Chapter Text
Hermione didn’t want to open her eyes.
Her curtains were halfway open and she was squeezing her eyes shut against the barrage of watery sunlight slanting across the bed. Her mouth was dry and tasted like metal; her head pounded, her stomach rolled, and she contemplated vomiting over the side of the bed.
The last thing she remembered was the Leaky, filled with bodies and flickering firelight, a row of smoking shot glasses, and something solid behind her, like a support made of pine needles and peppermint toothpaste. Damn Harry, damn Ginny, damn their engagement, damn Ron and his bottle of 750 year old Ogden’s, damn Seamus and Dean and Neville and Hannah, damn Luna and her stupid hangover cures, and most of all, damn every single ounce of Hermione’s brain that believed that pumpkin juice and vodka pre-drinks would ever, ever be a good idea.
She opened one eye and tossed one leg outside of the comforter. Why was she naked? She never slept naked, owing mainly to seven years sharing a room with four rather immature and giggly classmates. “Bloody hell,” Hermione groaned, her stomach growling audibly. Her clothes from the night before were tossed in a pile on the floor, one shoe balanced on top. There was a half full glass of water on the nightstand, which she chugged gratefully before daring to sit up.
It was a horrific idea. Her head rushed, a weak, tingly feeling in her limbs, leaving Hermione prone and propped up against the headboard, breathing through her nose. She managed to pull open her nightstand drawer and rummage around, finding only a pot of lip balm, several birthday cards and a very forlorn looking vibrator.
Not only had she had she engaged in a full evening of completely irresponsible and riotous debauchery, she didn’t even have a sobering potion to show for it. This, unfortunately, meant that until she could stagger down to Diagon Alley and purchase one at the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes storefront, she was stuck with muggle remedies.
She managed to brush her teeth without gagging, after which she spent thirty minutes in the shower, scrubbing herself raw with a handful of eucalyptus body wash and a pink loofah.
After shuffling out of the shower, Hermione wrapped herself in her robe and surveyed the damage in the mirror. She looked not unlike a drowned rat; pale and green tinged, sopping hair sticking to her cheeks.
“Never again,” she whispered vengefully to her reflection. In search of more water and perhaps (if she was lucky) a piece of dry toast, she trudged down the hallway to the kitchen, the back of her bathrobe dampening under the weight of her prodigious hair.
And in the kitchen, Hermione found Crookshanks, sitting on the kitchen counter, a bottle of sobering potion in the center of her kitchen table, and Draco Malfoy, reading a copy of the Daily Prophet.
“Granger,” said Malfoy, by way of greeting, “Thought you’d drowned in there.”
Hermione just stared at him, wondering vaguely if he was a ghost, and she was undergoing some sort of very serious, firewhiskey induced hallucination. “What,” she began, trying to marshall her thoughts, “What the - hell - are you doing - in my kitchen- the wards -” she gripped the back of the kitchen chair closest to her, her hands shaking.
“Well, Granger, you see,” he replied, evenly, as if she was a mild disturbance in an otherwise uneventful morning, “When you apparate someone into your home of your own volition, wards become completely ineffective. Now, because you are so very good at constructing said wards, I can’t leave.”
“I did not-” Hermione spluttered, unable to process his appearance in her kitchen, sitting at her rickety table in his cashmere jumper and looking both smug and a little impatient, “Apparate you into my home, Malfoy, I wouldn’t-”
He tossed the copy of the Prophet onto the table and fixed her with an unnecessarily judgmental look, in Hermione’s opinion, “You’re telling me you don’t remember anything?”
“I -" Hermione began, pulling out the chair and sitting down hard, “I remember that we were at the Leaky, and Seamus bought those shots-”
“Bought me one too,” sneered Malfoy, “Disgusting, honestly -”
“You were -" Hermione remembered the pine and toothpaste- “You were behind me, because -”
“Because you propositioned me.”
“Because I - WHAT?” Hermione tried to keep her voice from breaking, “Malfoy, don’t be stupid, why the hell would I-”
“I don’t know,” He shrugged, an appraising expression in those grey eyes, “I was meeting a colleague at the Leaky when your little friends showed up, and without much in the way of greeting, you told me on no uncertain terms that you wanted to fuck.”
“I would never say that,” hissed Hermione, who was beginning to get her bearings back, if only because she was furious, “If you’re going to lie, Malfoy, at least make it a little believable-”
“Maybe that wasn’t exactly how you said it,” said Malfoy, sounding unabashed and not - Hermione was a little surprised - not altogether disgusted, “But otherwise, why would I be here?”
And there it was. Hermione narrowed her eyes, her fingers closing around the handle of her wand. Draco Malfoy was still a prat, but he was, for all intents and purposes, reformed. After several years probation, he had gone on to a very successful career as a consultant to the DMLE, aiding in the eradication of dark magic and capture of dark wizards. Even Ron didn’t mind him much anymore, as he was one of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes wealthiest customers. Hermione was the only one who hadn’t warmed to him, and she blamed it as much on the events at Malfoy Manor as she did on his perpetually condescending attitude.
“Why are you here, Malfoy?” she asked, slowly, meeting his eyes for the first time since she’d walked into the kitchen, “And don’t lie. I know you’re quite-good at lying.”
“I was bored.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And drunk.”
“Malfoy, I’m warning you-”
“You kissed me.”
The words fell to the kitchen floor with an echoing clatter. Hermione sat, stock still, staring at Malfoy, aware that she was blushing, aware that there was a heat spreading down through her stomach. She didn’t remember it, not really, but there was something that had stayed in the back of her mind, like a dream. Toothpaste, and pine, and something soft and expensive, threaded through her fingers.
“I would never have - “ Hermione trailed off, running her fingers through her hair, and looking away quickly, “I had about 20 drinks, Malfoy, I didn’t mean to - erm - I’m sorry. I can’t believe I did that.”
“Don’t be,” said Malfoy, and it surprised her to hear something like amusement in his tone, “You’re a hell of a kisser, Granger. Nice tits, too.”
“No,” Hermione went white at the insinuation, bracing herself on the table with both hands. “We didn’t,” she breathed, “we didn’t - did we?”
“It’s that repulsive to you, is it?”
“No!” she exclaimed, standing up so quickly that the table jumped back, knocking the potion into Draco’s lap, “Besides the fact that I’m still confused as to why you’re here, since I’m decidedly not your type, I - I don’t remember anything, alright? If we had sex - I wouldn’t even know. The Ogden’s-” she trailed off, wringing her hands, “I don’t know.”
“Relax,” drawled Draco, righting the bottle of potion, “Who said you weren’t my type?”
“I just thought - “ Hermione chanced a glance at him, so surprised at his response she nearly laughed, “You know. Different…backgrounds.”
“Fair,” said Malfoy, and his jaw tensed a little, “Tits are tits, Granger.”
“If we didn’t have sex,” Hermione said, gesturing at him with one hand and pulling her robe tighter with the other, “How did you see my-”
It was then she saw the bra draped over the back of one of her sitting room chairs. She gasped, darted forward and grabbed it, folding it into her hands and looking up at him with nothing short of pure, unadulterated panic. “You didn’t-"
“I didn’t have anything to do with that, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Malfoy, with an arch of one pale eyebrow, “Don’t normally make a habit of taking advantage of women when they’re incapacitated .”
“Incapacitated? Oh my - fucking hell ,” Draco snickered at her and Hermione glared at him, “So - I just - “ She was objectively horrified, clutching her laciest bra, wondering if she could just sink right through the floor and be done with it. “Took my clothes off? In the kitchen?”
“Yes,” Draco looked a little gleeful, “Did try to give you my jumper, but you were insistent.”
“You’re a pig.”
“I put you to bed, alright?” Now he looked a little annoyed, “Not that I deserve an Order of Merlin for it, but you have nothing to worry about.”
Hermione groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Malfoy, I - “
“Forget it,” He said, quietly, “I’ve had worse evenings. Are you going to let me go home?”
“Yes, sorry,” She pulled her wand out of her pocket and waved it at the door. Several break ins a few years back had compelled her to construct a rather complicated ward that would both trap an unwelcome visitor and notify her of their presence in her flat, which Malfoy had apparently fallen privy to. Rather calmly, she noted, as he got up and pulled out his wand.
“Malfoy?” she asked, hurriedly, as he fastened his cloak and made his way towards the front door.
He turned back expectantly. “Yeah, Granger?”
“Why did you come home with me? I know I kissed you, but - you didn’t have to - “
Malfoy shrugged, his eyes flat and expressionless. “I know I didn’t,” he said, and for a brief second, Hermione could have sworn she saw something almost vulnerable in the sharp angles of his face.
And then, just like that, he disappeared through the front door, and Hermione was left standing, shellshocked, in her kitchen, clutching her bra, Crookshanks yowling for his breakfast.
A few hours later, the sobering potion ingested, Hermione was curled up with a similarly hungover Ginny Weasley, recounting her morning with Draco Malfoy.
“There had to be at least fifteen very drunk, objectively good looking wizards at the Leaky last night,” Hermione said, for at least the third time, “And I proposition Malfoy? Of all the ridiculous-”
“What I can’t believe,” Ginny interjected, “Is that you fully apparated him home, stripped naked, and he still had the decency to put you to bed and sleep on the couch. Who would have thought?”
“Ginny,” Hermione groaned, “That is the bare minimum. Don’t make me give you my consent speech again.”
“I knowwww,” said Ginny, her eyes a little glassy, “But it is a bit romantic, don’t you think?”
“Romantic in the way that Seamus Finnegan asking me if I liked it ‘rough’ is romantic.”
Ginny giggled into her mug of tea. “So - the real question is, in the cold, harsh light of day, do you still want to shag him?”
“No! I mean - I don’t know.”
“So that’s a yes,” finished Ginny, slyly, eliciting a scoff out of Hermione.
“It’s not yes, it’s just - “
“Just maybe? Please ,” Ginny set her tea on the coffee table and put the tips of her fingers together in a very Dumbledore-ish way, “Sober thoughts are drunk actions, or whatever the saying is. You must have noticed how smart he is -”
“He’s not smart -”
“And how good he is at his job-”
“Because he was a Death Eater , Ginny,” Hermione rubbed a hand over her eyes with a groan. “As much as I would love to sit here and analyze this, I might honestly be sick if we say one more word about Malfoy and his-”
She was unceremoniously cut off by the arrival of both Harry and Ron, who barreled through the door of the sitting room at the same time, Ron yelling, “His what , Hermione?” and Harry followed close behind, chuckling at the sight of the girls curled up on the couch.
“We thought you’d been kidnapped,” Ron finished, collapsing into an armchair and pulling a scone out of what Hermione surmised must have been his back pocket, “Honest. Harry was about to rally the troops and send them off to your flat.”
“I dunno what I would have done to Malfoy that Hermione couldn’t do better and with more finesse,” said Harry, giving Ginny a kiss and grinning at his best friend.
“Charming,” replied Hermione, narrowing her eyes, “Speaking of which, where were you lot when I was whisking Malfoy back to my flat?”
Ginny cackled and Harry reddened at her accusatory look. “We were - ah - “
“Disgusting,” said Ron, mouth full of scone, pointing at his sister, “The pair of you-”
“Where were you then, Ronald?” Ginny shot back in her most Mrs. Weasley-ish voice, “Sticking your tongue down some poor unfortunate witch’s throat?”
“No,” said Ron, completely unabashed, “I’ll have you know, George and I were testing some new product-”
“On yourselves?”
“Of course,” said Ron, in a non-entirely-truthful tone, “We were a bit preoccupied with - removing the pustules, you see, and-”
“Not all of them,” muttered Harry, “Neville said he’s still got them on his-”
“ANYWAYS,” Hermione’s headache was worsening, “Now that we’ve established that you’re all a bunch of traitorous, good for nothing excuses for friends-”
“I resent that insinuation,” said Ginny, loudly, “I would have hexed him, if I had actually been present and/or anticipated that you were you going to plant a big one on Draco Malfoy at any point in the evening-”
“I did not plant a big one on him-”
“A big one, Mione?” Ron mimed retching over the ottoman, spraying crumbs over the carpet to everyone’s general disgust.
“I’m just assuming it was big,” Ginny waved her wand over the crumbs, glaring at Ron, “Since you somehow bamboozled him into accompanying you home.”
“Bamboozled,” Harry snickered, unhelpfully.
“Isn’t he engaged, anyways?” asked Ron, which elicited a loud “Ron!” from Ginny, who looked thunderstruck at the revelation. Hermione slapped a hand to her forehead, groaning loudly. Of all the stupid, idiotic-
“Since when?” demanded Ginny. “That little git, when I get ahold of him-”
“I don’t know that it’s official, per say,” said Harry, slowly, “He’s been under a Betrothal contract with Astoria Greengrass for about at least a couple of years.”
“A couple of years?” Hermione shrieked. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen them in the Prophet together; both sickeningly good looking and rich and all of that; but Betrothal Contracts were serious business in the wizarding world. At least, on the pureblood side of things, “What the hell was he thinking - what the hell was I thinking - sneaky, loathsome little ferret-”
“You didn’t know,” said Ginny, soothingly, patting her back, “Could have happened to anyone, really. Very confusing. We’ve all been there, you know - not me specifically, Harry, you idiot,” she shot at Harry, who was regarding her with an outraged expression.
“I wouldn’t have minded, exactly, but it’s-”
“Draco Malfoy,” said Ron, unhelpfully.
“He is looking rather fit, these days,” Ginny mused, still absently patting Hermione’s back.
“Fit?” Hermione exclaimed, incredulously. “Malfoy?”
“Yeah, Ginny, what?”
Hermione sat back, listening vaguely to the outraged replies to Ginny’s admission. She hadn’t really considered his looks, as ridiculous as it sounded. He was always dressed expensively, that much was certain, but the sleek haired, skinny, pointy boy she’d gone to school with could never have been described as “fit.”
Ferret-like, maybe. Slimy, perhaps?
Most of what had transpired in her kitchen earlier that day was clouded by her level of shock, which made it hard to remember exactly if the wizard sitting at her kitchen table could be categorized as attractive or not.
“You’re telling me you don’t think he’s fit?” Ginny was now shaking Hermione’s shoulder, rather desperately, “After you snogged him and invited him back to your flat?”
“I-I didn’t notice!” Hermione protested, “I think I was a bit hung up on the fact that he was in my flat, and also - as I’ve mentioned, that he’s Malfoy.” She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes on the last bit, preferring to focus instead on her fluffy pink slippers.
“I think there’s only one thing for it,” said Ginny, with an air of finality, “You’re going to have to do some research. I’d tell you to go to the library, but I think you’ll have better luck in the DMLE, right?”
Harry snickered at the look on Hermione’s face. “What, exactly, do you plan to do once you get there?”
“I never said I was going,” shot back Hermione, although the lure of a proper investigation and an answer to her problem was almost too good to pass up.
“You’re going,” said Ron, smugly.
In the end, of course, she went.
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was the largest department in the Ministry of Magic, owing mainly to the sheer number of sub divisions that were overseen by the executive board. Hermione took the elevator from level four, where she oversaw the Being Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to level two. Level two was, as always, bordering on pandemonium - there were interns skidding across the polished floors amidst clouds of memos, fluttering from the Auror Division to the Wizengamot Administrative Services and back again.
The second she exited the lift, one of the skidding interns gasped loudly. “Hello, Miss Granger!” he panted, struggling to slow down, “Can I help you with anything? Perhaps escort you to the Auror Division?”
“No, thank you,” said Hermione, who was already off in the direction of the Department of Intoxicating Substances, ”I’m very capable of finding my own way.”
This happened at least six more times with employees of varying levels before she was able to slip inside the Substances office and shut the door. This was part of the reason Hermione rarely left the fourth floor; she couldn’t walk more than a few meters without someone waylaying her in some way or another. The worst was the witches and wizards who had lost loved ones in the war; the endless stories of trauma and heartbreak and unthinkable sadness.
Those were the ones that kept her up at night.
Intoxicating Substances was rather a mess, as per usual. She knew that Malfoy, as a consultant, was rather a good potioneer and so generally took on cases for the alchemical wizards, knee deep in noxious fumes. The lab was located on the far side of the offices, each cubical overrun with extensive case files and rambling formulas, parchment strewn over every available surface.
“Err,” Hermione addressed a very haggard looking wizard with horn rimmed glasses and stained scarlet robes, who was fixated on something under a funny, old fashioned microscope, “Do you know where I could find - Mr. Malfoy?”
“Excuse me - oh, Ms. Granger,” The haggard wizard recognized her with a kind of twitch that Hermione was at this point, quite accustomed to, “You’re looking for Mr. - Mr. Malfoy?”
Hermione immediately considered turning around and heading back out into the level two mayhem. She would take a hundred skidding interns over a single interaction with -
“Granger.”
“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” said the haggard wizard, returning to his microscope, “Ms. Granger was just looking for you.”
Hermione looked slowly up at Draco Malfoy, who had appeared out of an office to her left, dressed in charcoal grey robes that were almost obscenely tailored to his form.
His very tall, broad shouldered form.
Oh, Hermione was going to kill Ginny.
He had a jawline now, offsetting the pointy chin; his hair was no longer slicked back, but tousled and grown up; he was a good head taller than she remembered, and he smelled almost sinfully good. Like soap, and pine, and something that was just - Malfoy.
Sickening, Hermione thought to herself.
“What an unexpected surprise,” he drawled, a self satisfied smile blooming on his face, “Coming back for more, are you?”
“No, I was - err - delivering a report. To Mr.-Mr.-”
“Patterson,” said Draco, nodding at the scarlet robed wizard, “And what were the contents of the report you were delivering?”
“Unicorn-blood. Uses and misuses,” She had signed off on a report concerning declining unicorn populations earlier this week, so it wasn’t an outright lie.
“Shall I ask him about it?” Draco made a move to side step her, effectively putting himself back in front of Mr. Patterson, who was steadfastly ignoring both of them.
“No!” she hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him back in front of her. Draco looked smug, which she was beginning to think was his only facial expression other than completely blank and Occluded.
“Well,” Draco smirked down at her, “What is it, Granger?”
“Last week was rather out of character for me,” Hermione replied, shifting from foot to foot and determinedly not looking at him, “And I was just wondering, if I - if I might have said something to you, that would indicate why I decided to - ah - “
“Fuck me? Oh, I don’t know. I’m not as repulsive to the rest of the world as I am to you, maybe.”
“That’s not-” Hermione was struggling to verbalize anything while standing so close to him; he smelled divine, and he looked divine, and all she could really think about was the way he’d looked at her when he’d sat at her kitchen table, and not all the other myriad reasons why the concept of Malfoy was inherently a bad idea. “What I said, I just thought it was odd, that I would proposition you in a crowded bar, when we very clearly - well, we don’t really like each other, do we?”
“No,” said Draco, and he seemed to have moved a centimeter or two closer, “We don’t like each other much.”
“You were a bully,” Hermione blinked rapidly, “And a coward.”
“Oh, was I? I don’t recall.”
“And I’m-”
“An insufferable know it all, who overanalyzes everything. Swotty. Massive hair.”
“You didn’t say Mudblood,” Hermione glanced up at him, fighting back an unbidden and completely inappropriate laugh.
“You happening to be Muggleborn is the least interesting thing about you, Granger.”
“Was that - a compliment?”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “A statement of fact. You’re rather fond of those, aren’t you?”
Hermione cleared her throat, feeling vaguely insane and extremely claustrophobic, practically backed into the corner of the Solutions department, with Draco’s rather imposing figure obscuring most of her vision. Was he the one making it hard to breathe?
“You’ve got a fiance, don’t you?”
Draco looked for a moment as if he hadn’t expected her to bring it up. “In a manner of speaking, I do.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Means that I didn’t have much say in the matter.”
Hermione thought this over for a moment, focused on a painting of a beaker holding what she assumed was Amortentia, crookedly hung on the wall next to the lab door. A faint bang issued from behind the door, followed by a yell and a string of curses.
“Well,” she crossed her arms, still stubbornly avoiding his gaze, “That cleared up approximately nothing at all.”
“I’m still not sure why you’re here.”
“B-Because,” she resisted stamping her foot, trying not to inhale the smell of him, “Because I I’m trying to figure out whether I kissed you to prove a point, or whether it was self-sabotage,” he didn’t look particularly thrilled to hear that, “Or whether it really was just the pumpkin juice and vodkas, or-”
“Because you wanted to?”
Yes, there definitely was less air in this office than when she’d walked in. It was also suddenly and inexplicably at least ten degrees hotter.
“I-” Hermione felt herself backing up, hand on the door of the office, “Probably not,” she said, faintly, before she turned the handle, slid into the hallway, and shut the door in his face.
Ten minutes later she was sitting bolt upright in one of Harry’s squashy chintz armchairs, arms wrapped so tightly around her chest that Harry actually seemed concerned that she was going to suffocate herself.
“Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?” he said for the third time. “You look a bit-”
“I’m fine,” she ground out, “I just needed a minute.”
“So I’m guessing you paid a visit to the-”
“Yes,” Hermione hissed, “I saw him, that little git.”
“And,” Harry pressed on, “Did you find anything out about the - er - incident?”
Hermione stood up abruptly and began pacing back and forth in front of the set of armchairs. “Well, for one thing, your fiance is a meddling, nosy, little-”
Harry grinned widely, his eyes lighting up like Christmas crackers. “That bad, huh?”
“Harry,” Hermione spun to face him, breathing hard, “He told me he is betrothed to Astoria Greengrass.”
“Did he actually say that?”
“He said ‘in a manner of speaking’,” Hermione made air quotations with trembling hands, “And that he didn’t have ‘much say in the matter’ which is a ridiculous thing to say, and also doesn’t change the fact that I still snogged the daylights out of him-”
“The daylights?”
“Harry.”
“Look,” Harry said, in his serious Auror voice, though his upper lip was twitching slightly, “From what I know of betrothal contracts, they’re not exactly the same thing as normal engagements.”
“What was I supposed to do, parse the minutiae before I took that last shot of firewhiskey?”
Harry snorted. “Hermione, it’s not completely your fault-”
“I know that it isn’t completely my fault, Harry, I’m just - trying to understand how I ended up completely pissed and propositioning someone I don’t like. A someone who then ended up in my flat and who I just…chased into the DMLE, and made a complete fool of myself for, and-and-”
Hermione trailed off, collapsing into one of the squashy chairs with a long sigh of defeat.
Harry shrugged. “Maybe…you just needed to let your hair down?”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“Right, well,” Harry sat back, having the good sense to quell the persistent sparkle in his eye, “What do you want to do?”
Hermione wanted a lot of things. She wanted to hex Draco Malfoy, all of her best friends and probably Seamus Finnegan. She wanted a scalding cup of tea and a book so dense she’d have to reread each passage several times. She wanted a bath and a bottle of wine and a slice of Victoria sponge. She wanted to bury her nose in Draco Malfoy’s charcoal robes and sniff.
She wanted to walk into her kitchen and see him sitting at the table in his shirtsleeves, reading the Prophet.
She wanted to kiss him.
She wanted to kill him.
“He’s betrothed,” Hermione said, by way of a response. Harry, who was quite adept at reading people, in general, looked into his best friend’s face and blinked in surprise.
“Are you saying…?”
“I’m not,” Hermione said, vehemently, “What would people say?”
“When have you ever cared about that?”
“When I wasn’t responsible for the lives and livelihoods of two employees and several thousand mistreated creatures-”
“So, don’t do anything about it,” Harry replied, evenly, “Forget it. Move on.”
“You know I can’t,” Hermione shot back, eyes narrowing. For a moment they glared at each other, startling green and almost-hazel. “What if Astoria finds out? What if it happens again?”
“You get loaded at the Leaky and ask Malfoy if he wants to sleep with you?” Harry raised an eyebrow and Hermione very nearly laughed, “Cut back on the vodka-pumpkin juices and you should be fine. Also, Astoria doesn’t exactly run in our circles, so to speak.”
“But - what if I just….”
“Accidentally snog him?”
“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”
“Hermione,” Harry said, with an exasperated sigh, “What do you want me to say? Either you admit that you might have liked it-“
“I did not!”
“Neither did I, but here we are,” Harry waved an impatient hand at Hermione, “Admit that you liked it and you want to do it again, or you call it a lapse in judgement and move on.”
“He was in my flat!”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He saw me-he undressed me!”
"Please stop talking.”
“He has a fiance!” Hermione shrieked.
“Are you asking me to put out a hit on him, or something?”
“Maybe,” Hermione slumped back in her chair, suddenly feeling drained. Harry was surveying her over the tips of his fingers in an uncanny impression of Dumbledore. She knew that she was out of her depth; conversation with Draco Malfoy in the DMLE’s illegal potions department notwithstanding.
What if he wasn’t betrothed? Would it matter?
She might have been widely considered a war hero, but she also had bushy hair and too many teeth and a reputation for prissiness. The Prophet nearly always found something to criticize in her appearance; knobbly jumpers, ugly hairstyles, baggy denims. Hermione was famous but patently uncool. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, had cultivated something of a reformed bad boy image. He was the sort of person who was always walking out of important buildings impeccably dressed, looking cold and unruffled.
The dumpy Muggleborn and the Death Eater, she thought, ruefully. Not to mention their shared history; people would think Draco was abusing her, or some equally horrific scenario.
But he hadn’t been disgusted; or unkind. He had been, if anything, at least a little bit intrigued. And hurt, maybe, for a brief second when Hermione had questioned why she would ever want to sleep with him.
“You being a Muggleborn is the least interesting thing about you, Granger.”
Two weeks later, and Hermione was reviewing another unicorn preservation case proposal on her lumpy sofa. All the mild, balmy weather of early fall had morphed into something wet and dark, heavy rain falling for days at a time. Hermione had one of the windows open, all of her lamps lit, listening to the sound of the rain as her quill scratched against parchment.
She was thinking about unicorns, and very determinedly not about anything else.
Then, without warning, her floo roared to life.
Hermione had a closed floo; only Harry and Ron had access to it (though of course, she couldn’t prevent them from bringing anybody with them, as she’d learned in the ward debacle), so she barely registered the green flames before she returned to her report.
Crookshanks, on the other hand, streaked under the couch.
After a moment, Ginny emerged from the fire and stumbled out onto the rug, shaking ash from her traveling cloak. “It is so weird to me that you don’t even get up when the floo goes, you know?”
“I know it’s either going to be you, or Harry, or Ron,” Hermione said, absently, waving in the general direction of the fireplace, “Unless you let someone else in through your floo,” She raised her head at this, fixing Ginny with a look, “Don’t do that, okay?”
“This from the woman who woke up with Draco Malfoy in her flat and didn’t even know it,” Ginny said, pointedly.
“Har har,” Hermione replied, without feeling, “Did you need something?”
“What?” Ginny sat down on the nearest patched armchair and swung both arms over the back, “I need a reason to come and see my best friend?”
Hermione rolled her eyes and laid her quill down on the coffee table. “What is it?”
“Hang on.” A moment later, Ginny produced a piece of parchment, emblazoned with the Daily Prophet’s logo. Hermione recognized it immediately as an early draft of a news story, prior to official print approval. She had read a lot of them since the War; a fair few never saw the light of day.
Ginny handed it to her and Hermione squinted at the tiny black type.
Draco Malfoy & Astoria Greengrass Split
Sources report that Draco Malfoy, 24, of Wiltshire, and Astoria Greengrass, 22, of Brighton, have ended their engagement. Malfoy, long reformed from his part in the Great War and currently working in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had been engaged to Greengrass for several years. Despite the length of their engagement, no nuptials had been officially announced.
Neither party responded to a request for comment.
Hermione held out the piece of paper to Ginny with a pounding heart and inexplicably sweaty palms. “You had to come all the way to my flat to tell me that?”
“No,” Ginny shook her head, a conspiratorial glint in her eye, “I came all the way here to tell you that we’re going to the pub.”
“Who’s we?”
“You,” Ginny shrugged a lock of shiny red hair over one shoulder, “Me. Harry. Ron. Anyone else who might show up, you know, to drink their sorrows away.”
“You think I’m going to go back to the Leaky?” Hermione exclaimed, flabbergasted, “After my last exercise in losing my dignity-”
“Oh, please,” Ginny said, “Half my team has done worse on a random Tuesday night. At least your snog of choice wasn’t a total wanker.” Ginny's escapades with the Holyhead Harpies were, frankly, both legendary and distasteful, in turns.
“Debatable,” Hermione grumbled, slouching back into the couch cushions, “I’ve got so much work to do, Gin, there’s a unicorn preservation report-”
“There is always a unicorn preservation report.”
“Well, there’s a lot of unicorns!”
Ginny slid forward and reached over the coffee table, both of her freckled hands grasping Hermione’s. She did her best youngest-daughter-puppy-eyes up at Hermione, who was very susceptible to the type of begging that her best friend was so very adept at. “Pretty, pretty please?”
“Is Malfoy going to be there?” She had to ask. It might at least dictate whether she wore her favorite knobbly jumper or not.
“Probably not,” Ginny said, flashing an untrustworthy smile that showed absolutely all of her teeth.
“Probably?”
“90% chance. That he’s not.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. Ginny was halfway across her lap at this point, smelling of firewood and flowers and the cleaning charms Molly Weasley used. “Fine.”
“Yes!” Ginny rolled off and under the coffee table, popping up after a minute of flailing around with her cloak in one hand, “Meet at ours in an hour? We can have predrinks!”
“No pumpkin juice vodkas,” Hermione said sternly.
“Wotcher,” Ginny grinned back at her, halfway into the fire already. The floo roared again, and she was gone.
Draco Malfoy wasn’t engaged anymore, and Hermione was going to the pub.