millie

They break up in the middle of dinner.

Maybe at a restaurant Granger would have avoided a scene, but because they were staying in, yet again, and because Draco insisted on it, she takes full liberties in unleashing hell upon him.

At one point plastic cutlery and teriyaki-stained wooden chopsticks are airborne. Later, when Draco undresses, he finds a rice noodle in the buttonhole of his blazer. And for the grand finale, shards of his great-aunt’s vase become a mosaic on his foyer floor, once valued at some fifteen thousand galleons. Now, worthless.

She’ll be back, he thinks, quite confidently. He experienced a similar rockiness when he dated Pansy. They broke up and got back together at least every other fortnight.  

A day goes by.

Three, five, ten—and nothing.

Fine, Draco relents, he’ll write to her.

It’s a fine letter. Bottomless black squid ink, proof-read four times, eloquently expressing that he misses her, that he’s sorry they haven’t been together in public places and, if she’s willing to hear him out, he’ll take her out for a proper meal. She can even tip-off the Daily Prophet if it pleases her.

She doesn’t reply.

Draco grows irritable. He begins to resent her a little.

Once, before the war destroyed his reputation, any girl would have been thrilled Draco Malfoy was giving her the time of day. He was good-looking. He was wealthy. His family was connected to top politicians and moguls in the Wizarding World. He was Slytherin’s Seeker. She would have been lucky to date him.

So what, they haven't been out in public after a couple months of dating? That gives her no right to give him the cold shoulder and act like they never knew one another.

To hell with her.

Days pass, and Draco is gutted. Wrecked.

Her absence hurts and hurts and hurts.

He catches himself staring out into space at odd moments. Over a bowl of soggy cereal, trying to remember what her hair smelled like. Peach? Pear? Wiping the same spot on the window for five minutes, knowing it’s Sunday, and somewhere on the other side of town, she must be cleaning her flat too.

He caves and writes to her once more.

This time, with more apologetic and less arrogant undertones.

Radio silence.

He knows she’s receiving them because he prodded gossip out of Blaise who lives with Pansy who bumped into Potter at a party, and Potter drunkenly blurted out that ‘your douchy friend Malfoy’s still trying to win Hermione back. She needs to forget that wanker, if you ask me.’

Well nobody asked you, Potter, thank you very much.

And so Draco spirals a little.

He sends fifty-three bouquets to her office. One for each day they were together. When he hears nothing, he follows it up with fifty-three cauldron cakes. When that proves no bueno, he hires a mariachi band to follow her around the Ministry, singing cheery love ballads. He’s given them express instructions to perform until she visits him.

That should prove he’s more than okay with everyone knowing they’re together. He doesn’t care. All he needs is Granger back. Because-because—

“I miss you,” he says when she Apparates into his office precisely thirty-seven minutes after he unleashed the mariachi band upon her, holding out longer than he expected.

She’s red in the face, shoulders bunched up to her ears, eyes blazing, pointing a finger at his chest. “You are the most infuriating, conceited, over-the-top…”

“I miss you,” he repeats, speaking over her as he rounds the desk to meet her on the opposite side.

“…PRAT I have ever had the misfortune…”

“I miss you so much.” He has her shoulders, forcing them down a little, pressing his thumbs right where he knows she needs it most, watching delightfully as they liquify even as she’s going on.

“…encountering and when I’m done with someone, Draco, I am DONE…”

“I need you back, Hermione.” He draws his palms down her arms, grabbing her hands and pinning them to his chest when she tries to swat him away.

“…and I refuse to date anybody who’s even slightly ashamed of where I come from…”

“I love everything about you.”

And that about does it.

Granger stands there, mouth agape, no more screaming. She drops her gaze to her hands, splayed open on his chest, realising, perhaps, how close they are. Feeling, maybe, how her presence alone turns Draco on. Seeing, hopefully, the authenticity in his gaze.

“You… you…”

“I love you,” he says, prepared. “I’m sorry you had to leave before I realised it.”

“Harry says I need to forget you.” She’s staring at his lips now, making no effort to step away.

“Potter’s a wanker.”

She frowns, but doesn’t seem angry. Her eyes grow distant, lost in thought.

He waits.

When her focus resurfaces, she's watching his lips again, heat creeping into her irises. “Kiss me on two conditions.”

“One?” he asks, heart racing.

“We tell everybody.”

Her breath is warm on his skin. Deliciously close. “And two?”

“You never send anything to my work ever again.”

It’s the sweetest deal he’s ever made.

“If I were a character in one of your books, who do you suppose I would be?”

Draco roamed the fire-lit room, running his fingers over burgundy and sage spines with silver and golden letters that reflected the flick of the flames.

Hermione lowered her novel to her blanket-covered thighs, chewing her lower lip. “Hm… The cruel prince, perhaps, cursed for his wickedness. Given a year and a day to find the love of his life to undo the spell.”

“Rather drab, isn’t it? Expecting a man to fall in love to repent his sins. What if he were to donate a fair amount of his fortune to charity? Or devote his time to brewing potions that cure deadly diseases?”

She shot him an affectionate look, though he was facing away from her and couldn’t see it. “Who do you think you’d be, then?”

He made a soft deliberating noise. “A romantic hero.”

She burst into laughter.

Draco tossed an irritated look over his shoulder, lips quirking. “I’m rather romantic, thank you very much.”

“Rather,” she confirmed, sitting taller and wrapping her arms around her knees. “Please go on, my romantic hero.”

“Yours then?” He lifted a brow, though they both knew he’d never truly belong to anyone else. “I’d be the sort who’s unliked by most. Underestimated always. I would lurk in the shadows and commit petty crimes for the fun of it. But also slip notes to the healer’s daughter, asking her to meet me at midnight so we can run away together.”

“And pray tell, where would you take her?”

He sat at the end of the spacious sofa, tugging her calf until she stretched her legs over his lap. His hand slipped beneath the blanket, thumb tracing a halfmoon over her bare kneecap.

“Anywhere she wanted to go,” he decided in a velvety voice. “I’m a romantic hero, remember? I care only for my runaway girl.”

“But she loves his ambition the best. The last thing she wants is a quiet life in the countryside. Or else she would have married her childhood sweetheart and had ten children on a duck farm.”

Draco wrinkled his nose.

“I’d make a fine prince, I suppose. Though not a cruel one.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “A rebel prince, but not the heir. A devilish spare. So I could marry the bookish maiden who rescues kittens from rainstorms and hands out loaves of bread to hungry children.”

“Not very rebellious of you. She sounds like a saint.”

“There’s a twist.”

“Isn’t there always?” Hermione was grinning widely now.

“She’s cursed, you see.”

“Oh dear.”

“She becomes a monster at night. Grows ravenous and eats his favourite pudding and demands he shag her until he can’t feel his bones.” He shot a pointed look at the lux cauldron cakes spread out on the rustic coffee table, more than half devoured alongside a pint of sparkling lemon cordial.

“Our poor prince.” She tutted, kicking his thigh with a mock-derisive look. “Perhaps she leaves him then. When he’s boneless and his pantry empty.”

“One would think…” He released her leg, encircling her wrist instead and coaxing her onto his lap. “But she loves him terribly.” His eyes grew soft, shining nearly as bright as the gilded storybooks encompassing them. “And he’s an ambitious bloke, remember?”

“Ambitious and romantic.”

He hummed in agreement, gaze dropping to her mouth. “He would do anything, give anything for her.”

“Anything?” she breathed, curling a lock of blond hair around her finger dotingly.

“He’d be anything for her,” he resumed, leaning into her touch. “The hero in every novel, or the villain if she wishes. The prince, the rebel, the romantic.”

The distinct, melodious chime of the antique grandfather clock resounded around them.

Twelve bold strikes as her prince, rebel, romantic spilled kisses over her like adventures on a page, one for every possibility, and one for the simple truth.

“So, how’d it go?” Draco’s hopeful gaze met Hermione’s as she entered their shared office. He was leaning towards the door with rapt interest. An uncommon sight for a man usually reclined in his seat, feet kicked up on the table because mandatory Ministry work was utterly beneath him.

“Not good.” Hermione slammed the door with the heel of her boot, tugging self-consciously at her jumper sleeve.

“Care to elaborate? Granger?!” Draco shot up to his feet. “What happened?”

Behind her desk, Hermione folded over her arms, weeping.

Draco stood above her, frozen. His arms were stretched as if to touch her but he’d paused midway, uncertain. A strange sensation burned his stomach, like someone had punched him swiftly in the gut. Hermione was usually so settled. Irritated more than half the time. Bossy the other half. She did not weep or hide her face or make sniffly whale noises. Draco was at a loss for words. And anyone who knew Draco knew he was never at a loss for words.

He shuffled around. Eyed the door, contemplating escape. But her blubbery sob nailed his feet to the floor. He should have taken the meeting himself. “Granger… if you would just tell me what happened, maybe I could… I mean… is there anything I can… I mean… why are you crying… I mean…”

“I’ve been cursed! And it’s all your fault!”

He was stunned. “The old hag cursed you?”

She jumbled up her left sleeve, revealing a black tattoo covering her forearm in intricate moving swirls. “She said I was impure.”

Draco felt the blood drain from his face.

“Not because I’m Muggle-born!” Hermione looked disgusted, reading him like an open book. “Apparently I’ve been marred by love.”

“Your pardon?”

“She said that I’ve been deceitful in dealing with her because of my alliances to a Death Eater. I told her you were only a colleague. And she cursed me for lying to her. She claims you’re in love with me.” Hermione looked livid, which would be reassuring because it was a Hermione-mood Draco knew well. But this was not okay. He wasn’t in love with her. Well. If you called mere admiration love. She was a competent supervisor. And decent lunch conversation. Plus she looked cute in business casual. Especially when her legs were out and she had heels on, those strappy ones that clasped around her dainty ankles. But that was all. Admiration. And fine. Maybe he‘d been a little distraught when she went on a date last Friday. But only because he had to finish their Knockturn Alley restoration proposal alone. One they’d decided was best she present solo because his former Death Eater ties may seem dishonest.

“I’m not… I mean… I don’t think… I mean… how would that even be your fault?” Draco was burning up. Blood was roaring through his ears. He wanted the ground to swallow him up. Granger’s tattoo was moving like a current in his direction.

She looked away, manic curls covering her expression. “Shesaidilovedyouback,” she cough-sniffled.

“What?”

“Which is completely untrue. I told her you were merely good office company. More competent than half the idiots I’ve worked with in the past. And fine. Maybe I like your hair. Is that such a crime? Besides, a well-dressed man is always nice to look at and….”

Draco tuned out her rambling because her cough-sniffle confession was catching up to him. Did she say: she said I loved you back? Or: she said I left you bad? Surely the second made no sense. But the first was even more unusual. Because she wouldn’t. Ever. Would she?

Draco reached for her cursed arm.

“Don’t!” She tore back but it was too late. His finger had grazed her wrist.

Tingling ensued, crawling up his fingers and down the length of his arm as if it had been asleep.

Hurriedly, Draco took off his blazer, flicked his shirt cuff open and rolled up his sleeve. A matching tattoo crept up his arm, its current rushing toward Hermione like a magnetic force. A loud thumping noise echoed in his ears like a heartbeat, except it was quicker than he was used to. He placed his hand on his chest, realizing it didn’t match the vibrations.

“It’s mine,” she confessed, watching him bleakly. “I can hear yours too.”

“Mine?” He swallowed.

“Your heart. The curse, it binds two people together. She said it was one thing to deceive her. But deceiving ourselves was uncouth. It’s meant to be eye-opening.”

“Eye-opening,” he repeated hoarsely.

“She expects us to return with the proposal a month from now. Together. If I manage to make a decent fellow out of you then she’ll help us with the Knockturn efforts.”

“A decent fellow out of me?” Draco scoffed. He was perfectly decent, thank you very much.

“Someone who cares about another’s feelings more than his own,” she elaborated. “She says you’re conceited and selfish.”

“Does she now.”

“That you’ve only ever cared for those who share your blood. She wants to see you care for someone else.”

“If she claims I’m in love with you, doesn’t that prove it?”

“No. You haven’t done anything besides give into your feelings, and even then you’re in denial. She wants to see you change…” She looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, a pained expression on her face. “She doesn’t think you would ever publicly love a Muggle-born witch. That you still think I’m beneath you.”

“That’s not true,” Draco cut in, hating the look in her eyes. She believed the stupid hag. “Come with me.”

Curious as always, Hermione didn’t need much convincing to follow him out the door. Taking the lifts down to the atrium, they entered the bustling hall.

He stopped amidst a sea of commuters, fireplaces roaring, heels clacking, shoes squeaking, papers shuffling, chatter all around, and beneath it all, if Hermione paid close attention, she would hear the pounding of Draco’s heartbeat as he took her into his arms and kissed her in front of everybody.

In a month, the hag will discover a couple so deeply and openly in love that when she offers to remove their curse, they’ll request she leave it be. The physical connection seems to be useful during certain nocturnal activities of their own.

It was snowing in their common room.

Hermione didn’t sleep. Darkness toyed with her every night until she succumbed to the dusty lamp above her shoulder.

There was always a book on the bedside table. Soft leather covers with cracking spines, second-hand shop prices penciled on the top right corner of the title page; always under ten quid because post-war Hermione did not have the luxuries that her former self used to do.

Bleary-eyed restlessness kept her up consistently, unveiling highly unusual nocturnal activities in her shared dorm.

If someone had told her who would be Head Boy in eighth year, she may not have returned to Hogwarts. He would be cruel and condescending and completely unbearable. But Draco turned out to be a decent roommate. Tidy and polite and quiet, he kept to his room, and covered most patrol shifts, giving her ample time off.

Only, he was a profoundly dramatic sleeper.

Hermione raised the covers to her chin, shielding herself from a gust of snowflakes falling from the ceiling.

Forever in a state of apathy, Draco’s emotions were guarded heavily behind stony mental walls. Except for when he slept. Last night, their rooms trembled in the wake of a roaring wind storm. Hermione’s History essay flew across the floor, quills and bobby pins and sweet wrappers tornadoing around the rug. The night before that, the temperature dropped so low, her breath clouded; the trembling fern on her windowsill shed three leaves. Separated only by a thin wall, Hermione experienced the brunt of Draco’s unruly magic night after night.

She’d contemplated waking him, conjured a list of pros and cons. He would be embarrassed. He might lash out. But his unconscious was too heartbreaking to stomach. Every night was cold, chaotic, a shade, or many, uncomfortable. Leaving him alone would be a disservice to them both.

Clumsily, she wiggled into yesterday’s socks, tugging them above her knees. The carpet was damp beneath her feet. She wore cotton shorts and a tank, her blanket tucked tightly around her shoulders.

She paused behind his door.

Boys were always more agreeable after sugar.

She detoured.

Minutes later, Hermione crossed the corridor’s frosty white floors, mug in hand, entering Draco’s room without knocking. Snow melted into a layer of glimmering wet upon her shoulders.

Draco slept on his side, hugging himself, brows furrowed.

Hermione called his name once, quietly, and again, louder, when he didn’t stir.

Draco blinked drowsily. Then shot up like a spark. The triangle of light flooding the doorway illuminated the panic on his face.

“It’s only me,” Hermione said sheepishly, trying to sound soothing. “You were having a bad dream.”

He frowned, his hair sticking up in all directions. He was shirtless.

Hermione’s pulse quickened. “Uhm… I brought you hot chocolate.” She gestured awkwardly to the lion-head mug in her hands, cocoa-scented steam swirling through the clean boyish scent of Draco’s room.

He followed her gaze, appearing more confused. The mattress creaked as he shuffled away, silver-scarred ribs expanding. “Did I wake you?” His voice was raspy.

Hermione wanted to tell him about the snow. About the way his dreams manifested into magic. But like each enchanted dream before, any indication of it was gone. Her shoulders were dry. The floors clean. The temperature had risen to castle norm, which was never warm enough anyway.

“I never sleep,” she admitted instead, resigned.

“Never?”

“It’s difficult. My head’s not a happy place.”

“Nor mine.” He relaxed a little, repositioning himself against the carved headboard, a generous gap of space stretched between him and the edge of the bed. He shot her a pointed look.

Blushing, Hermione hugged her blanket closely and crawled up beside him. She could have told him why she was there, but the words would not come. If Draco knew the truth, he would stop sleeping. They shouldn't both have to suffer.

“Will you stay up with me for a while?” she asked.

For once his eyes twinkled, shot with exhaustion, but unguarded. And interested? “Only because you brought me hot chocolate,” he said, nudging his chin in silent demand.

She rolled her eyes as she handed him the mug, hiding her grin.

His throat pulsed as he swallowed slowly, licking his lower lip. Their fingers brushed when he handed it back to her. His skin was warm.

Hermione took a small sip.

“I thought you would be the shittiest roommate,” Draco admitted a while later, eyes fixed carefully ahead. “I thought—Hermione Granger? She’ll preach rules any time I toe out of line and hog all the bookshelf space and be condescending twenty-four hours a day. I nearly didn’t come back.” He met her gaze. “But you surprised me.”

A spark of awareness shot down her spine.

He took the hot chocolate back, drinking from exactly where her mouth had been, a sneaky smile curling the edges of his lips.

They sat until dawn, bickering but not seriously. Laughing, but sleepily and more out of politeness. They were just getting to know one another. There were awkward gaps, moments of wordlessness, ceaselessly thinking ‘what do I say next?’. But there was always a next, even if it took a while. A thoughtful next. A next that led to a longer conversation, and a longer one after that. Thighs brushing, then pressing, shoulders caving towards one another. Eventually, Hermione’s blanket encircled them both, her head resting upon his shoulder.

Drowsily, she told him, “Yeah. You surprised me too.”

For the first time in weeks, Hermione experienced the sensation of waking from a deep sleep.

“You never let loose, do you?” Granger drops onto the grass beside him, twisting her arm around his elbow. It’s such a Granger thing, physical touch. A shoulder squeeze upon arrival to class; a warm hug when approached from behind; the swift brush of her fingers in his damp hair in the misty weather.

“Let loose?” he repeats cynically. “Did you hear what that Gryffindor prat said to me?”

“You used to retaliate.” She leans against his arm, the bright scent of her shampoo wafting beneath his nose. “What happened to all those prank spells you used to know?”

“I used to be Draco Malfoy, but now I’m a Death Eater.”

“Former,” she reminds him. “And last I checked, you were still Draco Malfoy.”

“One of us could get away with school pranks. The other will face Azkaban at the slightest indiscretion.”

“Oh, I see.” She rises to her feet. “You’re afraid.”

Draco scoffs, a bolt of anger twisting his gut. “Easy for you to say.”

“True.” She searches the field, her gaze halting on something in the distance. “Was that him?”

He peeks over his shoulder, glimpsing the wanker who ruined Draco’s day. “Yeah.”

With only a spark of mischief in her eye as a warning, Granger points her wand in the boy’s direction and lets her magic run free. Seconds later, screams reach their ears. A pair of moth wings has sprouted from the boy’s shoulder blades and he’s skittering through the air, arms and legs flailing about in a panic.

Draco snorts. “Head Girl, huh?”

She shrugs. “I have an aversion to moths, didn’t you know?”

“Right, that Skeeter woman.” He remembers the jar in her hands on the train ride home in fourth year. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“What?” She sits down again, this time directly in front of him. “Put Skeeter in a jar?”

“Get back at him for me. I probably deserved it.”

“Probably,” she agrees. “But lucky for you, I find myself quite fond of our friendship.”

Draco’s irritation melts in the heat of her gaze. Fondness and friendship ring in his ears on repeat. He’s glad to fill the hole Potter and Weasley vacated this year. Friendship means everything to a girl without a family. But fondness makes his mind run wild, in directions Draco ‘Death Eater’ Malfoy’s thoughts never should go. The curve of her cheek, for instance, how soft it feels when she’s pressing her face against his arm. Or the surprisingly tight grip of her arms when she’s dragging him away from sulking to brew prohibited potions in the lavatories. Her idea of fun, and his too, if he’s honest with himself.

“What?” asks Granger, shooting him a curious look.

He’s staring.

Draco shrugs, only able to tell the truth: “You.”

A tinge of pink fills her cheeks. “What about me?”

“Just you. Everything about you.” He brushes his hand over dewy blades of grass, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest.

Granger’s mouth opens, shuts. For once, she’s at a loss for words.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Draco, hoping to avoid weirdness between them. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

She nods, lying down on her back to watch the clouds floating above them. They sit quietly for a while, long enough to hear the boy’s screams overshadowed by laughter, and then silence as a professor approaches the ruckus and dismantles the chaos of Granger’s sneaky magic.

“You know, former Draco would have done exactly this,” says Granger a while later, “hidden behind his cowardice.”

“Former Draco wouldn’t have cherished your friendship.”

Granger sits up on her elbows, staring at him through long dark lashes. “Nor would he have confessed his feelings for a Mudblood.”

The word rankles him. He hates it more than anything. “Is that what you want to hear? That I have feelings for you.”

“Only if you mean it.”

They’re on the precipice of something. It’s one of those moments in his life where things are one way today, but tomorrow everything could be different. He might learn what Granger’s mouth tastes like, or find out if the skin beneath her blouse is as soft as the back of her hand. But Former Draco wasn’t just a coward, he was selfish, taking without asking because he assumed everything already belonged to him.

He chooses his words carefully. “My feelings for you run deep, Granger, but I won’t ask for something I don’t deserve.”

“And if it’s what I want?”

“Then tell me,” he says. “I’ll give you anything that’s in my power to give.”

“You?” she asks, on her knees now in front of him.

Draco’s gaze flicks down to her mouth hovering inches from his own. “Is that what you want?”

“Will you give it to me?” A glimmer of mischief illuminates her eyes again. Gods, he loves that look. It takes him to unexpected places. Makes him laugh, stokes his ambition, persuades him to relish life again. And in this moment, it ignites every inch of him with fire.

With Granger, life is always a learning experience. Draco’s favourite lesson so far is the taste of her mouth—like summer warmth on an early spring day, salt in the drenches of mourning, sweetness in the tangle of school sheets, bliss every day he gets to call the girl without a family his own.

Four (Eight) steaming shots of Firewhisky later, Draco escapes Theo’s hawk-eyed supervision and finds himself sitting in a booth across from Granger.

“What is it?” she asks, uncertain (suspicious).

“Can I buy you a drink?” he offers, searching for a waitress.

“No.”

“Oh.” He flicks his head forward, counting ten (five) stripes on her jumper.

“See, here’s the thing then…” He picks up the salt shaker next to his elbow and turns it on its head, briefly distracted (avoiding eye-contact). “I’m not sure you’ve noticed, though I’m fairly certain everyone else has but, I find myself besotted, Granger.”

“There you are!” Theo appears through the crowd, sliding into the booth next to Draco. He shoots Granger a sheepish grin. “Isn’t he a joker when he’s sloshed? Let’s go, mate. Enough funny business.”

“I’d like to hear what he has to say, actually,” Granger interjects. “Mind giving us a moment?”

“All good,” says Draco, shoving Theo out of the booth. “I’ve got this.”

“You really don’t.” Theo quickens his speech.“He’s in no state to speak rationally—“

“Granger,” Draco cuts in. “I’m prepared to court you.”

“Oh Gods.” Theo reaches for Draco, who’s slipped further into the booth, searching for something in his robes.

“Aha!” Draco pulls out a black velvet box and offers it to her. “For you.”

Granger looks mildly perplexed (ghostly pale). She drops her hands to her lap, recoiling from the offering. “You what?”

“I told you—” Theo begins, only to be outshone by Draco’s yammering.

“It’s not proper, you see, to take a witch home without a promise of a future. So this,” he juts his chin towards the little black box, “is my show of good faith.”

Granger doesn’t it pick it up. “You fancy me?”

“Only for a little while, really,” Draco replies coolly (guiltily). “No more than a decade, probably. What do you think?” He turns to Theo for confirmation.

“I think we should leave. Now.” Theo makes another grab for Draco’s wrist.

“Wait,” says Granger, leaning towards Draco. “Is this… are you…” she lowers her voice, “asking me to come home with you?” A spark of amusement illuminates her face.

Draco pushes the box towards her. “To start.”

“I give up.” Theo throws his hands up in the air, leaving without another word.

Tentatively, Granger reaches for the box. “Is this really for me?”

“Of course.”

“I must admit, this is the most peculiar way anyone has ever hit on me. But it’s also rather sweet.”

Draco grins (beams like a bloody moron). “Won’t you open it?”

She picks up the box, eyeing it thoughtfully. And then plants it in her pocket. “Maybe in the morning, depending on how the night unfolds.”

Draco glides out of the booth with more grace than any intoxicated bloke ever should (swaggers), offering Granger his hand. “Come home with me?”

“Only if you promise to drink Sober Up when we get back.”

“Anything for my future wife.”

Somewhere in the background, Theo shakes his head, experiencing the worst bout of second-hand embarrassment he’s ever known.

But he’ll be damned, he awes, watching Draco throw his arm around Granger, and lead her out of the pub. The key to Draco’s success has always been his stubbornness (thoughtfulness).

Hermione looked up from the tally sheet. “I’m not the worst flirter!”

Lavender rolled her eyes. “You smile at blokes and they drool all over you. You’re forgetting who you are.”

Her cheeks burned. “That doesn’t mean I’m a bad flirter.”

Ginny made a disbelieving noise.

“What?” snapped Hermione, harsher than she meant to.

“You expect boys to come to you. You’ve never actually flirted with anyone.”

“Then how do you know I’m bad at it?”

“Alright, then.” Ginny sat up. “How’s a challenge?”

“Go on.”

“I pick a boy, and when we’re back at school, you flirt your way into a date. You’re allowed to ask, by the way, we’re modern witches. But he must say yes.”

“Fine.”

“Draco Malfoy,” she said, not a beat later. “That way we know it’s not because you’re Hermione Granger.”

Hermione’s face fell. “He’s always hated me.”

“Times have changed.” Ginny shrugged. “I’ve seen him around other Muggle-borns. He’s nice to them. Malfoy’s iteration, granted, the squint-your-eyes and you’ll see it kind of way.”

Not one to pass on a challenge, Hermione agreed reluctantly.

It happened on the train, two hours to Scotland, with little else to do. They found him after a rocky stroll down the carriage, sharing a cabin with Blaise Zabini.

Ginny opened the door, asking Blaise for a word. “Hermione can keep Malfoy company.” She all but shoved Hermione inside, slamming the door behind her.

Draco fidgeted on the seat, tapping his foot on the floor, averting his eyes. His wand tumbled out of his pocket, rolling to her feet. Their heads knocked reaching for it at the same time.

“Here.” Hermione put it in his hand, rubbing her temple.

“Sorry,” he muttered, beet-red.

Hermione was meant to be flirting. “Your trousers,” she said suddenly.

Draco looked down in alarm.

She cleared her throat. “They’re nice.”

He dusted them off, saying nothing.

“Did you… pick them out?”

“No.” Now he was looking at her like she was Polyjuiced. “They’re custom made.”

“Of course they are,” she muttered under her breath.

“What?”

“And your hair. It’s very clean today.”

“…I showered this morning.”

“Explains why it smells nice in here.”

“What are you doing, Granger?” Draco looked weirded out. “Am I an experiment? Are you having a laugh at me? What does Weasley want with Blaise?”

“Oh God.” Hermione covered her face with her hands. “I AM bad at flirting.” What a terrible time to have this revelation.

“What?”

“I need to go.” She stood up, reaching for the door.

“You were flirting with me?”

“Apparently I’m not good at it,” she said just as the train lurched, sending Hermione flying onto his lap. Draco caught her before her head hit the wall.

He rolled his eyes. “This is such a cliché.”

She sat up, offended. “I didn’t do that on purpose.”

“True. That would have been an improvement from asking about my trousers.”

“How should I have done it, then?” she asked, exasperated.

His lips lifted at the corners. He angled his back to the wall, facing her, and settled in. “This is what you do. You sit across from me, and look out the window, pretending like I’m not here. But eventually, you see something that reminds you of a subject you’ve read about and, unable to keep it to yourself, you tell me about it.”

Hermione had nothing to say.

A knock came at the door. Ginny stood on the other side.

Hermione stood to leave, but just before opening the door she asked, “Would you want to get coffee sometime? When we’re back at school.”

“Hey, I’ve got a wild idea,” says Hermione, nudging Draco under the table.

He looks up from his textbook, smiling back at her, humming for her to go on.

“What if, after graduation, you don’t return to Wiltshire?”

“And do what instead?”

“Take the law apprenticeship with me.”

“It’s a three-year commitment.”

“Yeah, and it’s the best law firm in England. In a handful of years, we could branch off on our own.”

“Hermione, it would take at least a decade to get to that point—”

“Not if it’s you and me. We make a good team, Draco. We’re top of our class. Everyone’s afraid of us. Academically, that is. Though I suppose they’re afraid of you either way.”

He makes a pleased noise.

“You’re so much more than a Malfoy. If you really went for it, you’d make a fortune of your own. No family riches needed. No pure-blood expectations holding you down… no betrothals. Especially with me by your side.”

“Is that right?” He grins, but eventually shakes his head. “If I don’t marry her, I’ll lose everything.”

“But you won’t!” She gestures to the body of work between them, their research fanned out on the table, study charts on-hand, a stack of aced essays and exams piled on the corner. “Look at everything we’ve achieved.”

“You don’t understand. My father gets out of jail in five years. He’ll expect to find me married, and if I’m not, he’ll find a way to tangle me into a betrothal. You don’t know what he’s like.”

“What if he couldn’t trap you?” Hermione shoots him a tentative look, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, jaw working side to side.

Draco’s fingers twitch. His eyes darken staring at her mouth. “What do you mean?”

“What if you married me instead?”

His eyes widen. And then that dark look returns tenfold. He releases a harsh breath. “Don’t mess with me like that.”

“I’m not.” Hermione’s stomach flutters. “We already know we’re compatible… in several ways.” Draco’s gaze drops to her open collar, his lips parting as he adjusts himself on the wooden seat. “We’ll build a reputation, take on the right cases, make real change in society. Then we’ll open our own firm as husband and wife. Imagine Granger-Malfoy blown up on the letterhead. I’ll take the bigger office, of course.”

He scoffs, and she laughs because she knows he always weasels his way into the best of everything. Take her proposal, for instance. Hermione knows she’s the best. At least for Draco, there will be no one but her.

They hold eye-contact, soft and sincere. Draco leans in for her hand. “Tell me you’re not joking.”

“Marry me, Draco, within five years. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”