Chapter Text
"True friends never apart, maybe in distance but never in heart."
― Helen Keller
"Blast it all; I might as well just marry you."
In hindsight, it wasn't the smartest thing Hermione Granger had ever said. But in all fairness, they'd been a bottle and a half deep, and she'd just come off a particularly dreadful string of first dates.
The sentiment had been followed by a low snort and a wry, drawled, "Please. Who says I'd even want to marry you anyways?"
Lifting a singular, unimpressed brow, Hermione had stared down her companion. "I've seen the types of women you date."
"True," Draco had allowed, lifting his hands in defense. "But you and I both know you could do better than me. I'd certainly be your last resort."
"Not the last."
The conversation had devolved from that point, and though the rest of the night was a vague blur, her recollections coloured in a haze of elf-made wine and poor decisions, the consequences of the drunken vow they'd made were concrete.
Of course, it was all hypothetical, because surely by the time they were both thirty, at least one of them would have found someone with whom they wanted to settle down. Draco was still only twenty-seven, and the vow wouldn't go into effect for almost three years.
There was nothing to worry about.
It had taken a few years after the war ended to finally set their youthful grievances aside, but by the time they'd both pulled their heads out of their arses and grown up, it was remarkable how well Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy found they could relate.
And while the development had been hotly contested by her friends—his had been merely skeptical—over the years they had slipped into one another's circles with relative ease.
The first time the pair of them had been spotted out in London together, Witch Weekly had had a field day, proclaiming a number of half-truths and downright lies. Every so often, there was still speculation that the pair of them were an item; Hermione always rolled her eyes as the tabloids dissected every discussion and platonic touch between them, but it was a guilty pleasure to follow the saga nonetheless.
Although after a while, the novelty of it had worn off, and their friendship had simply become another reality of the brave new world that was post-war wizarding London.
Her friendship with Draco filled all the holes Harry and Ron left behind. The pair had always been closer with one another than with her, especially after Hermione's brief and ill-fated attempt at something with Ron following the war.
It hadn't taken long for her to realise that the youthful crush she had once harboured had faded with the realities of war, and they had never made it off the ground, much to Ron's chagrin.
Draco always sought to push her—and her buttons—at every opportunity; he challenged her in ways that neither Harry nor Ron ever had, and he could parry a stimulating conversation with her for hours.
In fact, more than once the pair of them had been left to their own devices during a night at the pub because everyone else had lost interest.
Following the war, his family had faced serious reparations from the Ministry, and Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to a short term in Azkaban; but Harry's testimonial and character witness at Narcissa's trial had kept the woman out of prison.
Given her own parents, though their memories had been restored after the war, had opted to remain overseas in Australia, they'd often bonded over their post-war familial dysfunction. A tension existed between Hermione and her parents that had never been there before, as if they didn't quite know how to trust her anymore. And on her annual week-long visits to see them, she often found herself on the edge of where she used to find comfort.
But still, they were alive and they remembered her, and it was more than she had once feared. She still carried hope that things would continue to improve over time.
Draco's own trial sentencing had involved efforts in the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and the requirement that he complete his NEWTs during their eighth year.
He was always the first to say he'd been let off easy.
And Hermione could still remember the haunted look in his eyes, the first day they had spoken as anything other than enemies, when Draco had sought her out in an empty corridor to apologise.
They had both come a long way. But she knew well enough the demons he still faced, as surely as she had her own. Certain experiences and memories would always linger; it was a lesson they had all learned as they attempted to piece together a semblance of normalcy, only to learn they needed to embrace something different instead.
Although she and Draco had been friends now for the better part of a decade, and despite the accusations from everyone else, neither of them had ever made a move to cross the lines drawn between them.
A part of Hermione had always been aware of his charm and good looks, especially as he'd come into his own after the war, but he had never indicated any interest in taking things further, and neither had she.
Another part of her suspected they would drive one another up the wall.
Despite all of that, she never doubted the strength of their friendship. One thing she had been surprised to learn about Draco Malfoy was that he had a hidden protective streak, to the point where she often needed to remind him that she was perfectly capable of defending her own honour, thank you, and more than once she'd had to drag him away from a potential altercation.
Especially at first, when she'd taken all the negative attention in stride. When the black and white sorts of London society had turned on her for taking him in.
And she was always the first to jump in and defend him. Many of the young female wizarding elite had claws and knew how to use them, particularly when his filthy, stacked-to-the-ceiling vaults were involved.
So while they got along well for the most part—every so often they debated themselves into a screaming match—Hermione didn't quite know how she felt about the idea of marrying him over a drunken pact made in the middle of the night on a wednesday.
If they were both still single and unattached by the time they were both thirty, they would wed one another. And they had sealed it with a vow, like the pair of particular pedants that they were.
But it would be fine. They had years to go.
Only, then a year passed.
And Merlin, if the men at the Ministry of Magic weren't growing duller by the week.
Hermione hadn't had any prospects last beyond the third date in six months, and she had grown increasingly frustrated with the situation.
It wasn't that Hermione needed a partner.
In fact, she was quite capable of living her own life and taking care of her own business without relying on anyone, even her friends. There was no intense desire pushing her to meet someone, because she genuinely did enjoy her life on her own. She appreciated her job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she saw her friends at least once or twice a week, and she had plenty of other hobbies and extracurricular projects on the side to keep her calendar filled.
But every so often, she felt a flicker of something that resembled an interest in finding someone with whom she could share her life.
And if she was being honest, as a woman in her late twenties, she was comfortable enough with herself to admit that she enjoyed the more physical aspects of a relationship. One-night stands rarely interested her, however, and she had little cause to take a man home when she often couldn't bear the thought of inane conversation after the fact.
The problem was that the men she met were either meek intellectuals who were too intimidated to engage in stimulating discussion, or overbearing, domineering types who couldn't carry a conversation.
Hermione didn't think it was asking too much that she meet someone in the middle.
At first, the occasional bad date had led her to Draco's posh flat after a disappointing evening out, bottle of wine clutched in her hand, and an apologetic smile on her face.
He was always quick to reassure her that no, it wasn't her that was the problem, and she didn't need a fucking spoonmuppet like that in her life anyways.
After the third time, it had become a bit of a thing—and after he'd wound up on her doorstep a few times in reciprocity, it had simply become a habit.
Most of the women Draco met were beautiful floozies who had more interest in the Malfoy coffers than in him as a person, and though he put up a tough exterior, she knew it bothered him more than he tried to let on.
And Hermione invariably wound up reminding him that he was more than his family name, or his good looks, or his diamond cufflinks.
It had become a bit of a bad habit, if she was honest, because lately they'd been drinking quite a lot of wine.
A sharp rapping on the door jarred her from her thoughts. Speak of the pale-haired devil himself.
Lips twitching with a smile, she called, "Come in!" Draco knew well enough how to get through her wards, as he'd done on more than one occasion, but she knew he found it more proper to announce himself—especially after the time he'd let himself in while she'd been entertaining.
Moments later, Draco found her in the kitchen in her small flat, reaching for two wine glasses from the cupboard.
"No wine," he breezed, snatching the pair of glasses from her hand and returning them with ease to the high shelf. "We aren't drinking tonight. We've become a pair of lushes, and no one will have us if we keep ingesting all this sugar."
Turning to face him, her back to the countertop, she eyed him from beneath her lashes. "What's happened now?"
"Nothing happened," he said, wrinkling his nose with distaste. "It's only occurred to me that we should… I don't know. Go for a run or something."
"A run."
He wore a pair of slacks and a button-down with spotless dragonhide oxfords.
"A jog." Hesitating for a moment, he pursed his lips. "A rapidly paced walk."
Blinking at him, she echoed under her breath, "Rapidly paced."
They stared blankly at one another for a long moment, before he added, "I'd like some ice cream, alright?"
She clipped, "There it is. So we're just replacing our sugar intake this evening."
"Yes." Biting down hard on her lower lip to keep from laughing, she gazed at him until he nudged her in the shoulder. "Come on. Fortescue's—my treat."
"We can't walk to Fortescue's from here."
"You fucking pedant," he said with a good-natured scoff. "We'll Apparate then."
"Which entirely negates your announcement that we need to incorporate more regular exercise into our routine—"
He cut her off with a hand plastered over her mouth, shaking his head even as he threw his head back with a laugh. "What would I do without you, witch?"
Wrenching his hand from her mouth, she flashed him a wide grin. "With any luck, you'll never have to find out, hmm?"
At his returning crooked grin, warmth settled in her being, and he muttered, "Merlin willing. Now let's go."
Hermione was met with suspicion and a pale, raised brow when she arrived at Draco's flat in the middle of the afternoon, some weeks after the ice cream incident. His flat was modest, by his standards—which meant it was still significantly larger and nicer than her own—but Hermione had always appreciated his keen eye for decor.
"Did you have a rubbish lunch date?" he asked, lips pulling into a smirk as she strode past him into the flat. "No, that can't be it—you haven't brought wine."
"No wine," Hermione agreed, digging in a rucksack and shoving a pair of trainers into his chest. "I've been thinking about it a lot, and you were right. We do need to incorporate more regular exercise into our routine."
"We don't actually," Draco drawled, looking put off by the athletic shoes as he set them on the floor in the entry. His gaze carefully swept her athletic outfit, his top lip curling with disinterest. "In fact, I'm quite pleased with my routine as it is."
Hermione turned towards him, folding her arms across her chest. "You're in terrible shape."
"Am not!" he retorted, bristling. Rolling his eyes, he gestured down at his own physique; externally, he did look fit.
Huffing a breath through her nose, she drew her own pair of trainers from the bag. "Do you remember that time the lift was down for maintenance and you had to climb fourteen flights of stairs?"
She was met with silence and a scowl.
"Besides," Hermione breezed on, "wizards and witches are notoriously bad about looking after their physical wellbeing. Muggles are much more cognizant of these things, and frankly, it's something we could learn from them."
"Muggles are also prone to heart failure and diseases that are easily curable by magical healers," he drawled, eyeing the trainers with disdain. "And wizards have a longer life expectancy than muggles, even so."
As if he'd made his point, he straightened his shoulders, peering down at her.
She merely stared back at him for a long moment, her lips twitching. "Are you through?"
Clearly, Draco realised she wasn't going to let the subject go, because he trailed towards his bedroom, grumbling a string of quiet expletives, and several minutes later, returned in a plain t-shirt and a pair of running trousers.
Hermione slipped on her own shoes, ignoring the daggers in his stare as she double-checked the contents of her rucksack. "I've got water, plasters in case you fall—"
"Fuck off," he scoffed, snatching the bag from her hands and swinging it onto his own back. "Let's just do this, then."
Down the street from his complex was a lush, verdant park with a network of running paths, and within a few minutes they were jogging at a decent pace. Despite that neither of them had been remotely active in a long while, Hermione felt a frisson of pride chase through her.
"We could do this regularly," she said, the words coming out a bit breathy. A sharp nod punctuated her words. "We'll be in great shape; we could even join some races. Marathons."
"Sure," he choked out, a flush to his usually pale complexion. "We're doing great."
"Yes!" Hermione agreed, sucking in a deep inhale. "We've already been going—" with a glance at her watch, she grimaced "—three minutes."
Due to his longer legs, Draco's stride was naturally longer, and it was a challenge to keep up with him as they carried on around the bend, until he stopped dead in the middle of the path, bent in half at the waist, and gasping for breath.
"Go on without me," he choked, fumbling in her rucksack for a bottle of water. "I'm not cut out for this."
A pair of men ran past at a good clip, snickering. One of them tossed back at her, "You're welcome to join us."
Smouldering with anger, Draco glared at them, his hand instinctively twitching towards his wand as he slopped water down his front. Hermione simply rolled her eyes, snatching the water from his hand and taking a long swig, her own chest heaving with the exertion.
"Maybe," she panted, "we'll have to work out way up to marathons. Lift some weights or something."
Draco fired her a look. "Or we never speak of this day, and get ice cream instead."
Releasing a sigh, she took another drink of water before handing it back to him. A smile tugged at her lips despite herself and her best efforts. "Ice cream it is."
The situation didn't begin to feel precarious until Hermione's twenty-ninth birthday was upon her. But still, she was almost nine months older than Draco, and there were still close to two years before the vow would activate.
A fact she'd taken to steadily reminding herself.
"It's a good thing you turned down that opportunity in Paris," Draco said, picking at a plate of tapas at a small Spanish establishment. "Try these croquetas. I can't decide if I like them or not."
Dragging the morsel from the tines of his fork with her fingers as he extended it across the table—and ignoring his derision over her table manners—she popped the bite into her mouth. Chewing for a moment, she made a face. "Too much salt."
"Too much salt," he agreed, "Yet somehow still bland."
"You were saying."
"Well," he said, gesturing with the fork, "if you left for Paris for six months, what on earth would I do with all my spare time?" He rolled his eyes, a facetious, practiced gesture. "Especially since I get so much amusement from your love life."
Hermione had long since learned not to take his jabs seriously—but for some reason, the flippancy stung.
Even so, she quietly mused, "You mean lack thereof."
He pointed at her with the fork.
The department had offered to send her on an exchange in Paris, where she would be able to pursue her research on the bicorn population there on the side. But when another opportunity had arose in Staffordshire, she had opted to stay closer to home.
And if she was fully honest with herself, Draco was a part of the reason she hadn't wanted to run off for six months. Even though she knew he could look after himself, there was a part of her that always felt a little protective of him. He was her closest friend, and who knew what sort of chaos he'd get himself into if she weren't around to temper his impulses.
She also suspected she would miss him something awful if they didn't see one another on a regular basis.
"Well," she said with a huff, "Paris will have to call my name another time, I suppose."
Slowly, his grey eyes dragged up from his plate to meet hers. "Haven't you been to France?"
"Yes." A hint of a smile tugged at her lips as she added, "But I've also been to Staffordshire."
Draco released a low snort. "Fair. Then go to Paris."
With a noncommittal hum, Hermione stabbed a bite of her potatoes. Silence descended upon them and she wasn't entirely comfortable with the underlying tension.
But Draco leaned back in his seat, oblivious. "What time are we going out tomorrow?"
Pushing a bite around her plate, she shrugged. "I think Theo said he's booked the venue for eight."
If it were up to Hermione, she wouldn't do anything to celebrate her birthday. Twenty-nine wasn't a number she cared for, and she had never been keen on the attention draw anyways. But Draco had insisted, and gone as far as to enlist Theodore Nott in planning the affair.
"Right," he drawled, eyes tightened as he appraised the other patrons of the restaurant before they slid back to her. "Not weird if I bring a date, is it?"
Surprised, she blinked at him, feeling an odd swooping in her stomach. "I didn't know you were seeing someone."
His nose wrinkled and he made a face. "Still new, I suppose. I've seen her a couple times; I think you'd like her."
At his expectant stare, Hermione forced a thick swallow, unable to dredge up any of their usual mocking. "I'm… certain she's lovely." Draco's expression faltered, a furrow pinching the skin between his brows. Pasting a smile onto her lips, she added, "It's totally fine. In fact, I've got a date coming myself."
"Hermione."
"Draco."
"You're acting odd." He lifted one brow, eyeing her for a long moment. "If you'd rather I not—it's your birthday after all, and I don't want to make you uncomfortable if—"
"Why would it make me uncomfortable?" Her voice came out a bit higher than she'd intended, and she couldn't exactly place the nausea pooling in her stomach; if he noticed, he didn't comment. "If she's made it to a third date with the notoriously picky Draco Malfoy, then I look forward to meeting her."
But his eyes only tightened further. "What's your date's name?"
Blast him and his Slytherin cunning.
Pressing her lips into a thin line, Hermione announced, "His name is David."
Draco's brows flickered once, and he folded his hands across his stomach. "Fine. I'll hold my judgement for tomorrow, then."
He had never been one to refrain from said judgement—and he had pushed away more than one potential suitor of hers over the years. Managing a tight smile, she took a long sip of her ice water.
And after they parted following dinner, Hermione spent the rest of the evening trying to track down someone named David who would be willing to accompany her to her own damn birthday party.