle. Draco had given it to her after the war, long before they ever started dating. It was a tiny piece of rubble from the last battle at Hogwarts.
Draco waited, giving her time to work through her anxiety, pressing his fingers into her hip to remind her that he was still there.
She looked down at him. “Will you come with me?”
“Yes.”
“And … stay with me?”
He smiled at her. “Yes.”
He stood and took her hand, ready to lead her down into the crowd.
She hadn’t needed to ask. He would never leave her. So long as she wanted him beside her, he would be there.