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“I’m cutting you off,” Theo says as he leans across the counter and swipes the bottle of Sleekeazy's from her hands. “No more.”
Hermione huffs and tries to snatch the bottle back – fails – and huffs again. “There’s a gala at the Ministry – Theo – don’t be a prat-“
“Last week it was a birthday party for Lily Luna, the week before that it was because you were meeting Mrs Malfoy, and the week before that you just ‘wanted to feel pretty.’” Theodore leans across the counter and stares at her in a way that makes Hermione look away. “Lily Luna is two, Hermione. I don’t think she cares about your hair.”
“Well I do,” Hermione grumbles as she crosses her arms over her chest. “And I need to look polished and sleek and not – not wild-haired and unkempt.” She draws her shoulders in and tries to fight the rising panic in her chest. If Theo’s being an obstinate arse, she can always go somewhere else.
“Hermione,” Theo says slowly, turning the bottle over in his hands. “Can I offer you some unsolicited advice?”
“If you let me buy the potion,” Hermione mutters. “Otherwise I’ll just go elsewhere.”
With a sigh, Theo sets the potion down on the counter between them. “I don’t know what you’ve got in your head convincing you that your normal hair is some hideous mess, but you should really stop listening to it.” With two fingers he pushes the bottle closer towards her. “On the house, Granger.”
Hermione hesitates for a moment with her fingertips against the cork seal. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says in a tight voice, and then she snatches up the bottle and darts out of the store.
Theodore Nott and his artful chestnut curls wouldn’t know the first thing about having to deal with an unruly and frizzy and horrible mess. She blinks back sudden tears – almost runs into an elderly witch – and hastens down Diagon Alley. She doesn’t have time to be melancholic – she still has to pick up her dress.
Four hours later Hermione’s finally done coaxing her hair into a sleek and elegant up-do, one that would even make Narcissa Malfoy give her a faint smile of approval. Her arms are aching – the potion is already almost emptied – and Hermione wants to flop down and have a nap, not begin the arduous process of shimmying into tight shapewear that will leave her breathless and weak-kneed for most of the night. But she has to make an entrance, has to prove to the cantankerous old wizards that she’s worthy of being there, that she can simper and smile with the rest of them.
She’s never been able to forget that night at the Yule Ball, when time seemed to slow down as she descended the stairs and everyone gaped at her – trying to reconcile their image of bushy-haired Hermione Granger with her buck teeth and annoying know-it-all habits with the polished and pristine young woman descending in stunning periwinkle blue. Even Draco Malfoy had gaped, his cheeks flushing pink as he stared, and Hermione had felt a thrill tickle through her spine at what an extra two hours spent preening could do. The way she could make heads turn and conversations pause.
Exactly the kind of entrance she needed tonight. With a sigh and a last nervous glance at her hair – she’s spelled it to perfection, but worry gnaws at her empty stomach – Hermione starts getting dressed.
It takes two hours to finish – her makeup as flawless as her hair – and she turns around in the full-length mirror of the bathroom, admiring and critiquing at the same time. The glitter of the rubies on the dress seems to have dulled, and she hopes it’s just from her bathroom lights and not because she’s done something wrong – counteracted the charms with her underwear or anti-perspirant charms. She looks good – of course she does, after almost six bloody hours – the dress fitting like a second skin over her curves and her hair firmly fixed in place, her eyes doe-like and her lips a perfectly matching red.
All she needs are her shoes and her purse and her wand and she can go make her damned grand entrance.
Hermione is ten minutes late to the start of the gala – an acceptably late entrance – and she holds her breath as the doors open for her. Inside, the Ministry foyer has shifted almost to the point of making her wonder if she’s gotten the address wrong and stepped somewhere else. Great floating candles swirl overhead, interspersed with snowflakes flurrying around, and she can see enchanted animals chasing each other overhead as she takes in the room.
“Granger,” A voice from her left startles her. Draco, looking twice as pristine and polished as her, his long hair tied back with a red velvet bow that matches her dress and his tuxedo so immaculate she almost can’t believe it’s real. He holds an arm out as his eyes sweep over her. “You look lovely. As usual.”
“Malfoy.” Hermione bites back a sigh and rests her fingertips – just barely – against his arm. She'd hoped for a moment alone. “So do you.”
He flashes her an insincere smile. “Ready?”
"Always." Hermione swallows and lifts her chin.
He leads her towards the refreshment table – they’re stopped a dozen times to murmur polite greetings and force smiles at all the comments about what a lovely couple they make – and by the time they’ve reached their destination Hermione wants more than one glass.
Draco hands her a flute of champagne – the bubbles are enchanted silver – and she eyes his as she takes a delicate sip.
“Did you try to sabotage me with Theo?” She asks as they move away from the refreshment table and towards a curtained-off statue.
“Of course not,” he says, raising an eyebrow at her. Which absolutely means that he did. “Shall we dance before the speeches start up?”
Hermione narrows her eyes at him and then drains her champagne. “I’d be delighted to step on your toes, Malfoy.”
He grins at her and swaps their champagne glasses, letting her finish his.
"Don't get too drunk, dear," he murmurs as he takes the empty glass from between her fingers and deposits them on a floating tray nearby.
She pretends to adjust her hair and makes a face at him from behind the safety of her hand. Draco's eyes crinkle as he holds out his arm for her and they make their way to the half-filled dancefloor.
Her dress is backless – of course – and for a moment Draco’s fingertips hesitate against her bare skin before he settles his palm against the small of her back. Her hand is feather-light against his shoulder as he sweeps her onto the dancefloor. An old-fashioned waltz, to match the faint music, the kind that causes a murmur to ripple around the room as people turn their heads to watch.
In a dress like this she can’t step on his toes without an entire roomful of people noticing. Hermione sighs as she examines his face, the faint circles under his eyes he hadn’t managed to completely glamour away, the set of his jaw and the way he isn’t looking at her.
“Nightmares?” She guesses, and Draco’s gaze snaps to her face.
“Always so astute,” he mutters as he lifts his hand and forces her into a spin. “What will you do without your Sleekeazy's?”
“Find another supplier,” Hermione mutters as she narrows her eyes at him. “Theo isn’t the only one with it in stock. Or I could brew my own.”
“Probably be more cost effective,” Draco murmurs as he presses her closer towards him.
For a minute or two they fall silent, waltzing around the room with Draco sending her out into the occasional spin. It's almost relaxing, though it's probably just the champagne fizzing through her system, to focus on her steps and Draco's hand and not the room full of Ministry employees watching with bated breath.
Draco's gaze dips to her mouth as he leans towards her. “Come on. Time to give them their show.”
Hermione keeps her expression neutral as she smiles at him. “Keep Theo out of this, Malfoy.”
“Maybe I just want to see you with your hair down, Granger.” His eyes are glittering as he pulls her closer – into a kiss – and Hermione presses her thumbnail into his shoulder until she can hear the faint intake of his hissed breath as she kisses him back.
“I hate you,” she whispers as she leans away and beams up at him.
“I’m aware,” Draco says, as he presses a kiss to her cheek and whispers in her ear. “Play nice, or I’ll end all your beguiling enchantments.”
Hermione swallows as he straightens up and smiles at her. She relaxes her hand and Draco gives her an infinitesimal nod. “Fine,” she whispers. “Another dance, or shall we do the rounds?”
“Rounds. While they’re watching.” Draco steps away and lifts her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. The perfect picture of gallantry.
Hermione blushes and smiles at him, painting her own perfect picture. They’ve been playing this game for so long that the motions come naturally, even as she flicks a glance around the room and wonders which wizard they’ll spend half the evening sweet-talking.
The evening wears on like the straps of her shoes wear into her heels. Draco keeps his hand on her back for the entire evening as they sweet-talk and mingle and whisper hateful comments to each other in shadowed alcoves. A respite from their play-acting, savoured like bites of expensive hors d'œuvres. By the time the gala is winding down, Hermione feels wrung out and so exhausted that she can’t help leaning on Draco’s arm as he escorts her through the deserted Ministry hallways.
“Tired?” He murmurs, glancing at her with an uncharacteristically concerned expression.
“My hair took three hours,” Hermione mutters as she forces herself upright and off his arm. “I’ve been up since seven.”
For a moment Draco pauses – she falls out of step with him and stumbles against his arm. “Draco?” Hermione asks, turning to look back at him as she straightens her dress so she doesn't step on the train.
He’s looking past her, a faraway expression in his eyes, his hair backlit by the glow of the party still winding down behind them. “Sorry,” he murmurs as his gaze flicks back to her and he shakes his head slightly. “I’ll see you home.”
“I ought to see you home,” Hermione mutters as she raises an eyebrow. “You look half-asleep.”
Draco gives her a sharp grin. “Thinking of murdering me in my own fireplace?”
She rolls her eyes and pokes at his arm. “Too obvious. I’d make it look like a potions accident or something.”
“Ah.” Draco smiles – a genuine one – and leads her to the Ministry’s expansive and ornate fireplace. “It wasn’t sabotage.”
“What?” Hermione asks, reaching for the Floo powder.
“Theo.” His hand drifts towards her hair and a fingertip strokes along her temple. “I miss seeing you all wild and brazen and untamed.”
“Untamed women don’t get to be Minister of Magic,” Hermione says, but she can’t help leaning – slightly – into his too-familiar touch. “You know that.” It was why they were playing this game in the first place – for Draco to have a modicum of respect, because Hermione Granger would never associate with a Death Eater – and for her to use his pureblood name to get her through doors that would have otherwise remained closed.
And because he never looked at her when she went back to looking normal and unkempt after the Yule Ball. It was only when she was done up – glittering like a jewel – that he ever bothered to make eye contact with her. It was why she was so meticulous about her appearance whenever she went somewhere he might be – parties and meetings and anywhere else their eyes might meet across a room.
“Let me come home with you,” Draco murmurs as he leans into her, his breath hot against her ear, his fingertips cool against her back. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
Hermione shivers, even though the fire is warm and glances towards him. “Don't be ridiculous,” she whispers, grabbing a pinch of Floo powder before she changes her mind.
“Please,” Draco breathes, as he kisses her cheek and tugs her against him.
“You’re drunk,” Hermione says, even though he had two glasses of champagne and she had four. “Go home.”
She can feel the hot huff of breath against her shoulder as he pulls away. “Next week then,” he says, but there’s a flatness to his tone that she hasn’t heard before.
“Wednesday,” Hermione says, and then she throws the Floo powder into the fireplace, because she doesn’t want to change her mind about running away.
Except when she’s done stripping out of her clothes and the uncomfortable underwear and her hair is unpinned and her head hurts and she’s soothed the blisters on her heels, Hermione is still thinking about him.
He doesn’t mean it – he can’t mean it – but Hermione finds a pair of slippers and stands in front of the fireplace in her pyjamas anyway.
“Malfoy Manor,” she says, throwing the Floo powder into the flames, because she just wants to make sure he’s gotten home safely.
The manor is dark as Hermione stumbles through the fireplace, and she blinks as she raises her wand with a soft lumos.
She’s trespassing, sneaking through the hallways, she shouldn’t be here, but she has lunch with Narcissa on Fridays and kicks Draco’s ankle under the table and she knows where his bedroom is because she hid in it the first time she came to the manor and memories of Bellatrix shredded through her careful façade.
There’s a glow under his door. Hermione hesitates, feeling stupid and adrift, but she knocks anyway, a soft rap that seems to echo down the hallway and make her glance over her shoulders, expecting to see Narcissa appear like a ghost.
The door opens and Draco stares at her, looking surprised and then pleased and then surprised again. He’s undone his collar – he’s still in the dress shirt, still in his tuxedo trousers – but his sleeves are rolled up and his hair is undone and she can see a glimpse of his pale chest.
“What are you doing here?” He asks, opening the door a little wider and not inviting her in.
Hermione watches him, the way his eyes roam over her bare legs, skip over her pyjama shorts and loose shirt and flick between her hair and her face.
“Wild enough?” She asks, wondering if she shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of champagne on an empty stomach. “You usually only stare when I’m done up.”
Draco’s brows draw down into a frown, and then his expression clears and he laughs. “Is that what it is?” He leans forward and grabs her wrist – gently – and tugs her into his bedroom, pulls her against him in an undignified hug. “Maybe you’re just not catching me stare.”
Hermione’s nose is pressed against the strip of exposed skin on his chest and she inhales a mouthful of mint and pine and it scrambles her thoughts. “Maybe you don’t stare enough,” she mutters, looping her arms around his waist.
She can feel his chuckle as Draco reaches around her to shut the door. “Are we done playing pretend, then?” He murmurs, gently brushing her curls from her cheek. “Or is this just a drunken interlude?”
Hermione leans back and watches the way Draco’s gaze dips to her mouth. Feels him press against her, leaning closer, chasing her as she leans slightly away. “You don’t think my hair’s a frizzy mess?”
“Your hair is absolutely a frizzy mess,” Draco says, as he lifts a curl away from her cheek and examines it with a flicked glance. “And it suits you.” He dips his head and kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the tip of her nose. “Because it’s beautiful when it’s a frizzy mess and it’s beautiful when you buy Theo’s entire stock of Sleekeazy's.”
Hermione purses her lips into a frown. “I didn’t buy his entire stock.”
“If you say so,” Draco murmurs placatingly.
“If we get married,” Hermione muses, watching the way Draco’s eyes widen slightly as he holds her tighter, “do you think that will stop those crusty old wizards from staring at my arse?”
“No,” Draco says, not even pretending to think about it. “But it would give me another excuse to scold them. Is this a proposal?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “We’ve only been dating for a year.” She says the word like a curse, because it’s all been pretend, a role she’s playing to get what she wants, and she’s never stared at the ceiling and wondered what it would be like if it wasn’t, because Draco would never want her if it was real.
“So?” Draco leans closer, until his breath fans across her face and his lips brush against hers. “Purebloods marry young.”
“I’m not a pureblood,” Hermione points out, narrowing her eyes and feeling her heart slam against her ribs.
“I am,” Draco whispers, and then he kisses her, and there’s no one around to see, no one to witness, no one to perform their pantomime for. “Hermione Granger-Malfoy, Minister of Magic,” he murmurs against her mouth, and Hermione shivers at the thrill of her name mixed with his, the title she’ll wear, the way everyone will pay attention when she walks into a room. “But I won’t be a fake husband.”
“What will you be, then?” Hermione asks, trying to keep herself from falling into the spell he’s weaving, romance and mint and his hands holding her close.
“Yours,” he says, with such simple honesty that Hermione leans back and stares at him, examining his face for the faintest trace of duplicity and finding nothing except an open book, Draco Malfoy spread out for her to read. “What?”
“Did they spike the champagne?” Hermione mutters, rubbing a hand across her face. “You’re not usually like this.”
“You don’t know what I’m usually like,” Draco counters, and then he kisses her again, soft and sweet and careful, like the first time they’d been caught swapping insults behind a curtain and had to pretend they were hiding from the Ministry party to swap kisses instead. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb runs over her chin, and Hermione can’t help the breathy sigh that escapes into his mouth. “But you can find out.”
Hermione hesitates for a moment as the picture of them – husband and wife as she accepts the Minister position, his hand on her back and his grin sharp enough to flay her political enemies – fills her mind. “What’s in it for you?” She asks, because he always has an ulterior motive.
“You,” Draco says, as though he’s stating the obvious and she’s slow for not already being on the same page as him. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Not for you,” Hermione mutters, glaring at him.
Draco laughs and shakes his head. “I think being the Minister’s husband would keep me very entertained.” He sweeps a curl away from her face and his eyes gleam in the candlelight as he stares at her. “You haven’t said no.”
“Is this why you wanted to follow me home?” Hermione touches a fingertip to the button on Draco’s shirt, the one that keeps catching the light and glinting at her. “Because your argument isn’t very persuasive,” she murmurs, keeping her eyes downcast so that he can’t read her face like she does his.
“Then let me convince you.” Draco tilts her head up and kisses her again – slow and deliberate, one hand around her waist and the other threading through her hair, kissing her until Hermione leans against him so that she doesn’t fall down. “Marry me,” he murmurs against her lips.
She toys with the button under her fingers. “A public proposal will-“
He cuts her off with another kiss. “Whatever you need. Say yes.”
Hermione looks up at him, silver-eyed and wild-haired and undone. At herself, tiny and untamed in the reflection of his eyes. “Yes,” she whispers, and then she kisses him like nobody’s watching.