To Brew A Scandal

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/43167177.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Neville
Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott,
Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley
Character: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley,
Weasley Family (Harry Potter), Narcissa Black Malfoy, Dolores
Umbridge, Horace Slughorn, Theodore Nott, Luna Lovegood,
Crookshanks (Harry Potter)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ballroom
Dancing, Minor Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Friends to Enemies
to Lovers, Marriage of Convenience, Scandal, Gossip, Pureblood
Society (Harry Potter), Wooing, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), Potions
Master Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship,
Mutual Pining, Soft Draco Malfoy, Post-War, Period Typical Attitudes,
vague attempts at humor, Loss of Virginity, Betrayal, crookshanks is a
butler, i will put a gun in crookshanks hands, a bit out of character but
for historical purposes, Durmstrang Student Draco Malfoy,
Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slow Burn, HEA Guaranteed,
Historical Romance
Language: English
Collections: Harry Potter Victorian Ball
Stats: Published: 2022-12-12 Completed: 2023-03-20 Words: 81,346
Chapters: 22/22

To Brew A Scandal
by Stars_in_motion

Summary

In the summers between school, a young Hermione Granger finds companionship in a

mysterious young wizard near her family’s country home in Wiltshire. They share their
troubles under the comfort of their respective anonymity until one fateful encounter
destroys their fragile refuge from the real world.

Years later, after a war that devastated Wizarding Europe, Hermione’s one wish is to pursue
higher education for her Potions Mastery. Only, one clause leftover from deeply entrenched
Muggle-born prejudice sends Hermione into the grueling social season with one goal in
mind; to marry the least terrible eligible wizard.

To her misfortune, a scandalous case of mistaken identity binds her future to a man who is
certain to be the worst of all. Draco Malfoy; the new Duke of Wiltshire, a war hero, and the
boy who broke her heart.
Notes

This work has been created for the HP Victorian Ball Fest for the prompt 'Friends to
Lovers', with the example 'childhood friends to enemies to lovers'.

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.
 Chapter 1

Mr. Crookshanks was not above a good hard day’s work. There were a number of jobs available
for him to choose from. The apothecary was hiring, he had heard so from an old friend, unaware of
the details of Mr. Crookshanks’ struggles with finding employment. Had he considered inquiring
at the Leaky Cauldron? Or even Borgin and Burkes, where wares were as weird and worrisome as
their employees.

It was the simple fact that not a single one of these locations would hire him for any job. Not for
sweeping the back of the store, stirring a potion mindlessly, or helping assist with infirmed patients
at St. Mungo’s. Because although he was assuredly a wizard, no one would hire a wizard that did
not graduate from Hogwarts, and Mr. Crookshanks hadn’t graduated from Hogwarts. Indeed, Mr.
Crookshanks had been expelled, and his wand snapped.

For what he did (or did not) do to deserve it, Mr. Crookshanks could not tell you. For an
unbreakable vow got its name from somewhere, didn’t it? And so the secret remained kept, and his
chance at graduating vanished when he was only fourteen years old. He mourned the fact that they
insisted on snapping his wand more so than the education he had lost. Hogwarts itself was a bore.
Mr. Crookshanks was never a particularly brilliant wizard; there had been many years of
wondering if he was, in fact, a squib. The idea bothered his father infinitely more than it ever
bothered him. In his father’s effort to coax the magic out of him, Mr. Crookshanks nearly drowned
on three separate occasions, broke an arm and two fingers, and suffered a moderate concussion all
before the age of nine.

After his failure at boarding school in Scotland, his father refused his return home, choosing
instead to confund the muggle headmaster of a small, remote private school in Ireland. Mr.
Crookshanks was enrolled the very next day. It was there he learned basic muggle mathematics,
some very interesting muggle history about the Napoleonic wars, and Catholicism. So much
Catholicism.

“They say it was his short stature that led to his madness,” one of his professors had said, referring
to Napoleon and giving Mr. Crookshanks a rather nasty sideways glance from the corner of his
eye. Mr. Crookshanks, who could freely admit he was a rather short man, displayed a remarkable
amount of effort in ignoring the pointed remark to his height.

His basic education saw him through the difficult trials of life. Following the conclusion of
traditional schooling, he had made his own way; overseas, in the countryside, throughout the
various cities of Europe. Much of that was to avoid unwillingly roping himself into one of the
largest Wizarding wars in history. What would either side do with him, a half-blood with barely a
third-year education and nothing beyond basic wand skills to show for it?

Having worked in the lower bridges of a trans-Atlantic ship, in various factories across London,
and even done some eavesdropping for a minor gang or two, Mr. Crookshanks was growing tired
with the excitement. He only wished to risk his life measurably less in order to earn his wage. In
need of a suitable profession, he quickly turned to reforming into a butler at the recommendation of
a friend.

He learned all there is to know about the profession and grew to be rather good at it too, if he did
say so himself. Announcing guests, prowling the home for things that needed attending to, and
chasing rodents and other vermin out of the estate. Negotiating with vendors, ensuring the home
was well regarded and the staff was pleased, spying on visitors, and keeping his ear close to the
ground for traitors. Yes, Mr. Crookshanks was good at all those things, because Mr. Crookshanks
was not afraid of any muggle man or wizard.

Though no wizarding family would hire him, Mr. Crookshanks easily found employment in the
muggle world. After a few years of serving a wealthy elderly couple in the countryside, he
ventured to London, roaming for a new post within the bustling city. Following the death of his
father years ago, and his sizable savings, he was in no rush to return to work. For the first time in
his life, he was looking for the perfect fit.

Mr. Crookshanks set off one bright morning to a local bookshop, in search of some reading to pass
his time as he sought new employment. Having access to both muggle and Wizarding shops was
something that greatly delighted him. Though many pureblood families openly scoffed at the non-
magical, the two worlds had more in common than some would prefer to admit.

In the midst of his book search, he became so distracted he nearly bumped into another patron. The
girl in front of him—dressed in fine muggle attire—clearly belonged to a wealthy family, though
her brown hair looked to be wrangled into a vague attempt at something presentable. She was
carrying around a book that looked to be the size of her person, holding it close to her chest as if it
were a shield. Where was her mother, leaving her alone in London of all places? She looked up at
him with large brown eyes that seemed too inquisitive for a young girl of her age. Mr. Crookshanks
stared back before deciding to greet her.

“Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, sir,” The young girl’s stare did not waver. She continued to study Mr.
Crookshanks as if he were a great mystery. “Are you looking for a particular title?”

Mr. Crookshanks paused, tilting his head slightly. “I’m merely taking my time looking through the
newest selection of available works.” Mr. Crookshanks eyed the book in her arms. “And what is it
you have there?”

The book looked to be the weight of a stone, the title hidden away from him. The young girl
looked down, and then back up at him. “Some light reading.”

It took Mr. Crookshanks a considerable amount of effort not to scoff, and he was a butler. “How
smart you must be, for such a book to be light reading.”

“Last week was my seventh birthday, and papa was away, and my mama said I could pick out a
book for my birthday,” the young girl explained as Mr. Crookshanks nodded dutifully. Her fingers
curled around her book as if it was the most precious possession she owned. “Since I’m only
allowed one book, I thought I might get the biggest one.”

Mr. Crookshanks laughed heartily. “Yes, that is a very logical deduction to make, my lady,” He
could not help the gleeful look that surely passed across his face. He crouched down to her height
and asked her a question under his breath. “Would you like to see a magic trick, dear?”

Her brow furrowed. “Magic isn’t real, sir,” she said in such a matter-of-fact way that immediately
reminded him of his catholic school teachers. “It goes against our Christian beliefs.”

Mr. Crookshanks tutted. “It is harmless. Let me show you.”

With a wave of wandless magic he had mastered over the years, his levitating spell lifted the book
out of her grasp only a small distance from her hands. It wouldn’t last long. This book probably did
weigh an entire stone after all.

The young girl became mesmerized. After lightly returning the book into her arms, she hesitated
for a moment before leaning in closer with bright, wide eyes. “Could I show you my own magic
trick, sir?”

The question shocked him. “I would be delighted.”

The girl put on a mischievous smile and closed her eyes, seeming to concentrate intensely for a
moment or so. His face began to tingle slightly, unsure of what was happening until he saw in the
reflection of the shined mirror behind her that his mustache moving completely on its own.

His hands flew to his face in shock before the motion stopped, and her eyes opened up and bright.
This young girl was undoubtedly a witch, a talented one at that. While he had struggled to show
any form of magic as a boy, this girl had not only performed magic on her own, she could even
control it.
“Hermione?” A woman’s voice rang out from within the store. She sounded distraught. The young
girl, Hermione, let out a gasp, and sprinted back towards the main aisle of the store.

“Coming, mama!”

“Hermione Jean Granger, where have you been? I turn my back for one second, and it’s as if you
vanished! I have told you time and again not to go disappearing like this!”

The verbal lashing went on for a moment before Mr. Crookshanks heard it soften. Judging by the
look of relief on the mother's face, it was clear that Miss Granger was dearly loved by her family.

The next morning, Mr. Crookshanks went to the office of Mr. Granger—it wasn’t hard to find him,
as Mr. Crookshanks had friends in every alley of London—and offered his service should the
Granger Household need any domestic staff.

Surprisingly, Mr. Granger looked up and went on to thank the Lord. Just the previous day,
Hermione had sent their third butler running for the countryside, loudly proclaiming she was a
witch in need of an exorcism.

“A witch, sir?” Mr. Crookshanks questioned doubtfully, though he knew the truth. It was why he
was there, after all.

“I do realize how ludicrous it sounds. Mr. Crenshaw claims that a raincloud opened up above his
head after making a comment to Hermione about women’s work. And it was Ms. Haven before
that; she stormed out after a particularly difficult lesson with embroidery—all her pins had turned
to small lizards.” Mr. Granger openly scoffed. “As if I would believe that for one moment!”

A valuable lesson. Whatever Mr. Crookshanks would do, he must not make the young lady angry.

“I met your young lady at the bookshop with your lovely wife, sir. She is extremely well-mannered
and well-read, it would seem. It would be an honour to serve your home.”

Mr. Granger regarded him carefully as if searching for the true reason behind this bizarre
encounter. “You would need to be both our Butler and House Steward, as I have limited funds after
so many of my staff have walked out. Tell me, do you have a family? A wife?”

His father, Mr. Crookshanks Senior, had passed not too long ago after the first emergence of the
Dark Lord in Europe. His brother suffered a similar fate one year afterward.

“No, sir. No family, no wife to report.”

As it turned out, the Grangers were your average sort of well-off London folk. Mr. Granger was a
wealthy businessman in the trade of book publishing. Mrs. Granger, a lovely and kind lady,
devoted her time to teaching the young Miss Granger all she needed to know about navigating this
interesting world on her own.

With his list of glowing references, Mr. Crookshanks began his employment at the Granger
Household, vowing to protect the young witch, even if she was yet unaware of it. Because although
Mr. Crookshanks believed he had lived an interesting life worth telling, this story is not about Mr.
Crookshanks. It is about a promising young woman, and where her life would lead her.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

Young Hermione meets a stranger while on holiday in the countryside, though she's
not sure what to make of him...

Chapter Notes

This work has been created for the HP Victorian Ball Fest for the prompt 'Friends to
Lovers', with the example 'childhood friends to enemies to lovers'.

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

This work is complete. A new chapter will be posted every other day until all chapters
are posted.

Hermione was nearly twelve years of age around the time a mysterious visitor came knocking at
her family’s home and explained that she was, in fact, a witch.

It certainly made some sense, although at first, it sounded preposterous. The ability to end up in
places she shouldn’t have been in the first place, even after her mother’s consistent scolding; how
she could, on occasion, inexplicably pull an object from a high shelf that she wanted, without
moving her body at all; or how she once conjured up a raincloud to douse Mr. Crenshaw in water
when he had dismissed her talent for reading and writing so thoroughly.

Hermione winced slightly at the memory.

Yes, being a witch certainly explained many things.

The visitor, Professor McGonagall, they learned after Mr. Crookshanks introduced her, eyed him
warily as she entered the family sitting room. She stood tall before them, telling them all the news.
Distraught her own father questioned her furiously, “How do we know you’re not some kind of
mad woman?”

In lieu of answering directly, Professor McGonagall transformed into a cat before them, managing
both a very human and cat-like glare at him before swiftly transforming back.

Hermione couldn’t stifle her own gasp of excitement. “You can transform into a cat?”

Her mother watched the display with wide eyes, before fainting gracefully onto the couch behind
her. Her father cried out in a panic, “Mr. Crookshanks, fetch the smelling salts!”

After a few minutes of restoring her mother to consciousness, the conversation reluctantly returned
to the original topic of discussion.
“To answer you, Miss Granger, yes, I can transform into a cat.” Professor McGonagall turned
slightly to glance at Mr. Crookshanks, who still stood faithfully by the door, frighteningly unfazed
about what was taking place before his eyes. “It is called being an animagus.”

Before Hermione could reply with more questions, eager to learn more, her father stood from his
chair.

“You cannot expect us to believe this, this, madness,” he said, suddenly pacing along one side of
the room. “Why tell us now?”

“Now that your daughter is of the right age, it is time for her to go off for schooling to learn how to
control her magic.”

“Schooling?” Her mother finally spoke. She gripped Hermione’s hand tightly with her own.
“Where?”

“Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” Professor McGonagall replied. “It’s located in
Scotland, and where every witch and wizard in the region is accepted in order to be taught magic.”

Mr. Granger stopped pacing, instead leaning forward on the couch where Hermione and her mother
were sitting. He still looked incredulously at Professor McGonagall, who only raised a brow and
offered a thin smile.

“If you’re still unsure if I am telling you the truth, you need only ask your butler,” Professor
McGonagall turned fully for the first time to Mr. Crookshanks. “Crookshanks.”

Mr. Crookshanks looked oddly guilty. He dipped his head in deference to her. “Professor,” he
replied, his voice low with esteem. Her parents gaped at him.

“Are you one of them?” her father cried. Hermione remained quiet, though more in shock than ever
having learned Mr. Crookshanks was a wizard the entire time.

“I did attend school at Hogwarts, yes,” Mr. Crookshanks said. “Unfortunately, I did not graduate. I
graduated from the school on my papers, sir. I never lied about that.”

“You didn’t graduate?” Hermione piped up, though her mother attempted to hush her. “Why not?”

Professor McGonagall’s mouth moved derisively, and Mr. Crookshanks’ stoic stance shifted
slightly before addressing Hermione fully. “I was not a big fan of following the rules many years
ago, my lady. And for that, I was expelled from school. That is the simple truth of it.”

Hermione nodded in understanding. Magical school or not, she was taught to always defer to the
rules—where men would be forgiven, a woman would not for breaking a single one. To be
expelled was to close off an opening opportunity to do something more with her life, other than
marry, which Ms. Haven had emphasized for years would be one of her only accomplishments as a
woman.

Attending school of any kind would be a welcome relief. Even at her young age, Hermione had
realized that at some point, like most girls, there was an expectation to marry well. With each
birthday that passed, her duty was approaching much sooner than Hermione would have liked.

“And if she doesn’t?” Her father’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Attend this school of yours,
that is.”

Hermione looked up at her father in despair, but he would not spare a glance at her. He glared
instead at two people on the opposite side of the room that he had only just realized were both
something other than purely normal folk.

“If she does not attend, you risk that her magic finds a way to escape by any means necessary,”
Professor McGonagall explained with such clinical precision, it was clear she had given this speech
numerous times before. “You risk that she hurt herself, or others when her magic cannot be
contained or put to good use.”

Her mother’s grip around her hands tightened.

Later that night, Hermione’s small family stood silently by the door as their strange visitor
disappeared from sight with a loud pop before their very eyes. Mr. Crookshanks sighed and shut
the door, turning to her father.

“Tomorrow, I will take you all to Diagon Alley,” he explained. “Everything can be explained
then.”

Upon entering Diagon Alley, her mother promptly fainted once again. After Mr. Crookshanks had
helped her father exchange coins for wizard currency, called galleons, they had set off as a family
to the place they were most familiar with—the bookshop.

Hermione wanted to know how different it would be to attend Hogwarts instead of living in
London and having her parents hire a governess to teach her. She remembered wanting to learn
about mathematics and the physical sciences—the things she’d seen in textbooks her father made a
business of printing. However, the older she became the more she realized that that would never
happen for her. Though her parents loved her dearly, the trouble would not be in affording someone
to teach her those subjects, but in finding a teacher willing to teach a woman.

In the end, they would have provided her with the education necessary to achieve a successful
social season—embroidery, household management, how to balance her pocketbook, and other
subjects taught at finishing school. But instead of learning how to waltz, curtsy, and host dinner
parties, Hermione would be attending Hogwarts for seven years instead.

But adapting to the wizarding world and this new culture was something Hermione would have to
grow used to. She could tell as much from the robes that Professor McGonagall was wearing, and
the robes that wizarding folks wore at Diagon Alley. They walked in pairs, not so different from
the people walking around muggle (another word she had learned about in a book) London. Their
robes covered just as much as their muggle clothing did but in vastly different shades and cuts.
Some women—witches—wore trousers and funny hats, and some men—wizards—wore robes that
draped over their bodies so thoroughly, they looked like dresses. The disparity was startling, but
the vast difference between this world and hers only excited Hermione. There was so much she
could learn in a place that was so entirely new to her.

There were many things to benefit from in Wizarding society when openly compared to the muggle
world she had grown under. While it seemed that most wizards and witches still married young,
they waited until they found employment after graduating from Hogwarts. After countless injuries
and even death at the hands of adults who could not control their magic, education became
compulsory. There was no open segregation based on gender at Hogwarts, save for their private
dormitories. She had read about that in a book as well, which detailed the mysterious school she
was set to attend. She had been told more about the school by her own maid who, as it turned out,
was a Squib, hired under Mr. Crookshanks recommendation.

After searching all the shops, bookshops, and various storefronts, her last summer before school
flew by her in a blink of an eye. Walking onto the train that would whisk her away to Scotland to
attend Hogwarts was the breath of fresh air Hermione did not know she needed.

The first year of school was nothing like she had expected. Though it was a difficult start,
especially with her attempts at making friends, Hogwarts had settled into something she loved very
dearly. Friendship, learning, and a new place to call home.

For the first ten years of her life, Hermione lived in the center of muggle London, where her father
had much success with his various business ventures and pursuits. Despite being a girl, and the
only child in her family for that matter, her parents had emphasized the importance of reading and
writing in her education.

“How barbaric,” Ron had said after she explained that many muggle women and those who were
less fortunate were not taught to read and write. She found this particularly ironic given the
circumstances: she had just reminded him that they did in fact have a textbook for Herbology, and
such a skill would in fact assist him in writing his paper. “Harry, you knew how to read before
coming here, didn’t you?”

“Unfortunately, I was taught to read,” Harry replied. “Who else would write Dudley’s school
papers?”

Hermione laughed underneath her hand, while Ron scoffed at him.

At the end of the term, Hermione realised she was almost melancholy at the thought of returning
home, where she could not practice magic or see her friends over breakfast where her mother
couldn’t scold her about mixing up her teaspoons or eating too loudly. The only thing Hermione
could do was read the books she managed to bring back with her, and try to ignore the odd stares
her parents shared over their dinner.

“I’ve rented out a country home for us,” her father announced once their plates had been removed
from the table. Hermione looked up, startled. Her mother didn’t seem surprised at the news. "For a
month."

“Where?” Hermione asked derisively. Being situated in London meant that Diagon Alley would
remain readily accessible to her, ergo, more books for her to read while away on summer holiday.

“West of London, in Wiltshire,” Her father clarified. “A colleague of mine recommended it. Said it
was a lovely, well-kept home”

“Wiltshire?” Hermione replied. “What is there to do in Wiltshire?”

“Absolutely nothing,” her mother said brightly. The pudding was being brought in, along with a
few lemon cakes, Hermione’s favourite, for her first dinner home. “It would be such a great place
to unwind the mind, and perfect for relaxing.”

Hermione frowned, choosing to poke at her cake with her fork instead of replying. Her parents
exchanged worried glances before her father tried to comfort her.

“We haven’t been together in close to a year now, dear. We wanted to be able to focus on you
before you head back to school again.”

“When will we leave?”

“In the next week or so, depending on the work I need to complete. There’s a train they’ve just
completed to take us all out west that we’ll need to catch.”

One week to wrangle as many books into her luggage as humanly and magically possible.

Hermione could do that.

The country home in Wiltshire was beautiful, she would admit. After spending close to a year in
the country in Scotland, she could see the smog of London much more plainly upon her return. The
city was growing more industrious, and with it, the air became harder to breathe. In a way, being
out here was a relief. Her parents wouldn’t be breathing any more of the smoky haze.

It was a modest home as well. Not too many rooms, but enough space to ensure they did not feel
cramped. The edges of the estate looked to be miles away, compared to London where their
townhome shared a wall with their neighbor. There was a river nearby that Hermione suddenly
wanted to explore. So, the day after they arrived, she did.

Hermione took her books in a satchel and made her way through the woods for what felt like ages,
leaving little bits of sticks and rocks along the trail to help her find her way back. She let the sound
of running water direct her towards the river nearby, and she wished suddenly to own a small
watch to keep an eye on the time. She had promised her mother she would return before supper,
and fled the first moment possible to enjoy the fresh air and the summer sun alone.

Suddenly, the tree cover of her path gave way to the river. Her gaze traveled along the river to a
sprawling field before her, where a solitary large tree stood proudly. Perhaps a hawthorn, she
pondered mildly. Its canopy was large enough to provide ample shade under the summer sun and
close enough to the water that she could sit and observe its flow not too far from a comfortable
position. The meadow was made of tall grass, and close by was a hill that she couldn’t see over but
assumed it was nothing more than a continuation of a few trees she had stumbled through judging
by the treetops in the distance.

Thrilled with this new discovery, Hermione bounded towards the tree, eager to sit beneath it and
read the books she had been savoring for the past few weeks, away from her parents who would
only continuously question her about her school subjects and friends. While eager to share what
she had learned, sometimes it was her preference to be left alone to actually absorb the contents of
her books. If she were to be stuck inside with them for a month straight with little reprieve, she
might go mad.
Hermione thus sat beneath the great hawthorn and enjoyed the clear summer day, watching the sun
carefully in the sky so as not to break her promise to her mother. What must have been hours later,
she heard the grass crunch and whisper nearby. As if someone was moving through it. Startled,
Hermione closed her book and glanced around the trunk of the tree. There was a stranger was
coming towards the water, and subsequently, towards Hermione, who was for hours to her
immense pleasure, all alone.

The stranger was dressed in robes that outwardly presented immense wealth, and Hermione sat
frozen, clutching her new book in her hands with resolute force, suddenly petrified at the thought
of being seen.

He couldn’t have been much older than her judging by his height if she were to compare him to
Harry or Ron. With the sun at his back, she could barely make out his features, though from what
she could see, he stood perfectly straight, not hunching in the slightest, with an eerily blank
expression. He made his way down the hill, seemingly unbothered by the tall grass and heat,
walking towards the spot where she sat hidden away before freezing in place.

“Oh,” the boy said, finally noticing her hidden at the foot of the tree. “What do you think you’re
doing here?” He took a step closer to Hermione, over the thickening grass. “This is private
property.”

Hermione scowled back at him. “I checked the local county lines. This is open property, it isn’t
owned by anyone.”

“The wards should not have let a muggle anywhere near us,” the boy, clearly identifying himself
now as a wizard, openly muttered with a touch of disgust to his voice. He looked positively
annoyed.

The dismissal only deepened her glare. Hermione stood from the grass, closed her book, and rested
it against her chest as a sort of shield. Her fingers twitched towards her wand, hidden away in her
pocket. “I am not a muggle.”

The features on his face were strange, to say it kindly. Having only ever lived in muggle London
before Hogwarts, she would be so curious to stare at someone who presented as something so
otherworldly. His hair was practically a bright white. Not a dull grey, and with none of the
softening qualities of a yellow blond. His brows and eyelashes, from what she could see from their
respectable distance, were only a fraction darker. If Ron were there, he would have called his face
‘insufferably pointy’. Sharp nose, chin, and eyes. Hermione hadn’t seen anyone remotely like him
at Hogwarts, and a face like his demanded recollection. If he was a wizard as well, how did she not
know him?

His expression, once seemingly open and blank, immediately closed off and turned to scrutiny.

“How is it that I do not know you then?” he asked, taking another step forward as if reading her
mind. It was then that she reached for her wand.

“Do not come closer,” warned Hermione. Having quickly learned a handful of hexes during her
first year, several spells came to mind. A bat bogey? An ankle lifter? The possibilities were
endless.

The boy stared shocked at the wand for a moment before shifting his gaze to her book. Gently, his
head tilted to the side.

“What is your name?” the boy asked after a long pause, his brow furrowing.
“I do not think there is a need for me to tell you my name,” Hermione’s wand rolled around in her
hand, still pointed at the ground, but a threat nonetheless.“You are the one interrupting my
afternoon reading.”

Another long moment of silence. Then, the boy suddenly smiled. It was stark against the sharpness
of his face. “All right,” he conceded. He shifted in his stance for a moment, and his hands that were
hidden behind his back came forward to gesture toward her. “What is that book you are reading,
then?”

Hermione blinked. Father warned her if she were to read her books outside, to keep the titles out of
sight, but he had said wards, and—

“It’s the English translation of the twelve uses of Dragon’s blood.”

“By Dumbledore and Flamel?”

Hermione nodded, surprised he would know such a thing. “Do you know them?”

“The uses? Magic, blood, fire—”

“I meant,” Hermione interrupted, a habit that her mother scolded her for quite frequently.
“Dumbledore and Flamel. Do you know them?”

“My father says Dumbledore is a madman, that he's right out of his mind.” How he was able to
imitate the drawl of Professor Snape with such accuracy, Hermione had no idea.

“He is not! Professor Dumbledore is a brilliant wizard.”

The comment incensed her, but the boy only laughed. It was a patronizing sound that she didn’t
think she liked very much. “Well then,” The boy continued to smile. “I suppose I have no need to
ask where you go to school.”

“Who are you?” asked Hermione. “A wizard, no doubt, but I don’t recognize you. Are you not old
enough to attend school?”

The boy scoffed. “Of course I am.”

Recalling the other Wizarding schools she’s read about, she asked, “Beauxbatons?”

“Non, certainement pas.” The accent was acceptable for someone their age, but certainly not so
natural as to suggest he spoke every day.

“Durmstrang then?”

The boy nodded. Slowly, he encroached further. He was decidedly taller than her, if only by a little
bit. Now that he was closer, she could determine that he was not as tall as Ron, but not much
shorter than Harry or Neville.

The thought of speaking to someone who was attending the eastern school filled her with
excitement. What was he willing to share about his school, what had he learned, and had access to?
It was all information she would never be able to obtain on her own because Durmstrang famously
did not accept those who were muggle-born into their school.

Over the top of the hill, the sun had hidden away from view, setting behind the boy. Everything
that was bright around him darkened. Remembering her promise to her mother, Hermione felt
jolted out of a trance.

“Would you have the time, by chance?” she asked nervously.

The boy reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a glimmering gold watch. “I say it’s
close to around five o’clock.”

Hermione gasped and picked up the collection of items she brought with her. A small rune
translation handbook, Hogwarts: A History, and the text on uses for Dragon’s blood. She gathered
her skirts in her hand and began to run in the same direction she had come from. It had taken her
closer to an hour to find it, having walked leisurely through the wooded area surrounding them
before stumbling upon the sunny spot. Her mother would surely scold her for having run off for so
long.

As she sprinted across the field, she could hear the boy calling out from behind her.

“When will you return?” he shouted.

When seemed more assured than him asking if she would return back to that spot. Being
interrogated by a boy her age about what she was up to, and where she was from— it did not
necessarily make her believe their next encounter would be particularly pleasant.

But the idea of speaking to someone from a different school from her own, one that clearly knew of
more magic than she did. A boy that already read about the twelve uses of Dragon’s blood, and
didn’t seem to mind her many books. In fact, he looked at them all quite curiously. Perhaps he
even had his own he could lend her, when she would inevitably run out with the long month they
planned to spend on holiday. The idea alone was enough to intrigue her.

Hermione did not let her feet slow down. From over her shoulder, she called out her reply.

“Tomorrow!”
 Chapter 3
Chapter Summary

When she saw Draco, his head snapping up at the sound of her approaching from the
trees, she could not help but wonder how long he had sat there waiting for her.

Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

Hermione was up and out of bed the next morning as the sun rose in the sky. She hastily got ready
for the day, before her mother had even woken as she normally did to help her dress, and slipped
into the kitchen to grab a hunk of bread and an apple before attempting to slip out the door.

“And where is it that you’re going, my lady?”

Hermione froze with her hand on the knob of the door, before slowly turning to greet her family’s
butler as he stood stoically in the corner of the kitchen, tea tray in hand.

Caught red-handed, Hermione scrambled for an excuse. “I’m off to go read outside.”

“So early?” Mr. Crookshanks said. “Your parents have yet to even wake for breakfast.”

Drat. “Only some reading before breakfast is ready, Mr. Crookshanks,” Hermione said, growing
more worried as the conversation progressed. “I will be back!”

Mr. Crookshanks stared at her warily, attempting to understand her eagerness to leave the house at
once.

Hermione broke the silence with a question of her own. “Do you know of any wizards in the area,
Mr. Crookshanks?”

His eyes narrowed. Hermione summoned an expression of innocence at his suspicion.

“I know of small wizarding communities here,” Mr. Crookshanks explained slowly as he stalked
towards her. “It certainly wouldn’t be unlikely to meet one.”

Hermione hummed, seeming interested. From the creaking of the floorboards above her, it
appeared her parents had finally awoken. Hermione cursed her luck.

“How about you read in the sitting room before breakfast is served before heading outside?” Mr.
Crookshanks supplied, gesturing towards the food she held in her hands, which she quickly hid
behind her back. “And bring your snacks with you for your afternoon reading?”

Later that day, after breakfast and lunch with her family, Hermione finally slipped outside. Mr.
Crookshanks was quick to follow her out.

“Do not be afraid to use your magic should they try anything improper, always be on guard,” he
whispered urgently. She shouldn’t have been as surprised as she was that he had figured her out.
“Always keep your wand on you. Promise me!”

“Of course, Mr. Crookshanks,” Hermione whispered back, before ducking out the side door.

Once under the thick cover of the trees and out of sight from her parents, Hermione broke out into a
run.

“You were correct.”

Hermione looked up from her book, violently startled that she had not heard the boy approaching
as she did the day before. He had somehow snuck up on her. “Correct? About what?”

“This point,” the boy said, gesturing to the ground beneath them. “It’s just outside the wards of my
family’s home. I had thought it encompassed everything until it reached the water, but it does not.”

Hermione only looked up at him. He wore other-worldly robes as he did the day before, and his
hair was combed back with what looked to be a frankly absurd amount of hair product. He was
closer to her now than he had been the day before. His features seemed more pointy and sharp, a
nose that poked too far out on his thin face. There wasn’t anyone like him that she had seen before,
even at a school like Hogwarts.

“What’s your name?” he asked, breaking her from her study of his features.

“What’s yours?” she countered, a bit childishly.

“Draco.”

“No ser name?”

“If you don’t know it from my name, then maybe it’s best you don’t know it.”

How rude, she thought, yet her stomach churned frightfully. She was lucky enough to be friends
with Harry and Ron, after a rather difficult start. Luck was not on her side to gain another friend so
easily.

“Hermione,” she said instead, fighting a smirk as he frowned in turn. “No ser name.”

The boy—Draco—blinked but then laughed. “Hermione. All right.” He plopped down on the
ground beside her, still a bit away but it was easier to see him when she didn’t have to fight against
the sun. He was now completely illuminated in it, his hair seeming more white than blond. His
voice carried an aristocratic sort of cut to it, an air of arrogance she had heard in other people in
London, and sometimes even at Hogwarts.

“And what brings you here, Hermione?” Her name rolled off his tongue in a way that somehow
sounded like an insult. Hermione promptly ignored the urge to call him out on it.

The books, she thought fiercely. Think of the books he might have.
“My parents wanted a reprieve from London, so my father rented out a home nearby here. We’re
lodging until the end of the month,” Hermione said. “I was hoping to see my friends instead this
summer, but I don’t believe I will be able to.”

The conversation suddenly stalled. Hermione didn’t feel incredibly comfortable sitting there in
silence.

“Do you plan to see your friends, now that you’re back home?” she asked.

“Friends? They’re not really a concept at Durmstrang. Only alliances that ensure you’re not hexed
in your cot in the dead of night,” Draco replied, staring not at her, but at the water. “Regardless, I
wasn’t very eager to stay in that country any longer than I needed.”

“Oh,” Hermione said finally, feeling the conversation stall once again. The silence dragged on,
Hermione’s fingers flexing over the pages of the book she still had open on her lap. She glanced
down at it. Draco broke her concentration again.

“My mother grew up in London,” said Draco. “From what I’ve seen when I’m there, it’s much
more boring out here. Hardly a place for a nice holiday.”

Hermione shrugged, another thing her mother scolded her against. Much like being alone with a
boy without a chaperone, she thought bitterly. It was a jarring shift from her life at Hogwarts,
where she could walk around and speak freely with Harry and Ron, or Neville and Dean, without
being considered out of place or turn.

“It’s much quieter, it reminds me of Hogwarts, in a way,” Hermione said. “The air is much cleaner
here, less people interfering. It’s nice to see my parents.”

Draco did not reply immediately, instead twisting the heel of his shiny shoes into the dusty ground
beneath them awkwardly. Talking to him desperately felt like her initial attempts at friendship, a
queer dance that she had yet to master.

“So, you have a wand,” Draco tried again, diverting their conversation entirely. He gestured to her
side. “What’s it made of?”

Hermione remembered the promise she made to Mr. Crookshanks. To be fair to him, he had
encountered far more wizards in his life than she had at that point. She raised the wand into his
sight, and swished it. Sparks of varying colours sprang out of it.

“Vine wood, and dragon heartstring,” Hermione said. “Ten inches and then some. I got it at
Ollivanders.”

“That’s where everyone gets theirs,” Draco replied rudely, once again.

Hermione rolled her eyes freely. “What’s yours made of then? I assume you have one as well,
seeing as you claim to be a wizard.”

Draco raised a hand to his chest, faking insult. “Claim?” He pulled his wand out of his front robes,
before swishing his. The wind quickly picked up around them, sending all the leaves in the tree
they sat under into a whistling melody. “Hawthorn, and unicorn hair. Ten inches, reasonably
springy, I’ve been told.”

“I haven’t read much about what each wand wood is supposed to do. The different cores and
such,” Hermione wondered openly, staring at the wand in his hand. So he truly was a wizard.
“I’m sure there’s been a book written about it.”

Hermione stiffened slightly before looking directly at him. “Is there?”

Quickly stowing away his wand, Draco replied, “Of course. There’s probably a book on
everything.”

“Do you have one?”

Draco shrugged. “I could look.”

Glancing up at the sky, it seemed that more time had passed again than she expected. When she
turned back to Draco, he pulled out his watch to check the time.

“When is it that you have to return?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Four.”

Draco grimaced. “It’s already close to three and a half.”

Blast. Another opportunity wasted. Hermione gathered her things again with great speed.

“Will I see you again?”

“Will you look for that book?” Hermione replied swiftly.

Draco hesitated before nodding.

“Goodbye, Draco!” She called over her shoulder as she sped back home, as she had the day before.
He nodded to her once before he turned back over the hill.

The next day, Draco brought a book about the significance of wand woods and cores he had found
in his home library. And the day after that, he brought another book on the same subject. Hermione
brought books from her own collection as well, but it seemed as though the items in Draco’s
collection were more rare and interesting than what Diagon Alley had to offer. The books he
brought were old and rather fragile looking, and each day she fought the temptation to wretch them
from his hands when he would read aloud to her.

Though he dressed with great care, it belied how rude he could be. Draco seemed content to remark
without care about her ‘unruly’ hair, her ‘bent’ teeth, along with her ‘ceaseless chatter’. As if
people either existed to entertain him or benefit him in some way, judging by the things he said.
Only after giving him a severe scolding one day, and threatening to never come back, he loosened
up his tongue and promised to treat her more kindly.

After a week of meeting, her mother held her back after breakfast. “It’s absolutely pouring
outside,” she had said, pointing to the sky as it completely opened up onto the estate, flooding the
yard. “Either way, come with me. I have some needlework I wanted to show you.”

Even after learning she was a witch, she continued to crochet and other types of needlework with
her mother as a pastime. She knew better than to inform her mother that witches had their
charmwork and other methods to aid them in their hemming.
The next day, she returned with a book in hand, and a small lemon cake she had snuck into her bag
before leaving. When she saw Draco, his head snapping up at the sound of her approaching from
the trees, she could not help but wonder how long he had sat there waiting for her. As she
wordlessly handed him the lemon cake in an unspoken apology, Draco ate it with a strangely
pleasant smile across his face.

On the last day of their holiday, she went back to her sunny spot in the trees with no book in hand.
They spent what felt like an age, and at the same time only a few minutes, talking about their
upcoming school year. While Hermione was eager to return to school, Draco seemed reluctant,
though she knew him to be studious.

Rather than dwell on the thought, just before leaving, she asked, “Could I write to you?”

Draco looked contemplative. “Mother sends our family eagle in order to reach me. I’m not sure the
Hogwarts owls can send correspondence that far over Europe.”

“We still could try,” Hermione replied, a sudden pit of longing growing in her stomach, as it had
when saying goodbye to Harry and Ron only a few months ago.

Instead, Draco softly asked her a variant of what he always did when she would leave for the
evening. “Will I see you next summer?”

With an eagerness to return home to convince her father to do just that, she said, “Of course.”

When Hermione turned to wave goodbye to him once more as she reached the edge of the tree line,
Draco was already gone.

The summer after her second year, Hermione found herself on another train back to the countryside
of Wiltshire. The school year had been stressful to say the least about it, but she tried not to dwell
on it, instead relishing in spending time with her parents, and perhaps the company of another.

She hadn’t told Ron or Harry about her summer friend. Friend, if that was what he was. They had
never said it explicitly, only making routine plans to see each other most days, bringing a book as
some sort of trade to keep each other company. Though, she thought, that’s what friends might do
—sharing things. Like books, or maybe even the majority of their time.

Hermione picked absently at her nails in the carriage. How would Draco know when to meet her,
or what day she planned to arrive in the countryside? Would she sit there, missing him each day,
until they managed to overlap somehow?

She needn’t have worried. For when Hermione pushed through the trees the next day, trying
desperately not to run when she approached closer to the treeline, she saw Draco sitting at the trunk
of the tree.

She was startled by how much he had changed in a year. Though not taller than Ron, he had
certainly grown a bit. He wore new robes that she suspected had seen displayed in Madam
Malkin’s shop during her last visit.

Draco quickly rose to his feet as she made her way to him. Hermione couldn’t help her smile at
seeing him, and it looked as though he could not help but return it.
“Hello, Draco,” she said, laughing, waving as she approached.

“Hello, Hermione,” he called out, his voice full of humour.

“I hope you haven’t waited too long for me to return.” Hermione dropped her satchel to the grass.
“I would’ve written to you if I had known where to send it to.”

“Not too long, no,” said Draco. He moved closer to her belongings and gave her a look of great
interest. “Did your second-year education warrant a return to Hogwarts?”

“Oh, yes.” Not entirely, but Draco need not know the details of her being petrified for a few
months. “Along with a decent amount of scandal to share. Say, were you aware that Lockhart was a
fraud?”

“Gilderoy Lockhart? Of the Vampire hunter series?”

“The same. They hired him as the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor.”

“Hm, my father did say he thought him a liar. I suppose he was right.”

From what Hermione recalled from last summer, if Draco’s father could dismantle Hogwarts
himself, he would do so without hesitation.

It was the first time they had met intentionally after an entire school year had passed. In the same
way she noticed how different Draco had grown, she wondered if he noticed any changes in her.

They sat as they always did; Draco’s back against the trunk of the Hawthorne, and Hermione at his
side, as they recalled in varying detail their respective years.

“Just before school last summer, my father gifted me a broomstick. The newest model of Nimbus. I
tried out for the team at Durmstrang, but they already had a seeker."

Hermione fought the urge to scoff openly. Of course, Draco loved Quidditch. How had they
managed to avoid this conversation until this point was surely a miracle. She shifted a bit, while
Draco continued on, not noticing her discomfort.

“Father didn't make too much of a fuss about it. No beating the best seeker in Europe as a second
year.”

“Best seeker in Europe?”

“Viktor Krum?”

Hermione stared at him blankly.

Draco’s head tilted. “You do know who Viktor Krum is, don’t you?”

Hermione’s fingers twitched around a piece of grass she had picked. “I—I’m not very involved
with Quidditch, if I am to be honest.”

“Involved with Quidditch? Hogwarts must have teams.”

“Oh, of course, it does. I just mean, I’m not very,” Hermione struggled to find the words, pinching
the corners of her book instead. “I’m not very comfortable around broomsticks.”

A moment of silence. Another beat of it. Draco stared at her before slowly asking, “But you do
know how to fly, correct?”

She hesitated. “Theoretically.”

“Theoretically?” he replied, incredulous. He laughed and shook his head. “That simply won’t do.”

When Hermione arrived at their spot the next day, Draco swooped in atop his broomstick, nearly
brushing her head with the speed he was flying. Hermione screamed and dropped to the floor, her
satchel pouring out all her items.

“What is the matter with you?” she yelled at his back as he flew before he turned to face her.

Draco stood up straight on his broomstick, balancing himself perfectly. He looked weightless,
putting one foot in front of the other as if on a tightrope. “I wanted to show it to you,” He hovered a
few feet from the ground, slowly rising in the sky above the tallest trees.

Hermione couldn't help but scowl. “It’s one thing to bring your books past your family’s wards, but
someone could see you–”

Draco scoffed. “You’re the only other person I’ve encountered for miles around here. Quit your
fretting.”

“Rules are important.”

Draco pointedly rolled his eyes, mocking her tone under his breath. Hermione was sure she had
taken on a look that was exactly the sort of stare Ms. Haven, her old governess, would put on to
scold her. He outstretched his hand, which Hermione could only stare at.

“Come on now. I promise you, you will not fall off while I am on it with you.”

Though he was pulling her onto the broomstick by then, Hermione still protested. “I do not think–”

“Do not think then.”

The next few days, to Hermione’s horror, were spent fruitlessly trying to control Draco’s broom. It
even kicked her off and into the water, which thankfully did not turn out to be too deep. She swore
never to try again afterward.

“What on Earth happened to you?” her mother had asked when Hermione crossed the threshold,
appearing like a drowned cat.

“I was walking along the river,” Hermione mumbled her lie. “Lost my footing.”

With one glance at Mr. Crookshanks, who tried his very best to not laugh at her state of distress, he
swept his hand in the air and she was suddenly dry. Her hair had fallen out of its confines into a
large mess of curls. When she fell asleep later that night, she could still hear Draco’s laugh ringing
in her ears.

“Do you think we would be friends?” she asked, breaking the silence they had been comfortably
sitting in for what felt like hours. At Draco’s confusion, she said, “At Hogwarts, I mean.”
“If I had gone to Hogwarts?”

“Yes.”

The question seemed to rattle about in his head for a while. Hermione waited for it, patiently.

“My father isn’t a very nice man,” Draco replied slowly, picking at the grass between them. “He
picks most of my friends for me.”

“Your father doesn’t attend Hogwarts.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. His gaze was fixed on his feet. “He’d find a way.”

“He wouldn’t like me, I suppose.”

“Most assuredly not.”

“But you do,” she added lightly. “I hope.”

Draco finally laughed. “So then we are friends after all.”

“Do you know Dark Magic?” Hermione asked one day, as they sat in comfortable silence on a late
summer afternoon.

Draco’s fingers hesitated over the page he was turning, looking up to frown at her as her fingers
wove a crown of dry grass. “What?”

“Do you learn Dark Magic? At Durmstrang,” Hermione asked again. “We have a class at Hogwarts
for Defence Against the Dark Arts, but we don’t learn how to control them. How to use them.”

“We learn to use a few curses,” Draco replied, slowly as if calculating the best response. “We do
learn to defend ourselves from them as well.”

“But you learn them. How to use them.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed at her. It was a far cry from their usual conversations. They steered far
away from the news, mostly focusing on their studies and their educational hobbies. They had
spent the past week attempting to find bowtruckles in the forest.

“Is there a point in asking? It’s not as if I could teach you here. There’s no magic allowed outside
of our schools while on summer holiday.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just mean, who decides what makes spells dark magic versus normal,
everyday magic? Where is the line drawn? We learn some hexes at school, but it is not considered
dark magic.”

“Well,” he drawled, turning fully back to his book. “I imagine when the curse melts skin off its
intended victim or when you can force someone to walk off a cliff, you start to get into dark curse
territory.”

Hermione stared at him, her mouth slightly open. Speaking so frankly about death in such a matter-
of-fact tone, it caught her off guard.

“Perhaps it becomes Dark Magic when the spell leaves permanent damage, with the intent to kill.”

“You learn that?” Hermione asked, her tone horrified. “At your school?”

“We learn ways to keep ourselves alive, at whatever cost. They teach occlumency and legilimency
as well.”

There was no need to explain what those were. Hermione knew of that sort of magic, legilimency
being a rather sinister form of magic. What horrified her was that they were only thirteen. She
knew his birthday was in June, which was before she arrived in Wiltshire for holiday.

Draco did not answer her, but his expression was blank like he had placed a mask over his
demeanor, and his eyes glazed over in a vague indifference. He instead asked her about the cat she
had found out back recently, and how he was getting acclimated to the house.

Hermione, sensing he did not want to continue discussing the unsavory parts of his education,
obliged him in changing the subject.

“I’ve named him Crooks, you see, after our butler. They look remarkably similar...”

On one of the last days of her Wiltshire holiday, Hermione walked to their spot to find Draco
sleeping peacefully, a book laying open across his chest. Smirking, she went to pick it up and see
where he had left off. The moment the book touched her skin, heat burning across her fingers.

“Ouch!” she cried out in shock.

Draco jerked awake, the book falling to the ground between them. “What is it? What is the
matter?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he scrambled to his feet.

Hermione took several steps backward. “Your book.” Looking down at her hand, she could see
several fingertips already seared red. “Your book burned me.”

Draco looked down from her to the book, laying innocently on the ground. His chest was still
heaving from the shock of being woken up. He reached down for it hesitantly, then stared back up
at her as she clutched her wrist with her other, unharmed hand.

“It must be the wards,” Draco explained slowly. “Our family library is a very secretive place.
Maybe it is a sort of loss prevention of some kind. Are you hurt?”

Her fingers would no doubt blister from this. Horrified, she looked down at it and tried her best not
to cry. “What a horrible spell.”

The furrow in his brow relaxed into concern. “I know,” Draco reached out to touch her arm,
inspecting the damage for himself with a light hand. “I apologise.”
 Chapter 4
Chapter Summary

Hermione wasn’t sure for how long, but she knew she could have this corner of the
world for a bit of peace, if only for a little while longer.

Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

A/N: Canon timeline events have been extended slightly.

One of the first lessons Hermione had been taught as a young girl was the importance of addressing
those in the peerage by their proper titles and how to curtsy for her father’s important guests and
business partners. When Hermione entered magical society and found her newfound freedom, it did
not mean the peerage was entirely done away with. No, in fact, these titles and lands had made
their way into the Wizarding World as well.

“They swore loyalty to a muggle Queen?” Hermione questioned in the common room one day,
reading their assigned chapters for History of Magic.

Ron was the one to answer her. “Many pureblood families did. Though the King was a muggle and
could not perform magic, he was somehow immune to it. No one can go imperiusing the King or
Queen, or their descendants. After a considerable effort to avoid war, the wizarding families at the
time and the Royal family came to an agreement. They would gain titles over lands not already
given to muggle lords, and swear to uphold them for the royal family. That is why we have a Duke
of Essex, Duke of Wiltshire, and some others I can’t recall. Percy is the only one keeping up with
all that.”

“Wiltshire?” Hermione asked, startled at the mention.

“Yeah, I believe they’re the Malfoys. Nasty, calculating lot, they are. They think they’re too good
to be seen in regular society, so I’ve never seen them. Dad believes they’re in it with You-Know-
Who.”

From what Hermione could tell, there was something always left unspoken about the Weasley
family and their own position in the ministry. From the treatment they received from others, the
Weasleys seemed to be delegated at the bottom of the list of nobles, too poor to actively participate,
so they had been removed from their earned seats at the Wizengamont, though they never once
looked down upon the Queen or the muggles she ruled over.

After meeting Sirius Black for the first time, Harry learned that he was a part of this system as
well.
“Your father was an Earl,” Sirius explained to Harry. “Though that was the least interesting thing
about the man. His title and lands did not save him from Lord Voldemort, and did not protect your
mother Lily either. But he was a good man. And when you become of age, that title will become
yours as well.”

Finding out he was titled in some way made sense given the amount of gold left in his vaults,
Hermione reasoned.

Sirius continued on, “And to my late parent's great displeasure, I am a Duke. The title was most
certainly meant to go to Regulus, with my father making every possible effort to have it skip over
me entirely. But seeing as I am the only living male descendent of the Black family, I retain the
title of the Duke of Essex.”

Professor Binns went into greater detail than did Ron and Sirius. It seemed most Slytherin families
had some sort of ties to the peerage, along with other purebloods, like the Lovegoods, the Bones,
and the MacMillans.

The information stuck with her and replayed in her head, over and over again, but she knew it was
of no use to her. It was just another society that Hermione would never be able to enter, and she
had no desire to participate in such ridiculous things.

The summer after the disastrous Triwizard Tournament, Hermione welcomed a few weeks in the
countryside for holiday. The coverage of her in the Daily Prophet had been bothersome, and
walking around Diagon Alley was the last thing she wanted to do. At the first available
opportunity, she made her way to their spot along the river, to find Draco skipping stones at the
water’s edge. His head shot up at the sight of her clearing the trees.

The sight of him instantly made her smile. “Draco!” she called out, making her way over to him.

Perhaps he had managed to convince his mother that hair product was no longer necessary, his
white-blond hair instead falling across his forehead, brushing against his ears. He had grown a year
older, but he looked more boyish this way, less refined and stiff. She noticed in recent years, he
would choose to wear a nice shirt and trousers over the expensive robes that he was once buried in.

“Hello, Hermione.” His smile was blinding.

They stood before each other, grinning like fools, before Hermione remembered what she had
brought with her. “I have a gift for you,” she said, reaching into her bag with one hand.

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “For me?”

“I always miss your birthday,” Hermione explained. “My mother had just shown me some new
patterns, and I wanted to—”

Hermione felt her cheeks burn as he looked down at her. It was evident he continued to grow taller
and taller with each passing summer. She quickly removed the piece of cloth she had embroidered
for weeks on end over her Christmas holiday. Draco held the small gift in the palm of his hand for
a moment, staring at it in a daze.

“Your name is in reference to the constellation Draco, isn’t it?” Hermione asked, trying her best
not to show her anxiety. Perhaps it was too much to bring him this. After a pull of the ribbon, the
handkerchief fell apart, revealing a square.

She had meticulously sketched out the constellation, and an interpretation of a dragon in its shape,
and embroidered it all with charmed string. While at school, she had charmed the stars in the
background to twinkle slightly. While not at the same level as her mother’s skill, it was by far her
best work.

Hermione’s stomach threatened to turn over. She reached out to take it from him. “If you do not
like it, I could—”

Draco roughly pulled his hand away from her reach. “It’s perfect.”

Draco ran his fingers against the cloth, his eyes flickering over the art, studying it with a frown.

“Is something wrong?”

“I never—” Draco hesitated. “I never gave you anything for your birthday, is all.”

“It’s what friends do, don’t they?” Hermione tried with a small smile. “Gifts aren’t meant to be
reciprocated. I only wanted to do something for you.”

His jaw rolled slightly, worrying her that perhaps her remark annoyed him in some way. But he
looked at her with complete sincerity. “Thank you.”

“I saw you met Viktor Krum.”

Hermione’s hands paused over her turning page for a brief moment. “You did?”

Draco shrugged, looking back at the water for his rock skipping. The white shirt he now wore was
rolled up to his elbows, and Hermione pointedly did not look at how his arms had grown more
muscular from the Quidditch, now that he’d been made seeker for his team at school. “Saw it in
the Daily Prophet.”

“I wasn’t aware you could receive a copy at Durmstrang.”

“We wanted to keep track of our own champion," Draco replied. “You attended the Yule Ball with
Krum. You were his second challenge.”

Remembering suddenly the horrible things Rita Skeeter had written about her, Hermione winced.
“Most of what was written was not the truth in the slightest—”

“Are you two courting each other?” Draco interrupted her explanation, tossing a rock into the water
with a splash.

Hermione suddenly choked. “Courting?” When had the muggle world and topic of courting found
her escape? The topic was something she would expect to hear from her mother, that she had heard
from her mother, who unfortunately received the Daily Prophet from Mr. Crookshanks every
morning. “No, absolutely not! No! Viktor is only a friend, just like Harry.”

“You never mentioned you were close with the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Hermione was growing confused by this conversation. They mostly avoided talking about other
people, perfectly content with this bubble of the world they found themselves in.

“I did not realize I needed to mention it. Harry is in my house at school.” Hermione flushed, not for
the first time that day. “I—”

“Do your friends know about me?” Draco asked, suddenly very serious.

After a moment, Hermione shook her head. “Do your friends know about me?” she countered.

Draco shook his head as well.

“The articles were hardly the truth, regardless. I’m sure you saw what Skeeter wrote about me.
Normal-looking or remarkably pretty, depending on if you read before or after I danced with
Viktor.”

“You look very pretty,” Draco said suddenly. The sun burned his skin slightly.

“Too much hair tamer, I think,” Hermione laughed at the memory of attending the Yule ball. “My
teeth were fixed permanently not too long before. People hardly recognized me, Ron and Harry
included.”

“No, I mean today.”

The dress she wore was a bit old, and her hair hadn’t cooperated with her at all that morning, so she
tied it back with a bare ribbon. Hardly worth mentioning.

“Oh,” Hermione said blankly. “Thank you.”

The stone he threw into the water sank. “You’ve always looked very pretty.” Another rock was
thrown into the water. Hermione counted how many times it skipped. One, two, three, before it
sank once again, following the pace of her own heart.

Normally, when she spoke with friends at school, they only paid her enough mind to be polite
before swiftly moving on to other conversations. In contrast, Draco seemed enraptured by her
ravings; from the discussion of the intricate system of pipes Hogwarts used, to the egregious lack
of mentioning of House Elves.

“Oh yes, Hogwarts: A History? I read it when I was a boy, before my Father decided it best I
attend Durmstrang. Perhaps you could tell me all the pieces it must be missing?”

He reclined onto his arm, taking in the view of her with rapt interest.

As she began to list all the commissions from the book, Draco provided his undivided attention.

“Nothing in the text prepared me for the sorting ceremony. The other children on the train tried to
tell us we’d be armed with swords and forced to battle a statue.”

Draco looked amused. “You thought they would put a sword in the hands of small children to fight
a statue?”
“When you say it like that, it makes me sound ridiculous.” Hermione laughed as Draco snorted.

The house-elves weighed on her mind more than anything else. While the muggle world had
recently passed measures to end slavery across Britain and its empire, the wizarding world seemed
content to ignore their own version of it.

“They cook at the dinners, and clean up the common rooms, and I never even noticed for a single
moment! How blind could I possibly be?”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with that?”

Hermione turned to him, indignant. “They are enslaved beings!”

“They’re tied to the estate, they are part of the magic of the grounds. It’s not enslavement.”

“You claim then, that they lead fulfilling lives, and are very happy in their positions? They would
not be happier somewhere else? That they would choose this life, over any other?” Hermione
frowned for a second, her eyes narrowing. “Do you have house-elves, Draco?”

Draco opened his mouth to refute, before quickly closing it, confirming her suspicion. “There is
hardly anything I can do about what my parents decide to do with their property. To them, I am
another piece of it.”

“How could you possibly claim to be the same as a house elf?” Hermione demanded.

“In the way that I am meant to do everything that is demanded of me, with no complaints. If it is to
enroll in Durmstrang, I am sent on a ship the next night. If it is to marry Millicent Bulstrode, I try
my best to close my eyes and have an heir. If my Father demands I take fifteen lashings, I do so
with my mouth shut.”

“Lashings?” Hermione whispered, the word on her tongue horrifying and foreign. His general
aversion to speaking about his father, his home life, fell into order in her mind. “Draco…”

Draco’s expression glazed over. “Reading under the cover of this tree is the extent of my
rebellion.”

Though Hermione felt strongly about the subject, she allowed it to fade into the background of
noise. For the first time, she wondered if school in Bulgaria was the proper choice for him. His icy
demeanor, with sharp features and a cutting tongue that served as a shield, that only the summer
could only just begin to thaw.

There was a memory of touch across her cheek, but when she woke to find some of her hair had
fallen out of its protective style, she dismissed the thought.

Hermione sat up groggily. Draco was sitting beside her against the trunk of the tree, so close that
she could feel the warmth of him without touching him at all. The air was noticeably cooler, birds
were singing to one other, and the wind whipped across the grass.

“Relax,” Draco murmured, a hint of laughter trailing in his voice. “You still have well over an hour
before you need to walk back home.”
She sat back with relief, closing her eyes once more.

“What has made you so tired today?”

“I stayed awake all night reading.”

Draco chuckled lightly. It was a soothing sound, like his voice had been as he quietly read to her
the book in his hands. It had put her to sleep only a few hours ago. “Of course you did.”

For the first time in weeks, her heart felt a calmness she had been searching for. After Harry had
claimed the Dark Lord’s return following their fifth year, she prowled the libraries and bookshops
in Diagon Alley for anything of importance. Defensive spells and counter-curses, studying them in
rote.

She would often look at him and wonder if he believed the news to be true. If he believed Harry
Potter when he said the Dark Lord had returned. The question would linger on the tip of her
tongue, but she always hesitated. Hermione wasn’t sure for how long, but she knew she could have
this corner of the world for a bit of peace, if only for a little while longer.

“Will you keep reading?” Hermione whispered, not bothering to open her eyes again. She could
feel her skirts moving as he adjusted beside her.

“I will wake you if you fall asleep again,” The sound of a page turning. “The next morning, all the
Lords and Ladies assembled in the palace, coming to watch the King performing magic…”

In the haze between reality and dreaming, her skin swore it felt his fingers brushing against her
hand, traveling up her bare arm, so slight it could’ve been dry grass if they had been sitting closer
to it.

The last time she walked to their spot hidden behind the tall grass and Hawthorn tree, she hadn’t
told him it would be just that; the last time that summer. The previous year, she had told him a
week in advance, making him sour. She wanted so desperately not to be miserable for as long as
possible.

“My family is leaving for London tomorrow,” said Hermione, packing up her books into her bag.
She avoided looking at him.

“Tomorrow?” Draco replied hoarsely. When she turned to him, his eyes searched her face for a
moment before he looked away. He put his own book to the side before standing. “How long have
you known?”

“Only just as I left this morning,” Hermione lied. In reality, she had known since before her family
had left their home in London.

“Oh.”

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably. What she wanted so desperately to do, which was embrace her
friend, seemed impossible. She had grown accustomed to hugging Ron and Harry goodbye, but
Draco was—different, somehow. He always had been different.
“Will I see you next summer?” Hermione asked him instead. She tried to ignore how he turned
away from her, running a hand through his hair. His hair had grown a bit longer than he normally
kept it. He called it a revolution against his mother, who once had a habit of piling hair products
into it. When he turned back to her, his demeanor was fragile. She could not tell if he was on the
brink of anger or sadness.

“As always,” Draco managed to smile.

As she moved out of sight deeper into the forest, Hermione would look back, hoping to catch a
final glimpse of him. Draco remained standing there, solitary, every time she turned until she
couldn’t see him anymore through the thick of the trees.

For all the summer farewells where Draco would worry that she’d never come back seemed to be
worth nothing in return. When Hermione returned after her fifth year at Hogwarts to their spot
beneath the tree, Draco was nowhere to be found. In fact, Hermione returned for days on end,
ranging from early in the morning, to later in the evening.

And for the first time, Draco never showed.

 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

A/N: Canon timeline events have been extended slightly.

I'm sorry in advance.

The Granger family holiday in Wiltshire became an unexpected sombre affair. Hermione devoted
much of her days to waiting by the water, all for naught. She had almost driven herself mad when
Draco never showed. For the very first time, she walked away from the tree over to the hill he
would appear over, to find nothing but a sprawling field of grass. As she approached further, she
could see the glimmering wards encompassing the area. Remembering the burn on her fingertips
when she touched one of Draco’s books, she was not foolish enough to test the ward’s limits.

When she was not visiting their spot by the tree, Hermione stayed indoors with her family. Her
parents grew anxious over her as she picked at her food absently, and Mr. Crookshanks looked at
her with great pity when she would stare out the window on a sunny day, after returning to not find
Draco there. At the same time, the Daily Prophet was growing grimmer by the day.

Disappearing muggle-borns. Muggles found dead adjacent to wizard communities. Whispers of

traitors at the Ministry.

She had tried so hard to keep this quiet, country world separate from the growing fright she felt at
the changing wizarding world. In Wiltshire, she could just be Hermione, lover of lemon cakes and
naps under a tree, and unapologetic reader of books. Not Hermione Granger, muggle-born friend of
the Boy Who Lived. Not the brightest witch of her age.

Without Draco to speak to, she was alone with her thoughts. And she was spiraling into despair.

When Hermione returned to London after her family holiday, she made arrangements to meet with
the Weasley family in Diagon Alley for their routine school purchases for the approaching school
year. Ron brushed the ash from his bright red hair as he stepped through the Leaky Cauldron
fireplace with a wry grin. As Ron approached, his eyes flickered across her face with concern. “Is
everything all right?”

“Of course! Especially being back in London,” Hermione said, giving him her best attempt at a
smile. The rest of the Weasley family filed through behind him, and Ron's worry was forgotten.

They made their way through the alley wall into Diagon Alley. What she remembered being the
greatest revelation—stepping into Diagon Alley as a girl who had recently been told she was a
witch—had turned morose. The wizards and witches that roamed the streets looked at each other
with great unease. The week prior, Ollivander’s had closed, and the wizard was unaccounted for.
Having the greatest wandmaker in the century go missing during a time of Great War tension
worried Hermione a great deal. She stuck closely beside Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, both of whom she
and her parents trusted with her life.

“Come now,” Mrs. Weasley said gently, placing her arm on Hermione’s when she caught the girl
staring at the empty wand shop. “I know there are texts we need to check our order with at Flourish
and Blotts.”

The bookshop. Yes, browsing for books would make Hermione feel much better. There were
specific Potion texts she wanted to place an order for that could prove to be useful in the future,
and it would calm her aching heart to browse without worry.

Mr. Weasley and Ron turned into the Quidditch shop, while Mrs. Weasley eyed the tailor that was
the street over when they arrived at the store.

“Keep your wand on you, and do not be afraid to hex anyone that gives you a wrong look,” Mrs.
Weasley warned. “I will return for you very shortly.”

Hermione turned into the Flourish and Blotts, where out of all the shops in Diagon Alley, she felt
safest between the aisles of books.

After greeting the owner, whom she had always gotten on well with, Hermione went on to browse
the aisles. Each one housed a different specialty; defensive spells (she made a note to return to this
one), magical roots and herbs, maps of wizarding Britain, and the benefits of different cauldrons
materials. She turned quickly into the potions sections, which spanned several different aisles.

She skipped over the first few textbooks, already scoured through them during her first few years
at Hogwarts. Her fingers landed on the spine of a Potion Master’s Basics.

While she had learned to brew several different types of potions at school, the mastery came with
balancing the right potion materials and ingredients, when to gather them, and how to juggle the
simultaneous brewing of multiple kinds of potions. Though they had Professor Snape in the Order,
Hermione was growing worried about Harry’s growing mistrust of him, and thought it was
important to add to her collection of books she had stuffed into her beaded bag.

As she rounded the corner of the shelves quickly, she caught a glimpse of bright blond hair. The
sight of it made her stomach drop instantaneously. Before she realised, Hermione had begun to
follow it.

She peered around the corner of the history section slowly, and there he was.

Draco was standing with a book in his hands, flicking through its contents. Her heart sighed
peacefully.

He hadn’t died, hadn’t left her. He was all right, unharmed, visiting London.

Hermione came up beside him and touched his left arm. With a jolt, Draco jumped and ripped his
body away.
“Draco,” she breathed out.

Hermione stood there, her arm still raised in the air. She searched his face for that easy excitement
they always shared upon meeting each other. But when Draco looked at her, there was no
excitement at all. Over the past five years, he had never looked at her this way. Horror flashed
across his face, as though a dementor had crept up behind him.

Was it what she wore? Hermione looked down at her robes. Though purchased last season, they
still were still clean, and in relatively good shape.

Looking back at him, his long fingers twitched across the cover of the book in his hands; Eternal &
Inescapable Poisons.

“Draco?” A woman’s voice called out, sounding very close. “Where are you?”

Draco stiffened, looking out wildly behind Hermione’s shoulder. Suddenly, his expression
morphed into a face of utter boredom and indifference, as if it were a mask he was able to take on
and off.

“Oh,” the woman’s voice said again. Hermione realized it was coming from behind her, and she
turned.

The woman was of moderate stature, but stood with the straightest posture she’d ever seen. She
wore green robes, with her blonde and black hair done with impeccable care and order above her
head, and a small fashionable hat in place. Hermione might've thought that she had just finished
posing for an advertisement at the tailor’s, if it wasn’t for her pinched look of disgust as she
surveyed Hermione with interest. “Draco,” she said mildly. “Are you talking to the help?”

Hermione’s brow creased, but Draco replied, “I wasn’t talking to her at all, Mother.”

From behind the woman, another figure stepped into view. He had white-blond hair, just as Draco
did, and an expression of stone-cold indifference that nearly made Hermione flinch under its gaze.

Hermione was looking at Draco’s parents.

Just as he had when she had first met him, his parents presented outwardly with great wealth. The
man carried around a sharp looking cane in one hand, and an air of great importance. “Of course he
wasn’t talking to her, dear,” the man said, placing a hand on the woman’s waist. “Miss Granger,
isn’t it? I’ve read about you in the Daily Prophet.”

Without a word, Hermione forcefully nodded.

“The muggle-born?” Draco's mother turned to her husband. The term sounded heavy on her tongue,
as though she was trying it out for size.

“The very same.”

The startling contrast from how Draco looked at her in the years past made her chest tighten,
squeezing her heart without mercy.

The man before her was a stranger.

“Oh,” Draco replied, his tone thick with disinterest. “Perhaps that explains the smell you
mentioned earlier, Mother.”
All the air in her lungs was siphoned out at once. She was like a mouse stuck in a serpent's nest.
Draco to her left and his parents to the right, all staring at her with great disgust. For a moment, she
stood frozen.

“Hermione?” Finally, someone called out for her. “Hermione, dear, where are you?”

Loud steps led to where she stood trapped in the aisle. Mr. Weasley poked his head behind Draco’s
shoulders. “Hermione there you—” He froze, sensing the predicament she was in. “Your grace.”
He greeted shortly, bowing his head with deference.

“Ah, Mr. Weasley. And to think, I was just noting how they were allowing anyone into these stores
these days.” The man's eyes landed on Hermione once again, and his mouth morphed into a thin
smile. “Though I’m sure not for long.”

Knowing a threat when she heard one, Hermione’s fingers twitched for her wand.

“Hermione, come along now,” Mr. Weasley called out, his voice on the cusp of panic. Hermione
swept past Draco, eager to remove herself from the situation, but not before she tripped on some
raised surface. Hermione fell to the ground with a thud. She looked behind her to see what it
might've been, only to watch Draco drag his dragonhide shoes against the rug, as if rubbing off dirt
from the street.

He had tripped her.

“I’ve never met a mudblood before, Father,” said Draco. Hermione gaped up at him, her hands
burning from where they had swept the rug as she fell, her face hot with humiliation. He did not
even blink, his gaze sweeping over her as though she were as dirty as a young chimney sweep. His
mouth curled into a mocking smile that twisted her insides. “Poor thing.”

His father gave a booming laugh as Hermione shakily rose to her feet, abandoning her book
entirely to join Mr. Weasley. They quickly left the bookstore without a backwards glance, her
heartbeat ringing in her ears. She reached for Mr. Weasley’s arm, feeling confunded. Was she
stuck in a nightmare? What had happened?

“Hermione, my girl,” Mr. Weasley said, breathless with quiet rage, looking back at the bookshop
they’d fled their altercation. “Have you gone mad, talking to those people?”

Hermione stared up at him blankly, gaping up at him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley, I don't understand—”

“That man, Lucius, is the Duke of Wiltshire, and that is his son, Draco Malfoy.”

“I wasn’t aware,” Hermione gasped, clutching the skirt of her robes in one hand until her knuckles
grew white. Her other clinched itself into a fist so tightly, her fingernail dug into her skin with
sharp pain. “I didn’t—I wasn’t aware.”

“They’re the most ardent of blood purists that there are, save for the Black family,” Mr. Weasley
explained under his breath, looking around for anyone who might be eavesdropping on their
conversation. “The Duchess, Narcissa, is the granddaughter to Pollux Black. You know how Sirius
refers to them.”

She was aware. The Blacks, Sirius had explained to her, are notorious for their blood purity.
Toujours Pur, he had explained. Purity above all else.
Sirius. Regulus. Bellatrix and Andromeda and Narcissa, and Draco—

Her hand flew to cover her mouth, stifling a sob. How ignorant she had been. She allowed herself
to remain in the dark, trusting herself to believe that there was nothing wrong with a boy who was
sent off to Durmstrang to learn Dark Magic, all because he brought his books to her and showed
her how to ride a broomstick. Mr. Weasley looked down at her with great pity.

She hated it.

“I must’ve mistaken him for someone else I had known, after the Triwizard tournament,”
Hermione struggled to come up with an explanation. But, to Hermione, there was no mistaking
him. She doesn’t mistake anything, not books, not spells, and certainly not people. There was no
way to confuse his hair, or his grey eyes, or his voice, or how his hands looked curled around a
book. There was no world where she could forget him.

“During the First War, Lucius escaped imprisonment after the Dark Lord’s defeat by claiming he
was under an imperius curse,” Mr. Weasley explained, steering Hermione away from the bookshop
with a light touch on her arm. “I never believed it. I believe he worked for the Dark Lord very
willingly, as his sister-in-law, Bellatrix Lestrange had.”

“They recognized me,” Hermione muttered, her eyes staring at the cobblestones of Diagon Alley.
“From the Daily Prophet. They—they know who I am.”

She realized it at the same moment Mr. Weasley did. She had told Draco, ages ago, where she
lived when she wasn’t lodging on holiday in Wiltshire. And now, he knew that her parents were
muggles, that she was muggle-born. Mr. Weasley looked at her in horror.

“It’ll be alright, my dear.” He quickly consoled, masking his concern with that of optimism.
“Nothing will happen to you or your family. You have the Order by your side.”

Ron emerged from the Quidditch shop, carrying a new set of keeper’s gloves. At the sight of his
father and Hermione, clearly distraught, he rushed to their side. “Is everything alright?”

Mr. Weasley grimaced. “Hermione has just met the Malfoys for the first time.”

Ron turned to her in horror. Ron, for all his fumbling and inability to write a paper on his own,
always knew about her parents, and never once held it against her. The Weasleys, in all their own
purebloodedness, never once thought of her being any less. In fact, Mr. Weasley was always
writing to her father about the progression of muggle technology in London; the most recent
months were devoted to how muggle trains were able to operate without magic.

“I’m all right,” she said, hoping her voice sounded convincing. "I'm absolutely fine."

Suddenly, Ron was hugging her. Hermione froze before throwing her arms around him in return.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he muttered into her hair.

She clutched her friend a bit tighter.

When Hermione returned home, the adrenaline of her bookstore experience faded, leaving her
heart bruised and broken, like a vase that had shattered onto the floor. Praying that her mother was
still out to tea with her friends, Hermione could not help but let out a shuddering sob once she
walked through the doorway.

She could not stop it. Once a single tear had slipped from her eye, running down her heated face,
she let out another cry, her breath shaking. Her entire body trembled, and she went to grasp the
staircase railing for support.

She hadn’t cried this much when Ron stood her up for Lavender during a weekend visit to
Hogsmeade, or when Viktor returned to Bulgaria. She hadn’t cried this much in her entire life.

Hermione wasn’t a fool. She had been called that word before, and she had rolled it off her
shoulders. She was a Gryffindor, and words should not hurt her.

But to be called a slur by someone she spent the entire year, years in fact, looking forward to
seeing, hurt her more than Dolohov's curse to the chest. To be called a mudblood by someone she
shared her dreams, and her wishes, someone she had laughed with, and worried over; she could
hardly stomach the betrayal.

“My lady, what has happened?” Mr. Crookshanks cried, seeing the state she was in. Hermione
could scarcely breathe under her sobbing. “Has someone laid a hand on you?” He demanded,
professionalism be damned. His Irish accent was growing more and more apparent. “Did someone
attack you at the Alley?”

Hermione shook her head, her vision swimming with tears that were constantly falling.

“I saw him,” she tried to explain. While she never explicitly said who, Mr. Crookshanks had
always known she was visiting a friend whenever she left for a stroll out into the woods in
Wiltshire.

“Who?” Mr. Crookshanks demanded. If he was a less proper butler, he would’ve shaken her for an
answer by now.

“Him! I saw him, and he called me a—” Her voice shook, and she reached up to brush at her face
that was matted with fallen tears. “He called me a—”

Hermione couldn’t finish the sentence. To speak required too much of her breath, and she couldn’t
breathe. Her hair was beginning to stick to her face. She made another horrible choking sound.

“Sit down, my lady,” Mr. Crookshanks said instead, his hand hovering over her shoulder in an
attempt to steer her towards the sitting room. “Your parents will be back any minute now. You will
give them a scare in this state.”

Her parents. Her perfectly normal, muggle parents.

The Malfoys knew about them. Knew where they lived.

“I’ve seen you in the Daily Prophet.”

Hermione let out another sob, before falling into a chair. She could hear the words over, and over
again, repeating in her mind.

“I’ve never met a mudblood before, Father.”

Desperately working to catch her breath, Hermione knew she had to wrestle her heart back. To own
it, and hide it away under lock and key. She would never admit how the words landed like barbed
arrows into her chest. Admitting so would be admitting the hold he had over her heart in the first
place.

The next morning, Hermione glamoured the dark circles under her puffy eyes before splashing
water onto her face in the washroom. Next to her seat at the dining room table was the Daily
Prophet, folded up neatly as always for her. The title of the day’s front page added salt to a very
fresh wound.

Muggleborn Family Murdered in Chelsea– Parents and Three Children Found Dead.

The paper in Hermione’s hand crinkled as she gripped it tightly.

Hermione did not utter a word when she found Mr. Crookshanks standing guard at the threshold
with a gun in hand later that night.

Following their routine morning tea as a family, Hermione raised her wand and vanished her
parents’ memories, filling their minds with a newly fabricated life in Australia.

Hermione pushed the portkey wrapped in cloth she had purchased the day before into Mr.
Crookshanks hands. She made a vow to herself that she would not cry— not again.

“My lady,” Mr. Crookshanks said with sorrow.

“Promise me,” Hermione said, clutching Mr. Crookshanks’ arm tightly and looking into his eyes.
“Promise me you will take care of them.”

“You have my word,” Mr. Crookshanks said. He summoned their luggage into the home entrance,
and her parents, entranced, clutched his forearm. He opened the cloth and touched the broken
teacup, and they disappeared from her sight.

After a moment of silence, Hermione apparated to the Burrow, and did not once look back.
 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

A/N: Canon timeline events have been extended slightly, including the war. Warning:
sadness

War was a hell that no one, especially not Hermione, could prepare for. There were books that
described the carnage of it, how it tore families and people apart, but Hermione quickly learned
that reading was different than seeing. More clinical, detached.

When she allowed herself to remember a simpler time, she could recall the look on Draco’s face
when he tried to describe Dark Magic. It did not make much sense to her at the time, but now, in
the midst of a war, it was clear to her. There are some things that had to be seen to know that they
were the most cursed thing.

The war dragged on for much longer than Hermione had hoped. The escalation of it was slow, then
all at once. Her face was the first to be featured on the Daily Prophet for ‘questioning.’ Followed
by Harry’s, for the sudden murder of Dumbledore at Professor Snape’s hands, again, for
‘questioning.’

Ron and Harry did most of the Horcrux hunting together. After a startling clash with the Lestrange
family that nearly resulted in Hermione’s capture, it seemed that Ron and Harry were motivated to
save Hermione from the destruction of the war as much as they could. But Hermione couldn’t fully
turn away from it, not hidden away inside the many rooms of the Order of the Phoenix, cooking up
potions and sorting out ingredients alongside Neville. She saw it in the eyes of her friends when
they returned home. She felt it in her heart when they did not return at all.

A war like this was unsustainable.

The day after Sirius Black fell in the Department of Mysteries, the magic of the house picked up all
their belongings and threw each of them out onto the streets of London outside the many wards.

After a moment of surprise, Hermione frantically disillusioned herself and threw as many supplies
that had been thrown out onto the street as she could into her beaded bag. When she saw the
familiar haze of Death Eaters arriving through the air, she vanished.

Those who remained apparated back to the Burrow. After a quick head count, Mr. Weasley turned
to Harry, his face pale and concerned.

“It seems that the magic of the house did not agree to allow Harry to inherit it,” Mr. Weasley
explained slowly. “It must have gone to someone else.”

“It would have to be someone with Black blood,” Bill reasoned, his teeth biting into his lip. “After
Sirius, who is left?”

Hermione immediately knew who, but she kept her mouth shut. Remus spoke as if he’d read her
mind.

“Sirius explained to me before that no women are able to inherit the Black fortune. Seeing as the
only remaining members of the Black family are women, it has to have gone to a Malfoy. Draco
Malfoy, to be exact.”

“We’re doomed,” Ron exhaled, dropping his head to his knees from where he sat. The war had
taken so much already, the devastating blow of losing Sirius and their headquarters in one fell
swoop only added to their collective misery.

The Weasleys began to expand the Burrow as much as magically possible, while Hermione stayed
with Fleur and Bill at Shell Cottage where she began to rebuild her Potion stores and wares. Fleur,
the most beautiful woman Hermione had ever seen, and a talented witch who earned her right to
join the Triwizard Tournament on just her talent alone, mystified her. She defied her mother’s will
in marrying Bill Weasley, a man with no title, or lands, and hardly a coin to his name in lieu of
having her own season.

“I see no point,” Fleur said one night, in her thick french accent, as the three of them gathered
around their dinners. Carrot soup, again. “If I were to ‘ave a season, I would ‘ave been courted by
one of those Death Eaters. A fate worse than death. Besides.” Fleur smiled at Bill, reaching to
brush his hair from his face. Bill’s face flushed, hiding his numerous freckles underneath his
reddening skin. “Bill is smart and kind, and he is brave. Those things matter more than money and
lands.”

Hermione pushed around her food in her bowl. She supposed that opinion was rather easy for Fleur
to come to, being a pureblood heiress in her own right, married to another pureblood. But for
Hermione, having come from a muggle family who was currently hiding in Australia, with none of
the looks and privileges afforded to someone like Fleur Delacour, that life after the war will not
look the way she had once thought it would be when she entered Wizarding society.

She took a sip of her Ogden’s, her recent drink of choice, deciding once again to hold her tongue.
There were many things in life that were not fair. Harry, who lost his parents, and godfather, and
was slowly losing his soul. Ron, who continued to throw his life into danger at an unsustainable
rate, alongside every member of his family. Then, there was Hermione, a muggle-born girl who
had dreamed of being something more than a wife, without persecution.

She wondered, not for the first time, what sort of people they could become after this.

The Order struggled through the next few months. The loss of Sirius Black, even with his unsavory
methods of dealing with Death Eaters, and Grimmauld Place had been similar to losing a limb.

Unless called upon, Hermione remained inside Shell Cottage, having set up her office. When the
stress of her life began to feel unbearable, she would step away from her potions and walk along
the water, the mist and wind fighting her hair loose from its confines. She had traded dresses and
skirted robes early on in the war for a practical set of trousers, which she would roll up to her knees
to walk into the sea. She would stay there until her heart released its tension, until her skin nearly
turned blue from the cold, and then returned to her work.

When the spare rooms at the Burrow became too full, they spilled over to Shell Cottage, where
Hermione oversaw most of their care. Dennis Creevey, a muggle-born boy who was only a few
years younger than herself, became a constant companion.

“Good morning, Dennis,” Hermione greeted him as she slipped next to his cot. “How are you
feeling today?”

For what felt like the thousandth time, Dennis did not answer her. She often found him rolled over
onto his side, his back facing her, curled in on himself. Rudolph Lestrange had stolen his brother’s
life while they were both held captive in the Lestrange manor.

They held their routine to practiced perfection. Hermione would check his vitals as his head was
pointedly turned away from her, his eyes staring off to a location seemingly hundreds of miles
away. From what she could ascertain from his diagnostics, she would then prowl her potions stores
for a solution. Most days, it would only be a gauze on what felt like a gaping wound.

Dennis suffered from tremors, leading him to frequently shout into the night. There was a limit to
how much Dreamless Sleep she could offer him in a month. If he went over the limit, there would
be a growing risk he would either become dependent on it to sleep or it would simply stop
working.

The hardest nights were the ones where she would find him thrashing and shouting, and the only
thing she could do was hold him as he wept for his older brother.

After a stroll to clear her mind, Hermione was walking back from the water when she saw a
familiar red-headed figure apparate next to her potions shack.

“Hermione!” Ron called out from over the cliffs. He ran to the edge of it. “Hermione, come
quickly!”

Hurrying to his side, Hermione lunged for him. Ron grasped her arm and apparated them to the
Burrow in an instant.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, following Ron as he swept through the halls of the expanded
Burrow to a secluded area that had been recently completed. From the looks of it, there were no
other Order members around.

“We need your help.”

She heard raised voices as they grew closer.

“There’s been an accident, something we weren’t prepared for—”

“What happened? Who is it?”

As they cleared the corner, her eyes fell on Harry and Remus, crowded around a door. A look of
relief passed on both their faces equally at the sight of her.

“Ron tells me you have a patient? Let me see them,” Hermione said, rolling up the sleeves of her
shirt to her elbows. The men shared a telling glance to one another, before Remus spoke for the
group.

“You cannot see him,” Remus spoke for the first time. Him, Hermione noted.

“You expect me to cure someone through a doorway? Let me pass!”

Whoever this person was behind the door, she could hear him screaming. Loudly and without
pause.

“Are you interrogating someone?” Hermione asked shrilly, in complete disbelief. The past few
months have been fraught with loss, and she could tell some members of the Order were willing to
pursue risker tactics. “Is he being tortured back there?”

“No! He’s still experiencing the effects of what— happened,” Harry tried to explain, seeming to
choose his words with great care. Attempting to interpret his meaning was a waste of time.
Hermione went to push past them, but all three men moved suddenly and held her back.

“No!” Harry shouted, he reached for both her arms to hold her away from the door. “He is certainly
dangerous like this. It’s as if he’s trapped in a horrible memory. You cannot go back there.”

“And you can?” Hermione demanded, furious that they would keep her from treating someone who
was clearly suffering. Through the doorway, the yelling had become open sobs of pleading.

“Please!”

She could make out the individual words if she concentrated.

“Please, not her, please—”

“He is a spy for the Order,” Remus explained. “We made an unbreakable vow with him to keep his
identity secret.”

“He won’t attack me, but he’s—” Harry turned back to the sound. The man was now caught
between desperate pleading and anguished screaming.

“You need to diagnose this here,” Ron interrupted, his voice raised to be heard over the yelling.
“We cannot risk you seeing him and somehow breaking the terms of the vow.”

Hermione stared at her friends in disbelief, but each one seemed to be completely serious.

“Please,” Harry begged. “You must trust us.”

The yelling had turned to wet and echoing weeping. Hermione’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“What are his symptoms?”

“Severe dehydration,” Harry said, relief drenching his voice. “We found Tom’s locket hidden
away, but there was a potion. We couldn’t siphon it out, or vanish it away,” Harry gulped.
“Someone had to drink it.”

Any measures that Lord Voldemort had taken to hide away a piece of his soul were sure to be
brutal to the people he meant to keep out. Whatever the potion was, there was no doubt in
Hermione’s mind that it would have monstrous effects on the intended victims.

“And he drank it? Just like that…?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Harry said. “I had to—force him, closer to the end.” His face had not regained any colour
since they had seen each other. It did not make Hermione hopeful for the spy on the other side of
the door. “The dehydration was meant to awaken the inferni that surrounded us in the water. When
we disturbed it, they attacked us. We only barely made it out, but he’s still stuck there. Wherever
that potion took him in his mind.”
“Severe dehydration, mental torture of some capacity, mysterious potion you forced down his
throat, anything else?” Hermione asked through gritted teeth.

Harry looked thoughtful for a moment. “No, that’s the sum of it, really.”

What a lovely amount of nothing to go off of. Hermione paced the small room for a moment,
mentally rifling through her collection of potions she already had on hand, muttering to herself.

There was one potion she had held in stasis until she had the required amount of dittany, which she
had used the remainder of Neville’s supply to heal Lavender following a gruesome Greyback
attack. She was still under stasis in the burrow being watched by Tonks and Remus, and Ron was
apparently a constant bedside companion to her.

Leaving Shell Cottage or the Burrow to forage for some would require her to apparate into some
forest nearby. She had tried her best to avoid the trip in recent months, having heard rumours of
spreading Dark creatures in areas she knew the herb to be wildly grown in.

“How important is he, really? In order for us to win.” Hermione asked, calculating odds and risk—
How much she was willing to risk for a man they would not allow her to see.

“He is our last remaining hope at ending this war.” Remus answered her, in a tone of finality.

Hermione blinked. “I have an idea. I need only an hour to gather my materials. If I don’t come back
within the hour,” Hermione trailed off, biting her lip. “Use your deluminator to find me.”

Ron’s face hardened. “I will come with you.”

She was already flying out the door and onto the yard. The last time they had apparated to one of
her foraging locations, Ron had unfortunately splinched. Hermione had no time to spare.

“One hour!” she called out. The sun had set for the night, and Hermione turned on the spot before
landing in the Forest of Dean.

It was colder than Hermione could have imagined.

After a quick warming charm that would surely need repeating after only a few minutes, and a
disillusionment charm, she set forth into the forest. The dittany could be found around distinct
collections of lavender growth along the crush of the forest floor. Sirius used to accompany her,
transfiguring into a dog and sniffing out the plants for her in odd locations, as to conserve the wild
growth from overpicking. Oftentimes they’d know it was dittany by counting the amount of times
Sirius would sneeze.

“Smells like oregano,” Sirius would tease as he sneezed throughout the night. Hermione and Harry
would laugh, and they would all enjoy the fruits of their foraging together.

Nowadays, forging was a solitary task. A rather dangerous one at that.

There was once a time in her life when she had visited the forest with her parents. It had become
such a distant memory that Hermione hardly thought it worth recollection.

Quickly sweeping between trees, her eyes scanned the floor for any indication of lavender growth.
She learned early on that a retrieval charm would not work for magical plants, which had to be cut
in a specific manner in order to preserve them for future forging.

There they were. She could see them only a few yards away. The chill had come back, and when
she could see her own breath before her, she hesitated.

There hadn’t been a frost yet that season.

It wasn’t just cold. It was a bone-seeping chill, one that sent her teeth chattering together. Her
limbs grew tight and frozen. Looking around wildly, with eyes that had adjusted to the darkness,
she saw them.

Dementors.

Though she was completely disillusioned, dementors were blind. They never needed to see where
she was, they could sense her presence even if she was hidden underneath Harry’s invisibility
cloak. They moved as though they had been starved of human life force, eager to siphon away at
her own. Fear made her frozen as stone, moreso than the cold did. Why hadn’t she insisted on one
of the others coming along with her? Given the stress of the situation, she hadn’t been thinking
clearly.

Hermione was tired— so very tired, and the call to sleep and rest beckoned to her like a familiar
friend. But she was certain that she did not want to fall asleep. Why wouldn’t she just fall asleep?

There was something she needed to do, to get.

I will wake you if you fall asleep again.

The memory gripped her and brought her up from drowning.

The world felt so cold, but there was a time where it did not feel that way. The war had dragged on
for so long that she had nearly forgotten it.

The memory of a touch she wasn’t sure she had, in reality, received at all. Receiving the undivided
attention of a boy; a boy that knew she loved books more than anything in the world. A boy that
read to her, someone she felt vulnerable enough to fall asleep next to. The warmth of the summer
sun, beating down on her, with the breeze from the creek nearby hoping to alleviate the heat. A
boy that she—

Hermione grasped onto the thought like a woman drowning. Wrenching her eyes open, she could
see the haze of dementors swarming around her. The slash of her wand was definite.

“Expecto Patronum!” she shouted. Her voice did not waver or bend. Out of the tip of her wand, a
wave of light grew, and grew, until the shape of an otter sprung and swam through the trees. Dark
figures shattered as the otter touched them, and soon the moonlight became brighter as the
dementors were driven from the air. The otter dissipated into the air.

Hermione took a ragged gasp of relief and fought to keep herself from fainting. Thankfully she had
shirked the tight and compressing bodices of dresses her mother insisted on dressing her in very
early on in the war.

There was no time left to spare. After a few more slices and springs in her bag, Hermione
channeled all her thoughts to the beach. To her small potions shack built against the cottage. Back
to Shell Cottage.
When she apparated she did not land steadily, instead falling several feet in the air, crashing into
wet sand and expelling all the air from her lungs. Hermione struggled to open her eyes, but once
she managed it, she could make out a figure close-by the water.

“Dennis,” Hermione gasped. Without a moment’s hesitation, he sprinted to her side. She clutched
onto him as the water crashed against her skirt. She was so cold that the normally frigid water felt
warm. Yet her hands were stiff, fingers turning white and red against his arm, the beginnings of
frostbite.

“By the Gods, you’re practically blue,” Dennis breathed. If she hadn’t been so overcome with
staying awake, she would have revelled in his first words to her, his first real words since his
escape. “We have to bring you inside.”

“P-potions,” Hermione stuttered. Dennis threw her arm over his shoulder and dragged them both to
her shack. She fell into a chair before mustering what little strength she had to summon a potion.
“Accio Strengthening Potion.”

A green vial flew into her open hands. After choking down the liquid, she struggled to catch her
breath as Dennis stood frozen by the doorway. It was the most she had seen him do since he
arrived to Shell Cottage weeks ago. She still needed him.

“I need you to crush this dittany into a fine powder. Afterwards, mix it into the honey water.”

She lifted the potion from the stasis she had placed it in weeks ago. Together, they worked to bring
the potion to its nearly final state.

“It needs to simmer for half an hour, until it turns turquoise.“ Her eyelids grew heavy. The chair in
the corner was often where she would nap between brews called to her. “Please wake me in half an
hour, Dennis, please—”

“Sleep.”

“You will force these down his throat by any means necessary.” Hermione pushed two vials into
Harry’s hands. “Do what you can to keep his throat from spasming. First, give him the turquoise
blue one. It is Draught of Peace. Wait an entire minute, then give him the purple Restoration
Potion. If his symptoms do not clear, use the clear vial, a Grand Wiggenweld Potion. You must not
spill a single drop. Do you understand?”

Harry gave a single nod to Ron, and they both walked into the room. Remus and Hermione stayed
behind as they shut the door behind them.

While Hermione listened to the noise behind the door, Remus was studying her with seemingly
great interest. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the remnants of a chocolate frog,
offering her a piece after breaking it off.

Though she had managed a corporeal Patronus against all odds, relief flooded her when the
chocolate began to melt on her tongue.

“How many were there?” Remus asked quietly. She felt no need to ask him how he knew. He was,
after all, their former Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.
Hermione swallowed, a film of cheap chocolate coating the inside of her mouth. “I couldn’t tell. A
few dozen? Maybe a hundred?”

Hermione slumped in the rickety chair tossed in the corner of the room as Remus continued to stare
at her. She raised a brow at him.

“What is it?”

Remus shrugged, looking back towards the door. The cries and yelling had faded into silence. “It
must have been a very happy memory, is all.”

Hermione, overcome with fatigue and crashing from the adrenaline, finally closed her eyes. She
was safe here.

“It was.”
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Arranging her first portkey in the newly reorganised Ministry of Magic made Hermione burn with
excitement. It took considerable effort not to run through the Ministry corridors, but she knew that
anyone watching Hermione Granger of all people running would incite a mass panic. Though she
was not entirely sure where her parents had settled in Australia, she had hoped she would figure it
out rather quickly after arrival. The next day, a single chipped, spare button transported her to
Sydney, where she began her search.

At a local post, Hermione’s hand idled over the letter. She wondered for half a moment if she knew
what Mr. Crookshanks’ first name was. Deciding that it did not matter, and praying for magic to be
on her side, she paid the postmaster a sickle and sent the owl flying off from the station.

A few days after receiving an excited reply from a Mr. Norris, Hermione arrived promptly at her
parents’ new home in a quiet section of the city. She stared at the door for what felt like ages
before reaching up to knock. Before her hand could touch the wood, the door swung open to an
aging ginger butler, whose moustache had grown more grey than the flaming red her memory
could recall.

“Welcome back, my lady,” Mr. Crookshanks greeted her with profound heaviness in his voice.
After a stunning few moments, Hermione threw her arms around his neck in a hug.

“It is good to see you, Crookshanks,” Hermione whispered. He hugged her back tightly. “I can
never repay you for watching over them.”

“I read the Daily Prophet every day, my lady. I thought of you every day and hoped for your
safety.”

“Thank you.” After they parted, Hermione glanced quickly over his shoulders. “Do they happen to
be home? As you can imagine, I am eager to bring back their memories.”

Mr. Crookshanks seemed to hesitate for a moment, which concerned her, as Mr. Crookshanks was
not a hesitating sort of man. “Perhaps I should bring your father here? So that you may fix his
memory first?”

The cautionary tone in his voice caused a balloon of dread she was so very familiar with from the
war to expand behind her ribs. “All right. If you believe that is best. What of my mother?”

“She is here,” Mr. Crookshanks clarified quickly, before amending, “but, I believe you must first
speak with your father.”

For the first time in her life, after fixing his memories, Hermione watched as her father cried and
embraced her tightly.
Then, she watched him cry again as he described her mother's condition.

She cried too.

Walking into her mother’s room was a daze. Hermione sat beside the bed as her mother slept in the
middle of the day. The hollows of her cheeks had grown deeper. Her hair, once perfectly refined
and shiny, looked to be breaking apart. Though she wished more than anything to hold her hands,
to touch them and to hug her, she looked so very fragile. As though a tight hug could break her into
a million pieces.

Hermione lightly tapped her wand to her sleeping mother’s temple. Later on, when her mother
woke, she smiled up at her.

“Oh, Hermione,” her mother whispered. Despite her voice sounding hoarse, it sounded the same
way it always did, even though it didn’t really. Not at all. “How I’ve missed you.”

After what felt like an eternity, Hermione came back from her year of mourning like frantically
swimming to the surface for air. When she returned to London with her father and Mr.
Crookshanks in tow, well over a year had passed since her first arrival in Australia. It seemed as
though the wizarding world had moved on from the war much faster than she expected. It was a
relief to witness a huge revival after the war, even if Hermione had missed her chance to
participate.

They were able to secure their old home, as Hermione had carefully warded it against muggles and
wizarding folks alike. Moving back in was made relatively easy with Hermione’s magic. Returning
the furniture back to the way it once was, the framed photographs, the bookshelves. A quick spell
for sweeping up the dust that had accumulated after two years. Hermione worked on the house for
an entire day to bring it back to the way she had left it, yet there was no mistaking that there was
something blatantly missing from the home. Her mothers' laughter, or how she called for Hermione
from the top floor. The home was meant to have her soul in it, but she had passed on.

Hermione allowed herself another wallow in the sitting room before going off the next day to the
Burrow to see her friends. Though delayed, she still received correspondence with updates on the
post-war effort taking place in her absence. The Queen herself had been brought up to speed on the
details of the war by the new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and was given a list of
those who had displayed considerable effort and bravery in their fight against Lord Voldemort. It
led to a shake-up of the peerage in wizarding Britain, shocking the deeply rooted pureblood
community, much to Hermione’s pleasure.

Hermione found herself in possession of fame, a wizarding fortune, and an honorary Order of
Merlin for her unwavering support for the cause, the same as Harry and Ron. Though she could not
own land, she received an honorary title from the Queen herself. It was nothing that Hermione
could have dreamed of because she had expected nothing in return for her work. She only wished
to live a fulfilling life with her freedom after the war.
Arriving at the Burrow felt surreal. What she had expected was the Burrow as she had known it:
cautiously assembled rooms and corridors that were haphazardly thrown together. What she arrived
at was a grand manor in construction, materials flying overhead, and several wizards discussing
over large blueprinted drawings. It seemed that with their award money, the Weasleys had decided
to formally renovate their home. She thought idly of the misplaced garden gnomes of her youth.

“Hermione!”

She turned to see Molly Weasley across the yard, joy was written across her face. The embrace she
gave her was one of a mother, one she had not felt in close to a year.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” Molly said, clutching Hermione close. Hermione joyously allowed it. “I am
so very sorry for your loss. Your mother was a great woman.”

They parted only for Molly to fret over how she crinkled Hermione’s blouse.

“Thank you, Molly. She was a great woman, I know she would’ve loved to have seen you again.”
Hermione turned back to the active construction. “What is going on here?”

“The Queen decided to redistribute lands. Us Weasleys, as well as the former Prewetts, received
the land and title owned by the Lestranges,” Molly answered her with great pride, puffing her chest
a bit. “With the money given to the family, along with the Lestrange fortune, we decided to build a
new home. Arthur is now an Earl! Bill will be named heir. The boys seem to be all right with it,
what with the twins and their shop in Diagon alley, Charlie still working abroad, and Percy
working at the Ministry. Ron was hoping to take Shell Cottage after Bill takes over Arthur’s
duties.”

Hermione smiled. “I believe Lavender would love being so close to the sea.”

“I hope so too.” Molly squeezed her hand. Hermione allowed Molly to lead her back to the old
house.

Guided into the house, Hermione’s heart gave a contented sigh of relief. She was awash with the
familiar noise of a kettle whistling, food sizzling on a pan over the hub, and needles knitting in a
corner by the fire crackling in the hearth. The creaking of the floorboard above her head was the
telltale sign of the company staying on the upper floors.

“Please do not demolish this house, Molly. I don’t think my heart could take it.”

“Nonsense. I think I’ll be over here cooking, even with a brand-new kitchen. Now come, I’m sure
Arthur would love to see you.”

Following Molly into the spare room on the first floor, seemingly converted into Arthur’s new
office, Hermione gave him her best curtsy. “Good morning, my Lord.”

Arthur gave an unbelievable scoff of laughter, quickly rising from his chair, and removing his
spectacles. “Oh, Hermione, enough of that nonsense! You will call me Arthur, and nothing more.”

“I cannot think of a family more deserving.” Hermione offered a glowing smile.

“And how is your father fairing? Do know that I am so very sorry for your loss.”

“Yes, Molly told me the same. He is doing as well as you can imagine, we’ve moved back to our
old London home. I’m sure it would delight him greatly to see you again.”
“I shall make a visit this week. We have many muggle advancements to discuss, I am not sure how
many he heard of living in Australia. Have you heard of this new concept of Norse Code? Tele-
tams? The muggles figuring out how to communicate faster than we can! Absolutely brilliant
stuff.”

The conversation on muggle technological advancements over the years, some years ago but
seemingly new to Arthur, brought her a deep sense of nostalgia. Hermione operated differently
here than in her muggle life, and it felt like a breath of fresh air to be treated so normally.

Tea and various snacks she had greatly missed were served quickly after her arrival, as the Weasley
family updated her on the comings and goings of the new wizarding society.

“I always told Aunt Muriel it would all work out having married into the Weasley family,” said
Molly, filling Hermione’s plate with treats. “To be married to a good man is far better than any title
he might possess. Such a shame you’ve returned in the middle of the social season. Since Ginny
has bypassed the formality entirely— though, of course, we love Harry— there are many
handsome, eligible men that have asked of you recently!”

It seemed as though every one of her classmates and friends had rushed to marry in the year she
spent in Australia, desperately piecing together what remained of her parents, particularly her poor
mother. In the years of the war, she hadn’t found anyone she would consider giving her hand to.
There was not a single person she had promised to return to, though she was in no rush to marry. In
the next few months, Harry and Ginny were planning to marry on the Burrow lawn.

“Hence the rush to complete construction,” Molly explained.

It was the reason she had hurried back to London when she received the invitation. Though she had
missed Luna’s wedding to Theodore Nott, Duke of Manchester, she would not be missing the
wedding of two of her closest friends. The second most pressing reason Hermione would deal with
the next morning when the Ministry opened.

The small corridor dedicated to the enrollment of post-Hogwarts graduate affairs was hardly the
place to have a breakdown, but Hermione found herself at the cusp of one as she stared down at the
credentials she had brought with her. Her certificate of graduation from Hogwarts, awarded to her
by the new Headmaster though she did not attend her seventh year. The Order of Merlin was
awarded to her by Minister Shacklebolt, along with her personal letter from the Queen herself
thanking her for her service to the nation. She had saved the last two in an unbreakable glass box.

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Hermione repeated politely.

The woman sitting behind the glass window, an employee of the Department of Magical
Education, increasingly reminded Hermione of a toad the longer she spoke with her. Her beady
black eyes did not seem to blink as she stared back. “I do apologise, but without the proper
accreditations, I simply cannot allow anyone to sign up for a Potions Mastery.”

Hermione glanced down at her papers once again.

“Which accreditation exactly am I missing?”

“Oh, you see dear.” The woman gave a small childlike giggle that made Hermione’s stomach turn
with disgust. “Normally, a witch is accompanied by her husband or father, and they present their
wands during enrollment. Your enrollment is, of course, tied to your family name.”

“I apologise.” Hermione leaned closer to the window. The woman slowly leaned back in her chair
at the same time. “I did not catch your name, ma’am?”

“It is Dolores Umbridge, I am the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and High Inquisitor for
Education.”

“Well, Ms. Umbridge. I do not have a husband, nor a father that could offer his wand in place of
mine. Surely there is an alternate, equivalent procedure for those who cannot meet these
requirements, especially after the conclusion of the war? Perhaps I could have Lord Weasley sign
in place of my father?”

The brief flicker behind Umbridge’s eyes was what gave her away. It was thinly veiled disgust.
Hermione blinked, and it was gone, replaced with the stony wall of unmovable bureaucracy.

“There is a procedure for a reason, Miss Granger.” Umbridge turned away from her for a moment,
before pulling out what looked to be a thick-looking booklet. Umbridge tapped her wand against it
and Hermione watched it duplicate before it was practically thrown in her direction to catch.
“Rules are put in place for the safety of others who wish to avoid enrollment with those who
might… cause harm. Now, I do have to insist you move aside. There are other qualified individuals
that need to be registered for classes, I’m sure you understand.”

Hermione turned her head. Directly behind was a wizard she did not recognize, waiting and shifting
with impatience. Close behind him was a growing line of people staring her down with both great
interest and distaste for being held up. The distinct burn of humiliation prickled the corners of her
eyes.

“I thank you for your time, Ms. Umbridge.” Hermione chose her words carefully, when in fact, she
burned the name into her mind. Dolores Umbridge. Dolores Umbridge. Dolores Umbridge.

“Do have a good day, Miss Granger.” Umbridge called out to her back as Hermione rushed to
escape the stares that followed her off the Department floor.

After taking the lift back to Diagon Alley, Hermione hid away in a secluded alley, a few feet from
falling down Knockturn. After a long moment of belligerent frustration, she kicked angrily at the
wall and cursed loudly. Her foot pulsed with pain, but Hermione kicked at the wall again for good
measure and let out the most unladylike scream of frustration.

A few deep breaths later, Hermione leaned her forehead against the cool stone.

Remnants of an old, prejudiced system remained. While the wizarding world was eager to move
on, little seedlings of previous prejudice and regimes were nestling in the remaining departments.

Though she had excelled in potions at Hogwarts, her understanding went far beyond the normal
education of most wizards and witches. Yet there were potions she would never hope to understand
on her own. The potions that Professor Snape designed to halt the Headmaster's curse. The
horrifically cruel restorative potion Lord Voldemort used to return to the world.

There was so much left for her to learn. She decided once and for all that a toad disguised as a
Ministry worker would not be the reason she lost this opportunity.
In the days following her visit to the Ministry, Hermione poured over the collection of rules and
regulations for Ministry-run programs that Umbridge had so kindly provided her after she had been
denied entry into the Potions Mastery.

Hermione aggressively marked each egregious and prejudiced set of rules with her quill until it
snapped, and she let out a groan of frustration, a habit that was growing more common for her. She
had half a mind to storm into Kingsley’s office and tear down his door, but she knew about the
growing strains that his office dealt with every day. The hunt for the remaining Death Eaters that
had fled across Europe; the long-ingrained infrastructure of a pureblood society. The matter at the
Department of Magical Education was only a symptom of a much larger problem. Though, this did
not spare her friends the ire she had for the Ministry employee.

“Look at this,” Hermione hissed, storming into their regularly scheduled tea time together. Today,
she had seventeen new proposed revisions to the handbook to share with them. She pretended she
did not see how they all flinched at the sight of her booklet. “That witch has something against
muggle-borns, I swear it.”

“Most definitely,” said Harry.

“She said that I must bring my husband or father to consent to my education with their wand! Not
every witch has a magical husband, or wizard for a father!” Hermione turned the pages of the
booklet to her newest discoveries. “The gall of it! I cannot even own lands, or purchase certain
potions on Diagon Alley as a muggle-born!”

“Horrible,” agreed Ron.

“And as if I need anyone’s permission for an education in this society!”

“Absolutely not,” remarked Ginny.

The conversation had grown stagnant before Ron and Harry excused themselves to go for a
broomride outside. Good weather and all that, they said. While Ginny finished her cup of tea,
Hermione’s had already gone cold, her anger stirring up her magic, creating a spinning whirlpool
within her tea. As the teacup rattled, Ginny gave a deep sigh.

“I am sure Ron would marry you, Hermione.” Ginny grasped her arm in consolation. “If you need
to sign up that urgently.”

“Absolutely not,” Hermione replied firmly.

Following a near-death experience for the both of them, they once fell into such a brief romantic
embrace that the physical contact brought her back to reality swiftly. It was no secret that Ron and
Lavender had romantic feelings for one another, no matter what Ron would say about Lavender’s
creative terms of endearment for him. There was not a single person who was more of a fan of him
than Lavender Brown. After her run-in with Fenrir Greyback, Lavender remained in stasis for close
to a month while Remus and Bill tried to understand the impact the full moon would have on her
going forward. Ron, understandably, had been a mess.

“I will not be the reason to tear him and Lavender apart,” she said finally. “They do deserve
happiness.”

“But what of your happiness, Hermione? Do you ever wish to marry?” Ginny asked her.
Did she ever wish to marry? Of course she did. Though she was a practical witch, she was still a
woman who dreamed of being loved alongside all her flaws and strange interests. She knew this to
be true, even after the devastation of war. She knew it as she watched her father stay at her mother's
bedside through sickness. When she witnessed firsthand how Fleur loved Bill throughout the war,
a beautiful woman and a man with no substantial land or power. How Mr. and Mrs. Weasley loved
each other through two wars, and Tonks and Remus’ hope for the future in Teddy.

“Yes, I do. A love match is all I’ve ever hoped for.”

“Oh, but then the solution to all your problems is so simple, my dear Hermione,” The mischievous
glint in Ginny’s eye did not ease her worries in the slightest.

“It is?” asked Hermione doubtfully.

“You’d be a fine catch for any man of importance. You’re an educated woman, your name is
renowned across Europe and the Americas. I don’t doubt you’ve made a mark after your year in
Australia as well. You’re on a Chocolate Frog card, for Merlin’s sake.” Ginny stirred her drink
conspiratorially. “It is also incredibly helpful that you are very pretty.”

Hermione shook the memory of the words from her mind. “What is your point exactly?”

“You need a husband, don’t you? I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be nice to have both your
Potions Mastery situation dealt with, and be able to come home to a dashing, and hopefully rich
man.”

“You’re suggesting I marry,” Hermione said slowly, pointedly ignoring the part about handsome
men. “So that I might pursue my Mastery?”

“I’m suggesting we capitalise on your popularity to find your husband sooner, rather than later
before all the good men have been swooped up!”

“We did attend school with most of these men, Ginny. There will be hardly any need for
introductions.”

“Yes, of course, we did, but not all! Harry has met a wide range of wizards throughout the war, and
those we may have been previously acquainted with we haven’t seen in many years. Oliver Wood,
for example. Lee Jordan? I haven’t heard of Viktor Krum in ages. We’ll have Harry host a ball, and
get all the men together. Your arrival into society will surely make the front page of The Society
Snitch Sheet.”

“Sorry? The Society what?”

“You haven’t heard of them?” When Hermione shook her head, Ginny gaped at her. “The Society
Snitch came out with these papers following the resurgence of good society after the war. It’s the
latest gossip on all the happenings of society, information that no one should know about, yet the
Snitch always knows somehow. Some people believe it’s Rita Skeeter, but Rita already has her
column where she says the most outrageous lies, why would she need an anonymous forum to do
so? Besides, some of it is so scandalous, that Rita would’ve posted it in the Daily Prophet for sure
if she knew. No one knows who it is, but the community hangs onto their every word. If you came
out into society at this ball, everyone would hear about it, and come running for your hand.”

Hermione bit her lip. Ginny took in her quiet contemplation with sudden seriousness.

“You could always wait for Harry and Bill to be confirmed into the Wizengamont. It might not
make the top of the list of actions needed to be made within this year, but I’m sure with the notes
 you’ve made, they will take swift action against it.”

That was the issue, wasn’t it? Her only options were to hope that the Wizengamont address the
loophole, which would not happen in time for the registration of this coming class of Potions
Masters, and she had heavy doubts about the next, marrying a wizard quickly, or abandoning the
prospects of the program entirely.

Two years. The program only admitted students every two years, and she had already wasted so
many with the war and her mourning.

Wanting a Potions Mastery did not mean she did not want the happiness of a loving marriage as
well. If anything, she wanted them both. More than she wanted an Order of Merlin, or a fortune, or
her face on a Chocolate Frog card. Hermione thought she had earned them both.

“All right.” Hermione decided. “I suppose we have nothing to lose by trying. I certainly won’t find
my perfect match sitting at home studying rule books and learning how to secretly curse Ministry
workers.”

Ginny clapped her hands together. “Brilliant! Oh, Mum will be so very pleased to sponsor you.
How many weeks do we have to pull this off?”

Stirring her tea absentmindedly, Hermione replied, “Only a few weeks. The program begins
September first.”

Ginny turned her body to the adjacent wing and called out to her fiancé. “Harry! Harry!”

After some crashing and scrambling, a few curses later, Harry entered the room again. “What is
this all about?”

“Harry, you’re going to be throwing a ball.”

“I’m throwing…” Harry slowly repeated, watching his fiancee with confusion. “I’m throwing a
ball?”

“Yes, yes! Keep up!” Ginny threw herself out of her seat and walked out of the sitting room. “I will
call my mother. We have lists to make— invitations to send!” She looked at Hermione with great
determination ablaze in her eyes. “We’re going to find Hermione a husband!”

Chapter End Notes

Chapter 8 will be posted on December 26th. Happy Holidays, and stay warm!
 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

Preparation for Harry’s birthday celebration was reminiscent of the packed and nervous hours
before the Yule Ball, except that Molly was fussing over her gown and hair instead.

They had decided days ago, after hours standing in Madam Malkin’s shop, that a satin burgundy
brought out complementary tones in Hermione’s skin. The other gown she had purchased, a
gorgeous emerald green dress, she stowed away for other potential public engagements. The
sleeves of her new dress hung beautifully off her shoulders, emphasising the delicate expanse of
skin across her shoulders and neck. A year in Australia had increased the number of all her freckles
tenfold, no matter how many sun protection charms she reapplied throughout the day. Paired with
the curls the three women had managed to tame after a few spells and a generous amount of
Sleekeazy, the Hermione she found looking back at her in the mirror shocked her.

Even after some care, Hermione felt grateful she still looked much like herself. She looked more
elevated than her usual appearance, never having bothered with much of the fussing of gowns and
primping of her hair. For a moment, she stood taller, smiled at herself, and let the confidence seep
into her bones.

She was Hermione Jean Granger, after all. Any one of these men would be lucky to court her.
“Now, where is this ball, anyway?”

“Harry spent the last year renovating the country estate the Black family owned, so we will
apparate there.” Ginny gave Hermione a knowing look. “He was worried the original portraits
would insult his guests.”

Hermione shuddered at the memory of Walburga Black screaming obscenities at her. After that
daily spectacle at Grimmauld Place, Hermione felt firmly that permanent sticking charms ought to
be outlawed.

Molly helped Ginny finish up at lightning speed, muttering her thanks for her smooth red hair for
cooperation before they set down the stairs to greet their fathers as they chatted.

The men stood up and Hermione watched her father grow emotional with every step she took
toward him. He went to grasp her hands, his eyes looking faintly wet. “Your mother would be so
proud. You are a vision.”

The topic of her mother was rarely brought up, as it was still incredibly difficult for the both of
them. Hermione clutched her father’s hands tighter and fought the tears that pooled in her eyes.
“Thank you, papa.”

“You be good, all right? Arthur, don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Of course, Ernie.”

Arthur led them outside, where Hermione and Ginny gently grasped his arm before he apparated
them away with a pop.

“Ensure I haven’t splinched your gowns before we walk in, girls.”

Ginny and Hermione followed Arthur through the entryway, where they were announced by their
new titles. Though Hermione was not a part of any peerage or notable wizarding family, they did
tack on the mention of her Order of Merlin. How kind.

They walked together through the crowd, sending small smiles to those they recognised. It
reminded her of the fuss during the Yule Ball. Everyone was staring at them, mouths agape.
Hermione discreetly glanced down at her gown, wondering if something was amiss to garner such
a reaction.

They continued leisurely strolling through the room with faux smiles at those they were not
introduced to yet.

“Gods, you must look carefully,” Ginny warned under her breath. “You can sometimes discern the
glamours out of the corner of your eye, only when you’re not looking right at them. Most witches,
even wizards, are covering up some sort of blemish or mark. You only have to check to make sure
they’re not completely atrocious underneath all that charm work.”

Distinct sparkles at the edges of her vision finally registered to her. Almost every person in the
room had added a small amount of magic to their appearance. Not that it mattered much to
Hermione. If Sleekeazy's hair potion were to produce a noticeable shimmer, she would be glowing
like a faerie. They were all playing a similar game.

Turning into the next room, they entered the crush of the crowd. Arthur quickly turned to retrieve
programs.

“Now remember,” Ginny whispered to her behind the fan Arthur had handed her. “There is no use
in being a wallflower here. A terrible waste of time, I believe. My time in particular.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, smacking Ginny’s arm with her own fan. She only grinned.

“The dances are listed out on the fan we’ve given all the witches. Give a tap of your wand to fill in
the name of the wizard that asks you for a particular dance. Mum and I have cultivated the best
men here for you, Hermione, so do make use of them.”

“And the other witches you’ve invited?”

“It’s all about creating a spectacle, isn’t it? Besides, you do only get to choose one husband. Let the
other witches have a go at the fun. Now, let us find Harry.”

Before they had an opportunity to search for their friend, Hermione turned her head and found a
line of men waiting for her attention. She blinked rapidly in shock as they marched forward all at
once.

“Oh, Good Godric, it’s already begun,” Ginny muttered, grasping for Hermione’s arm. “Move out
of the way of the door!” she practically bellowed over Hermione’s shoulder, tugging her away.
“We shall relocate to a less intrusive corner!”

Surveying the group of rather fit-looking men, perhaps finding a husband would not be the chore
Hermione thought it might be.
Before she knew it, her dance card was full. Some names familiar to her, as Fred had secured
himself a dance for what he called ‘old times sake’.

“No dance for your oldest friend Fred, hm? What does a man have to do for a turn around the room
with the most beautiful witch here?”

Hermione only rolled her eyes and tapped his name to her least favourite dance, the two-step. At
least Fred would make it entertaining, and she would not have to bore herself with leading
questions about their family, business, or time at school, as she knew all these things in perhaps too
much detail.

While the other names on the card she had only heard of vaguely, whether from the war effort or
her time at school. If they had been invited, Hermione had faith in both Harry and Ginny not to
have invited anyone unseemly.

After promising the dance to Fred, another familiar face appeared from behind him after he bowed
away.

“Neville!”

Hermione gave him a curtsey as he returned to her a small bow. It was not the appropriate time for
a hug, as they would have under normal circumstances.

“Happy birthday, my dear friend,” Hermione said. Their year apart had been very good to Neville,
as it seemed to do for most people after the war. He stood straighter, making him look taller than
ever before. His blond hair was styled neatly, and his suit was neatly pressed, and though he always
had a lighter complexion, he looked healthier without the dark circles under his eyes she had
grown accustomed to seeing.

“Thank you, Hermione, I had to come greet you when I heard you were announced. It is so good to
see you.” His expression became pained for a moment. The same face she was familiar with when
they would broach the same difficult topic. “I was so sorry to hear the news about your mother. My
greatest condolences, I know my grandmother shares them as well.”

“My father and I do appreciate it. It’s been a difficult year without her.” Eager to change the
subject, Hermione launched into the mental notes she had made of each invitee Ginny had
mentioned. “I heard you’ve been studying to take over as the Herbology professor?”

“Well, I had originally thought it best to study under Professor Sprout.” Neville shifted on his feet
slightly, looking towards the other end of the room when a ringing laugh cut through their
conversation. “Now, with my own estate to manage, I’m not sure that plan will take place.”

“And how do you feel about the change in profession? As you know, I had a great interest in
studying Potions after my return. Although, I did have a bit of trouble with registering for mastery
at the Ministry…” Her voice trailed off as she sensed his distraction, and she followed his gaze
across the room.

At first, she did not see who or what they were looking for. Then, the dancing crowd cleared.
Pansy Parkinson stood laughing with friends, smiling kindly as Daphne Greengrass whispered
behind a fan into her ear. She was a vision of her own, her dark hair elegantly styled and her light
pink dress Hermione remembered passing on at Madam Malkin’s. They both stood together and
admired her from afar.

Neville gave a small shake of his head before turning back to Hermione. “I apologise, Hermione,
what was it you were saying? I must not have heard you.”

Though her stomach churned for a brief moment, Hermione suppressed the hurt of a lost
opportunity. Of course, Neville would’ve been a fantastic option. Kind, brave, and a nearly lifelong
friend. One of her first friends she made all on her own, in actuality. Someone as kind as Neville
would be a fantastic husband for any lucky witch.

But what Hermione would never do was insert herself between fondness, or love, if it already
existed. The look across his face when Pansy laughed, when she could not notice him staring, was
one Hermione wished to earn one day. What else had she missed during her time away? From their
time in school, Pansy had always been rather nasty to Neville and his quirks when she could spear
a remark. It was also frankly astonishing that Lady Parkinson had not managed to marry Pansy
away the moment she became of age.

“Nothing of importance,” Hermione replied with what was hopefully not a sad smile. “Tell me,
now that you are the Viscount of Hampshire, what improvements do you hope to make to the
famous Longbottom Greenhouse?”

Following several dances with esteemed gentlemen, Fred included, Hermione excused herself for a
bit of a breather. Asking questions and appearing to be intrigued by their accomplishments, mostly
earned by their family names only, had been more work in a ball gown than she anticipated. She
had received offers to fetch some Butterbeer or pumpkin juice, perhaps a snack, but she declined,
eager to find Harry herself and have a moment to herself to think.

Securing herself a pumpkin pasty, Hermione chewed thoughtfully and scanned the room for
Harry’s mop of hair and the gleam of his glasses. Angelina Johnson looked well, Katie Bell at her
side, catching up with Lee Jordan and Oliver Wood.

She blinked with recognition at the familiar mess of black hair. Then blinked again, as it settled on
the whitest blond hair she had ever seen in a ballroom.

Hermione coughed violently on her pastry, prompting Arthur to give her back a healthy smack.

“Are you all right?”

Hermione did not answer immediately. As the two men gave each other a small nod of recognition,
seemingly speaking quietly to one another, there was a twist low in her gut, and the pastry in her
mouth lost its taste.

What had she expected, exactly? To never see him again in this new world?

She watched the one man move away while Harry stayed put. After ensuring there was an
appropriate amount of distance between Harry and the unwelcome guest, Hermione pounced on the
opportunity.

“Arthur, let us go say hello to Harry.”

Hermione ignored the men she knew were intently attempting to catch her eye as she stalked
through the room, even as some were supposedly in conversation with witches she respected.
Thankfully, no line remained for Harry as Hermione and Arthur stepped forward.

“Ah, I was looking around for you both! Hermione, you look absolutely stunning, as I’m sure
you’ve been told already by all the men you’ve seemed to charm.”

Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately as Harry took a sip of his drink to surely hide his smirk.
“Do not say such things, in front of your future father-in-law no less. You do have a fiancée, after
all.”

“I do, yes, though I am not worried about my standing in her eyes at all.” Harry leaned in closer to
Hermione to whisper as they both turned to face the crowd of people. “Tell me quickly, does
anyone pique your interest?”

Pique her interest? No, not particularly. There were absolutely some men that had been crossed off
her mental list of potential candidates, and others who had managed to surprise her with their
sincerity. An even smaller selection of wizards asked about Hermione’s future plans since her
return to London. Still, she could not help but feel they had asked only out of politeness rather than
genuine interest. Could she blame them? It was not as if she had asked them questions without an
ulterior motive as well.

Another familiar flash of white blond hair in the crowd made her stomach flip anxiously. Instead of
answering the previous question, Hermione attempted to gesture toward the man.

“Do you know who that man is? Over there?”

In the most unsubtle searching Hermione had ever seen, Harry searched the crowd in the direction
she had referenced. At the sight of him, Harry seemed to brighten up. “Oh, Draco Malfoy? He’s the
new Duke of Wiltshire after his father passed during the war. Attended Durmstrang. Quiet fellow.”

“Yes, thank you, I am perfectly aware of who he is,” Hermione could not help snarling at her
oldest friend. Harry looked taken aback by her sudden and apparent disgust. “You might want to
know that he is a pure-blood supremacist.”

The silence her statement received was loud in a room full of noise.

“His parents were certainly pure-blood fanatics,” Harry replied carefully, attempting to categorise
her reaction. “Though I would hardly consider Malfoy to be a supremacist on his own.”

Blinking up at him, Hermione was stunned. “How on Earth would you know?”

“And how on Earth would you?” Harry answered back, turning to face her fully and tilting his head
questioningly. “Do you know him?”

The answer curled back on her tongue before she let it loosen. “He’s called me a slur before. At the
Diagon Alley bookshop. Arthur can confirm it, he was there.”

They both turned to Arthur, who stood beside her, radiating discomfort. “I was there, yes. A rather
long time ago, was it not?”

“Long ago? It was after our sixth year!”

Arthur looked away for a moment, at the crowd of laughing and jovial people. A stark difference
from the topic at hand. “War makes a year feel like a decade, doesn’t it?”
“Have you spoken to him since?” Harry interjected. “I’m sure he would apologise profusely.”

“I have little patience for excuses these days,” Hermione snapped back.

“I’m not sure what I’m meant to tell you,” he answered back cryptically. Hermione frowned. “He’s
the reason I have this title, the reason I could even hold this ball in the first place.”

“You have this title because of Sirius.”

“No,” Harry shook his head, suddenly very serious. “I was entitled to something much smaller in
Godric’s Hollow by the law. This was Draco Malfoy’s right entirely. He gave it to me, with the
Queen’s blessing, along with the money he was set to inherit.”

When Hermione opened her mouth to counter him, Harry raised his hand to silence her.
“Hermione, let’s not do this now, yes? Not when it’s meant to be a celebration. We can discuss this
another time, surely.”

Remembering herself, Hermione adjusted her skirts before curtsying to him. “Thank you for the
lovely welcome, Harry.”

When another drink was settled into her hands, she finally confronted Arthur. “You said you
always suspected Lucius Malfoy of working for Lord Voldemort willingly,” Hermione threw her
accusation at Arthur, who managed to hide his flinch at the name. “What of his son then?”

“I do not blame young men for the sins of their father,” Arthur countered. “He is here, under the
recommendation of Harry, who we both trust with our lives.” When Hermione did not reply to him,
he continued on. “War changes people, doesn’t it? It’s not as if you’re required to speak to him.
Thankfully, the ballroom is large enough for avoiding people.”

“Yes,” she finally agreed. “The larger the room, the better.”

There would be people in this new world she had no interest in making acquaintances with— even
if they had held a place in her heart once.

Finally, after having a partner for every dance on her card, the ball was coming up on its final
dance. Having secured his place earlier on in the night, Cormac McLaggen had come to escort her
onto the dance floor. Recently becoming an Earl had done nothing to deflate his ego, as was
expected. As they moved to the centre of the room, Cormac’s hand left her grasp for only a
moment, before quickly returning.

When Hermione turned back to him for a remark, her gaze had expected to see Cormac’s blue eyes.
It instead met the collar of a man's shirt. They pulled away from each other, as was standard for
this waltz, before Hermione recognized this man was not Cormac at all. Hermione’s feet stuttered a
brief moment behind her racing mind.

“Careful now,” Malfoy muttered, his eyes tracking down to her feet. “Please tell me you know this
dance.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hermione hissed at him. Formalities be damned at this point.
She gave a considerable effort not to show her anger across her face, but in her voice, which
dripped with icy contempt. “Where is Cormac?”

“I believe he’s confunded by the desserts.”

Whipping her head towards the corner of the room, she spotted Cormac’s dark blond hair, where he
was gorging himself on pastries and various desserts.

She turned back to her dance partner, now smirking down at her. “What gives you the right? I
ought to hex you into the next year,” Hermione seethed, though she curtsied nonetheless for the
growing group of spectators around the dance floor.

Instead of answering her threats, Malfoy dipped himself into a low bow, his eyes never leaving
hers for a single moment. The smugness that radiated off him filled her with rage.

“Perhaps if he had been less confundable, he would be dancing with you, but alas,” Malfoy
straightened himself and offered out his gloved hand. “We do not receive everything we want in
this life.”

The symphony erupted, and though she wished to violently duel him instead, they began to dance.

Though she had attended Hogwarts, her mother had insisted on a rather rigorous dancing program
during school breaks. It had been helpful during the Yule Ball, though being held this closely by
Malfoy had sent her previous teachings directly into the bin.

“He’ll be back and curse you himself.” She warned.

“Who said it was I that did the confunding?” Malfoy said mildly. “McLaggen has managed to
insult not one, but two members of society with his remarks on Quidditch. You ought to be
thanking me, Miss Granger, I am certain I cannot offend you with talk of sport.”

“I’m sure you will find other ways to offend.”

“You needn’t be so upset by this.” Malfoy continued. “I doubt you had the lifelong dream of
becoming the Countess of some Scottish castle. Eager to learn Gaelic under a dozen warming
charms, are you?”

Becoming overwhelmed with the sensations of dancing so closely with someone she vowed to
hate, she did not care for the little distance between them. Hermione suddenly longed for a
secluded corner, or a quiet nook in a library to hide from the noise. Rather than admit that he had
managed to silence her, she pressed onward.

“Countess of Caithness. At the very least daughters in Scotland are able to inherit titles
themselves.”

“Oh, yes. Tell me, does McLaggen seem like the sort of man that cares to speak on social
progression?”

With an ego the size of Scotland, Hermione regretfully had to agree. Undoubtedly not the man that
would sign off to have his wife take lessons to become a Potions Master. The way he stared at her,
it was clear there was only one thing on his mind. She shuddered.

“And you are?”

“Oh, absolutely. Anyone with half a brain knows why Potter’s gathered us all here. And no, it’s
not only for his or Longbottom’s birthday, which we were meant to be celebrating. This entire
spectacle is for you, isn’t it?”

“Now, if that were the truth, I would wonder why he invited you.”

“I suppose he feels indebted to me.” The price of an entire estate and title of a Duke would surely
put Harry in his debt for life. Malfoy would probably use it to his advantage as well. “I predict I
will be invited to every event of his until the end of time.”

“I cannot imagine why.”

Malfoy didn’t reply. They twirled around the room once more in silence.

“So, your grace.” The top of Hermione’s head barely reached his chin, even in her heels. How
dreadful. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“My apology, of course. Harry mentioned if I gave you an opportunity to speak with me, I would
receive one.”

“Is this your definition of opportunity?”

“Seeing as you’ve managed to capitalise on it, I would say so.”

“I haven’t had much experience giving apologies, but I imagine the sort of apology you would
want would be the least effective on a ballroom floor.”

“You would be correct. If it is my forgiveness you seek, you will have to get on your knees and beg
for it.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Dukes do not beg.”

Hermione did not reply immediately. They allowed the dance to continue on for a few steps. “I’m
sure you are most pleased with your gloves,” Hermione said airily. His fingers twisted her hands,
and she twirled. “I suppose touching a mudblood with your bare hands might ruin your night.”

His grip loosened for a moment before returning to normal. “You shouldn’t say that word.”

The suggestion enraged her. “And why not?” She demanded. “You were, after all, the first person
to call me one so frankly.”

His perfect waltz faltered for only a moment.

“Do not tell me you don’t know a simple waltz, your grace.” She hoped her insincere smile made
him as uncomfortable as she felt.

“It’s not a simple waltz. It is a Viennese waltz.”

“And thankfully, it is ending.”

The symphony finished not a moment later. Malfoy paused briefly before joining the applauding
crowd. Hermione stared back at him and did not clap.

He had grown impossibly taller than she remembered, though his posture remained impeccable,
with broad shoulders stretching out into his idiotically perfect dress robes. The distinct sharpness of
his face remained. There was no one on Earth that looked more magical at first glance. If she had
never seen him before, she would have known him to be a wizard from his features alone. Pale
blond hair. It had lost its once boyish styling, not a single stray hair out of place, yet it looked soft
to the touch. It was an obvious evolution from the boy she knew to the man before her, but it had
been years, and that boy was long dead to her.

It was easier to stare just past his eyes than look directly into them.

Silently, Malfoy offered his arm to escort her back to the edge of the dance floor where Arthur
awaited her with Ginny. Hermione gave him a perfunctory curtsy before turning away to
desperately flee.

“Washroom,” Hermione muttered to Arthur, who she assumed trailed behind her.

The washroom did not provide the solitude she was looking for. Standing before the mirror was
Pansy Parkinson, adjusting her hair with small flicks of her wand, dedicatedly curling strands that
had strayed throughout the night.

“Good Godric, Granger,” she said, with a tangible amount of concern that seemed so incredibly un-
Pansy-like that Hermione wondered if she was imagining her. “You look as though you’ve been
petrified.”

Hermione stared at her reflection in the mirror. The small charms Molly had placed managed to
stay intact all night. At a glance, she still looked stunning.

But if Pansy could see it, Hermione could as well. Behind her brown eyes, not puffy with tears or
covered in darkness after a long night, still held so much dread after seeing Draco Malfoy for the
first time in years.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Transcript:

Monday, July 31, 1843

A FRESH CATCH FOR MY DEAR READERS!

 It looks as though the return of Miss Hermione Granger has made substantial waves
throughout our good society. Following her year-long absence in order to care for her
family, she made her debut at the Duke of Essex’s birthday ball this past weekend, as
he is one of her closest and dearest friends.

The witch captured the attention of every eligible wizard in the room. Though it
seemed that the Earl of Caithness, Cormac McLaggen, found more interest in the
pastries offered by Essex than the newly crowned jewel of society! Miss Granger
found herself the most unexpected match for the final waltz. You may recall, after we
reported the Duke of Wiltshire’s return to society, he has never offered a single dance
to another witch. That is until Miss Granger’s dance card became available. It seems
as though her rumoured charm work is quite exemplary indeed!

Perhaps we shall hear wedding bells before the conclusion of this year's season.
Though who could be worthy of such a noteworthy witch as Miss Granger…?

The Society Snitch

Hermione woke the next morning feeling incredibly well-rested. Other than the most unfortunate
snag involving that pompous duke during her last dance, she could safely say she felt her plot was a
raging success.

“My lady,” Crookshanks greeted at the doorway after her lady’s maid swooped out of the room.
There was a distinct amount of buzz coming from the lower floor. “You have received
correspondence overnight. Several correspondences, in fact.” After years of knowing him,
Hermione knew Crookshanks to not be so easily fazed, yet looking at him now he looked to be
mildly bewildered. “If you would follow me, miss.”

The droning grew louder as they approached the main floor. Suddenly, it was clear it was not just
some correspondence. A mob of owls descended into the room when Mr. Crookshanks opened the
window, ducking out of the way as the birds dropped stacks of letters in their wake. Some flew
right back out where they came from, while other birds lingered around the container of treats she
kept close to the window overlooking the garden.

“Good Lord,” her father said, storming into the room to find the source of all the noise. “Is this all
for you?”

Speechless over the display, Hermione could only frantically nod. Mr. Crookshanks dutifully
began picking up the envelopes from the floor. At the same time, the fire roared as both Ginny and
Molly stepped through the Floo. Her father let out a strangled cry at the sight, which made
Hermione wince, forgetting to inform him she had the Ministry connect their Floo.

“Hermione!” Ginny cried joyfully, looking around at the mess with delight. “Don’t worry, Mr.
Crookshanks, we’ll deal with this”

“No need, my lady.”

But at that moment, Molly flicked her wand and the envelopes had hovered and organised into two
large piles by Hermione’s writing desk. “Now then.” Ginny sent Hermione a gleeful smile that
calmed her sudden anxiety like a balm. “Let’s get to work.”
After an entire day of sorting letters, and discussing the various standings of men on Hermione’s
list of eligible wizards, Ginny announced their intent to return to the Burrow and Molly offered a
preview of Hermione’s social schedule.

“You need to be seen, and often,” Molly said, after what felt like her seventh visit to the Granger
home in the past week. “Tomorrow, you and Ginny will make a trip to town together. You can
head to the owlery and send them all at once. Keep them on their toes for a night.” Her father even
asked if Ginny would like to have one of the guest rooms made up if she was to be visiting so
often.

Ginny politely declined the offer. “No need with a Floo,” Her father seemed to doubt it very much,
still not having gotten used to the two women climbing out of his fireplace every morning.
“Besides, this way, we get the latest word from the twins and we adjust our plans from there.”

“The twins?”

“From their joke shop, of course. Being right on Diagon Alley, they hear all the news, sometimes
even before the Society Snitch does.” Ginny made her way toward the fireplace. “The return of the
famous Hermione Granger has created a substantial bit of buzz. Which is why I believe you should
pay them a visit.”

“To the joke shop?” Hermione slowly asked.

Nodding enthusiastically, Ginny stepped into the ash after her mother. “Sometimes you’ll learn the
most interesting things from listening to other people’s conversation. See you tomorrow!”

With a salacious wiggle of her eyebrows, the green flames of the Floo took her instantly away. Mr.
Crookshanks dutifully stood in the corner, while her father poked his head into the office once
again, after the day’s commotion had gone down. “Is it over?”

Hermione shook her head, glancing at the pile of letters she was meant to send. It would most
certainly cost her a pretty sickle at the Diagon owlery. “I believe we’ve only just started.”

The next morning, keeping to her word, Ginny returned looking incredibly done up for a simple
stroll through Diagon Alley.

“No, no, that won’t do.”

Hermione looked down at the dress Ginny was gesturing at, which she found to be particularly
nice and practical for taking several dozen letters to the post. “It’s a dress?”

“You look like a Professor and not the sexy kind. Come along now.”

After tearing apart her closet for far longer than she anticipated, Hermione and Ginny quickly
made their way to the owl post off Diagon Alley. The worker, though startled at the number of
letters they wanted to be sent that day, happily took Hermione’s bag of coins in exchange.

Walking through the doors of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Hermione expertly dodged several
fireworks and pixies as one learned to do quickly in Gryffindor Tower. There were crowds of
people from all walks of society, just as Ginny had said there would be. She wandered through the
store to not only refill some products but eagerly eavesdrop on fellow patrons for the latest society
gossip.

Roger Davies had made several visits to the family home of Cho Chang, with the intent to ask for
her hand shortly. There was talk of the Goldstein family making their way into the Wizengamot, at
the expense of the Flint family’s seat. The Duke and Duchess of Manchester, Theodore and Luna
Nott, had returned from their trip abroad.

The information she was gaining from eavesdropping had certainly crossed off a few names and
potentially added some more. It wasn’t as if Hermione was intentionally only selecting those with a
seat to the Wizengamot. It was just, if she had a choice, she would select someone with an open ear
and the power to enact change faster.

As her fingers hovered over the variant and eccentric-looking potions display, varying in amounts
and bottle designs, the owners flanked her on each side.

“Miss Hermione Granger!” George boomed.

“As beautiful as ever,” Fred added. “Thank you for gracing our humble shop with the presence of
the, what was it, George?”

“‘Jewel of Society’!”

Giving the twins a polite curtsy and impolite roll of her eyes, she turned back to the products. “It
looks as though you’ve upgraded your product selection since I last visited.”

“Does the Potions Master approve?”

After carefully inspecting a beautiful glass vial labeled as ‘cough potion’ and holding it close,
Hermione turned to the twins with fury. “Love potions? Are you mad?”

“One of our best sellers, those are.”

“They help keep our doors open!”

Hermione interjected. “Just a few moments under the influence could ruin a woman’s reputation
for good!”

Plucking the vial out of her hand, Fred gently placed it back into the flamboyant display. “Ah, yes,
my dear Hermione, and we have come up with the perfect solution.”

“Yes, you see, we only sell them to ladies.”

“Solves the problem, really. Reckon if a woman wants to ruin her reputation, who are we to refuse
her?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “How awfully progressive of you.”

“We knew you wouldn’t be interested in it,” said Fred. George saddled up next to her. “We all saw
the effect you had on the men at Harry’s birthday party. Are you sure you’re not making your own
brew at home?”

“From Earls to Dukes, you had them all wrapped around your finger!”

Suddenly remembering herself, she threw herself away from the display. Molly would have a fit if
she knew Hermione had shown herself looking at love potions for all of society to notice. How
could she be so stupid?

Spotting a young woman who she vaguely recognised as a Greengrasse peering over a display at
them, Hermione turned to drop all her items at their front till.

“Some wonderwitch and Extendable Ears, a classic!” exclaimed George.

“Could we interest you Puking Pastilles?” Fred held up the small container of fake sweets.

“Perfect for getting out of a dance you’ve regretfully promised!”

Eager to leave as quickly as possible, Hermione declined, paying them a galleon for the goods.
Ginny was waiting for her just outside the shop doors.

“Found everything you were looking for? Excellent.” Looping their arms together, they made their
way through crowds of people. “Now that we’ve settled that business, we’re off to the park to
make your first appearance since the publishing of the Society Snitch.” After a nod towards a
passing Seamus Finnegan, Ginny looked thoroughly pleased with her plan. “Works out nicely.
Harry and Ron should be off playing Quidditch at the park with a few friends.”

In another life, Hermione would be annoyed to find out her schedule after it had clearly been set,
but she trusted Ginny in the realms of wooing. In school, she had several boys wrapped around her
finger for years before Harry wisened up. “And how come you’re not playing with them?”

“The last time I played, I knocked Zabini off his broom and the idiot broke his arm. I’m no longer
invited.” Ginny remarked with an edge of bitterness. “The cowards.”

Remembering the violent methods Ginny enjoyed during Quidditch, Hermione did not blame them.
“Regardless, who else would you trust to help you? It’s only Harry and I who know your true
business in this mess. Rowena Forbid that gossip column calls you anything other than the jewel of
the season.”

Right. Women, whether it be in muggle or wizard society, couldn’t be too overt with their search
for a husband, or else they would be deemed desperate. Or worse, loose. Rita Skeeter would be all
too happy to continue her ruthless attacks on Hermione’s character as she once did to a five and
ten-year-old student during the Triwizard Tournament.

“Do you have any ideas about who might be behind that terrible Society Snitch?”

“Not a single clue. I have seen Romilda Vane here and there with a quill, though I doubt she would
come up with anything kind to say about me.”

Like much of Diagon Alley, the wizarding community had charmed their parks to be viewed
differently from a muggle perspective. The boundaries were blocked off, and if there were any
smaller Quidditch pitches, they were charmed to look like large factory fumes instead of goal
hoops.

Plenty of the large factory fumes existed throughout London, Hermione thought bitterly,
remembering her mother’s ever growing cough from the exposure. The wards in general seemed to
ward off much of the smoke coming from the industrious parts of Muggle London, at least.

It was a beautiful summer afternoon, she couldn’t deny how nice it felt to stretch her legs and
breathe in the fresh air. When she wasn’t in the middle of writing letters to the dwindling number
of contenders for her hand, Hermione was enjoying her renewed access to the Diagon Alley
bookshop and their collection on Potion making. More often than not, she would stay up much too
late with books she could hardly consider light reading.

It seemed many witches and wizards had the same idea as Ginny, as they passed many familiar
faces along the path.

The grass looked to be freshly cut and bright green, even under the brutal glare of the summer sun.
As they approached, she could tell two distinct teams had already formed up ahead, discussing
strategy at a dizzying height above the ground.

“There they are,” Ginny said, pulling a slightly reluctant Hermione onto the grass and towards the
field. “Let us greet them before their game begins, I see they still have the box unopened!”

The closer they got, the more reluctant Hermione became. Though she recognized Harry and Ron
instantly, and some of the other old members of the Gryffindor team, she also recognized several
Slytherin students. With them were a few men she had met in passing, and lingering in their group
was a man with bright blond hair.

“Oh, Gods, Ginny—” Hermione hissed under her breath, but Ginny only pulled her along with
more determination.

“Oi!” Ron exclaimed, quickly returning to the ground with Harry in tow. “I didn’t realise you’d be
visiting!”

“What a beautiful day for a game.” Hermione remarked, turning to send a wave to other spectators
that were gathering. She was surprised to see both Lavender and Luna watching along the
sidelines.

“And who is your referee? I assume you’ll need one since Zabini here is about to break all the
rules,” said Ginny.

“Hey!” Zabini exclaimed in response to hearing his name, looking down with disdain and flying
down to ground level. Ginny folded her arms over her chest, daring him to contradict her. “I will
have you know that I’m a changed man, Weasley.”

“That’s what they always say,” she replied. Most of Zabini’s team flew down to support him,
including a man Hermione was attempting to avoid entirely, while Harry and Ron came to Ginny’s
defence. “Until you get booted off the field.”

“Hermione!”

As always, Luna shirked all social protocol and embraced her fiercely. Hermione immediately
relaxed and melted into the hug. Luna smelled faintly of dittany and honey, relaxing the tension in
her shoulders instantly.

When they pulled away, Luna gripped Hermione’s hands and in the most sorrowful voice said, “I
am so sorry for your family’s loss, Hermione.”

Knowing Luna would understand her pain, the ache in her heart felt lighter for a moment. “Thank
you,” Hermione replied with complete sincerity.

“Have you met my husband, Theo?” Luna asked lightly, in a way that was typical for Luna, though
Hermione was thankful to change the subject. “He’s up there playing.”

“Never formally, though he was in my year at school. I am sorry to have missed your nuptials.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it was all very quick. I sent out invitations just this morning for a ball as a sort-of
welcome home party for this coming weekend. Will you be able to attend?”

“Of course, I will!”

“Marvellous! Theo,” Luna called out. “Come quickly!”

The dark brunette speaking to Malfoy turned his head at the address. Sweat immediately began to
bead along Hermione’s neck. The last thing she needed today was a conversation with him.

“Miss Granger!” Theodore Nott called out from his broom, flying closer to greet them. To her
misfortune, Malfoy seemed to follow. “I have heard so many things about you.”

“Hello, your grace,” Hermione greeted with a curtsy. “Hopefully all good things.”

“Only the best.” Nott confirmed with a charming smile. “I did miss Potter’s birthday, it would’ve
been lovely to steal a dance with you.”

Finally, Malfoy spoke up. “Yes, dancing does agree with Miss Granger.”

Hermione’s lips twitched in an effect to avoid a sharp downward curl of her mouth. That weasel.
Malfoy loomed closer, but Hermione was determined to look away from him. Sensing Ginny was
not done arguing with Zabini, she continued.

“And what position are you playing today, your grace?”

“I’ve always favoured playing Chaser.” Nott quickly began adjusting his gloves before giving a
nod behind him at Malfoy. “Malfoy here is our seeker.”

“Do you fly, Miss Granger?” asked Malfoy with his voice raised, most likely to drown out the
whooping of his fellow team at Ginny’s sharp jab at Zabini’s reputation.

Hermione fought the roll of her jaw. “No, I don’t find flying to be very enjoyable.”

“That would depend on your instructor, wouldn’t it?” Malfoy flew a bit closer and offered out his
hand to her.

The frankness of his offer was startling. Ginny was too involved with a verbal spar with Zabini to
assist, causing Hermione to scramble for an excuse other than a frank dismissal. “I am afraid I
would make a dreadful flying partner, your grace.”

“She would!” Ron bellowed at them, which was both unhelpful and at the same time incredibly
well-timed. “Trust me, Malfoy, you’d much rather fly with a poltergeist.”

Malfoy didn’t spare a glance in Ron’s direction, and let his hand remain outstretched. “I would
very much like to take my chances.”
“Perhaps another time, your grace. I promised Ginny a walk on this lovely day, and I would surely
hate to rid your team of a fabulous seeker.”

“I assure you, we would live.” Malfoy quickly aimed a kick of his leg to knock Nott off his broom
and missed.

Luna peered up at Malfoy. “Do you have plans this coming weekend, Draco?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she attempted to lightly bat Luna’s foot with her own to shut her up.
With the grace of a dancer, Luna avoided every kick. Malfoy’s eyes glanced down at their feet
suspiciously.

“Luna,” She reprimanded lightly. “I’m sure the duke already has his own plans.”

“No, Luna,” Malfoy interjected, sounding thrilled. “I have no plans.”

“Then you simply must come to our event on Friday evening. Hermione has already confirmed she
would attend.”

The smile on his face spelled mischief. Hermione wanted to hex it off. “I wouldn’t miss it for the
world.”

“Good!” Nott clapped his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. “You’ve refused to come over for ages, now
that my wife has made you the offer, you cannot decline.”

Hermione wanted to curl up on the floor with embarrassment, or at least to wallow in the shade
with her bad luck. Curse Ginny and her terrifyingly strong grip.

Thankfully, Zabini looked to be retreating with a scowl and Ginny returned looking triumphant.
They gave the group a final curtsy, and Luna a parting hug, before walking away. Hermione could
practically feel grey eyes boring into her back as she walked away.

“Now then,” Ginny took Hermione’s arm in her own again, leading back to the worn walking path
of the park. “What was it we were discussing?”

“What we’ve always been discussing nowadays,” Hermione replied. “Eligible wizards, gossip
columns, and the like.”

Ginny appeared thoughtful for a moment, before turning to look back at the Quidditch pitch.

“What about the Duke of Wiltshire?”

Hermione gave a most unladylike snort. “Never!”

“Why? Both Harry and Ron seem to like him just fine.”

“I cannot for the life of me understand why. He and his awful family are pure-blood supremacists.”

“Really?” Ginny sounded surprised. “Wiltshire was a part of the war effort.”

“He was? I never heard his name apart from talks about Lucius Malfoy, after we lost Sirius.”

They paused for a moment of silence at the mention of the late Sirius Black. Nodding with a smile
at passing ladies and couples they knew, including the Patil twins, Ginny continued on, “Father
said he mostly stuck to Eastern Europe, being from Durmstrang and all that.” They continued to
loop around the park, circling around the Quidditch pitch once again. “He does seem to have an
 interest in you. Harry’s dragged him to numerous balls, and he never once danced with another
witch. His refusal was an insult to a majority of the mamas.”

“I’m sure he’d feign interest in a flobberworm if it offered him a sliver of social standing.”

“I really don’t believe that to be the case,” Ginny replied slowly. “Plenty of those witches have
great positions in society.”

“Do they also have an Order of Merlin, Ginny?”

“No, but why would he need another if he already has one?”

That gave Hermione pause. Wildly turning to Ginny, her heart began to race inexplicably. “He
does?”

“You didn’t know? I thought I read it in the Daily Prophet. This was after you had left for
Australia, anyway.”

Hermione swept the information into a quiet corner of her mind, where she kept all things related to
Draco Malfoy; the candies he favoured as a boy, his love of rock skipping, and the soft timber of
his voice while reading.

“The paper seemed to suggest he might think of me as something worth collecting.”

“Perhaps,” Ginny acquiesced. “Though I don’t think it’s possible to fake the way he looks at you.”

Hermione frowned and paused, forcing her friend to finally stop their walking. “And how does he
look at me?”

They both turned to glance back at the pitch. In the distance, she could make out a head of bright
blond hair facing their direction. While the entire game was a blur of motion between teams,
Malfoy remained solitary, unflinching or moving, staring right at them.

“He looks at you as if you’re the only thing he sees.”

Hermione turned and took Ginny away with her. It seemed that in an entire society, at every ball
and every park or establishment, there was nothing Hermione Granger could do to avoid the Duke
of Wiltshire.

Chapter End Notes

Any theories on who the Society Snitch is?

 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Transcript:

Wednesday, August 16, 1843

OUT WITH THE EARL?

 It seems that the Earl of Caithness has been tossed out of one too many parties
recently, and sent back to the lonely and cold country to find a proper witch to marry
on his own. My snitches tell me that his nasty temper gave Ginerva Weasley, the
beautiful betrothed of the Duke of Essex, so much discomfort that he found himself
the recipient of an almighty Bat-Bogey Hex. Oh, dear!

Much of society has been asking; what is it about Miss Granger that has caught the
attention of the elusive Duke of Wiltshire? Several people have sent in reports that
Miss Granger paid Wiltshire a visit during a friendly game of Quidditch in the park,
with several of their dear friends in attendance.

The pair were seen speaking with the Duke and Duchess of Manchester, Theodore and
Luna Nott, who are rumoured to be planning a grand ball in their newly renovated
manor.

Readers, it looks as though this Jewel of the Season is another precious item that
Wiltshire is eager to add to his substantial vault at Gringotts…

The Society Snitch

“For someone who says they cannot stand him, you certainly see him very often.”

Hermione sent Ginny a scowl behind Arthur’s back. They arrived fashionably late, at Molly’s
insistence, to the Nott Manor in the countryside of Manchester. The moon was climbing high in the
night sky, and each star was bright and visible in the absence of light from London’s city centre.

“It’s certainly not for a lack of trying, I can assure you.”

Entering the ballroom was an explosion of noise. It was clear that Luna had not spared a single
detail in the decor. Candlesticks hovered over their heads, and the ceiling had been charmed to
mirror the clear night sky, much like it had been in the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

“Ron and Lavender aren’t attending tonight,” Ginny remarked after a glance at the ceiling,
grimacing for a moment. “With it being a full moon and all.”

Hermione returned her grimace. Even though Lavender was a pure-blooded woman of means and
good family standing, it was still a tenuous time for anyone who suffered under lycanthropy.
Learning how high the prices were set for potions such as wolfsbane and the stigma associated
with having to request it in the first place sent many victims into exile. To gain a fortune on
another’s misfortune was a foul, evil thing.

If one of these men were to provide the signature she needed to seek her mastery, then maybe, she
could help Lavender, and everyone else who had been attacked by Greyback. She could provide
wolfsbane to her, and to Remus, at a fraction of the price.

Glancing looked down at her dance card gave her a sense of renewed vigour. If only the men had
offered something of equivalent, intellectual value.

None of their questions sparked any sort of excitement or thrill within her, not even the anger she
felt during her verbal sparring with Malfoy over the waltz.
Damn him. It seemed like no matter what she thought, she found herself comparing all these men
to the duke. Not as tall, or too tall. They either looked too round or too gaunt.

“Do you enjoy cooking, Miss Granger?”

Hermione gave the group a wane smile, “Not a single thing, my lord.”

Another man, one she had been introduced to but could not remember his name, tried his own
question. “I’ve heard you’re quite skilled in needle-based arts, Miss Granger.”

Her attempts at needlework had been for making hats and gloves for house elves who did not want
them, and a single handkerchief nearly a decade ago. “I haven’t done any needlework for a very
long time, I’m afraid.”

Yet she could create a Grand Wiggenweld Potion from memory within an hour, and Vertiserum
perfectly over an entire moon cycle. She had to remind herself that she was viewing this as a
transaction, her hand for a single signature, yet she found herself bored out of her mind with every
passing conversation. A man, whom she vaguely remembered with the family name of Robins,
spoke up.

“And what then do you find yourself doing in your free time?”

“I enjoy reading, quite a lot.” Hermione brightened at the mention. “And I do have a great interest
in potion making.”

“Potion making? I suppose the ladies of the society need to acquire their love potions from
somewhere!” Robins replied with a laugh. Mortified, Hermione gripped her glass tightly. It would
be a shame to waste good Butterbeer on such a brute of a man.

“I could imagine no greater honour than a wife who can cure her own family ailments with her
own potions.” The voice was instantly recognizable. Malfoy interjected so curtly, it effectively cut
off Robins patronising chuckle. The vitriol in his voice gave her a bit of a jump, having not realised
he had appeared beside her. Sensing that his remarks had not landed as he thought they ought to
have, Robins sputtered.

“Your grace—”

“What else would you have them do, Robins?” Malfoy interrupted. “Do you believe children and
wives are not to be seen or heard?”

“No, of course not!”

Sipping her butterbeer to avoid inserting herself into the verbal lashing Malfoy seemed eager to
dish out, she watched the crowd of men thin out before her. At first, she felt relieved, and then—

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione stiffened. Turning slowly to face him, she first looked at the button of his dress robes
before tilting her head up to meet stark grey eyes. How he managed to achieve a show of effortless
grace after scaring off every man in sight was infuriating.

“Your grace.” Hermione gave a quick curtsy and he bowed in return. Her heart began to race.

What the hell was he doing?

“A lovely evening for a ball.”

Were they really going to discuss the weather at this moment?

“Yes, Luna did such an excellent job with the charm work.”

Hermione felt the temptation to feign a faint in order to escape but loathed the idea of being caught
in his arms in response.

“I was hoping that you might be free for a dance later on tonight. The Polka, perhaps?”

“Oh, I apologise, your grace,” Hermione stammered. “I already have Anthony Goldstein down for
that dance.”

She didn’t, but she would in a short matter of time.

“Of course,” he replied politely. “I shouldn’t have expected anything less with how lovely you look
tonight.”

A blush rose across at his sincerity and boldness. “I—thank you. I do apologise, your grace.”

“Perhaps another ball in the future?”

Hermione nodded, although she knew she would be attending no other ball after this if she could
help it. The deadline for registration was approaching much faster than she anticipated, less than
two weeks left, and with any luck, she would find the least terrible, eligible bachelor in this entire
establishment. She kept a constantly updated mental list of every suitable man and their rankings.
Slowly, but surely, the list was dwindling down with every conversation.

And shunned from that list was the shadow she could not shake, in the form of Draco Malfoy.

As the Polka was announced to start shortly, Hermione excused herself from her conversation with
Harry and Ron to quickly make her way to the starting line of the dance. Yet, after close to a
minute of waiting, Anthony was nowhere to be seen.

The music began, and Hermione was left alone.

Alarmed, she turned her head from side to side in search of him, until she felt a light touch to her
hand. Expecting to see Anthony’s gentle, golden blond hair, she was met with stark white instead.

“You absolute scoundrel.”

Malfoy gripped tightly at her hand before she could rip it away, and led them onto the dance floor.

“I am merely saving you from the embarrassment of being left stag on the dance floor.”

“Are you trying to make a fool of me?” Maintaining a smile while hissing under her breath was an
art Hermione had yet to master. “Malfoy, I swear, if you’ve done anything to Anthony—”

“I did nothing to that fool. Goldstein left ages ago, of his own free will.” Malfoy gave a bow and an
easy-going smile, once again unfazed by her threats. She noticed only when it was far too late to
stop him that he had forgone the formal white gloves. He lifted her hand above her head, guiding
her through a slow spin. “Tell me, do you find his absence disappointing?”

Placing her hand atop his shoulder, not without a bit of a strain accounting for his stature, they took
a turn around the floor. “As he is one of the only men left unbetrothed, and perhaps the least
terrible wizard I’ve spoken to this evening, yes, I do.”

“It is truly lovely to experience all the ways you flatter a man, Miss Granger. You do make it hard
to keep up.”

“I could make it easier for you by banishing your tongue entirely.”

“If you did, it would make it difficult to inform you that Goldstein not only has a fondness for
charming witches but gambling away large fortunes as well.” They began to dance around the
ballroom at a lightning pace. His hands remained in the appropriate areas, with one leading them
through the dance, except she could feel his bare thumb brush against the exposed skin of her
shoulders. “When he’s not wagging his tongues with false flattery, his other hobby includes placing
large, significant, and frankly inadvisable bets. From what I can tell, he left unannounced due to
Ritchie Coote’s arrival. Goldstein cannot face him until he’s made good on his debt.”

While digesting this new information, Hermione did not immediately reply. Though Goldstein’s
impending placement in the Wizengamot was certainly in his favour, an addiction to gambling was
not. It would jeopardise her ability to offer her potions at a fraction of their original price. How
many other men had secret vices or skeletons such as these? Gamblers, rakes, blood supremacy.
Not even the Society Snitch had mentioned it on their pages.

As they began to Polka step forward, Hermione suddenly wished she had taken George’s advice
and purchased a Puking Pastille, if only to alleviate the squeeze of her insides at the bare touch of
his fingers against her back.

“How heroic of you.”

“In reality, it seems the Notts decided to invite every unmarried witch in Europe. You are the one
saving me from Lady Greengrasse, and all the other mamas chaperoning their daughters here
tonight.”

“She is only trying to secure a bright future for her daughters in the only way she knows how, the
same as every mother here.”

Malfoy did not reply, and Hermione was not eager to press him further for conversation. Around
them were sounds of laughter, the popping of champagne bottles, and a number of happily dancing
couples, all completely unaware of the tension between Hermione and her dance partner. They
danced a turn or two about the ballroom.

“I wish to speak to you,” Malfoy whispered suddenly, breaking their ceasefire, “in private.”

“There is nothing I wish to speak to you about.”

“Do not worry, I have a list,” Malfoy replied. “For one, your thinly disguised hatred of me. Second
—”

“I apologise, your grace, for I never meant to disguise it at all.”

“Second,” he continued with a fierce determination, “I wish to discuss your sudden growing interest
in the men of the court, particularly in those that you yourself have pointed out to be unbetrothed.”
 Hermione tore herself away from him, taking a step away from their tense dance. With the shock in
his eyes, it seemed he did not realise he had crossed a line. The couples around them continued to
dance, though some turned to stare at the commotion. Pansy and Zabini expertly dodged the two of
them as they continued dancing, while Hannah Abbott and Neville nearly knocked her over.

“I will not stand here and have my motives questioned by anyone, and certainly not by you,”
Hermione snapped, gathering her skirts in hand and making haste towards where she believed the
large foyer to be.

She cursed him for what felt like the millionth time that night. She hoped with every fibre of her
being that his robes would catch on fire, that his potions be under-brewed, and that every broom
would buck him off. The crowd easily parted for her. And though it seemed the Nott Mansion
layout was a bit more complicated than she had anticipated, she made her way down the hallway
confidently, as if she knew exactly where she was headed.

“Miss Granger!” Malfoy called after her.

“No need for the pleasantries, Malfoy.” There was no one to be found in the hallway, and
Hermione took in a deep breath of relief from the roaring sound of the crowd. “You can address me
any way you’d like.”

“It is not safe,” Malfoy growled at her retreating form, the clicking of his dragonhide shoes
signalling his intent to follow her.

“Not safe? I have fought dementors and Death Eaters on my own, I am sure I could handle an
inebriated wizard should one try to attack in the middle of a crowded ball.”

“All right, Granger.”

Curse her multiple skirts. No matter where she turned, she could hear him only a few steps behind
her. Turn after turn after turn, Hermione did not want to admit she was now lost. “I’ve had enough
of your games. I wish to speak to you frankly, and have this done with.”

“I do not owe you a single conversation,” she hissed. “I have done nothing to deserve being at the
receiving end of your torment. Leave me be, for I wish to be left alone.”

At the first sight of a grand wooden door, Hermione pushed it open, hoping to see a garden, or
maybe another entrance. What welcomed her instead was a grand library, with bookshelves as tall
as the ones she’d seen at Hogwarts. She hesitated at the grandeur of it. She wondered what an old
family like the Notts had access to in their collection, and if maybe she could visit another time. In
any other scenario, this would be a delightful discovery during an overwhelming party, if it weren’t
for Malfoy at her heels.

Right, she remembered. Malfoy. Surely a library of this size would have a fireplace of some kind
that would allow her to make a swift exit.

She entered the library with urgency, making her way through the maze of bookshelves, tables, and
ladders, searching for some sort of door or exit she could utilise. There was no mistaking Malfoy
was still attempting to follow her, though she tried valiantly to shake him off her trail.

That was until one unlucky turn lead her to a dead end.

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter Monday, January 2nd. Have a safe New Years' Eve!
 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

In her distraction, Malfoy’s hand circled around her wrist and grabbed it.

“Granger—”

The bare touch alone sent Hermione’s wand out in a flash, which she pressed threateningly into the
bottom of his jaw. “You are a foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach, Draco Malfoy!”

Though her voice radiated with distinct retribution, Malfoy only looked down at the wand with
great interest, appearing not to be remotely scared for his life at all.

“That is not vinewood.”

The casualness of his statement confounded her. “What?”

“Your wand, it’s not vinewood. What is it? Yew?”

The question threw her off. Here she was, implicitly threatening him, and he seemed far more
interested in discussing the nature of the wood of her wand. “What would you know of it?”

“I know that is not your wand, Granger,” Malfoy replied casually, as if they were discussing the
various differences between a copper or pewter cauldron.

“Need I remind you I was a part of the war effort? Many things were lost over the years.” She let
her wand dig deeper into his skin. “My patience for men’s stupidity included.”

Still, her threat did not seem to faze him. With a wand at his throat, he didn’t even flinch.

“Many stupid men would’ve done the same as I, though I only meant to guard your safety
sincerely.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Do you often find yourself following many women into dark, secluded areas to
guard their virtue, your grace?”

That accusation clearly bothered him more than Hermione’s clear threats did. There was a muscle
in his jaw she watched tense, and the glimmer in his eye vanished.

“I resent your implication. I have no trust in women that throw themselves at me with the clear
intent to land in bed with me, for I am in possession of a noble title and sufficient coin,” Malfoy
said tonelessly. “Unfortunately for both parties, the Malfoy’s have rather distinct features. I have
no wish to sire bastard children, and I would be a fool to place trust in a woman so willing to spread
her legs.”
The distasteful tone of his voice made Hermione bristle. She finally took a step backward, eager to
create space between them during a lewd topic. “How very noble of you.”

Malfoy shrugged, seeming indifferent. “I have not brought shame to any woman or myself. I hardly
see a reason to celebrate it. It is only a matter of fact.”

“You are dealing me quite a bit of shame with these papers, Malfoy.“ Hermione began to pace
before him. “And I will have you know that I am not something meant to be collected. I will not be
used by you as some social stepping stone, or something that need collecting, if only to cover up
your own blood prejudice.”

Malfoy was quiet for a long while before he spoke again, much more softly. “I never would’ve
taken you for a person who would believe such a silly paper.”

“Then tell me, what other purpose would you have to demand my time?”

“I already told you why. I wish to apologise to you.”

It did not convince her in the slightest. “And I do not wish to hear it.”

“There is no excuse for my behaviour towards you, in that bookshop.” Malfoy continued on as if
he hadn't heard her. “I used a vile slur against you so that I could avoid my parents’ suspicion. I—”

“You treated me like I was less than the dirt on your shoe!” she shouted so suddenly that he
flinched in shock. Gone was her patience with his excuses. “We were friends,” Hermione said,
softer this time. “Do you realise what that word meant to me? Or will you claim, not for the first
time, that you were never suited for friendship in the first place?”

Malfoy nodded. Weeks before today, she never felt comfortable looking him directly in the eye.
Even after years of war, they somehow looked the same. “Yes, we were friends. And I thought it
better to push you away myself so that you would be spared my father doing so for me.”

“Well, you were wrong,” Hermione replied. Her voice trembled, betraying her. “You were very
wrong. It was as if the moment you realised my background, I was worth nothing to you.”

“Did you think I did not know the status of your birth until that day? I told you before, I read the
papers from the Triwizard Tournament, broadcasting to the world who you were. I didn’t care, I
never did.”

“The ‘status’ of my birth?” Hermione repeated slowly. As if she was some bastard child. Rage
radiated within her, deafening out the rest.

“You haven’t a single idea what he was like. He would’ve made it much worse, for the both of us,
if I had made our existing friendship known. ”

“What happened to him?”

Malfoy found a sudden interest in the books surrounding him. “The Dark Lord killed him.”

Her shock must have been obvious.

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it before,” Malfoy tried to lean against the shelves, but something
in his posture made it seem as if he was incapable of relaxing. “How else would I be the Duke of
Wiltshire at twenty-two?”
Plenty of wizards had come into their titles after the war, Hermione forgetting that many of them
lost their fathers as well. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be. My father was a cruel man.”

In the silence following, Hermione’s eyes spotted the spine of a book she had spent an entire war
trying to get her hands on. She reached out to pull it from the shelves, but the instant the book
touched her fingertips, the cover glowed with red-hot heat.

“Ouch!” She dropped the book immediately onto the floor. Looking down at her fingers, she could
see several of her fingertips already searing red.

Malfoy glanced down at the book before picking it up from the floor unharmed, while she clutched
her wrist with her hand. But this was Nott’s family library, not his own, and he stared back up at
her with unease.

“How come you could touch it?”

“There are some families,” Malfoy's jaw rolled before he found some fixed point behind her to
stare at, “who place wards on their books. Not from outsiders, or thieves— but from muggle-born
witches and wizards.”

The silence grew between them, thick and asphyxiating. A pin could drop, and she would hear it.

That was the crux of their problem, wasn’t it? They were no longer hidden away in a hidden Eden
in Wiltshire. No matter how much he begged for her forgiveness, there would be no going back to
what they had once shared. Not even if there hadn’t been a war, because if there hadn’t been, he’d
be married to someone like Millicent Bulstrode, off doing whatever it was his father required of
him.

“Well.” The notion of looking Malfoy in the eyes became impossible. She gave an insincere laugh,
horrified at how choked it sounded, even to her ears. “That certainly explains things, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy only closed his eyes for a moment. “Hermione, please.”

He had called her by her first name, in a distant life, many times before. If she could remember the
differences with a shred of accuracy, she could claim his voice had grown hoarse and deeper.
Another reminder that matters had changed irrevocably between them. Hermione rubbed her hands
together in an attempt to soothe the ache of her burned hand, as the entire frame of his body
continued to block her inside the aisle, keeping her from escaping.

Unless she truly wanted to duel the man, which was still a tempting option, she would have to
continue their discussion.

“What exactly are you hoping for? My forgiveness? I’m afraid that is something you must earn.”

“Don’t think I won’t try to earn it.”

“And I have no doubt that you will at the very least try. Now, as for myself, I’d like to leave this
cursed library. Alone.”

After a single glance at his growing frown, Hermione rolled her eyes.

“We certainly can’t be seen leaving the library together. Did you forget that you followed me into a
secluded area of the library? And should people find out, what might they think of me?”
Malfoy loomed closer, his mouth opened to oppose her leaving when an indescribable noise came
from nearby. It ricocheted off the walls, distorting and echoing throughout the room.

As Hermione gasped at the realisation, Malfoy covered her mouth with his hand to silence her. The
sound repeated, only louder this time. As she reached to grasp his wrist, his other arm circled
around her middle and pulled her back into his front.

“Hush,” Malfoy muttered. The noise repeated for the third time, and she could see out of the corner
of her eyes his face morphing into disbelief, and possibly mild disgust. “Good Godric. In a library,
of all places?”

It wasn’t just any noise.

Someone was moaning, and loudly. Listening closely, she heard creaking wood and thudding
bookshelves, and the distinct sound of skin smacking together.

She made a sound of disgust before remembering it was muffled by Malfoy’s hand, her lips
moving against his bare skin. Shagging in a library of all places? In front of the portraits, no less!
What was society coming to? He held her tighter against him in response.

“Quiet,” he whispered in the shell of her ear. The low timbre of his voice sent a sharp and
involuntary shiver down her spine. The smooth skin of his face brushed against her cheek, and the
pleasantly distinct notes of pine in his cologne made her question just how much Butterbeer she
consumed. She took another deep breath, feeling suddenly greedy.

“I can’t tell where they are, though they are far too close for comfort.” Malfoy quietly shifted them
both closer to the aisle, attempting to peer around the corner. “And I’d rather not receive an eye-
full of the situation.”

The coupling close by them continued on— a moaning man and a gasping woman. Heat bloomed
across her skin as she valiantly fought off the reminder of what was taking place only a few rows
over from them.

Even when they had danced together, Malfoy hadn’t been nearly this close. Held tightly in his
arms, Hermione became lost in thoughts beyond mere conversation.

For a moment, she wondered what the lips at her ear would feel like on her neck that was currently
bare to him. Or how his hands would feel snaking around her waist. Despite her best attempts at
indifference towards Malfoy, the truth of it was, her body ached to push back against him.

She realised all at once what this particular emotion was, the slow-growing burn curling in her
belly the entire night.

It was desire.

Could he feel it? The growing heat of her cheeks against his hands, the faint trembling? Did he
assume it was from embarrassment, or that she might be frightened of him? Or that, maybe, she
was experiencing a growing willingness to be held this way?

The noise was slowly dying down, stifled groans and little gasps becoming faint.

“Seems fairly… quick,” Malfoy commented under his breath. The sound of his voice trickled
down her body.

He made no attempts to let her go.

The library door finally closing behind the illicit couple promptly brought Hermione back to her
consciousness like a Rennervate. If encountered in this position, it would be positively scandalous.
In an instant, she brought up one of her heeled shoes and stomped down.

Satisfaction radiated through her as she felt her heel make contact with the front of his dragonhide
shoes, initiating a yelp from his mouth in her left ear.

“Merlin’s beard, you witch,” he whisper-shouted, releasing his hold on her immediately. Hermione
turned to face him and found him crouching and reaching for his foot. “Are you feral?”

She fought against the urge to stare at his lower body, for some sort of confirmation that her body’s
failings were not entirely her own. That maybe he felt similar to how she had moments ago.

“Better my foot than a fist,” Hermione replied, a bit more breathless than she would’ve liked, and
gathered her skirts. “Perhaps next time I will not be as kind.”

Taking advantage of his pained state, she circled around him and ran for her life.

Quickly giving up on her search for a Floo, Hermione made her way through the door she had first
entered through. She tried to catch her breath and her rapidly beating heart, from both the run and
her body's misfortunate response to Malfoy’s embrace.

“Are you all right?”

Hermione jumped. It was the same woman she’d seen in Fred and George’s joke shop, a
Greengrasse, standing in the empty hallway and staring at her.

“Oh, yes.” Hermione wiped her hands across the front of her skirt, feigning a pained look across
her face. “Would you happen to know where the exit is? I’m feeling a bit under the weather, and
would like to go home.”

A terrible night's sleep awaited her back in London. She tossed and turned over Malfoy’s
seemingly genuine apology and the other events that took place in that library. When the morning
sun rose in her window, she felt no better rested than when she had first arrived home.

After quickly dressing for the day, Hermione left her room to find Mr. Crookshanks loitering by
the stairwell, holding a paper in hand. His normally stoic face was concerned.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

Mr. Crookshanks rubbed his thumb against the paper as if hesitating, but extended it out for her to
take anyway.

It was the society gossip once again.

Transcript:

Sunday, August 20, 1843

A SCANDALOUS AFFAIR AT NOTT MANOR!

It has been reported that Miss Granger’s society appearance, as we know, has gained
the attention of several impressive suitors across the Wizarding community. Miss
Granger was seen in a stunning emerald green gown, enjoying the Polka with the Duke
of Wiltshire at the Duke of Manchester’s residence this past weekend, before Miss
Granger developed a headache that required her to sit out for the remainder of the
evening. Perhaps the Duke of Wiltshire and Miss Granger have a rapidly developing
relationship, as we once shared with our readers.

Upon further investigation with the Nott family portraits in the library, it appears as
though two mysterious attendees at the party became overcome with their passion for
one another during the soiree. The only identifying details that could be gathered for
my dear readers was that the couple was a tangle of blond hair and dark curls…
 The Society Snitch

Hermione could not read another word before her stomach turned.

Chapter End Notes

For my own sanity, I'm switching to every other day updates to twice a week. This is
to catch up with comments and feedback from my lovely friends betaing my work.

I'm sorry for the sudden change! The next update is Friday, January 6th.
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

Thank you for being so understanding about the schedule change! That being said,
enjoy this chapter ♥️

As always, thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my

dear friend Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on
Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The time between reading the slanderous article to arriving at Grimmauld Place was a dizzying
blur. Hermione clutched her wand as she stepped through the floo, disoriented and worried. Before
she could call out to Harry, she found he was already there, pacing about the small drawing room.
Ginny was sitting adjacent to the fireplace, shaking her leg across her lap, picking at her lip. They
all began to exclaim at the same time.

“You’ve seen it.”

“It’s terrible.”

“Awful!”

Ginny rose to grasp Hermione’s hands. “Is it true?”

Hermione frowned. “It’s absolutely not true!”

“So you swear you did not spend a moment alone with Malfoy in the library?”

In a moment of weakness, Hermione gave a small flinch. Ginny and Harry immediately recognized
it for what it was. Before either of them could get a word in, the floo roared behind her, and out
stepped the last person Hermione wanted to see.

Malfoy froze under the intense stare of three close friends.

“Is this a bad time?” he said, brushing off non-existent dust off his ridiculously well-tailored robes.
Nothing in his expression seemed to indicate he was the least bit worried. “What’s happened?”

“What’s happened?” Harry asked in a shrill tone that would make Molly Weasley proud. “What’s
happened? Do you even read the paper?”

“The Prophet?”

“The Snitch,” Harry snapped back with gritted teeth. Malfoy’s brow creased.

“You know full well I don’t read that rubbish.”

With a snap in the air of his wand, a spare copy of The Society Snitch flew in the air and pasted
itself to Malfoy’s chest. Peeling it off himself, Hermione watched as he skimmed the front page.
“Merlin’s beard,” Malfoy murmured. The sound of pages turning only meant that he was reading
further.

Hermione looked back at Harry, incensed. “The absurd implication is–”

“Implication?” Malfoy repeated, tossing the paper into the fire. “Darling, we are far past
implications. This is an accusation on both our honours. More-so yours, Miss Granger.”

“This is much worse than an implication, this is an accusation!” Harry turned fully to face Malfoy.
“And you,” he snarled, pointing at Malfoy with his own copy of the paper folded in his hands. It
had been so many years since she’d seen Harry angry. After the war ended, he became
considerably calmer, and more relaxed. Seeing him this furious made the hair on her neck stand up.
The anger he exuded made the magic in the room frazzle. “What have you done?”

“I can assure you, Potter,” Malfoy replied, his tone flat with neutrality, not phased at all by Harry’s
anger. “There was nothing untoward between Miss Granger and myself at the Manchester Ball.
You know that I am not that type of man.”

“Do you admit that you were both together in the library at Nott’s Manor?”

“Yes, but–”

“Hermione.” Ginny gaped at her, her tone heavy with reprimand. Hermione’s panic was not easy to
hide.

“I only meant to get some air, but he followed me–”

“What is that?” Harry demanded, again using the paper to point at Malfoy. “You followed her into
the library? For what purpose, Malfoy? What have you done to her!”

“Harry, you cannot possibly believe that I would be so loose as to shag a man in a library.” At the
frankness of her language, Harry’s eyes widened as Hermione rolled hers. “Do not look at me like
that, Harry, we will discuss this as friends and equals!”

“Of course I believe you, but it is not I that need to believe it, Hermione, it is your suitors.” Harry
finally threw down his worn weapon, the gossip paper, onto his desk in frustration. “Even if I
believe you, it is not I that has to marry you.”

Malfoy stood near the entrance of the room still as a statue, awkward and stiff as if he were an
intruder witnessing a family quarrel.

“I need not marry anyone with a title,” Hermione rushed to explain. “The rule is that it need be
someone with magic–”

“Excuse my interruption.” Though Malfoy did not sound very apologetic about it. “The rule?”

The question loomed high in the air. The last person she wished to drag into this nonsense was
Draco Malfoy. It seemed The Society Snitch was keen on tearing up all her plans without having a
single clue as to what they were.

“Never mind this courtroom debate. Malfoy and I will discuss this in my office privately.”

Malfoy and Harry moved to exit the room, immune to Hermione’s jaw dropping in disbelief. She
followed them. “You cannot exclude me from this discussion!”
Tearing open the door for Malfoy to enter, Harry stepped into the study behind him, keeping
Hermione from joining them. “I assure you, Hermione, we will resolve this quickly. Malfoy and I
are both Wizengamont members, I know we can come to some form of agreement.”

Hermione gaped at the door that was shut in her face. She kicked it for good measure. Before
realising her lungs refused to fill and her eyes started to sting. She was all of a sudden gasping,
shaking—

“Hermione, breathe,” Ginny ordered, clutching at Hermione’s shoulders. She looked ready to
shake her at any moment. “You need to breathe.”

Forcing herself, Hermione took a deep breath inward but her whole body began to shake. “It’ll be
all right, I swear it,” Ginny whispered, tugging her friend along. “Come. I’ll make us some tea.”

After what felt like a millennium, Harry and Malfoy emerged from the study with haste.

“We’ve come to an agreement,” Harry announced happily. Malfoy looked to be very interested in
the art that graced the walls of the townhome, averting his gaze from the women entirely. “Malfoy
will make an offer to your father, and he will be the one to decide.”

“An offer?” Hermione stood from her seat. “For what?”

“For your hand, of course.”

“What? Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, but her pleading fell on deaf ears. “You cannot be serious.
Harry! I beg you not to.”

Before she could stop them, they had all made their way back to the Granger’s home. If she wasn’t
sure it would start a duel, she would have hexed both men in place. Mr. Crookshanks entered the
room to greet their guests. He gave Harry a polite smile with his red moustache twitching, but when
he turned his gaze to Malfoy, his face soured entirely.

“Mr. Potter,” he exclaimed. “It is very good to see you once again.”

Harry coughed behind his hand as Ginny nudged him. “My fiancée has instructed me that I ought
to be a tad bit stricter with how I am announced.” He took out a single card, for which it described
his name and newly appointed title.

Mr. Crookshanks took it from him with a nod. “I apologise, my lord. Of course.”

Hermione reached out, tugging on Harry’s arm with alarm, but Harry averted his gaze. A glimpse
of her father appeared in the hallway, pausing at the sight of a crowd of people in his sitting room.

“Hermione?”

They all stood at attention once Hermione’s father entered the room.
“Introducing his grace, the Duke of Essex, Harry Potter, and his betrothed, Lady Ginevra
Weasley,” Mr. Crookshanks’ moustache wiggled with what looked to be thinly-veiled distaste.
“And his grace, the Duke of Wiltshire, Draco Malfoy.”

“My word,” her father said, removing his glasses before dipping his chin in a curt nod. “My lords,
my lady. Are we all paying Hermione a visit?”

Harry stepped forward. “We have an urgent matter to discuss with you, sir, if we can have a
moment alone in your study.”

“Please.” Her father gestured down the hall. Ginny stayed behind but Hermione silently followed
with wide eyes. Harry went through the door first, and then her father. Mr. Crookshanks held the
door open for Malfoy, who hesitated.

“Draco,” Hermione whispered. The call of his given name caught his attention more than any of
her past pointed remarks. He turned to her, looking as though she had him hanging on her every
word.

She took a deep breath. “You do not have to do this,” Hesitating, Hermione clarified further.
“Marry me, I mean. I can come to a solution on my own. There are other careers I can pursue,
other things I can do.”

Though Hermione had no great wish to become a wife, it had been a pleasant daydream she quickly
grew used to. To both care for someone, and had been cared for in return. To share her
achievements and dreams with, and share his as well.

It was irrelevant now. It would take a foolish man, or one that loved her above all else, to offer his
hand after a scandal like this. Even if the scandal had never occurred in actuality.

While her mind tore apart the possibilities for the future, Malfoy was only staring blankly at her.

“I do not wish to tie myself to you forever.” she finished her remaining thought after a painful
breath. The memory of the disgust on his face flooded her chest with the never-forgotten pain it
caused her. “If you could not bear it.”

Malfoy did not reply. While her vision swam with tears, he slipped past her into her father’s study
and shut the door behind him.

Remembering the tools at her disposal, Hermione quickly reached for her purse and summoned a
recent purchase.

Fred and George’s invention of extendable ears were indispensable during the war, and Hermione
always managed to have some on hand. Perhaps that was what made The Society Snitch so
effective at their snooping. Ginny’s eyes widened at the sight of the packaging.

“Brilliant,” Ginny whispered before they both leaned in close to the ground, and let the ears roll
under the trim of her father’s office door.

“…make an offer.” The unmistakable voice of Malfoy grew clear.

“An offer?” her father replied incredulously. “Crookshanks, are you still in possession of that rifle
of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry spoke up. “Now, now, let’s be reasonable here–”

“Harry, I’ve known you since you were a young boy,” her father interrupted curtly. “Do not waste
my time with fancy wordplay and manipulation. You, your grace, have made a spectacle of my one
and only daughter in front of the entire wizarding society!”

Merlin’s beard. They had shown him the paper. Hermione rubbed at her face with exasperation.

“I assure you, nothing happened in that library, though I understand the position this article has put
your daughter in. Therefore, I would like to make an offer for Hermione Granger’s hand in
marriage,” Malfoy continued, when no man in the room spoke up.

“Why?”

“Why?” Malfoy repeated.

“I assume you are a man of means and a title, and while I appreciate your willingness to do the
right thing, I will not be fooled into thinking you are going forward with this offer out of the
kindness of your own heart. Surely you are receiving something out of this peculiar arrangement.”

“He is,” Harry added, but it sounded as though the conversation was going around him.

“Is it money you’re after? My daughter's dowry perhaps?”

“No, God’s no, I have plenty of money.” Hermione rolled her eyes and Ginny looked exasperated.
“I only mean, I would do the same if there was no dowry at all. I have the means to care for us
both, regardless of our employment.”

“I know it is Hermione’s wish to continue to work. Becoming a Duchess would certainly conflict
with her goals.”

“I would have no objection to that.”

Ginny’s brow flew upwards. Hermione’s chest constricted.

“I hope you can understand why I would have a hard time believing that you would propose to my
untitled daughter if she were penniless and wished to work her entire life as a chimney sweep. She
is a very accomplished woman, as I am sure you know. So I will ask again for the final time,
why?”

The room was silent. Hermione struggled to understand if the ears were not working, even Ginny
pulled her head away to check if they were still under the door. Then—

“Really?” her father said.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” His tone was one of shock.

“‘Oh’?” Ginny hissed, gripping Hermione’s sleeve. “‘Oh’? What does that mean?”
There was a long bout of silence.

“Did you attend Hogwarts, your grace?”

“No, Mr. Granger, I attended Durmstrang. It’s another wizarding school, located in Bulgaria. I
would return home for the summers.”

“Ah, yes.”

Silence.

“But you are the Duke of Wiltshire, yes?”

“I am.”

“I see.”

More silence.

“I believe I understand now. If she accepts, I give my blessing for this marriage—”

Hermione ripped herself away from the ears, tugging them with her as she stood. Ginny nearly
toppled to the floor at the suddenness.

“Oh, Gods.” Hermione pressed her hand to her chest to control her breathing. “Good Godric—”

Ginny still had her wits about her. “We must get back to the drawing room!”

With some corralling, Ginny brought them both back to the sitting room and Hermione fell into the
same couch her mother once fainted on long ago. A few minutes passed as Hermione regained her
steady breathing, Ginny attempting to soothe her nerves. The men entered the room with a
casualness that made Hermione grit her teeth tightly. Her father and Malfoy shook hands as
Hermione stood.

“Thank you, Mr. Granger, for your understanding—”

“Hold on!” Hermione interjected abruptly, and the men paused. “I have yet to accept, father.”

“This is true,” her father agreed lightly, turning with a smile to Malfoy.

How could he be so seemingly carefree at the prospect of marrying her off to a virtual stranger?

“There are things I want to ensure are agreed upon before accepting such a serious proposal. I’m
sure you can understand that, your grace.”

“Of course.” Malfoy looked around the room. “Is there a place you would like to discuss this
matter?”

“We have a salon, just around the corner here. Mr. Crookshanks, if you would?”

Hermione skimmed over the Malfoy marriage contract before dropping the sheet of parchment to
glare at her father. “You’ve read this? And approved?”
“Yes, Hermione, dear.”

She lifted the sheet again for her continued inspection. The room was so quiet, she could
practically hear everyone’s breathing.

The Malfoys appeared to have a standard contract of marriage. She did not spot a single line
barring muggle-borns, she was sure that Malfoy had enough sense to review it before conjuring it
up in front of her father, but there were several worrying clauses, including—

…Required to share a bed at least once every month, barring any required military leave, until the
requirements of lineage are met.

Hermione practically threw the parchment into the crackling embers of the fireplace beside them.

“Bed-sharing? Is it your hope to make a fool of me?” she hissed. Harry, who had somehow
wrangled his way into the salon with her father, flinched in the corner.

“It is meant to foster relationships between those arranged into marriage, and has served my family
well for generations,” Malfoy explained with measurable delicacy. “Many arranged marriages have
ended with a fondness for one another due to these measures.”

“Continuing on this topic, ‘Produce an heir, and a second child, with consideration of the mother’s
health’? An heir and a spare, I see.” Hermione could not help but point out bitterly. Her neck
twisted with frustration.

“Being an only child can be incredibly lonely, Miss Granger. I imagine you are aware of this fact.
Let it be known that it does not specify the gender of the second child, only that there be a second,
with care taken for your health.”

If this was her lot in life, then Black family tradition be damned. If her children would carry the
Malfoy name, she could at least pick their given names. The beautiful script of his name, Draco
Lucius Malfoy, was at the head of the parchment. The curl at the corner of her lips was difficult to
control. “Then I would like the privilege of naming them.”

From the reaction she read across his face, it was clear she twisted at a hidden knife. Hermione
smiled thinly and Malfoy gave her a single nod, though his lip curled slightly.

“If that is what you wish.” A tap of his wand to the page, and a new line etched its way onto the
sheet of paper.

“I want it written in here as well that you will agree to register me for courses in the pursuit of a
Potions Mastery.”

Malfoy didn’t even blink. “Of course.” Another tap.

“And I would like Mr. Crookshanks to be employed as the Head of Staff for the home as well.”

“We have an entire staff that has served our family for centuries,” Malfoy replied slowly. “And you
want to bring your own butler? What of your father’s staff?”

“Is that staff paid, or are you referring to the group of house-elves you own?” The tightness of his
mouth was all the confirmation she needed. “Then yes, I would like to bring my own butler. As
well as the employment of new house management. My father will make do.”

“It is up for discussion,” said Malfoy with great restraint. “It is not as simple as you might believe.
Though, if Mr. Crookshanks would accept the offer to move households, I have no objections.”

She supposed she was pushing her luck for a while now. With a deep breath, Hermione relented. “I
accept those conditions.”

Two reviews of the contract later, Hermione looked up at Malfoy from across the table. “Very well
then. I will accept your proposal.” She took the quill in hand and signed her name next to his
before passing it to her father for his signature.

“Splendid!” Harry exclaimed. She promised herself she could hex him in private the first moment
she had the chance. “I suggest we make haste with this engagement. The courts should be open
tomorrow for a marriage licence.”

“Tomorrow?” Breathless, Hermione gripped the edge of the table tightly. Somehow, she believed
she would have more time to get used to the idea of marrying Draco Malfoy.

“Everyone is aware of Malfoy’s affinity for privacy. It will certainly not be out of character to have
a private ceremony.” Harry pointedly looked at Hermione. “And how many weeks do you have
until that course registration closes?”

She gulped. “Two.”

“There. Not a day to waste, I believe.”

Both Hermione and her betrothed remained silent as Harry planned out their wedding ceremony in
excruciating detail. Abruptly, Malfoy cut in. “Please, if you all will excuse me, I have some
matters to attend to if Miss Granger and I are to be wed tomorrow.”

As he rose, Hermione did as well. “Do not worry yourselves, I will see his grace out.” With
disbelief, Hermione let out a laugh. “After all, we are engaged.”

They left the room in silence and Hermione managed to fight down the imaginary obstruction in
her throat. “My father seems quite happy with this arrangement.”

“It would seem that he is.”

“And your mother, your Grace?” The words are slow out of her mouth. There was visible tension in
his shoulders at the mention, which gave away almost immediately. “How will your mother feel
when she learns of this news?”

“I am a boy no longer, Miss Granger,” Malfoy replied with a flat tone. “I do not require my
mother’s permission to do anything, as I inherited the title of Wiltshire, and can do as I please.”

“Do you not care for her happiness with your marriage?”

There was a vacant look in his eyes as he stared at her. The longer he simply looked at her,
Hermione fought to keep herself from squirming.

“I have done many things in this life to ensure my mother’s happiness. Surely I have done my part
as it is.” Which was not an answer to her original question by any means, but seemed to be the only
reply he was willing to provide her.
They made their way back to the drawing room from the salon in silence before Malfoy turned to
face her so suddenly, she nearly collided with his back.

“Tell me this, Miss Granger. What is it about this Potions Mastery that has you so caught up in
achieving it? You mentioned it in passing as if it was merely a hobby, or a way to pass time, yet
you brought it up with every single one of your suitors. Your father talked about this goal of yours,
and you’ve had it written into our marriage agreement. This pursuit of yours has driven you to
pursue marriage, has it not?”

She stood stunned at his bluntness. “Yes.”

“Why?” He breathed out the question as if it pained him somehow. “Tie yourself to another person
in marriage only for the opportunity at a career?”

“Perhaps you have not seen the things I have seen, or you cannot begin to understand what it is like
for me, your grace, ” Hermione replied testily. She did not owe this man, her potential husband, she
remembered blindly, a single explanation. But maybe if she could make him see the pain she had
suffered, the answer would be obvious.

“I sent my parents to Australia with a new identity during the war. When I returned after close to
two years, my mother was gravely ill. I suspect it had to do with the growing smog of the cities.
She had been developing a cough when we lived in London.” She took in a deep breath, then
soldiered on. “Do you realise the price of Wolfsbane is not only astronomical in its monetary, but
social cost as well? The process of procuring it is met with such disdain that werewolves are often
persecuted, sending them into hiding, never to pursue a stable life and living. Do you understand
the burden this places on well-meaning people, trying to do the right thing?”

“I do,” Malfoy replied with uncharacteristic softness.

“If you realise it, then you will understand that I cannot stand to be a witness to it any longer. No
matter my marks in school, or my Order of Merlin, I would need a man of relation to sign for my
mastery. I can either wait for the Wizengamont to wise up, which would take years, or marry a
wizard and start schooling as soon as possible. Seeing as my father is a muggle, it is clear the
choice I have had to make.” She paused to steady her breathing and fixed her eyes on the collar of
Malfoy’s shirt. When she looked into his eyes, they saw too much of her. “My mother passed away
due to muggle disease, and despite the books I’ve read, all the potions I’ve made, there was
nothing I could do to stop it. Everything I did, and she still died. I cannot stand to wait.”

“But it wasn’t your fault.”

“What?”

“Your mother’s passing.”

Distracted, she had not noticed when he took a step closer, but now he was infinitely closer. “Even
if you had attended your seventh year, immediately gone to be a potion’s master, and had all the
books at your disposal, her passing would still not be your fault.”

Hermione glanced up at him. Face-to-face, he was far closer than he, or any man, had dared to be
in recent years without the excuse of a dance. Hermione fought the urge to take a large step
backwards.

“There are some things in this world that remain out of our control, no matter our status or wealth.
Death is one of them. Though your other reasons, including access to affordable potions, I feel are
truly exemplary of the type of person you are.”

“And what type of person do I seem to be?”

“Kind, loyal.” Malfoy trailed off for a moment before continuing, “Clever and good.”

“Oh.” Startled, Hermione blinked. “Thank you.”

“Now, Miss Granger, this is the moment when you tell me what type of person you believe me to
be.”

Prat.

She shrugged. “You might not like what I have to say.”

There was no pause before he barked out a laugh. His shoulders shook loosely as he chuckled, his
face free of tension, carefree in a way she hadn’t witnessed in years. “Well, at the very least I can
always trust you to be honest, I suppose.”

Was this flirting during their societal ruin? For a Duke, Hermione couldn’t understand why he
acted completely unaffected by that slanderous article. While Hermione was fighting for her
freedom and engagement, Malfoy was discussing career paths as if it was any normal weekday. His
gaze flickered to her lips and his expression evolved into something she did not recognise.

“There are those who believe we already have…intimate knowledge of each other,” Malfoy’s
voice trailed off suggestively. He looked down at her as if cataloguing her response for more
infuriating remarks later. “And though it seems the entire wizarding world is eager to distrust us,
you and I know the truth of what happened last night. If I were to steal a kiss from you today, no
one would blink an eye.”

Hermione’s lip curled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I wouldn’t? You are to be my most loving wife.” He wasn’t looking at her eyes now, only her lips.
In an act of kindness, she rolled off a fair warning.

“Not if you cared to sire children from this marriage, your grace.”

Malfoy only laughed, as if all her threats only brought him immense joy.

“Very interesting form of foreplay, Miss Granger.” He pulled away, increasing the distance
between them. Baiting her seemed to be his own devious form of foreplay, but the absence of him
was instantaneous, causing the air around her to turn dull and cold. “I would save it for tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. When she would become his wife and he would become her husband, under the worst
of circumstances.

Was the achievement of a Potions Mastery worth this lifelong torment? It was at the front of her
mind constantly. While she had given him an out that he had not taken, what was her obligation to
becoming this man’s wife? This man, who had ruined her reputation with his inability to let her
hate him.

There was a world where Hermione could wait for the Wizengamont to gather the votes to change
these deep-rooted prejudiced rules that kept her from pursuing her dreams. The truth was that no
matter how she viewed it, systematic changes are not easily untangled. She could spend years
researching medicinal potions on her own, but without the fundamentals that were being kept
 under lock and key, it would cause delays that she felt she could not afford.

In the end, what disappointed her the most was the implication that her virginity may be
compromised was all that was needed for her long list of suitors to disappear. Hermione scoffed.
For all the wizarding world looked upon muggles for being antiquated, barbaric or foolish, they
need only look in a mirror. Plenty of witches before her had never married, and they had hardly
been called spinsters. Some had gone on to become professors at Hogwarts, researchers of their
own right, and store owners as well. But muggle-born witches— all their distinctions had been
qualified by the wizard they had married. Perhaps those successful witches she read about were
pure-blood, or born of a wizard.

For the first time in her life, she envied those with a different, smaller vision. A simpler vision.

When he stepped into the fireplace to Floo home, ducking his head to avoid knocking his forehead,
her wretched and traitorous heart threw itself against the cage she had created for it years ago.
Steeling herself, Hermione nodded shortly. “Tomorrow, then.”

Chapter End Notes

No one made a guess at who the couple was in the library! Any thoughts?

Next chapter Tuesday, January 10th. ♥️

 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

The chapter count has changed after a discussion with my beta about splitting one very
long chapter in two. Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Weeks of worrying, meeting with friends, transformations in dressing rooms, attending balls—all
for her to marry Draco Malfoy.

It felt like some horrible joke.

Though some weddings were held within the lower courts of the Ministry, her father would not
have been permitted to enter as a muggle. It began a scramble to find any Ministry worker who
could officiate their wedding.

Late into the night, an eagle arrived from Malfoy informing her of the agreed upon time, place, and
officiant. In the end, it was Percy Weasley who had all the accreditations necessary with very little
fanfare. A practical man, Percy was nothing close to a romantic. But this wedding was far from a
love match for them, nothing more than a charade of Society expectations and a business
transaction.

It was fitting that Percy be the one to wed them.

They would marry in her garden in the early afternoon, allowing for her father to attend, and an
appropriate excuse to avoid a large reception instead of having the ceremony take place at the
Manor. Malfoy also informed her that he would be bringing a friend or two, along with his mother.

The thought of having Narcissa Malfoy in her home sent her stomach careening to the floor, though
she did not voice her objections. This was his mother, and his wedding as well.

Hermione would’ve given anything to have her mother beside her.

Molly did what she could with the small garden, hanging candlelights and flowers. Hermione
suspected she had stayed up all night making hor d'oeuvres and cakes for their small reception,
doing what she could to make this wedding as formal as possible.

“You are marrying a duke, for Merlin’s sake,” Molly exclaimed, as she transfigured multiple trays
of food onto hovering tables the moment she stepped through the Floo. Ginny took her hand and
brought her up the stairs to her room to get ready.

The two women fussed over Hermione’s curls for what felt like ages, and Hermione did her best to
sit still. Hanging outside her dresser was the dress she was meant to wear in only a few hours.

In the middle of her mental spiral the night before, Hermione realised in their haste that she had no
time at all to procure a wedding dress.
“I don’t have a dress,” she exclaimed over the pot of tea that Mr. Crookshanks had brought her that
night, but had since long gone cold. “I have many dresses, yes, but not a wedding dress!”

“Don’t know much about wizard fashion, my dear, but there is a wedding dress in this house,” her
father called out from the other room.

Her mother’s wedding dress. Most women continued to wear their dresses after the wedding, for
practical purposes, but her father had made enough money that her mother’s wedding dress was
kept for admiration only.

And admire she did. In perfect shape, as though it was made of magic, not a stitch out of place, and
no signs of browning on the white fabric. Though the style was a bit dated, it would do just fine.
Molly assisted in dressing her, and they both sighed in relief that it fit her as perfectly as any
tailored dress should.

“Gorgeous, my dear,” Molly complimented softly. Ginny, though she tried her best to hide it,
sniffled in the corner. Hermione said nothing, though for the first moment in many days, her heart
felt strangely at ease.

When her father arrived on the upper landing, dressed in his best suit, Molly and Ginny left to join
the crowd growing in their sitting room.

Turning to look at herself in the mirror, the ghost of her mother's reflection beamed back at her.

“A vision. Your mother would be so happy to see you in her gown.” They dipped their heads in her
memory. Her father offered out his arm for Hermione to take. “Shall we?”

She reached for his arm before looking up at him for reassurance. “Are you certain you approve?”

“Absolutely certain,” he said. Soft piano music began to play and radiate up to the landing. “I
believe it is now or never.”

“Should we not flee to Australia?” Hermione whispered the joke, though her chest felt constricted,
and her head light. Her father laughed despite it all, and they made their way down the steps.

From their brief vantage point, it was simple to make out the small crowd of people in her family’s
sitting room. The mob of bright, red hair congregating close to one another would be a mass of
Weasleys. Of course, the mess of black hair sitting right beside them would be Harry. Behind him,
some of the older Order members, most assuredly dragged there by Harry himself.

There was a much smaller group of guests she only knew vaguely, from what Hermione could only
assume was the groom’s side. Sitting between them was Theo and Luna, an even split between
groom and bride.

Sitting in the farthest corner in the room, dressed in all black, was Narcissa Malfoy.

There was no time to dwell on it, for the guests became a blur the moment her eyes locked at the
front of the room with Malfoy as he stood next to Percy Weasley.

As her father handed her off to Malfoy, pulling her to the front with him, he whispered as if he read
her mind, “You look beautiful.”

When Hermione opened her mouth to reply, no sound came out. Instead, Percy started speaking to
the crowd.
They exchanged standard vows, some she remembered years ago at Bill and Fleur’s own wedding.
At one point, they reached for the other’s hands, and a glowing strand wrapped around their arms.
Repeating back the words as Percy stated them, all she could do at first was stare down at their
intertwined hands.

Their rings were matching, in a way—both thick golden bands, hers was forged with small floral
imagery and stones, and his was a simple band, as was standard for most men.

Hermione finally gathered the courage to look up at her betrothed as she pushed the ring onto his
finger after he had done the same to her. It was a short moment until she realised it. If she had not
been standing before him, studying him, she would not have seen it.

Malfoy looked— happy.

Why would his happiness shock her? It was, after all, his wedding day, their wedding day.

In her distraction, she missed the next part of Percy’s speech, not knowing what to do until Malfoy
gently raised his hands to cradle her face. She closed her eyes, waiting for the impending kiss,
expecting something perfunctory and clinical. It came a moment later, with the soft brush of his
lips on hers before he pressed them together more firmly.

At that moment, she indulged herself in the feeling. His distinct cologne flooded her senses, along
with the warm press of his lips, the combination calming her rapidly beating heart. If she imagined
as a girl what it would be like to kiss him, Hermione would truthfully admit it felt— right.

Their guests gave their polite applause, while some—she would have guessed either Ron or Theo
—began loudly whooping before he finally pulled away.

“Introducing his and her grace, the Duke and Duchess of Wiltshire, Draco and Hermione Malfoy.”

As they signed their licence—first the groom, then the bride, followed by her father and ending
with a witness, the paper immediately rolled itself before Percy sealed it.

It was settled. They had done it.

After scarfing down a pastry or two, Percy exited before the reception began to file their marriage
licence before the closing of the Ministry.

Draco—she decided at that moment it was silly to continue calling her husband anything other than
his first name—took her hand as they made their rounds.

“It was very different from my wedding, as your mother and I were married in the church,” her
father said. “But no less beautiful.”

The men shook each other’s hands as Hermione scanned the remaining crowd, her thoughts finally
clear of her earlier anxieties. It seemed in the rush between the ceremony and the reception,
Narcissa had left without a word.

They greeted the Weasley family next. Charlie and Bill were both missing; Charlie still remained
in Romania, though he planned to return for Ginny and Harry’s wedding, and Fleur was at home
resting as they were soon expecting their first child. Lavender was there beside Ron, and Harry
looked entirely too pleased for a man who had forced two people into marriage.

When Mr. Crookshanks tried to hide away from the reception, citing his duties as butler, Hermione
pulled him back into the gardens. “Of course, you must stay, Mr. Crookshanks. Molly’s got
everything charmed, consider it your day off.”

“I couldn’t possibly—” Mr. Crookshanks paused as his gaze caught on someone in the crowd, his
earlier objections suddenly forgotten. “Moony?”

Lupin turned. “Crooks? Is that you?”

The two men exclaimed loudly before Remus embraced Mr. Crookshanks like an old friend, both
boisterously laughing.

When they pulled apart, Remus joyously threw his arm around Mr. Crookshanks shoulders and
wagged a finger at Draco. “You be careful around this man, you hear me?”

Mr. Crookshanks scoffed, and Remus leaned in and whispered conspiratorially to the newlyweds,
“Do you know he once killed a man with only a butterknife?”

When Hermione glanced at her groom, his normally stoic expression was vaguely horrified.

“I was a young man then, these old bones couldn’t catch a rat if they tried." Mr. Crookshanks’
brow rose. “Though I did hear a rumour that Wormy wasn’t dead after all. Traitorous snake, he
was!”

“You wouldn’t believe the story if I told you.”

“Oh, I hated that fellow. I told you boys, that the form an animangus takes is indicative of their
nature…”

Their conversation trailed off as Hermione and Draco continued around the garden. Though the
audience was limited, the attention was beginning to overwhelm her. With each discussion, she
withdrew further into herself, looking to Draco to answer or reply for them.

More than anything, she wanted a moment alone to breathe.

“Are you all right?”

Hermione jumped, the sound of Draco’s low voice in her ear startling her.

“Of course,” she replied. A lock of hair that was earlier neatly held back, fell across his forehead as
he looked down at her with concern. She fought the urge to reach up and fix it, shaking her head.
“Only a bit fatigued is all.”

“Hm.” He sounded doubtful. His eyes left hers as he scanned the crowd. “I think we’ve done
enough chatting here, don’t you?”

Hermione blinked. “We must still greet your friends—”

“They will survive. They look preoccupied with the desserts anyway.” Draco offered out his arm.
“Shall we?”

Hermione felt faint. “To the Manor?”

“No. To the Ministry. I assume Percy has submitted our paperwork by now, and I intend to make
good on our agreement.”

They made their way quickly down the halls, ignoring the interested stares of Ministry workers in
their wake. Sitting in the window of the soon-to-be closing office to the Department of Magical
Education was Dolores Umbridge. To her relief, there was no line ahead of them.

“Good afternoon,” Umbridge greeted as Draco approached the window with a faux peppery tone.
“Is there a way I could assist you, sir?”

For every moment that Draco Malfoy infuriated and confused her before this, cutting into her social
engagements and dances, and marrying her of all things, could not have prepared her for this
moment.

“Yes, there is,” Draco’s voice dripped with icy contempt. Hermione’s eyes widened at the startling
change. “I am here to understand the rules of registering for a Potions Mastery.”

This expression, this tone of voice, the way he carried himself so suddenly. This wasn’t Draco
Malfoy talking on her behalf.

This was the Duke of Wiltshire.

“It’s a very simple process,” Umbridge said, grasping at the handbook beside her, one that
Hermione spent days pouring over. “Fortunately, we still have a few days before the course
registration closes. We simply ask you to provide proof of a completed seven-year education or
equivalent, and your wand.”

“I apologise.” Draco leaned closer to the window. Umbridge did not lean away. “For I did not catch
your name?”

“Dolores Umbridge.” Umbridge sat a bit taller. “I am the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister
and High Inquisitor for Education.”

“Right,” Draco said. Hermione was not sure Umbridge knew to be frightened of this version of him
just yet. “Ms. Umbridge, I am curious if the registration process is different for witches?”

With each passing moment, Umbridge became more perturbed. “It is exactly the same, only we ask
for the wand of their husband or father, as each student is tied to the magic of their family name.”

“And what if the witch does not have a magical husband or father?”

“Rules are put in place for the safety of others who wish to avoid enrollment with those who might
cause harm,” Umbridge explained sharply. “A Potions Mastery is a serious matter. We will not be
responsible for those who are not experienced enough to register for a course they cannot handle.”

“A completed Hogwarts education is not enough?”

For the first time, Umbridge’s gaze strayed to Hermione. In a mortifying afterthought, she
remembered they were still wearing their wedding attire. A bubble of laughter caught in her throat
at the ridiculousness of the situation.
A duke and duchess standing in the Department of Magical Education hallway in their finest attire.
Draco Malfoy giving Umbridge a dressing-down while signing her up for her courses.

The attitude shift in Umbridge was palpable. “I hardly see why it matters. I am simply following
the procedures that the Lords of the Wizengamont have passed. Please let me know if you plan to
register, or I can provide a copy of the handbook. We are closing the office within the next few
minutes.”

Draco finally looked back at Hermione for the first time since they arrived. “Do you have proof of
your graduation?”

Hermione quickly stuck her wand into her beaded bag and summoned her certifications before
handing it to him. Umbridge let out a deep sigh, as though their intrusion was troubling her greatly,
before taking a quill in hand. “And what is the name of the student registering?”

Only a few weeks had passed, but she was not the same Hermione Granger that had been rejected
from registering.

“Her name is Hermione Malfoy, Duchess of Wiltshire,” Draco answered sharply, looking down at
Umbridge as if she were a roach. “Do be sure to include her title. I will hear of it should you not.”

Her dark beady eyes grew wide in horror as she realised who she was addressing. “Your grace, I
had no idea—”

“I do wonder, as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and High Inquisitor for Education. how
you've managed to avoid submitting these prejudiced requirements to the Wizengamot for
reconsideration, seeing as the Minister required it months ago. I searched for submissions from the
Department of Magical Education in the court filings and have yet to find any under your name.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, and he titled his head. “How will Minister Shacklebolt feel about your
performance in your position once the Duke of Wiltshire informs him that you have left several
egregious oversights?”

“I—” Umbridge’s voice wavered. If Hermione had hated her less, she might feel terrible for her. “I
apologise for the inconvenience, your grace.”

The inconvenience was the appropriate description of this entire charade.

Draco offered out his wand without a word. Umbridge plucked it from his hand, weighed it on a
scale behind her, and jotted down a note on the parchment with a trembling hand. Within moments,
she rolled the sheet and dropped it down a chute.

“Now.” Draco ripped his wand from Umbridge’s outstretched hand. “Are we done here?”

“Her grace will receive the course details and list of required books in an owl tomorrow morning,”
Umbridge confirmed with a shaky voice. For a moment, Hermione thought she might be on the
verge of tears. “And I apologise for the improper address. I was familiar with his grace, Lucius
Malfoy, for many years.”

“My father is dead.” Draco’s lips curled into a cruel smile that offered her no reassurance. “My
wife and I will look forward to receiving the Ministry’s owl in the morning. Have a good evening,
Ms. Umbridge.”

Without another word, Draco turned toward a dumbstruck Hermione, and gestured for her to
follow him down the hallway.
“I apologise you had to see that,” Draco muttered to her, holding out his hand for her to take once
out of earshot of the office window. She stared at it, the whiplash between Draco and the duke
leaving her flabbergast.

“See what?” she asked, finally placing her hand into his own. Without his gloves on, the touch of
his hands was much warmer than his previous demeanour.

“My bullish behaviour.” Draco led them towards the exit, where Hermione followed in a daze. “I
learned some time ago that fear can be an extremely motivating tool.”

The floo connection between the Ministry and the Malfoy Manor delivered them through the
fireplace of what appeared to be a study.

“The connection from the Ministry will always arrive here,” Draco explained as he helped her
climb through the Floo with her wedding dress. “A more formal introduction to the staff is due,
with both you and Crookshanks. My mother normally takes on the care of the dealings for the
Manor, but I recall you mentioning you had great interest in those affairs.”

“I do.”

Draco reached inside the pocket of his robes and checked his golden watch. The way it flickered in
the light recalled a memory from long ago, like deja vu. “It’s grown much later than I had
anticipated.” He flipped it closed with a resounding click. “Perhaps the tour I promised you could
wait until tomorrow?”

The thought of skipping over the tour twisted her gut. She was relying on the lengthy tour to delay
the inevitable, and that maybe luck would be on her side for once and he would tire before they’d
reached their chambers.

“All right,” Hermione said, accepting her fate with faux confidence.

“I’ll show you to your chambers.”

Gracing him with a short nod, he held out his arm for her once again as they made their way to one
of the seemingly larger wings of the house.

No matter what her feelings were about the institution of marriage, she had hoped that her first
time would be with someone who loved her deeply, and whom she loved in return. A few weeks
ago, she had accepted that her first time might be with someone she cared for, who might grow to
care for her in return. And now, each step filled her with dread. No matter how kindly he had
treated her that day, the thought of baring herself to him in exchange for a few simple acts of
kindness made her feel ill. She supposed that this was another part of the bargain she had made,
hadn’t it?

Hermione tried to make peace with her situation until Draco stopped and interrupted her spiralling
thoughts.

“Here you are.”

They loitered outside a door, the tension of their predicament thickened the air between them.
His jaw rolled for a moment, breaking eye contact as if staring into her eyes was the most
intimidating thing he’d done that day. Not their wedding, or tearing apart a prejudiced ministry
worker, or even kissing her.

“Dinner is at seven, should you choose to attend. If not, I will give you your space tonight, and see
you in the morning.”

“Space?”

He wore a sad sort of smile, perhaps of pity. If it had been a different situation, the pity might’ve
made her viciously angry to have been on the receiving end of it had she not been so relieved to
hear the words. “I will not force you to spend the night with me,” he said quietly, as if he had
studied her face and found her conflict, though it would not be hard to guess. The sincerity of it
shocked her. “There’s no need.”

Hermione’s mouth felt filled with cotton. “No need?”

Draco raised a shoulder in nonchalance. “We have both made our binding agreements to one
another. In either case, we both agreed that you would finish your mastery before any heirs. Either
way, society believes we have already consummated this relationship. I see no pleasure in taking
from you what you so clearly do not want to give. There is no honour in that.” He hesitated for a
moment before her. “Should you choose to join me for dinner, call out for Dippy. She can escort
you.”

Within a split moment, Hermione reached for his quickly parting form and took his hand into hers.
Startled, he turned back, and Hermione’s lips collided with his cheek. She lingered before pulling
back. Draco stood frozen before her, his eyes blank and staring off into the distance.

“Good night, Draco.”

His sad smile had been replaced with a bright one, one that illuminated her way into her own
chambers. The room was large, larger than her parents had been, but nothing too garish. The space
was filled with fine things, a large bookshelf not even half-filled. She apparently had the enjoyment
of a connected bath as well.

A house-elf appeared out of thin air to help her undress and run the bath. It was even more
luxurious than the Prefects Bathroom she had access to at Hogwarts, with expensive looking salts
from France, and glimmering bubbles that wrapped themselves around her hair.

When she crawled into bed, her bed, it did not feel odd and foreign like she had thought, but both
warm and inviting.

It was a day that could’ve been made truly dreadful, and in some ways, it was. But in others, it had
been the opposite of what she had expected from him.

By the law, Draco had every right to take from her what was owed to him as her husband, but the
thought of having her without her willing and enthusiastic consent seemed to revolt him. It was
bewildering.

It seemed that Draco Lucius Malfoy was more of an unsolved mystery than she was fully aware.
He seemed to be comprised of contrary bits and pieces, someone who was capable of being so
cruel and at the same time, Heavens help her, considerate.

Her brain folded over the contradictions of him for ages until she finally tired out and fell into a
dreamless sleep.
Chapter End Notes

[carefully picks up the story tags and highlights 'slow burn'] Love you all ♥️ Even if
you might hate me right now ♥️

This chapter was difficult to write and I'm just glad it's done with.

Next update is Friday, January 13th.

 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Hermione finally gathered the courage to go down for breakfast the next day with the
assistance of a house-elf, she did not expect to find a visitor. The sound of Harry’s voice from the
dining room startled her. “Merlin, he’s like a cat, that man.”

“Crookshanks is much closer to a kneazle,” she recognized Draco speaking instantly. “His stare
alone could kill a bloke.”

“Never mind him,” Harry’s voice grew hushed, but she could hear him plainly as she slowly
approached the door. “You must tell her soon, you said you would speak to her last night!”

“I know what I said, however—”

Hermione stepped into the room, and both Harry and Draco whipped their heads towards her as she
entered. Draco was seated at the foot of the table, standing beside him with Harry, both ignoring
the trays of delicious food before them in their discussion. “Good morning, Draco, Harry.”

Draco gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. “Good morning.”

“Hermione!” Harry boomed. “How was your night?”

“Tell me what?” asked Hermione, ignoring Harry’s frankly rude question for her own.

“Potter here is asking if we are planning to attend his wedding together. I told him that we would,
but he required me to confirm with you as well.”

“We’re meant to be enjoying our honeymoon, Harry.” Not that there was any honeymooning to be
had, last night or any other night this week. Hermione’s eyes narrowed at her friend. “You came all
this way to confirm our mutual attendance at your wedding?”

“We’re meeting with the chef tomorrow to discuss the guest list. At the same time, merely
checking in on the newly married couple, ensuring there’s been no mishaps between the reception
and your honeymoon. Two birds, one stone, all that.” Harry remained standing as Hermione took a
seat where there had been a table setting, across the table from Draco. Then, Harry gestured
towards the dark drapes encompassing the enormous windows, staring at them as though they’d
personally offended him. “You ought to replace these, Malfoy. They’re suffocating the natural
light from the windows.”

Draco’s mood seemed to be approaching violence. “If you’re going to crash our honeymoon, you
might as well sit for breakfast Potter.”

Hermione reached for a piece of toast. Harry still did not take a seat, but continued, “No need.
After all, it is the duty of the best man to ensure you arrive to your honeymoon destination safely.”
“You were not my best man,” Draco replied thinly. “We had no bridal party.”

“I would have been if you had been forced to pick!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nott would’ve duelled with you for the post.”

“And I would’ve won.”

Hermione took a sip of her tea in silence. The two men seemed intent on quarrelling like siblings.
She hadn’t realised they knew each other well enough to visit unannounced in the mornings, just as
Draco had done only days ago at Grimmauld Place.

“Winning or not, there is neither a maiming nor a death to report,” Draco said, looking up at him
from his copy of the Daily Prophet with disdain, spectacles hanging low on the bridge of his nose.
“Not yet, at least. There’s still time for you to leave before it comes to that.”

“Ah, brilliant,” Harry replied, blatantly ignoring the threat. He took in a deep sigh as Hermione and
Draco sat stiffly across from one another at the dining table. “Nothing quite like young love.”

In a flash, Draco’s wand made its appearance, before hesitating. “Crookshanks, would you please
do your job and ensure that the duke finds the exit? Now that he has so kindly verified we are
alive.”

“Of course.” Mr. Crookshanks materialised out of the corner and gestured politely at the door. “If
your grace would follow me, please?”

“No need to be so rude, Malfoy.” Harry gave a huff before making his way out of the room. “I shall
write you both soon. Enjoy your honeymoon!”

The air in the room turned thick with tension at the talk of a honeymoon. They ate their breakfast
in silence, and Hermione was eager not to mention her absence from last night’s dinner. Draco
stared at the open paper before him, but his eyes betrayed him. They never moved from the centre
of the page.

She had seen him wearing glasses before, when they were discussing this engagement only a few
days ago. In all her years knowing him, she had never thought he had trouble with his vision.

“The spectacles,” Hermione couldn’t help but mention. “You’ve worn them several times now.”

“My vision became strained after the war. It’s all these small letters. I could hardly read them
without my glasses.”

There were a few reasons for this if she had to guess. Genetic, but he never wore them as a child;
age, but he was not yet an old man by any means; or damaged nerves.

After the war suggested the latter.

“It’s not a burden, truly.” Draco discarded his folded paper onto his plate. “Though I’m sure
wearing them makes me look ancient.”

“It doesn’t.”

And it didn’t. They made him look sharp.

Her assurances earned her a wry smile. “As long as I don’t look like Potter.” The dishes strewn
across the table disappeared. He leaned forward in his seat, his posture becoming rigid. “Tell me,
is your schedule set for the day? We have matters to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“Meeting the staff of the house, followed by a tour of the grounds. You expressed interest in these
matters.”

Hermione pressed her lips into a tight thin line. It was much easier speaking to him about frivolous
things like glasses and breakfast. “And the house-elves?”

Draco’s expression turned stoic. “Right. On the subject of house-elves.” He cleared his throat.
“Dippy!”

With a crack, the same house-elf that helped her change and showed her to the dining room
appeared between them. In her confusion last night, she had not thought to ask the elf what their
name was.

“Your grace.” The house-elf, Dippy, gave a little curtsy to Draco.

“Dippy and her family have worked for the Malfoys for centuries,” Draco explained, looking
Hermione directly in the eyes with an inscrutable stare. “What would you have me do with them?”

Hermione stared back at him with equal frankness. “Free them.”

“No—!” Dippy exclaimed, but neither of them looked at her.

“This is their ancestral home as much as it is mine,” said Draco over Dippy’s shrill objections.
“Should I free her and her family, the most they could do is work at Hogwarts, a place they’ve
never been and never known, for only a galleon a year. Perhaps a different arrangement can be
negotiated?”

“You have my full attention.”

“I could pay them and keep them all here, at the Manor.”

“You would do that? Pay them?”

“Of course I would,” he sounded affronted. “We could afford the staff at Buckingham Palace if we
so choose.”

Hermione looked down at Dippy. “What would you like to be paid for your services, Dippy?”

Dibby trembled under the sharp locked gazes of her masters. “Dippy likes oranges, your grace.”

“If the duke pays you money, you could afford as many oranges as you’d like,” Hermione replied
kindly.

“What would the duchess say is a fair wage then?” Draco asked her over Dippy’s head as she
stared up at Hermione with big brown eyes. “For their care of the home.”

Negotiating was much harder with both looking to her to answer and determine Dippy’s fate. “How
much does a lady’s maid make in a year?”

“When I spoke with your father, he told me Mr. Crookshanks’ annual salary was about fifty
pounds. As the Manor is substantially larger than your father’s home, I’ve given him a substantial
raise and pay him twenty galleons instead. I imagine a lady’s maid earns less than that.”
“How about seventy-five pounds, or fifteen galleons each? Since they perform all roles of a chef,
lady’s maid, and housekeeper?”

Looking up at the ceiling, Dippy paused in contemplation. “How many oranges is that, your
grace?”

“Hundreds,” said Draco. “Possibly thousands.”

“Accepted!” Dippy cried. “Will that be all, your grace?”

Draco looked to Hermione for confirmation, before nodding. “That will be all. Thank you, Dippy.”

When Dippy disappeared with a crack, Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Twenty galleons hardly
seems enough for someone who doesn’t have magic to care for a home this size.”

“He seems to be doing just fine. He has a staff of house-elves that do the cleaning, though I did find
him shining the silverware in the corner there by hand.” Draco stared down at his place setting
looking slightly disturbed. “Spent a considerable amount of time on the knives.”

“I want you to double the salary you promised him.”

“Done.” Draco gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now, if we’re finished here, we’ll begin your
tour starting with my study. It’s just around the corner from here.”

She was adequately distracted when they had arrived the night before, but was now eager to
carefully take in the details of the Manor. Draco’s study was nearly the size of her family’s entire
lower floor of their townhome, with a hallway leading off to what she assumed was a salon. The
walls were covered in animated paintings and portraits, all of whom looked at them with great
interest, before departing from their frames entirely.

Draco’s eyes followed her around the room as she slowly glided along the walls and studied the
intricate details of it all; the portrait frames, the sorts of books he kept on hand, the stacks of
parchment across his desk. When her hands reached up to touch a placard under an empty frame
that read Young Draco Lucius Malfoy, 1836, he called out her name.

“Hermione.”

The weight of her name was like a body-bind jinx, freezing her in place. Perhaps the sound of it
should not have shocked her the way it did. She was no longer a Miss Hermione Granger. Now,
she was a Duchess, his Duchess, and his wife.

Hermione turned toward him, away from his bookshelf, and they stared at each other for several
long moments.

“I have a gift for you.”

Startled, Hermione repeated, “A gift?”

Nodding, Draco reached within the front pocket of his robes and pulled out a wrapped parcel.

“It was only an experiment,” he warned, cradling the box in his hands delicately. Certainly not a
warning normally attached to fine jewels or jewellery, enshrouding the rectangular box in mystery
once again.

She reached out for it, and he placed it into her open hands. The box weighed much less than she
had anticipated. She slowly opened it, pulling off the lid.

Inside the box was a wand.

Carved into the sides of it were reaching vines, far more intricate than that of her previous wand.
The wood was also darker than her first, but it was nearly the same size.

“If you do not want it, or find it strange—”

“What’s it made of?” Hermione interrupted, casting the box aside to study the wand between her
two pointer fingers. Nearly eleven inches long, she presumed, judging off the memory of the length
of her first wand.

“It’s made of hawthorn wood. I was put in contact with a Weasley about acquiring a Dragon’s
heartstring. As luck would have it, they had one pass away recently from natural causes.”

It felt delicate, yet stiff in her hands. For a moment, she hesitated to grasp it. What if it did not
work the way it was intended? She could accidentally set the drapes on fire, or cause the windows
to shatter. Stranger things happened when she first visited Ollivanders years ago.

“Go on,” Draco encouraged her. He must have sensed her hesitation. “I understand wands are very
personal companions. I will not be offended if it is not the right wand for you.”

Swishing her new wand in the air came as naturally as breathing. From the tip of it, several elegant
streams of sparkles shot out. Then, the stream smoothed out, looking as if she had conjured a liquid
solely made of stars.

Hermione’s chest constricted suddenly. It felt as right as her previous one did, the first wand she
ever had that had broken in a skirmish during the war.

It was as if she was reunited with a missing limb, and found it well taken care of.

Pulled from her shock, she glanced at Draco and found him leaning against his desk while studying
her with great attention.

“It’s perfect,” her voice wavered, emotion caught in her throat in a way she did not understand.
Tears threatened to fall as her face grew warm.

He frowned. “Then what’s wrong?”

“It’s only,” Hermione swallowed, shaking her head. “I didn’t bring you such a thoughtful gift—I
brought you nothing at all. Your assistance at the Ministry would have been enough of a gift.”

“There was no gift expected from you,” he said quietly. “As for your course registration, it was no
trouble at all.”

No trouble at all, though their entire marriage centred around it.

The utterly impressive dressing down of Dolores Umbridge would have been a pleasant enough
wedding gift, but to have tried his hand at creating her a wand where her first had broken during the
war?
It was mystifying, to say the least.

Though a number of portraits glared at her as she passed, they did not speak ill of a muggle-born
walking through the halls of their descendants.

As they exited the study, Draco gestured down the same hallway they’d walked down the night
before. “Our bedchambers are both down that way. Now, the rest of the Manor.”

Draco took her hand and began a detailed tour. If he noticed her blush, he did not acknowledge it.

After a show around the second wing, each new room blurred together. Room after room, it was
difficult to keep track of their original starting point. There was even a separate wing for Narcissa
that they did not explore, but Draco pointed it out nonetheless. For the first few weeks, Hermione
would be sure to call Dippy for assistance navigating this maze of a home.

Years of touring wizarding homes and manors did not prepare her for this level of grandeur.
Hermione had heard the rumours of the Malfoys’ great wealth, even Ron and Ginny had
mentioned it, along with their condemnation of the Malfoys’ well-known stance on blood purity.
The amount of art that the Manor displayed seemed to compete with the British Museum; white
marble sculptures, ornate rugs, and tapestries, along with gorgeous artwork made her pause
frequently throughout their tour. What should have been a short morning walkabout dragged on
well into the late afternoon.

As Draco explained some of the history behind the Manor during a lengthy stroll of the outdoor
gardens, she could not help but look at him in astonishment. Why would he spend every summer
day escaping such a beautiful place?

Draco droned on the details of the roses they’d brought with them from France centuries ago.
Pointing to an open patch of land, he shared his thoughts on what she could use it for.

“There are a number of plants that perform well, having been planted near such old magic.
Different varieties of wolfsbane should grow nicely here.”

How was this the home of the same boy she’d known years ago?

“Was there anywhere else in the Manor that you would like to see?”

Looking toward the tree line, she wondered how far of a walk it would be to go back to their spot
near the water. She hadn’t returned since the summer before what was meant to be their seventh
year at their respective schools.

The request to walk there steadily grew in her heart, but she didn’t have the courage yet to voice it.

“The library,” said Hermione instead. “You have yet to show me your library.”

“I promise, we do have one.” He wore a knowing smile, leading them back indoors. “I was saving
the best for last.”
“Our library is a bit larger than the one at Nott Manor, if only for the fact that our ancestors viewed
something as small as the number of books to be a measure worthy of competition.”

Hermione didn’t know what sort of competition they were holding, but at first glance, the library in
this Manor far surpassed the one at Nott’s. Her heart galloped at the sight of it. Many summers
were spent silently pining for the chance to one day see it, and now, under the worst of
circumstances, she finally received her wish.

The aisles continued down the room farther than the eye could see, and the shelves taller than the
ones at Hogwarts. They slowly moved down the centre aisle between the shelves, Draco describing
in great detail the way the library was categorised, at times reaching for a book or two. Between
some shelves were small alcoves with a spare table and chair for studying. Grand windows covered
the side of the room facing the gardens, enshrouded by dark curtains, giving the room a slightly
haunted feel. Maybe Harry was right—they should change drapes.

Clearing his throat to capture her attention, Hermione heard a hint of hesitation in Draco’s voice. “I
saw to it that all the wards across the Manor be removed. If you have any concerns about the safety
of a book in our collection, please find me before you touch it.” His eyes briefly glanced at her
fingers before firmly looking away. The book he’d skimmed through sorted itself as he let go of it
close to a bookshelf. “Feel free to visit whenever you would like. It’s just as much yours as it is
mine.”

Was this the same library Draco had access to every summer she had known him? Had this been
her own home, she would have never left.

The thought of what they managed to accomplish overwhelmed her. For years, Hermione hid her
memory of Draco behind a veil, trying desperately to create a new understanding of him. In a
matter of a single day, he had taken her perception and flipped it upside down. If she didn’t say it
now, she would become adrift between the aisle here, and surely lose her courage to say it later.

“Thank you,” she did her best to breathe earnestness into each word. “For this tour, for this gift
you’ve made me, and settling that ridiculous course registration. For—” Marrying her. Not leaving
her lying on the floor in the wake of a scandal. “—everything.” Hermione exhaled as he patiently
waited for her to finish, looking at his shoes like an abashed schoolboy. “You know, you’ve been
incredibly understanding for a man who was strong-armed into marriage by a peer.”

“I can’t help but feel culpable for the situation we found ourselves in. And I know that you don’t
—” Hesitating, Draco rephrased, “I know that this marriage to me is not what you wanted, or
wished for.”

“I doubt it was for you either.” Hermione sympathised, and he didn’t deny it.

“But I think the best we can do is strive to be—friends? Or at the very least, friendly towards each
other, should you find the former to be too difficult.”

Hermione blinked, making a considerable effort not to gape at him. “You would like to be
friends?”

“Of course,” replied Draco. “Better to have friendship than resentment, don’t you think?”

In the whirlwind of gossip, obligations, and duty, there had been no time to discuss their original
conversation in the Nott family library. This was what he tried to do with his apology, and she
clung to her resentment instead of listening to his words.

If he hadn’t truly cared for her, he could have left her reputation in ruin, and lived his life in
contentment with a pure-blooded duchess.

“I think it would be lovely to be friends,” Hermione said with sincerity. “Though truthfully, I’m not
sure where we would start.”

“I believe we’re approaching dinnertime. Maybe we start over a meal?”

“You’ll have to help me there.” Hermione tried for a joke before Draco extended his arm out for
her to take. “Though you make an excellent guide, I will most assuredly lose my way around the
Manor at some point.”

As Draco laughed, Hermione contemplated him. If what he asked before was sincere, she had been
too steadfast in her judgment of him after the war.

For what true pure-blooded supremacist would take a muggle-born wife, hand her the world, and
ask for her friendship of all things?

In the quiet days between their wedding and Hermione’s first day of classes, Narcissa, who hadn’t
spoken a single word to Hermione even on her wedding day, floated around the manor like a ghost.
She took her meals separately in her own wing. If she moved throughout the manor, Hermione
never saw her, nor heard her feet along the marble floors. Any attempts to discuss it with Draco,
out of concern for Narcissa’s health, were met with a similar response each time.

“I check on her often. If my mother wishes to mourn my father for longer than the recommended
year, I will let her.”

How different society must be for her, being brought up as a member of the Black family, marrying
into the Malfoys, only to lose your husband and have society accepting of both muggles and
muggle-born alike. It seemed that Draco was doing rather well with this transition, having been
raised by these two families and attending a school that did not allow muggle-borns in the first
place. Though Hermione knew Narcissa’s blood supremacy to be one of the contributing factors to
her isolation, she did not wish for Narcissa to wither away. It was clear that even in the strain of
their relationship, Draco cared deeply for his mother.

Hermione no longer had her mother, her wonderful and kind mother. Draco no longer had his
father. Based on what she knew of Lucius Malfoy, perhaps he did not mourn his father as she
would her own parent.

Sometimes, when Hermione would be reading in the library, she could make out a sole figure
moving through the gardens in the back. Dressed head to toe in a black veil and black dress robes,
Narcissa would walk among the plants and roses often, pausing to study the peacocks that roamed
the estate. She took the same path every time Hermione watched her. Once, when Hermione was
close to the window, Narcissa looked up sharply, as if she felt someone’s eyes on her. Narcissa
immediately diverted from her usual path and slipped back into the house, her normal routine
forgotten.
Chapter End Notes

Next chapter will be posted on Tuesday, January 17th. Thank you for reading ♥️
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Walking into one of the lowest levels of the Ministry, Hermione glanced over the directory that
still held a trace of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission office on the last floor, scratched
off but the letters still lingered. She straightened her spine and walked into the classroom, her
cauldron and books stowed safely in her beaded bag.

Hermione could not hide her surprise earlier that morning to find Draco at the dining room table,
eating an apple and sipping his tea as she stalked through the room, wanting to arrive as early as
possible to the Ministry. He walked her to the Floo after a successful campaign to have her eat
more than a simple slice of bread.

“Good luck,” he said, already walking towards his office as she stepped into the fireplace.
“Though I doubt you will need it.”

There were a number of students already seated that she recognised from school, from varying
houses, though there were fewer from Slytherin than any other house. The reason for that was
mostly left unspoken. From what she could recall, no one else in the room held a title apart from
her.

“Good afternoon, students!” A voice boomed from behind them. Every student turned towards the
sound.

Horace Slughorn was a peculiar man. He was older than she expected, practically bald save for the
small patch of hair at his crown, and his belly entered the room before his head did.

However he had managed it, the potioneer looked to have escaped unscathed by the war. As the
Ministry lacked many trained professionals across multiple fields, he must’ve struck a lucrative
deal in order for him to return to teaching.

“And that is how I find myself here, teaching your new and bright minds,” Professor Slughorn
explained. He then went down the list of registrants, calling out their names.

“Hermione Malfoy, Duchess of Wiltshire?”

It was strange to hear that family name attached to her first name, but she raised her hand with
confidence. Another student, a man who had raised his hand at the name Marcus Flint, scoffed
irritably. But Professor Slughorn only beamed at her. “Ah, yes, wonderful! And might I ask what
your family name was before your nuptials?”

“Granger, sir.”

“Granger? Granger?” He seemed to roll the name around on his tongue, racking his brain around
it. “Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary
Society of Potioneers?”

“No, sir, not that I know of. My parents were both muggles.”

“Ah, Hermione Granger, yes, of course! Your reputation for your potions work during the war
proceeds you. You are also the good friend of Harry Potter, the Duke of Essex, is that correct?”
said Professor Slughorn, completely unaware of her growing embarrassment. None of the other
students had received such attention when he called their names.

“Yes, sir. He is a dear friend of mine.”

“Splendid, splendid! My word, what an honour to have you in my class, your grace.” He continued
on with the attendance with Adrian Pucey, who was seated next to Flint, whose mouth hung open
in shock.

They went over the basics of the curriculum, and the course schedule provided by the Ministry,
along with a brief review of what they should already know from their previous studies. Hermione
wrote down everything she could at lightning speed.

She did not realise how much she missed this; learning, note-taking, asking questions, and
receiving intelligent answers. How ingredients could be measured, and potions could be brewed
down to the last minute detail of perfection. A life embroiled in society was nothing like it. Others,
like Ginny and Pansy, knew how to work society and crowds in ways that Hermione could never
hope to understand. There would always be someone brewing a scandal, charming a naive fellow,
or cursing an entire lineage of people in order to achieve whatever means to whichever end. But
inside a classroom, life was always much more precise and predictable. Hermione could
manipulate and work with a set of guidelines much better than a group of wizards. Now that she
was married, there was no need to worry about the rest.

After their class time concluded, Hermione lingered behind while most of the students filed out of
the classroom. As she approached, Professor Slughorn gave a small bow of his head. “Your grace!
How may I help you?”

“Thank you, Professor. I was hoping to discuss the brewing of wolfsbane potion?” Hermione
wrung her hands together, trying not to show her desperation. “I did not hear you mention it during
your lecture on future course subjects.”

“Wolfsbane, a tricky potion, no doubt about that. Though with your talent, I know it will be no
trouble.” Professor Slughorn’s laugh was booming. “I’m afraid we have no plans to learn it, as it is
a relatively new discovery in potion making. It requires an extraordinary amount of aconite, from
what I have heard.”

The fall of her heart was sharp, but Professor Slughorn went on. “But! I am quite familiar with the
inventor of the potion, Damocles Belby. Outstanding wizard, earned an Order of Merlin for his
work, just as you did for yours, your grace. I can always send him an owl, see if he could attend my
annual Christmas party, maybe pass along some of his wisdom?” He eyed her as if she were a
rather rare, collectible card alongside a chocolate frog. “Of course, you and your husband would
both be invited to such an event.”

“That would be most amenable, Professor.”

Even if Slughorn wanted to collect Hermione’s new social capital, she would let him. It would be a
simple price to pay for information on brewing wolfsbane.
Hermione regaled the entire lecture and description of Slughorn over their dinner course, and
Draco listened with great attention, humming in agreement and nodding at all the right moments.
When their dishes were replaced and dessert materialised along the table, Draco asked his first
question of the night.

“What did he call you?”

“Hermione Malfoy.” She paused before taking a sip of her tea, the corner of her mouth turning up.
“The Duchess of Wiltshire.”

Draco beamed, the smile lighting up his entire face as he leaned back in his chair. “Good.”

Late one evening, Hermione found herself deeply entrenched in her new assignments and studies in
the library. Draco appeared, looking unsurprised to find her in the alcove he had set aside for her
following their first walk-through of the Manor. In his hands were a small bound book and his
spectacles. “Would it disturb you if I were to take my evening reading here with you?”

He gestured behind her, and her eyes glanced at the ornate armchair stowed in the corner. “Oh, of
course not. Unless your reading involves shouting or wailing of some kind.”

He smiled with ease. “It doesn’t.”

The chair made an awful groaning sound when he sat down, as if it had not been used in decades,
and was protesting its use.

“Is that furniture comfortable?” Hermione asked.

“More beautiful than it is comfortable, I suppose.”

The chair was a bit too gaudy for her taste. Hermione twirled the quill in her hand, adding, “It’s not
very pleasing to the eye.”

“Yes.” Draco chuckled as he tried to relax in his seat. “While I imagine a bed would offer much
more comfort, it would also provide much less focus.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, turning back to her scroll of parchment. “Very true, your grace.”

After that, they fell into a comfortable rhythm. Following dinner each night, they would make their
way independently to the library, where she would study the potions material she had learned
earlier that day at her program, and he would do his own work in the same stiff armchair.
Sometimes they would quietly converse or ask for her opinion on upcoming legislation from the
Wizengamot, and she would ask him to help locate specific books for her studies.

Some nights, she would become so exhausted with her studies that the words on the page blurred
before her. Working ahead of the course schedule in some desperate attempt to charm Slughorn,
Hermione fought valiantly to keep her eyes open when they drooped with fatigue.
The cycle repeated on and on until one night, she was no longer fighting to keep them open, for she
had shut them ages ago. Dazed, she realised all at once she was no longer trying to stay awake at
her desk in the library, but in motion. She stirred with her aching head and heavy limbs.

“It’s all right.” A deep whisper soothed her immediately. Draco clutched her tightly. “You’re
almost to bed. Don’t worry.”

“Draco?” she mumbled, twisting in his embrace, his name escaping her as mere breaths.

“It’s all right,” he repeated, in some faraway voice.

Then, she was slowly lowered onto something warm and soft, which she immediately curled into.

“You can go to sleep now.”

There was a memory of touch across her skin when she woke in the morning, still dressed in her
attire from the night before. When she sat down at the dining room table in the morning for
breakfast, Draco displayed a distinct kindness by not mentioning the deep reddening of her cheeks,
nor her foolish studious endeavours.

Ginny peered around the tea room at the Leaky with the subtlety of a troll, before flicking her
wand around their small table, muffling their conversation to strangers.

“And how are your marital relations?” asked Ginny, with a wiggle of her brow.

Hermione choked on her tea, leading Luna to give her a healthy smack to her back. After a few
owls back and forth, some with vague threats from Ginny having not seen or heard from Hermione
since her wedding day, her friends agreed to meet in order to catch up. Excited at the prospect of
seeing them once again, she was not prepared for an ambush of this nature in a public setting.

“Thank you, Luna—is this really an appropriate discussion to have over tea?”

“Please, don’t be silly Hermione.” Ginny waved off her concerns. “Besides, I will need advice for
my own wedding night, and this is the first moment we’ve had to speak in private.”

“Private?” Every seat around them was filled with wizards and witches, tea and towers of cakes
and pastries lifting and dropping onto tables. Not a single one turned their head in their direction.
Hermione said flatly, “We’re in a tea room.”

“And this muffling charm is a Molly Weasley specialty. Unless someone sits at this table, we are
free to speak frankly. Now, out with it, both of you—you’ve both married dukes, and I’d like to
know if the size of their lands match their endowment.”

Instead of answering first, Luna peered at Hermione with polite intrigue. Hermione fought her
rising blush of shame under the weight of their expectant eyes.

Women in society spend so many years under heavy scrutiny to remain pure for their future
husbands, only to have that scrutiny switch the moment they married—to that of pleasing their
husbands. Admitting to not having experienced marital relations was more mortifying than telling
Ginny about the time she had snogged Ron during the war.
It was bewildering.

“Well, with the sudden wedding, new marriage, and my courses, they’ve put us both through such a
whirlwind.” Hermione grasped at any excuse she could. The longer she spoke, the deeper Ginny’s
frown grew. “Draco and I haven’t even had a chance to breathe.”

“Who said anything about breathing? You had a week-long honeymoon,” Ginny stated with a flat
tone. “Are you implying that instead of spending that time locked in his chambers, exploring new
martial bliss, you spent that time doing what? Exploring his library?”

Hermione slowly sipped her tea in lieu of answering. The crease in Ginny’s brows deepened before
she exclaimed, “You were caught together in Luna’s library, for Merlin’s sake!”

“And I swore to you that wasn’t the truth,” Hermione replied, then grumbled. “Our wedding kiss is
the extent of our physical relationship.”

Luna hummed thoughtfully, “You sound incredibly disappointed for someone who declined to
consummate their wedding.”

“It was Draco who declined, not me!”

“He did?” Ginny cried. “I have never heard of a man turning down his own wedding night!”

“Oh.” Luna’s eyes drooped with sympathy, lazily stirring her spoon. “I have heard of some men
suffering with impotence. Thankfully, Theo is not one of them. Fully functioning in that regard.”

“No!” It was Ginny’s turn to sputter over her sip of tea, while Hermione rushed to follow up her
exclamation, “At least, I don’t believe that to be the case. He requested that we become”—
Hermione hesitated to take in a deep breath—“friends.”

“You could hardly stand the sight of him when you returned from Australia,” Ginny replied. “Are
you not glad he offered to take your relationship slowly?”

“I am thankful he has been so considerate of my feelings in the matter.” Hermione reached for a
sandwich. “But it’s become quite clear to me that my feelings are starting to change.”

Luna gave Hermione a knowing smile. “You find him attractive.”

“He is so bloody charming!” Hermione exploded with frustration. None of the patrons of the
surrounding tables flinched, the Molly Weasley muffling charm holding strong. “I never quite
understood the obsession with men wearing Quidditch uniforms until I walked into the salon this
morning to see him strapping on leather. There are times when I walk into a room and he’s sitting
there, donning spectacles and his collar unbuttoned, reading with great concentration.” Hermione
gave a sigh, remembering their evening library routine. “There ought to be a law against it.”

“A handsome man, reading a book?” Ginny acted out a swoon.

“And his hands,” Hermione continued, holding up her own hands to study them, entranced by the
memory. “He turns each page so slowly, picking at each page with his long fingers. I once picked
up a book after he spent an entire evening fondling it. It looked absolutely giant in my hands
compared to his, I even checked to see if the book was under some sort of enlargement or shrinking
charm.”

“Merlin’s beard.” Ginny turned to Luna. “Hermione is the only person in the world who could
succeed in making reading a book sound so erotic.”
“He gave Umbridge such a thorough dressing down on my behalf. And I have a suspicion he
carried me to my room the other night across the entire manor in his arms, and I was asleep for it!
Oh, it’s so mortifying. I’ve only just stopped blushing when I see him. Why didn’t he stay? Does
he only think of me as a friend?”

“Do you believe he prefers the company of men?” Luna asked with an air of curiosity. “Not that
there is anything wrong with it normally, save for involving you had he not made it clear before
marrying you.”

If only Hermione had thought of it earlier; potentially marrying a wizard who had a preference for
men might have solved all her earlier problems with very little drama. But now, the thought of
Draco having a different preference of a lover shifted her mindset into panic instead. Hermione bit
her lip. “Do you truly believe that could be the case?”

Luna shrugged. “He is a duke. No matter his preferences, he would need an heir to continue his
legacy, which would mean marriage to a witch.”

“Hush, Luna.” Grasping at Hermione’s hand on the table, Ginny leaned to capture her eye as
Hermione stared blankly at the table before her. Dread filled her gut. “Do not be daft, Hermione.
Have you forgotten he only danced with you? The only company anyone has seen him with is Theo
and Harry. Luna can vouch for Theo’s prowess in the bedroom, and I can vouch for Harry’s.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione was scandalised, momentarily forgetting her own woes. “You and
Harry are not yet married!”

Ginny never managed to look ashamed, though there was a blush growing from the neckline of her
dress. “It was only some touching during the war! You know, that cloak of his is incredibly
useful.”

Hermione could not help but shudder and doubt Harry’s ability at cleaning charms, having spent
much of their school years hiding underneath that cloak.

“Do you believe he even knows how to please in bed?” Luna asked, taking a small bite out of her
biscuit. “The education around these matters is very taboo for pure-bloods. Thankfully, my father
published an entire issue with articles answering common questions on the subject. Theo said it
was immensely informative for him.”

That little stunt resulted in the Quibbler being banned on Hogwarts grounds. Hermione spent much
of her sixth year confiscating it from students sharing the issue in the hallways, while at the same
time studying the pamphlet with Lavender and Padma in their dormitory.

“I think the reality is he loathes the thought of our coupling being forced, much like our marriage.”

“Well, you will just have to show him how amenable you are to being approached." Ginny nicked
the last biscuit from the platter in the centre of the table. “Madam Malkin's has a few pieces in the
back for married ladies, and I am sure she will let me join you two married hags.”

Pouring the last of their tea, Luna asked, “What sort of pieces?”

“Silk chemises, sharp corsets and such. You know, the finer things from France,” Ginny explained.
“I do believe you both have the allowance for such purchases.”

“I can only shop for an hour or so,” replied Hermione. “We’re expecting visitors later this
afternoon.”
Ginny frowned. “What could be more important than the fine art of seducing your husband?”

“So.” Lavender turned to glance over her shoulder at the two men walking back towards the
manor, too far in the distance to hear them. She reached out to link her arm with Hermione’s as
Neville followed behind them, a smirk dancing across her lips. “You’ve certainly had an interesting
few months, your grace.”

Hermione did not hide the roll of her eyes. “None of that ‘your grace’ nonsense. We’ve slept in the
same dormitory since we were eleven. The same goes for you, Neville.” Pointing directly at one of
her oldest friends, Neville gave a shy smile. “I believe the amount of times I’ve rescued Trevor
immediately disqualifies me from being referred to as anything close to graceful.”

“Trevor does send his regards” Neville teased.

The wind picked up around them, the nearby garden’s brushing leaves creating a symphony. For a
moment, the three became distracted by it, taking in deep breaths of the passing aroma of freshly
cut grass and flowers. The breeze whipped at their hair, and Lavender laughed when Hermione’s
curls broke free from her controlled hairstyle, sputtering out the strands from her mouth.

“What a wonderful estate,” Lavender called out over the loud gust. They slowly made their way
toward the covered greenhouse adjacent to the sprawling garden.

“I hope to start growing more potion ingredients, most of the toxic herbs are kept in here. If there
were—children,” Mortified at the change in pitch of her voice at the mention of children, Hermione
continued, “we would ward it off to avoid any accidental poisoning.”

Under the afternoon sun, the greenhouse was warm and each garden bed was lush with a number of
different plants, flowers, and bushes. Lavender reached for a dark purple budding flower bed,
possibly to brush against the fragrant plant, before Hermione’s hand snatched her wrist.

“Do not touch it, Lavender! It’s aconite.”

“There are hundreds of different species of aconitum,” Neville explained, flipping through his copy
of Goshawk's Guide to Herbology, the thick book worn at the edges suggested this was his
preferred reference. “Seeing as wolfsbane is such a recent discovery, most potioneers only use the
namesake wolfsbane, or monkswood. With the appropriate resources, we would be able to grow
several variations of aconitum and test its effectiveness in wolfsbane potion.”

“This level of research would require much trial and error, and this is where we need you,
Lavender. Someone who could help us determine the best combination.”

“Of course I’ll do it.” Lavender straightened. “Not only for the access, but to contribute to the
research. I could even keep logs of what I can remember from my experiences during the full
moon.”

“We will have to wait until I complete my courses,” Hermione explained. “I need my licence
before I can provide you with the potion.” Hermione reached down to grasp Lavender’s hand in a
silent apology. “I had hoped that in the meantime, we could gift you the herbs to negotiate with
those already providing wolfsbane potion, so that they might give you a discount on its cost?”
“You would do that for me?”

“Truthfully, it was Draco’s idea. I had no idea herbs could grow so wonderfully here, with the old
magic in the soil. He mentioned that most potioneers have become very concerned with the cost of
their ingredients after the war. They still charge exorbitant prices for their labour, but they are very
eager to procure herbs from a prosperous greenhouse such as this one.”

They went on to discuss different vendors and potioneers for Lavender to contact, and Hermione
informed Neville that she would give him access through the wards to visit anytime he’d like to
check or plant different varieties of aconitum.

Lavender reached out and grasped Hermione’s hands. “How can I ever repay you, Hermione?”

“Consider it a wedding gift.” Hermione wiggled her eyebrows salaciously. “I am certain wedding
bells will be ringing for you very soon.”

“Do not spoil anything! Ron has already spoken to my father, but he has yet to ask me. And you,
Neville?”

“And me what?”

“There’s no need to fool us.” Lavender wrapped her arm around Hermione’s with a teasing smirk.
“Your jaw practically meets the floor when you see Parkinson, everyone can see it.”

Neville paused his clipping of some foxglove. “They can?”

“You didn’t know?”

The flustered look across Neville’s face, with his bright red cheeks and rapidly blinking eyes, made
it very clear he did not, in fact, know.

“You needn’t worry!” Lavender rushed to assure him. “Parvati told me she heard Pansy asking
after you. What your interests are, what they might know of you.”

Neville ducked his head, his blond hair shining under beams of sunlight. “I haven’t a clue as to
why.”

When they later joined Ron and Draco in the sitting room, Ron quickly finished his glass of
Ogden’s by the fire as they all discussed Hermione’s classes. Draco’s glass rested on the table, full
and undisturbed, for the entirety of the visit.

Even years after the war, Hermione slept lightly. Whether it be the scrape of a tree branch against a
window, the crush of wood in the fireplace, or the creak of an opening door, the smallest noise
could send her leaping out of bed.

That night, the distinct and familiar cry of a man in pain woke her.

Not caring she was dressed only in her nightgown, Hermione flew out of her bedroom, clutching
her wand and chamberstick to light her path.

Hermione paused to peer down the foyer, fearing someone had entered, when the sound grew
louder down the hallway, coming from the duke’s bedroom.

Forgetting herself, she raced to his door, thanking the Gods it was unlocked.

Draco was alone in bed, but the covers had been kicked off his body as he thrashed violently
against the mattress, loud cries caught in his throat.

Hermione had seen a sight like this once before when Neville had been under the Crucio curse. At
once, she was beside his bed placing down her wand and light.

“Draco.” She hesitated for a moment before shaking his arm. It was dangerous to wake a man this
way, particularly veterans of the war. She hoped he would see reason before attacking her. “Wake
up, you’re safe, Draco—”

With a shuddering gasp, Draco bolted up in bed and snatched her wrist. He looked at her with wild,
grey eyes that suggested he wasn’t truly seeing her—that he was taken for a moment someplace
very far away.

“You’re all right,” whispered Hermione, channelling a calmness she did not feel. “It was only a
nightmare.”

His shirt had fallen completely open, baring his chest. Hermione fought the urge to reach out and
touch him. Sweat glistened across his pale skin, his chest heaving from shuddered breaths. Slowly
his gaze grew to recognise her, his eyes changing from a blank slate to something that hinted at
softness.

“Breathe, breathe,” whispered Hermione, but his grasp only tightened around her arm, keeping her
from fleeing this temptation. “Let me bring you some Dreamless Sleep.”

“You can’t,” his voice was hoarse. “I’ve taken the limit already.”

Hermione’s brow flew up. The limit for Dreamless Sleep was ten nights out of the month. “It is
only the fourteenth of the month?”

“I know.”

He still hadn’t released her arm.

“Do you wish for me to leave?”

When he did not answer her immediately, Hermione feared he hadn’t heard, or perhaps worse, he
wished for her to leave. It was only when his grip lightened, his thumb brushing against her pulse
point in her wrist that she heard his equally quiet question.

“You would stay?”

Hermione could not help herself from asking, “Would this count towards the monthly requirement
of bedsharing?”

The sly smirk and his hooded eyes spelled trouble. “I’m sure if you would like it to, dear wife, it
could.”

The darkness would surely hide her reddening cheeks. Eager to do something with her hands, she
pulled back and circled to the empty side of his bed, the sheets slightly thrown about. Climbing
inside felt akin to jumping off the side of a cliff.
 The bed was warm, if not warmer than her own with the presence of another person. She could
smell remnants of his cologne across the pillows, the fragrance of dry wood she remembered
distinctly from their fateful confrontation at Nott Manor. Was it pine? Cypress?

“Do you often have trouble falling asleep?” she asked quietly, eager to draw away attention from
her entering his bed.

“It’s not falling asleep I have trouble with,” he whispered as he closed his eyes and turned his face
away. Hermione could now admire the expanse of his neck freely, the elegance she had pointedly
ignored until recently. The sharpness across his face, his jaw, his collarbones; it suited him. “It’s
what I see when I’m there.”

“I imagine you’ve seen the horrors of war, just as Harry and Ron have.”

“I’m sure you did as well. I don’t believe much of it was escapable for anyone.”

He was right, of course. Another jump off a cliff, and she reached for his hand under the covers
and felt him twitch as she brushed against his fingers. She didn’t pull away, and his fingers lace
with hers, tangling them together.

“Is this better?” she whispered.

He replied with a short breath. “Yes.”

Chapter End Notes

edit 1/21: I can't update tonight, I'll send out a tweet when the chapter is posted! Thank
you for understanding. <3
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

Here's an extra-long chapter to make up for the delay! We're slowly turning that sexual
frustration dial.

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Transcript:
 September 15, 1843

TRUE LOVE BREWING IN LONDON!

My readers, love is truly in the air! I have much to report on the love lives of those
most interesting in our society.

We send our congratulations to the young Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Lavender
Brown, a love match if we ever saw one! Their recent engagement has sent society
abuzz. As we approach the long-awaited Potter-Weasley nuptials, Lady Weasley must
add wedding planning to one of her many talents.

And what of the new Duke and Duchess of Wiltshire? My snitches tell me that
following their private ceremony, the Wiltshires retired to their home in the
countryside for an extended honeymoon. A week later in a move most progressive,
reports of the Duchess returning to London for rigorous Potions studies have made
their way to our ears.

The Viscount of Hampshire was said to be making eyes at the lovely Lady Pansy,
daughter of the Earl of Wessex this weekend past. For who would love a beautiful
Pansy, if not a green-thumbed man?

The Society Snitch

Waking up in strange locations was an experience Hermione grew used to during the war.

More often than not, it would be a spare bench in the shed of Shell Cottage. Sometimes a lounge
chair in a sitting room, or slouched against a wall.

Once or twice she woke in Ginny’s cot, having fallen asleep after a night of hushed gossip and
conversation.

But never in her life did Hermione wake up in the bed of a man. That was until she stirred that
morning, disoriented by the radiant heat next to her. Then, the memory of the previous night
crashed down on her at once.

She was in Draco’s bed. Her eyes flew open and found his grey eyes on her.

“Good morning,” Draco greeted, having turned fully to his side to face her.

“Morning,” she rasped, pushing herself up onto her forearms and feeling strangely off-kilter. “How
are you feeling? Did you sleep all right?”

“The best sleep I’ve had in years.” The relief in his voice along with looking fresh-faced, bright-
eyed, and alive made her inclined to believe him. A cheeky smile grew slowly across his face.
“Thank you for checking on me.”

Heat rushed across her cheeks. “It was no trouble at all.”

“Have you decided yet?”

Hermione attempted to smooth down her untamed hair, hoping it would settle decently without
having looked in a mirror. “Decided what?”

Draco’s eyes filled with mirth, his wild morning hair brushing against the sheets. It was the most
relaxed she had ever seen him. “Have you decided if last night counts towards our monthly
bedsharing?”

“Would you like it to?”

“No.” Draco moved closer until she could feel his warm breath across her cheek. “I think I would
like another night if you’re amenable.”

“Another night?” Hermione’s heartbeat quickened as she relaxed back into the pillows. “Greedy.”

Slowly, Draco placed his hands on either side of her hips, studying her expression for
apprehension, and she did not try to stop him. His eyes dragged down the nightgown she had
recently purchased for a pretty galleon, and he muttered, “This is very pretty.”

Hermione let out a laugh, and his eyes flickered to her mouth. A foreign feeling flooded her,
suddenly drunk on the power of capturing his attention.“I should have kissed you the night we
were engaged,” he whispered softly, staring at her lips. “It is a shame that your first kiss be in front
of an audience like that.”

Hermione lightly scoffed. “My first kiss? I regret to inform you, your grace, the kiss we shared at
our wedding was not my first.”

His hands tightly grasped her hips, fingertips digging into her skin. Draco pulled her flush against
him then quickly rolled her on her back, pinning her underneath him. A twisted piece of her heart
fluttered as his lips hovered over hers, his gaze darkening. “Give me his name.”

“What for?”

Draco must have escaped to the bath earlier, now half-dressed in his day shirt and trousers. The
thought of him returning to her, asleep in his bed, sent a thrill through her.

“So that I might kill him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione whispered, her words full of humour, toying with him. Being
surrounded by him completely, under his hands, his body, in his bed, made her feel dizzy. The
corners of her lips turned upwards, eager to rile him up further. “I will have you know I’ve kissed
more than just one man in my life.”

Draco gasped dramatically, and his expression lightened. “So many lives to be lost in your name.”

“Such terrible threats. Are you jealous, your grace?” His title rolled off her tongue as she arched
her body into his. The curl of her lips hooked him in as she moved her legs, straddling his hips. “Is
my innocence not enough for you?”

They were hardly kissing, their lips only just brushing against each other, but it was the most erotic
experience she’d felt in her entire life; more so than kissing Viktor or Ron ever had been.

As Draco’s hands moved underneath her nightgown, he studied her face intensely, his eyes darting
across her face again for any sign of hesitance—but the only discomfort she felt was that he was
touching her at the slowest pace known to man. The gentle brush of his fingers across her legs,
where she had never felt a man’s hands before, sent her heart racing.
“Well, I don’t have that.” The laughter in his eyes shifted into something much closer to hunger.
“Not yet.”

She snatched his shirt to pull him in and finally, finally, kiss him firmly. He tasted faintly of mint
tea, and his hands tightened around her hips, pushing her firmly against the bed. At some point
much too soon, he pulled away and slipped out of the bed in an instant. Her stomach flipped when
she noticed his arousal, very apparent through his clothing.

“You have class in less than an hour,” Draco reminded her, his voice breathless. Hermione dropped
her head back against the pillow with a grown. Curse that bloody class, Slughorn and his incessant
droning.

Though Draco was clearly affected by her, he managed to pull away. He slowly approached again,
possessing the patience of a saint. “And the next time you enter my bedroom, dear wife, I don’t
want it to be for pity.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, and his lips lingered there, his fingers
lightly travelling along the outside of her thigh. “The first time I have you, I’d like to take my
time.”

Later that morning, sitting in Slughorn’s class, Hermione could not focus on a single word spoken.

Though Draco had expressed he would be amenable to another night spent together, they didn’t
speak of it the following day, or the next.

The evening before Harry and Ginny’s wedding, they sat together in her library nook while Draco
described Theo and Luna’s nuptials.

“It was the most peculiar wedding I’d ever been to. Lord Lovegood brought out an entire case of
butterbeer and insisted everyone take the cork home to protect from something he called
‘nargles’.” Draco shook his head at the memory. “Strange family. Do you think he’ll attend the
Potter wedding? Hopefully not.”

“Speaking of weddings,” Hermione said with an air of casualness. “I was thinking we might
attempt to help Neville find his match. Possibly push him into a courtship with Pansy Parkinson.”

Draco’s mouth moved in what seemed like considerable contemplation. “And why is that?”

“Are you familiar with her?”

“Our families have known each other for generations. I’m sure Lady Parkinson was most
displeased when it became clear I would not marry Pansy. Surprised I never received a howler, to
be frank.”

“Well, Neville’s one of my oldest friends,” she explained, choosing to fiddle with the corner of her
book rather than look Draco in the eye. “And I think they could grow fond of each other. Neville
blushes like mad when we speak of her, and he stares at her during balls as if she’s the only woman
in the room. ”

“A sure sign of affection, no doubt.”

“And he’s rather shy, and can be a bit clumsy. But if that’s the only thing off about him, Pansy
would be a very lucky girl indeed.”

“Certainly would be.”

“So you’ll help him?”

The look in his eyes from the unforgivingly stiff chair sent a thrill down her spine. “I would do
whatever you asked if it would make you happy, ”

The Weasley estate had changed drastically since she had last visited. Their new Manor stood tall
in the background of the lawn; stowed away to the side, she could still make out the remains of the
burrow as she had known it. With their fortunate weather, many guests were congregated under the
large tent erected on the grass.

While she was happy for the Weasley’s good fortune, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness
at the thought of keeping the burrow out of sight.

“Look, George! It’s the Grangers!” exclaimed what must’ve been Fred, as he nudged his brother
beside him. Hermione stifled a laugh behind her hand when she caught a glimpse of Draco’s
immediate frown.

“Do you not have someone to properly announce your guests?” Draco asked, his rising irritation
clear.

“We are tasked with announcing guests,” said George. “Mum thought we would cause the least
amount of trouble with it.”

“It’s as if she doesn’t know us at all,” Fred added.

“You know what we ought to be called,” said Hermione, running a soothing hand on Draco’s arm.
“If you would please?”

Fred rolled his eyes and announced their entrance with a booming voice into the tent, while George
escorted them to their seats.

“My word,” Draco muttered under his breath, staring at the front of the ceremony space where the
rest of the Weasley sons congregated with their father. “There weren’t this many gingers at our
wedding. How many Weasley children are there?”

Hermione counted them off in her head, taking her seat and pulling Draco down with her. “Seven!
Ginny is their youngest, and only daughter.”

“Seven children?” Draco repeated, turning back to stare at Molly and Arthur in astonishment.
“How is there still colour on their parents’ heads?”

“Magic, one would think. That many children must be maddening.”

“You know, I always thought it would have been nice,” Draco said, tilting his head thoughtfully
before continuing, “to have siblings.”

Hermione reached out to grasp his hand in his lap, and he did not pull away. “I used to think the
same, though I challenge you to spend a night without questioning your sanity. The twins had to try
their tricks first somewhere, usually in their own homes.”

“Did you stay with them often?”

“Much of the war,” said Hermione, thinking about the many nights spent in Ginny’s company.
“And sometimes during school breaks, and some summers.”

When he gripped her hand tighter for a moment, she did not pull away either, and they did not say
another word. They sat in comfortable silence, hand in hand, until the ceremony began.

The reception began with a show of fireworks the moment Ginny and Harry kissed. Once everyone
stood from their seats, the room transformed. Ice sculptures materialised around them, along with
floating trays of beautifully plated food and drink and a wonderful orchestra playing in the corner.
It was clear that Molly was meant to host such spectacular events. While everyone was enraptured
by the elegant display, a glance at both Ginny and Harry made it clear they were looking nowhere
else but at each other.

When Draco excused himself to speak with Zabini, Hermione conversed with Charlie, discussing
the use of the dragon heartstring in her new wand before becoming trapped in conversation with
Aunt Muriel. Hermione found herself often sipping champagne rather than opening her mouth to
retort, hoping someone might come and rescue her from the old woman and her outlandish gossip
about Dumbledore, who had long since passed away.

“Your grace,” Draco’s voice came low in her ear just as Aunt Muriel finally changed the subject to
the skirt length of every witch in attendance. The symphony started up once again; a familiar song.
“A dance?”

“Please excuse me, Aunt Muriel.” Hermione placed her hand in Draco’s outstretched hand,
allowing him to escort her to the dance floor along with the growing crowd. “A waltz?”

“What better excuse to dance, if not to save your wife from dreadful conversation?”

“I suppose I ought to be thankful you did not confund her like you did McLaggen.”

Draco laughed as they found space for themselves between the other dancing partners. “May that
oaf stay in Scotland for all his remaining days.”

Every dance they shared before, she was filled with rage, sending blistering comments under her
breath and hoping to curse him. Now, they danced in comfortable silence until Draco spoke again.
“I wanted to apologise.”

“For the confunding and scheming?”

“No, I won’t apologise for that,” said Draco plainly and Hermione rolled her eyes. “Truthfully, for
never receiving such a tremendous wedding reception.”

The grandness of the wedding was apparent. Whether it was Arthur’s newfound fortune or Harry’s
old money, no detail was forgotten or overlooked. The comparison between their wedding
reception and this one was night and day.
“You must know I don’t care for such things.”

“Neither do I.” He held her very close as they spun together, which earned him a bright smile. “I
wanted you to know I think you deserved a wedding this grand.”

The ache in her heart was impossible to ignore. These were the glimpses of the Draco she knew as
a schoolgirl, the ones she missed so ardently when she would return to Hogwarts throughout the
years. How easy would it have been to lose the opportunity to know him once again? How much
had her pride gotten in the way of happiness before this?

Hermione’s mouth twisted bashfully. “I suppose we did not have our choice of cake.”

“And what kind of cake would a duchess request?”

“I think a chocolate cake would be acceptable.”

“Chocolate? Think of the terrible stains it would leave on your mouth.” Their dance slowed as did
the other partners in the crowd. In a choice hardly appropriate for such a large audience, Draco
leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the lips and whispered, “What about a lemon cake?”

Raising her hand to her mouth to cover her girlish smile, Hermione replied, “A lemon cake would
be grand.”

“We must ask Dippy if she has a recipe.”

His eyes had a familiar twinkle in them, the same one he had when he had made an annoyingly
perceptive remark during their few dances together, or when teasing her about her choice of books
at home. As if they were sharing something together.

And she found that she quite liked the look of it.

“Oh! There’s Lady Parkinson, behind me. Do you see her?” Hermione whispered sharply to Draco,
leaning into him. She nursed her champagne throughout the reception, refilling on occasion. But
Draco’s drink began to blend in with his attire, the glass of Ogden’s full in his hand, but never
sipped from.

“Ah yes, with the bulbous hat,” Draco muttered back, peering over her head. “How could anyone
mistake her?”

“Good, now go speak with her!”

Draco’s grey eyes widened before he looked down at her with a frown. “What for?”

“Neville Longbottom, of course,” Hermione whispered rapidly, prodding at Draco’s firm chest
with each point. “Tell her he’s a single, good man, or that he owns a title and substantial land, has a
decent bit of money—”

“Does he? Have money?”

Hermione dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I have no doubt he does. Surely Lady
Parkinson and Lady Longbottom can bond over their affinity for ridiculous outfits.” Hermione
threw back the rest of her champagne, placing her glass on a passing platter. “And I will go speak
with Lady Longbottom.”

Pansy’s mother grabbed at a floating tray of food, her hat adding a substantial amount of height to
her figure. But it was nothing compared to the one Augusta Longbottom wore. Hermione spent a
great deal of their conversation nodding politely and trying desperately not to make eye contact
with the stuffed vulture perched atop Augusta’s hat.

She watched Draco instead, and soon enough, Draco motioned Neville over to join his conversation
with Lady Parkinson. From the indignant snort Augusta let out, she noticed the same.

“What is that man doing, introducing Neville to that terrible woman?” Augusta rolled her eyes.
“You know, I don’t care for the Parkinsons one bit. After Lord Parkinson was sent to Azkaban last
year, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if their entire lot all supported You-Know-Who.”

“We’re at the wedding reception for the Boy-Who-Lived,” Hermione replied flatly, inwardly
gleeful as she watched Neville charm Pansy’s mother. In the corner of the room, Daphne
Greengrasse grasped at Pansy’s hand in visible delight. “I sincerely doubt anyone here is a secret
Death Eater.”

“Oh, what would you know?” Suddenly, Augusta’s expression twisted, looking to Hermione as if
she smelled something foul. “You did marry a Malfoy, after all.”

How easy it was for women of pure-blood backgrounds to master such a look of disdain. While
Augusta must have thought herself a progressive witch, the evident disgust in her eyes was the
same as Narcissa’s when Hermione looked up at her from the floor of a bookshop.

Except for this time, she was a grown woman. A duchess, in fact. Channelling the armour her new
title brought her, Hermione stiffened her spine, and did her best to present Augusta with an equally
withering look. “I do not particularly care for your tone. That man you’re speaking of is my
husband. He is a dear friend to Harry, and a very good man. Your own grandson and the Queen
can attest to that.” In her old age, Augusta seemed to be losing her wit. Perhaps she should speak
with Aunt Muriel instead. “Please excuse me, Lady Longbottom. It was excellent catching up with
you.”

As Lavender recounted the very charming way Ron proposed earlier that week, Hermione could
not help but search for Draco among the remaining guests. Remus attended to young Teddy in the
corner, chatting away with Arthur, and Molly fussed over Fleur, pregnant with her first child.

Finally spotting his bright blond hair next to Theo, who stood whispering in his ear, she found
Draco staring right at her. Though instead of sending her heart racing, it dropped to her feet.
Draco’s expression was black, something murderous about it, and she watched as he snapped back
at Theo. His friend looked unfazed by his ire, only laughing and placing a hand on Draco’s
shoulder, leaning in to whisper further.

Draco continued to stare her down from across the room.

Lavender’s voice cut through their entangled gazes. “Hermione?”

“Apologies,” Hermione muttered, turning back to Lavender with a strained smile. “So you
mentioned having success with finding a willing potioneer?”

Though their conversation continued, dread filled her stomach. She could practically feel Draco’s
eyes boring into her back. What had Theo said that made him so irate at her? What would he have
to say to her? She had nothing to hide, no demons in her closet. Why then did she worry so?

She did not wonder for long. Jumping at the sound of Draco’s voice low in her ear, asking her for a
second dance, she could not say no. With a carefully blank expression, he quietly took her hand
onto the dance floor once again, with her spirit in stark contrast to how she felt earlier.

“Has something happened?” Hermione finally asked, after one or two rounds about the room in
stiff silence. His jaw visibly tensed.

“I had the most enlightening conversation with Nott just now.” Out of the corner of her eye, she
could see Luna and Theo dancing as well, giggling with one another. “Asking me if I was having
trouble with my marital duties,” Draco spat out the words.

When Hermione opened her mouth to say something, absolutely anything, nothing came out. Not
even a breath.

Draco continued on, “When I assured him that was not at all the case, he proceeded to offer me
advice in rather excruciating detail. In the middle of a wedding reception, mind you.”

They took another turn about the room, while Hermione contemplated immediately apparating to a
very far away place. Could she make it to France from here?

“Now, dear wife, do you have any idea why he might’ve assumed I had such an issue?”

While ruminating on the curse she would be sending Luna’s way, Hermione lied, “I haven’t a
single clue why he would say such a thing. I’ve always thought Nott to be an odd sort of fellow.”

The single raised brow looking down at her made it abundantly clear that he did not believe her.
The rising blush on her cheeks did not help her case. “None at all?”

If he judged her truth telling solely on the level of redness in her cheeks, there would be no need
for legilimency at all. “Of course not!”

“Nott did inform me there were a number of interesting publications that were essential in his
education on the matter. We didn’t receive such illicit contraband all the way in Bulgaria.” Draco
tutted lightly. “Such a shame.”

“I confiscated a few of those pamphlets during my years at school.” Courage coursed through her,
and she braced herself to say, “Though if you were interested, I could relay some of its contents
from memory. A lesson of sorts?”

They stopped their dance as the music slowed, and Hermione wondered if she should have cut back
on her champagne for the night—she felt tipsy.

“This Manor is quite new, isn’t it?” Draco gripped her waist, a sharp gleam clear in his eyes.
“Would you like to explore their many new rooms together?”
Like a siren’s song, the first room off the main hallway was Arthur’s new library. Forgetting
herself, Hermione gasped and pushed through the doors in delight.

“Many of these are muggle books,” Hermione explained, as much of the works were sent back and
forth between the Weasley and Granger households. “Arthur is very interested in muggle works.
Did you know my father is a book publisher?”

“I didn’t know that,” Draco replied quietly behind her, following her dutifully into the room and
shutting the door behind him. “You never mentioned it.”

The thought gave her pause. Hermione never did mention her father’s profession, in much the same
way Draco never mentioned his own. Somehow in their childhood ignorance, they forged a hidden
friendship in a misguided attempt to ignore the larger happenings of the world. As if they would
never impact them.

Hermione admitted that to be the case. “I suppose I never did.”

“If you wanted, we could ask him to procure some of your favourites for the library at home?”

“Why hadn’t I thought of that? There are so many works our collection could benefit from. For
starters, this set right here.” Reaching for the slim red book, Hermione pulled it down for further
inspection. “Father had much success selling her works as a set with illustrations and all.
Everything she’s written has become a staple in every home library across England.”

Hermione stuck her nose in the book, going on about the lovely works of the century until her
musings were interrupted by Draco plucking the book out of her hands and looming over her.

“Would you really like to discuss books and libraries right now?” Draco muttered, staring intently
at her agape mouth. He took a step forward, and she took a step back. “You mentioned you would
teach me things from that infamous pamphlet.”

“You want your private instruction…” Hermione gulped, reminded of poor Aunt Lucretia’s portrait
lurking in the corner of the room. “Here?”

“Oh no, not of everything, especially not here.” Draco crowded her until her back hit the low seat
of a nearby table. He placed his hands on either side of her hips and she stared up at him in a daze.
“Other than the obvious level of discomfort it would bring us, I would never make love to you in
this library, Hermione,” he murmured, wearing a wicked smirk that once made her furious. Now, it
stirred her with anticipation. “For starters, I can barely see you in this light. What would be the
point of enjoying a woman in such a way, if you cannot see her face? Not to mention terribly
boring.” The spearmint on his breath flooded her senses as he spoke, his voice growing so low it
was hardly even a whisper. “Another reason is precisely why we were corralled into marriage in
the first place.” Slowly, his hands made their way up to her waist, holding her still against him, not
that she had any plans of escaping. “And if I wanted to have you in a library, it would be in my
own. I’m not willing to risk some wretched snitch writing about the sounds you might make, or
how the portraits would describe the way you look when I have you. No, I would have you in my
bed, and I want to be the only one to know.”

Wasn’t Hermione the one meant to be teaching him? Yet in only a few short sentences, he had
rendered her speechless for the second time that night. The champagne lightened her nerves, and
his words fueled her evergrowing desire.

Then slowly, his lips brushed against hers. “Though, I suppose I could kiss you here.” She could
feel his dastardly smile, possibly from the way she trembled against him. “Only if you’re in favour
of that idea.”

For the first time it was not only a single press of his lips against hers, like the ones they shared
during their wedding or in his bed. Finally, he let her move her lips against his. They started slow
before he quickly grew demanding.

A timid, cautionary swipe of his tongue sent her careening through unfamiliar territory. When his
hands began to roam across her figure, Hermione’s own travelled across his hard chest to weakly
clutch at his shoulders, and she became lost.

The kisses she had in the past, quick pecks or the long stiff press of lips, were nothing compared to
this. How he held her, and kissed her with insistence, threw all her experience out the door.

She whimpered against him as he nipped at her lower lip, followed by a tender flick of his tongue
in apology. After just a few moments of kissing, Draco had changed her growing attraction to him
to pure desire.

Draco pulled her in closer, her chest pressed against his. Dancing in a crowded room could not
have revealed the true form of his body underneath the layers of his clothing, and he did not give
her enough time in his bed to find out. But now, in the secluded area of the Weasleys’ new Manor,
under her grappling fingers, she found solid muscle.

Thankfully, Draco was not immune to her either. When her fingers travelled up to his hair at the
nape of his neck, curling and drawing his mouth harder into hers, his hands moved up the natural
dip of her waist, up her side, and let his fingers brush against the form of her breast. He pulled back
and groaned, “Hermione.”

While his hand pressed against her breast, the other pulled the strap of her dress just off her
shoulder. He kissed the corner of her mouth, down her jaw to her neck, before moving his mouth
along the newly revealed skin of her shoulder. The sensation left her trembling against him,
wanting to pull away and at the same time, push against him for more. Desperately grasping at his
hair, she moaned, and his lips left her bare skin to catch her open mouth once again.

He swallowed her shuddering gasp at the sensation of his fingers slowly climbing up her leg, and
the building heat at her core sent her mind into a daze. As they kissed, she wondered if his earlier
restraint would break. Undeterred by the vast layers of her skirts or crinoline charm, he found a fair
amount of bare skin hidden underneath like a moth to a flame. His hand hooked around the back of
her knee, pressing his body fully onto hers. If his searching fingers travelled just a bit higher, he
would surely feel how much she wanted him. Hermione was just about to beg him when—

“Oi!” A shout from the door.

Draco tore his mouth away from her, though she chased after him shamelessly.

“Hands off her, you brute!”

It was Ron, she realised. If Hermione had her wits about her, she might’ve conjured up a flock of
attacking birds out of spite. Draco moved his body in front of hers, shielding her entirely from
view.

“She’s my wife,” Draco snapped. “I can put my hands on her as much as I please.”

“Not when it’s my oldest friend you’re defiling back there!”

Hermione rolled her eyes as she tried to peer around Draco’s back, though he nudged her back
 behind him. “Ron, please don’t be ridiculous. There’s been no defiling to speak of.” Much to her
dismay, she thought bitterly.

“Better I found you than that horrible Society Snitch person. What is it with you two, snogging in
public like this?”

“We do not snog in public places!” Hermione hissed, straightening her skirts and sleeves as she
watched Draco’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Just this once!”

“Think of poor Aunt Lucretia,” Ron bemoaned as he shut the door behind him. “We’ll never hear
the end of it. Knew we should’ve locked the doors—”

“A great first lesson,” Draco whispered under Ron’s bemoaning, taking her hand in his.

As Ron corralled them back in the direction of the party, Hermione and Draco looking as bashful
as red-faced youths, Ron turned to him and said, “You know Malfoy, in the dark I almost mistook
you for Neville?”

Chapter End Notes

Next chapter Sunday, January 29th ♥️

 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

Hermione stood outside his bedroom door, gathering the courage to knock.

When Draco suffered from the nightmare, she had obviously focused on finding the door rather
than studying its design. It was daunting in size and ostentatious, in a way that most of the family
heirlooms across the Manor were. And here it was, challenging her.

In the end, Hermione did not need to knock. Just as she raised her hand to rap her knuckles against
the door, it swung open before she touched the wood. Hermione jumped back while Draco looked
startled to find her standing there.

“Is something the matter?” Draco asked, his brow furrowed.

“I wanted to come here.” Hermione cleared her throat and shifted slightly. She was still dressed in
the gown she’d worn that night to the wedding, while he had already changed into his loose fitting
nightclothes. It took every ounce of self-control to keep herself from looking down at him, or else
be subjected to his knowing smirk. “You said you wouldn’t have me come to you out of pity.”

“That’s right.”

“But I don’t pity you.”

Draco leaned against the door, his incredulous gaze turning substantially darker. “Is that so?”

Hermione only nodded. She had come here for a reason, and she would not be intimidated into
leaving. For a small moment, they stayed at an impasse, staring at each other. When the urge to run
back to her bedchamber became unbearable, Draco slowly opened the door wider—an invitation
for her to slip through.

Draco loomed by the doorway, shutting it closed behind her as she peered around his room.

During her last visit, she had been preoccupied with attending to his night terror. While the door
had been flamboyant in its design, Draco’s room was decidedly spare, save for a few books strewn
across his plain furniture. Even the walls were bare of artwork, devoid of the opulence of their
home, except for a simple mirror. If she had to guess, it even felt smaller than her own. This room
looked to simply be the place he slept at night.

“Do you require assistance with your laces?” Draco’s quiet voice interrupted her thoughts, stalking
closer between her and the door.

While she had come to his room very willingly, intent on what Ginny would have referred to as
being ‘approachable’, the look in his eye sent her heart racing. It was impossible to tell who was
the cat or mouse in the room. Perhaps entering his own lair was a distinct disadvantage, rather than
her being in control.
Hermione nodded, and his challenging smile sparked a flame in her belly. “Turn around,” he
ordered.

He swept her hair aside, his breath warm across her neck, and began working at the laces of her
gown.

If she managed to turn back time to tell herself a month ago that Draco Malfoy of all people would
be undressing her at what she considered a sinfully slow pace, she would’ve rightfully declared
insanity.

Hermione watched his expression discreetly through the mirror on the wall, wondering how
quickly things between them had changed in only a month. Where was the Draco Malfoy that left
her furious following every conversation, the one that had needled at her side at every available
opportunity? If he was to be believed, the one that had tripped her in the bookstore never truly
existed, and that one would certainly not be as eager to have her in his bed.

Was he the one she had known as a young girl? That had been years ago, and they seemed to have
reached some silent agreement never to speak of it. His damp hair stuck out waywardly, so boyish
in a way that made her heart ache. But he certainly never looked at her then as he did now—with
promised hunger.

The shine of his wedding ring caught in the reflection as her gown fell to the floor, sending a thrill
through her. Never once did she think she would find a ring so arousing, but the simple golden
band signified her only true claim over him.

If she never earned his affection, his heart, he would always be her husband—no other witch could
say that while she lived.

“And where did you get this pretty number?” Draco muttered, his fingers brushing against the ribs
of her corset.

“At Madam Malkin’s.” Purchased not too long ago at the insistence of Ginny and Luna, claiming it
showcased her ‘enviable’ figure. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ll write to Malkin and have her open an account for you, you can buy anything you’d like.” His
unlacing sped up considerably. “Though, you must promise to show them to me.”

The corset fell to the floor. And then, there she was; left standing before him, in only her chemise.

When she turned around, he kissed her, deeply and without hesitation. Every whirling question and
thought in her mind ceased to exist. There was nothing timid behind it. Their passion would have
been startling, if not for the fact they had kissed this way only a few hours ago. Instead, she moved
with equal fervor, hands twisting in his hair and drawing him closer. His woodsy scent must come
from the soaps of his bath; it clung to his skin, she could practically taste it.

His fingers found their way over the flimsy collar of her chemise, until the strap fell over her
shoulder, exposing more skin just as he did in the library. He pulled away from her, lifting a brow
before he infuriatingly, frustratingly—did nothing more.

Hermione would spell it out for him then. With one fell swoop, she stared into his eyes and
divested herself of the chemise entirely. She watched with delight as his eyes widened, and his
hands hovered over her body, frozen, as though he was scared to touch her. “Gods,” Draco
breathed out, “you are so beautiful.”

Finally, he reached out to touch her again, though Draco only cradled her face. Tilting her chin up
gently to guide her eyes to his, he muttered, “Tell me the truth, I won’t hold it against you. You say
you’ve been kissed.” One of his hands travelled slowly across her collarbone as the other skimmed
down the exposed skin of her back. “But has anyone touched you before?”

Hermione shook her head. Though she was naked, Draco stared down at her lips, his own curled
into a smile. “Not a single soul?”

“Only myself,” Hermione admitted. “Alone, in my bed.”

If Draco attempted to fluster her, her response had clearly thrown him off. “When?” He demanded.

“The first time? Years ago. More recently?” Hermione smiled and prayed she looked seductive.
“The day I woke in your bed.”

He rested his forehead against hers and groaned. “You wicked thing.”

Just behind her, she could feel the edge of the bed he had backed her into. She sat back, stretching
out against his sheets, and did her best not to cover herself under his gaze. Away from the radiant
heat of his body, she could feel her nipples tighten in the cool air, and swore she saw him swallow.

He slowly knelt on the bed, finally joining her, but did not stop staring. Raising his brow, he
simply said, “Show me.”

“Show you?” Hermione repeated, the hazy burn of want nearly robbing her ability to speak. “Show
you what?”

“You’re a bright witch,” Draco said, his eyes grazing over her body. What a sight she must make,
fully bare, waiting so patiently for him on his own bed. “If you’ve pleasured yourself before, I
want to see it,” his voice dropped to a low whisper, his hands pulling her legs apart to make room
for his body to sit between. “I want to be the only one who knows what you look like when you
come.”

She was frozen in place, not daring to move. Placing his palms against her knees, he sat back and
waited patiently, while she laid on her back before him.

Then—Hermione slid her hands up her sides, watching as his eyes followed them up to her breasts.

“I start here, before anywhere else,” she said, “and when I close my eyes.” She smiled, his gaze
flickering up to hers, before whispering, “I pretend it’s you.”

His grip around her thighs tightened, and heat surged inside her, her hands brushing against, and at
times pinching, her nipples.

She would warm her body, thinking of him, sometimes for what felt like ages until she was well
and ready to continue on.

And Hermione was ready—she had been ready for hours now, ever since he lightly touched her
beneath her skirts, and kissed her senseless.

Reaching down towards her entrance, she knew would find herself already wet. There was no
reason to delay touching herself for as long as she did, only having done so to watch him. With no
need to work her way up, she slipped two fingers into her sex with ease. The hitch in his breath was
audible, and it was the most powerful she had ever felt before. Slowly, she showed him exactly
how she pleasured herself; with fingers curled inside herself, and the other hand rubbing slowly
against the nub above her sex. Draco was transfixed, watching as her hands and hips worked in
tandem.

There was a growing pressure inside her, growing with every stroke she made with her fingers. But
it wasn’t enough—far from enough.

What she wanted was sitting before her, skimming hands across her thighs soothingly, but doing
nothing more. Then, Hermione whispered, “Will you touch me?”

His eyes snapped from her working fingers back to her face but remained frozen in front of her.

“Draco, please,” she gasped, not caring if she sounded desperate—she was. “Please touch me.”

When he opened his mouth, she could sense his hesitation. If it was inexperience, she did not
know. Voice hoarse, he asked, “Where would you like me to touch you?”

She dragged his hands further down, right to her sex. “Here.”

The feeling of his hands across her neck, her thighs, her back, was nothing in comparison to the
feeling of him pressing against her entrance. But his other hand—it moved up her body, skimming
across her stomach until he reached her chest. What began slowly turned greedy, simultaneously
grasping her breast and caressing the bud above her sex.

Wicked thoughts flew across her mind. With her breast in hand, what might it feel like if he took
her into his mouth? Should she tell him to? Instead, he pinched her nipple between his fingers,
before moving on to her other breast.

Under his hands, every movement was entirely different from her memory. No longer guiding him,
her hands grasped at his shoulders instead, searching for a steady hold as he quickly made her
come undone. He’d only had her for a few spare minutes in the library, and now in his bed, had
rendered her nearly incapable of speech.

The hand at her chest suddenly splayed across her belly, and the other moved from her sensitive
nub to slide a single finger inside her.

Hermione tilted her head back and moaned, clamping her eyes shut. Surely if she opened them, she
would face his ever infuriating smirk.

“Good?” Draco teased, dragging his finger against her walls as he moved in and out, just like she
had shown him. His one finger alone felt larger than her two, and she was glad he started so
slowly.

Another finger slid inside her, drawing a whimpering noise from her. Her back arched into him, his
hand pressing her back down onto his bed, but he did not stop.

The familiar approach of her crest began, but her release evaded her. Most nights, she would shut
her eyes and imagine it was his hands, his touch, and she could finish quite quickly. Nothing
prepared her for what it might actually feel like when he did touch her. It hadn’t been like this in
her imagination, nothing like it at all. It was better, so much better, and yet somehow still not
enough.

“What do you need?” His voice was ragged before he demanded, “Tell me.”

What did she need? Hermione did not know. Squirming beneath him, what she needed was his lips
on hers, on her skin. To feel him inside her, for both his hands to be free to move as they pleased,
and to watch him as he came undone just as he watched her now. Would he say her name? What
would it sound like as he came? He pulled sounds from her she had never made before, and he
looked down at her, entranced.

Then, the palm of his hand brushed against her sex. His fingers curled sharply inside her, and she
shattered around them. Hermione gasped his name, the air leaving her lungs as her hips lifted from
the bed. His fingers continued to move inside her, unrelating through her crest. Hermione clutched
at his shoulders until his touch became overstimulating and painful, pushing herself higher up the
bed and away.

Her chest heaved from the power of it, and she struggled to regain her breath and control her wildly
racing heart. Draco loomed over her, fingers glistening in the light while his mouth parted in awe.

“That was—” Draco gulped and took in a sharp breath. He tilted his head as he stared down at her
with great interest, “—far better than I imagined it to be.”

There were so many questions racing to the forefront of her mind, but the first that forced its way
out of her mind was, “You imagined it?”

Looking into his eyes, she could see his rapture behind them. “Constantly.”

For someone strong-armed into a marriage with her, it was more than a flattering thought that the
act of her pleasuring herself consumed his daily thoughts. Draco leaned down at the same moment
Hermione reached for him. Their kiss was fierce, though it had no right to be, as she was still
nearly out of breath. Though she had just been satiated, she wanted desperately to feel all of him.
But when she went to rid him of his shirt, Draco stopped her searching hands.

Her mouth ran dry, the honest truth of it hovered on the tip of her tongue. The admission was a
heavy price to pay. If she allowed herself to say it, it would tip an invisible and delicate scale she
had been closely monitoring, moving back and forth between desire and indifference. But like
many great forces, her growing need made her confession inevitable.

“I want you.” Hermione felt his body shudder under her palms, the telltale signs of goose pimples
across his skin, as her touch coasted his lower stomach. His arousal pressed against her thigh,
obvious and demanding. Having heard that delaying release was painful for men as well, she
reached out to feel him.

But with the patience of a pious man, he pulled her hands away. Hermione gulped. “Do you not
want—?”

“Do not doubt my want for you,” Draco snapped, cutting her off and pinning her wrists to the bed,
as though he was fearful of her wandering touch. “I want you to want this. To want me. Without
pity, duty, or the influence of whatever alcohol you’ve consumed tonight that might have led you
astray.”

If what he said was true, Draco displayed an inhumane level of restraint. A willing woman, his
own wife, crawled into his bed in the dead of night, and he was holding her still at arm's length.

Only if she wanted this.

But the truth was that she did. Wasn’t she the one to come to his door? If she did not want him,
why had she practically begged him to touch her? “Then do not doubt my own. I only had enough
to drink to calm my nerves, nothing more.”

Draco’s expression was carefully blank, but looking into his eyes, feeling his body against hers,
there was no denying his rampant need. And yet, he said, “But the hour is late.” His thumbs rubbed
soothing circles, but each word from his mouth only deepened her despair. “I worry you’ll wake up
tomorrow, feeling regret. It’s often painful, a woman’s first time. Not to mention the hour and your
schedule tomorrow morning.”

A long-forgotten fissure cracked sharply inside her chest.

“My schedule in the morning? Gods.” Dropping her head back against the pillows, Hermione could
not help but give an empty laugh. She had come to his room, a willing woman, his wife, and he
was more worried about her morning schedule? How she might ache in the morning?

This wasn’t thoughtfulness. It was rejection, carefully disguised behind his kind words and
appeasement. Her heart stung with it, humiliation bringing tears to the corners of her eyes.

Quickly rising from the bed, Draco sat back on his haunches as she picked her chemise off the
floor, pulling it over her head. The heat that had once settled in her belly instead rushed to her face,
leaving her feeling cold and confused. “Maybe it would be best if I returned to my own
bedchamber.”

“No, Hermione—“

“I’ve made a fool out of myself.” Her voice was caught in a tremor. “Please do not allow this night
to change your opinion of me.”

“Stay.” Draco reached out for her hands, but she ripped them away from him. “Please stay.”

Suddenly thankful for the curtain of hair hiding her scorching face and free-falling tears, Hermione
furiously shook her head, adamant about not letting him see her true reaction. She’d shown him
everything she had, laid bare beneath him, and nearly begged him to touch her. How could her own
husband still refuse her?

The earlier urge to return to her chambers consumed her, and she fled, leaving Draco and his pleas
behind.

When Hermione woke the next morning, she did not find him in the dining room as she did most
mornings. By the time she left, he was still nowhere to be seen.

The news of the Potter–Weasley wedding spread as quickly as Fiendfyre. Armed with a headache
from the champagne she enjoyed thorough-out the night, and the fatigue from her late-night visit,
Hermione was not looking forward to sitting through another Slughorn lecture.

Not for the first time in recent weeks, all she wanted to do was return home and corner Draco until
he followed through with his promises. The ones he made at the party, and in his bed. She
squeezed her thighs together at her desk tightly at the memory of it.

“Good morning, students!” The sound of Professor Slughorn’s voice boomed from behind her as
he strode into the room. Hermione directed her attention to the front, where a single cauldron was
bubbling front and centre, letting off steam in delicate spirals.

“Now, before we begin today’s lecture, please gather around. Yes, yes, stand up! Now, who can
tell me what they believe this potion to be?”
The students around her leaned forward carefully to take in a view of the potion, studying what
they could see of its characteristics.

Hermione took in a deep breath in search of an aroma. The smell of it was seductive, reaching into
the back of her mind and pulling on memories.

The dry summer grass, a woodsy scent she could not differentiate between. Cypress? Maybe pine?
Something sharper as well, like—

Spearmint.

“It’s Amortentia,” Hermione breathed out in shock. Professor Slughorn beamed at her.

“Excellent job, your grace! Did you recognise it from its mother-of-pearl sheen?”

Hermione nodded, although she did not even notice the surface of the potion at first. “And its
characteristic swirls,” Hermione added, hesitating. “It’s meant to smell differently from person to
person, based on what attracts them.”

“Incredible observations, as always, your grace. We shall review different love potions today and
their applicability, and the legal liabilities of such potions.”

The potion sent her back in time, when she was just a young girl in the middle of summer, enjoying
the company of a boy who liked to listen to her talk.

It smelt like his bed sheets.

It smelt like a summer afternoon.

Spending hours locked in a room, her mind racing with implications, only prolonged her suffering.

The parting rush of the ministry made her all the more anxious to return home. A lone figure,
standing straight and looking around across the crowd, stood out to her. She would recognise that
man anywhere.

“Dennis!” Hermione exclaimed loudly. He turned towards the sound, and she waved her hand
above her head, grinning. Her return home would have to wait for such a dear friend. They met
halfway across the atrium.

“Your grace,” Dennis greeted, giving her a low bow.

“None of that, Dennis. Hermione will do just fine. How are you? Are your classes not in session?”

“I wanted to see you as soon as I read you attended Harry’s wedding in the Prophet. Though, I
figured your husband would not appreciate owls from a young man asking to see his wife.” Dennis
tried for a smile. It looked uncomfortable on him as if he were trying it on for size for the first
time.

“Nonsense,” Hermione replied, swatting lightly at his arm. “I’m sure he would be delighted to
meet you. It would be a pleasure to have you visit around the holidays.”
Dennis glanced around the atrium of the Ministry at passing strangers before looking her in the
eyes. “Could we speak someplace more quietly?”

Hermione blinked. “Is something the matter?”

“A private matter from the war.”

Normally, one would congratulate the other for their recent nuptials. It was commonplace, even
weeks after her marriage had concluded. Clearly, Dennis had realised she had been wed, but did not
mention it as she led him to a visible but quiet alcove in the corner of the atrium.

“What brings you all the way here? Is there something you need?”

“I only wanted to tell you—no, I wanted to ask you. Do you know that the man you’ve married is a
Death Eater?”

One blink. And then another. “I beg your pardon?” Hermione whispered, leaning back onto her
leg. The accusation was as shocking as it would have been to receive a strike across the face from
him. Dennis seemed neither fazed nor deterred.

“I asked if you knowingly—”

“Yes, I heard you the first time. What is the meaning of this?” Hermione demanded. “This is a
great levy you’ve placed on him. A terrible accusation?”

Was this jealousy? It was not uncommon for patients to develop attachments for those who cared
for them. Dennis was younger than her by several years, but he was due to graduate this year had it
not been for the displacement of his education during the war.

“I would not have come to you if I was not absolutely certain.”

“And what reason do you have to believe such a terrible thing? Tell it to me plainly, so that I am
able to understand and make no assumptions.”

“After Colin and I were captured, we were being held in the cellar. We– we–,” Dennis stuttered
over his words, overcome with emotion. Hermione fought the urge to rush to his side and embrace
him, as she had only a few years ago. After clearing his throat, he struggled on. “We had only been
there a few days, waiting. They always wore masks, they were always sure to wear them. I
remember them all. I see them when I sleep.”

“I was there for weeks, Hermione. Weeks.” Dennis’ eyes were blazing, and his styled hair fell
across his forehead as he shook with anger. “I tried to ignore it. I wanted to, desperately. I saw your
marriage reported on the Daily Prophet, but when I saw the name–“ Dennis shook his head as
though the memory of it hurt him in some way.

“They dragged us both out one evening. From what we could hear, it was a sort of… practice? One
of the Death Eaters stood in front of us and tried—they tried—” he took another deep breath in.
Dennis’ face was blooming red, and his eyelashes were wet. “You understand the first rule of the
cruciatus curse, don’t you? You have to mean it. When the first person couldn’t do it, couldn’t
conjure it, another masked person sidled up beside them. They whispered so low, you could hardly
hear it.”

Dennis’ face hardened. “But I could. I know the truth. ‘Draco, you must’. The woman would say it
over and over again if the spell failed. I learned later that it was Bellatrix Lestrange, his aunt on his
mother’s side.” Dennis turned his face away for a moment. “He found a way to make it work after
that.”

“Dennis,” Hermione breathed out. If he had ever spoken about their experience at the manor,
Hermione was the person he told of it. She had always known it would be terrible, but this—this
was her husband they were speaking of.

This was the Draco she watched in the mirror.

“There is only one Draco in this community, Hermione,” Dennis continued slowly. “I did my
research on it. You must believe me. I’ve looked through the Daily Prophet archives for anyone
who shared that name, but there is only one person who would make any sense. That man is your
husband.”

“But he would have the dark mark,” Hermione replied, shaking her head, and took a step back.
“We are husband and wife. I would’ve seen it.”

“Are you absolutely sure you would have?”

Hermione racked her brain for the details of it. They had been married for close to two months at
this point. There were a number of features she could remember in great detail. The details of his
hands, the way they felt on her. The curve of his neck, how his hair was meticulously styled in the
morning but by night, would fall away throughout the day into something much softer. The first
night she had seen him in the throes of a nightmare, where he had woken up shaking, trembling
from the memory of the cruciatus curse, he had been wearing his nightshirt. It was the same last
night, even when she was bare underneath him. He had never taken it off.

Any memory she had of his arms was from when they were young children, his sleeves rolled up to
his arms as he skipping rocks on the water.

In fact, she could not recall a single recent memory where she saw him completely bare before her.

Dread pooled in her stomach like lead, sending it sinking down to her feet. Dennis looked down at
her with poorly disguised pity. Was it the same way she looked upon him, years ago, at Shell
Cottage?

“I only bring this to you because I have great respect for the care you gave me during the war, and
I would be damned if I knew the truth and did not tell you plainly.”

Hermione’s hands fisted at her sides until she could feel her nails dig into her skin.

“Thank you, Dennis. Truly.”

She reached for his arm and clutched it silently before making her way back to the exit.

The walk between the Floo and his office gave Hermione enough time to drown in her thoughts and
horror. How could she not realise it after weeks of marriage? Did anyone know? Was it even true?

Hermione was not able to sort out her plan of action before she landed back in the manor.

“Was beginning to wonder where you were,” Draco said, an easy smile dancing across his lips. He
was waiting for her, as he always did for her courses to conclude. “You’re later than usual today.
Did Slughorn hold you after class again?”

She shook her head. “I ran into an old friend on my way out of the Ministry. I lost track of time.
Where were you this morning?”

“I was paying Potter a visit.”

She walked closer, her hands behind her back in a desperate attempt to hide her tremble. “And he
let you in? During his honeymoon?”

“Of course he didn’t. They were rather preoccupied.” Draco smirked, getting up to meet her
halfway across the room. Dressed casually, he looked carefree. “But Kreacher likes me far more
than he does Potter, so I waited. The hexes I dodged were well worth the look on his face.”

The questions she had fell away from her, unable to grasp them as she watched the way he looked
at her. In a moment of blind agony and desperation, she reached for his shirt and pulled him in. The
taste of him, the familiar spearmint sharp on her tongue. He wore the same cologne every day
following his shave. As she smelled it, she could feel her heart begin to miss him as he pulled her
in closer, ignorant and elated.

“Dessert before dinner?” Draco muttered along her lips. She could feel his smile growing wider
against her mouth. “I haven’t even told you what Dippy’s agreed to make for us tonight.”

“You said last night you weren’t sure that I wanted this,” she whispered, her nose tilting up and
grazing the skin along his jaw. “I told you. I want you.”

For a moment, she was certain he was hesitating. But when she looked up at him from under her
eyelashes, Hermione was certain she had won.

Seizing the opportunity before her as he remained still, she began to unfasten his shirt buttons, her
fingers tripping over themselves to unfasten them as quickly as possible and pushing him back
against his desk. Shirt buttons were bothersome, Hermione decided, as her finger hooked onto the
last one before pushing it over his shoulders. He aided her before his lips travelled down from her
mouth, to her jaw, down her neck. Hermione grasped blindly for his neck to keep his eyes off her
own as they slowly concentrated on the sight of him.

Then she saw it.

Hiding in the corners of her vision, much like it had in every ball they’d ever attended, was the
distinct twinkle of a glamour charm. Sparkles covered the entirety of his left forearm.

The turn of revulsion at the feeling of his lips on her neck was instantaneous. She tore her body
away from him, but her hand shot out to grip his arm. They both froze in place.

“Take it off,” Hermione hissed. She clutched his arm so tightly, her fingernails digging marks into
his skin. Taking in shallow breaths, she watched his chest rise and fall quickly, and his face pale
considerably.

“I said,” her voice rose—Draco flinched, blinking hard and gripping his left arm with his right hand
as if it was burned—“take off your glamour. Now!”

It looked as though Draco was contemplating an escape, or at least a retort of some kind, as his
mouth opened and closed in rapid succession. With a defeated wave of his wand, the glamour fell
away.
The shape of the Dark Mark seared itself into her vision. A dark skull, intertwined with a hissing
snake, smeared the pale skin of his arm. Deep in shock, he reached out for her again, but Hermione
took a step back and raised her wand defensively. The wand he had carved for her as a wedding
gift. Suddenly, she wanted to throw it into the fire, or break it in front of him to see how it might
feel.

“Gods, Dennis was right,” she said. Her voice shook with emotion. “You are a Death Eater.”

The expression across his face sent her nearly ten years into the past, to when she was a young
teenage girl, looking at herself in the mirror the morning after they saw each other for the first time
in the real world. The day she vanished the circles under her eyes with a glamour, the day before
she wiped her parents' memories in order to save their lives.

Complete and utter heartbreak.

“Don’t you dare, Draco Malfoy,” she whispered, a tone so low and fractured, she wouldn’t have
recognised it as her own. “You cannot charm yourself out of this one.”

“You must allow me to explain.” His voice rippled with emotion, broken and hesitant. Draco
Malfoy was a duke, and dukes were not meant to beg, but if she hadn’t known any better, it seemed
that he was begging before her. “Let me explain, please, Hermione—”

“What, so that I can sit here and listen to more of your lies? Let me guess, you’ll tell me it was the
worst day of your life, your greatest regret, the day Lord Voldemort—,” He involuntarily flinched
at the name, but she continued on nonetheless, “gave you the mark, just as they all do?”

There was no need to clarify the collective they she was referring to. Draco’s face hardened. “It
wasn’t.”

Hermione scoffed. “Of course not. I am sure it filled you and your parents with immense joy to see
their only son join the ranks of the Dark Lord.”

There he stood before her, chest bare, his normally immaculate hair dishevelled, leaning on his
desk as he often did for support, his right hand still gripping his left arm, panting from red-bitten
lips. The very same ones she kissed the night before.

“I let you touch me,” Hermione breathed out. The turn of her stomach was looming. Remembering
the intimate ways he had seen her, touched her, all while hiding the mark on his skin. “In ways no
one ever has before, all with that thing on your arm!”

There was a small fragileness hidden away inside her heart, one she hadn’t realised survived the
war. She only now remembered it was there when she felt it shatter into a million pieces inside her
soul.

What a cruel and horrible world. Had she not suffered enough?

“Is this why you did not fight the demand to marry me?” she whispered. “Did you think no one
would suspect you of being a Death Eater, being married to me? A muggle-born?”

His brow flew upwards, forgetting himself. “What? No! Hermione, please—” Draco reached for
her again but she quickly manoeuvred out of his desperate grasp, walking back towards the door.

“I could not figure it out for weeks. Why you would ever agree to marry me,” Hermione continued
as if she had not heard him. “It is suddenly so clear.” She gave a hollow laugh. “How could anyone
question your loyalty to a reformed society if you married a mudblood?”
Draco visibly flinched as if the slur lashed him. “Do not say that word.”

“Mudblood, mudblood, MUDBLOOD! You cannot stop me from saying it!” Her voice shook as
she screamed, and the glass windows audibly cracked. “It is mine, and it is Dennis’, and it was
Colin’s. You have no right to tell me to stop!”

The door to the office flew open, and the sight of Narcissa threatened to turn her stomach over.

“What in Helga’s name are you two shouting about?” Narcissa stormed through the room. “Half
the county has surely heard you both by now.” She paused, her eyes dropping to her son’s bare
chest and tousled appearance. “Draco, where is your shirt?”

There she was again, a teenage girl in a bookshop, caught between him and his mother. Already
feeling light-headed, Hermione was desperate for an escape. Hermione threw a scowl at Draco,
who was hastily reaching for something to cover himself with. “I was just leaving.”

“You are not going anywhere,” Draco’s voice was raised. He turned to his mother and pointed, his
glare murderous and his voice complete ice, “And you will leave.”

Hermione yelled back, “You will not order me around like some house-elf.”

“You are my wife,” he snarled. A cornered animal no longer, she could feel his radiating
frustration. “I am your lord, and your husband, and you will stay here—”

The moment he touched her, a blind rage consumed her. The glass windows bent and shattered,
sending glass flying past them.

“Gods!” Narcissa cried out. “What is the meaning of this?”

Narcissa’s cries were drowned out by the ringing in her ears. The back of her hands felt scratched
raw, her body pulsed with shock as she took in the damage, watching as blood bloomed across his
chest. They stood in front of each other, speechless. Horrified, Hermione began to flee from the
room before Narcissa could finish.

“Do not touch me!” His voice carried through the halls behind her. Hermione did not stop moving.
“Have you not done enough?”

Hermione dove into an alcove somewhere between the foyer and the dining hall. She desperately
attempted to catch her breath before trying to apparate to her father’s house. She was not eager to
add splinching alongside her broken heart.

How would she explain her presence, and the absence of her husband, to her father? Her friends?

Just as Draco came bounding back into view, his arm outstretched to reach her. Her vision spun
ahead of her as Hermione apparated out of sight.
 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Her father welcomed her back home without many questions. Only one, in fact, to start with. “Shall
I ask Crookshanks to teach your husband a lesson?”

Hermione dropped herself onto a sofa, the same one her mother had fainted upon when she first
learned Hermione was a witch. “No, no murder.” She rolled onto her side and faced the delicate
upholstery instead of looking up at her father. “Not yet, at least.”

Later that night in the bath, under water Hermione continuously charmed to reheat, she scrubbed
her skin raw. The touch Draco left had sunk deeper than just the surface of her skin. She allowed
him, practically begged him, to touch her most vulnerable places. She had pushed his hands onto
her skin, and told him that she wanted him. When she was not looking, was he laughing at her?

When the memory of it was too much to bear, Hermione dunked her head under the water and held
her breath until she couldn’t any longer.

And the cycle would repeat throughout her evening.

In the end, all she wanted in this world was a hug from her mother. As a child, it solved much of
her problems, from children that had shunned her as a young girl to a scraped knee, all could be
solved with a simple embrace from her mother. Instead, Hermione wrapped her arms around her
middle, and turned over to a fresh side of her childhood bed, and tried her best to fall asleep.

It should not have been surprising when Mr. Crookshanks arrived the next morning through the
Floo.

“Did he dismiss you?” Hermione asked quietly, as he set down her tray of tea by her bedside while
she dressed for her classes. She had ignored the one her father sent up the previous day, and would
neglect this fresh set as well. It smelled of mint.

“No, your grace. His grace has only asked that I return to attend to you.”

“You can tell the duke that I am perfectly well, thank you, and am in no need of attending.” The
question of his own state, how he might be doing, lingered on her tongue. Hermione smothered it
down.

“The duke has requested an audience—”

“No.” Hermione gripped her sheets, sharply interrupting her butler. “Thank you for the tea, Mr.
Crookshanks.”
Hermione spent the week in a daze, avoiding meals and callings from friends, instead choosing to
stare at her open potions book while reading nothing of its contents.

A sharp voice startled her out of her daydreaming—it was Harry. “What’s wrong? What’s
happened?”

“Who let you in?” Hermione stood from her chair by the window, shocked at her friend’s arrival at
her family home. “I thought you were on your honeymoon?”

“I was, only to return and hear that your marriage is currently in shambles.” Harry crossed the
room to her, his brow furrowed, robes crumbled and wrinkled from what she assumed was his
urgency to visit her.

“How could you know that? It hasn’t been reported in the papers, I check them each morning.”

“I have my ways, not including your distraught husband, showing up the morning after my own
wedding night!”

A single word caught her attention. “Distraught? Draco was distraught?”

“How else would you describe a man bemoaning how he has ruined his marriage? Ginny hexed
him away before I could understand what had gone wrong.”

“And what would it matter if it is ruined? After all, it’s not a love match between us.”

“But you both were so happy at our wedding. Tell me, has he done something to hurt you?”

“Yes, he has. That precious friend of yours is a Death Eater, Harry!” Hermione hissed, angered by
Harry’s overwhelming concern.

But Harry didn’t so much flinch at the accusation, in fact, he didn’t look taken aback in the
slightest. Her breath caught violently, her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she tried to make
sense of it.

“You knew? All this time?” she breathed out.

“I suppose the vow I made is broken, now that you know.” His concern faded into a sombre frown.
“I knew he was a Death Eater.”

“I ought to curse you.” The wand she abandoned in the furthest corner of the room after her class
that day called to her again. “I ought to set your robes on fire, and cast you into the void!”

Harry glanced down and seemed to deduce at the same time she did that she did not have
possession of her wand.

“We would have lost without his help,” Harry explained, relieved at her inability to hex him. “The
vow we made swore me to secrecy, and I would do it again. The risk he took saved the lives of
many.”

“All while torturing Dennis. And what of Colin?” Hermione snarled.

“Do you recall when Ron came to take you from Shell Cottage to the Burrow?”

“No.” Shaking her head, she raised her hand. “Harry, do not do this. I do not wish to hear it.”
Harry did not obey her attempts to silence him. “That man behind the door was your husband.
Maybe he remembers, perhaps he cannot, but that potion he drank nearly killed him!”

“I do not care for what he might’ve done during the war! When Dennis returned, he would not talk
for weeks! That is what Draco Malfoy has done. And you want me to feel sorry he drank a potion?
You must be mad!”

“Malfoy insisted he be the one to drink it. He thought they were torturing you, he was screaming
for you—”

“Stop this,” she hissed, turning fully away. “I wish not to hear more lies.”

“Ron and Lupin were there! You know they would tell you the whole truth, just as I have now.”

“The truth? When has there been an ounce of truth during this entire charade?” Hermione cried.
“The truth is that both my best friends insisted I, their only muggle-born friend, marry a Death
Eater. And not a single one of you ever thought it might be important to disclose such a thing!”

“Hermione,” Harry said slowly. “I couldn’t have told you if I tried.”

“There was no reason to insist on marriage, even if you were forced to if you knew the truth!” The
blood in her veins grew cold. ”Who else in the Order knew?”

“Not everyone, Hermione. Please, be reasonable—”

“Ron?” she questioned. “Remus? Arthur and Bill?”

When Harry did not refute, she knew it was just the beginning of a long list.

“What did you offer in exchange for his exceptional work?” Hermione hissed, her fingertips
crackling with magic and her brain beginning to fog. “Did you offer a marriage to a muggle-born
witch to cover up any suspicion of his past? How convenient that slanderous article must’ve been
for you both, insisting he marry me over outright lies on a page of gossip. Did you discuss the
details of this farce over some Ogden’s, after he signed Grimmauld Place to you?”

Harry would’ve looked less hurt if she had outright struck him across the face. “It wasn’t like
that,” he whispered. “Hermione, it wasn’t like that at all.”

Though it did not matter what it was like, it mattered what it was. Her closest friends had watched
as she married a Death Eater, and not a single one thought she deserved better.

“I think you should leave, Harry,” said Hermione quietly.

Despite Mr. Crookshanks being shorter than Harry, he seemed significantly larger looming in the
doorway. “Allow me to help you find the door, your grace.”

For a moment, Harry looked as though he were about to fight to stay until his shoulders dropped in
resignation. They did not speak another word to each other when he left.

She sent a note to Dennis thanking him for telling her, the only person in this world who had
seemingly told her the truth the first moment he could.

To the rest of the Order, who knew but said nothing, Hermione sent howlers—ones that would
make Molly proud.
Hermione did not expect to grieve.

She spent over a year in full mourning for her mother in Australia, and still mourned for her.
Months, if not years, were spent mourning the ones they had lost during the war.

Lamenting over her false marriage to Draco Malfoy would be illogical, irrational, and absurd.
Though no matter how hard she tried, she could not help but wonder if their marriage was true after
all—if any of it was real.

The days began to blur together, a shell of the varied and vibrant days she enjoyed upon returning
to London. The elegant balls, the new magical peerage, and reconstructed Ministry; a crumbling
facade of this new society, one she was so eager to reenter. Though she continued to attend
Slughorn’s classes, which was once her only care in this new age, she learned quickly the course
itself held very little value on its own.

Slughorn spent hours of class boasting about his famous acquaintances, while Hermione continued
to brew her damning Amortentia and ponder how Draco was spending his days. Would he have
thoughts on more effective brewing techniques? What would he think of the Slug Club?

And what might his Amortentia smell like?

Neville sent her a note later in the week commending her on the state of the wolfsbane growing in
the greenhouse, though she hadn’t touched the plants in weeks due to her studies. Incredible
pruning, he wrote, you must’ve spent ages back there attending to them.

Hermione did not send a reply.

If Hermione was forced to count, it would only be the third time in her life she had seen Narcissa
Malfoy from such a close distance.

The first time, she was standing in the narrow aisles of a Diagon Alley bookshop, the second had
been her own wedding, and now, Narcissa was standing in Hermione’s own drawing room. In an
ideal world, Hermione would have been content with never seeing Narcissa again after her
wedding, but Mr. Crookshanks said she refused to leave without seeing Hermione.

Narcissa stood tall and proud, dressed in her black robes as she always was, quietly observing the
various fixtures around the room as if perusing amusing artwork. Hermione gave a quick curtsy
after entering the room, one which Narcissa did not return, her eyes scrutinising Hermione’s every
move.

It seemed they would have it out.

Hermione started graciously, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I thought I might pay a visit to check on your health,” Narcissa replied haughtily. Her spine was
held rigid. “You have been absent from the manor close to a week now. I thought at first your
childish avoidance would conclude within a night or two. Since it has not, I assume you contracted
one of those muggle illnesses, and thought after a few days of acceptable rest, I would bring you
back to the manor myself.”

Her cruelty only added fuel to the fire of Hermione’s rage.

“This is your idea of encouragement for me to return to your son? Verbal slights about my lineage,
in my father’s own home?”

“No one else is willing to tell you that you are acting like a fool.” Narcissa’s lip curled into a
frown. “I hoped I could talk sense into you.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I believe I am acting perfectly reasonable for a woman who has just
found out her husband is a Death Eater,” she spat the last words out.

Narcissa scoffed, completely unbothered by the term. “A Death Eater? My husband, yes, willingly
so. My boy?” Narcissa shook her head. “He is no Death Eater.”

“He is not a boy!”

“No, but he was!” Narcissa shouted. The sudden ripple of anger, the way her hair looked unkept,
betrayed the emotions she fought so hard to hide from everyone. “He was once just a boy, he was
my boy, and what did they do to him? What they made him do?”

“Do not worry, for I have an idea,” Hermione cut in, but that did not stop Narcissa. It did not stop
her at all.

“You have not a single clue,” Narcissa snarled viciously. “There are things we mustn’t do with
magic. You would not know the first thing about casting an unforgivable, even if the Dark Lord
was at your back and demanded it of you. How could a boy be capable of such things? He was not.
He could not.”

Remembering Dennis’ recount of imprisonment, Hermione viciously replied, “How very sorry for
you.”

The two women stood before the other, duelling with their words instead of their magic. “I have
heard about your so-called contributions to the war effort,” said Narcissa slowly. A saccharine
smile played on her lips. “Did it feel good, standing over a warm cauldron, mixing potions, while
others, your proclaimed friends, threw themselves in harm’s way?”

“You have absolutely no right to criticise what I did for the war effort, to insult my work, or deflect
from the damage and carnage your family actively caused,” Hermione warned. Her fingers itched
for her wand.

“How can you not understand? There is never an offer the Dark Lord makes that truly provides
options. Lucius was so proud, more proud than ever before. Once the Dark Lord became
suspicious of the family, and Lucius died—” Narcissa’s breath caught on a sob, suddenly
mournful, before continuing after a moment of silence. “Our boy did everything we ever asked of
him. Everything. And now, he does not speak a word of it. By the time I reach him in the mornings,
he has halfway downed a bottle of Ogden’s.”

Narcissa took a single step forward, her bright blue eyes were brimming with angry tears that
refused to fall, but Hermione refused to cower. It was the most animated Hermione had ever seen
her, yet Narcissa remained as haunted as ever. “I am no fool. The moment I read you had returned
in the paper, it was as though life returned to him. If you were not prepared to be a wife, accepting
your husband’s flaws as I had—you should not have agreed to marry at all.”
They stood there in silence. For the first time, Hermione saw her for what she truly was. Not a
pureblood duchess, lost in a new world, but a devastated widow.

Still, Hermione brushed at the front of her dress and took in a deep breath to calm herself. “I will
have Mr. Crookshanks show you out.”

Without another word, Narcissa left the room with her black robes sweeping behind her, not
waiting for the butler to show her the Floo.

Not a single day went by without Draco requesting an audience with her, along with her persistent
refusal.

“If you do not tell him to stop, I will be forced to curse him,” Hermione warned as she prepared for
her courses that morning. Mr. Crookshanks stood dutifully by her bedroom door, holding a fresh
tea set she would never drink from.

“I fear he may prefer that, your grace.”

“Then deny him, and keep quiet about it to me. Thank you for the tea, as always, Mr.
Crookshanks.”

An iridescent blue light stirred Hermione from her sleep. Blinking rapidly, she fixed her eyes
towards the window when a beautiful hum rang in her ears. Before her, a patronus swooped around
the room with grace before swimming towards her.

“Hermione.”

It was Draco’s voice, broken and raspy, but unmistakably his. Startled, she reached for her wand
and banished the patronus. She fell back against her pillow, realising the form it had taken, and
could not fall back asleep.

On the occasion Hermione felt hunger at all, she would attend supper, poking at her food while her
father acted as though he was not the slightest bit worried for her. As if whatever she and Draco
had quarrelled about was a rather normal marital dispute.

How could Hermione look him in the eye and tell him the truth of it? That she was so desperate,
stubborn, and stupid that she allowed herself to marry the first, and somehow last, option available
to her all in the name of a stupid certification? How in the process, she had her heart dropped, and
bruised, and broken, one too many times?

Over their meal, Hermione pushed around the greens on her plate. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what, my dear?”

“Grant Draco your permission to marry me. You weren’t in your office for very long that day.” She
purposefully neglected to mention their use of extendable ears. “What did he say to you?”

Her father frowned. “What makes you think it was something he said?”

“How else might a man ask for a woman’s hand?” Hermione ground out.

“Have you at the very least asked him why?” Her father set down his silverware and leaned
backward in his chair. “Or provided him the audience to explain?”

Hermione said nothing, but knew the answer was written across her face. She thought it over in her
mind countless times; why he would even care about her tattered reputation, why he would want
her but hold her out of reach. His constant requests to see her, his patronus, his pleas for her to
listen as she left his study days before, all of which she dismissed.

“He cares for you deeply, more than you know.”

Though it had ached for ages, Hermione could feel her heart sing at the thought. “He has never
said such a thing,” she replied softly.

“You are my brilliant daughter, my only child. But there are things about men you would not
understand.” When she scowled at him, he simply smiled knowingly. “Some men, your husband
included, might choose to show their choices through their actions rather than explaining them.”

She hadn’t expected anything more from him than a signature for her courses, and he did so quite
willingly and without complaint. And when all he asked in exchange was her friendship, she had
been more than relieved.

But the simple truth was she was frightened. Not knowing the man she had mistakenly fallen for
made her feel foolish and lost, for quite possibly the first time. There were few things in this life
she did not understand, and he was at the top of the list. If she wanted to know who he was, not
through the words of Harry, or Dennis, or Narcissa, she would have to ask him, because there
would be no book she could find on the subject of Draco Malfoy.

“If you want to know why I agreed to grant him your hand, you would be better off asking him for
his reasons rather than my own. After all, it’s not as if I can read the man’s mind.” Her father
reached out to grasp her hand. “Though, I will say, oftentimes the more we search for reasons, the
harder it may be to see the simplest answer.”

Hermione waited anxiously for the social ruin that was sure to come. Snatching both the Prophet
and the Scandal Sheet from her owl the moment it flew to her window each morning, biting her
fingernails as she read through each page, searching for it. The headline of their separation or news
of Dennis’ startling revelation: Draco Malfoy, the famous Duke of Wiltshire and war hero, was in
fact Death Eater.

But no matter how long she waited, there were no headlines to speak of.
Chapter End Notes

Next chapter Wednesday, February 8th!

Hang in there :)
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

There was a short knock at the door, what Hermione assumed to be Mr. Crookshanks with her
morning tea. Though she did not get up, nor welcome him in, he opened the door and stepped
inside anyway, as was routine.

“Your grace,” he greeted. Rather than a tray of tea, held in his hands was a small wrapped parcel
with an envelope attached. “His grace has requested I deliver this to you.”

Hermione mustered what little emotional energy she had left to form a scowl. “I thought I made it
clear that I did not want to hear of his grace’s requests?” Despite her tone, her heart clenched
painfully in her chest.

“I think her grace should have a look at its contents and judge them for herself this time.” Mr.
Crookshanks cast a worried glance at the fireplace. “He would have sent it to you directly, but he
worried you might toss it into the flames before opening it.”

Hermione reached for the package. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“His grace mentioned it holds great importance to him.” Then, Mr. Crookshanks gave her a small
look of sadness. “And I believe you would regret it greatly.”

Mr. Crookshanks dismissed himself with a bow of his head, his warning enough to make her
reconsider tossing the parcel into the remaining embers.

She hesitated over the letter perched atop the box. Remembering the Dark Mark burned into his
skin, and his own frustrating lashing out at her, her anger toward Draco felt righteous at the time.

While she had not been interested in his reasons as he made them; there she was, in her childhood
bedroom over a week later, her eyes still sore from the tears and her chest aching. The Amortentia
she brewed in class smelled as it did before she learned the truth. Like his bed sheets, and the
summer grass from her memories. Reading her name written in his damned perfect script across
the envelope was enough to call her to open the letter like a siren song.

Hermione,

I owe you an explanation and many apologies, that is the truth. The morning of our
engagement, you told me that I needn’t marry you if I could not bear it. I did not
answer you then, because if I had, I would have only asked if you could bear to be
married to me instead.

If you cannot, know that I would understand. I will do whatever it is you require of me
to go about your life peacefully.
 But if you can, I will wait patiently for your return, just as I always have.

Yours eternally,

Draco

Placing his letter to the side, Hermione raised the parcel in her hands. It weighed far too little for it
to be any sort of jewellery, and did not rattle. She pulled at the ribbon that held it together, the
paper falling open across her lap. As she examined it closely, the cloth shook faintly in her grasp.

Inside was an immaculately pressed handkerchief—the one from all those summers past.

She would be the first to admit she was never a grand artist, but it had taken her months to
embroider it during her fourth year. The meticulous research she had done on the constellation
Draco in the Hogwarts library. The weeks spent plotting out the pattern of the stars and sketching
the dragon until she felt certain she had done the constellation justice. The glittering gold and silver
threads meant to mimic starlight. In her letters to her parents, she had requested her mother to send
her the fine stitching materials she would need to make it before the school year ended. It had to be
perfect.

For years, Hermione worked to separate all the different Draco Malfoys she knew, to
compartmentalise him inside her memory. There was the young boy, hidden away by the water and
trees, followed by the cruel boy in the bookshop. And now, her mysterious husband, the Death
Eater, who had gone above and beyond anything she asked of him.

And though she had tried for years to keep her heart unscathed, and hide him away in her mind
where she could not see him, or feel anything toward him, loving the boy she once knew from
Wiltshire was inevitable.

The return to the manor did not feel as foreign as Hermione anticipated. It was familiar to how she
felt returning to Hogwarts after a summer at her parent's house. The place she once considered
home had now changed, and it did not frighten her.

Stepping out of the Floo into his empty study, the one she had nearly destroyed in her anger, she
could see fragments of parchment scattered across his desk, each varying in length, covered in
crossed out sentences and blotted with ink.

The windows were repaired, and looking out of them across the gardens, she could see Narcissa
watching her through the glass. Neither woman cowered until Narcissa finally turned away and
continued her normal path.

“Dippy?” Hermione called out.

A loud crack and Dippy appeared before her. The small elf cried out and wrapped her long arms
around Hermione’s knees, her voice shaking with unbridled emotion, “Her grace has returned!”

“Yes, I have.” She glanced around the room, searching for signs of Draco. “Dippy, where is the
duke?”

“He is not in the house, your grace,” Dippy answered, her head turning as she pondered. “In fact, I
cannot sense him inside the wards at all.”

Hermione ran a soothing hand over Dippy’s head. “Do not fret. I have a feeling I know where to
find him.”

Turning to one of the empty frames hanging on the wall, Hermione approached and ran her fingers
across the placard spelling Young Draco Lucius Malfoy, 1836. After a long moment, bright blond
hair poked in from the side. Then, a young Draco moved entirely into view, staring down at her in
clear fascination.

“Hello, Draco,” said Hermione. “Do you remember me?”

The young Draco in the portrait smiled brightly in return, a raging blush blooming across his
cheeks before he quickly nodded. “Hello, Hermione.”

“I’ve missed you a great deal these past few years.” Her fingers played with the handkerchief in her
hands. “I’m not sure the way to the water from the Manor. Would you mind explaining it to me?”

After the gardens made way to a thick line of trees surrounding the estate, she spent what felt like
hours walking through the woods, with only a small carved-out path to guide her way to a rolling
hillside. It was no wonder Draco rode his broomstick out to meet her most days. The sound of
rushing water called to her, as it had during another age, and the splashing of water in the distance.
Hermione counted them, one, two, three times, in succession.

Walking over the hill through the tall grass, she finally saw him standing by the waterside. The
hawthorn tree they spent weeks sitting under had grown larger in the years of her absence. The sun
was well past its peak, dropping low in the distance and turning the landscape golden.

Hermione made her way towards him silently, but he did not seem aware of her approach. Taking
him in from this perspective felt like deja vu. “This place is much further from the manor than I
expected.”

Draco jumped and turned to face her. He looked gaunt. Dark circles hovered underneath his eyes,
with purpling bruises across his nose and cheeks, hair wild from the wind whipping around them.

Hermione frowned, the next words out of her mouth were far less elegant than she would’ve liked
them to be. “What’s happened to your face?”

Draco stared at her wildly. His hand flew to his face, flinching as his fingers brushed against the
bridge of his nose. “My nose is broken. Er—it was broken.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Hermione replied plainly. “How did it become broken?”

“I was in a fight.“ Draco turned away to toss another stone across the water. It quickly sank. “Well,
not so much a fight. I had the distinct pleasure of officially meeting your dear friend, Dennis
Creevey. I told him he could do whatever he liked to me, and I promised him I wouldn’t seek a
healer for it.” He threw another stone. It skipped over the water twice. “He struck me so hard, I
blacked out before I hit the ground.”

“Gods!” she exclaimed. “Is this how men of distinction settle their disputes? Fisticuffs?”
Draco shrugged. “Hardly fisticuffs if I did nothing in return. Nice bloke he is, let me set the bone at
least. I expected him to gut me, or at the very least curse me.” Draco rolled one of the stones in his
hand between his fingers. “I would’ve deserved it.”

She approached closer. “And why didn’t he? If you say he had the right to.”

“How else do you think the Order got into Lestrange Manor?” Draco dropped the remaining rocks
into the water before turning back to her. “I was the one who let them in.”

Hermione blinked. She had believed what Harry and Ron had told her, which was that they bribed
a snatcher into letting them through the wards. They brought back Dennis, Luna and a number of
other Order members, though Colin died just days before their rescue. What other moments from
the war had she been purposefully excluded from?

“Come here.” He marched forward obediently, her hand hovering over his cheek while the other
held her wand. Draco lightly flinched with the sudden appearance of her wand in his face.
“Episkey.”

The blooming bruises across his face receded significantly, no longer black and blue. He stared
down at her as though he feared she would disappear before him. “I’ve thought over what I ought
to tell you for weeks now,” he said quietly. He slowly tilted his head to touch his cheek to her
hovering hand. In a moment of weakness, she let him. “But when I look at you, everything I
planned to say slips away.”

“Would it be easier for you to explain if I looked away?”

Draco let out a small laugh. “No, it wouldn’t.” He stepped away, the change in his demeanour
reminding her of a scolded boy in her days as Hogwarts prefect. Then his posture shifted, and he
turned back to shamelessly face her. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up his arms, and there was
no glamour to speak of, nor coat to hide beneath. “My father promised my fealty to the Dark Lord
while I was away at school. I received this”—he gestured to the Dark Mark etched into his skin
—“just after my sixteenth birthday when I returned home after fifth year. Unless you held a death
wish for yourself and your entire family, there was no refusing the Dark Lord. My father was a
cruel man, but I had no wish for my mother to die.”

After his sixteenth birthday. The only son of a Duke, who enjoyed skipping rocks across the water,
napping under trees, and eating the lemon cakes she nicked from the kitchen.

Just a boy.

“I spent the rest of the summer plotting ways to kill that horrible bastard, but even the strongest
poisons had no effect on him. The others took to hunting muggles for sport. That day, when we
saw each other in the bookshop, you know my father went on to suggest we hunt your muggle
family? And when I refused, well—” Draco took a deep breath before he managed a wan smile.
“My father did not appreciate my ardent refusal very much. He had Durmstrang to thank for my
occlumency lessons."

When Hermione could not find the words to reply, Draco continued on. “Years into the war, Nott
arranged a meeting with Potter through that Lovegood girl, after he helped her escape his own
manor. When the Dark Lord grew suspicious of the sudden streak of luck the Order experienced,
my father was blamed. I have no doubt my father knew I was the traitor, but he cared far more
about succession than he ever cared for me. After he was executed, my mother slipped away.”

Narcissa’s everlasting mourning grew clear. It was no wonder why it was difficult for her to spend
time with her own son. Her husband had died for him.

“Your friend Dennis was correct about me, I did terrible things.” He looked up at the sky. The pain
in his voice was unmistakable. “I didn’t expect to be alive when the Dark Lord was defeated.
Months after the war, Potter tracked me down and found me under a table at some pub in Berlin
shirking my responsibilities, and demanded Grimmauld place as I once promised him. Now
Potter’s under the delusion that the deal we made during the war made us friends of some kind.”

The wind whipped at them once again, the air much cooler than she anticipated. Strands of her hair
fell out of its plait and into her face, but she did not look away from him. For all the summers he
listened to her speak with patience, she now gave him her undivided attention.

“Around that time, news of your return from Australia made its way into the papers. I came back
here, and I waited every day with the thought that maybe”—his hands made their way through his
hair in visible frustration—“I returned thinking by some miracle, you might be here, and it would
be exactly the same as it was before. I wanted to apologise. For everything. For keeping our
friendship a secret, for my wretched family, for the hurt I caused you. But you never came back.
Why would you?” His eyes had never been clearer—he looked broken. “I did not intend to
antagonise you the way I did when we met again. I only wanted a single dance with you, just to
know what it might feel like to earn your smile once again.”

They stood in silence, while Hermione contemplated what to say. She counted down the number of
years it had been since she dropped the handkerchief into his open palm as a late birthday gift. She
suffered through weeks of contemplation and confusion tossing over the question repeatedly in her
mind.

What was it that Draco Malfoy stood to gain from their arrangement?

There was so much more for her to gain implicitly with their marriage. Though the whispers of
Draco’s past as a Death Eater could have ruined his blossoming reputation, the endorsement from
the Boy Who Lived would have done the same as, if not more than Hermione Granger’s hand in
marriage. Though studious, she could not compare to women who had grown up in the peerage in
terms of managing a household, or hosting balls and banquets.

Hermione saw it then. It was written so plainly behind his eyes, those of a young boy of sixteen
who had never been able to grow up—not entirely.

Nearly a decade had passed, and a part of him had remained somewhere in the summer fields of
Wiltshire, frozen in time, and left standing there. As if in the interest of saving himself, he built
walls around the smallest sliver of childhood he had, and protected it fiercely from outsiders who
meant to harm him, even her.

“Is that why you’ve done all this?” Hermione asked slowly, holding the handkerchief against her
heart as it beat rapidly. “The spying, the dancing, agreeing to marry me. Because you felt affection
for me when we were young?”

Draco’s expression turned to anguish, and he let out an incredulous laugh. “Have you not figured it
out yet?” He reached out for her hand, pulling it from her chest, and held it between them. “Are
you not the brightest witch of our age?”
 Commission by @ellemisc

She fought the growing redness of her cheeks. “Spell it out for me, so that I cannot confuse it.”

“You asked me to do something about my house-elves, and now I pay each of them more than I
would a pureblood governess. I meddle in the affairs of others below our station in the hopes of
playing matchmaker, simply because you asked me to. I made a wand for you by hand, from this
very tree.” He motioned towards the sprawling hawthorn behind her. “If you asked me to leap, I’d
simply ask you how high. My feelings are far beyond juvenile affection, and have been for years
now.” His tone became grave, his gaze held hers as if nothing was more important than what he
would soon say. “But do not think for a moment that you, Hermione, were ever considered a
commodity, traded by those closest to you in exchange for my impunity. That idea could not be
further from the truth. If you were the only solace I had in this world, I was selfish enough to take
every bit of you I could have. A scowl across the park, or simply holding your hand. But I would
have never—never intentionally compromised you—”

When his breath audibly caught, Draco dropped her hand to hide his face in the palm of his hands
and let out a strangled, frustrated groan. The sound sent her reaching out to comfort him.
“I believe you,” Hermione whispered, grasping at his wrists to pry his hands away from his face. It
pulled another whine from his chest. “I know now, Draco.”

Gently pulling his hands away, Hermione looked into his reddening eyes and found he was
breaking apart.

“I love you,” he choked out, his breath shuddering at the words, as though a weight lifted from his
chest. “I love you, Hermione. I knew I could not truly be with you until you knew the truth. I
should have told you the moment I proposed, to give you a chance to refuse, but I was selfish.
When I thought of telling you, when I imagined the look on your face, I could not bear it. And
when you saw it—the way you looked at me—”

“I’m so sorry, Draco.” Hermione took his face into her hands, and she brought his forehead to rest
on hers before brushing away the tears on his cheek. Overcome, she finally pulled his lips to hers.
There was a distinct spike of salt across their lips. From his tears or the ones she silently shed, she
could not be sure. She felt him tremble beneath her hands before he surrendered.

Now, she understood the difference between the kisses she shared before she married Draco
Malfoy. It was not her first kiss, but Draco kissed her as though he loved her. Possessively, he
cradled her face in his hands, pulling her closer. He kissed her ardently, swiftly stealing her breath
away.

He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her.

They pulled apart with his fingers tangling at the curls at the nape of her neck.

“I love you,” Hermione whispered. Draco cradled her face and stared at her with bright grey eyes,
every broken piece of him slowly mending before her. “I held you at arm's length because I
thought I suffered alone. I was blinded by the steadfast presumptions I made of you, too suspicious
to see your actions for what they were.” She held his handkerchief up to sight. “When I made this
for you, I sent my mother back and forth to the store about a hundred times to get the colours right.
I spent ages on it, trying to make it perfect. I loved you then, but I was too young to realise it.”

“And I kept it for years.” He brought her hands to his breast pocket, just above his heart. “Here.”

Hermione pressed another soft kiss on his lips, her fingers clenching his shirt to hold him close.
She drew back to meet his gaze. “If our marriage is to be true, there will be no secrets between us
any longer. We can leave it all in the past.”

“No secrets.” Draco agreed though he looked uncertain. “But is that what you want? A true
marriage with me?”

Hermione nodded. There was no fear of him left in her heart. She had cast aside her reservations,
her shield and armour, all her defences the moment she saw him skipping stones by the water. “Did
you know your Patronus takes the same form as mine?”

“Does it? How incredibly mortifying.” His face lit up at the thought, yet he managed a light scoff.
“If questioned, please tell Potter it was a Ukrainian Ironbelly.”

“I will be sure to tell him.” Hermione mustered up a playful tone. The ache inside her finally
lightened, unable to believe the love she had desperately wished for had already been earned long
ago. Behind him, the setting sun caught her eye. “The hour grows late. Would you happen to have
the time, by chance?”

Draco gave her a heart-stopping smile, the same one painted on the young portrait of him in his
 study. “I say it’s close to around five o’clock.”

Hermione tugged his hand, pulling him away from the water's edge. “Let’s return home before it
grows too dark.”

Before they travelled too far, Draco asked, his voice hoarse, “Could we return here? Soon?”

“Tomorrow,” Hermione promised, leading him away to walk home together for the first time, hand
in hand.

Chapter End Notes

Friends, new chapter isn’t coming out today.

I wanted to make it happen, but I can't. I apologize!

I'll let you know ASAP when it's dropping but the end is near I'm so excited to
share the rest. Check out twitter for chapter posting update.
 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When Hermione found herself staring at him on their journey back home, she fought from crying
at the thought of having been so close to losing him. In another universe far too close to this one
for comfort, she would be married to the first available man, possibly even Cormac McLaggen.
The reminder made her squeeze his hand tightly in residual fear. For the first time, she thanked
Harry’s relentless meddling. Had she been less ignorant, stubborn, and foolish, she would have
wasted less time on the things of the past and focused on their time together.

If Draco noticed her mental despair, he did not say. But there were moments as they returned home
where he would pull her in closer and kiss her softly until all her self-reprimands subsided, and only
one thought remained.

When they crossed the tree line back into the gardens, she took his hand and led him back into the
manor, walking towards the wing that kept their bedchambers. There would be no more wasted
time between them.

“Retiring to your room so early, your grace?” He teased, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“Yes, but not alone.”

Not daring to look back until they reached the door to her room, she pulled him through the halls,
and he obediently followed. Only when her hand circled around the knob did she look back at him,
and he leaned closer into her space, placing his hands on either side of her.

There was desire in the way he looked at her, she was sure of it, but something more as well. She’d
seen it in his face before, the night she arrived at his door, intent on showing him just how much
she wanted him.

“Where were you going that night?” Hermione asked suddenly, remembering the startled look on
his face when he found her standing there. “When you found me at your door?”

“I was going to see you.” His hands gripped her hips. “To stand outside your room, and try to
gather the courage to knock.”

Hermione blinked, his answer catching her off-guard. Each new revelation changed her
understanding of him. “How many times?”

The shy smile he wore made her heart race. “More nights than I would care to admit.”

“You should have,” Hermione whispered. “I would have let you in.”

“Go on then,” he encouraged softly, nodding towards the room behind her. The softness of his
voice was deceiving; the look across his face spelled something wicked. “Invite me in.”
She turned the knob behind her, and let him push her by the hips back into the room. It was the
same as she left it, books strewn here and there, her class notes, and a spare cauldron by the fire.
Her return felt a warm comfort.

“You’ve done a great deal to improve the space,” said Draco, glancing around the room with what
looked like longing.

“A few things here and there.”

“You know, this was my room before.”

Hermione gaped up at him. “You—you gave me your own room?”

He had the gall to look abashed, running an absentminded hand through his hair. “Well, it has
more space for books than the other rooms.”

What a ridiculous man she married. Having heard enough, she pressed her mouth to his.

He kissed her everywhere, more than he ever had before. There was no rush in the way he undid
the laces of her dress, or how he kissed each inch of exposed skin across the nape of her neck.
Freeing her from the dress she wore, she was left only in her chemise. He pulled the sleeve to the
side, and kissed down her bare shoulders. Each time his lips pressed against her body, the chaste
brush sent a thrill through her.

He untied the ribbon of her working plait, running his fingers through her hair to free her curls.

Hiding his face in her shoulder, he whispered his secret, his breath against the nape of her neck
sending shivers down her spine. “I haven’t done this before.”

Had he not admitted his inexperience, she would have never guessed it. The thought that he
waited, when so many other men had not, only made her more thankful to share this moment with
him.

But it didn’t have to be perfect, she knew nothing in this world truly was. It could just be
something they shared together.

Without another word, she turned and brought his mouth to hers, walking them both toward the
bed.

His coarse hands began their climb up the outside of her thighs, forcing her chemise that had
gathered at her hips further up until she lifted her arms to help him remove it completely. She was
left to endure the exposure to the evening air, her nipples tightening with anticipation. A familiar
sight; her naked before him, while he remained fully clothed, the same as the last night they
shared. There wasn’t a drop of wine or firewhisky in her system, but she felt drunk, her head
featherlight.

Allowing him to stare, she leaned back, and let the heat of his gaze warm her.

“Gods,” whispered Draco. He hovered over her, mesmerised. “You look so beautiful.”

Instead of following her onto the bed, he gripped her hips, drew her closer to the edge, and dropped
to his knees.

She had half a mind to pull him into bed, to finally strip him of his clothing, but at that moment, his
hands spread her legs further apart. All thoughts otherwise floated away as his lips descended
across her stomach slowly, leaving a trail of heat as they grew closer to her most intimate place.

The warmth of his hands, his lips, grounded her, while the heat of his breath against her skin left
her feeling dizzy—but the sight of the duke kneeling before her, looking at her with such reverence
nearly brought her heart to a stop. “You said once for your forgiveness, I must beg on my knees.”

“This was not what I meant,” Hermione breathed, watching his head dip closer, and closer—He
lightly kissed the bud above her sex, making her gasp.

“But will it suffice?”

There was no pause, no waiting for her agreement. How could she ever say no when he looked at
her with such adoration?

His mouth descended onto her.

It was nothing like she’d ever felt before, vastly different from the feeling of both his and her
hands. It was deceptively softer, yet more overwhelming than any touch she’d experienced before.

The soft press of his mouth against her alone would be enough to careen her over the edge, then the
stroke of his tongue drew a whine from her.

“Draco,” she keened, soft and low. With her legs squeezing around him, she wondered if he could
hear her at all.

The pressure of his mouth varied from a delicate kiss to an all-consuming touch, until he pulled an
indescribable noise from her. The heat pooling in her belly was instantaneous, so immense, it was
almost frightening.

A pitiful whimper tore from her chest when his mouth centred around the nub of her sex, and the
familiar flutter of her walls clenched around nothing. He brushed across her sex, parting it, before
two eased into her with little resistance. Her hips rolled into his face, tightening around the curl of
his beckoning fingers inside her, while a devastating pleasure radiated through her.

The release came so easily, a devastating heat in her belly, as swift as a strong wave. It pulled her
under with no warning. A whimper, digging her fingers into his shoulders as he continued without
pause, and let herself fall away.

Her eyes clenched shut, gripping the sheets beneath her as she writhed. Not once did his mouth
move from her, but she felt him groan, his fingers easing out of her to hold her shuddering legs
apart for him.

Sensitive and wrung out, she twitched at the ceaseless swipe of his tongue against her, but he
refused to pull away. Only when the tender lap grew unbearable to the touch did she reach down to
push him away.

Resting his cheek against her inner thigh, Draco peered up at her, the sharp edge of his smile was
one she had not seen in quite a while. “Did you enjoy it?”

Smug prat.

With both the full-body tremors from her release and his incessant mouth, she could hardly regain
her breath. Nudging her body towards the centre of the bed, he joined her there and covered her
with his own, running soothing hands toward her chest.
A thumb brushed against her breast before he took it into his mouth without warning. Hot and
consuming, her hips bucked at the relentless feeling as his free hand kneaded her other breast.
Could he feel the rapid beat of her heart?

He gave her breasts the same attention as he did her sex, and she shuddered against him, gripping
his shirt tightly. The stark feel of his clothes across her skin, against her core, brought her back to
reality.

“Where did you learn such a thing?” she managed to ask.

Kissing his way up her body, Draco said, “I imagined this for ages. How you would feel, what you
might like.” He ground himself into her centre, letting her feel his arousal fully. He raised a brow.
“Do you still doubt my desire for you?”

No, absolutely not. There was no doubting him; not after he told her the truth time and time again,
not after he told her how much he truly desired her but stopped himself because of his unspoken
past.

Those barriers no longer existed.

Compared to the peaks she achieved under her own hand, the ones he had pulled from her left her
shattered. Now, she wanted the same for him. If he had been so eager to watch her, she felt the
same now. She wanted to know what he liked, what sounds he might make, what he might look
like when he reached his peak. It would be for her to know, for her to give to him, and no one else.

He had consistently given her everything she’d asked for, and now this time, she would do her part.
The layers remaining between them only brought her frustration.

She pulled at his shirt until the hem escaped his trousers. “Off.”

Sitting back on his haunches, Draco lifted his shirt over his head, and she watched the muscles
beneath his skin move with grace. Her mouth grew dry, lips parting slightly, taking him in.

Now that she wasn’t distracted by studying the puzzle of his glamour charm across his left arm, her
eyes wandered. The clothes he wore hid his physique, she knew that from all the times she’d
pressed up against him. He was lithe, yet muscular; a seeker fit, as Ginny would say.

Reaching up to touch him, she felt raised skin beneath her fingertips. Her heart dropped.

Blinking, she realised that across his chest was a collection of scars. They rippled as he shifted, her
eyes following them as some travelled over his shoulders.

They varied in depth and length, as though he had been cut several times over in a disturbing and
chaotic repetition. When she opened her mouth to demand what—who had done this, a recollection
from long ago came to the front of her mind.

If my father demands I take fifteen lashings, I take them with my mouth shut.

The first time he had bared his chest to her had been after she urged him on, her voice intentionally
heavy and seductive, in an effort to catch him off his guard, to accuse him of a great crime. She had
used his first moment of actual vulnerability for his destruction. The memory of it made Hermione
want to recoil in shame.

How could she have been so blind to not see it before? How many times had he suffered silently
before her, and she was too ignorant to know?
“I’m sorry,” she choked on the apology, pressing her hand fully into his chest as the other roamed
along the expanse of his shoulders. There was plenty of raised skin across his back as well,
possibly even more than she could feel on his chest. There was a distinct burning behind her eyes
as she fought back tears. “Draco, I’m so sorry—”

“Hush.” His lips returned to hers—tasting herself—and he kissed her urgently. It was growing to be
his favourite way to shut her mouth. He pulled away from her only enough to whisper soothingly,
“We said we would leave it in the past.”

That was the truth, they promised each other they would do just that. But she had agreed to it
before she knew the extent of how he wore his past across his skin.

Concern crossed his face. “Would it make you more comfortable if I glamoured them?” he
whispered, referring to his scars.

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “I do not want you to hide anymore. Not from me.”

With magic, he could at least hide it from others if he chose to.

Not many muggle men could say the same after suffering through war or horrible fathers.

Locking his eyes with hers, he firmly said, “There’s nothing you should apologise for.”

She suddenly mourned how the sun had already set, how the room was darker than she would’ve
liked. Tired of not seeing him clearly, she would insist on this again in the daylight. She’s certain
Draco would have no complaints.

In another moment, he freed himself from the rest of his clothing. His hands slid beneath her
backside and pulled her in closer until his body covered hers completely.

There they were, for the first time, bare before one another. The bare skin against her own was
more thrilling than she could’ve ever anticipated. When she slipped into his room last, the distance
he created between them became clear, his reluctance to touch her or to be touched in return, with
what she assumed was rejection. But this time, he did not shy away.

“I want you,” he murmured, the feeling of his breath across her neck as he held her so closely sent
a tremor down her spine.

“Yes.” Hermione reached down to grasp him with slow hesitation, remembering how he stopped
her the previous time. There was no holding back now, and the heavy anticipation growing in the
room set her heart racing.

Draco hissed the moment she touched him. She almost let go of him completely, thinking she
might’ve hurt him before he wrapped his hand around hers. “Lighter,” he breathed out.

Having only ever seen his arousal under the cover of his trousers, stressing against the fabric, the
true feel of him was soft and rigid at the same time. Following the guide of his hands across his
length, she watched his expression more closely than their grasped hands. Mouth slightly parted,
skin flushed red, eyes hooded in pleasure.

When she gripped him tighter through a stroke, his eyes clenched tightly as he moaned, his hand
beside her head steadying himself as he clutched the sheets tightly.

If this was how he felt studying her through her peak, she now understood why he demanded to
watch.
He came to, blinking rapidly through the rise and fall of his chest. He pulled her hand away,
linking their fingers together and pressing them against the bed. “I would finish in less than a
minute if we continue that,” he rasped.

His hips nudged her legs further apart, making space for him to lay between. Feeling the heat of
him against her entrance ignited the fire in her blood. Searching her face for hesitance, his brows
knitting together in concern, but he would not find any. Hermione only smiled up at him, feeling
secure under his hands.

“You will tell me if it hurts?” he whispered.

Hermione nodded and kissed him soundly, wrapping her legs around him instinctively. As she felt
him adjust, she braced for the pain, the rumoured nip. But it never came.

The stretch was more than his two fingers, but the burn was strangely pleasant. He draped himself
over her, and with each breath, he seated himself further inside, and she watched his jaw clench as
she adjusted around him.

Hips flush against her own, he waited for what felt like a millennium. If it was her body or his that
trembled, she could not tell. He kissed her everywhere within reach as a means of distraction from
the steadily receding ache; the corner of her mouth, across her cheek, along her jaw to her neck.

With every touch, she unwound further, as he deftly loosened tight strings woven inside her with
practised hands.

When her body finally relaxed, his lips returned to hers. He slowly pulled his hips back and
pressed them back into her own.

She gasped against his mouth at the sensation and felt the curve of his smile on her lips.

“Good?”

Better than good, an entire world different than good. Luna insisted it shouldn’t hurt for long, if it
hurt at all. He kissed at the hollow of her throat, then at her pulse point, a free hand ghosting up her
sides. The tender pull and push of him made her nerves surge, and just over his shoulders, the
candles began to flicker and burn brighter across the room.

He whispered short questions, and with her short answers, they adjusted their movements. The
sweet, slow speed they settled on only came after moments of fumbling hands, and clumsy pinches,
with Draco’s skin flaming red and Hermione’s low praise.

How anyone could make these moments so fleeting would forever confound her. With their
insecurities left at the door, and the trust tethered between them, Hermione never felt safer.

Pressure slowly built again right below her belly, one she knew she could follow towards her
precipice once again if given enough time. But when she canted her hips into his, following his
pace naturally, chasing the feeling for herself, his rhythm stuttered.

“I need to”—he rasped the words against her cheek, unable to complete a single thought—“Can I?”

Hermione nodded urgently in understanding, wrapping her hands around his straining arms. “I love
you,” she whispered to him. She repeated it for good measure and watched him fall apart.

His slow and measured pace became erratic and uneven, sinking even deeper into her with a roll of
his hips.
“Hermione,” he breathed out her name like a prayer, his mouth pressing against the corner of hers
roughly. His lips moved against her skin, repeating her name over and over. “Hermione, Hermione
—”

She could practically taste the way his breath caught and savoured the feeling of his body
stiffening above her. He pulled his mouth away from hers and let his head drop against her chest
and groaned.

“Gods,” he choked out. The rigidness of his body gave way to shuddering, straining as he held
himself above her to not crush her with his body.

After a long moment, he withdrew himself and laid his head on her chest. The weight of him was
comforting. A blissful minute of silence followed, where Draco seemed content to rest against her
while she played with the individual strands of his hair, taking deep and slow measured breaths.

“What do you think?” Hermione whispered to him. Laughter bubbled up inside her, her fingertips
lightly sweeping across his back, before a giggle spilled from her lips. She could see the marks
better this way, the candlelight made them glow as their texture was different from his unaffected
skin. “Were those delinquents in Nott’s library faster than us?”

His shoulders shook with what she hoped was a laugh before he replied, “I’m sure they were.”
Draco skimmed his fingers across her stomach, and she watched as his face slowly etched with
worry. “Are you in any pain?”

She shook her head. “None at all.”

Relief spread across his face as he turned his head to kiss her collarbone softly, and every bit of
remaining tension in her body fell away.

“I love you,” he muttered into her skin. Surely he could hear her heart quickening every instance
he said it. Emotion suddenly caught in her throat, unable to reply or else cry.

Was this what a honeymoon was meant to feel like? She hadn’t given much thought about how it
ought to be—what people in love were meant to do after they married—because she staunchly
believed she would not be one of them.

She had spent years without him, and she would spend another several making up for years of
losing him. There was no amount of magic that could separate them again, no amount of distance
she would tolerate now.

“I love you.” She ran her fingers with a featherlight touch through his hair. “We’ll ask Dippy to
return your things to this room in the morning.”

Turning his head to peer up at her, Draco smiled boyishly. “All right.”

His breathing steadied quickly. Hermione watched his back rise and fall peacefully with each
breath, without a single drop of dreamless sleep. The strewn scars across his body were bare for
her to study, his left arm across her stomach, the Dark Mark stark against his skin. Maybe one day,
she would find a way to remove them for him.

There was no potion she could brew in this life, or the next one, that could replicate the way her
heart and soul had memorised him. How the tips of her fingers knew the warmth of his skin, or
how her lips knew the taste of him.

There would be nothing that would keep her from knowing all of Draco Malfoy.
When he turned in his sleep, he curled his arm around her body and pulled her flush against him.
All thoughts and questions once again grew quiet, listening instead to the steady beat of his heart,
until she finally dozed off.

Autumn in Wiltshire was a season she’d never seen before. After waking with the morning sun,
Draco remained in bed while she ambled quietly about the room, glancing at times to ensure he
still slept. Outside the room’s window, she took in the changing colours of the trees surrounding
the Manor, how the flowers in the garden persevered through the cooling weather with magic, and
how the darkness arrived much earlier the previous night.

She returned to their bed, flipping through a book that called to her until Draco stirred beside her.
His hands searched beneath the covers for her body before he finally rasped, “Reading, at this
hour?”

“Just a book from the shelves over there.” Hermione marked her place before casting it aside.
“Though it does feel familiar.”

“I left the ones I remembered reading to you,” he mumbled against her skin, his voice heavy with
sleep. “I thought you might enjoy them.”

Years had passed where she did everything in her power to keep him at arm's length. Using apathy
and resentment towards him as a shield when her thoughts involuntarily wandered to the memories
of him, alongside the carefully elaborate lies that she told herself. That he never truly cared for her.
That the version of Draco she had known as a child was a farce, something she created from her
own imagination of friendship.

Even in marriage, she thought no different of him, having been strong-armed into marrying him
under unfavourable circumstances.

Yet he had always been there. Looking into his eyes, she could see the same soul of the boy she
had known during the summers. Her heart sighed with relief.

His fingers brushed across her stomach. “And how is her grace feeling this morning?”

“I regret to inform you, dear husband,” Hermione sighed dramatically as Draco raised his brow. “I
do believe I’m coming down with the mumblemumps.”

“The—mumblemumps?” Draco said slowly, before a smile grew across his lips. He gasped in
mock horror, pushing himself onto his forearms. “Oh, dear. What’s the recommended treatment?
I’ve forgotten.”

“Bedrest, and plenty of it.”

He rewarded her with a kiss on her belly, followed by a hum of agreement. As her blood began to
heat under his searching hands, Hermione continued on, “Now that you have been incidentally
exposed, you must rest as well. I suggest we both stay home until we feel better.”

“And what of your classes?”

“I’m sure Slughorn will have no objections, so long as my husband writes to him of my condition.
Though, we may be required to attend his Christmas party if you do so.” Hermione grimaced at the
thought.

Draco didn’t seem to mind. Quickly grabbing her ankle and pulling her underneath him once again,
he replied over her squeals. “I believe that can be arranged.”

Transcript:

Tuesday, October 31, 1843

A NEW GENERATION BECKONS!

Happy Halloween, my dear readers! On this most auspicious holiday for Wizarding
kind, there is much news to share.
 The new generation of Wizarding society beckons! Lord William Weasley and
beautiful Lady Fleur have welcomed a lovely young girl into this world. The Earl and
Countess of Devon in particular are absolutely besotted over their first grandchild.

As more Weasleys marry, what with their only daughter’s marriage and their youngest
son’s engagement, will we learn more of new grandchildren to come?

After weeks of venomous rumours regarding the elusive Duke and Duchess of
Wiltshire, the lovely couple was spotted visiting Diagon Alley, very much in love. A
snitch tells me the pair suffered from a most terrible case of the mumblemumps for
weeks on end, which more than explains their terrible orientations before their mutual
absence!

With the season coming to a close, and wizards and witches alike choosing to stay in
their country homes, the Society Snitch would declare this year a raging success!

The Society Snitch

Chapter End Notes

I think we're hitting the finish line this week my friends!

Now, here's your last chance. Who is behind the Society Snitch? Find out next
chapter!
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Transcript:
 Friday May 2nd, 1845

Double, double toil and trouble!

With a new season in full swing comes a plethora of news to share with all my readers.
To start, a kind soul ought to check on Lord Greengrasse, for his two daughters must
be turning the poor man grey well before his time.

The beautiful Lady Astoria has already heard from dozens of well-to-do suitors vying
for her hand. I predicted her match would be the most interesting to watch this season,
and I have yet to be mistaken! If Lord Greengrasse were to have his way, he would
surely collect another Wizengamot member.

Yet no snitch was needed to learn that Anthony Goldstein, a recent addition to the
Wizengamot, was forced to close his family shop on Diagon Alley following several
disgruntled debt collectors descending all at once. Being known as a woman of fine
taste, what will his betrothed, Lady Daphne, think of this scandalous development?
Just how substantial is the Greengrasse dowry, and will it be enough to negate
Goldstein’s significant debts…?

The Society Snitch

“Was that truly how it looked like during my season?” whispered Hermione, watching as a
congregation of men converged upon Astoria Greengrasse the moment she arrived, linked arm-in-
arm with her sister Daphne.

The group around her, Ginny, Pansy, Luna, and Lavender, answered simultaneously, “Yes.”

“Not that there was a single thing wrong with that,” Ginny added. After having baby James in the
early summer, she was the most eager to attend the parties of the season. “Both yourself and
Astoria were subject to the whims of this mysterious Snitch.”

“Nasty woman, whoever it is,” said Pansy. After marrying Neville early in the previous year’s
season, Pansy became quickly acclimated to their growing group of friends.

Whoever the Society Snitch was, they had grown increasingly bold as of late. After revealing one
too many affairs, sharing whispers of shady dealings on Diagon Alley, and speculating on the
amounts stored away in particular Gringotts vaults, those crossed were out for blood.

Not that any member of society changed their scandalous tendencies, no, not at all. Though no
matter how hard one hid their secrets, the Society Snitch always found a way to uncover the truth.
Hermione marvelled at the fact that Draco’s past and their false start early on in their marriage
never once graced the front page of the papers.

“Any thoughts on who’s behind all this?” asked Lavender. “Not a single person is safe.”

Pansy leaned in closer with a conspiratorial eye. “You know, I thought it would be a Weasley,
seeing how the Snitch speaks so kindly of that family.”

Hermione quickly answered as Ginny grew angry, eager to stop her before she lashed out. “I very
much doubt it, Ginny or Molly would have never written about me.”
“I think it must be one of the Greengrasse sisters,” said Luna. As the host of the party, she could
only spare a few minutes.

Pansy snorted over her glass of champagne. “I doubt it.”

“And why not?”

“They don’t care enough about any of you to say such kind things,” said Pansy. The others gave a
nod of understanding. “Besides, Daphne loves Anthony. What reason would she have to slander
her own fiancé?”

“Whoever it might be, I would have plenty of words for them,” muttered Hermione.

“Preferably hexes,” said Ginny. The women gave a mummer of agreement.

Across the room, their husbands gathered in a similar fashion. They sipped their drinks while
watching bachelors wait in line to speak to the Greengrasse sisters, Anthony Goldstein missing
among the crowd.

Attending these events and observing the chaos as a mere guest rather than a woman in search of a
husband made Hermione all the more grateful for her circumstances.

When the beginnings of the Polka began to play and her friends scattered, Hermione left in search
of a glass of pumpkin juice, only to suddenly be swept onto the dance floor.

Draco twirled her to face him, guiding them between the couples. “Surely you weren’t about to
leave me stag on the dance floor.”

They moved with the music, Hermione taking a turn around the room with Ron. When she
returned to Draco, she whispered, “You know I despise the Polka.”

“You were the one to cut our first Polka dance short.”

“And it seems I shall never live it down.”

Though Draco seemed less than pleased after a second turn about the room with Ginny. “Tell me
again why we’ve decided to come out tonight.”

“Ginny claimed we were recluses, she insisted we ought to show ourselves.”

“If we all did everything Ginevra told us to do, James would already have several small friends his
age.”

In truth, she knew Draco was welcome to the idea. There were a plethora of reasons why they
hadn’t done so—but her potions studies were quickly drawing to a close, and most of their friends
had already started their families.

“I thought maybe we ought to inspect the Nott library,” Draco whispered as the music died down,
the crowd applauding. His hands slowly skimmed across the bare skin of her shoulders. “For old
times’ sake?”
“Quit laughing.”

“I am not laughing!”

“Oh, yes you are.” Draco chuckled, a stark difference between the low, seductive voice he’d used
to lure her out of the ballroom. “Have you never broken the rules before?”

Hermione learned quickly to keep quiet, for standing outside the library doors was Daphne
Greengrasse, glancing nervously around the hall. They pressed back against the wall, eager to
avoid detection.

“Poor Daphne,” said Hermione quietly. “All this news of Anthony must be so difficult.”

Draco tugged her toward the opposite end of the hallway. “Nott was just telling us the Manor has a
number of secret entryways,” Draco whispered in her ear. “There must be one at the end here.”

Sure enough, beside a statue of a Knight, was a glimmering wall—a doorway hidden behind a
glamour. Draco pushed it open and pulled her in behind him.

As they quickly turned around the aisle, they were met with a startling sight.

Jimmy Peakes, a younger man she recognised from the Gryffindor common room, with his arms
wrapped around Astoria Greengrasse like a boa constrictor.

A loud gasp nearly escaped her before Draco covered her mouth and pulled them into a small
alcove along the wall. Though when Hermione should have met empty space, she crashed into a
hard surface, tripping and stepping onto Draco’s feet.

“Ouch!” hissed Draco.

“Umph—” grunted Hermione.

“Oof!” A distinct third voice croaked.

They both snapped their heads in the direction of the noise, only to find a blank wall. Draco’s hand
moved from covering her mouth to his wand in an instant, and when Hermione glanced up, he
looked wild and furious.

“Draco, what—”

He shouted the spell so suddenly, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Stupefy!”

A red flash of light landed on what appeared to be nothing just before the wall. The sound of a
body hitting the floor came next, where a spray of limbs peeked out beneath what looked to be the
floorboards.

“Merlin’s beard,” Hermione muttered, blinking down at the peculiar sight. “It must be an
invisibility cloak.”

Draco adjusted his dress robes and straightened his shoulders before stepping out of the alcove.
“Peakes! Lady Greengrasse!” His stern voice dripped with the authority of a duke. Hermione could
practically hear the couple separating. “Make your way back to the ballroom immediately, this
behaviour is most unbecoming of both of you!”

The sound of Astoria’s shriek quickly followed a pair of retreating steps and the creak of the
closing library door. Hermione frowned at her husband, having returned from his scolding. “We
were about to do the exact same as them, you gigantic oaf.”

Draco waved his hand dismissively. “Snogging in public places is a privilege for the married, not
those in courting.”

Not another moment was wasted as he stalked past her to rip the cloak off the floor. Hermione
recognised it instantly; a shiny, silvery cloth, before she looked back down at the floor. The
stunned man remained splayed out on the floor, his eyes glazed over with a look of pure shock
across his face. In one hand was a small piece of paper and in the other, his wand.

“Is that—Harry?” Hermione observed as she stood behind Draco. “What’s he doing underneath the
cloak? During a ball, no less?”

“Oh, I have an idea,” hissed Draco, nicking both the notebook and wand out of Harry’s stiff hands.
With a swish of his wand, Harry became conscious again, shaking himself awake, looking around
wildly and off-guard. When he caught Hermione and Draco standing over him, he froze once
again.

“How interesting, Potter,” Draco said, his tone as thin as ice, “to find you sneaking about in dark,
secluded corners. Is the music not to your taste, or do you find it more difficult to listen to the
conversation of others over the orchestra?”

Harry sputtered, “Well, I—”

Draco interrupted, reading loudly from the paper he’d snatched earlier, “‘James Peakes and
Astoria Greengrasse, caught in a passionate embrace in the Nott Library. Anthony Goldstein,
nowhere to be found. What will Lord Greengrasse do now, with two tarnished daughters?’”

Harry paled considerably, his eyes glancing back at his invisibility cloak remaining far out of
reach. All the coincidences aligned at once.

“You’re the Society Snitch?” Hermione exclaimed. Blind fury grew quickly within her. “Harry,
how could you!”

Harry raised his hands, pathetically shielding himself. “Wait, I can explain!”

Draco’s wand twitched in his hand. “Then explain.”

Harry’s mouth opened and shut rapidly, as though he were a fish who found himself suddenly on
land. “It’s only a bit of fun, you know? I get invited to so many events after the war, and they’re all
so dull and repetitive. That is until you hear a bit of news that wasn’t meant for you. Ginny insisted
I needed a harmless hobby after the war, and I haven’t made a single galleon off it!”

“Harmless?” Hermione’s voice rose considerably, making Harry flinch. “I would hardly consider
the slanderous gossip you spread to be harmless!”

“Might I suggest,” Draco replied through gritted teeth, “Knitting? Hunting? Perhaps consider
training Thestrals? Any other normal hobbies you can think of would do just fine, rather than
ruining the lives of your friends and peers.”

“Ruin?” replied Harry, aghast. “Give me a list of the lives I’ve ruined. Go on!”

Draco and Hermione shouted in unison, “Ours!”

Harry finally rose from the ground, fixing his dress robes as he stood. “I did not!”
“You sent around that awful rumour to intentionally slander me!” said Hermione. The portraits
around the library peered from the corners of their frames, eager to view the spectacle. “You
forced Draco to propose to me!”

“Hardly forced,” mumbled Harry.

Beside her, Draco turned a crimson red. “I warned you not to meddle in my affairs!” Draco
shouted. Hermione was unsure if Draco wished to hex Harry, or strike him.

“Could you quiet down?” Harry whispered, glancing worriedly at the exits. “The Greengrasse
sisters are quite mean about their memory charms should they find you lurking in the shadows.
Once I realised they stand guard at the doors for their friends, I began to use my cloak.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing all these years? Lurking in the shadows, listening to others'
private conversations?”

“I don’t go lurking!” explained Harry hurriedly. “The Weasleys are a hotbed of gossip, you should
hear the things they learn about. What with Molly and her parties, Ginny from her friends, and the
twins out on Diagon Alley—I only act as a filter on the sheet!”

“Oh? And what of that ‘couple’ at Nott Manor?” said Draco. “They could’ve been anyone, and you
falsely attributed us using our features!”

“But I never said it was you!” Harry replied rather nastily. “It was Neville and Pansy in the library
that night, I never published outright lies in the paper. Probably scared them both to bits for weeks,
seeing as it took so long for Neville to regain the courage to ask her to dance. All I implied was
your growing romance, which was the truth!”

Hermione remembered their longing glances exchanged across the dance floor, Neville’s blond
hair, with Pansy’s affinity for curling her dark hair. She could hear her voice grow shrill. “You
cannot deny that you heavily implied impropriety between us!”

“Ah, yes, well.” Harry only shrugged. “There is a cost to omitting certain—ah, details. I knew most
of the fools you settled on for the rakes they were in private. You both were too stubborn to do
what needed to be done.” Harry shifted on his feet before raising his brow, resembling more of a
petulant child than the grown man he was. “Other than the library incident, I ensured not a single
negative word was published about either of you. Perhaps instead of dealing me this verbal lashing,
a bit of thanks might be in order?”

Furious, Draco raised his wand in what Hermione knew would be an attempt to hex him, but she
was a measure faster.

“Oppugno!”

A group of small yellow birds erupted from her wand, taking one large loop around the office
before setting their sight directly on Harry. Wisely, he scrambled and sprinted for the door, where
the birds followed him out, the wind whistling behind them with their speed. As he turned the
corner, several of them remained embedded in the door where he stood. Several screams broke out
in the hall.

“There,” said Hermione smugly, tucking her wand away. “Since he loves snitches so much.”

Draco stared at the birds twitching in the wooden door before they disappeared with a puff. Slowly
turning to her, she could see the mix of awe and genuine horror across his face. “Thank you for
merely stomping on my foot.”
When remodelling the Manor, they learned quickly that Draco’s ancestors held little care for future
generations and their ever-changing trends, as they were quite liberal in their use of permanent
sticking charms. The worst of all was the horrendously garish armchair that refused to budge from
the library.

They had grown accustomed to spending their evenings in each other’s company early on in their
marriage. Only one night, Hermione was surprised to find him in the library of all places.

Hermione called out to him. “What are you doing in here?”

“Reading a bit of upcoming legislation,” Draco replied quietly, shuffling the paper in his hands.

“On your birthday, of all days?”

Draco smirked, looking up at her over his spectacles resting lightly on the bridge of his nose. “I
will be sure to remind you of that fact when I find you brewing endlessly in September. Regardless,
the proposal is fascinating.”

Slipping onto his lap, the armchair groaned in protest. Hermione pulled the paper from his hands.
“What is it about?”

“Some proposal related to the extension of land to Centaurs across Wizarding Europe to expand
their territories.” Draco’s head tilted, looking boyish as he asked, “Did you know there was an
entire colony of them just outside Hogwarts, in the Forbidden Forest?”

His eyes widened as she quickly leaned in and stole an innocent kiss.

“What was that for?” Draco muttered, removing and placing his glasses elsewhere.

“Your birthday gift.”

“And that is all my wife gifts me for my birthday?” The notes beside him lay forgotten, and his
hands slowly travelled up her skirts. “A single kiss?”

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him close before whispering, “I thought
after we’ve been so rudely interrupted each time at Nott Manor, that you might show me what you
planned to do in our own library.”

“I could be convinced,” Draco purred.

Draco stepped out of the floo first, his hand held out to steady her. “How does it feel to finally be a
Potions Master?”

Following the confrontation in the Nott library, Harry had owled a number of gifts to the Manor.

Draco replied with an equal number of howlers.

Hermione’s only request for her graduation was a ceasefire between the two wizards. While some
of her classmates brought along a small number of guests, Hermione’s guests were easily
identifiable in the audience, the rows packed with her friends and family. Draco and her father sat
beside each other, closest to the front.

Only the Weasley family could make such a monotonous ministry ceremony a grand affair.
Slughorn spent far too long for Hermione’s comfort raving about her numerous achievements, but
when she looked into the crowd to see the proud looks across their faces, she began to feel at ease.

“I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of being referred to as such, though I will admit, graduation is a
welcome relief. I’m thankful for a bit of earned rest, and such good timing as well.” Hermione
smiled at her husband, who was busying himself with brushing the remnants of ash off her cloak.
“Certain potion fumes can be harmful to the baby.”

His hand froze on her shoulder, his eyes snapping up to look at her.

Watching the thoughts shift across his face, Hermione waited patiently for his reply. He appeared
to be struck over the head at her words.

“What”—Draco shook his head as if rattling the statement around in his mind, his eyes scan down
her body suspiciously—“What—whose baby?”

“Our baby, you ridiculous man,” replied Hermione with an innocent smile.

“Are you certain?” breathed Draco.

Hermione rapidly nodded. The air was stolen from her as he wrapped his arms around her and
crushed her tightly against his chest, twirling them around. Then Draco set her down abruptly and
drew back, his hands hovered over her in concern. “Gods, have I hurt you? Have you seen a healer?
How long have you known!”

She laughed at his awestruck look. “I’m not made of glass. I’ve only known for a week. I thought
we might visit the healer together, knowing how much you’d fuss over me.”

“An entire week? Merlin’s beard,” Draco gasped. Internally, she greatly enjoyed catching him so
off-guard. It was likely the last thing he’d expected to hear that day, though she knew how deeply
he wanted to start their family. “It’s no wonder you didn’t want to go flying the other day!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I never want to go flying.”

“We must tell your father, and my mother as well—”

“After the healer, Draco.”

“Yes, of course, after the healer.” She watched as his eyes unfocused, muttering a long list of
things to address around the Manor. “Speak to Dippy and Crookshanks about the food, dispose of
the dark objects in the library, lock the potions cupboard—”

“Draco.” Hermione reached to cradle his face in her hands, gently redirecting his focus back to her
—back to them. “How do you feel?” she whispered softly, thumbs ghosting his cheek. “Are you
happy?”

“Am I happy?” Bringing her closer by the waist, Draco dropped his forehead to hers and
whispered, “I once thought I’d never live to be this happy.”
 Draco pressed his lips to hers, a delicate and sweet kiss, and a blissful peace washed over her.
She’d spent many nights during the war, wondering if there was something, anything worth
waiting for at the end of it all. When he pulled away, his gaze wide open and full of adoration,
Hermione knew she’d found it.

Chapter End Notes

I only saw a single person correctly guess the Snitch!

Next chapter is the epilogue. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me along the
way. ♥️

Follow stars_in_motion on twitter.

 Chapter 22
Chapter Notes

Thank you to my incredible friends for beta-ing my work, including my dear friend
Nefertiti. Go check out her works, including The 6th Year Itch, here on Ao3.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

In his old age, though he tried to hide it as best he could, mobility for Mr. Crookshanks was
becoming increasingly difficult. He could see the worry on the lady’s face when he brought in tea
or traversed across the manor for deliveries of parcels or letters from the owlery. Over time, he
noticed the family would adjust their tasks to his ever growing physical boundaries. No longer was
he allowed to venture off to locate family members across the estate; he was instructed to call for
Dippy and allow her to bring him to them. Nor was he allowed to polish the silverware when ‘there
was such a simple spell for such things, Mr. Crookshanks, really’. When the young Lady Lyra
pulled out a chair herself for Mr. Crookshanks during Christmas, he finally spoke up against such
preferential treatment, aghast.

“Hush and eat your dinner, Mr. Crookshanks,” ordered the duchess. His grace didn’t even raise his
eyes from his serving of peas.

The duke calling Mr. Crookshanks into his office was the very moment he knew for certain that his
days as the butler were numbered.

“Crookshanks! Excellent,” the duke greeted shortly as Mr. Crookshanks gave him a bow of the
head. Removing his reading glasses, the duke stood from his desk. “I have something for you.”

His papers of dismissal, Mr. Crookshanks was sure of it. Instead of handing him a sheet of
parchment, marking his last day of service, his grace walked around Mr. Crookshanks to a back
corner of his office. “Today is your birthday, correct?”

Mr. Crookshanks blinked, following the duke as he moved about the room. “It is, your grace.”

When the duke turned, in his hand was an ornate wooden stick, polished with a clear handle.
Hawthorn, if he had to guess.

A walking staff.

“Is there something you wish me to do with it?” If the duke meant for him to mail it, one of the
sturdier birds would have to be used to carry a cane of that size any substantial distance. They had
used Hermes, one of their most reliable eagles, to deliver Scorpius the newest broom model for his
birthday the previous year.

The duke came closer, and the intricate carvings along the wood became clear. “Yes. You’re meant
to use it.”

Mr. Crookshanks was not easily driven to irritation, though he was a proud wizard. At the duke’s
insistence, he reached for the stick anyway. “While I am grateful for your concern, your grace, I
am perfectly capable of walking on my own.” Though the moment the wood touched his skin, he
could hear a faint hum in the room.

“Of course you are, though I imagine this will make your workload a bit easier.” His grace leaned
back against his desk and crossed his arms. “Go on, don’t be foolish. Give it a tap on the floor
now, with some intention.”

Shifting his weight onto it, Mr. Crookshanks instantly felt more at ease with his balance. It was the
perfect height.

Lifting the stick up, Mr. Crookshanks took in a deep breath before banging it against the ground.

The thrumming of magic in his grip was like falling into the embrace of an old friend.

Sparks flew from the bottom of the stick, bouncing off the floorboards and walls, filling the room
with crackling noise and light. He looked around the room in awe, as did the duke, as the sparks
traveled to every unlit candle in the room and illuminated them all. With another tap of his walking
stick, every candle extinguished in an instant.

“Brilliant.” The duke wore a wide smile Mr. Crookshanks associated with his grace’s mischievous
young children. “I’m sure we own a book or two on household magic, should you have any passing
interest in it. Plenty of other subjects as well, if your curiosity were to grow. The library is at your
disposal.”

He gripped the walking stick tightly, sorrow soaking him to the bones at the thought of giving up
such a marvelous creation. The last thing he wanted was to bring trouble from the ministry to the
family. “But I’m not allowed to have a wand, sir.”

His grace gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Who said anything about giving you a wand? No,
no, I know the rules. ‘No wands for those expelled from Hogwarts’.” He straightened, looking Mr.
Crookshanks in the eye and with a devilish smirk. “But all I’ve provided you is a walking stick.”

Suddenly emotional, Mr. Crookshanks nodded, choking on his gratitude. “Thank you, your grace.”

The duke gave him a light clap on the shoulder. “Thank you for your devoted service,
Crookshanks.”

“Mama! Have you seen Hermes?” Miss Lyra’s voice echoed through the halls. “I’ve called for him
for days now, he’s gone missing!”

“He’s off delivering important packages to my clients, Lyra,” replied the duchess as she walked
through the dining room entryway, placing a kiss on her husband’s temple as he sat at the head of
the table reading the Prophet.

Miss Lyra pouted as she entered behind her mother. “But when will he return?”

Mr. Crookshanks busied himself with the placement of teas, as Dippy already served the hot
dishes. “We practically run an owlery. Why not use one of the other birds?” The duke muttered
over his usual morning cup of tea. At the incoming sound of pounding feet, the duke separated the
sports column and held it out.

“Lyra only wants poor old Hermes so she can send a letter to a boy up north,” drawled Master
Scorpius, storming through the room and snatching the outstretched paper from his father on the
way to his seat. Already seated at the table was Master Regulus, nibbling his buttered toast.

The moment Master Scorpius became of age, being the eldest child and heir, he would be known as
the Marquess to Kennet until he inherited the title of the Duke of Wiltshire. Until that time, he
would be referred to as Master Scorpius, under the orders of his parents.

“None of that ‘Lord’ nonsense, Mr. Crookshanks, he’s a baby,” said the duchess after the couple
returned home from St. Mungo’s many years ago with their firstborn. “I gave him this name, so he
will be referred to as such.”

Master Scorpius was a rambunctious young boy who only became more devious after starting
Hogwarts. It earned him many howlers from both his parents in his four years of schooling.
The paper in his grace’s hand crinkled as he quickly folded it away from his face, his expression
critical in an instant. The atmosphere of the room grew serious.

“A boy?” The duke repeated with a note of unusual sharpness. “What boy?”

Miss Lyra shot a glare at her brothers before turning back to their father, who was waiting
impatiently for her answer. Being the only daughter of the Duke and Duchess, not to mention the
supervision of her two older brothers, seemed to be both a blessing and curse for Miss Lyra. It did
not afford her the same luxury of impish behaviour, but the boys often claimed their father had
gone soft on her, allowing her to get away with far more than they ever had. When Mr.
Crookshanks found himself distracted, he would sometimes mistake Miss Lyra for a young Miss
Hermione, were it not for her grey eyes.

“No one, papa.”

Both Master Scorpius and Master Regulus mocked their sister’s tone silently as their father
remained distracted. The duke’s eyes narrowed at his daughter, in disbelief over her claim, leading
him to ask again. “What boy, Lyra?”

“He’s from Scotland, visiting his auntie here during the summer,” Miss Lyra quickly explained.
Beside her father, she stirred her tea with grace, adding offhandedly, “His father is an Earl.”

The paper was crumbling in the duke’s hands. Her father’s tone made it clear he was not to be
trifled with. “And does the son of an Earl not have a name?”

“Albus says he’s a McLaggen,” interrupted Master Scorpius. He leaned forward from his seat,
seeming to have great interest in the subject at hand. Miss Lyra shot him an icy look that contrasted
greatly with the innocent gaze she wore in front of their father.

“A McLaggen? Of all the families—” The duke finally tossed the destroyed paper aside. He turned
to his sons, his expression murderous. “And where were you both during this fateful introduction,
hm?”

Mr. Crookshanks took to standing in the corner of the room, watching over the family row, lest
they begin throwing pasties at each other. The Christmas past, Mr. Crookshanks went to bed with
treacle tart in his ear.

“Where were we?” Master Scorpius replied, turning to Master Regulus for support, but his younger
brother wore a masterfully blank expression, expertly tuning out the noise around him.

The dutiful second son of the Duke and Duchess of Wiltshire, Master Regulus looked most like his
father in these moments, as if he were already an old man, tired of the frequent squabbling between
Miss Lyra and Master Scorpius. Never caught up in the same trouble as his eldest brother and his
closest friend, the young Lord Albus Potter, would find themselves in. Not that Master Regulus
was any less mischievous; no, not at all. Only that he was an incredibly perceptive young wizard,
and having observed where his older brother previously failed, Master Regulus would quickly
deduce how to prevail.

Master Regulus was also perceptive enough to be the only person in decades to figure out Mr.
Crookshanks secret; the one he nearly succeeded in taking to the grave.

One afternoon the previous summer spent avoiding Masters Scorpius, Albus, and Regulus alike,
only to falter at the sight of a gleaming mouse. When Mr. Crookshanks pounced for it, he found
himself in an unbreakable cage.
“Aha! Caught you,” said Master Regulus smugly, crouching to peer into the trap Mr. Crookshanks
had fallen for. Dark eyes studied his animagus form with boyish glee, and his dark hair pointed in
every direction from the long chase. “You know, your hair is quite a bit more orange as a cat,
Crookshanks.”

Mr. Crookshanks replied with a nasty hiss.

Once he returned to his proper form, Master Regulus had the gall to ask, “Will you teach me how
to do that?”

In these moments, Master Regulus looked most like the brother of his namesake. A young man,
full of life in the Gryffindor common room, in awe at Mr. Crookshanks’ accomplishment of
achieving his animagus form without Ministry intervention.

“Absolutely not!”

Out of mutual respect, they never spoke of it again. Master Regulus would routinely gift Mr.
Crookshanks a bag of Ice Mice in exchange for his devoted silence.

Truly his mother’s son, he was a brilliant boy indeed.

“Reg and I met him, but he’s only of eight years!”

Master Regulus turned to his father, adding, “What would you have us do, father? Hex a little
boy?”

His grace scowled, his lips pursing at the suggestion, though it looked as though he contemplated
it.

The duchess hid a smile behind her own fresh cup. “Ah,” she sighed deeply, an air of nostalgia
creeping into her voice. “Young love.”

“Love?” His grace spat bitterly, vanishing away his plate of food with a flick of his wand. Miss
Lyra blushed crimson. “Who said anything about that?”

“After his rounds delivering potions, Hermes will be sent off to Diagon Alley to pick up some
books for your brothers before they’re off to school next week,” her grace replied as a matter-of-
fact, referring back to the comings and goings of their most capable eagle. “Those are more
important than sending letters to boys in the highest corners of Scotland. You may use him
whenever he arrives back, and no sooner. Your father will read over the letter, of course.”

Miss Lyra scowled over her breakfast as her brothers snickered. One sharp look from their mother
cut their laughter short.

“On the subject of school, before the boys head off next week, I thought we might try to use the
camera for a photograph of the family this afternoon.”

“Camera?”

“Yes, that contraption Ron sent me home with after delivering Lavender’s potions. Arthur’s been
tinkering with the muggle invention for a few months now. It’s meant to capture something he calls
a photograph, a miniature painting, in mere seconds as opposed to sitting still for ages. If Mr.
Crookshanks works the machine, we need only discuss where to pose.”

The duke looked contemplative, forgetting his displeasure over Miss Lyra’s new friend. “By the
water?”

Her grace smiled at her husband as she filled her own plate. “An excellent choice.”

The family set off to change into their best robes following their meal.

“All right, Crookshanks,” the duke extended out his arm as they gathered in the foyer. “Though
your new walking stick affords you extended mobility, the water is far too long a journey for you.
Hermione will lead the children, and I promise to get us both there in one piece.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Mr. Crookshanks placed a light hand on the Lord’s arm, and they both
whirled away.

As their feet hit the ground, the sun sat at its peak in the sky. The breeze from the running water of
the river swiftly returned him to his years as a young man aboard ships across the Atlantic. The
warm rays of sunlight made him want to stretch out and nap beneath it.

“What a beautiful place this is,” said Mr. Crookshanks.

His grace smiled, taking in the same view that had grabbed a hold of Mr. Crookshanks’ heart. “It
is, isn’t it?”

With a wave of the duke’s wand, the contraption unfolded itself out of the box and arranged with
the scope pointing toward the trunk of the overgrown hawthorn, the only bit of foliage around that
provided substantial shade from the summer sun.

“Apparently, Weasley modified this thing to his liking, all it should take is a snap of your walking
stick. Take a look through the sight, and please ensure we don’t all look dreadful.” For a moment,
his grace stopped his tinkering, adding as an afterthought, “And that Regulus smiles.”

The duke lifted his head above the camera at the incoming roar of noise, turning to determine the
source of the ruckus. Mr. Crookshanks turned in the same direction to see the children bounding
towards them in the distance. Her grace held Master Regulus’ hand as they walked, while Master
Scorpius sprinted down the field, sparing a glance over his shoulder. Miss Lyra appeared over the
hill, atop his broom, wearing a fierce look of determination and retribution.

Mr. Crookshanks glanced at the duke curiously. His employer was hardly ever found speechless,
but when he was, it was often by his own family. It seemed as though he was in awe of the
approaching sight, his family happy and laughing, or in Master Scorpius’ case, shouting.

The children arrived in a whirlwind of chaos. Within seconds, her grace was barking orders, each
one of them falling in line.

“Lyra! Get off that broomstick immediately. Scorpius, stand there next to your father. For Merlin’s
sake, smile, Regulus—”

The family embraced each other stiffly, clearly moments from falling over each other with
laughter, and tested Mr. Crookshanks ability to conduct himself with decorum. With a sharp drop
of his new walking stick, a flash of light emitted from the box, a quick ending to the children’s
misery. Master Regulus sprang for the broomstick while his siblings remained distracted, bolting
 toward the water.

“Get back here!” His brother roared, chasing after him. Safe from the reach of his older brother
atop the broom, Master Regulus whirled around over the water only to quickly dodge the stones
that Master Scorpius lobbed at his head from the shore.

The duchess turned to her husband, mouth agape and looking appalled. The duke simply shrugged.
“Good Bludger practice, I suppose.”

Miss Lyra quickly escaped from her mother’s embrace to join in her brothers' mayhem as the
duchess reached for the camera. With a flick of her wand and a hard jab, a door alongside the side
swung open, and she reached for the film inside.

With another wave of her wand, a clear image blotted across the picture, like ink spilling across a
sheet of parchment. A complete picture of the Malfoy family appeared; Master Regulus smiling
shyly, Miss Lyra grinning with all her teeth, and her mother’s arms wrapped around her front.
Master Scorpius, who grew taller with each passing year, stood side by side with the duke behind
their family. If it weren’t for the slight curl of Scorpius’ light hair and dark eyes, the father and son
would look nearly identical. At the centre was the duchess, glowing as she aged, bright-eyed, and
clear joy across her face. The photograph moved the same as a painting, each one of them laughing
following the flash of light.

“Fully developed,” said her grace. “How fascinating!”

The duchess turned to smile at her husband, who looked down at the photo with reverence.
Sensing an appropriate time to exit, Mr. Crookshanks gathered the equipment around them
quickly.

“If the photograph is to your liking, I can find my way back to the manor, your grace,” Mr.
Crookshanks said. “I needn’t disrupt your afternoon outing.”

The duke raised his hand in acknowledgment but did not turn to face him, spellbound by the
photograph. “Thank you, Crookshanks.”

Miss Lyra called out with a dazzling smile across her face, “Goodbye, Mr. Crookshanks!”

After one last glimpse of the whole family, Mr. Crookshanks closed his eyes, soaking in a moment
of the warm summer sunshine before apparating home.

Chapter End Notes

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