Harry Potter 1. Flowers

**Happy Birthday, Icelynne!**

. . . . . . . . . .

When the door bell rings it is, of course, Draco Malfoy.

Hermione sighs and opens the door and there he is, standing there with another bouquet in his hands. At least, she thinks to herself, he's changed it up this time. It's usually a bunch of something expensive and exotic, out of season and fragile. This time he's holding what looks like a bunch of half-wilted weeds.

She steps aside and lets him come it, takes the flowers from his hands and goes into her tiny kitchen to find something to put them in, see if she can salvage them before they die entirely. He follows her and leans against the door frame, watches her as she sets the bouquet on the counter and opens up cupboards looking for where she'd put the vase after she'd tossed out the dying remains of his last apology.

"I can't do this anymore," she says, bending down to look under the sink. "I'm tired of being your dirty little secret. We go out into muggle London so no one sees us, you don't take me around your friends – "

"I think you overestimate the number of friends I have."

" – you've never introduced me to your mother – "

"Who would hate you, and you know it. I'm trying to spare you the unpleasantness of that."

" – and this is just too hard." She's found an old mason jar from some pickles Ginny had made during her short-lived canning phase and pulls it out, holds it under the faucet and starts the water. "I can't take being something you hide away like a habit you're ashamed of. It's over. I'm done. Done, Draco."

He's still leaning there, watching her as she takes the flowers out of the damp newspaper he'd wrapped them in and puts them in the water, picks up the packet of seeds he'd wrapped in with them.

"What's this?"

It's wildflower seeds. A packet of mixed British wildflower seeds, easy for your home garden, or so the package reads, and it makes no sense to her whatsoever.

"I thought," he runs his hand through the hair falling into his eyes, looking more uncertain than she's ever seen him, "we could get a flat with a garden, plant those. Together."

"You want," she's speaking very slowly, wanting to be sure she understands, "to get a flat. With me. And plant a garden."

"If you want," he's staring over her shoulder at the dingy curtains in her window, not making eye contact.

"Not in muggle London?" she asks, feeling for the first time in so long a beam of hope that maybe – maybe – this wasn't the incredibly terrible, no-good, doomed idea she'd resigned herself to thinking it had to be.

"No," he looks at her, "wizarding London."

"I'm not good," she says, "at growing things."

He shrugs. "We can try?"

"Just," she carefully sets the jar in the window before she crosses over to him, "don't be upset if I kill everything."

"I won't," he wraps his arms around her as she tucks her head against his shoulder, "I promise."


	2. Chess

**Happy Birthday ****ladymagna1100**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione squinted at the chess set thinking how irritating chess was; she'd always found chess annoying when sober, and, as she was discovering, it was equally annoying when she was intoxicated.

"Check," Draco said, leaning back and hitting the time clock.

"I don't see why we have to use the damn time clock," she muttered. "This is not exactly tournament chess."

"I'm waiting," he smirked as she seemed to glare at him.

"Fine," she pulled her shirt off and folded her arms across her chest. "Explain to me exactly why I agreed to strip chess again."

"Because you had this amusing delusion it would be a good way to get me out of my clothes?" He took another sip from his drink. "Nice bra, by the way."

She picked up a piece and slammed it down on the board, hit the clock.

"Do the knickers match?" he asked as he idly picked up a piece, rolled it between his hands, eyebrows raised.

"Oh come _on_," she threw her hands up. "Not _again._"

He set the piece down and, hitting the clock again leaned back and whispered in gleeful anticpation, "Check."

She sighed and stood up, wiggled out of her jeans and tossed them at the floor. "Yes," she said, picking up her drink and gulping down a considerable swallow. "They match. Happy now?"

"That's no way to treat good whiskey," he said, topping off her glass. "You're supposed to sip it."

She rolled her eyes and sat back down, slouched in her chair and hiding the grin that was trying to escape. "This is unfair," she complained. "I'm down to three pieces, two articles of clothing and now you're not happy about how I drink."

"It's a game predicated on pure intellect. I'm surprised you aren't better at it." He rested his chin on one hand and smiled at her. "I do like the green satin. Very fetching."

Hermione hid her own smile as she moved one of her remaining pawns and hit the time clock. You'll win the chess, she thought to herself, but let's not kid ourselves about who's actually winning the real strategic match here. Not to change game metaphors, she mused, but I'll see you one 'let's get together for drinks' and raise you a matching bra and knickers set and we'll see who gets what she wants in the end.

Draco sat and looked at her, sipping from her whiskey glass, and moved another piece, hit the clock.

Hermione studied the board. If she went _there_ and he saw the opening it would be mate in two and they could move the real game upstairs before she got too bloody cold; Malfoy really needed to get a better central heating system. She moved the piece.

"That," Draco said with the trademark smirk that, as irritating as it had been on the boy she'd started to find irresistible on the man, "was a mistake."

"Oh?" she said innocently, looking up at him from under her lashes and watching him gloat over the board before glancing down at her toenails, carefully painted Slytherin green. "If you say so. Chess really isn't my game."


	3. Quiddich

**Happy Birthday, ****unicornusmc**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

"How did I end up with an athlete for a son," Hermione moaned, tracking Scorpius on the pitch with a practiced eye. She was wrapped in three blankets, had a warming spell running, and a cup of hot tea in her hands. Still, it was November and it was cold out.

"Well, there's me," he began but her rude snort suggested she didn't actually credit their son's athleticism to his father, "and you did buy him a training broom at two. And signed him up for Pee Wee Quiddich at four, terrorizing the woman in charge of registration when she tried to insist children had to be at least five."

"And he dominated that team," Hermione's still watching the blond head as it flew back and forth across the pitch, scanning for the snitch. "That stupid woman should have let him play up."

"He was playing up."

"He was bored."

Draco can't actually argue with that; the kid had been the best player on the team by a noticeable margin and, of course, there had been the mooning incident. A bored Scorpius is a Scorpius in trouble. "And then you signed him up for quiddich camp all summer. Quiddich camp with kids three years older than he is."

"He had fun," Hermione grabbed his arm and he began to pay closer attention. Ah, Scorp had spotted the snitch and was trying to lead the other seeker away.

"Don't be too clever," Draco muttered, watching the boy made a wild dive at the other end of the pitch, luring the other team into spasms of confused flailing even as he pulled up and flew, almost skimming the grass at a speed that surely that broom was not supposed to reach, towards the other end of the pitch. Draco looked over at Hermione who was watching her first-born fly far too quickly and hissed, "Did you take the speed restriction off that broom?"

"That would be cheating," she said back in an undertone. "I may have left out the research showing that three rapid turns to the left in a row exploited a flaw in the design and would let you double the speed limit for approximately ten seconds. It's hardly my fault if the child goes through things on my desk. I've asked him not to."

"Merlin. You're such a quiddich parent."

"YES!" Hermione screeched as her child grabbed the snitch and settled down in front of the referee, an innocent, confused look in his eyes as she squinted at his remarkably speedy broom.

"If she passes that broom – "

"You still owe me a foot rub," Hermione said smugly. "I told you he'd get the snitch in record time today. You didn't say anything about broom flaws impacting the bet."

"You devious little witch," he said fondly, wrapping an arm around her as Scorpius' team was declared the winner of the match. "One foot massage, coming your way."


	4. Library

**Happy Birthday, dcyr.  
More of a short one-shot than a drabble. I couldn't get this all in in under 500 words. I hope you like it anyway.**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione liked the back corner of the library. You had to weave through shelves of badly categorized books, books no one ever looked at, then around a corner, and another one, and then there, behind the advanced Arithmancy books, was a nook with a small window and two stuffed chairs. It was cozy, hidden, had light, and, most importantly, was unplottable.

She had no idea why this corner of Hogwarts didn't show up on Harry's map but she was grateful she'd found it. The boys couldn't track her down her, couldn't talk her ear off with quiddich strategies (don't care) or Umbridge's latest sins (don't care) or why Draco Malfoy was a horrible person (no, really, don't care.) I do care, she thought to herself. OK, I don't care about _quiddich_ but I care about the rest of it. Just… not every moment of every day.

She'd taken to snuggling in one of the big chairs with a novel several times a week. It gave her some privacy, hard to come by in a boarding school, and a break from the incessant grind of homework and tests and studying. She loved school, she did. But sometimes a girl just needed a little time with Mr. Darcy without having to explain to Lavender that, yes, it was a muggle novel and, no, that didn't mean it was terrible or pointless.

She'd been looking forward to this break all day (no, _really_, I don't care about quiddich, Ron, so stop already) so she was especially upset to see someone in her chair. Someone blond. Someone…just, no. This wasn't fair.

"What are you doing here," she snapped at Draco Malfoy, who had some pad of paper out he appeared to be sketching on, of all things.

"Get lost," he said, without looking up.

She threw herself into the other chair and glared at him. "Don't you have some kind of evil plot to be off fomenting or something?"

"Nope." He still didn't look up. "Don't you have homework to be doing, if not for yourself than for the losers you pull along behind you?"

"I don't do their homework," she protested, somewhat dishonestly. "And they aren't - "

"Fine. This is a library," he cut her off. "So be quiet or I'll complain and have you tossed out."

She huffed in annoyance but pulled out her book and began to pointedly read. She was reading _at_ him. Bastard, she thought, you can't chase me out of my spot. Just watch me read and _ignore you_. Still, it was hard to resist the pull of Darcy and soon she really had forgotten about Malfoy, or at least mostly, and was reveling in Lizzie's assessment of Darcy. "I could easily forgive his pride if he had not mortified mine…" when the boy across from her suddenly spoke.

"What are you reading?"

She looked up at him in surprise. It was probably the first time he'd ever been even reasonably civil and she wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't looking at her, still had his eyes on whatever he was doing, but a sense of pride in her own courtesy forced her to answer with at least a passing nod to manners; she couldn't let him claim that muggle-borns were rude on top of everything else.

"A muggle novel." She paused and added, "What are you doing?"

"Drawing."

"There isn't an art program at Hogwarts," she protested.

"Well, there isn't a muggle literature class either, but that doesn't seem to be stopping you." He looked up then and she was shocked to see he was actually smiling at her. Not smirking, not leering, just an actual, engaged smile.

It flustered her and she turned her eyes back to her book, tried to find her place. Draco Malfoy wasn't supposed to fluster her. Insult her, yes. Hate her, certainly. This shifting of the rules in their long-established relationship made her nervous. She glanced up at him again and he was, thank God, focused on his work again, rubbing something out. He was so wholly absorbed in his sketch she felt it was safe to observe him. He bit his lip when he was concentrating, she'd never noticed that. That sneer that he held between himself in the world had disappeared and in its place was a kind of contentment she'd never seen on his face.

He was much better looking, much more... approachable? interesting?... when he seemed happy.

"How long," she blurted out, then wanted to kick herself when he gave her a 'you're an idiot' look. "How long have you been drawing, I mean," she amended, wishing she'd kept her fool mouth shut.

"My mother engaged my first instructor when I was five," he was looking at her with a hint of that smile again. It was like he was happy to see her, which wasn't even possible. If there was one thing that was certain in this school, it was that Draco Malfoy despised her. If there were two, it was that the feeling was mutual. Wasn't it?

She suddenly wasn't sure. She certainly despised the arrogant, bullying prat who'd gone out of his way to make her miserable for years. It was harder to summon those feelings for the blond boy slouched in the chair across from her who was working with such relaxed pleasure at whatever he was drawing. This boy who was smiling at her as if all he wanted was to see her smile back at him.

"Do you like it?"

"No, Granger, I hate it. That's why I hide away in the back corner of the bloody library to sketch in my free time." He rolled his eyes, a hint of the Malfoy she knew, but seemed, somehow, even with that look, less hostile than usual. More… teasing.

"I just… didn't know that about you," she muttered, trying to meld these two disparate Malfoys into one, coherent person.

"There are a lot of things about me you don't know," he was looking back at that paper again and she wanted to keep his attention, she wanted to see that smile again.

"I'd love to see what you're working on," she said.

"I don't think so," he almost sounded like he was hiding a laugh and that was too interesting to let pass so she stood up and moved behind him and before he could cover the page she saw what he was drawing.

It was her.

There was a study of her eyes in one corner of the page, but the bulk of the sheet was taken up with her, leaning on her hand on a desk in a classroom, a window behind her.

"Fuck," he slammed the sketchbook shut. "Nosy bint."

"You're really good," was all she said, standing there looking down at him, feeling a peculiar combination of shock and confusion and a weird sense of being flattered.

"I should be," he muttered. "You might recall I said I started lessons at five."

She squatted down and rested her hands, fingers laced together, on the arm of the big chair he was in, peered over that stuffed barrier at him. "Do you have any others?"

He looked at her, next to him, and she thought he'd hiss an insult before refusing, before threatening her with what he'd do if she revealed his secret but, instead, he slowly opened the sketchbook back up and began to flip the pages. Snape in class. A tree. Another one of her, this time bundled up in a scarf. He was talented, _really_ talented; this wasn't just the work of someone who'd dutifully learned how to draw. She watched the pictures go by, one at a time, and felt like she was meeting this boy for the first time.

"How long?" she finally asked and he didn't pretend not to understand her.

"Since the Yule Ball."

She nodded, then tapped the one he'd been working on today, the last page in the book, with her finger. "Can I have this?"

He snorted and closed up the book again. "So you can show it to your little sidekicks and…"

"No." She shook her head and wondered if she was about to make a terrible mistake. "As a kind of a way to have a piece of today to keep, to look at."

He looked at her, eyes narrowed, as she leaned across the arm of his chair and, as she came closer he muttered, "This is a bad idea," but he put his book to the side and had his hands on either side of her face anyway; he was the one who closed the last few centimeters between them, put his lips onto hers. The both hovered there, her balanced precariously on the arm of the chair, their lips together, before he broke the kiss, put his sketchbook on the floor, and hauled her all the way onto his lap.

"We can't tell anyone," she muttered and he laughed under his breath before slipping his hands into her hair and kissing her far more thoroughly. "Well," she pulled away from him, "We can't."

He sighed and tipped his head forward to hers. "Do you always ruin moments like this?"

"But – "

"I know," he ran a hand down her arm. "but – "

"This corner is unplottable," she said. Then, uncomfortably, "Maybe I shouldn't assume you'd want…"

"No, I do." He huffed out a laugh. "I've been watching you for a year. Trust me, I do."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Maybe we can start again." He looked at her very seriously, though a grin threatened to tug up the corners of his mouth and his eyes were crinkling together as he kept that smile from slipping away from him, as he held his hand out to the girl – no, young woman – on his lap. "I'm Draco Malfoy. Nice to meet you."

She paused and he almost dropped his hand before she took it and said, slowly, "I'd like to get a chance to know who you really are, Draco Malfoy. I'm Hermione Granger."


	5. The Potions Incident

**Happy Birthday, MomsEscape**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

"We're stuck like this _forever_?" Hermione stared at Professor Snape in unfeigned horror.

"Maybe next time, Miss Granger," the man sneered at her, "you'll follow the directions more carefully."

"This is your fault," Draco Malfoy hissed at her.

"Oh no, Mr. Malfoy. This took stunning incompetence, charmingly blended with arrogance, on both your parts." Snape swept away leaving the two students looking at one another, mouths agape, both trying to figure out how to _fix this_.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The effects of the potion did lessen somewhat the first week before stabilizing but there was no 'fixing' it. Draco knew what the damned witch was feeling _all the time_. He assumed she had an equal window into his emotions but hell would freeze over and inferi would take up figure skating before he asked her.

He learned that he could mostly block her out by reciting math facts to himself.

By the time he graduated Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy was very, very good at arithmancy.

. . . . . . . . . .

He passed her in the hallway. "Granger," he said, clipped and almost polite. He'd called her 'mudblood' once since the potions incident; the headache he'd gotten from her emotional flare up had been a brutal lesson on the wisdom of courtesy.

"Malfoy," she nodded back.

Then, just bloody hell, Weasley turned the corner and he was treated to the wave of miserable longing the stupid witch felt whenever she saw the ginger. He wished someone would feel that way about him, a wish the witch, of course, immediately knew. She flicked a glance at him and he muttered, "Not _you_, Granger. Just… someone."

He could feel her relief as well as her tiny bit of disappointment.

Two twos was four. Two threes was six.

. . . . . . . . . .

"What the fuck," snapped Blaise, after Draco kicked the wall and threw a book across the room. "It's like you have PMS or something. Every month you're even more of an arse than usual for a couple of days."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Thank you," he said, standing awkwardly next to her in the hall outside the courtroom.

"For what?" Hermione Granger barely acknowledged he was there; he could tell she wanted nothing more than for him to go away; distance helped dim their mutual awareness, if only a little. Still, some things needed saying.

"For keeping me out of Azkaban."

"Oh please," she finally turned to look at him. "I know if you aren't happy with the way someone made your coffee. Living with you in prison? Feeling everything you'd feel? I'd tear down the walls with my bare hands to get you out to avoid suffering that."

He nodded.

. . . . . . . . . .

He wasn't sure what was worse, knowing when she had sex with Weasley, or knowing how unhappy the man made her in bed. You make her _sad_, he wanted to say to the miserable sot. You need to pay attention and make her happy. For my sake. For her sake.

Of course, that would be admitting he knew, well, _everything_ about the witch, and by mutual, unspoken consent they'd never told anyone about their little potions accident.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

When you knew everything about how someone felt, of course, it was hard to hate them. Hard to hate someone whose happiness was quite literally his own.

Impossible not to want to soothe someone when he felt her unhappiness every time that fucking blighter fucked it up again.

Three threes was nine. Three fours was twelve. Three fives was fifteen. Three sixes was wanting desperately to make her feel better. Three sevens was that she even wished he were there sometimes, which almost made it worse. Three eights was that the math wasn't working anymore and he was starting to wonder if alcoholism would be a more effective tactic.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

When she finally- finally! - broke up with Ron, he knew. Of course he knew. As she'd once said of him, he knew when she didn't like her coffee. He certainly knew when she was sitting in her flat, sniveling into a pint of ice cream and indulging in a good wallow.

He made it through one day of her heartache by solving complex equations. All day.

The second day he was at her door shortly after sunrise; he barely made it inside before she flung herself into his arms, sobbing. The need to make her misery, and thus his own, _less_ was immediate and overwhelming so he was rubbing her back and murmuring soothing things into her hair and leading her to settle onto her own couch, which seemed to float, ratty and unattractive, amidst a sea of discarded tissues.

His patience, not one of his stronger personality traits anyway, ended when she wailed, "I loved him."

"No, you didn't," he snorted. She pulled away and glared at him and Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh hell, Granger, I should know. You didn't even like him half the time."

"I just… I wanted…."

"He would have made you miserable." Draco bit the inside of his cheek and considered the awful possibility of Granger marrying that man, of Granger marrying anyone. "He actually did make you miserable a lot of the time. I'm pretty grateful it's over; maybe the next one will actually be nice to you."

She knew, of course.

"It would never work," she said, feeling hopeful and sad and wary and such a slew of other things he couldn't even pick them all apart.

"It might," he said, head tipped the side, watching her. "At least the sex would be better than what you've been putting up with."

He felt her wave of humiliation and immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut. She whispered, in slowly growing horror, "I didn't realize you could…"

"Every time," he admitted.

"I never noticed you…"

"That's because I haven't." She looked up at him at that, disbelief obvious. "I didn't especially want to have an audience. So…"

"But you never told me you could tell - "

"It's a trifle awkward to admit." He pulled her back into his chest, enjoyed how well she fit there, tucked into him. "And it's not like I was going to tell anyone." He shrugged. "Your secrets have been safe with me for… years."

"Yours too," she was nestling into him, taking comfort in his presence, "with me, I mean."

If he were around, he thought, he could actually do this, could comfort her when she was unhappy instead of being forced to grit his teeth in solitary sympathy. He felt immense satisfaction that he'd made her feel better and, feeling her growing tranquility become his own, decided maybe, just maybe, it was better to not put a name to some of the other things he felt. Don't jinx it, he thought. After all, it wasn't like she didn't know anyway.

"Coward," she murmured.

"Oh yes," he drawled, and nudged her chin up so he could see her face, so he could kiss her, red nose, blotchy cheeks and all. Her mouth was so soft, and that awareness of everything she felt was, for once, an asset.

"You needn't be _quite_ so smug," she said after a bit, feeling, he thought, pretty damn smug herself, feeling _happy_.

"It's a failing," he admitted.

"Less talking," she said, "more kissing."

"I can do that," he whispered, and returned to making her happy, to making himself happy.


	6. Tea

**Happy Birthday, Artemisgodess**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"We're out of tea." Draco held the tin out and shook it at Hermione accusingly. "I can live with having to filter water we find in vile little streams, and I can live with having to eat squirrel. I can even live with watching you do that revolting thing where you skin them with one movement; that's almost kind of fascinating in a sick way. But no tea is really totally unacceptable."

Hermione looked at him. She was cold, wet, and tired, and dealing with a pouty Draco was not on her list of 'things I want to do tonight.' "You don't even like tea," she said. "And, besides, we still have cocoa."

"It's just the principle of the matter," he said, "It's one thing to be on the run from a genocidal madman, paired up with a woman who initially despised me for my birth - something I'd like to remind you I had no control over - and to be in constant fear for my life. But not having tea available is just uncivilized."

"I thought we were over the blood status issues," she said, pulling the tent out of her bag and getting ready to set it up.

"Give me that." Draco took the thing from her and began setting it up with a deftness borne of long, varied, and mostly unpleasant experience. "You lack all appreciation for the finer things in life, like sitting down to a nice cup of Earl Grey after darning yet another hole in your lover's wool socks. There. Instant tent." He waved her towards the entrance as he added a warming charm, then another because she looked even more chilled than usual.

"I don't know how to darn," she said, slipping into the dingy, portable magical abode and settling on their cot with a grimace as she pulled off first her boots and then the sock in question.

"Well, you can skin a squirrel. We all have our talents. Hand it over." He held out his hand with an exaggerated version of the arrogant sneer he'd bestowed on her countless times in school and, when she didn't pass him the sock, snatched the stinking thing from her. "How long can we rest," he asked more quietly, cleaning and repairing her sock with homey charms his father would have been horrified to know he knew, much less used; the _1001 Helpful Household Charms_ book he'd stolen from Molly Weasley, mostly out of petty spite, had turned out to be a fortuitous addition to their stores.

"Just tonight," Hermione said, looking at her magical coin, their one link to civilization. "Harry says to keep going north, we'll meet up in the Highlands."

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. North meant colder and cold was almost as dangerous an enemy as Voldemort. When he opened them she was leaning forward into her hands, her shoulders shaking as she tried to control her sobs. "Excellent news," he pronounced grandly, watching her with care. She needed a longer rest than one night, and more food than roasted tree rat. "We can stop at the Malfoy hunting lodge and replenish our tea supply as well as indulge in other civilized delights like tinned biscuits and powdered milk."

Her smile was shaky when she looked up but she managed to quip, "Do you ever think of anything but your own comfort?"

"Not if I can help it." He pulled the map out and charted where they had to go. It would be a few days out of their way but it would be worth it if he could get her into a real bed for a night or two, get some more food, clean clothes. He was the only Malfoy left; no one would think to look for them there and, even if it could be no more than a way-station on their path to meet up with the rest of the Order, at least a short rest would rebuild her strength a little.

"Malfoy," she said, then "Draco..."

"I know, love," he knelt in front of her. "I swore I'd keep you safe and I will."

"Well," she pulled off her dirty gloves and cupped his face in her hands. "You swore a wizard's oath. You have a fairly strong incentive to succeed."

"I'd die of a broken heart if you didn't make it," he said, "I wouldn't need the oath to kill me."

"So dramatic," she teased as she searched his eyes the way she always did on the rare occasions when he admitted his feelings. He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips warm with promises of love, reassurances that this would be over, someday. "I am yours until I die, Hermione Granger," he whispered against her, "Do with that as you will."

He settled back onto his heels and looked at her; she was half asleep already, the effort of the extra warming charm would be worth it if she actually slept well tonight. "I'll set up the wards," he murmured. "You rest, princess."

"Thank you," she said as she lay down. "I don't know what I'd do without you." She paused and he was sure she was asleep when she added, "I promise when this is over we'll stock our cupboards with enough tins of tea that we'll never run out."

"I'll hold you to that," was all he said as he got to work, fighting through his own exhaustion to secure their camp and keep her - keep them both - safe for another night.


	7. Snow

**Happy Birthday, FaeBreeze!**

**. . . . . . . . . . **

He felt the snowball hit him in the back and he spun around to see who'd had the bloody nerve to attack him. There were a couple of first and second years, building some kind of lopsided snowman, but other than them the only other person out was Granger, who had her head down over a book. He rolled his eyes. Only Hermione Granger, swot extraordinaire, would read outside on a snowy day.

Draco Malfoy turned away from her and, almost immediately, felt another snowball hit him, this time on the bum.

He turned around again and the little witch was still bent over her book but he thought he could see a smile tweaking at the corners of her mouth and, oh yes, the snow down at her feet had been disturbed. Scooped up to make snowballs perhaps, he thought, eyeing her.

This, he thought, was war.

He waylaid her in the corridor later as she came back in, the wholly deserted corridor. She stopped when she saw him, leaning up against the wall, obviously planning to block her way. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Revenge," he raised his eyebrows and tossed the tightly packed snowball he had in one hand up in the air, then caught it. "You should be more careful, alone with me in a hall almost no one enters, especially after attacking me like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she tossed her hair and glanced up and down, confirming no one was around, that she was, indeed, totally on her own.

He smiled, a narrow, pointed smile that made her breath catch in her throat. "Wholly at my mercy, Granger. No one to rescue you. Whatever will you do?"

"What," she asked, tipping her head to the side and considering him with a smile of her own, "are my options?"

"Well," he drawled, "you could let me drop this snowball down the back of your shirt or you could kiss me."

"You've stooped to blackmail now?" She walked towards him, hitching her bag up to her shoulder.

"Mmm," he purred down at her as she approached, as leaned into him and turned her head up. "It's as if you don't even know me. I'll stoop to whatever it takes to get what I want."

He lowered his mouth to hers, her lips warm and soft; she parted them almost at once and, after weeks of not being able to so much as touch her, he groaned into her mouth and lost himself in tasting her, in feeling her against him again, even for a stolen moment. "This is going to kill me," he whispered against her, pulling away for a moment. 

"Shh," she pressed her mouth back into his and he nibbled along her bottom lip, and was just about to drop that damned snowball and pull her to him when she deftly tweaked it out of his fingers and slipped it down his own back.

"You little…" he watched her as she danced away from him, realizing she'd cut them off just in time because that group of first years was coming in.

"I love you," she mouthed at him.

"Love you, too," he whispered, feeling the icy snow work its way down his back as she turned the corner and disappeared again.


	8. Marmalade

**Happy Birthday, love bleeds red!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

He wasn't sure what was going on, but she'd turned their small kitchen into a disaster. Sugar was spilled on the counter and floor, there was a pile of chopped oranges on the table and she appeared, rather confusingly, to have pulled away their rinds. There were enough jars out to make the place look like a mad apothecary had taken up residence and two large pots sat on the stove.

Draco edged carefully into the room and into a seat, popping one of the de-rinded orange sections into his mouth. "What," he asked, "are you doing?"

"I am making marmalade," Hermione said, though her jaw was so clenched he could barely understand the words.

"I thought you didn't like marmalade," he said, eating another slice of orange. They were supposed to go to a fund-raiser; she'd been planning to chat up a potential investor in her newest crazy-on-the-surface, sure-to-be-absurdly-successful idea. He's not sure why she's coated in sugar and orange juice instead of getting ready but it can't possibly be good.

"I don't," she muttered, "but apparently Lavender makes amazing marmalade so – "

"So you have to too?" He started to laugh but quickly stopped when she turned to glare at him.

"Yes." She looked like she was about to cry, "She does _everything _better than I do. She's pretty, she's a good cook, she wears makeup and does her hair, she's just little miss perfect and here I am doing nothing worthwhile, just pushing papers around and I know this new thing will never work, and meanwhile she's…she's…" Hermione hiccupped, then blinked a couple of times and looked around. "I kind of sound insane, don't I?"

"I take it you ran into Ron?" Draco narrowed his eyes and studied the woman in front of him. Meeting with Ron almost always resulted in some kind of burst of insecurity; the man seemed compelled to rub in how happy he and Lavender were, how wonderful his idiot bride was, how blissful their mind-numbingly traditional domesticity was. Draco had never really decided whether the blighter was clueless or cruel; either way he wished it was socially acceptable to simply pound the man into the dirt. Still, this seemed a tad extreme even for a post-Ron meltdown. Homemade marmalade? _Everything_ better? Really?

"Yes. And they're expecting _another_ baby."

Draco shuddered. That was why she was so upset; the ridiculous pressure on both of them to have a baby, as if reproducing were the only thing that made life worthwhile, bothered her even when Ron wasn't asking her when _she_ was going to have a baby and that surely she was tired of being nothing but a 'career woman.' It was something he did every time Lavender got pregnant.

"And here," he said, pulling her away from the pot of boiling water, "all you've done is push around papers that, oh yeah, resulted in passing important legislation protecting the rights of werewolves. Oh, and the best-selling book. And the seminar you're teaching at Hogwarts for NEWT students. I guess it's good you have hobbies that keep you busy since you can't do worthwhile things like _making marmalade_."

"Do you ever want a, you know, normal life?" She had buried her head against his chest and he realized she was getting some kind of half-congealed orange goo all over him. Marmalade? Quasi-marmalade? Just… great.

"You mean like marriage and babies and garden parties and some tidy little office job where we each do the same thing every day instead of this crazy high wire act we both do?" He paused, considering that grim possibility; it sounded awful. "Do you?"

"No," she admitted. "I'd be bored out of my mind in a year. Less. But I worry you…"

"Oh, hell no," he kissed the top of her head. "I love you the way you are, all brilliant and distracted and doing at least a hundred interesting things all at once. I love us the way we are. If you wanted to be married I'd be okay with that – more than okay - but please don't ask me to turn into Ron and Lavender."

She paused and looked up at him, then said, "I think I might like to be married, if you…"

He squeezed her. "Done." He paused a moment and added, "You know I'm in this with your for the forever, however you want it. Just, please, I beg of you, no more marmalade."

"It's a deal," she said, then looked around. "Crap. I made a giant mess. And – fucking fuck fuck fuck – I have to meet with Mosk in 1-hour to go over the…"

"I've got it. Go get dressed," he shooed her out of the room and looked around. Marmalade. Everywhere. Just… gah.


	9. Battle

**Happy Birthday, ****soareedustwdgirl29**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco killed the Death Eater right before he could get a shot off and knew – knew – that he was royally fucked because Bella saw him do it.

That knowledge made him ever so slightly hostile.

"You stupid fucking idiot of a witch," he hissed at the bushy-haired nightmare he'd just killed a man to save. "Why aren't you watching what's going on around you?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy," she snapped.

"Was that an offer, mudblood?" he sneered, as he turned and pressed his back to hers so between them they could survey the whole of the battlefield.

"You should be so lucky," she hissed. "To your left, ferret."

He dropped the man who'd been coming up on them as she took out another fighter in front of her, stunning the man and then knocking him out.

"You have to start killing them, you moron," he said, furiously, " or they just come back. This isn't a _game_, Granger. They aren't going to just…"

"I _know_," she circled around with him as they both edged their way towards the exit. "It's just… _hard_."

"Try fucking harder!" He stepped over a body, careful not to look to closely at who it was. Whoever it was, he wasn't in a long black robe, didn't have a mask, so it was one of hers.

One of his now, goddammit.

"Bella saw me," he said, breathing hard.

"She know it was you?" Hermione Granger, fighter for the light, reached around and took his hand and he clutched at her fingers briefly before letting go.

"Yeah. I'm not wearing the fucking mask; I kind of stand out." He reached down and snagged a wand from the body at their feet and shoved it into a bag at his waist. You never knew when you'd need a spare.

"The hair."

"Little miss fucking know-it-all," he hissed, pushing her further towards the door, getting a shot off at another Death Eater coming towards them as he spoke. "We need to _get out_ before she comes back to snag me. Now that she knows…"

"I know. I _know. _I'm working here, Malfoy," she was scanning the room, checking if there were any more of hers that needed back up before she pulled him out of here. "Give me a sec."

"I'm sorry," he muttered, back to the wall, watching her first check, then double-check, that she was clear to leave. "I should have hidden the bloody hair like you told me to. I've cost you…"

"Yeah, well, there're other spies," she pulled him into the hall, away from the battle that was finally slowing down. "Bella being here was a bit of bad luck, I admit, but it's fine. You wanted out of there anyway; you can just move into the safe-house full time. I admit it sucks for me because, really Malfoy, you hog the blankets and..."

"Fuck you, Granger." He pushed that traitorous, pale hair out of his face and glared.

"Is that an offer?" she grinned at him and with a roll of his eyes he gave up and smiled back at her right before she apparated them both back to the safe-house.

Back, he supposed, home.

He didn't hog the bloody blankets. Stupid witch. She did.


	10. Christmas Shopping

**Happy Birthday, ****AmandaxxPlease**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Christmas Eve, she thought as she stood in the interminable line, was the worst time to have to return a present. And it had seemed like such a good idea. The present, that was, not this last minute, miserable shopping trip.

Ugg.

"Granger." The neutral tone stating her name made her nervous and when she turned to see who'd acknowledged her, she sighed.

"Malfoy."

In the years since the war they'd run into one another at assorted functions; their world was a small one, after all. Childhood animosity had long ago given way to the indifferent courtesy adopted by adult professionals who don't know one another well.

"What brings you to this delightful queue?"

She sighed again and turned to engage the man in the social chitchat he seemed determined to inflict upon her. "I thought a red fire truck would be a good gift for Teddy, Harry's godson, but as it turns out Ginny had the same idea so now I'm doing a last minute exchange for a Muggle police car."

"You can't do that," he said, a hint of panic in his voice.

"What?" She frowned at him. "Merlin, Malfoy, I know it's a Muggle thing but little boys love cars and it's not like it's going to contaminate him forever or anything."

"Don't be daft," he ran his hand though his hair, the hand, she noticed upon closer inspection, that, unlike the other one, wasn't holding a plastic Muggle police car. "It's that I'm getting the kid a police car."

"Oh, no," she glared at him and his own plastic toy. "I'm in line first. I'm not going back into that fray to find something else." Then she paused and added, "I didn't realize you knew Teddy."

"He's my cousin." Malfoy was looking at her as though she'd lost her mind. "Of course I know him."

"It's just that..."

"That I'm a prejudiced arse who couldn't possibly be getting a present for the kid because why, exactly?"

"Sorry," she muttered.

"Sorry enough to give up dibs on the police car gift?" He looked hopeful but she snorted and shook her head before turning around to stare to the front of the queue again. The queue appeared to be the world's slowest; five minutes later they'd moved up one spot and he was still behind her, along with at least ten other people who'd piled up behind him.

"You know," she said, turning around again, "it's probably a good idea for a child to have multiple police cars."

He smiled at her, a tight, relieved smile. "Good, because I'm not trying again. This is… this is awful."

"It is," she agreed, studying him. Still blond, still all sharp angles, still in long sleeves that covered the surely faded Mark he'd had burned into his arm as a teenager.

"What are you getting yourself?" he asked, the pleasant tone a bit of a surprise but welcome nonetheless. She didn't have a book with her and having to stand in line next to Malfoy for what looked to be a long wait would be hideously unpleasant if they both just ignored one another.

"Getting myself?"

He shrugged. "It's what my mother always did; do Muggles not do that? She'd say she couldn't rely on my father to have taste so she'd always get herself something. Usually some piece of expensive jewelry she'd been coveting."

Hermione restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Trust Narcissa Malfoy to turn Christmas into an opportunity to indulge her own avarice rather than get gifts for other people. "I think that might be something only your mother would do."

"Possibly." He shifted the toy car to his other hand and added, "What would you get? If you were buying for yourself, what would you get that you knew no one else would get for you."

"I don't know. Chocolate, maybe. Ron tended to get a lot of chocolate frogs but, well, I'm a little old for that. Something good."

"Tended? Does he not bother with even that these days? Familiarity breeding contempt and all that?"

"We aren't together anymore," Hermione said, gritting her teeth and moving a few, blessed feet forward. "He moved on."

"To someone who appreciated his presents of children's candy?" Draco snorted and Hermione flushed. The breakup hadn't been especially cordial and she found herself irritated that Draco Malfoy, of all people, was voicing some of the thoughts she'd had about her ex. He also certainly didn't need to look quite so pleased she'd gotten dumped.

"I suppose." It was more of a mutter than anything else. "Could we change the subject? What would you get yourself?"

Draco shrugged and looked at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "What I want, money can't buy."

"Like what?"

"It's not important." The line moved up again and they both shifted forward.

"Tell me," she teased, interested despite herself, and more than pleased to be able to needle him a bit in turn.

He sighed, then smiled. "Over cocoa, if you'll agree to join me for such whenever this stint in holiday purgatory is over."

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Only if you say yes. Otherwise I am most certainly not."

She smiled at that and there they were, smiling at each other, a little holiday magic while stuck in this wretched store and she heard herself saying, "Yes, okay. Cocoa. That sounds nice."

"Assuming," he added, "we haven't died of old age by the time we reach the head of this queue."

They didn't die of old age but, by the time they had both handled their Teddy Lupin driven purchasing, their feet hurt from standing quite so long. They'd started telling funny stories about their jobs, about Christmas disasters of years past; it turned out Narcissa's tradition of buying things for herself wasn't wholly founded on greed but based on a complicated misunderstanding involving a goat, a spinning wheel and a very large shed filled with straw.

Hermione had had to wipe tears away from her eyes when Draco told her that. He'd watched her laughing and she'd caught a forlorn smile ghosting across his face before he replaced it with a more cheerful mask.

Finally, though, they were out of the shop and into the street, heading for cocoa.

"Hold on," he said. "Can you wait here for a moment; there's one more last minute thing I have to get. Shouldn't take long."

"Sure." She shrugged and then, bemused, watched him go into an expensive chocolatier. Moments later he was out, handing her a box wrapped up with a satin ribbon. "Merry Christmas," he said. "I'm fairly sure you wouldn't have bothered to get any for yourself and while I'm sure it can't compete with a chocolate frog I hoped – "

She cut him off, rising to the tips of her toes to put a small kiss on his mouth. Holiday magic. He looked down at her and said, quietly, "So, I do get what I wanted for myself after all, at least a little."

"Cocoa?" she asked, watching snow start to fall down around them, watching him watch her.

"Absolutely." He held out his arm and she took it. "Now that I've taken chocolates off your list, and since I assume the goat is out, what are you going to get for yourself?"

"I think I've figured it out," she said, leaning into his side as they walked towards the cafe, as he helped her over a slushy spot, "but I'll tell you next year."


	11. Even You

**Happy Birthday, Ev'rdeen**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

"You're dating _Malfoy_?"

Hermione turned in the street, the force of her spin pulling her fingers out of the hand of the blond in question, to see Ron Weasley standing outside the Quidditch shop, his eyes narrowed in disbelieving accusation.

"Ron!" A smile spread across her face, tweaking her lips up, crinkling her nose and bringing a happy light to her eyes. "I haven't seen you in forever! What an unexpected – "

"_Malfoy?" _Ron asked again, shifting what looked like a wrapped broom from under one arm to the other and struggling to keep his grip on a few other bags. "I mean, I know we split up, 'Mione, but you can hardly be that desperate."

"Nice to see you too, Weasel," Draco Malfoy drawled.

"Shut up, ferret," Ron snapped. "Explain this, Hermione."

The smile had fled Hermione Granger's face and been replaced with a look of some irritation and not a little hurt. "I'd forgotten what you can be like, Ron," she said, her throat so tight the words came out stilted. "Though, since we broke up because, as I recall, you wanted freedom to sow wild oats in as many fields as possible, I don't really see why the discovery I'm with someone else should be such an unpleasant shocker to you. I mean, you didn't really think I was going to sit around wearing the willow for you forever, did you?"

"Ron found fields willing to accept his plow?" Draco Malfoy asked, looking down at his hands as though examining his cuticles. "That surprises me."

"War hero," Hermione explained shortly.

"Ah, yes." Draco murmured. "Though, didn't he abandon you in the woods? Fighting evil was so unpleasant and all."

"He came through in the end," Hermione muttered.

"At least I wasn't a bloody Death Eater," Ron snapped.

"True, that." Draco said, his shoulders stiffening under the admittedly just accusation. No one, he thought, will ever believe how much duress I was under. How unbearable it was, how I nearly broke living with that monster. He glanced up at Hermione, standing with her own shoulders tightened against the hostility of her old friend, a hostility she faced whenever someone new discovered she had forgiven him, that she'd slowly fallen for him, that she'd saved him. No one but her, he thought. Thank all the gods for Gryffindor courage. Thank them all for her unrelenting stubbornness.

"A situation about which you know nearly nothing, Ron," Hermione said.

"Still, _dating_ the bastard, Hermione? Even you can do better," Ron said with a sneer.

"Even me?" Draco could watch Hermione make the decision to give up on mending this particular fence. "Even me." She tipped her head to the side and slowly pulled off her glove and held out her hand, the diamond sparkling in the winter light. "Though, I should correct you. We aren't 'dating', per se. We're planning a wedding. Should I assume you don't want an invitation?" The last was said with obvious malice.

Ron stared at the rock on his ex-girlfriend's hand with first shock, then horror, then obvious resentment. Even with the generous payout from the Ministry thanking him for his war service he'd never be able to afford jewelry like that.

"It was in all the papers," Draco said, forcing an idle tone. "Malfoy heir to wed war heroine and all that. I'm surprised you missed it."

"Ron doesn't read much," Hermione said, lacing her tone with what Draco considered a delightful combination of pity and cruelty. Oh, she really was mad at the git. Furious, even. Hermione considered people who didn't read painfully, inexcusably dull; it was, to her mind, the worst thing she could say about a person.

"So," Ron said as his temper, his jealousy, his resentment all went spiraling up and up, "you went for the rich boy, who cares how evil he was? There's a word for that, Hermione. It's 'whoring.'"

That's when Draco hit him.

It was over almost as quickly as it started, Draco shaking his hand and Ron, packages dropped, holding his own hand to his bleeding, possibly broken, nose. Hermione was looking at Draco with amusement. "You aren't supposed to hit people with a closed fist, you know."

"Muggle fighting," he muttered, still shaking his hand, "not my strongest skill." He paused. "How do you know that, anyway?"

"Learned it the hard way when I punched you when we were kids. Let me see." She took his hand and ran her fingers over it, looking for broken bones, doing a quick wandless healing spell on some broken skin. She turned to Ron, still standing there stanching the blood flow, watching them. She slipped her glove back on and murmured, "Well, as lovely as it was to see you, Ronald, I think we have to be going. We have a dinner reservation and, frankly, you're unpleasant to be around." She turned to Draco, "Shall we?"

"My love," he held out his arm and she took it and they walked away, leaving the other man standing alone in the dimming light, his nose dripping onto the snow.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – Just a reminder to please PM me if you are a regular reviewer and want to get in the queue for your own drabble. Please give me at least a week's notice. Thank you!**_


	12. Wishes

**Happy birthday, hoshiakari7**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco watched her come down the stairs. It's a cliché, Hermione, he thought. The plain, bookish girl transformed into a beauty for the ball. I'd have expected you to be a little less predictable.

Still, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Your father would kill her," Blaise said, following his look and handing him a flask. "And I'm being quite literal."

Draco snorted and swallowed a generous mouthful of whiskey the poured some more into his punch. "No. He'd make me do it. He'd think it was a good lesson."

"I stand corrected." The two boys exchanged glances and then Draco leaned up against a pillar, out of the way of the main dance floor and in considerable shadow, and returned to staring at the cleaned up Granger. It's not fair, he thought. I don't even give a shit about the man's fucked up politics but I'm trapped by them anyway.

. . . . . . . . . .

The morning after the party he noticed she looked a great deal less obviously pretty. Her hair had returned to its usual discombobulated mess, she was back in a cheap jumper, and her face was wiped clean of the paint she'd had on last night.

He watched her read the note the owl brought. _You looked beautiful last night, but I think that every day._

He watched her look at Ron, eyes narrowed as she considered and then dismissed even the possibility the git had written her. He watched her look up, across the room and see him, see him looking at her, watched her eyes widen, watched her flush.

He watched her carefully fold the note up and tuck it into a book.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Could I borrow your notes," she asked after class. "I think I missed something. I'll give them back before dinner."

He just shrugged and with a sneer handed them over. "Glad to see you're finally recognizing my inherent superiority."

"Uh huh." She glanced over them. "You have nice handwriting. Distinctive, even."

He felt himself reach out to snatch the papers back but she'd already slid them into her bag.

. . . . . . . . . .

She'd actually made corrections on his notes, the bushy haired nightmare. When he sat on his bed flipping through them, returned as promised, he saw she'd bloody well amended them, added comments, questions.

What was irritating what that her corrections were, well, correct, damn her.

What was magical was that it was like hearing her voice, having her talk to him, just him. She was funny and clever and insightful.

There was one loose sheet of paper, just mixed in with all the others.

_You looked good too. But you always do._

His stomach lurched, his breath hitched, and he brushed his fingers across the words. He folded the note up and put it where none of his so-called friends could get it.

. . . . . . . . . . .

_Cheer for me today?_

He felt like an idiot, like the biggest fool that ever fooled, like the dumbest bloody naïve dupe that ever lived but he dropped the note into her bag anyway. She was _best friends_ with the seeker on the other team, she would never ever…

She caught his eye, his bit of paper in her hand, and nodded, almost imperceptibly, and if he still felt like an utter fool at least now he was a happy fool.

And she did. He watched her, of course, watched her watch him and cheer for him. He was sure none of her friends knew, was sure she didn't exactly yell out his name but, somehow, knowing she was rooting for him - even a little - made him… it made him happy. She made him happy.

And if his father knew, he'd kill her.

He stopped looking at her. Stopped watching her. Saw her, sometimes, when he didn't want to - when he wasn't looking at her, damn it - saw her looking at him with a look of confused hurt on her face but he didn't know what else to do.

. . . . . . . . . .

He took the fucking Mark. Fixed the misbegotten cabinet. Fled the school he'd loved and violated in the company of people who terrified him. He didn't even believe in this fucked up bullshite, but it ruled his life anyway. He was trapped anyway.

_I'm sorry for everything. I wish so many things but wishes don't come true, not for me. I know you can't ever forgive me but I had to say it anyway._ He'd left the note in a book he knew she'd read. Knew she'd recognize the handwriting. Hoped that, maybe, at least she wouldn't hate him.

. . . . . . . . .

"You made it."

He'd slipped out of the Great Hall, away from his parents, away from the father whose awful decisions had ruined every life he'd touched. No one was exactly flocking to his side to offer sympathy or patch up any of his assorted injuries, not that he expected them to, and so he didn't even look up when he heard her voice. She wasn't talking to him. Whatever little he was sure of, he knew that Hermione Granger, heroine, had not just come out of the Hall to find him, to talk to him.

And then she sat down next to him.

"I finally figured it out," she said, apropos of nothing, "when I found the note in the book. You were protecting me. I was so hurt for a while, you know. You'd reached out to me, then just cut me off."

"He would have killed you," Draco said, his voice flat and numb, still not turning his head, waiting for her to go, to abandon him the way he deserved

She took his hand, though, instead of leaving, and he felt that familiar lurch he'd felt whenever he'd watched her, when she'd written him the note he still had, when she'd cheered for him. He turned to look at her, fear and despair and loss and the tiniest bit of hope all there in the eyes that watched her from under his lashes.

She pushed his hair out of his face and smiled at him, the smallest of smiles but still, he thought, not the hate I deserve. He started to cry when she kissed him, the smallest of kisses, just lips brushed across his, just a question.

"Really?" he whispered and when she nodded he broke down and began to really weep, shaking, bent forward with his face buried against her knees, her hands running through his hair and stroking his back. That was how people found them, together. It was how they stayed, too. Not crying all the time, of course, but he found that getting her hands out of his hair was almost impossible; he'd no sooner sit than she'd be twining strands around her fingers. He found he was happier when he could lean on her, something he usually managed by wrapping an arm around her so it looked, to anyone watching them, like he had her pulled against him. She knew, though, that he was really cowering against her side. She'd hold his hand a little more tightly when he shook, press up against him a little more firmly. He found that she was fierce in her defense of him and began to wonder if, maybe, she would have killed his father rather than the other way around.

The papers played it up, naturally, writing endlessly about the romance across class lines, about the mending of war torn fences. He just couldn't take his eyes off her and, he thought, because sometimes we get things we don't deserve, she seemed to feel the same way about him.

It was enough.

It was more than enough.


	13. Games (M rated)

**Happy Belated Birthday. You know who you are.**

**This is M rated. Up until now the fic has been T rated. I've changed it but if you prefer to avoid PWP drabbles, avoid this one.**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco wasn't sure how these games had started. Alcohol had certainly been involved, and a dare, but that didn't seem quite sufficient to explain how every Saturday night he ended up in Hermione Granger's bedroom, tied to her bed.

Still, he didn't think he should look this particular gift horse too closely in the mouth. Push too hard and she might send him away; he wasn't sure how comfortable she was with their whole arrangement either. Neither of them seemed inclined to talk about it but, again, it was Saturday and, again, here he was with a blindfold on and his arms bound above his head as she straddled his face.

The rules were fairly simple: get her off and she'd consider returning the favor. Asking nicely helped.

As he licked and probed, suckled and tried with increasing fervor to bring her over the edge she began to gasp. He could feel her lean forward and grasp the headboard as she shuddered through her climax and then sagged against him before slowly working her way down his torso.

"Please," he whispered. "I was good."

"You were," she panted. "Very, _very_ good."

He licked his lips, tasting her still, and strained a little against the straps holding him in place. Such a fiction, of course, as either of them could have freed him with a word; it didn't take exceptional wandless magic to undo a knot. "Please," he said again, feeling his excitement mount as she flicked a finger back and forth across one of his nipples, as he begged her. "Please."

"I never would have thought," she murmured as she lowered herself onto him, as what little thought he had left disappeared into the feel of her around him, "to have Draco Malfoy beneath me, pleading oh so nicely for my touch."

"Anything you want," he promised as she moved, "anything."

Suddenly his wrists were free and he yanked the blindfold off, grabbed her – oh _gods _she was wearing the black bra still – and rolled her so he had he pinned, hands on her upper arms as he thrust into her. "I want you," she said as he watched her through the hair that had fallen into his face.

"The feeling," he muttered as he pumped his hips into her, as he felt her gather under him, ready to fall apart again at his touch, "is very much mutual.

When she did, when he made her scream his name and bite her lip hard enough to draw blood, he paused for a moment and waited. "Do I get bonus points for that," he asked and she muttered, flushed and tousled under him, "Anything you want."

His own climax came shortly thereafter and he collapsed next to her, his arm flung over her body. "Anything I want, huh?" he asked, breathing into her shoulder, smelling her skin.

She shrugged against him, her eyes closed. "What do you want, Draco?"

"You," he whispered. "I want you."

"Really?" Her voice sounded, he thought, like she didn't believe him, didn't trust him. That hurt, given the games they played.

"Really." He pulled her hand into his and squeezed her fingers.

"Stay?" she asked and, heart in his throat, he nodded and pulled himself more closely to her. "For as long as you want," he said. "For as long as you'll let me."


	14. Defector

**Happy Birthday, Analena!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The safe house was grimy, dank, and the food was inadequate. Draco Malfoy hated it and had taken to listing the things that made this new prison – because he was under no illusion he was anything other than a prisoner – better than the last one. Voldemort wasn't here. Hermione Granger was.

It was a short list but, as he'd reflected more than once, it made the difference between utter hell and a place he merely loathed.

Granger seemed uncomfortable with him which, given she'd asked to be his keeper, given the things she said to him when he was in no condition to respond, should have amused him but he couldn't really rally to feel anything as light as amusement anymore. He knew she felt sorry for him, knew she had her own demons, but since she was one of the two things on his list of 'things that make this better' he couldn't regret she was stuck with him.

Today she was, as usual, bent over a crumbling book researching something. He'd offered to help but Weasley had sneered, "like we'd trust anything you suggested" so he'd swallowed his retort and shrugged. I brought you everything I could smuggle out, he thought bitterly, watching the woman work. I brought you the location of a bloody horcrux, for fuck's sake, and in return I get locked in a room with Hermione Granger, not even allowed to help her research. I get my life, and that's it.

It was, he conceded, still better. The comparison really only highlighted how very bad things had gotten before he'd left.

"I'm sorry," she said, apropos of nothing and he twitched in his seat. She rarely spoke to him, just read her books while he watched her, watched the wall, watched out the window. One day, snow had fallen. That had been a good day.

"Why," he asked, not expecting her to explain. He'd stopped expecting anything.

"Ron's such a prat," she muttered and he laughed. "It's just," she turned and looked at him, "you risked so much and no one even trusts you enough to let you wander the house." He stared at her face, watching the light hit her cheekbones, watching the way a frizzy tendril had escaped her sloppy braid and hung in her eyes.

"It's not your fault," he finally said. "And I'm an arsehole. Got out to save my own skin, as your Ron has reminded me at dinner every night."

She shook her head. "There were easier ways to save your skin than collecting everything you did and bringing it to us; those things, that information… it's mattered and he knows it. He's just…" she stopped and bit her lip. "He's just being unfair. And he's not 'my Ron.' Hasn't been since…. Hasn't been for a while."

"Well," Draco looked away at last, "I'm sure the regular reminder that that psychopath can reach out and yank my strings doesn't help." She was the one who sat with him when he screamed because the Mark burned, which it did far too often. She was the one who held cool cloths to his face. She talked to him then, said things he wasn't sure he believed but that he held onto anyway. He talked to her then, if begging and confessions counted as talking. Her job was to watch him and he supposed he should be grateful she took that duty seriously enough to actually go through the motions of caring; she could have just sat back and watched as he suffered. Her Ron certainly would have.

"Why don't more people leave," she whispered, almost talking to herself. "He's hurting you though that Mark just because he can, I'm sure you aren't the only…"

He stopped her. "Some people are too afraid to go but most really believe in his foul bullshite."

"Like you did," Hermione said. He was still just looking out the window but, if one could be said to feel another person's stare, he felt hers.

"Like I did," he agreed.

"But you don't now," she added.

He huffed out a tiny puff of air before he slouched back even further in his chair. "No. I don't now." Not, he thought to himself, that it matters, because sooner or later the torture will manage to kill me through the Mark as I sit here, locked in this room, and everyone will be relieved I'm gone, the tremendous social awkwardness of having a turncoat Death Eater in the attic erased.

"I think," Hermione Granger was saying, interrupting his thoughts, "I may have found the answer."

"The answer to what?" He looked back at her, mild interest struggling to the surface of his passivity. "How to make light and fluffy pie crust? You need to keep the butter cold. How to break up with your Ron? Tell him you're too good for him. How to rid the world of Voldemort? Unfortunately, I've got nothing there."

She smiled, actually smiled at him. "Glad to see your natural snarkiness seems to be coming back. And I knew about the butter, thanks. Can't spend every summer with Molly Weasley without learning something about cooking."

"If you know how to cook why is the food here so bad?" he carped at her and she laughed again and he felt like the sun had bloody well come out and found he was smiling back at her.

"I don't do the cooking. I look after you," she said with a certain faux primness. "You're a higher status project." She crossed the room and was suddenly in front of him.

He wasn't sure whether he wanted her to touch him or was afraid she would. She hadn't, not when he wasn't raving. They'd lived together since he'd defected, locked in this room most of the day, her reading and him having fits. They went back and forth between moments of unbearable intimacy, where she saw him stripped bare and in agony, and long stretches where they politely ignored one another, ignored the things they both said when he was being tortured through his Mark. She was changing the rules, talking to him like this when he wasn't screaming.

"I broke up with Ron already, by the way, so I don't need your advice on that." She was still right in front of him and she had that book in her hands.

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

"Because, among other reasons, he was being a fucking prat," she said and then she shoved the book at him. "I've found it, though."

"What, Granger?"

"I think I can break his connection to you," she said. When he didn't react, didn't respond at all, she hurried on, "The scar will still be there, but he won't be able to reach you through it. He won't be able to hurt you anymore, Draco."

He sat in silence for a long time, listening to the sound of her voice saying his given name. He wanted to ask her to say it again but instead said, "That's what you've been researching in here? Not battle spells? Not how to defeat Voldemort? You've been trying to figure out how to save me?" She nodded and he said, "You're an idiot. I'm not worth your time, I'm not important."

"You are to me," she said.

He let that settle across him for a moment. "That's why Ron hates me," he said and she laughed.

"Ron's hated you since you were eleven and acted like a snotty rich kid at him. My feelings about you are – "

"What feelings?" he interrupted her. "I'm _worthless_ Granger, you know that better than anyone. Don't waste your feelings on me."

"Too late," she yanked the book back. "Do you want your Mark severed from that madman or not?"

"Yes," he snapped, "of course I do. I'm not the idiot here."

"Debatable," she snapped back.

They glared at each other until Draco drawled, summoning all the arrogance and disdain he could muster, "No one's going to let me out, are they, let me help, not even with this impressive bit of magic you're going to do to really free me from him."

"Probably not," she admitted. "At least not for a while. I keep arguing with them but…"

"And you'll still be locked in here with me, keeping an eye on the very dangerous Death Eater lest I sneak out and steal more than my fair share of oatmeal or run back to the people who would kill me on sight if I were very, very lucky?"

"Yes," she drew the word out and looked at him and, very slowly, her lips began to move up into a smirk that matched his own.

"I have, Granger, another research project I might suggest you undertake, what with those feelings you have and all."

"Draco," she said again and he closed his eyes.

"I'm not ready to say it to you when I'm not half out of my mind," he said, almost too softly to be heard. "I will be, someday."

"I know," she said, and he felt her take his hand. "I can wait."


	15. Question

**Happy Birthday, Luvnee!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"Why are you on the floor?" Hermione looked up from her book. When she'd started reading the sun had been out, her tea had been warm and Draco had been doing something in the bedroom that seemed to involve pacing and muttering to himself and, really, it was making her nuts so a retreat into a book had seemed like a good choice for a rainy Saturday afternoon.

Now the sun was down, the tea was cold and Draco was kneeling at her feet, clearly somewhat put out by something.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" he asked her.

"Willa Cather," she said by way of explanation, holding the book out.

"You might be the least romantic woman I've ever known," he muttered. "This is what happens when you grow up with Potter and Weasley as your best friends. No sense of romance at all."

"I don't see what you have against Cather," she frowned at him. "I mean, it could be worse, it could be Flaubert or something. Death by rat poison."

"I wasn't talking about the book, though your ability to get lost in them is impressive."

"You agree, though, that Cather is more romantic than Flaubert?"

He stopped to consider, distracted from his actual goal. "I don't think so," he said at last. "Sure, Madame Bovary has the rat poison thing, but Thea barely acknowledges the idea that a relationship might add something to her life."

Hermione smiled smugly as she watched him quickly compare the two books. Draco Malfoy, Muggle literature aficionado. That was all her doing. When they'd first moved in together he'd complained at considerable length about the number of books she owned. "Have you ever heard of libraries?" he'd groused. "I like to own my books," she'd smiled at him and so he'd spent the first week in their flat installing shelves all along one wall and the second week helping her unpack her collection and sort them. She'd realized she loved him – really, truly loved him – when they started to argue about classification systems and he'd told her anyone who sorted by criteria as unimportant as author's name was clearly an idiot and did she want curry or fish for dinner.

Now he plucked the book out of her fingers and slipped a torn bit of newsprint in her spot. She'd had to break him of dog-earing the pages and he'd rolled his eyes at her for weeks when she'd smoothed corners up and put bookmarks in but now he just automatically reached for some scrap of paper to mark his place.

Or, apparently, her place.

"You," he said, still on the floor, "have totally spoiled my carefully rehearsed speech about how much I love you and how I cannot live without you. I had poetry in it, Hermione. Actual poems lauding your beauty. Stanzas about how honored I'd be if – "

"Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Well," he said, "I WAS but you clearly weren't that interested so I think I'll lower my sights a bit and ask whether you'd be interested in going to the Tate tomorrow."

"Yes," she said.

"Yes to the Tate?" he asked, cocky smirk firmly in place, trembling fingers wrapped around the small box in his pocket.

"Sure," she said, and reached for her book, eyes still watching him, waiting.

"Don't suppose you'd wear this?" He held out the box with feigned nonchalance. She took it, hands shaking a bit, and opened it, looked at the ring, looked back at him, looked down at the ring again.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose I could. Would. Will."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – **So this is where I shamelessly pimp my other fics as well as remind you that if you are one of my lovely reviewers and want to be in the queue for a drabble of your own to please make sure to send me a PM with the date with at least a week's notice, but don't be shy about telling me NOW about something that doesn't happen for a bit.


	16. Sorting

The "sorting drabble" has been expanded to an actual fic because of the encouragement of my wonderful beta reader and reviewers. What was once this drabble is now Chapter One of "The Green Girl"


	17. The Tiger

**Happy Birthday, Delancey654.**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco Malfoy was evil.

Well, he liked to think so though most people thought he was more of discount, off-brand evil if one were being completely honest. He was the sort of evil that was left in the bin with a half-price sticker along with the strange sizes of socks and the books that purported to reveal the secrets of how aliens had built Stonehenge, but he was still evil.

Dammit. He WAS.

He spent a lot of time talking to his therapist about how he was still evil, that not being able to kill in cold blood as a teenager didn't mean he wasn't evil. His self-identity was very much wrapped up in being evil and, look, he had the mark RIGHT THERE to prove it. He was a Death Eater; he was genuine name brand evil and just because he'd been found not guilty at his trial didn't mean anything.

The therapist tended to make a lot of 'hmming' noises and write notes and say things like "why do you feel you need to be evil?" and "let's talk about your mother."

Draco didn't like talking about his mother. Ever since she'd fallen into that volcano he'd been a bit out of sorts. He wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do without her there to tell him what was what. The therapist wasn't helping but he kept going. It got him out of the Manor.

Theo Nott, who was disgustingly happy with that Cho Chang, had suggested he try meeting women. "You aren't evil, you're horny. What you need, mate, is a good shag," was what he'd said.

Chang had looked disgusted at that suggestion and Draco had guessed that Theo would not be getting a good shag himself that particular night. He had, at any rate, not been invited back to dinner after that. Chang didn't like him; she claimed he brought out Theo's worst qualities.

The day the tiger managed to get out of its cage at the zoo he decided to go out and into London even though he didn't have an appointment to talk about his feelings. The possibility that he might see an escaped tiger eat a Muggle, though slight, was tantalizing and he started stalking the thing through the city. It was, after all, something to do and, as much as he'd have preferred to follow Theo's advice, evil Death Eaters ranked low on most women's 'shaggable' list. Even wealthy, good looking evil Death Eaters such as himself could find themselves in the midst of a multi-year dry spell tracking a tiger because it was that or organizing his sock drawer. Again.

Proper arrangement of socks was not a trivial matter.

It was just his luck that Hermione Granger appeared to have had the same idea. When he finally found the tiger – it had gone to sleep in a tree after eating what appeared to have been a small, presumably yappy, dog – there she was, glaring up at it and lecturing it on why it needed to return to the zoo.

He raised his brows and drawled, "I don't think he's listening."

"Malfoy," she muttered. "Just what I need."

"Why are you haranguing this poor beast, Granger? Just let him sleep."

"He can't just go wandering about. It makes people nervous." She shook her finger up at the beast who opened one eye and smirked at her, if tigers could be said to smirk, before returning to feigning sleep.

"You and the tiger are acquainted?" Draco asked, admiring the way her hair frizzed in the damp air. His own hair had always been so flat but hers sparked and danced and stood out in every direction.

"I visit him every day," Hermione Granger said, still not looking at him. "I hate that he's in that cage and I have a terrible feeling I gave him the idea to get out."

Draco Malfoy watched the managing witch shake her small, rather adorable, fist at the tiger and got an idea. He suspected his therapist would call it a terrible idea, and he knew Theo would laugh until he was sick, but it wasn't as if he'd ever really liked the damn peacocks anyway. "We could bring him to the Manor," he said. "The wards would keep him in and he could wander the grounds; you could come and chat him up there. As an evil Death Eater I think a tiger would make quite a good addition to the atmosphere of the place."

Hermione Granger looked at him, a peculiar expression on her face. "Have you lost your mind? I'd be there every day, telling you what to do, rearranging your furniture, changing the classification system of your library. Ron told me I was the most interfering, bossiest shrew he'd ever met right before he left me for some woman who clung to his arm like a limpet and, as far as I could tell, was only able to say 'Whatever you want, dear.' And you aren't evil. Don't be absurd."

Draco Malfoy shrugged as he decided to ignore her refusal to acknowledge his obvious evil, at least for now. "Just leave my sock drawer alone and we'll be fine."

She gave him a rather weird look at that but turned back to the tiger. "Well, are you coming?" she demanded and the beast, with that feline smirk back on its face, bounded out of the tree and sat down at the witch's feet.

"Can you apparate all three of us or do we have to do this the hard way?" Hermione demanded of Draco and, rolling his eyes, he brought all of them back to Manor. He was evil, not incompetent.

The peacocks lasted a week.

She stopped pretending to go home after two.

After three he'd conceded her sock arrangement system was better.

She never would admit he was evil but, after he started following Theo's excellent advice, he stopped caring quite so much.

. . . . . . . . . .

_A/N - If you have not read Delancey654's __Better Off Forgotten__ you really must stop what you are doing and read it now._

_Birthday drabbles, and how they work, are explained on my profile but the short version is if you are a regular reviewer and you would like a drabble for your birthday PM me your birthday. The PM part (rather than commenting in a review or on Twitter) is important because my brain is a sieve._


	18. Ten Days

**Happy Birthday, Jadedgurl05!**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

**~ day 1 ~**

That Hermione Granger was locked in his basement – in the _dungeons_ in his basement – was making Draco Malfoy sick. Everyone else had been rescued but she had been left behind.

Casualty of war.

It made it more real, somehow, as if it needed to be made any realer than it already had been. She was his _classmate_. Not his friend, certainly. But she was just a girl and his father had locked her away and was leaving her there to rot.

Or leaving her there until his aunt was bored.

He sat in his room, barricaded behind his door, with his head in his hands and cried.

**~ day 2 ~**

He cornered a house elf and gave it a carefully thought out order. It had taken him hours to get the wording right. Go heal the girl in the basement. Bring her food. Bring her blankets. Don't let anyone see you. Don't tell anyone.

It didn't help that the house elves hated Granger. It did it anyway but he got a look.

Well, if anyone found out he'd get a lot more than a look.

**~ day 3 ~**

He crept down early in the morning, after the Death Eater sots were all passed out and before his mother, early riser, was taking her tea. He stood, helplessly, and looked through the bars at the girl. She was asleep, huddled under the blankets the elf had brought. She looked dirty and thin and scared. Even asleep she looked scared.

He pushed a book into her cage.

He didn't know what to do.

**~ day 4 ~**

When he crept down again she was awake, waiting for him, sitting cross-legged in the very center of her cell. Her eyes were steady.

He waited for her to abuse him, to call him Death Eater filth, to call him the coward he knew he was.

All she said was, "Thank you for the book."

"It's nothing," he said.

"It's not," she said.

**~ day 5 ~**

"I brought you strawberries," he said, pushing the bowl through the bars. He had to tip it sideways to get it to fit and one of them fell out and rolled across the floor. She picked it up, brushed the dirt off, and ate it, watching him.

"Have they forgotten about me?" she asked. "I think the waiting is the worst part."

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Could you get me another book?"

**~ day 6 ~**

When he passed it through the bars her fingers brushed his and he made a grimace of distaste, a lifetime of prejudice in one thoughtless expression.

She saw it and he watched her fold in on herself.

"I'm sorry," he muttered and she shrugged and turned away from him.

"You are who you were raised to be," was all she said.

**~ day 7 ~**

"I'm not," he said. It was the first thing he said when he came down that morning. She was sitting, as usual, waiting for him. Or just waiting, he supposed. The elves had brought more blankets, more food; she didn't seem as horribly thin. "I'm not just who I was raised to be."

She looked at him. He wished she'd condemn him, judge him, abuse him. He wished she'd hate him because then he could hate her and leave her here and not think about how his family had locked his classmate in their dungeon.

Not think about how he lived in a house that had a dungeon.

"Who are you then?" she asked.

"I didn't kill Dumbledore." He said it defensively, angrily.

"You let the Death Eaters in, though," she said and he flushed and turned to leave.

"Draco." She said it when he'd taken just a few steps and he stopped.

"What?" Angry. Hurt. Nothing, he thought, ever hurts as much as the truth.

"You're keeping me alive. I know you're… more. You're just… you're also you. It's hard to trust. Harder to hope."

He turned back and she was at the bars, her hand reached through towards him. He stood there, frozen, and looked at it. Finally he stepped back and laced his fingers through hers. They stood there, silently, until he could hear the creaking and rustling that meant people were starting to move around upstairs.

**~ day 8 ~**

He passed her the strawberries one at a time so they wouldn't fall on the ground. He could tell she was trying not to let their fingers touch and he finally just grabbed her hand. "I said I was sorry," he muttered.

"Can you get me out?"

So much hope in that question. Trust, too.

"We can't apparate from inside the Manor," he said. "If I could get you past the wards… but I can't even get you out of this room."

She leaned against the bars and he leaned against her, his forehead on hers. Thinking.

**~ day 9 ~**

He came running down the next day and tore around the corner. She wasn't sitting, waiting for him. She was huddled against the back wall of her cell, shivering and shaking.

"You're hurt." She was _hurt_. She'd trusted him and he'd been planning to save her and now she was _hurt_.

She turned to face him and there was a cut down her cheek, crusted and red, her eye was blacked, and her lip was swollen. She stood, far too carefully, and took a few steps toward him and then stopped. He didn't like the way she was holding her arm.

"Granger," he said. "Hermione."

"Do you have more strawberries?" she asked, her voice unnaturally steady. "I'm sure that will make everything better."

"No," he said, sounding lost. "No strawberries."

"Oh."

"Can you run?" he asked her, trying to focus himself. "Are you in good enough shape to run?"

She took another unsteady step. "Why? Does your aunt want to play chase the mudblood? Is it more fun if I can run away? Is it more fun to give me a little hope and then take it away?"

He didn't wait any longer but pulled the key – the actual old, fashioned key on an actual old-fashioned key ring – from his pocket and thrust it into the lock.

"How did you…"

"I drugged their wine." His voice was short. He'd pictured how this would go and it hadn't been like this in his imagination. He'd save her, she'd be grateful, they'd run off to the edge of the property and apparate away. He'd be the hero for once instead of the villain. He hadn't pictured her _hurt_. He hadn't pictured her _scared_. "Can you run?"

"You're saving me?" She sounded confused and worried. "They'll _kill_ you."

"Not if I'm not here." He looked around her cell. "You like this place so much you plan to stay?"

She took another step toward him and he frowned. She was so shaky. What had his aunt _done_ to her? Then she grabbed his hand. "Let's go," she said. "I'll make it."

**~ day 10 ~**

Her arm had been broken. She'd run to the edge of the property and let him apparate her with a broken arm.

She didn't tell him until they were hidden in a cottage, in his cottage, a present from his mother for his sixteenth birthday. Warded. Fidelius charm. Unplottable. No one could find them, not even his mother. "Every boy needs a place to go and dream," she'd said. He wondered, now, whether she'd given him a bolt hole on purpose.

"I'm worthless," he said to Granger as he tried to heal her arm. "I'm rubbish at healing charms. I'm just going to make this worse."

"Give me a few days to recover and I'll do it," she said. "Then we can go and find the others."

"Do you think they'll take me?" he asked. "I let the - "

"I'll make them," she said, laying the palm of one hand on his cheek. "I'll make them, Draco."


	19. Gossip

**Happy Birthday, Ilovejayderpeyter**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"So," Ginny said as she held her hands out for the manicurist. "Dish."

"There's nothing to tell," Hermione said, fumbling for money in her bag. "We went out. It was fine."

"You can't go out with Draco Malfoy and have nothing to tell," Ginny objected as the Muggle woman filing her nails pretended not to listen. "We came here _specifically_ so you could tell me all about it."

"I thought we came here to get our nails painted," Hermione said, passing over a pile of neatly folded pound notes and the bottle of polish she'd picked out.

"Uh huh." Ginny looked at her in disbelief. "What did you wear?"

Hermione sighed. "The green dress."

"The one cut down to here?" Ginny took her free hand and held it to her navel and Hermione laughed.

"It's not quite _that_ low."

"It's not a dress you wear if you aren't interested," Ginny insisted. "What did _he_ wear?"

Hermione thought back. "Black trousers, I guess. Black shirt. The restaurant didn't kick us out so I assume he was dressed appropriately."

She'd spent most of dinner admiring the man so it was weird she could barely remember the outfit he'd had on. She had to think back to the pile he'd left on her floor. She'd kicked it out of her path this morning on the way to the shower. "Black," she said again. "Definitely black."

"And what did you talk about?" Ginny persisted.

"We started out talking about the new legislation I've been working on," Hermione said and Ginny groaned.

The ginger woman leaned forward to the manicurist and said in a stage whisper, "This bloke was _the_ boy at our school. Good looking. Athletic. Richer than Croesus. And wouldn't give either of us the time of day back then. Now she goes out with the man and talks about _legislation_." She looked back at Hermione. "Please tell me you talked about _something_ else. Anything else."

Only the assorted things he planned to do to me once he got me alone, Hermione thought. "Not really," she said aloud. "The legal thing I'm working on is pretty complicated, Gin, and it's his area of specialization. We argued about it. A lot."

"Just... can't you manage to flirt even a _little_," Ginny demanded. "She used to date my brother," she confided to the manicurist. "Their idea of flirting was to argue too. And Viktor? The guy after that? I think she told him he was an idiot."

"He was," Hermione said with indifference.

"Honestly, maybe if you didn't insult them all so much you'd manage to get a second date one of these years."

Hermione shrugged.

Ginny narrowed her eyes and looked at her friend.

"You're going out again, aren't you?"

"Not really," Hermione said. "He's just coming over tonight so we can go over the filing and make sure all the paperwork's filled out correctly."

Ginny groaned. "Did he even kiss you goodnight? This was totally a work date, wasn't it?"

Hermione pictured Draco's mouth working its way up her thigh as she'd cursed his name and he'd murmured things about good things coming to those who waited. "There might have been some kissing," she admitted.

"A dry peck on the cheek as you agreed to meet again to go over paperwork?" Ginny said with a snort. "That doesn't count."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't," Hermione agreed. "But there's always tonight."

"Please tell me you'll at least _try_ to get the man to kiss you," Ginny begged. "I _need _there to be something to gossip about that's juicier than paperwork.

Hermione laughed. "I promise to beg him to ravish me, how's that?"

"No need to be sarcastic," Ginny muttered as Hermione grinned at her.


	20. At the Bar

**Happy Birthday, Pank98**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Greg sat in the bar, watching Draco with a worried eye. This was what happened, what had happened, every Saturday since his trial – the trial where he had been, rather miraculously, found 'not guilty'. They went out and Draco drank himself into a stupor.

It was fairly clear he was trying to kill himself.

"I think you've had enough," Greg said, voice hesitant in the dim pub, but Draco just gave him a look – a filthy look filled with self-loathing – and signaled for another round, hardly necessary given how much alcohol remained on the table.

"Did you know she lied?" Draco said, leaning back and looking at Greg. It was terrifying how clear his voice was given how much he'd drunk. "I can't figure out how she did it but the fucking witch _lied_ under veritaserum." He shook his head. "'snot supposed to be possible."

"At your trial?" Greg hazarded and glanced uneasily towards the door.

Draco nodded and threw back another of the shots of firewhiskey he had lined up in front of him, little soldiers of death on the table. "She sat there, and drank their disgusting truth serum and told the whole damn Wizengamot I was a good man. She told them I'd been _on their side_, that Dumbledore had known everything, that they would have lost without my help."

"Wasn't that all true?" Greg asked, looking again at the entrance.

"Do I look like a good man to you?" Draco asked, throwing his hands wide and holding himself out for inspection. He shoved the sleeve up on his shirt and brandished his Mark, unanswerable proof of his infamy. "I should be in hell now." He leaned forward and muttered, "Maybe I am. Did you know she hasn't talked to me since the trial? Not one word. Nothing."

Greg mumbled something incoherent and checked his watch, looked back at the door, and grabbed his things. With a quick, uncomfortable nod at the witch walking towards them he took off.

"You look like shit, Malfoy," was all she said when she slid in next to him.

"I'm going to fucking kill Greg," Draco said as he looked at Hermione. "That sodding bastard; he set me up."

She shrugged and took one of his drinks, ignoring his outraged growl of protest, and threw it back. He waited for her to flinch or sputter or anything but all she did was wipe the back of her hand across her mouth and look at him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, waving her hand around the bar, at his lined up shots. "I never thought you were actually this stupid but if you keep this up you'll be a miserable drunk."

"I'm a miserable drunk now," he corrected her and lay his head back across the top of his seat and stared up at the ceiling. It had clearly not been cleaned in a long time and he wished he hadn't looked at it but he didn't move, just asked, "Why did you lie for me?"

"I didn't," she shook her head, huffing out a little amused sound. "Or, not really. Not very much. You _are_ a good man and we _would_ have lost without you. I just… embellished."

"_How_?" he demanded.

"It's not that hard," she said. "You just have to believe it when you're saying it. It's a bit of mental sleight of hand, I guess."

He closed his eyes. "I suppose you own my life, Granger, since you saved it." He waited for her to respond and when she didn't he added, "One worthless, drunken life. All yours."

"Your life's not worthless," she said so quietly he barely heard her.

"You couldn't prove it by me," he said and lifted his head and reached for another shot but she had one hand over his and another on his face, running her thumb over his cheekbones, down along his jaw line and he froze. "What are you doing?" he asked her.

"So I own your life, huh?" she asked and he shrugged.

"It's a bit like owning some old junk no one wants but, yeah. Lucky you."

"Malfoy," she said, her hand still on his face, her eyes focused on him with a frightening determination; under that gaze he realized how this woman had controlled her thoughts with so much rigor she'd lied to the court. "You're a _good_ man. Not a perfect man, not a saint, but… when it mattered, when things were really awful you made… you didn't make the wrong choices, you know? You're not some… trash. You're worth… you're not worthless." She wrinkled her nose a bit. "Though I'd prefer you a little less pissed." He jerked his head, shocked at what he thought she might be implying.

"I can do that," he said, slowly. "I think."

"Good," she said. "Good." She stood up and held her hand out to him. "I have sobriety potion at my flat."

"I…" he looked at her and looked at the table then took her hand and slid out of the booth. "Okay. I'm still going to fucking _kill_ Greg."

He wrote Greg a thank you note a week later.


	21. Syphilis

**Happy Birthday dulce de leche go**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"Syphilis!" Hermione shrieked at Draco and he cringed. "What do you mean you have syphilis! You're a wizard, you shouldn't even be able to _get_ syphilis!"

"Why is that, anyway?" he asked, trying to distract her from the St. Mungo's report in her hand.

"Huh? Oh the random mutation that produces the sub-species of human generally called 'wizard,' though in the Department we generally go for _homo ex miris_ –

"'_hem_'," Draco asked, making the slight coughing sound he'd heard her co-workers interject into conversations a lot and trying to keep her on this track. He'd promised to keep this private but he hadn't anticipated she had access to what were supposed to be confidential health reports through work.

Having a wife who worked for the Department of Mysteries had its drawbacks.

She shrugged. "Scientists can have a weird sense of humor. Anyway,the mutation, while allowing for cross-fertility, does provide protection against most _homo sapiens_ pathogens. Which brings me back to _syphilis_ and how you seem to have a MUGGLE STD."

She tapped her foot and waited for an explanation.

"I guess being a _hem_ doesn't protect against that one," he offered tentatively.

She threw the report at him. He wasn't sure what spell she added to it but it flew threw the air more like a bludger than a pile of paperwork.

Felt a bit more like a bludger when it hit him too.

Fuck this. When he'd agreed to help cover this up he hadn't expected Hermione to find out _or _to start, well, bludgeoning him.

"It's not me," he said, hands up as she grabbed something else to throw at him. "Merlin, Hermione, you know I'd never cheat on you." He rubbed his arm. "For one thing, you'd kill me," he muttered.

"Your name is _on the report_," she hissed but she seemed a little calmer.

"That's because Lavender's a nurse," he said, preparing to dodge any missiles she lobbed on the off chance she didn't believe him. "We figured she'd get any path reports and, hell, the witch probably has an alert on anything with Ron's name on it. She's a bloody stalker," he added bitterly. A stalker who he considered directly responsible for the blow he'd just taken.

"So…," Hermione narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. "You expect me to believe _Ron_ has a Muggle STD and you two used _your_ name on the intake forms when he got tested to avoid crazy Lavender from finding out?"

"Yes?" He tried his most adorable puppy-dog eyes while cursing the day he'd gotten so drunk with Ron Weasley that agreeing to help the man find out what that weekend in Tijuana had wrought seemed like a good idea.

"So, _Ron_ has syphilis?"

"Apparently," Draco muttered.

An evil smile spread across Hermione's face and Draco got that nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach he got whenever his wife decided to remind Ron he'd dumped her for a woman who'd turned out to be bloody well round the bend. He didn't see why she was still so irritated about the whole thing; they'd been happily married for almost six years and poor Ron spent a lot of his time ducking out of pubs as soon as Lavender walked in. Hell, the three of them were _friends_, something he'd never thought he'd see. They had Ron and whatever his flavor-of-the-week was over all the time.

She did have a mean streak, though. It was, if he were being honest, one of the things he loved about her.

"I'll forgive you for scaring me like this," she said, summoning the report back into her hand, "if you let me be the one to tell Ron the results."

Draco paled and she laughed. "Of course, dear," he said, rubbing the side of his arm where the bludger/medical report had hit him.

"He got _syphilis_?" she asked again and Draco shrugged.

"Tijuana," he said as way of explanation.

"I wonder if I can talk him into letting me get a sample for work," she said and, at that, Draco began to laugh. He was looking forward to that conversation.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – If you haven't read dulce de leche go's fics you should. Not only has she collaborated with me on A Bodyguard of Lies, and not only has she written the fabulous marriage law fic Knowing You, she also has a bunch of other things worth exploring. **_


	22. Tiffany

**Happy (belated) Birthday, pianomouse!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"'Dress more sexy'," Hermoine mimicked as she thrust the second earring in. "I'll show that bastard sexy. I can be as cheap and tawdry and obvious as the next girl."

She stepped back and looked over her reflection with a bitter smile. She'd teased her hair and added lightening charms until it rose, big and highlighted, above her head. She'd practiced walking in the so-very-high heels all week until she could easily do a rumba in them. Add in some fishnets, a slit up to her hip in the silver velvet dress and a neckline that, well, might not be low enough for a baby to nurse but only barely and she looked…

"Gross." She made a face at herself.

When she got to the party, Ron's reaction was everything she'd hoped for. He actually dropped a glass when she walked in and the sound of it shattering had been very loud in the suddenly quiet room. Lavender had looked pissed as hell. So that had been good.

She'd also had to hex Blaise Zabini, who'd slapped her arse. The swelling on his hand would go down. Eventually. Not that she told him that.

Marcus Flint had asked if she wanted to go out. He couldn't remember her name – thought she was some woman named 'Tiffany' – but leered down her dress as he told he how much he'd missed her.

Ginny had asked if she could borrow the heels sometime.

Harry had muttered something about how he'd never understand women.

Now she stood at the bar getting steadily angrier as each man hit on her.

"A trifle obvious," a familiar voice drawled behind her and she spun to see Draco Malfoy, impeccable as always in simple black. She stifled a groan. This little revenge plan was not fun anymore and now it looked like it was going to spiral down into outright humiliating. "I wouldn't have thought teased hair and fishnets were quite your thing," the man added. "Care to dance?"

"Not you too," she muttered but took the proffered hand and let him lead her to the dance floor. He'd waited for a fairly slow, quiet number and placed a hand quite decorously on her lower back and spun her around the floor.

"Am I allowed to ask what brought this on?" he asked after a bit.

Hermione decided to tell him. "Ron informed me that I was boring. Frumpy. That if I'd just 'dressed more sexy' maybe he would have wanted to stay."

"I just want to clarify," he said, voice sounding amused, "that for one moment you took Ron Weasley's opinions on fashion seriously."

"When you put it that way," she muttered, not bothering to finish the sentence and Draco laughed.

"Do you find it reassuring or disheartening that, based on his reaction when you walked in, trampy appears to be his look of choice?"

"Not sure," she admitted.

"Now I," Draco said, "Much prefer your previous look but, unlike your former – he _is_ former, right? – beau I prefer subtlety, class and intelligence in a partner."

Hermione snorted at that. "Easy to say, Malfoy, but I can't help but point out you've never given me the time of day at one of these little soirees until I looked like this."

"You were always with Ron before," he countered, "and I'm many things but I'm not a cad."

"Oh," she said and he smiled down at he as they twirled around the floor. She found herself grateful she'd taken the time to make sure she really knew how to move in these shoes. Breaking an ankle while dancing with Draco Malfoy, while he looked down at her as if she were the center of his world, would have been even more humiliating than the incident with Marcus.

'Tiffany.' Hah.

When the song ended Draco asked if she'd join him for dinner the following night. She blinked a few times and finally asked, feeling somewhat bitter still about the sudden burst of male attention tight, short and high had elicited. "Which look?"

"I," he said, "would never presume to tell a lady how to dress."

She opted for black cashmere and, after eyeing her flats for a while, pulled out the kitten heels instead. He _was_ rather tall and it seemed a shame to let all those 'walking in heels' skills go to waste. When he picked her up he looked at the low heels, simple dress and the hair she'd pulled up into a non-highlighted twist and said, "You look beautiful, as always. Do you like French? Because I made a reservation at a new bistro for us."

She did eventually pull out the fishnets again. It turned out that he did rather like them and she rather liked his response.

Marcus Flint spent several years wondering what had happened to 'Tiffany' and did anyone have her number.

Neither Draco nor Hermione ever explained.


	23. The Prisoner

**Happy (belated) Birthday, dracosgirl007**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

Draco Malfoy was at his desk filling out reports when the man brought the prisoner in.

"Sorry to interrupt you," the man said, "but this one was on your list."

Draco looked up, his eyes flickering over the bushy haired and bloodied witch. "Leave her," he said in a bored tone. "I'll deal with her once I've finished these."

The man nodded and backed out of the room, leaving Hermione Granger slumped on the floor. As soon as the door shut Draco pulled out his wand and silenced the room and warded the door before he hurried to her and crouched down. "You promised me you wouldn't get caught," he muttered, starting to heal assorted cuts. "Dammit, you promised me."

"Sorry," she said through a grimace of pain.

He sighed as he leaned back on his heels and looked at her, trying to hide his unhappiness at how thin she was. "I've worried about you every bloody day, Granger. For three fucking years I've worried about you." He ran his hand over his face and sighed before he returned to trying to heal as many of her injuries as he could.

"Have you been okay?" she asked him as he helped her off to floor and onto a small settee against the wall. "I'll get blood on your couch," she objected and he snorted.

"You wouldn't be the first," he said, summoning a pain potion from a shelf. "Drink this."

He sat next to her as she drank the potion and made a face; these things always tasted terrible. "I don't want to let you go again, Granger. It would kill me. Please stay. Please, please don't ask me to live through another three years like these last ones."

"I worried about you too," she said. "Stuck in here all alone, always at risk of someone figuring out that you're - "

"I know," he said. She leaned over and rested her head on him and he turned and, wrapping both arms around her held her as tightly as he dared. "Stay with me," he said again with no real hope she'd listen.

"Brought you something," she murmured, dredging a scrap of paper out of the pocket of her filthy Muggle slacks.

He read it once, then twice. "It's done," he whispered. "That crazy bastard Potter did it."

She smiled, a little weakly but a real smile nevertheless. "Well, it ain't over until we actually kill that bastard but - "

"But you got them all," Draco breathed.

"All the horcruxes," she agreed. "And a battle to pull the bulk of your - "

"His," Draco muttered. Years of living in constant peril as the inside man, all for her, and he'd be damned if he let her lump him in with the group he'd fought so hard to be free of, to be more than.

"His," she agreed, laying her hand on his arm in apology. "A battle to lure the bulk of HIS forces away so you can open the gates and Harry can - "

"Do the thing he was born to do." Draco closed his eyes and let himself feel hope this might end for the first time since he'd bought Potter's respect - bought the man's blessing for a relationship with a woman he'd promptly said goodbye to - by taking on the role of the Order's agent.

"So, yeah," she said. "I can stay."

Draco exhaled, feeling something release and tugged her to him as tightly as he could, so tightly that even with the pain potion and all the healing work he'd done she flinched. "Sorry," he muttered. "How did you get so beat up, anyway? You could take any dozen of those fuckers without trying."

"I had to make my capture look realistic," she said, smiling with her split lip.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked.

"Keep me?" she said and he twined her fingers through hers.

"I'd like to see someone try to stop me," he murmured.


	24. Ice Cream

**Happy Birthday, ShiroKuro OokamiRyu**

**. . . . . . . . . . **

Hermione hadn't expected him to show up that night. Their relationship was about sex. Reasonably good – though not, to be honest, mind-blowingly incredible – sex and nothing else. They didn't have coffee. They didn't go out. Draco'd blown through three girlfriends during the course of their strange little non-relationship and she'd, well, she'd dated, and broken up with, and dated the same man again multiple times.

Draco had expressed his opinion of Ron exactly once. "I don't get it," he'd said as he'd laced his boots before leaving one night. "He's not smart, he's not good looking. But if it makes you happy…" and he'd trailed off and shrugged.

Hermione had come up with a simple rule: she didn't ever mention how she'd actually rather prefer Draco. He wasn't available. Well, he wasn't available to _her._ She was… she wasn't sure what she was to him but it wasn't a girlfriend though he'd once said, after he'd found yet another girlfriend was only interested in his vaults, "You're the only woman I can actually trust, Granger. You care about my money even less than you care about commitment."

He'd sounded bitter.

She'd followed her rule and just said, "Well, there are more fish in the sea."

He'd looked at her and sighed and said, "I suppose."

She was in one of her 'not dating Ron' months at the moment and had decided – perhaps the wrong word as it implied she'd turned down social invitations to _decide_ anything – to stay in and watch a movie while downing an entire pint of ice cream. "Draco doesn't want me," she said to Crookshanks. "Ron's a bore but I'll probably end up married to him because it'll be that or moving to a cottage and getting too many cats."

Crookshanks yowled his opinion of her getting more cats. It wasn't a positive one.

When Draco flooed in she froze. Her hair was in a big fuzzy knot on the top of her head, she was wearing ratty pajamas, and she had a spoon of ice cream in her mouth. In a relationship that was all about sex, she was about as unsexy as one could imagine in that moment.

"Was I supposed to be expecting you?" she asked, suddenly worried she'd forgotten something, as he stared at her.

Crookshanks rubbed up around Draco's ankles and he looked down at the cat. "Why does this monster suddenly like me? Should I be afraid?" He brushed some soot off his pants. "No, I just thought I'd pop over." He looked suddenly nervous. "Is that okay?"

"I'm just not…" she stumbled around the words.

"Relax, Granger. I'm not looking for a shag, just company." He slouched over and nudged at her. "Shove over." He took the spoon out of his mouth and scooped up a generous portion of ice cream.

"Hey, that's my spoon," she said, "get your own."

"You've had my cock in your mouth and you're squeamish about sharing a spoon?" He gave her a disbelieving look and then pulled back. "You aren't sick are you?"

"No." She grabbed the spoon back and glared at him and he laughed.

"You might actually be worse at sharing than I am," he said.

"I'm too bloody good at sharing," she muttered as she shoved another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.

"Yeah," he said, taking the spoon back. "You need to stop that." He fed himself then added, "Me too."

"How's the blonde?" Hermione asked.

"Dumped," he said. "How's Ron?"

"Damned if I know. It's not my turn to watch him this month."

He hooked a finger around one of hers. "Don't suppose you'd watch me instead?" She didn't say anything and he hurried on, "Look, I know that wasn't the deal and I've tried, I've really tried, Granger, but I just don't _like_ any of those women as much as I like you and I know I'm a prat and an arse and scarred up and evil and Ron's a hero and so are you and you'd be bloody stupid to say yes and the one thing you aren't is stupid but – "

"Yes," she said before she lost the nerve. Then she went to grab the spoon back and he held it out of her reach.

"Let me," he said, and scraped up a big spoonful of ice cream and held it towards her. She ate it off the spoon, watching him. When she swallowed he leaned in and, right before he kissed her, Crookshanks yowled again.

He sounded much happier this time.

He was, it was clear, spared. He wouldn't have to share with more cats.

And he'd never really liked Ron.


	25. Two

**Happy Birthday, pagyn**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

When Hermione Granger ran into him in the bookstore Draco Malfoy had been wondering whether the proprietor would sell him anything. Not everyone would, but he was tired of the ancient and dreary tomes with which generations of his family had stocked the Manor library and he was getting desperate for something to read that had been published in the last century.

The witch looked so happy to see him – something no one ever was – that he found himself agreeing to go back to her place for tea even though the idea of spending that much time with another person made him nervous.

He didn't really do people anymore.

She pulled him along by the force of her personality, chattering about people they'd known in school and what they were doing and soon he found himself in the small kitchen of her small flat leaning up against the counter as she put water on and spooned tea into a pot.

She finally asked him the question he'd been dreading.

What, she asked, had _he _been up to since the War. Five years, she said, I haven't seen or heard of you in five years.

She sounded almost wistful and he wondered whether she missed him or envied his low profile. She'd been fawned on in the shop when he paid for his books and he'd thought at least no one had refused him service with Hermione Granger at his side. She'd been accosted at least two times on the street and he was fairly sure someone had snapped a photograph of them.

She'd grimaced at that but not acknowledged it, just kept up a stream of light and empty prattle.

Now, standing here with her, he sighed. "Well, for three years I was under house arrest. I didn't think it would be that bad – I mean, you've seen how big that place is – but somewhere in there I realized I was alone with just my thoughts. Everyone I knew was… no one was owling me, you know. I got to sit around and think about who I was and what I'd done."

"That must have been…" Hermione hesitated.

"I don't recommend it," Draco muttered as Hermione opened up a package of biscuits and pulled a plate out of a cupboard and dumped them out. "Presentation not big in your life?" he asked.

She smiled, an oddly sad expression. "I got tired of all the crazy fancy platings when I was going out all the time. I like things simple now." The water had begun to boil and she poured it into the teapot. "What happened when your house arrest was over?"

He sighed. "I'd thought I couldn't wait to get away from that place but when I could really leave I was too scared to. I spent another month inside."

"That's awful," she said and he was shocked to see actual concern on her face.

"I got better," he hastened, not sure why he cared so much about reassuring her. "But… well, former Death Eaters aren't exactly welcome anywhere. There are a handful of shops that will sell me things, places I can go, but even there it's clear I'm not wanted, just tolerated. It's easier to stay in so I do."

She nodded. The prejudice against former Death Eaters was virulent; people let all their fears from the War spill out on to the handful of people from the losing side who weren't in Azkaban. She didn't seem surprised it had been hard for him.

"How about you," he asked as they stood in her kitchen and waited for the tea to steep. "What have you been doing?"

She shrugged. "After the War, you know, I was a bit of a celebrity and I went out, well, all the time. Every night. It was fun, or something, for a bit but after a while you've gone to every restaurant and been whisked into every nightclub. Every place to eat has some variation of a chicken dish, a fish dish, and some kind of 'we picked it in the woods and scraped it off the road' trendy dish and every man has one of the same three pick up lines. I got… tired of sleeping with a different man every week. At some point I even lost count; they were all the same anyway. It was the loneliest I've ever been." She sagged against the counter a bit and lifted the lid of the pot as though to check to see if the tea was ready. "Ron's still enjoying the scene but I decided I'd rather just stay in and read. After a while you realize how empty and pointless the whole thing is. I realized it didn't make anything better.

"This is probably the first thing even close to a date I've had in almost a year." Hermione pulled a pair of cups down.

"You lost count?" he asked, his voice shaking.

"You aren't going to be all judgey, are you?" she asked, sounding suddenly tense. "There's no reason a woman can't – "

"No," he said quickly, holding a hand out. "It's just a little… Merlin, Granger. I've barely left the house for five years, no one will talk to me and you're… it's a little intimidating is all."

"Oh," she said, a sudden look of comprehension flitting over her face. "I… you're not…"

"Yeah," he muttered before he stood up. "Look, I should go. It's been great to run into you - "

She grabbed his arm. "Don't go," she said. "I promise I won't... just… stay. Have the biscuits. Talk to me."

"You don't need me to talk to you," he said, standing there. "You have – "

"No one who matters," she said. "No one who understands what those days were like."

"You lost _count_," he said again, hopelessly overwhelmed. He'd lost the ability to deal with people when he'd been tucked away alone in that giant house and he didn't think he'd ever get it back.

"One." She put her hand on his chest and he flinched. Human contact was something he hadn't had a lot of in the past years. "Two." She moved it to hers.

"I'm not even sure I can do two anymore," he said, swallowing.

"I'm very quiet," she said. "I read a lot."

She turned away and poured the tea and he stood, torn between wanting to flee and…

"I'm different," he said. "I'm not who I was." He didn't know how to make her understand. "It's not just the… it _broke_ something in me, all that solitude."

"You think I'm not broken?" she asked and he looked at her then, really _looked_ at her. The shallow nattering on she'd done, the way she'd dragged him back here, the years of going out with people she barely knew. "The War," she said. "I'm still…"

"Granger," he said and she closed her eyes.

"Please," she whispered.

"I can try two," he said he reached out and, very carefully, took her hand. She closed it around his and they stood there for a long time as the tea cooled.

Two, as it turned out, wasn't too many. Two was… doable.

Two was, eventually, perfect.


	26. Fetching the Metallurgy Book

**Happy Birthday, LadiePhoenix007**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione Granger had the book he needed, she'd taken it out of the departmental library over nine months ago and hadn't returned it and Draco Malfoy had finally given up waiting and cornered her in her office.

"Look," he'd said. "I need that book to make any more progress in my research."

She'd looked a tad embarrassed. She was pretty notorious for overdue library fines at this point but actually impeding a colleague's progress wasn't cricket and she knew it. "I've got it somewhere at my flat," she'd said. "Pop over tonight on the way home and I'll give it to you."

When he got to her flat he knocked, a bit uneasily, on her door. She opened it and turned away back into a living room and he stepped in. The first thing he saw was a green satin bustier thing thrown over the back of the couch.

"Uh… nice lingerie, Granger," he drawled, covering his discomfort at the idea of Hermione Granger in a bustier with affected disdain. "Didn't bother to clean up for me, huh?"

She looked over that the couch and said, "Oh, I need to bin that. Marcus gave it to me and, while I certainly have no problem dressing up as someone's fantasy, it's a bit disheartening to discover your lover has no idea of the size of your breasts and seems to think they're significantly larger than they are." She pulled out a drawer from a desk and was starting to take things out. "Life tip, Malfoy. Giving your lover lingerie that really, _really _doesn't fit is a quick way to end your relationship."

"Marcus _Flint_?" he asked.

"Huh?" She turned back to him and he stared at the vibrator in her hand. "Yeah, that's the one."

"I didn't know you two were dating," Draco said as she put the vibrator down and pulled out some kind of flanged plug, a set of clamps, some kind of bar thing and leather cuffs. "What are you doing, Granger," he finally demanded as she piled all her things on the floor.

"Looking for your book," she muttered. "I could have sworn…" she pulled out a set of ropes with knots tied in them.

"What the hell is that for?" he asked, finally unable to keep his mouth shut. He'd never even _seen_ half the stuff she was discarding without so much as a blush. He didn't even know what that stuff was _for_.

"The ropes?" She looked back at him in perplexity. "They're for shibari knot tying, of course."

"Of course," he said, trying not to let his jaw hang open as three blindfolds, a flogger and a black ping pong paddle joined the collection on the floor. "Do you always keep your books with your…?" He wasn't sure how to finish that question.

"Well, no, but Percy liked me to read that one to him while he was tied up," she said.

"Percy _Weasley_?" Draco Malfoy asked.

"Uh huh," she said, regarding a strap on dildo affectionately. "Speaking of Percy," she murmured as she added it to the pile.

"Do I even want to know?" he muttered and she laughed.

"Well, let's just say I might have been the only person who wasn't surprised when he came out. Didn't really care much for vagina, Percy didn't, if you get my meaning."

Draco did, and as he turned a bright shade of red he cursed the pale colouring that let every blush show.

"You've… changed… since school," he said under his breath as she finally found the book and, turning, tossed it to him. He caught it as she began piling all her toys back into the drawer. How was it, he wondered, that Hermione Granger, bushy-haired, unpopular swot, seemed to have turned into this sexual deviant and he was stuck with magazines?

Death Eaters weren't popular dates but somehow knowing _Granger_ was this… wild… made his own total inexperience more galling.

"Did Percy really want you to read aloud to him from _Magical Metallurgy Fundamentals__?" _he finally asked and she sighed.

"The things I learned about wave soldering," she said. "He's sweet enough but I was not sad when he moved on." She stood up. "Can I offer you some tea before you go? Or we could order take-away if you don't have plans."

He looked at the bustier on the couch and she laughed and snagged it in one hand on the way to her small kitchen. "I promise, I'll stay fully dressed," she said as she shoved it into a bag under her sink. "I don't think we're exactly on satin lingerie terms, you know? Sorry it was out; I just forgot about the stupid thing."

She didn't sound the slightest bit sorry.

Draco tucked the book into a pocket on the inside of his coat before saying, "Tea would be nice. Take-away too, if I'm not intruding." He forced a cocky smirk to his face to cover his nerves. What the _hell_ were shibari knots? And did he even want to know? "And don't let me stop you from dressing up in green satin if you feel so inspired."

She grinned at him and he suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling he'd just been manipulated. Wasn't he supposed to be the Slytherin in the room? "Just don't make me read to you about metallurgy, turn out to be gay, or be obviously into women with much, larger breasts and you could probably inspire me into just about anything, Draco Malfoy."

Of course, being manipulated wasn't the worst thing in the world.

But, really, what the hell were those knots?

_. . . . . . . . . ._

_A/N - If you like your fanfic smutty, LadiePhoenix007 is a good writer to go cozy up to. _


	27. There's Always Fire

**Happy (very belated) Birthday, AnnaOxford**

. . . . . . . .

Once upon a time there was a girl.

She was plain, rather bookish, and quite clever. She didn't know what to do with her hair and was vaguely perplexed that other girls seemed to know how to do the fashion thing and she didn't; she solved this problem by deciding fashion and feminine frippery were unimportant and anyone worth knowing would appreciate her for who she really was, not how she dressed.

Her cleverness didn't really extend to understanding people but she was very good at books.

There was also a boy.

There's always a boy, isn't there?

He was rather attractive, though not nearly as much as he thought, and athletic, and he had no discernable problems with intellectual pursuits. Unlike the girl, though, he tended to downplay his academic skills in favor of his ability to catch a ball and come up with witty ways to put classmates down.

Boys always care so much about balls.

He noticed the clever girl with the bad hair. Well, it was impossible not to notice her with the way she sat in the front of every class and waved her hand at the teacher as though she were drowning but he noticed that, under her cleverness, she was lonely and wished someone would actually see her.

He felt the same way and didn't like this sense of kinship with an unpopular girl and responded by making as much fun of her as he could.

He wasn't especially clever about people either but he was reasonably good at catching balls.

There was a war.

There isn't always a war, though it can feel as if there were when you're trapped in adolescence. In this case, however, it wasn't a metaphorical war but an actual war with people dying and bleeding and hurting and it was awful in ways neither the boy nor the girl could have anticipated.

They were on opposite sides, of course.

The boy who understands you, even against his own will, is always on the other side. That's just the way narrative works.

When the war was over the boy's side had lost and he stood at the edge of the final battlefield, dirty and bleeding and singed because there had been fire.

There's always fire.

The girl was singed too.

Always fire.

Always bleeding. Always loss. No one escapes their own story wholly unscathed, not even clever children who are good at games and books.

Sometimes, all you can hope is, when you're standing there at the edge of the room, that someone sees you for who you really are, not how you're dressed. When you're dressed in things that are stained and torn and covered in soot there's not much pretense left.

She saw him.

"It will be okay," she said as she took his hand and twined her own filthy fingers through his.

He squeezed her hand.

They stood there.

The sun came up.


	28. Scorpius?

**Happy Birthday, HermioneSnapeLestrange**

. . . . . . . . . .

When Draco found her she was on the back steps, just far enough out of the light spill that no one would see her unless they were looking. She'd sat down, pulled her knees up and was leaning down on them, just gazing out across the dark gardens.

"Had enough of the party?" he asked quietly, settling down next to her.

She shrugged and when she turned towards him he could see the light hit the shiny streams of water slipping down her cheeks.

"Hey," he bent forward and rubbed his nose against hers. "Hey, pretty girl. What's the matter?"

She shrugged again and he waited because she always talked eventually. He just had to have patience. After a bit she sighed. "I'm just scared. The new year always seems to stretch out in front of me; it's just overwhelming this year."

"More than usual?" He leaned back and looked at her and then nodded. "Apparently." He pulled her up against him and rested his chin on the top of her head. "You're the bravest person I know, Hermione. Whatever's coming this year, you'll be fine."

"I'm not that brave," she objected and he huffed out a laugh.

"The woman slays monsters, robs banks, marries the enemy of all right thinking folk, and she says she's not brave."

"You aren't the enemy," she objected and he rolled his eyes.

"You're biased." They sat for a few minutes in silence, hiding from their own party. "You planning on telling me what's wrong?" he finally asked. "What's got you so upset? Did Ron say something?" He began to stand up. "I'll fucking kill him if he..."

She pulled him back down. "Stop. It's just..."

"What?" he squatted back down again.

"The world is so scary, you know? People hate you, people hate me. No one really accepts we're together, not really. It's one slur after another, one little cutting comment that I could be misinterpreting but we both know I'm not, and the Ministry is still just... and that school is so dangerous... and Quidditch is a menace and..."

"Hogwarts?" Draco looked at her, now totally confused. "What does Hogwarts have to do with anything? And the Quidditch thing? Merlin, Hermione, I was fucking kidding when I suggested we decorate my office in school colors. You aren't really that upset about..."

"How can we bring a child into this, into our lives?"

He stopped and looked at her.

"You're pregnant?"

She nodded.

He whooped then, an actual whoop so loud that it drew attention from the people inside the Manor, even with the live music. "Really," he asked, much more quietly and when she nodded again he puller her up from the cold stone stairs and spun her around. "Have I mentioned in the last five minutes how much I adore you? A baby, Hermione, that's... amazing. You're amazing."

"You're happy?" she asked, her voice so quiet he squeezed her into him.

"Happy? I'm beyond happy. All I ask," he said, "is that you don't insist we name him Harry."

"How about Ronald," she asked and he was relieved to see some of her usual needling, pushy spark back.

"Scorpius?" he suggested.

"A constellation? Really?"

"You have met my mother, right?"


	29. Better Aim

**Happy Birthday, ****meldz**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione looked at the positive pregnancy test with a look on her face that could itself only be called 'positive' by the most generous of men.

Draco decided to be that positive and generous man.

"This is wonderful," he said with enthusiasm. "Another baby!"

She gave him an even less amused look. "When we were first married you told me, 'Oh, we don't need to worry about contraceptive charms, sweetheart. You know how the Malfoys are practically infertile, one only son each generation.'"

Draco nodded gamely.

"Then, after Scorpius was born you said, 'No need to worry about contraceptive charms, my love. Malfoys only ever have the one son and we just got lucky quickly.'"

Draco nodded again.

"Then after Cassiopeia was born you said, 'A boy _and _a girl; we're the luckiest Malfoys in over 200 years.'"

Draco pasted the biggest conciliatory smile he could on his face. She was just getting going.

"And then the twins." She frowned. "I still think Castor and Pollux were a bit much for names. Cassie and Cassie have the same nickname. Do you know how hard it is to yell at your children when they have the same name? 'Cassie! Cut that out!' and they both ignore me."

"It's family tradition," Draco said.

"But I thought for SURE we were done at that point. So, again, I held off on the contraceptive charm."

"But Andromeda is your favorite," Draco said thinking of their bushy-haired fifth child who had so far broken three library warding spells of ever increasing strength and complexity.

"I don't have a favorite child," Hermione sniffed, still holding the test results in her hand. "And after Andromeda was Aries."

"Aries Ronald," Draco corrected her, still somewhat annoyed he'd been talked into letting her name one of their children after that prat but that particular pregnancy had been so hard on her that he would have brought her the moon and the sky if that's what it had taken for her to have the strength to hold on. Agreeing to a middle name had seemed trivial at the time.

"Our little Ron," Hermione cooed and he narrowed his eyes. After all these years of marriage he'd come to the conclusion she'd been mis-sorted at Hogwarts. Also, Ron was a menace and had already caused two nannies to quit, one quite vocally. "But Carina is still a _baby _and now you've knocked me up _again_," she continued, making it to the end of their fairly lengthy list of gestational surprises.

"Hey," he said, "It's not like we don't have the staff to just slip another baby seamlessly into our lives, and you're a great mum and…"

"It's not _that_," she said with frustration, backing away from him.

"What's the matter then?" Draco asked.

"We are out – _out_ – of acceptable constellation names. _OUT,_ I tell you. We are _not _naming a child Caelum or Cetus or Mensa or Monoceros or…"

"Volans?" Draco suggested and ducked as quickly as he could.

The pregnancy test hit the wall right behind where his head had been.

He never quite understood how her aim got so much better when she was pregnant.


	30. Wear Those Pants

**Happy Birthday, Honoria Granger**

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco stared at himself in the mirror and tried, without success, to adjust the tight leather pants he was wearing. "I don't know, Blaise," he said. "I feel very… confined."

Blaise, who was lounging on the bed with frank admiration in his eyes, snorted. "You're a thing of beauty," he said and Draco shot him a glare. "It's a total waste you like girls," Blaise continued, "The ongoing tragedy of my life."

"Fuckhead," Draco muttered.

"I'm not sure about the hair, though," Blaise said. "The leather pants, yes. The black t-shirt, absolutely. The hair? I dunno. It's a little David Bowie. Maybe you could dial that back a bit."

"David who?"

Blaise sighed. "Never mind. Merlin, you're so provincial it hurts. Just put the overpriced boots on and let's go."

"Sometimes it's exhausting living up to your expectations," Draco muttered.

They were at the door when Andromeda stopped them. "Oh no," she said. "Draco, you promised. 'I'll be a good cousin,' you said. 'You can count on me, Aunt 'Dromeda,' you said." She handed over Teddy. "My book club is tonight and it's _your turn._"

And then she was gone and Draco was standing there holding a rather fat baby whose hair began to fade to a white blond.

Blaise began to snicker. "You'll be the hottest thing at the bar," he said. "Draco in leather pants with a baby."

"Shut up," Draco said as he balanced his cousin in his arms. "How weird can it be to be at a bar with a baby?"

Blaise was still laughing when they were seated at the bar, baby still in Draco's arms. "Shut _up_," Draco muttered. "I forgot it was book club night. She has a very active social life and I can't keep it straight."

"What are you supposed to be?" Hermione asked as she slid onto the stool next to them. "Jareth the Goblin King?"

"Who?" Draco asked.

"Do you keep him chained up under a rock or something?" she asked Blaise who made a 'hey, this isn't my fault' gesture.

"You said, 'get him to the bar, Blaise'," Blaise said. "You said, 'If you just get him to the bar I'll do the rest.' I practically had to turn the world upside down and reorder the stars but I got him here. You didn't specify 'without a baby.'"

"I didn't realize that required spelling out," Hermione said letting her eyes travel over Draco, only pausing for the briefest of moments at the crotch of his pants.

"What do you want, Granger," Draco said.

"I was going to seduce you," she said, waving the barkeeper over and ordering a drink. "Get you out of your post-war funk. I wore green satin knickers and everything." She hiked up her skirt and flashed him and Draco shifted uncomfortably in his increasing tight pants. "I got _waxed_. But that plan is simply not doable if you're babysitting." She looked around. "In a bar."

"I forgot it was book club night," he muttered again.

"What time are you off duty?" Hermione asked with a much put upon sigh. "Honestly, I ask for so little."

Draco began to mutter something and she held up her hand. "Forget it. You will be at my flat when you're done with the baby and I will get the appropriate repayment for having hair yanked out by the roots, do you understand?"

Blaise was laughing again and Draco glared at him.

"And, Draco," Hermione added, "Wear those pants."


	31. The History Project

**Happy Birthday, randomfantast**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

**Granger**

Hermione looked down at the word that appeared on her parchment and frowned.

**Granger  
Pretty cool, huh?  
I figured out how to write on my own paper and have it appear on someone else's  
Well  
On yours  
Not sure why it only works with you**

She looked stealthily around the room. No one was looking at her, no one was trying to catch her attention.

_Who is this?_

She wrote the question in her neatest writing under the stream of comments.

**It works both ways  
**_Apparently  
_**Merlin  
You even sound like a swot when you write  
**_Who IS this?  
_**Not telling  
**_Ron?  
_**No need to be insulting  
I haven't insulted you and I've been VERY tempted  
Granger  
Granger  
Why aren't you talking to me?  
I'm bored  
Talk to me  
Granger!  
Why does it have to be you, anyway?  
Anyone else would talk to me  
**_Stop bothering me  
_**You're cute when you're mad  
**_I'm trying to pay attention to Binns  
_**Really?  
**_Really  
_**You could probably give the lecture  
I bet you've taken notes from the book  
I bet they're colour coded  
With underlines  
And tabs  
**_They are not  
_**But you've taken notes already  
**_I prepared for class  
Yes  
_**So you know this already  
So do I  
Talk to me instead  
**_I don't even know who you are  
_**There's not that many people in this class  
I'm sure you can figure it out  
I'll give you a hint  
Not Weasley  
**_Why are you bothering me?  
_**I'm bored  
And you're cute  
And it's fun to see you not know something**

Hermione looked over at Harry, who was drawing a detailed picture of Cho Chang on his parchment.

_Not Harry  
_**Hah  
No  
**_Are you going to make me just list off everyone in the room?  
_**Maybe  
**_Dean?  
_**Who?  
**_Lavender?  
_**You think I'm a girl?  
I may die  
I may die RIGHT NOW  
**_Not a girl  
_**Not unless my parents really lied to me when they gave me the talk  
**_Talk?  
_**How little witches and wizards are made  
How boys and girls are different  
That talk  
Maybe Muggles don't do that one?  
**_Not Muggle-born then  
_**No  
No  
NO  
**_Prejudiced much?  
I don't want to talk to you anymore  
_**Granger  
Granger  
I'm sorry  
Granger  
I'm bored  
Look  
Please talk to me  
I didn't mean it  
**_Go away  
_**No  
I can do this every class  
I can keep bothering you  
And I will  
Until you talk to me  
I'm bored  
Granger  
Granger  
I'm sorry, OK  
Fuck  
What do I have to say?  
Granger  
**_Look  
I get a lot of shit, OK?  
From Malfoy and arseholes like him.  
_**Oh  
**_This whole world  
People act like being Muggle-born is  
AT BEST  
Some kind of embarrassing thing I should hide  
Like  
I don't know  
It sucks  
_**Oh  
I'm sorry  
**_Not Malfoy then  
_**Why not him?  
**_Can you imagine Malfoy apologizing for being a git?  
To me?  
I can't  
Can't even imagine him talking to me  
_**I guess  
**_So, who are you?  
_**Maybe we should pay attention  
Edgar the Eager and all  
Good stuff  
**_It's hagiography  
_**What?  
**_The book  
What Binns is saying  
It's all  
cleaned up  
Made to look pretty  
Mostly wizards just slaughtered everyone  
Edgar was actually kind of an awful guy  
He used to cut the hands off of the daughters of his enemies  
And cut their tongues out  
_**Was that in the book?  
I think I missed something  
**_No.  
I did extra reading  
_**Of course you did  
**_It gets more interesting if you look at stuff outside the textbook  
_**You think cutting the hands off people is interesting?  
That's fucked up, Granger  
**_You think being a Muggle-born is something to be ashamed of  
That's what's fucked up  
_**I said I was sorry  
**_You still think it  
_**Do not  
**_Do too  
_**Not  
**_Prove it  
_**What?  
**_Tell me who you are  
_**How does that prove anything?  
**_It was worth a shot  
_**Are you sure you're a Gryffindor?  
That seemed awfully sneaky for one of you pure of heart people  
**_Slytherin, then  
_**What  
**_You're Slytherin  
_**Best house  
**_And a boy  
_**Yep  
**_And there's no way Goyle or Crabbe could have figured out a spell like this  
Fuck  
_**Granger  
Granger  
Granger  
Granger  
**_Go away, Malfoy  
_**I could be Theo  
Or Blaise  
**_I'm not talking to you_**  
Granger  
Granger  
Granger  
Granger  
Hermione  
Tell me more about Edgar  
I'm sorry  
Come on  
You liked me before you knew who I was  
**_Go away  
_**You're talking to me again  
Granger  
Please  
I'm so bored  
**_I'm not here to entertain you, Malfoy  
Despite what you may think  
Go away  
_**Why?  
**_Do you really need a fucking list?  
_**Yes  
**_You've made fun of me  
and called me names  
since we were 11  
_**You broke my nose  
I got over it  
**_You hate everyone like me  
MUDBLOODS  
_**If I hated you I wouldn't be talking to you  
**_Bullshite  
You're only talking to me because you could only get your spell to work with me  
_**I lied about that  
**_What?  
_**Which word didn't you understand?  
**_Arsehole  
_**Your reading comp sucks  
I didn't use the word arsehole  
**_Go away  
_**Granger  
I'm sorry  
I really am  
**_You're just bored  
_**That too  
**_See  
_**I'm not a total arsehole  
**_Yes you are  
_**OK, I probably am  
I still want to talk to you  
**_Why  
And what makes you think I want to talk to you?  
_**You keep writing back?  
**_To tell you to go away  
_**Class is almost over  
**_Thank God  
_**What?  
**_Muggle thing  
From my filthy Muggle background  
_**I think you should take me on as a project  
**_What?  
_**If you can save house elves you can save me  
**_I have totally failed to save a single house elf  
_**Well, I wouldn't wear one of those hats either  
You're bad at knitting  
**_Arsehole  
_**Save me, Granger  
Teach me all about Muggles  
And how I'm wrong  
We have all year  
And this class is boring  
And you've already outlined the whole book  
With different coloured ink  
**_I have not used different coloured ink  
_**You've done  
outside reading  
on purpose  
**_I have  
_**You might know more about the topics than Binns  
**_I know more than you, that's for sure  
_**Did he really cut people's hands off?  
**_Yes  
_**That's gross  
**_It really is  
_**I bet you know more gross stuff you could tell me  
**_I do  
Do you really care?  
_**You going to save me?  
**_You're a prick.  
_**Yep  
I'm cute, though  
**_I prefer gingers  
_**Ewww  
I'll have to save you too  
Mutual salvation pact  
Do we have a deal?  
**_I'm putting my things away now, Malfoy  
_**Do we have a deal?  
Granger?  
Granger?**

.

Hermione Granger narrowed her eyes at the pointy-faced blond boy as they shoved their way out into the hall.

"Deal," she muttered under her breath and he smirked at her.

"What was that about?" Ron asked. "Since when do you talk to Malfoy?"

"Did you know Edgar the Eager used to cut the hands off – "

"Oh, Merlin," he cut her off. "Please no more of your disgusting extra history details. No one cares about that shit but you, Hermione, and no one ever will."

. . . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – Birthday drabbles are explained in my profile. This one was totally inspired by Punch Drunk by the incredible Provocative Envy. Wizard text messages.  
**


	32. Unredeemed

**Happy Birthday, ****Caitiann**

. . . . . . . . . .

"A throne?" Draco had asked her when she'd had the giant chair commissioned, "Doesn't that seem a bit like overkill?"

She'd looked at him, one of those long, cold looks that everyone but him cowered away from. He'd just looked back until she'd laughed and admitted she liked the intimidating symbolism of the thing.

Now she lounged in it, a viper at ease, and he stood slightly behind her, the attentive consort. Blaise and Theo, still the most favored of her knights, were off to her other side. All of them regarded the woman kneeling before the throne with tired amusement. Some people never learned and this was one of them.

"You have displeased us," Hermione finally said and the woman looked up. She'd been locked away from the sun for several weeks and she was still blinking against even the twilight glow of the audience chamber. Hermione had dubbed it "the star chamber" and had decorated the room with an elaborate illusion of the sky as stars flickered into existence in the early gloaming.

Theo had laughed himself sick when she'd told him the name.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" Hermione pressed the woman who raised one hand and said, her voice hoarse, "We were friends. Hermione..."

The guard behind the bedraggled figure kicked her and she gasped and coughed as she doubled back and braced her forehead against the stone floor. "'My Lady' is the term of address for which you were searching," Hermione said. "Our people tend to be sticklers for etiquette."

Hermione looked over at Ron Weasley. Dressed in the worn, grey rags of the lowest servant he stood with his back pressed to the wall and his eyes cast down. The knobby scar tissue around his wrists from the time he'd spent in chains would never fade and she smiled to see it. "What say you, Ronald Weasley," Hermione asked. "What do you think we ought to do with this woman?"

"I...I would bid for clemency, my Lady," he whispered, not raising his eyes.

"Brave," Hermione commented. A guard stepped towards the man and he flinched against the wall but Hermione raised a hand and stopped the guard before he could deliver a blow. "No. We asked the man's opinion. Let it be noted that we shall not punish a man for telling us his thoughts when bidden to do so."

Ron Weasley sagged in evident relief.

"Clemency," Hermione mused turning back to the woman on the floor. Her rich gown had been stained and torn and was in shreds against her back where she'd evidently incited someone into beating her. "Perhaps we should release her into your custody, Ron. Would you like that? A woman in your little flea infested straw bed? Do you think she'd thank you for saving her if it left her sweeping the floors in chains?"

"I don't know, my Lady," he said.

Hermione laughed and leaned over towards Draco and whispered something in the ear he lowered to her. He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. "As you wish, my love," he said. "I am your faithful servant, always."

"My dearest love agrees with our idea to indulge the idle curiosity Ronald's bid for clemency has aroused. Lavender Brown, you are hereby remanded to Ronald Weasley's ownership. We look forward to discovering whether you appreciate the risk he took for you." She glanced over at a guard. "Get her something to wear that befits her new station and have her fitted for bonds."

The guard nodded and backed out of the chamber, the stunned woman in his grip.

"Go with her, Ron," Hermione said. "We're eager to see whether true love endures."

She turned toward Blaise and Theo. "Do we have any other cases to hear today?"

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – The birthday girl **_**asked**_** for a Dark!Dramione.**


	33. Watch Your Back

**Happy Birthday, Jenny Felton!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"Draco, you're with Hermione this time."

Malfoy looked up at Remus Lupin with a carefully blank expression. His acceptance in the Order of the Phoenix was never more than conditional; no one ever quite believed in the idea of a reformed Death Eater, or that he'd been terrified and trapped when that Mark had been burned into his skin. He did what he was told and didn't ask questions and this wasn't any different except for the disconcerting way Dean Thomas and Ron Weasley were sniggering. For whatever reason getting paired with Hermione was funny.

"What's the assignment?" was all he said. Weasley and Thomas and he weren't friendly enough for him to ask them what the joke was.

"Same as usual with her," Lupin muttered. At Draco's politely inquiring expression the werewolf sighed. "You don't know?" he asked.

"Obviously not," Draco said, keeping his tone level.

"Keep her from committing suicide by Death Eater. Stick to her side and Portkey her out, probably with her screaming bloody murder, when she's hurt or in too much danger."

Draco shrugged and pocketed the Portkey he was handed and went, taciturn as always, to the apparation point. Granger was waiting. "Who's my keeper this time," she demanded when he stopped and looked down at her.

"Apparently I am," he said. "Mind telling me why you need one?"

She looked him over and he was struck by how dead her eyes were. They hadn't interacted since his defection. There were a lot of them, these barely-not-a-child soldiers, and he'd kept to his cot most of the time he wasn't out killing people. He read a lot and didn't talk to anyone. She looked... bad. She looked like he felt, like this war had already killed her and her body just hadn't stopped moving yet.

"I don't," she said. "Lupin's just paranoid."

He nodded, taking the obvious lie at face value. "You ready?" he asked.

"I'll apparate us there," she said. "I haven't splinched anyone yet, though I was tempted with Lavender. You guard my back."

"And pull you out when it gets bad?" he asked.

"I would prefer you not to pull me out at all," she muttered and he shrugged.

"Let's go," was all he said and she grabbed onto him and he felt the familiar feeling of apparation before they emerged from the void in front of a neat, suburban house. He followed her in and watched, in some awe, as she engaged in a one-woman full frontal attack on a nest of Death Eaters. This mission - sending one girl against this lot - was insane. _She_ was insane. She was also glorious. She spun and shot and cursed and dodged and within minutes the whole front room was filled with bodies, only one of which he'd taken down.

"Impressive," he said as she stood there, breathing hard. "Can I buy you a drink, Granger?"

She gave him a disgusted eye roll. "Not exactly safe to mosey out to a pub, Malfoy."

"How about just get you a drink?" he asked and, at that, a tiny smirk tugged at her mouth.

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Absolutely," he said, holding a hand out towards her. "If you're brave enough to trust me to apparate you."

She tucked her wand away and walked over to him and, with the dare he'd offered her dancing in eyes that looked alive again, she pressed herself against the length of his body. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her and they were spinning away through the void.

When they appeared she stepped away from him and looked around. "The woods, Malfoy? Brought me out here to kill me, did you?"

He snorted and, dropping to his knees, brushed dirt and debris away from a cache and, lifting up the lid pulled out one, perfect bottle of firewhiskey before sealing his hidey-hole back up and covering it again. "Voila, Miss Doubter. 24-year-old oak-barrel-aged small-batch firewhiskey. The very best that money can buy." He sat down against what was left of a nearby stone wall. "Alas, I didn't pack away glasses so you'll have to accept a more uncouth method of drinking." He opened the bottle, took a swig, and passed it over to her where she sat down next to him.

She took a cautious sip then a more generous swallow.

"You're right," she said. "This is good. You'd be the most popular man in the barracks if you brought this back."

"I think it's going to take a little more than good booze to make your friends not hate me, Granger," he said, taking the bottle back for another swallow. "I'm a Death Eater and all, you know."

"If you're a Death Eater, I'm Mary-fucking-Poppins," Hermione said. "They're all a bunch of arseholes, though, that's true enough." She paused and looked around. "Where are we?"

"Woods outside what used to be Malfoy Manor," Draco said, recapping the bottle and setting it down between them. "Wards are down, Manor's burned to the ground, but my stash of illicit firewhiskey seems to have survived the war intact so far."

"Am I allowed to ask why you have a stash of firewhiskey in the woods?" Hermione said, settling back to look at him.

He squirmed a little under that gaze. "Because when faced with having a homicidal maniac and his equally insane followers in my house I took the oh-so-mature escape of getting regularly drunk," he admitted. "And getting drunk around those wankers was a bad idea so I came out here." He looked around. "Woke up out here a few times too."

"Merlin," Hermione said. "That's rough."

He shrugged. "It was worse for you." He'd long stopped feeling sorry for himself. It didn't help. He didn't expect friendship. He didn't expect fairness. He just got up, did what he was told, hoped he didn't die that day.

"I fucking hate this war," she said.

"War," Draco Malfoy, former child of unimaginable privilege and now barely trusted defector said, "the game of kings."

"And we're the pawns," she agreed, opening the bottle of whiskey and taking another swallow. "And they move us around the board and no one cares."

Draco began to snicker and she looked at him in confusion. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to stop. "It's just… if we follow that chess metaphor through all the way to the end, your friend Potter's the queen and I'm _just_ immature enough to still be able to laugh at that."

"Prat," Hermione said but a smile was slowly blossoming and Draco watched it like it was the sun coming out after forty days of rain and then she was giggling and she was laughing with almost hysterical abandon and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

He tweaked the bottle of firewhiskey away from her hand recapped it as he watched her laugh.

"Feels good to laugh," she said, "Thank you."

He nodded. "Granger," he said it, mouth open and words out before he could stop himself. "Why is getting paired with you a joke?"

"They're all… they're just a bunch of right bastards." She sighed. "I had a… a breakdown. During a mission. Ever since then Lupin's assigned me a baby sitter and they think it's funny."

Draco shrugged. "Have any of us _not_ had a breakdown at this point?"

"Apparently I'm the only one who responded to breaking down by running _towards_ the enemy, shrieking I'd kill them all."

"Isn't that kind of the point?"

"I thought so." They sat for a bit and then Hermione reached out towards him and Draco took the hand she had out, letting his finger close around hers.

"I could watch your back every time," he said. "If you want."

"It'd make you the joke too," she said.

Draco snorted. "Like I care what those people think."

She hesitated then moved a little closer to him, shifting the bottle out of the way so they were almost touching, her hand still in his. "I'd like that," she said and he nodded and they sat together in the silent woods outside what had once been his home.


	34. Fairy Stone

**Happy Birthday, InLoveWithMusic17**

. . . . . . . . . .

"Akzaban." Draco Malfoy put his head down into his arms and tried not to give in to despair.

"It's one year," his lawyer said, gathering up his papers with the air of fussy efficiency the man affected when he knew the information he had to convey was bad.

"One year _if_ someone is willing to stand my parole after that time, someone not related to me, someone with no connections to the bloody-be-damned Death Eaters," Draco said, forcing his voice not to shake. "Which means until I die."

"It means one year," the lawyer insisted. "I found a… someone to take you when it's over."

Draco's laugh was bitter and disbelieving. "You found someone willing to vouch for my good behavior? Really? If they find out you bribed someone to do it they'll throw you in Azkaban too and I know you aren't that loyal." He shook his head. "Don't make this worse than it is with false hope."

"Don't berate the man."

Draco looked up to see Hermione Granger slip into the barren conference room.

"Come to gloat?" he asked, summoning what little bravado he had left. "Plan to think of me suffering while you get lauded as the improbable heroine you are?"

"Came to give you this," she snapped. "Prat."

He flinched as she tied something around his neck.

"I can't give you any kind of actual charm," she said in a low voice near his ear as she pretended to fumble with the knot. "They'd take that away from you; this… this is older magic: a fairy stone. It might help you hold on to what's real. Hold on, Malfoy. It's one year and I'll be there when it's over. Just hang on for me, okay?"

"Why do you care, Mudblood?" he asked, staring at her with sullen eyes.

"You're an idiot," she said. "I'll try to get a pass to come see you. Hang on, you stupid prat."

And then the guards were taking him away and he didn't look back.

He was in his cell, his grim, miserable cell, before he thought again about the rock she'd tied around his neck. A fairy stone. What a crock. Those things were nearly impossible to find and worth a bloody fortune.

If Granger had had one she could have lived like a queen her whole life on the proceeds of selling it.

She certainly wouldn't have tied it around his worthless neck.

He fingered the rock. It felt like a flat stone, worn smooth over years, with a hole slightly off center. She'd run a strand of leather through that hole and used that to tie it to him. He held on to it and wished it were real as he lay on his cot and waited for the Dementors to suck every last bit of hope and happiness out of him.

It was cold, and dank, and dim in his cell.

He lay on his side and held the rock.

He waited.

When morning came he was still waiting. He was cold and hungry and sore but, he had to admit, despite seeing Dementors floating down the hall outside his gated cell he'd never felt the searing cold of their attention.

He began to wait not for despair to arrive and choke him but for Granger. She'd told him she'd try to get a pass. He had to ask her what she meant that she'd be there when the year was over. Had to ask her where she'd found this rock.

Had to ask why she'd given it to him.

He sat in his miserable cell, feeling impossible hope, and the Dementors ignored him.

By the time she finally came he was, he knew, filthy. He didn't get enough water to wash, not ever, and he was afraid that if he got wet he'd get sick anyway. He sat in the visitor's room, threatened by guards who'd shoved him and hit him as they brought him in, and, though he'd waited for this meeting for months, he suddenly wished it weren't happening.

She was there, then, looking at him, her fingers grazing the place he'd split his cheek open when he'd fallen against his floor after being kicked by a guard bringing food. He cringed away from the feel of her.

"I know I'm disgusting," was all he said. "You don't have to touch me."

"You're still in there," she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "Oh, thank God. I've been so worried."

"Yeah," he muttered, looking down at the floor, at the wall behind her, anywhere but at the woman he'd tormented for years who'd somehow decided to…

"What is this?" he asked, touching the rock – the fairy stone – at his neck. "How did you find it?"

"I found it on a walk with my parents when I was six," she said, her hands folded on the table between them. "I've saved it since then. Wore it during the War. But the Fey weren't a part of our War, not really. House Elves, maybe, but they were on our side. Dementors."

"Dementors," Draco Malfoy repeated, his voice harsh from disuse. "I didn't realize they were Fey." He swallowed hard. "Granger, you…"

"Five more months," she said. "Hang on for five more months, Malfoy. I've got a room in my flat for you while you regroup. I'll get you put back together. Just hang on."

"It's been that long?" he asked, closing his eyes. "I… time runs together." He didn't open them as he heard himself say, his voice almost begging, "Why are you helping me?"

"You're an idiot," she said, "So smart and so damn stupid. Just keep warding off the damned fairies and stay in one piece for me, okay?"

"I can do that," he said.

When he opened his eyes she was gone and he wasn't sure she'd ever even been there.

"Arsehole," the guard said as he tossed him back into his cell. "Why a fucking war heroine would waste her time with the likes of you I'll never know."

So she had been there.

"I don't know either," Draco whispered as he lay on his side and held the fairy stone, the old, old magic that protected the wearer against the Fey. Just a rock with a hole worn in it by running water, just the most precious thing he'd ever owned.

His sanity on a leather string around his neck.

Hope. Impossible. Improbable. But so very real.

He tried to follow the days but he couldn't. Had it been one day or two since his food bucket had had the rotting apple? Had the man down the hall stopped sobbing today or yesterday?

He gave up and just waited for her to come back and get him.

Five months.

Four

Three.

He didn't know and then she was there leading him by the hand out of the prison. "Jesus, look at you," she muttered. "Those arseholes."

Her flat was so clean he was afraid to touch anything. "Granger," he said, his voice choked. "Tell me what to do."

She led him to the washroom and stripped him down and he stood so passively she begged him to talk to her. "I just... I can't," he finally said. "For a year I sat and… a year of near solitude and… just tell me what to do," he said.

She nodded and nudged him into a bath. She changed the water three times and at the end he was sobbing as she struggled to comb out his hair. She handed him a towel and he saw tears running down her face too.

"I'll get better," he promised her, reaching a hand out to brush the moisture away from her cheek. "You don't have to worry about me."

She snorted at that. "Idiot," she said.

She helped him dry off and gave him clean clothes and fed him soup. "I told you I'd come get you," she said over and over again.

"It was hard to believe," he admitted as he sat at her table, clean, dressed, eating hot food for the first time in a year. "Why did you give me this?" He touched the rock still at his neck.

"Because you needed it," she said simply. "Because you didn't turn us in when your father asked you to. Because I owed you."

"You gave me… Merlin, Granger, you gave me hope and sanity and all I did was cower away and say I wasn't sure who you were."

"It was what you had to give," she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her. "So I gave what I had." She stood up. "Let me show you your room."

He followed her to the room she'd set up for him. It was clean and pleasant and had a window that let in light and he shrank back from it.

"I don't want to be alone," he said when she put a hand on his arm, a wordless question. He smiled bitterly. "Still a coward, see. I am still in here, under this broken outer shell, I'm still me: worthless and craven and unwanted." He stepped back out of what was his room. "You should have given your rock to someone else."

"I wanted to give it to you," she said.

"Because I'm an idiot," he said, trying to smile.

She tugged him towards her own room and pulled him onto the bed. "Because you're an idiot," she agreed as she wrapped her arms around him and he began to shake again. "You don't have to be alone," she said. "I can keep you from being alone."

"Why?" he whispered into her hair.

She tightened her grip on him and he felt the stirrings of hope: impossible, improbable hope. She murmured something against his hair he couldn't understand but he decided to hold on to the faint possibility he was right and, in case he wasn't, he didn't ask again, just held on to this improbable, possible gift.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N - The 'fairy stone' idea I took from an urban fantasy novel I read so long ago I forget both the name of the book and the author's name. I haven't bothered to pull out my book of fairies and hobgoblins (Yeah, I have a reference. I'm a dork.) to see whether that idea is 'canonically' part of British fairy tale folklore or whether the author whose name I cannot remember made it up. In his (her?) novel the fairy stone allowed the wearer to see truly when in the fairy realm. I just turned it into a talisman that wards the buggers off. Fairies are nasty.**_

_**Shealone, my enabling beta, has convinced me to expand this. You can read the four-shot expanded version, titled 'Fairy Stone'. ** _


	35. The History Project, Part 2

**Happy Birthday, ****niabiaxxmoi**

**This is a sequel to "The History Project"**

. . . . . . . . . .

**Granger**

**Granger**

**Granger**

**Granger**

_Why are you bothering me?_

**I'm bored.**

_Only the boring are bored._

**You must get bored a lot then.**

_Do you have no social skills at all?_

**What?**

_You want me to talk to you_

_When there is a test tomorrow_

_And I'm trying to pay attention_

_And you think the best way to do this is to insult me?_

**It worked, didn't it?**

**Granger**

**Granger**

**Oh, come on.**

**I was teasing.**

**Granger!**

**Fine.**

**I'm sorry.**

**There. Are you happy now?**

**GRANGER!**

_Please stop._

**But I'm bored.**

**Tell me more about history.**

_You could try listening to Binns._

_I have this crazy idea _

_He might be talking about history._

**He just listed all the contents of Goblin warpacks.**

_I know_

_Because, unlike you, I was listening._

**That makes no sense.**

**If I weren't listening**

**I wouldn't have known what he was talking about**

_Fine, you were listening._

**But it's boring.**

**And pointless.**

**Are any of us **

**ever going to need to pack a bag to **

**survive in the woods for six months?**

**Really?**

_You never know._

**Do you ever admit you're wrong?**

_No._

**But you're wrong about me, right?**

_I doubt it._

**But you're talking to me.**

**So you must think I'm not totally unsalvageable.**

_You can spell, it's true._

**And I'm cute.**

_I'd stick with the spelling compliment._

**You're smiling.**

**I made you smile.**

_Maybe I find the lecture amusing._

**Doubt it.**

_Malfoy_

**What?**

_We've been doing this for months._

**I know**

**It's great**

**You keep me awake in history**

_We all have a purpose._

_How lucky I am to have found mine._

**Are you being sarcastic?**

_You think?_

_Look_

_You're smart_

_And you're funny_

**And I can spell**

_But you're still basically a prejudiced arsehole_

_And I'm tired of it_

**What do you mean?**

**I talk to you.**

**Every day**

_Only this way_

_Where no one can see us_

_Or hear us_

**You've told Scarhead you write notes to me all history class?**

_No_

**Or Weasel?**

_That's not the same_

**Is**

_Is not_

**Is**

**You're embarrassed to admit you like me**

**I think my feelings are hurt**

**Maybe I don't want to talk to you anymore.**

_Malfoy, don't be ridiculous_

_Malfoy_

_Malfoy_

_Malfoy_

_Arrghhhh_

_Why aren't you talking to me?_

**You're ashamed of me.**

_You're ashamed of ME._

**Why would I be more ashamed of you than you of me?**

_Because you're a racist prick._

**Now who had no social skills?**

_What?_

**You want attention so you insult me?**

_Are you claiming you AREN'T_ _embarrassed to admit you talk to a Mudblood?_

**Nice language**

_I give up_

**Granger**

**Please don't**

_Talk to me in public then_

**It's not that easy**

_See?_

**Shite**

**Are you crying**

**No**

**Fuck**

**Granger**

**Come on**

_I have allergies_

_Leave me alone, okay?_

**You don't have allergies**

**Fuck**

_Do you want to know some kind of weird Goblin anecdote?_

_I'm good at those_

_Keep you entertained in history_

_Wouldn't want Draco Malfoy to get bored_

**Granger**

_Did you know that in 1653 a goblin petitioned to marry a witch_

_They killed him_

**Who? Wizards?**

_The other goblins_

_Killed her too._

**Nice**

**You're still sniffling**

**I'm sorry**

_It's fine_

_It's not like I really was looking forward to having to listen to Ron_

_go on and on and on about how much you suck_

_and how I shouldn't waste my time talking to you_

_and would I look over his essay while he snogs LavLav_

**LavLav?**

**Tell me you're joking**

_She calls him WonWon_

**I might be ill.**

**You're going to make me be ill right here in class**

**Would you walk me to the infirmary to make sure I got there**

_Malfoy?_

**It seems like the least you could do**

**After making me ill**

**WonWon?**

**Really?**

_Really_

**If you ever call me something like that I will go back to pretending not to know you**

_What?_

**HerHer**

_I'll hit you again if you call me that._

**So violent.**

"Professor Binns?"

The ghost stopped talking about Goblin supply chains and squinted at the blond student with his hand up. "Yes, Mr. Malloy?"

"Malfoy. I don't feel well. I think I may throw up and I'm a bit faint. May I be excused to go to the Infirmary?"

The ghost waved his hand towards the door.

"I think I'll need help getting there," Draco said. "I really feel weak. Could Miss Granger walk me down?"

The ghost nodded and Draco smirked at Hermione as she gathered up her things.

"What's he want?" Ron hissed from his seat but Hermione ignored him.

"Draco," Pansy nearly shrieked. "What are you doing?"

Draco held the door for Hermione, not even glancing at Pansy. "Well," he said once the door had closed behind them and they were alone in the hall. "Lunch should be interesting today. HerHer."

"Do it again and I will hit you," she threatened.

He slung an arm around her shoulder. "Uh huh."


	36. A Good Man

**Happy Birthday, Lorelai Love Spencer-Meraz**

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione stood at the window of Draco's bedroom – of their bedroom – and looked out at the meticulously maintained gardens of Malfoy Manor. "You voted for it," she said.

"I had to," he said, coming up behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders. "You know that. To do this thing we're doing I have to vote for every measure and carry one end of a Death Eater banner in every parade."

"I know." Her voice was laced with resignation as she leaned her head back against him. "I still hate it."

Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort and the Death Eaters had won anyway. It wasn't that surprising; they'd already controlled the Ministry and the press. Articles had run lauding Harry Potter's sacrifice – he hadn't made it off the battlefield after a much lamented stray hex from a Death Eater had struck him – and that was that. Draco wrapped his arms around the woman in front of him and sighed. "I'll keep you safe," he promised again. "To be the adored mistress of a powerful man isn't the worst position."

"Mistress," she said, voice bitter now.

Muggle-borns were prohibited from marrying purebloods. Muggle-borns need not apply to most jobs. Muggle-borns were encouraged to stay in their place.

"I'd marry you if I could," he said, voice low. "You know that. We can still leave, if you want. Say the word and I'll have us both in the French chateau within the hour, ring on your finger and binding vow tying you to me."

"And another person working to end this – to even temper this madness – is gone," she said and shook her head. "I just wish – "

"I know," he said. "But I will keep you safe. Anyone who even looks at you wrong, much less –"

"Calls me a Mudblood?"

"Exactly. They'll wish they hadn't. They'll _die_ wishing they hadn't."

She ran her hand over the Mark on his arm. "Death Eater," she said. "And now it's what runs the country."

"We're a noble, fraternal organization," Draco said, mocking himself even as he held her against him. "Meetings. Dues. I think I'm supposed to bring the drinks next time."

"And they expect you to kill people for sport or out of irritation of because you're bored."

"They do," he said.

And he did. He'd never tell her how many people he'd slaughtered in his role as Death Eater and head of the Malfoy family. He'd never tell her his threat that anyone who insulted her would die wasn't empty; that it had, indeed, already been fulfilled. She could walk down the street without fear because she was his and people knew it; if keeping her safe meant he had to dirty every last corner of his soul he'd do it.

"You're a good man, Draco Malfoy," she said.

"Even though I voted for today's disgusting bill?" he asked, resting his cheek on her hair.

"How many people did you smuggle out this week?" she asked.

"About a dozen," he said.

She turned in his arms and he held onto her. He kept her safe, she kept him whole.

"A good man," she said again as they stood there.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – I am a tad behind on these. If you are a regular reviewer and would like one you **__**have**__** to ask via PM for organizational reasons. Otherwise it just won't happen because I have too much going on to keep things straight.**_


	37. Stuck

**Happy Birthday, moreremusplease**

. . . . . . . .

When she regained consciousness she saw him and her chest began to hitch up and down in terrified hiccups and she tried to push herself away from him on the bed.

She was still much too weak to move easily, of course.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Draco said. "You're safe," he said.

She swallowed hard.

"Safe," he said again. "I pulled you out of there. You're…we're in a bolt hole that was prepared a while ago." He huffed out a snort. "I admit I didn't think I'd have you in here with me but…" He shook his head.

"Why?" she asked, her voice still rough from all the screaming she'd done.

"Why are you here? Why am I here? Why did I pull you out?" Draco asked as he turned from her to sort through the inadequate potions he had spread out on a table next to the bed.

"Yes," she said still watching him with those wary eyes.

He sighed. "How much do you remember?"

"I was… Snatched. You were there. It was… your aunt. A room full of people in masks. I… I don't know."

Draco nodded. "You got caught. I'm not sure how. My batshit crazy aunt was told she could play with you until you broke as a reward for something or other and… it was bad." He rubbed at his forehead with one hand. "It was really bad. I wanted to just kill you to end it."

"Obviously you didn't," she said, her voice catching and he closed his eyes. Thank Merlin she didn't seem to remember in any detail. He hoped she never would.

"No," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "There was a break and people went out to get food." Something about the way they'd taken a snack break while torturing his classmate had been the thing that had decided him. The surreal horror of that had been too much. "It was just you and her and… I killed her and grabbed you and brought us here."

"Here?" Hermione Granger looked around the little cottage. "Where are we?"

"Bolt hole," he said again. "My mother prepared it for me before she died." He was proud he was able to say that without his voice faltering.

"I didn't know," the frail woman on the bed said. "I'm sorry."

"It was fast," he said. "I was grateful for that." He handed her a potion. "For the pain," he said.

"Why?" she asked again.

"I'd had enough," he said simply.

She looked down at the vial in her hand. "Thank you," she said.

He reached out and tucked one of her impossible curls behind an ear. "You might not feel that way after you realize what being stuck in a small cottage with me will be like."

"We're stuck?"

"Well," he shrugged. "I've got it stocked with enough tinned food to last for years. We've got water and a small garden. But leave the boundaries and you leave the protection of the fidelius charm."

"Safe," she said, her fingers still clutching the vial.

"Safe," he said again.

She began to laugh and he felt a stab of worry Bellatrix had managed to drive her insane. She must have seen the concern on his face because she said, around the hysterical laughter, "I'm not round the bend, it's just… we're safe but we're stuck together. I was saved by Draco Malfoy. You're stuck in a cottage with the Mudblood you despise because of a sudden, heroic impulse. We'll kill each other within a week."

She uncorked the pain potion and swallowed it in one shot. He'd laced it with a sleeping draught and she began to sag from the drugs almost immediately.

"I think I can manage not to kill you," he said as he took the vial from her and set it down. "It would be a bit of a waste to throw away my entire Death Eater career just to off you now. Besides, maybe you're a better cook than I am."

"Pragmatic," she said, her voice already slurring.

He took her hand and watched as she fell mostly into sleep, his thumb rubbing across back and forth across her palm.

"Malfoy," she said before she fell totally back into darkness. "I can't cook for shit."

He watched her sleep for a while before he dropped a kiss across her forehead. "We'll make do," he whispered.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – I've had a request for Draco as the caretaker as I do tend to make Hermione be the strong character. Well, here y'all go. :)**_

_**Just a reminder that requests for birthday drabbles HAVE TO be via PM or they get lost.**_


	38. An Accident

**Happy (belated) birthday, Don't Trust The Silver Eyes**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

He didn't mean to love her.

It had been an accident. Life isn't controllable and the more you try to shove it into a box the more, like a cat being put into a carrier, it wrestles itself away from you.

It wasn't his fault life had scratched him until he bled, until the scars were so deep they'd never fade.

Not the ones on the outside either.

Not hers either.

He hadn't tried to push back until it was too late, that he freely admitted. Admitted it as he sat in their room, body tensed against showing anything. "I was a shite," he said, face braced against the slightest quiver, jaw clenched against any tremor.

"You weren't," she said. "Come to bed."

He couldn't stay. Couldn't accept balm. Blame, yes. Balm, never. To heal was to say that maybe he hadn't been that bad, that maybe he didn't deserve to suffer and he needed to (wanted to) atone (suffer).

He couldn't leave. Couldn't walk away from the outstretched hand. Couldn't couldn't couldn't.

"I love you, too," she said, reaching to him. "I wish you'd stop hating yourself. None of it was your fault."

"It was," he said, words choked. Words helpless. "Your arm."

Shorthand. He didn't save her. It wasn't fair to her (to him) to have her save him now.

"My heart," she said. "That you've saved. Come." A short gesture. A sharp tug on his arm and he was turning back to her.

"The peace is harder than I'd expected," he said. Concession. Confession.

"Yeah," she said, and she had burrowed back into his arms and he was holding her, holding on. Balm. Blame. Scars. Bleeding. Love.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – I know I am behind on these. I have been short on inspiration. They will eventually all arrive, but late.**


	39. Whatever She Wants

**Happy (belated) birthday, Midnight Little One**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

He was scared of her.

That was the main thing.

When the war was over, when Voldemort lay dead on the floor and the world lauded Harry Potter, emotionally damaged savior of the world, they forgot about the side kicks for a just a little bit too long. Ron, well, Ron hadn't mattered. He would have been happy to throw back a pint at the corner pub and retell his glory days for the rest of his life. An audience that made him feel like he was the center of attention, that was all he wanted.

Not Hermione Granger, however. She'd wanted more.

Draco had been stunned to realize how dangerous she was. The bushy-haired Mudblood sidekick had kept her little Trio alive for _years_, always in the background. He'd known she was a bookworm but he'd assumed she was off reading romance novels.

Her tastes, as it turned out, ran more to military strategy.

And she was _brilliant_ at it.

He was never sure if she'd shown up at his flat and seduced him out of lust or because he was useful to her. He didn't want to ask for fear she'd look at him with those cool eyes and admit he was just a tool. He'd fallen for her, loved her, married her even as the world had raised polite eyebrows at her blood status.

Not his mother, of course. No, Narcissa had taken one look at the girl and murmured something about how she reminded her of some of the cleverer Blacks. Lucius had taken his cue from Narcissa, something for which Draco was grateful now that people who'd openly criticized him for marrying a Mudblood had developed an unfortunate habit of turning up dead.

Sometimes mutilated.

"A bit much, Hermione," he'd said one day over breakfast, reading about the desecrated corpse of one of her enemies.

She'd shrugged. "People don't always pick up on subtle," she'd said.

She'd made him Minister of Magic. He was a Malfoy, after all, she'd said. And there was a power vacuum after the war and he might as well be the one to fill it.

"Shacklebolt," Draco had said to her. "And I was a Death Eater."

"Which makes you a perfect symbol of post-war unity," she'd said, kissing him lightly on the temple.

Shaklebolt had been dead a few days later. A tragic accident.

She scared him.

But he loved her, loved her so much he wondered, sometimes, how it was he'd gone from hating the filthy school yard rival to revolving around her, endlessly orbiting her brilliance, always the public face of her power. He suspected he'd better not ask too many questions about that.

He looked up at her as she passed him the baby name book, her swelling abdomen cradling his heir. "I think Scorpius for a boy, don't you?" she asked. "Perhaps Cassiopeia for a girl?"

"Whatever you want, love," he said. "You know that."

She smiled at him. "Yes," she said softly, "I do."


	40. Apples

Fall was his favorite time at the market. It opened in spring, of course, but in spring all he had to sell were the leftover preserves from the last season. He'd line them up, neat jars of apple butter and apple jelly and apple pie filling each covered with a square of black linen because he was selling things at a dusty market but he was still a Malfoy, damnit.

His mother loved that he was an apple grower, or at least she pretended to.

"He's happy," his mother would say to her husband when he complained about Draco's choice of work. "Let the boy alone. Money isn't everything. Maybe he'll find…" and then she'd trail off and just look at him.

Money wasn't much of anything to Narcissa Malfoy because she hadn't the faintest idea what it meant to be without it. No, what she wanted was babies. A lifetime of miscarriage after miscarriage and one – one very difficult – pregnancy brought to term had left her pinning hopes for a large family on him. "I love my sisters," she'd say. "One of my greatest regrets is that I couldn't give you any siblings."

Draco thought of Bellatrix, currently undergoing another round of in-patient therapy for her violent delusions, and considered that being an only child wasn't the worst thing in the world.

His father, well, Lucius muttered things about the stock market and getting a real job and didn't he want to make an actual living doing actual things.

Draco was fairly sure his father believed selling complex derivative bundles was somehow realer than growing food. His therapist had suggested that he let his father be happy in his own way and not try to explain the joy he found in nurturing broken seedlings along, in seeing the blocks of beehives set out with the streams of bees going back and forth, of picking an apple off the tree and biting into it. After a childhood of trying to please the old man and never being quite good enough Draco Malfoy had taken his trust fund, moved upstate, and bought a small apple farm. The locals had said he'd be gone in six months and now, six years later, he was a fixture and even Hermione Granger, local girl made good, would acknowledge him.

Hermione Granger. He looked over at the next booth. The woman wrote something vaguely akin to cookbooks which she arranged on her stand in the most meticulous fashion he'd ever seen. She'd treated him – using the word 'treat' loosely – to an extensive diatribe on the different virtues of the Dewey Decimal system, the Library of Congress system and some weird system they used at Yale and of which she did not approve.

He would have guessed she'd gone to Smith or Reed or Bard or something but Yale made sense too, he supposed, though it was hard to imagine her idealism sitting in a classroom with the girls he remembered from Choate. Just the thought of Pansy Parkinson staring at Granger's dumpy, hippy shoes in what would have been unmitigated horror made him smirk. She'd asked where he'd gone and when he'd shrugged and said, "I didn't" she'd looked _aghast_. It was as if he'd admitted to being a terrorist. "I interned with an old organic farmer in Washington State," he'd finally said, mostly to get the look of pity off her face. "The man knows more about farming and apple growing than any university program."

"Oh," she'd said and flushed.

Some day, he thought, he'd have to introduce her to his parents and watch her squirm when presented with society matron Narcissa Malfoy. Though, he admitted to himself, she'd probably just lecture the woman on exploitative working conditions for immigrants. Her current project was some Hugo Chavez spin off and she was luring people to her table with her books on foraging wild greens and her knitted hats and then coercing them into signing a petition and promising to boycott farms that didn't pay their workers a fair wage.

He wasn't sure how she expected people to discern that while looking a pile of grapes in the market but she sure was passionate about it. Her hair glowed in the fall sun and she had a smattering of freckles across her brown skin and she leaned forward when she spoke, her eyes all sparkly. He couldn't help but find her unbelievably beautiful.

"Take Draco, for example," she was saying and he shook himself out of his nearly mesmerized staring and blinked his eyes a few times. "He pays his workers a living wage."

"I do," he admitted. "But I think you're over-singing my merits, Granger. I'm not exactly running a big operation over here." He waved his hand indicating his small table and his baskets of perfect, organic apples.

He did really love apples.

"Don't sell yourself short," she said, flashing one of those broad smiles at him. "You could make more profit if you paid them less."

"Or get people who don't care about their work," he drawled. "Try not to ascribe virtue to what may be just pragmatic self-interest." The young couple she'd been talking to, who were walking around with a baby tied onto the mother's back with a long piece of what looked like t-shirt fabric, laughed and so did Granger.

Yes, he though, watching her laugh. He absolutely had to introduce her to his mother.

He'd just pray the woman didn't bring up grandchildren at their first meeting.

Or mention Granger's shoes.


	41. The History Project, Part 3

**Happy (belated) Birthday, Vernoodle**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

_**A/N -**__ This continues the fragmented multi-drabble story started in "The History Project" (chapter 31) and continued in "The History Project, Part 1" (chapter 35)._

**. . . . . . . . . .**

**I'm going to kill him.**

Draco looked down at the words that formed on his parchment and cringed. Hermione was pissed about something. At someone. And who was easy to guess.

_Ron_?

**Who I'm friends with is not his business.**

_Told you_

_And we aren't friends_

_We're dating_

_Try to keep up_

**We go to boarding school**

**Dating is not all that possible**

_Hogsmeade_

**Oh, goody.**

**Once a month we get to go buy candy**

**I'm a little over candy quills**

_I won't buy you one then_

**You were going to?**

_Well, I won't now_

_Granger_

_Granger_

_Granger_

_Ignore the weasel_

**Can't**

_You're pretty good at ignoring me_

_How much harder can he be to ignore?_

_When I'm smarter_

_And cuter_

_And I kiss better_

**So many things I could say to that**

_Merlin_

_No._

_I'm going to be ill_

**Fine**

**You're smarter**

_Keep going, Granger_

_I know where you live_

**You can't get in**

_You told me the password_

_Remember?_

**You're cuter**

_Better_

**Two out of three…**

_Granger!_

**Well, I don't really have enough data to compare**

_Does that mean you have or haven't kissed the weasel?_

_Granger_

_Granger_

_Granger_

_HERMIONE_

**Haven't**

**And after his 'fraternizing with the enemy' bullshite**

**If he were the last man on earth **

**I wouldn't**

_Weasley knows the word 'fraternizing'?_

**I was surprised too.**

**Thick-headed**

**Stubborn**

**git.**

_What happened?_

**Just**

**He cornered me in the common room**

**And got all…**

**Like he's got any right**

**Do you have any idea how gross he and Lavender are?**

**They're like a sex-ed video**

_What's a video?_

**Muggle thing. Moving picture that lasts a long time.**

_Oh._

_Muggles need videos to figure out how to have sex?_

**I…**

**Never mind.**

_No, this is so interesting._

_I bet you're glad you're a witch_

_Like, really glad._

_I can assure you_

_I don't need a video_

**After Ron and Lavender no one does**

_Excuse me_

_While I go wash my brain_

_After that visual_

_You are an evil woman_

**Clearly I have been spending too much time with you**

_Nope_

_You were evil before I seduced you with my charming ways_

**Was not**

_Hah_

_You go on telling yourself that_

**You go on telling yourself you're charming**

_Wounded_

_You have wounded me_

_I am going to die_

_And you don't even care_

**Oh please**

_You care?_

**You know I adore you.**

_Je'tieme or whatever _

**Your French isn't so great**

_Sorry_

_You're_

_You know_

_You're _

_I love you too_

_There_

_I said it_

_So don't go killing Weasely_

_Even though he's a prat_

_And a git_

_And deserves it_

_Because if you went to Azkaban_

_I'd be really pissed off at you_

**You can stop babbling now**

_Granger?_

**Je t'aime**

_So that's how you spell it_

_Free period next?_

**Nope**

**Runes**

_Skiv off_

_Come hide in an old classroom with me_

_And tell me more about these Muggle sex videos_

**Oh my god**

**I tell you I love you and you want to watch porn**

_Is that bad?_

_Can't be as bad as Ron and LavLav._

**You are such a pain**

**Fine, I'll skiv off**

**But no videos**

_I don't need a video_

**Oh my god.**


	42. Born in a Barn

**Happy Birthday, Kissel137 (and happy graduation and have a great wedding and a wonderful life together with your fiancé!)**

. . . . . . . . . .

"Want to play?" Draco asked, shoving his paperwork aside with an exasperated sigh. You tried to hire the best people and sometimes you got idiots anyway. It had been a long, stressful day of untangling one of those idiot's mistakes and he wanted to relax.

Hermione glanced up from where she was sitting on the couch with Theo, a smirk starting to lurk in the corners of her eyes. "Sure," she said, handing her book over to Theo.

Theo slouched down lower into the cushions and made a disgruntled sound.

"What?" Draco asked.

"Just… silencing charms are your friends," Theo muttered.

"You could always join us," Draco suggested and Hermione laughed while Theo shoved himself even further into the couch. Hermione dropped a kiss on his forehead before sauntering across the room, the respectable sundress she had on swinging from her hips. Draco ran his eyes over the dress, from the high neckline to the way the fabric just brushed the tops of her knees and said, "Take the dress off."

"Really," Hermione said with a smug toss of her hair. "Here? In the living room?" She snorted. "Make me."

Draco exhaled in absolute delight as an evil, little smile tugged his lips upward. "Turn around."

"Oh, just… why?" Theo groaned from the couch.

"I don't think so." Hermione put her hands on her hips, tilted her head to the side and smirked at him. He stepped in even closer, reached around, and slowly unzipped the dress. The stiff yellow organdy crumpled to a pile at her feet as it slipped down and she kicked it away. He puts a hand on her shoulder and spun her around. A quick slip of his arm under hers and he had her held tightly against him, her back to him; he braced her against his leg and held her in place while he used the other hand to unhook her bra. She helped him pull it off her and then lay her head back against his shoulder as he wet his thumb and began to draw slow circles around one of her nipples.

"You don't think so? Seems to me you're turned around," Draco murmured. He pinched her nipple and she gasped and tried to turn back around to kiss him but he had her held in place too firmly and, of course, he'd started running his free hand along the edge of her knickers, distracting her. "You have too much clothing on."

He started nudging her across the room to their bedroom before she could start to verbally object to his assessment of her state of undress, something she was sure to do since he was still fully clothed. As Draco shut the door Theo called out, "Remember the silencing charm this time, arsehole."

"Merlin," Theo muttered, getting up to go for a walk when Hermione started to make assorted loud noises from the most certainly _not_ silenced other room. "It's like living with cats in heat." He paused before slamming the front door behind him to yell out, "Were you two born in a barn or something?"

Theo could hear Draco laughing even from the front walk.


	43. The History Project, Part 4

**Happy Birthday, Cecily Mitchell**

. . . . . . . . . .

_This is a continuation in the History Project series, started in chapters 31, 35, &amp; 41_

_There were a lot of requests to keep this series going. It gets less funny because, well, canon has ugly things happening in the world outside Hogwarts starting at the end of fifth year. Please let me know if you'd like this to keep going now that the world gets darker. I won't be offended if the general vote is for no, that this format only works when it's funny._

_I've also started a second series of drabbles for non-dramione stuff if you're interested in that kind of thing._

_. . . . . . . . . . _

**Granger**

**Granger**

**I'm really scared**

**Granger**

**You're up there in the infirmary and my dad's in prison and I'm really scared.**

**I hate your friends.**

**I hate them.**

**I feel like I should hate you.**

**They won't even let me see you.**

**Stupid Pomfrey turned me away at the door.**

**What were you thinking?**

**Going up against Death Eaters.**

**You're so stupid, Granger.**

**So stupid**

**You're just a bloody teenager.**

**You can't fight those people.**

**I can't fight those people.**

**Granger.**

**I don't know what to do.**

**I wish I could talk to you.**

**I know you can't read this.**

**You're probably not even awake.**

**Not looking at history notes**

**Waiting for a message from worthless me**

**I hate that you're hurt.**

**What were you even doing there?**

**You're a kid**

**We're not supposed to have to fight yet**

**I hate your friends**

**I hate them**

**Saint Potter is why my dad's in prison**

**I hate him**

**And Weasley**

**And all of you**

**And I miss you so much**

**And I'm so scared**

**Granger**

**What am I going to do?**

**He's in my house.**

**And you're hurt.**

**And they won't let me see you.**

**Potter gets to see you.**

**And Weasley**

**But not me**

**Because I'm already the bad guy**

**And I wasn't even there**

**I wish I could just sit there and hold your hand**

**Even if you aren't awake**

**I sent flowers**

**I didn't sign the card**

**I figured if they were from me the old bat would probably throw them away**

**But the lilacs are from me.**

**I thought you'd like lilacs**

**My mother has a bunch in her garden**

**And I've always loved the way they smell**

**And you don't seem like a roses or carnations girl to me**

**Too stiff**

**Too obvious**

**I love you, you know**

**Stupid Granger**

**What the fuck were you even doing there?**

**You can't fight Death Eaters, Granger**

**They're fucking ruthless**

**They're never going to stop coming**

**And you made yourself a target**

**Why did you have to do that?**

**I'm so scared**

**I shouldn't be scared. **

**I should be ready to man up and do battle and all that**

**You were**

**You're never scared**

_I am_

**Granger**

_Hey_

_Malfoy_

**Are you okay?**

**What are you doing up?!**

**You should be resting**

_Miss you_

_Kind of woozy from the potion_

_But I'll be out tomorrow_

_See you then_

**Granger**

_I like the lilacs_

_I guessed they were from you_

_You're sweet_

_Good_

**I'm not good**

_Are_

_Too tired to argue_

_Don't make me argue_

**I won't**

**Granger**

**I wish I could come see you**

_Me too_

_Malfoy_

**Yes?**

_It'll be okay_

**Won't**

_We'll figure it out_

**I'm scared**

_I know_

_Love you too_

_You know_

**Granger**

_Tired_

_I'm okay_

_Hurts_

_I'll see you tomorrow_


	44. 10 Times McGonagall Had Something to Say

**Happy Birthday, Kateli!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

**1.**

McGonagall looked at Dumbldore with disgust. "You can't just leave a baby on a doorstep, Albus. I'm going to charitably assume the war has left you a little shaken and I'll take care of this."

**2.**

She looked at the couple, barely old enough to be called adults. The girl was covered in soot and dirt and blood and the boy – so pale and angular he was obviously a Malfoy – was bleeding from a cut on his arm that he seemed unaware of. He had his hand on the girl's shoulder, his fingers curled into her as though he were afraid she would disappear. "You realize that by telling me this you might have changed the future enough that you, as you are now, the product of all your experiences, might cease to exist," McGonagall said, wondering who had been so foolish as to give a teenager a time turner.

The girl closed her eyes. "We had to do it. If we could prevent war, we had to."

"You know I'll find you," the boy said, his voice raw and urgent. "No matter what universe we live in, I'll find you. If I could find you in this one when blood prejudice and a war set us at one another's throats, I'll find you in a peaceful one."

"Don't forget about Sirius Black," the girl begged her and McGonagall watched, horrified, as the pair began to fade away. She saw the Mark, long healed, burned into the boy's arm and shuddered. Children. They were going to recruit children next time.

She looked down at the baby, scar on his forehead, asleep in a transfigured basket on her floor and thought grimly, not if I have anything to say about it, and she pulled out a sheet of parchment and began writing to the Ministry about the Sirius Black case.

**3.**

"That house doesn't have to be quite so grim," McGonagall said as she handed the baby over to Sirius. "Or so old. Owl your cousin Narcissa and have her send over her house elves. They'll get that place fit for habitation." The man, the least mature, in her opinion, of all his group of troublemakers, grumbled and she glared at him. "Grow up, Sirius," she ordered. "You have a child now."

**4.**

The first years were smaller every year. It was a cliché and yet she found herself thinking it every time as they stood, nervous and clutching at their unfamiliar robes. She looked them over and spotted James' boy. Sirius' boy. He had his arm looped around another boy's shoulders, a child so pale she knew it had to be this generation's Malfoy. She nodded. That made sense. Cousins, of course, and as soon as Narcissa Malfoy nee Black had known Sirius had a baby she would have brought all her considerable resources to bear on making sure that went well. Narcissa was, McGonagall thought, a cold bitch of a woman but she would do anything for family.

She studied the pale boy with a misgiving itching at the back of her brain until the vision of that child, grown up, filthy, bleeding and Marked as he stood in her office rose from her memory.

McGonagall muttered under her breath before explaining the Sorting to this year's class.

**5.**

"Draco Malfoy."

The Malfoy boy was Sorted into Gryffindor. She wasn't looking forward to the owl she'd get from his father about that but she wasn't surprised. Anyone who would risk negating his own existence to try to prevent a war had a streak of bravery at his core. She suspected he'd seen dreadful things to push him into that. She vowed, again, that she'd protect these children in her care even against their parents. Even, she thought, against Albus Dumblefore who was regarding James' boy with a disquieting speculation in his eyes.

The boy slid onto the bench next to a bushy haired Muggle-born girl who'd already been Sorted. He said something to her made her hit him on the shoulder. He rubbed it and grinned at her, mischief incarnate and McGonagall had the sudden, awful realization that Sirius Black had had a hand in shaping this version of this child. Two children in the same year, both influenced by Mauraders.

She tried to remember how much firewhiskey she had in her room. It wouldn't be enough.

"Harry Potter."

The room filled with gasps as she confirmed the rumors that the Boy Who Lived was there. He looked uncomfortable and sprang from the stool and fled to the Gryffindor table as fast as he could.

**6.**

"You look beautiful tonight, Miss Granger," McGonagall said as the fourth year girl ladled punch into two glasses at the Yule Ball.

"Thank you, ma'am," she said. Draco Malfoy was leaning up against a column, holding court it appeared, as he waited for her to come back.

"Are you having a good time," McGonagall pressed.

"Yes, ma'am." She paused. "I never had a chance to thank you for making sure Harry didn't have to participate in the tri-wizard tournament."

McGonagall waved her hand as though that argument hadn't taken days, hadn't required her to draw on a lawyer Narcissa Malfoy had provided. "He's underage and minors can't enter into legal contracts so it was simply a ridiculous prank someone instigated that had to be snipped in the bud before anyone got hurt."

**7.**

"You're having visions of the Dark Lord?" McGonagall looked at Harry, dismayed more than she revealed. "Let's get you an occlumency tutor. Obviously, you want to block that out."

"Professor Dumbledore set lessons up with Snape," the boy muttered, clearly miserable.

"Don't be ridiculous," McGonagall snapped. "Snape is an excellent Potions master but his issues with your foster-father make his a wholly unsuitable teacher for anything involving mind-reading. I'll get you someone who isn't personally antagonistic to you." She folded her hands and looked at the boy. "You can come to me with any problems, Harry."

"Yes, ma'am," the boy said, thos ridiculous green eyes looking relieved. "Dad is… he's… he told me he'd kick Snape's arse if he crossed a line and Hermione and Draco and Ron all told me to talk to you, that that wasn't helpful."

"Quite right they were," she said.

**8.**

"I agree with Molly," McGonagall said. "They're just boys and they can't be brought into this."

**9.**

Lucius Malfoy pursed his lips and looked at McGonagall with annoyance. "I've worked as your spy, Minerva, for years now. That monster has been in my house, making my already unstable sister-in-law so crazy even my wife has begun to distance herself from the woman. He had to be distracted from Marking my son. It's bad enough I have this hideous testament to youthful arrogance and idiocy on my arm but Draco? Absolutely not."

"We've found and destroyed them all, Lucius, all except the snake."

"Honestly, Minerva," the man muttered, "if I didn't know about your time traveling visitors I never would have agreed to do this."

"Find the snake, Lucius, and chop off its head, and then we'll kill the man."

"You don't put any stock in the prophecy it has to be Sirius' boy who does it?"

Minerva snorted rudely. "You know my opinion of divination, Lucius."

**10.**

Minerva McGonagall stood on the Malfoy's back lawn, a glass of elf wine in her hand, as she watched the reception. Narcissa joined her; McGonagall wondered, as she often had, how the woman walked in heels that high.

"They make a beautiful couple, don't they," Narcissa said as she watched her son hover over Hermione Malfoy nee Granger.

"I'm surprised you accepted their relationship," McGonagall said.

"Because she's not a pureblood?" Narcissa asked. At McGonagall's nod the woman said, "At least she didn't have a slur carved in her arm or have to travel back in time to warn us all." McGonagall looked up at her, her eyes narrowed and Narcissa smiled, a cool, inscrutable smile. "You didn't really think you were the only person my son visited when he fled that battle into the past, did you?"

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – I know I'm behind in these. If you are waiting for one, I'm sorry. I write them as inspiration strikes.**


	45. The Devil's Bargain

**Happy Birthday, Namidaga Ochiru**

. . . . . . . . . .

They had lost.

Technically they hadn't lost yet but it was inevitable at this point. The Death Eaters had won the war, had won the rebellion, had won the damned hearts and minds of the people. The very graffiti had started to suggest rude things members of the Order could do to themselves.

"Well," Ron said, slouched in a chair in the last safe house, "We tried."

"I don't understand why people would prefer this," Seamus said. Like all of them he was dirty, tired and too thin. The last few years had been brutal.

"Me either," Ron said.

When Draco Malfoy, sometimes spy, sometimes traitor stepped through the floo, brushing the inevitable ash from his otherwise spotless trousers, they all glared at him. "Look who's here," Padma said. "The boy who managed to ensure he'd win no matter which side came out on top."

Draco raised a meticulously groomed eyebrow at her. "Bitter, Patil?" he said. "Should I leave and take my portkeys out of here with me?"

"What do you want, Draco?" Hermione asked. She was as thin and dirty as the rest of them and if her voice was not quite as resigned and filled with despair as Padma's no one seemed to notice.

"I'm here to offer you a bit of a devil's bargain," the blond man replied, smirking at her. "His Dark Lordiness plans to install my arse in the Minister's seat as the convenient mouthpiece du jour and he wants a Mudblood – excuse me, Muggle-born – wife at my side to convince the idiot masses that things will be less repressive in the future. You, my dear, _dear_ Granger, struck me as the best choice."

"No," Ron said flatly. "She's not going to marry you."

"Oh," Draco Malfoy said, his eyes glinting with amusement, "I think she will. After all, I have a bag of portkeys to trade for her. Your lives for hers. What do you say, Granger?"

"No," Ron said again but Hermione had already stood up and was walking toward the aristocratic figure. "Hermione," Ron said, "you can't!"

She snatched the bag Draco held out to her, moving closer to him when he pulled it out of her reach before relenting and letting her grab it. She turned and tossed it to Ron. "Get out of here, all of you," she ordered. "We've lost. Save yourselves." Ron started to protest and she hissed at him, "Don't you _dare_ make the sacrifice I'm about to make worthless."

Ron stared at her for a long minute and then nodded. "We'll do it."

"Draco," Hermione said with as much despair as she could muster. "Shall we?"

He nodded and, after he tossed a handful of powder back into the fireplace, they both flooed away.

Once they were at the small cottage he'd set up over the past few months she sagged into his arms. "You did it," she said. "You got the portkeys. You saved all of them."

"I told you I would," he said, brushing his lips lightly across her forehead. "In exchange for your oh-so-noble sacrifice."

She laughed and captured his lips into a hungry, searching kiss. He wound his arms around her and held on. When he finally broke away he said, "You are so filthy, Granger. Merlin. Did they not have running water in that place? And thin. Fuck, you're thin."

"I missed you," she murmured as he tugged her towards the bathroom and began drawing a bath. "So much."

"I missed you too," he said. "But before I ravish you I need to feed you."

"We did it," she said, sounding as though she still couldn't believe it. "Got them all out to safety _and_ we get to be together."

"In the fucked up, oppressive regime we've both been fighting against," Draco said, watching her strip off her clothes and lower herself into the hot water with a moan of delight. The realization he could count her ribs made him want to cry.

"The price we pay," she said, reaching her hand out to grab his. He knelt down beside the bath and lowered his head to her palm. "We knew we couldn't get them out and flee too. We knew they'd go after you and never stop. You don't get to leave the Death Eaters and live."

"You could have gone," he said.

"And left you?" she asked. "I don't think so." She caressed his face. "It won't be that bad, Draco. I'll be here."

"You're a fool," he said, kissing her hand, "But I'm grateful for it."

"I'm your fool," she said as gently as she could. "Here to be the place you come to rest, the person who loves you no matter what you have to do."

"It will be bad," he warned her. He'd been warning her for months but she had refused to back down, refused – absolutely refused – to leave with the rest. I love you, she'd said again and again. I'm not leaving you alone here, she'd insisted.

"I know," was all she said now. "But we'll be together."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – I know that I am way behind on these. Inspiration has not been striking. It will eventually.**


	46. Forever

**Happy (belated) Birthday, TheFantabulousPotterHead**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

She was in a cage when Draco finally found her. She was dirty and thin and dressed in something that made him want to murder everyone who was looking at her with filthy thoughts dancing behind their eyes. His mother put her hand on his arm, the quiet touch a warning to control himself, that people were always watching.

"I'll take that one," he said and the proprietor looked over and smirked at him with a vile leer that made Draco vow to find a way to have this one killed. He couldn't kill them all, Merlin knew, but this one he'd destroy.

Granger looked up at the sound of his voice and it took everything he had not to run to her, not to clutch her fingers reassuringly through the bars. Her eyes were dead. She didn't even look pleased, or relieved, or anything at all to see him. Her wrists had been rubbed raw by the shackles on them. When the man took the Malfoys' money and opened her cage she didn't throw herself into his arms; she just stood there, thin and shaking from the cold.

"I've got you," he whispered as he drew her close to apparate her back to his flat. "It will be okay now."

When they were there and she was within the safety of his walls he expected her to acknowledge him but she still just stood there as he charmed the chains away and ran his hands over her arms and hair.

"Granger," he whispered. "It's me. It'll be okay now. I've got you. No one will hurt you again." His voice got lower, angrier, when he added, "And I'll kill anyone who has."

"Death Eater's privilege," she said, the first words she'd spoken.

Narcissa Malfoy, who'd apparated in behind them, took over. "Draco, get the girl a bath and show her her room," she said. "She's cold and dirty and needs to wash up and get into something comforting." She turned to Hermione as Draco moved away to follow her instructions. "Miss Granger, I've had to estimate your sizes but you'll find the closet in your room filled with things I think you'll like. Well, I hope you like cashmere because I have a personal bias toward it and thus most of your jumpers are – "

"You bought me cashmere jumpers?" Hermione spoke again, looking at Narcissa Malfoy in obvious perplexity. "Why?"

"Well, you obviously can't wear _that_." Narcissa looked at the dirty lingerie Hermione had on with disapproval. "I doubt you'll want to wear anything like that for years, if ever again."

"No one has…" Hermione trailed off. "It wasn't that bad. Not _that_ kind of bad. Not yet."

Draco, who'd been hovering, nearly sagged with relief. "We've been looking for you for months," he said. "I've had nightmares worrying… I'll take care of you, Granger. Whatever it takes."

Hermione turned at that to look at him, her jaw starting to tremble. "I thought you had forgotten me," she whispered. "I thought… I gave up. I thought you would never come."

"Never," he said, trying not to cry as she finally approached him, slunk across the room with so much hesitation his heart nearly broke. "I never stopped looking. Not a day passed that we weren't searching for you."

"You set up a separate room for me?" she asked, stopping a few feet away from him and searching his face.

He swallowed and reached a hand out toward her. "I wasn't sure you'd want to share a bed with me," he admitted, his voice catching in his throat. "I wasn't sure what you'd endured."

"But you came for me anyway," she said. "You came and got me anyway."

"I love you," he whispered, "of course I came," and she finally sagged against him and he held her as she began to cry, the hot tears tracing lines down her dirty cheeks. Narcissa discretely left and Draco led the witch he'd been searching for since the end of the war to the bath and hesitated, not sure what to do, until she asked, "Stay?"

"Forever," he said.


	47. Myth

**Happy (very belated) birthday. Misslexilouwho**

. . . . . . . . . .

**1.**

He wasn't the lord of hell but he sometimes felt like he lived there in the manor filled with the souls of people long since damned. He certainly looked the part. Dark suits. Dark shoes. Pale, so pale, like he'd never seen the sun.

**2**.

If she'd had a mother to weep for her, a queen or goddess to hold the earth hostage, maybe he would have had to let her go. But she didn't. Not that she wanted to leave. She didn't bother with excuses to satiate friends and parents. She simply came.

**3.**

They made up a story. He'd kidnapped her, he said. Brought her back against her will. The damned ones had laughed and thought it sport and she'd spit at them and he'd run a finger up her spine as the sun came in through the stained glass window and the light struck her, colouring her golden in the dim room.

**4.**

Wine? he offered. Did you make it out of pomegranate seeds, she asked, rolling her eyes and drinking the cup dry. If I did you'd be stuck now, he replied, watching her. She laughed.

**5.**

The first time one of them tried to touch her she cursed him with a flick of her finger and the man clutched his burnt and bleeding chest. Leave her alone, he said, amused, from his chair. She's not for you.

**6.**

Dragon, she said at night, trailing her fingers over his cheeks, one who ignites. Fair Helen's get, he replied, mine, won fairly. Funny, she said. I thought I won you.


	48. A Present

**Happy Birthday, dreadfuldelights**

. . . . . . . . . .

"A key?" Hermione looked at Draco with her brow furrowed. "Why are you giving me a key? Is this some twee crap about how it's the key to your heart?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Honestly," he said, "You may be the least sentimental woman ever. No, you idiot, it's the key to the box over there that contains your actual present."

Hermione plucked the dangling key from his fingers and grinned at him. "Jewelry?" she asked.

"You don't wear any," Draco pointed out. "I can barely get you to keep your wedding ring on."

"It chafes," she said with a shrug. "And it's not like our whole world doesn't know we got married. As I recall, there were three pages of letters to the editor in the _Prophet_ where people expressed their opinions on the matter after they ran that photo of our wedding."

"Hey," Draco said, "it was two to one in our favor."

"Lucky us," Hermione said. "I still think we should have shut that worthless rag down for getting that photo illegally and running it without permission."

"We did get the photographer fired," Draco reminded her as she picked up the ornate box he'd gotten her and shook it.

"So what is it?" she asked. "Candy?"

Draco snorted. The woman didn't even like sweets; he blamed this on being the child of Muggle tooth healers. Endless lectures in her youth on the dangers of sugar and tooth decay had ruined her appreciation of dessert.

"A portkey to a tropical island?"

"I burn in the sun," he said. "I love you, sweetheart, but you know I hate going to the beach and I'm sufficiently selfish to not set myself up for that kind of misery."

"You are kind of melanin deficient," she agreed, setting the box down and slipping the key into the lock. When she opened the lid and lifted out the fragile book her gasp of delight made the months he'd spent tracking the volume down worthwhile. "A first edition of _Hogwarts: A History_? Draco, how did you even find this? It must be worth a fortune." She set it down, her hands shaking. "Oh, Merlin, I shouldn't even touch it without gloves. The oils in my hands will destroy the parchment."

"It's fine, there's a preservation spell," he said, and then "oof" because she'd turned and flung herself into his arms.

"Draco Malfoy," she said. "You are the best. The absolute best."

He nuzzled her and grinned. "That's what I like about you, Hermione Malfoy," he said. "You have such good judgment."

She hit him for that, which he admitted he probably deserved, but not very hard because, after all, she did adore him.


	49. Tristan & Isolde

**Happy (belated) Birthday, ****MissMoony13**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco looked at her, his eyes revealing nothing. "I've been ordered to bring you to him," he said.

"The peace treaty," Hermione muttered. "And I'm the game piece that gets slid across the board."

"It's the way of the world," Draco said, waiting for her to get her things together. "Bring a house-elf. You'll want one."

. . . . . . . . . .

"It won't be so bad," Molly promised. At Hermione's incredulous look the woman said, "I brewed a love potion. It's illegal, of course, but I put it in wine; serve it at the wedding and it will guarantee that he'll adore you, that he'll treat you well."

"It will drug me too," Hermione pointed out.

"That will make it easier," Molly said softly. "It will make you not care."

. . . . . . . . . .

The trip back was long. For reasons unknown the Dark Lord had decreed they had to travel by slow – very slow – boat. Draco and Hermione passed the time playing chess and sweating in the hot sun on the deck. When the house-elf brought them both some chilled wine, they drank it gratefully, without asking whence it came.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco began to watch her, fascination in his eyes. She began to watch him, longing in hers.

. . . . . . . . . .

The wedding was flawless. Hermione smiled at the Dark Lord, put her dainty hand in his, vowed fidelity and honor and many, many things. Draco stood to his Lord's side, the servant trusted in all things.

. . . . . . . . . .

She went to his bed the first time that night. Hands and tongues and bodies and hearts winding about one another, they undid her vows before the sun had even risen on her marriage. "I cannot bear the thought of you with him," Draco groaned into her neck.

"It's the way of the world," she replied.

. . . . . . . . . .

"She's betrayed you," the advisors would say, again and again, and the Dark Lord would eye his beautiful bride and question her. Again and again she raised her pretty eyebrows and used wit and boldness to escape and evade his questions. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps the whole thing amused him. Perhaps he simply didn't care.

And she'd go back to Draco's bed.

. . . . . . . . . .

In the end it was Draco's uncle Lestrage who entrapped them. Lestrange who forced the Dark Lord's hand.

They both died, of course. That's the way tragic love stories end. They end with death and despair and loneliness, not with cottages filled with fat babies.

That's why you aren't supposed to drink love potions.

They never make anything easier.

. . . . . . . . . .

The honeysuckle and hazel grew from their graves, wrapped around one another so tightly they couldn't be separated.

The Dark Lord ordered them cut down.

They grew back.

Eventually, he stopped trying, defeated.


	50. You Want Whom?

**Happy (belated) Birthday, ****dramione101**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"You want whom?" Narcissa Malfoy asked her son, lifting her head from the book she'd been idly reading.

"You heard me," Draco said. He was lounging against the doorway of the library and had been watching his mother ignore his presence for almost twenty minutes. The Dark Lord had decided he needed a wife, go find one, and given the man's penchant for feeding people who displeased him to his snake Draco was feeling motivated to comply.

Well, mostly comply.

"She's not appropriate," Narcissa said. "Find someone else."

"She's single," Draco pointed out, "and powerful, and I have it on good authority she'd look favorably upon my suit."

He managed to keep a straight face when uttering the phrase 'good authority' which would probably amuse the authority in question who, last time he'd checked, was lounging on his bed surrounded by a pile of books and arguing with a house-elf about her hair. Mippy had opinions about hair and secret subscriptions to several Muggle hair-stylist trade magazines. She and Hermione had put their wills against one another the moment he'd had the witch move in and so far neither had budged. His money was on Mippy.

Theo had told him he was going to lose that bet but he'd disregarded the man's opinion. Anyone who'd married Luna Lovegood had to be a little daft himself.

"She's a Mudblood," Narcissa said, "and there is no girl in all of Britain who would turn you down. You're a Malfoy_ and_ a Death Eater. A prince and an elite member of the Dark Lord's forces. Find someone more suited to your rank and station, my sweetling."

"I think no," Draco said. "I've decided I want this one and, mum, you know how I get when I decide I want something." He smiled at her. "Do you remember the broom incident when I was eight?"

Narcissa smiled. "I had hoped you had somewhat grown up since then," she said, "despite all evidence to the contrary."

She marked the page of her book and, after closing the volume and setting it down, stood up. "Why this one?" she asked. "It will cause you no end of grief battling the prejudice within the ranks. Why not pick someone easier?"

Draco loped toward his mother and, taking her hand, brought her fingers to his lips. "Because I happen to love this one," he said. "And I prefer to surround myself with things – and people - that I love."

"Well," Narcissa said. "You hadn't mentioned that."

"It needed saying?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "You thought, after seeing the example of how you and father adore each other, I'd ever settle for less?"

Narcissa looped her arm through his and let him lead her out the side doors to the garden. "Will it be a summer wedding, then?" she asked. "If you can wait for winter, son, that snake won't be able to attend."

"Winter," Draco said. "Weddings take so long to plan, after all."

"Indeed," Narcissa said.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – And with that I'm all caught up on drabbles for at least a few days. **_

_**Drabbles are my way of thanking regular reviewers; if you give me advance notice via PM that your birthday is coming up I can write you a drabble. I make no promises of being able to comply but if you have a theme or pairing you particularly like let me know; that's how Harmony happens. Unfortunately, I can really only do these for regular reviewers because of time constraints; I'd never be able to update my WIPs if I did them for every reader and, other than birthday drabbles, I do not have the time to take any requests at all.**_


	51. Soon

**Happy (belated) Birthday, Ilovepi**

. . . . . . . . . . .

Draco snatched the book out of Hermione's hands with an exaggerated grimace of disdain. "Filth like you shouldn't even be allowed in Hogwarts," he said, pretending to examine the tome lest she'd damaged some way with her touch. "Durmstrang has higher standards."

"And you aren't there why?" she asked, tapping her finger against her nose. "Oh, yes, that's right, wasn't it that mummy didn't want you that far from home."

"Watch it, Granger," he hissed.

She flicked a glance over his shoulder at his waiting pair of followers. Guards. Watchdogs.

"Or maybe," she drawled, "you just couldn't pass the entrance exam. Not talented enough for all your pretty, pretty blood."

He turned his back to her. "You two go on," he said with a smirk. "Don't need any witnesses for this." They were about to protest when he added, "Neither of you lie worth a damn; you want to risk having some nosy Mudblood-loving headmaster question you?" The both shook their thick heads and he added, "Then go on. What you don't see you won't have to lie about."

They both seemed to finally understand that and chuckled and leered as they lumbered out of the library.

"Give me back that book, you monster," Hermione said, her eyes on their retreating backs. "I need that for my essay."

"Oh, I think you'll have to do without it," Draco said, his eyes trained on her face. "You're filthy paws'll just steal the magic from it." He lowered his voice. "They gone?"

"Back stacks," she said, voice just as low as his. He followed her, casting careful looks back toward the library door but his lackeys, sure he was about to abuse the much hated had truly left.

He sagged against the stone wall when they were safely out of sight and away from areas anyone went to. "I can't do this much longer," he said, passing her a pile of carefully written notes. "I'm going to go mad, Granger, when can he get me out of there?"

"Soon," she said. "He promises me soon every time I ask."

"And you'll come with me," Draco pressed.

"She huffed out a laugh. "I think I'm your keeper but, yeah, I'll be in that safe house with you." She paused. "And your mum so don't think you'll be getting that much playtime."

"Just being able to hold your hand would be an improvement," he muttered. "Just not being followed by those goons everywhere would be an improvement."

She tucked the intelligence he'd brought her into a bag and leaned forward into him. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her hair. "Tell me again it will be okay," he whispered. "Tell me I'll survive this."

"I've got you," she said, twining her own arms around him. "I've got you, Draco. It will be okay. Soon."

He didn't say anything, just tried to hide his tears as he pressed his face against her and she said, again, "Soon."


	52. Back

**Happy Birthday, izzyanne**

. . . . . . . . . .

"I hate you."

She didn't even look up from her magazine and the vague noise she made sounded more encouraging than angry so Draco tried again.

"You're a fucking cunt and I hate you."

Hermione raised her eyes briefly at that, saw that he was still sitting on the worn couch, and returned her gaze to whatever article had captured her attention. He supposed it was some insufferable gossipy thing about the glittering and famous. Blaise's mother had been in those stories a lot. Or maybe it was something on how to do your hair and apply eyeliner. Hermione, he thought uncharitably, could use such advice.

"Sorry," he muttered.

She set the magazine down, her hands very carefully controlled. "Are you back?" she asked. He could feel his heart begin to break at the hope in her voice.

"Does precious Ronniekins know you're in here with me?" Draco asked. "Isn't he afraid I'll turn into a Death Eater and start carving you up?"

"Ron doesn't live here so I hope he's not stalking my every move quiet that closely. It would probably upset Pansy if he were."

Draco closed his eyes. "I hate you," he said again, the words sad and lost and tiny in the room. "You should be afraid of me. I could hurt you."

She made a sound and, when he opened his eyes, tossed him her wand. He snatched it from the air and pointed it at her, the end wavering in his grip. "I could hurt you, Hermione," he said again.

"But you won't," she said, her voice soft.

"I don't know things anymore," he said. "Not always. Is he gone?"

She nodded. "He's gone, Draco. Dead."

"Am I okay?"

She nodded again.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered the last and she was at his feet then, not in her chair anymore, her hands on his as he lowered her wand.

"Not once," she said. "Not ever."

"How long," he asked and she wrapped herself around him, her arms around his waist and her head in his lap and he could feel her shaking as she began to weep.

"Just a few months," she said. "You've been… you've not been talking except sometimes to, well, say awful things, but it's not you, it's just some kind of… you'd call me Mudblood without even flinching. You'd just sit there and say something terrible then lapse back into another week of silence. You'd just… you'd just stare at the wall and eat whatever I put in front of you. Draco, are you really back. Is this really you and not… not just…"

"I don't know," he said, starting to shake himself. "You've been here."

"Every day," she said. "Every night. I promised you I'd – "

"Oh, gods, Hermione," he touched her hair with one hand and then pulled her up to the couch next to him. "I'm so sorry. So so sorry. I… none of that was… I'm so sorry."

"You're back," she said the words like they were an answered prayer and he held onto her and felt himself breathe.


	53. Sleeping Beauty

**For just because u said so**

. . . . . . . . . .

**1.**

She should have known better than to trust him. That was the main thing, she thought. That she'd made a fool of herself over a pair of grey eyes and a crooked smile and the pervasive, alluring lie that she was different than the others was secondary to that. If she'd never trusted him she wouldn't be here now.

**2.**

"You thought I cared about you, princess?" He'd felt his chest clench as he'd said the words, as he'd watched her face go from disbelief to fear to the shuttered, cold indifference he'd worked so hard to open.

**3\. **

She fled to the cottage where they'd spent so many afternoons, where they'd pretended time didn't matter, to get away from his words. She had the door shut before she felt the trap close around her. Tricked, she wanted to scream. All lies, all a trick to get her here. She turned and pounded on the wood but she was stuck. Nothing would open. Magic was wrapping her like a child in a blanket and she made it to the bed – to their bed – before she couldn't fight the spells anymore and fell into a sleep like death.

**4.**

He stood outside the cottage and coaxed the roses to grow. By the time he was done the thicket obscured the building and he let himself cry. "I'll be back," he promised. "When this madness is over, when it's safe for you, I'll be back. Even if you hate me when you wake, hate me and live."

**5.**

She dreamed. She saw him, roses painted on a leering mask. "I like them, Lestrange," he snapped. "What's it to you?" She saw him kill and hunt and destroy and stand every year weeping at a thicket she didn't know. She saw him never age and knew he'd done something terrible. "It's not ending," he said at that thicket. "I had to do it so I could come and get you. Someday, my briar rose, some day." He buried his pale face in blood soaked hands. "I don't expect you to forgive me. I can't even forgive myself anymore."

**6.**

He picked them off, one by one. Unfortunate accidents. Debauchery gone wrong. He picked and picked at picked at the circle until it was gone and he picked and picked and picked at the man's soul until it was destroyed and then he killed the monster.

"99 years," he said, looking down at the pale, deformed body as it bled out into the dirt. "How poetic."

**7.**

It took him a year to face her. He locked himself into a world of his own and repented, a word that sounds innocuous and that meant blood and screaming and pain and when he was done, when he learned exactly how much it hurt to sew your soul back together, he released the charms on the roses and the cottage and sat and waited for her to wake.

**8.**

"I think," she said, "you're supposed to kiss me to break the spell."

**9.**

"I didn't want to presume I was your true love anymore," he whispered. "I'm not worth loving anymore."

**10.**

So she kissed him.


	54. Just to Sleep

**Happy (belated) Birthday, Pixiedust1978**

. . . . . . . . .

She loved him so much she thought she would die. "I'll expire," she'd say as she traced her fingers along the edge of his hip, tracing a line of scars from the war. "As we lie here in the sun on this bed I'll die. What would you do then."

"Leave your body and not come back," he'd say, all practicality. "It's not like anyone can connect this place to us."

He'd been married right after it was peaceful again, right after he'd been cleared of all charges. War time atrocities dismissed. Money, influence, power: his family still had them and if their stock had fallen a little because they'd been on the wrong side, well, they'd played both ends against the middle well enough to come out as forgiven. As virtuous.

Not as heroes, not like she was. No one _loved_ them. There were no parades.

"Fuck parades," he'd said to her. "I'm not in prison."

Where he was was in government, doing vague and never discussed things. Where he was was with his wife, his beautiful wife.

She'd get the papers of the society events and trace her fingers over the woman's cool, unblemished face, over her expensive clothes, over the man at her side, his hand on her arm.

"I didn't have a choice," he'd say. "That's how things work." And, "We have this."

Sometimes this wasn't enough. Was this love, she'd wonder, these stolen afternoons she couldn't tell anyone about. This carefully planned relationship. No risk. No danger. Was this was it was?

"I've had enough of danger," he'd say. "Haven't you?" He'd rest his hand on her scars and she'd nod. Sometimes all she wanted to do was lie here, in the sun, and never move again. Lie here with him. Let the rest of the world go.

She'd trace her fingers over the pictures. His wife didn't have scars. She was younger than they were. Unmarked. Unflawed.

Tea and biscuits and the warm sun. Just to lie there and drift off. Just to be peaceful forever. Just to be with him forever.

"I could die here, I'm so happy when I'm with you," she said. "What would you do then."

"Leave," he said, amused and sleepy as his eyes began to close, as he began to float away into sleep.

"Not if you died too," she murmured as she wrapped an arm around him and let herself luxuriate in the sun as it came into their little room, as it made a bright spot on their little bed.


	55. The Annual Gala

**Happy Birthday, ga-4-ever**

. . . . . . . . . .

The annual Ministry Gala.

Draco sighed as he took his nametag and thanked the intern sitting behind the desk. She prattled off her memorized spiel about the silent auction and this year's beneficiary without ever looking at him.

He hated these things so much.

Ten years. Ten _bloody_ years and people's eyes still passed over him as if he weren't there, as if they could erase him by sheer force of will. He sometimes wanted to shove the long sleeves of his dress robes up and shove the faded Mark into people's faces. "There," he'd snarl. "That's why you hate me. Look at it and try to remember I was a child!"

He didn't, of course. That sort of fantasy only played out well in the privacy of your own shower. In the real world he just took a glass of champagne from a passing member of the catering staff with quiet thanks and ambled over to the tables holding the silent auction items. It gave him something to do; it made that he was alone, that no one would talk to him, less obvious.

He dutifully wrote down his name next to an available item with a price high enough to ensure he'd get it. He thought about bidding on "Dinner with the Chosen One" just to enjoy thinking about the way Potter would simmer and glare if he won but common sense won out and he held himself to a vase made by the children of the medical ward this gala would benefit. It was lumpy, badly painted, and hideous.

His mother would love it.

"Go," she insisted every year when this event rolled around. "You're still a Malfoy. You should go an enjoy society."

Still a Malfoy, he thought. And isn't that the problem.

With all the auction items duly examined and dinner not due to start for 30 more minutes he leaned up against a wall in a shadowed part of the room and tried to look relaxed instead of like a pathetic wallflower. He was so focused on not letting anyone see how awkward he felt he didn't even notice when the woman drifted over toward him until it was too late to extricate himself and find another solitary patch of wall to lean against.

"Granger," he said politely.

"Malfoy. Haven't seen you in a while."

He shrugged and didn't look at her, instead keeping his eyes on an empty spot in front of him. "I come every year."

"I try to avoid it," she said. "Ginny made me promise to come this year because she was on some planning committee. Auction items, I think."

"Oh." He supposed that explained the dinner with Potter.

They stood in silence for a moment before she said, "The food's supposed to be bad this year."

"Oh?" he said again, this time injecting a tiny amount of polite curiosity into his voice.

"New caterer," she said, then added in a rush, "If you wanted to get out of here I know a good place we could duck out to. Get something better. 'snot fancy. Just burgers and a pint but…"

Draco finally turned to look at her. She was clutching onto her champagne flute with white knuckled fingers and just as he was about to say something she muttered, "Never mind. You don't want to be seen with me. I get it."

"I'd love to," he said as quickly as he could. "If you don't mind being seen with me."

He couldn't quite control the bitterness in that caveat and she blinked a few times. "I'm the Mudblood," she said at last.

He flinched at the slur he'd once used casually. "I'm the Death Eater," he said in response.

"You didn't have a choice," she said, staring at him.

"Neither did you," he retorted then, with a swallow. "It's a bit late but I'm sorry about, well, everything."

She shrugged as they stood there in the shadows and finally said, "If you pick up dinner and rescue me from this place I'll call it even."

"You want to get out of here that much?" he asked starting, against his better judgment, to smile.

She looked at him and her own mouth twitched up in an answering smile. "I hate this stupid event," she said. "Brings back bad memories."

"I'm not one of them?" he asked as he took her glass from her hand and left it, along with his own, on a table pushed up against the wall he'd been leaning on.

She just shook her head. "We can slip out the back way if we go down that corridor," she said.

He let her lead the way, tearing off his nametag and leaving it lying on the floor as he followed Hermione Granger out through a service entrance, into the clear night, and off to a Muggle pub where the barman eyed their clothes but didn't say anything, just served them up some decent food and a decent pint and left them to talk.

"I can't…" he said, helplessly, hours later, looking at the confusing Muggle prices on the tab.

She flushed. "I'm sorry," she said, pulling sheets of colored paper out of her bag and leaving them. "I didn't think."

"Now how do I make it up to you?" he asked, teasing her but grateful she'd not made fun of him for not knowing how Muggle currency worked. "All those years I was going to buy off with a single meal."

"Tomorrow night?" she suggested.

"I could do that," he said, slowly.

"Or breakfast," she said, looking away and biting her lip.

He began to smile again; he felt like he hadn't really smiled in years and now he'd had a whole evening of actual happiness. "Maybe come back to my place for tea?" he asked, trying to hide how very much he hoped she'd say yes, trying to protect his heart from the rejection he expected. "I have a toothbrush you could borrow?"

She flicked her eyes back to his face looking, he supposed, for mockery even after drinking with him for hours. When she didn't see any she said, "I could do that."


	56. The Necklace

**Happy Birthday, Golfbabe87**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco gave her the necklace in sixth year, when he knew everything was going to go to hell but it hadn't yet. The tiny stone hung from a silver chain and, as he fussed with the clutch to get it hooked around her neck, he said, "The ruby's for your house colours, I figured you'd like that, but I couldn't resist a silver chain for mine."

She didn't take it off. He saw the red glinting from the neckline of her jumper when his aunt tortured her. He saw it resting at the base of her throat as she testified on his behalf at his hearing.

"Draco's not evil," Hermione said. "He was just trapped. If he hadn't refused to identify us we would have died. He did what he could."

"He could have done a lot more," one member of the Wizengamot opined.

Hermione shook her head. "Not everyone is brave the way Neville Longbottom is," she said. "That doesn't make him evil. That doesn't mean he should be locked away."

Draco watched her from where he sat, chained in a chair, feeling something whither in his chest. Neville Longbottom. He'd have expected it to be Weasley but he supposed Longbottom made sense. He was good, the kind of unalloyed good he himself would never be.

He thanked the Wizengamot, his tone dull, as the bonds released themselves from his wrists and he was told he was free to go.

Go where, he wondered. To sit at the Manor and stare at the spot where his aunt had tortured Granger? Or maybe he could examine where that damn snake had eaten his teacher. So many little nooks and crannies of horror he could contemplate.

Instead he found himself outside Hermione Granger's flat, his fingers splayed against the door. "Just to say goodbye," he told himself. "Just to thank her."

When she opened the door his eyes went automatically to her neck, to the thin silver chain he saw there. "I'm surprised Longbottom doesn't object to you wearing that." He heard the words come out of his mouth, heard how they were laced with spite and anger and a desire to lash out.

She took a step back. "Longbottom?" she asked, confusion evident. "Why would Neville care?"

"Isn't he the one who's so brave I just can't measure up?" Draco threw at her even as a voice in his head told him to stop. You haven't talked to her in over a year, that voice pleaded and scolded, and this is what you do?

"Neville's good," Hermione agreed, turning away from him to walk across her room and look out the window. Draco took that as permission to step inside and he let the door close behind him, let his vile, Death Eater self sully her flat.

"And I'm not," Draco said. "Not good enough."

She didn't respond to that, just leaned her head against the side of the window as though she were too tired to stand anymore. "You were never good, Draco," she said. "You were just mine."

"I was," he said.

"Neville's engaged to Hannah Abbott," Hermione said.

"Breaking your heart?" Draco asked in his cold drawl.

"No," she said softly. "Neville's so good, so uncomplicated in his bravery. He does the right thing, always. He has since we were eleven, never veering. Hannah's like that, like that simple purity. They're both like sunshine and flowers and… and I'm not."

Draco took a step toward her. "You've always been good," he said.

She shook her head. "Not really, not like them. I'll lie and I'll cheat and I'll steal. I'd kill. You know that about me. Harry… Harry managed to bring down a Dark wizard without ever getting blood on his hands. Ron is brave and clever and true and I… I'm just… I'm the one who does what has to be done."

"But I love that about you," Draco said. He was whispering now, reaching a hand out to the sagging body of the woman in front of him, her shape thrown into a silhouette by the brightness of the window she stood against. "You're so brave you don't… don't even shy away from… from anything."

"I can't bear their virtue," she said, her own voice so quiet he could barely hear her. "I can't bear their forgiveness for not being good enough. For not being pure enough. Not every day. Never every day." Her head sagged even further. "It's why we worked. You… you don't… you aren't good. Not so good you'd let yourself be the sacrifice. Not so good you'd –"

"Am I good enough for you?"

The words hung between them.

"Hermione," Draco said, "I've done, I've _seen_, things… I can't… I'll never be –"

"But I won't either," she choked out.

And then he closed the distance between them and she turned and he could see the water streaming down her face for a moment before she pressed her cheeks against his shirt, his dirty shirt. He hadn't even changed and was still wearing the shirt he'd had on in prison for weeks.

"You smell terrible," she said at last.

"You made me think you'd left me for Neville Longbottom," he replied, not letting her go.

"I still have the necklace _on_," she said, sniffling now. "You're an idiot."

"I want a shower," he said. Then, "I love you."

"They wouldn't let me visit you," she said. "Or send an owl, or anything. Said if I was going to testify I had to seem objective, that if people knew about us they wouldn't… my testimony would be discounted. I... I knew it would hurt you for me to seem so cold. I hoped you'd see the necklace, hoped you'd understand."

He just held on to her more tightly as she added one more sentence.

"I love you, too."


	57. Not Alone

**Happy Birthday, ****jayelindsey721**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco couldn't object to the cell, other than that it _was_ a cell. It was clean, there was a window with clouded glass so he got light, and a food tray was slipped under the slot in the door twice a day. He just hadn't expected that finally taking advantage of the safe haven Dumbledore had promised him so long ago would mean being imprisoned.

He'd measured the length and width of the room. Twelve Draco-feet by fifteen Draco-feet. He could reach the ceiling if he stood on the cot. Two weeks of no human interaction and nothing to do and he was running out of ways to not be miserable and was starting to consider using his hands to measure height and window dimensions when the door opened and Hermione stepped inside.

"Well," he said.

"Hey."

"I didn't expect to see you," he said. He knew he sounded bitter but it had been two weeks and what he really meant was he'd expected to see her a long time ago.

"I know," she said. She had a canvas rucksack in one hand and she was watching him with sad eyes. "There's been a bit of a debate about what to do with you."

"You mean I'm not being welcomed with open arms?" Draco asked with a sneer. "I hadn't noticed. I assumed you people just locked everyone into cells and left them alone for weeks on end."

Hermione regarded him for a long moment, her gaze unwavering, and he began to flush, the colour creeping up his pale skin until it reached his hairline.

"You must be very angry at me," she said at last.

"I admit that emotional response has occurred to me," he said.

"I've been arguing for your release," she said. "Arguing against people who think the only good Death Eater is a dead Death Eater."

"Do I dare ask the outcome of those debates?" Draco asked. He had a feeling he knew.

"How do you feel about travel?" she asked and he narrowed his eyes. She shrugged. "I lost," she said, "and everyone's out on a mission, one I am supposed to be on, and now's a good time to walk you out of here."

"Alone?" he asked. "You want to me to just go wandering the world _alone_? You know they'd find me in a week and kill me, and now your side wants to murder me too. Just… _great._" He sank down onto the cot. "I shouldn't have even tried this. I should have known it wouldn't work."

"Not alone." He looked up at that. "Draco," she said, "I promised you I wouldn't abandon you. I promised."

"It's been a long stay," he whispered as she crossed the small room – twelve Draco-feet wide – and knelt in front of him. "I thought you had decided you were better off without me."

She wrapped her arms around him and he let himself take comfort in the familiar scent of her hair, in the way her skin felt against his. "I promised you," she said again. "You aren't alone, Draco." Then, "Harry knows we're going, know where, but no one else does."

"You're coming with me," he said. "Granger, you can't just abandon your – "

"I can do anything I damn well please," she said. She sounded irritated. "They want to kill you out of hand and I think not. We won't be crossing that line. _I_ won't be crossing that line. We'll go to a small cottage I know and wait it out. Harry'll let me know if he really needs me to come back but other than that, I'm out. I won't be party to murder."

"You can't…"

"Stop telling me what I can and can't do," she said, standing and tugging him to his feet. "If you ran, so can I."

"Together?" He said the word as if he were tasting it.

She grinned at him as he stood up. "Just one thing, Draco," she said.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"I hope you're a better cook than I am." She held the door to his cell open and he walked out. She followed, took his hand, and led him through the hallway, out into the sun, and away.


	58. The Water-Nix (The Monster)

**Happy Belated Birthday, ****Just-Keep-Swimming-Swimming**

. . . . . . . . . . .

You can fall in, you know. You play and you think you are safe but you are not because you go too close to the edge and then it's down into the well from which you cannot climb out again.

We did. I know. Listen to my tale.

There are monsters at the base of the wells that lie for us, wait for us, lurk for us in their dank and filthy shadows. They capture their victims and Mark them as theirs and force them to labors that no one can do. Carry this water and hew down this tree; the bucket is holey, the axe has no edge. Fix this cabinet though it be beyond your reach or you shall die and you shall break and you shall suffer.

You cannot reason with monsters.

We tried. I know. Listen to my tale.

The truth is in stories and veils between worlds so we give you a stick and we give you a toy and we tell you to slay the monster. Go forth, young man, and slay the monster with your virtue as your guide.

You cannot win against monsters.

Not really.

We fled. I know. Listen to my tale.

We lost our virtue, my love and I, as the base of our well with the cackling water-nixie. We fell and we fell and the monster had us by the throat because my love was Marked as doomed and I was marked as filth and we had no guide anymore and when virtue came and slew the monster we had nowhere to go and we fled through a forest of mirrors that showed who we were and who we had been and he was doomed and I was filth and virtue slew the monster and we were left alone.

And the monster was left alone.

They always come back, monsters.

They do. I know. Listen to my tale.

He's back in his well. He's alone and we have fled and we have love and we have life.

But someone else will fall in.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N - Based off the Grimm Fairy Tale The Water-Nix and, of course, Harry Potter. I am not adding anyone to the birthday drabble queue. If I open it up again I'll mention it on tumblr.**_


	59. Which House?

**Happy VERY belated birthday, SusanMarieS**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"He'll be in Slytherin," Draco said. He hadn't even looked up from the book he was reading. "I'm not sure why you're waiting for the owl with such eagerness."

"Scorpius," Hermione said, with a snort. "You think _Scorpius_ is going to be in Slytherin? This is the boy who quite _literally_ tilted at a windmill in the garden when he was four. He jumped out of his tree house when he was seven. He started trying to free his grandmother's house elves at nine."

"I blame that on you," Draco said. He still hadn't looked up.

"He's a Gryffindor," she said. "I just know it. What else could he possibly be?"

"Hermione," Draco said, "his _name_ means scorpion. He belongs with the snakes. And, besides, he's a Malfoy. We're always in Slytherin. _Always_."

She huffed. "Grangers are always in Gryffindor."

"A sample size of one is statistically insignificant," Draco said.

"Prat," she muttered, and looked out the window again. "Where _is_ that owl? Harry already knows where his kid is."

"Albus Severus," Draco said with a snort. "Subtle he wasn't."

"Could have been worse," she said.

"How?" Draco asked, oblivious the irony of a man who'd insisted on naming his son 'Scorpius' having derogatory opinions of other people's name choices.

"Ginny was advocating for 'Abelforth'."

"The goat guy?" Draco made a face.

"Exactly." Hermione seemed to spot something because she opened the window and then rummaged about in a drawer for owl treats. The approaching owl swooped in and settled on a stand and held its leg out with what looked like annoyance. Hermione untied the note, handed the owl a treat and kissed it between the ears before it took off again.

"You really shouldn't put your mouth on birds," Draco said. "I'm quite sure that's unsanitary."

It was an old argument and she rolled her eyes.

"I tell you," Draco said as she began unrolling the parchment. "It'll be Slytherin."

"Gryffindor," she said, lowering the note she'd yet to read.

"Slytherin," he repeated.

"Gryffindor."

"Honestly," Cassiopeia said as she plucked the note from her mother's hands. "It's so obvious where he'll be." She named a house before she looked, unrolled the parchment, repeated the same name she'd just said, adding, "Told you so."

Draco and Hermione both laughed at how smug the little girl sounded.

"That you did, pet," Draco said. "That you did."


	60. Balloons and a Book

**Happy Birthday, ascendiomalfoy **

. . . . . . . . . .

"Helios notumque," Draco said, setting the tip of his wand on the balloon. It inflated, tied its own knot, and then floated to the ceiling where it joined the scores of other balloons he'd already filled.

"How many of these have you done?" Blaise asked. He'd refused to help but had remained leaning up against the doorframe, ready to make a quick exit if he had to.

Draco shrugged. "I stopped counting after 10 packs," he admitted. "I've been here for hours. Helios notumque." Another balloon floated up.

"She has no idea you're doing this, right?"

Draco inflated several more balloons before he looked at Blaise and admitted, "None." Blaise made a groaning sound and Draco added, "But you know how she is. If I'd asked her what she wanted she would have said, 'Oh, you don't have to get my anything.'"

"Which might be because it's not like you two are friends," Blaise pointed out.

"We're friends!" Draco protested.

"You say hello over the coffee maker in the department kitchen, yes," Blaise said, "And that's it." He made a point of looking around the balloon-filled flat. "And from that you decided to break in – "

"I hardly broke in!"

"If you have to use alohomora you're breaking in." Blaise looked at Draco who became very busy filling balloons. "So you decided to break in and fill the woman's flat with balloons because she says hello to you over the creamers instead of 'fuck off you miserable Death Eater.'"

"And streamers." Both men looked around. Draco had, indeed, tacked red streamers to every surface he could think of and they fluttered in the faint drafts like veils of blood. "I admit those look a little morbid but it was her House colour so I figured she'd like it," Draco said.

"You are such an idiot," Blaise said. "You have – for your entire life – come up with the most elaborate, misbegotten plans of anyone I have ever known. You can't just ask the woman out, not you. You have to do this ridiculous, outrageous… what if she comes in here with some other guy she's planning on going out with? What if she – "

"You can go," Draco muttered. "Really."

Blaise sighed and looked at his friend. "Just… send me an owl if she hexes your balls off or something."

"She's not going to hex my balls off," Draco said with more confidence than he felt.

"Uh huh," was the last thing Blaise said before he left.

"At least, I hope she's not going to hex my balls off," Draco muttered once he was alone and what had seemed like a romantic and fun birthday surprise began to look a lot more like something a crazed stalker would do. All those red streamers. He was contemplating turning them gold so even if he looked insane he wouldn't look murderously insane when the door opened and he heard a squeak.

Hermione Granger stood, one hand on her door, one hand at her mouth, as she looked around her flat.

"Happy Birthday," he said with what he hoped sounded like enthusiasm and not the sudden terror he felt that this had been, as Blaise thought, a really stupid idea "Surprise!"

She stammered, "D...Draco _Malfoy_? How did you get… crap. Please tell me no one's going to jump out at me from behind the furniture. This isn't a surprise party, is it?"

"Uh, no," he said. "Just me."

She reached out a hand to touch a balloon that had stuck itself to the wall right near her head. "How did you get all these?" she asked. "Oh my god, have you been here for hours? Is this why you weren't at work today?"

He could feel himself wanting to die, to just curl up behind some of the poorly thought out streamers and wither, when she said, sounding like she might cry, "I think this might be the nicest thing anyone's ever done for my birthday."

He let a vestige of the cocky smile he was known for slip onto his face at that. "I have reservations for dinner," he said. "If you wanted to go."

She was still touching that balloon, wonder on her face, when she said, "Yeah. Just… let me change and throw away the book Anthony gave me when I was leaving the office."

"You're going to throw away a book?" Draco asked, squelching his jealousy that that Goldstein wanker had thought to give her a present. "You?"

"It's a self-help book on how to be attractive to men," she said in disgust.

Draco began to laugh. Maybe the red streamers hadn't been the very worst idea after all. Just in case, he changed them to gold while she was shucking off her office robes and putting on something no one wore to go out with a man she only thought of as the guy she said hello to when they met at the coffee counter.

They set the book on fire over breakfast.


	61. Scars

**Happy Birthday, Calimocho**

. . . . . . . . . .

"Well," Draco said when Hermione opened her eyes. "Look what we have here."

"Great," Hermione said, a slight smile tweaking her mouth up. "The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the ferret."

"If you didn't want me in your room, you should have avoided that curse a little better," Draco said with a hint of his usual sneer before his face crumbled into worry. "You promised me that you would be careful," he said. "You promised me."

"It's not my fault that the Death Eaters are getting better aim," Hermione said, her voice shaking a little. "Practice does make perfect, after all, and they've had a lot of practice shooting at me by now."

"Fucking bastards," Draco mattered.

"Well, you would know," Hermione said as she struggled to sit up. His eyes immediately crinkled with concern and he leaned forward to help her up into a seated position.

"Are you sure you should be doing that?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Merlin, I thought you were my ferret," she said, "not my nanny goat."

"What you need is a fucking keeper," he muttered. "You attract trouble every time you go out. She raised her hand to rest on his cheek and he pressed his face into it with a sigh. "It just makes me crazy with worry," he said. "I wish I could go out with you, guard your back."

You're too high profile of a target," she said. "You know how they feel about turncoats."

Draco did and it was why he sat in their bunker and brewed potions and waited for her to come back. If the Death Eaters discovered him on the field, recapturing him and taking him back for what would be euphemistically referred to as 'questioning' would immediately become their highest priority. The one time he had gone out to fight, the number of black-robed figures had tripled within minutes as they all apparated in to Snatch him. He'd barely escaped and only had because Hermione had held them off screaming at him to get out. She'd gotten the jagged scar that ran along her left hip that day and she still limped when she was tired because of that particular curse. Some day he might forgive himself for that.

"Any new scars?" she asked now, her vanity hidden under the light tone.

"You're just jealous because you'll never be able to compete with mine," he said.

She laughed and turned his arm so she could trace her fingers over the Dark Mark that he'd had burned into him. "Well," she said, "You are one of a kind, ferret-boy."

"And you're beautiful," he said. "Hermione Granger."

She closed her eyes and he helped her back down before lacing his fingers through hers. "Sleep," he said. "Knit up that sleeve of care. I'll be here when you wake."

"I love you," she said.

He squeezed her hand. "I love you, too. Sleep." But she already was and he sat and watched her, brushing that curly hair away from the puckered line that ran down one cheek as his eyes burned.


	62. Veela Draco

**Happy birthday, my name is mommy, aka Hippymamalove**

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Son." Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway of Draco's rooms, looking unwontedly ill at ease. "May I come in?"

Their relationship had been strained since the war. Draco found he resented his parent's slavish early devotion to the Dark Lord while simultaneously being grateful they'd broken free at the end. They were grateful he was alive and resented his surly attitude. It made for uncomfortable mealtimes and they tended to avoid each other between those meals.

"Of course," Draco said with as much graciousness as he could muster. "It's your house, after all," he muttered as his father stepped across the threshold.

Lucius grimaced at that but didn't say anything, just settled himself in one of the arm chairs Narcissa had had covered to match the green bedspread the year Draco had decided he wanted only Slytherin colors in his room. "Draco," he began, "when a boy grows up he may experience certain… changes. You may begin to feel urges that – "

Draco cut him off. "Father," he said, his voice tight with embarrassment, "I've known how to do a contraceptive charm for quite some time now."

"That's… that's good but it's not," Lucius stopped and shook his head. "Have you actually…" He trailed off.

"Not that it's any of your business," Draco said, his arms crossed as he glared at his father, "but no. The war kind of made that impossible. But you don't need to worry about me coming home with a half-blood embarrassment. Hogwarts made sure we all knew how to –"

"It's not that," Lucius said.

"- And I've known for years that masturbation doesn't make you blind and – "

"Draco!"

" – And I'm eighteen years old so don't you think this little sex talk is a tiny bit late?"

"You're a Veela." Lucius just got the words out as quickly as he could

Draco's mouth had been open to continue talking but just gaped at his father and no words came out until, at last, he said, "Not possible. We're purebloods."

Lucius nodded. "Of course, but Veela blood isn't considered impure, and once you find your mate it won't even impact your life that much."

"Find my _what_?"

Lucius took a deep breath and, now that Draco was really paying attention began to explain. Malfoy men were Veela. It wasn't well known outside certain select families but it was true. When they matured they began to experience intense cravings for a single sexual partner. The bond was irreversible and absolute. At the mention of 'marking', a term that made Draco cringe, he stopped his father's horrifying monologue.

"A Mark?" he said. "I think I've had enough 'Marking' to last me forever."

"You won't be able to…" Lucius sighed. "It's not like what happened with…"

"You mean it won't seem like a good idea at the time only to turn into a bloody chain tying me to what is not a good idea at all?" Draco demanded.

"When you find your mate –"

"A mate. Like a fucking swan. Or an albatross. Great."

" – You'll understand. When your mother and I – "

"No. I refuse to think about you _biting_ mother in some hideous, animalistic bonding ritual. That is just… no." Draco looked like he wanted to throw up.

Lucius sighed again. "Draco," he said, trying to be as patient as he could. "You don't have a choice."

"What?"

"If you don't find a mate – your mate, because you'll fixate on one woman – you'll waste away."

"This just gets better and better," Draco said. "So, find a nice girl, explain I'm not a pureblood but some vile creature, and, oh, by the way, would she mind if I started gnawing on her shoulder because if I don't I'll pine away into nothingness." He slouched into the armchair that matched the one Lucius was in. "Any more bad news? Do I have to drink blood or do I turn into a wolf at the full moon or anything?"

"No, no werewolf," Lucius said. "No vampire. There are the wings, of course, – "

"Wings?" Draco lifted his head. "_Wings?_"

"- And claws but only if you aren't able to control your emotions."

Draco mouthed something that might have been 'fucking great' but didn't say anything else out loud; he just slumped lower in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

"You'll know your mate when you meet her," Lucius said in a tone that was probably meant to be encouraging. "Now that you're an adult and the… the _urges_… are going to start happening you'll know her the moment you see her, even if you've walked past her a hundred times before and never noticed anything. We'll have a party, invite everyone we can, you can just mingle and you'll find her."

"Because if I don't I waste away," Draco muttered. "And then I get to convince some girl to let me start chewing on her."

"You're a Malfoy," Lucius said, a hint of the familiar arrogance back in his voice now that this painful conversation was almost over. "And the old pureblood families all know about Veelas. No one will – "

"Object that I'm some filthy magical creature. I get it." Draco shuddered. "Could you get out now? Please?"

After Lucius nodded and left Draco raked his fingernails down his arm, over the Mark he couldn't get rid of, couldn't hide, leaving a series of long red lines before he bent over and tried not to sob. "Why couldn't he just been talking about wanking off?" he muttered to himself. "Why?"

. . . . . . . . . .

The party was a success, even by Narcissa Malfoy's high standards. Despite their family's questionable social standing after the war she'd managed to convince enough people that this affair – supposedly a fund-raiser to help rebuild small businesses in Diagon Alley – was not to be missed that both ballrooms had been opened and people flowed from one to the other, champagne glasses in hand, while house elves bobbed in and out of the crowd balancing trays of starters on hands held above their heads.

Draco moved through the crowd a smile plastered to his face, sleeves down to hide his Mark. He'd begun to feel the urges his father had discussed and the need to find this woman had started to feel all-consuming. They weren't even sexual, which was what he had expected. He just needed to find her and smell her, touch her. He'd sit at her feet and ask nothing more if she'd just let him.

Assuming he could find her.

If he couldn't it became clearer with every passing day that his father hadn't been exaggerating when he said, "waste away."

He'd walked through the party for hours, making endless small talk with his mother's friends and their boring daughters and felt nothing. Not a spark. Not a flicker. Nothing. He'd had a brief, truly horrifying moment, when he'd seen Ron Weasley and Harry Potter and felt something churn in his stomach but it had been some kind of false alarm. The three of them had exchanged tense pleasantries and Harry had mentioned that that Mudblood friend of his would be along later with Ron's little sister.

Draco hoped, the strangest hope he'd ever had, that it would be Ginny Weasley. His father had told him, in a second equally awful conversation, that his mate would be equally drawn to him. "Like a bee to nectar," he'd said.

"Or a moth to bloody flame," Draco had muttered but he'd been grateful to realize that he wasn't going to have to actually _court_ this mystery woman. She might be as unhappy about the entire situation as he was but she'd no more be able to control her _urges_ than he would.

Ginny Weasley was pureblood, at least, and taking the Chosen One's girlfriend would give him a certain malicious amount of pleasure even if she was a blood traitor and kind of irritating.

"I'll be so good to you, whoever you are," Draco whispered under his breath as he made his way to the foyer to try to breathe in a little cooler air before he reentered the fray. "I'll do anything you want, just make this burning need for you go away. Just keep me from dying. I know I'm a… just…"

Ginny Weasley came out of the small lounge, her head turned to talk to someone behind her, and Draco felt nothing. Not her, then. Well, that was to be expected. Hundreds of girls at this damn party and not one of them was his mate. Not one of them was his lifeline. He turned to trudge back into the ballroom when he felt a hissed intake of breath behind him followed by the sound of glass shattering on the marble floor.

He turned. Hermione Granger was standing there, her hand to her mouth and a broken champagne flute at her feet.

"You'll ruin your shoes," Draco said stupidly as he stared at the splashes of wine on what looked like satin high heels.

Ginny looked from one of them to the other, her confusion evident. "Hermione," she said, "are you okay."

"I don't… I need to sit down," Hermione whispered.

Draco rushed to drag a chair across the floor to her, the Weasley girl staring at him as if he'd grown a second head – or sprouted wings, he thought with a frown – the whole time.

"Thank you," Hermione said as she sat down. "I just... I'm sorry; this is very embarrassing. I just felt suddenly faint. I'm sure…" She put a hand out as if to steady herself and Draco leaned down to kiss the back of it. She jerked when his lips brushed against her skin and he felt his own stomach lurch.

"Granger," Draco said, then tried again, "Miss Granger. I have something I need to tell you."

By the time he was done Ginny Weasley had dragged over a chair of her own, ordered more champagne from a passing house elf, and peppered him with questions while Hermione sat there, as if in a state of shock, her hand nervously playing with his hair. She'd run her fingers down a strand and then let it go, only to pick it up again. Draco knelt in the puddle of champagne at her feet, bits of glass cutting into his lower legs, as he explained and re-explained the situation.

"This is not fair," Hermione said at last.

"I am aware," Draco said, fighting the urge to rest his cheek on her knee. He expected her to rail against her own unwelcome bond to him, to the boy who'd made her school years unpleasant with taunts, who had thought of her as a Mudblood not an hour ago.

"How can you be just trapped like this," was, however, what she said. "You… no one even _told_ you? Not until you were on the cusp of dying because you had to find… is this party really about Diagon Alley?"

"I can assure you," he said, "a not insubstantial sum has been raised to help businesses rebuild."

"But this was to find me," she said.

"The Malfoy family is matching all donations," Draco said helplessly as he wiped his sweating hands on his trousers.

"Was it the war?" she demanded. "Did no one warn you because of the war?"

Draco looked at her, confused, but Ginny was beginning to smirk. "The bond really does go both ways," she said. "Well, Draco Malfoy, welcome to having Hermione Granger outraged on your behalf." She stood up. "I need to go find Ron. This is the best thing ever. He might actually turn purple."

"Shite," Draco looked at Hermione. "You're with Weasley. I…" The earlier idea that he'd enjoy gloating on getting to steal the Chosen One's girlfriend was replaced by horror at the idea Hermione might be made upset in any way at all.

"No," Hermione shook her head. "We realized almost immediately after the war that… are you _bleeding_?"

Draco looked down at his knees. The blood from where her broken glass had cut him had seeped through his trousers and was tinting the puddle in which he was kneeling. "Just a little," he said. "It's not a – "

"Do you lack any sense of self-preservation at all?" she asked in an aggrieved voice. "Merlin, get up and let me heal your knees."

He pulled himself to Ginny's chair and flinched as the witch next to him yanked broken glass out of his skin with one incantation. "Thank you," he said right before she leaned over and, as if unable to help herself, pressed her lips into his. He groaned and pulled her forward over the heavy chair until she was half in his lap, her mouth on his, his tongue licking uncertainly at hers.

That was how Harry Potter and Ron Weasley found them.

For years whenever Ginny told the story of how she was there when Draco and Hermione Malfoy realized they were meant to be, she ended it with, "And Ron _did_ turn purple. Three different shades." She always sounded so pleased about that. "Three," she'd say, shaking her head with pleasure. "Three shades, if you can believe it."


	63. Veela Draco, part 2

_**A/N – Well, this isn't really properly dramione – more lucissa, I suppose – but there was a very overwhelming reader response to Veela!Draco requesting a full story and while there can't be a full story what with there being no conflict at all, I **__**can**__** show the parental response. **_

. . . . . . . . . .

Lucius looked over at Draco as Narcissa snagged a prosciutto-wrapped melon slice from a passing tray. The boy had his hands placed with decorous care on the bushy haired girl who had been his absolute nemesis at school and was looking down at her as though he had spent his life in the dark and was seeing sun and color for the first time. She was looking back with wonder, confusion, and a certain obstinate outrage in the set of her jaw, outrage that didn't seem to be directed at Draco.

"I didn't expect that," Lucius said.

Narcissa smiled. "I'm not surprised," she said sounding pleased. "You Malfoys are so good at finding what you – what your family – needs that you've managed to hone it to an unconscious instinct.

"What do you mean?" Lucius asked as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

"You needed a pureblood wife of impeccable lineage because of the rise of that man." Narcissa had decided she wasn't going to ever directly acknowledge the Dark Lord again; he was probably fortunate Harry Potter had killed him quickly because she might not have been so merciful if she'd gotten the chance. "Draco needs to rehabilitate the family because, well, things have been uncomfortable. Who better than a Muggle-born war heroine." She looked the girl over. "I wonder what happened to her shoes."

"I'm sure you'll take her shopping and fill a closet with replacements," Lucius said, wrapping an arm around his wife.

"You two have always been the most affectionate couple." Lucius put on his politician's smile as Rita Skeeter sidled up to him.

"I married the perfect woman," Lucius said, "Why not be affectionate?"

"How lovely to see you, Rita," Narcissa said. "Did you see the grand total this little party has raised for the Diagon Alley rebuilding project?"

"I did," Rita said. She pointed a quill toward Draco and Hermione who were still on the dance floor, oblivious to anything besides one another. "I'd like to get your reaction to that."

"Young love," Narcissa said. "Is anything more beautiful?"

"Love can quite literally keep us alive through our darkest hours," Lucius said. "And she's already an impressive young woman." He took a sip from his champagne flute. "I'm – we're – very happy for them both."

Rita Skeeter looked disappointed by the lack of fireworks and parental censure but smiled as pleasantly as she could manage before moving off to talk to other guests.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – I hope you liked the tiny expansion to this bit of summer fluffy fluff :). I might write down the eventual conversation between Lucius and Hermione as she expresses her opinions on how he neglected to fill Draco in on his Veela heritage but if I do I'll just post it on tumblr, not here, because it'll be short and not at all dramione-ish.**_


	64. Parody

Once upon a time the Ministry of Magic decided for reasons that shall remain unclear that all witches and wizards under a certain age needed to get married, preferably to partners they didn't like.

Naturally, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were tied in their mutual dislike of Pansy Parkinson. She whined. Constantly. Therefore, the three of them found themselves bound up in marital bliss. It worked out both because she was very flexible and it turned out Ron and Harry were not just friends so, despite the inauspicious beginning of a forced marriage, everyone went home happy and Pansy became a member of the frequent buyer's club at a local Muggle adults only store.

Tom Riddle and Ginny Weasley were similarly paired up. Don't ask for this to make sense, just work with me here. They seemed fairly passionate about one another though Draco was once heard to comment to Hermione that he thought they could probably use some counseling as their relationship didn't seem wholly healthy.

And, of course, Draco and Hermione were paired up. This went less well at first than the other marriages because Draco was a blatant womanizer and Hermione an unattractive and dumpy prude, not to mention a Muggle-born. However, after a strange magical accident it was revealed she was actually a pureblood and her frizzy hair changed to shining raven locks and her eyes to the green of new leaves and she lost all interest in tedious books and research and took up shopping as her new hobby. Draco – or Drakey as she now called him – was happy to assist her with this and lost all interest in his previous conquests.

"Mia," he said one day, "I never thought I could be happy with an unattractive Mudblood but now that you're a beautiful pureblood who shares my love of designer shoes, and now that we've been forced to marry by our very meddling government, I feel we should discuss the names of our future children."

"Oh, Drakey," she said as she looked up from her anachronistic iPhone, "I no longer have opinions of my own so anything you want is fine with me."

"You certainly have opinions, Mia!" he said. "You were very opinionated about the Hermes scarf I bought you on a whim today."

"Well, that's true," she admitted.

"I think Scorpius for a boy and Janet for a girl," he said.

"I agree," she said.

**~ the end ~**

* * *

_**A/N - There is a (probably unintentionally) funny blog on tumblr called dramionerants where dramione fans rant about things they hate in dramione fics. Because I have an evil sense of humor I have tried to hit as many of them as possible here. It was impossible to hit them all because some are, of course, mutually contradictory. If I missed your pet peeve, I apologize.**_


	65. The Pianist

**A/N - For dracotrash**

**. . . . . . . . . . **

Checking the hallway in both directions to make sure he was unobserved, Draco Malfoy slipped into the classroom. He shoved the green tie marking him as Slytherin into his bag, did a rehearsed glamour charm, and looked at himself in the small mirror he had with him. His distinctive, pale hair had darkened to a mousy brown. They grey eyes about which he was more than vain had shifted to an unremarkable, watery blue. He'd softened the angles of his face. He was dull. Forgettable. If anyone stumbled into him in this guise they'd be hard pressed to even describe him later. Just another bland, interchangeable boy.

Disguise in place, he pulled out his papers, spread them on the stand before him, sat down at the piano and began to play.

He'd been working on this composition for months via stolen hours and in hidden rooms. He'd probably found every untuned, rickety piano in Hogwarts, a castle with an abundance of abandoned rooms and forgotten things, and he wanted to finish the piece.

He also wanted - wanted very badly - for no one to realize he did this. Sneers, caustic words, and the occasional flash of a faded Dark Mark all worked to keep people away and, after the war, he wanted people to stay away. The discovery that Draco Malfoy, former and failed Death Eater, liked music as more than something to play in the background while he snogged idiot girls would have resulted in more harassment than he cared to deal with.

More vulnerability.

He'd had enough of being vulnerable, thank you very much.

He played through what he'd written again. There. Something in the progression was off and he still wasn't sure how he wanted the whole thing to end. He tried the handful of notes three of four different ways and then pulled a quill out of his bag and made a note on his sheet music.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione Granger had her head down over the book she was reading as she walked through unused corridors when she heard the piano and she stopped. Her mother had played - had played beautifully - but she had managed to be the only child kicked out of piano lessons for utter incompetence. She liked music but she couldn't make it. Instruments almost recoiled from the touch of her hands. Six years in Hogwarts, a year on the run, and now another year to finish her N.E.W.T.s and, other then Flitwick's painful chorus, she'd never heard live music in the school.

The Hogwarts arts program was not very good.

She missed music. She didn't allow herself to think about how she missed the sound of her mother sitting down to play and instead just stopped her thoughts. She missed music. That was all..

She followed the sound until she opened the door of what seemed to be an empty room where she saw a boy she didn't recognize sitting at a piano, quill held in his teeth as he played the same sequence over and over again with slight variations.

She must have made some sound because he spun on the bench and looked at her, a shocked and furious look on his face at the intrusion.

. . . . . . . . . .

It had to be Granger. Of course it did. Draco stared at the once bushy-haired witch he resented like no other as she hovered in the doorway of his sanctuary.

"I'm sorry," she was saying. "I shouldn't have intruded. It was just so beautiful. I'll go - "

"No," he said, flattered against his will by the obvious sincerity in her voice. "I didn't know you liked music, Granger."

She flushed. "I'm no good at it," she muttered. "Can't play despite lessons and my mum… but, yes, I like it."

Draco felt a bit of ugly gratification that the girl whose marks he'd chased for years, the war heroine, the shining star of British wizarding youth, or so the _Prophet_ had said in their last bit of hagiography, was bad at something. "It's not hard," he said.

"It is for me," she said. She bit her lip and ran a nervous hand over her skirt and asked, "May I stay and listen? I'll be quiet, I swear."

Draco shrugged and said, "If you want. I doubt it's that interesting to listen to me, though. It's not like I'm playing it straight through." She nodded and sank into a dusty chair and sat in such silence he almost forgot she was there as he worked and played and made small changes. When he began to put things away she stood and he wondered what she'd thought of it.

Not that he intended to ask.

As he passed her to go she stuck her hand out and introduced herself and, eyeing the extended fingers with distaste borne of long bias, Draco took them. "I know who you are, Granger," he said, adding sourly, "Everyone knows who you are."

"I don't know you," she said, the words a clear hint that he should tell her his name. Fat chance of that

"And I want to keep it that way," he said. Still, the lure of an appreciative audience was strong enough that he couldn't resist adding, "I try to come and work on it a couple of days a week, always this time. If you came back to listen - and were quiet - I wouldn't kick you out."

After that not exactly gracious invitation he expected her to disappear, but she didn't. She must have decided to check the room every day because every time he went to play she was there, sometimes already silently sitting in a chair she'd transfigured to something more comfortable, reading a book she put away when he began to play. Sometimes she ran in just as he was starting, a mumbled apology on he lips and she curled up in her chair and sat and listened in silent appreciation. She only offered an opinion once. "It makes me ache," she'd said. "It's as if you took the war and distilled all the fear and loneliness into notes." She'd shaken her head. "You have a gift," she'd said. "I wish I had a smidgeon of your talent."

"You're brilliant," he'd said. "Everyone knows that."

But she'd demurred. "I work hard," she said. "People see what they want to see and they want to believe I'm some kind of magical wunderkind. If I'm special it absolves them, I guess."

He'd blanched at that. Absolution was something he didn't expect to ever get. He assumed if she knew who the glamoured and identity-less musician she came to hear was, the appreciative light that shone in her eyes when he played would be replaced by a hard edged condemnation.

No one likes a loser, especially not one with an ugly symbol for death burned into his arm.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione was late. She hated when she was late, when she had to slip into the piano room after her musician had already started to play. At first he'd given her an annoyed glare when she'd come in so she'd tried to always be early. Then that glare had softened to a neutral acknowledgement and finally, after months of listening to him, a welcoming smile. She still didn't know his name, didn't know his House. She'd looked for him in classes and in the Dining Hall but it was as if he didn't exist.

She opened the door and stopped. In place of her brown-haired musician a familiar, but less welcome, white blond head sat at the piano, bent down over his bag and looking for something. Draco Malfoy, rotten, miserable, awful Draco Malfoy, looked up. "What is it, Granger?" he asked.

She stared at the smile on his face. The welcoming smile she was used to seeing framed by mousy brown hair and cheekbones less like brutal slashes in a pointy face. "Malfoy?" she said, confused.

A look of shocked horror crossed his face before he covered it with his regular sneer. "Surprise," he said, defensive ice in his words. "If you tell - "

She crossed over to him and, dropping her book bag to the floor, took his face in her hands and studied him. "You're so good," she said. "I never had any idea it was you. Subtle changes but so good." She released him and, shoving her bag with her foot, settled into her chair. "You're prettier this way, though."

"I'm more than just a pretty face, Granger," Draco Malfoy said as he began to play the opening strains of the piece he'd finally figured out how to complete and she smothered a laugh from her seat. He looked over at her and she smiled back and he thought that maybe someday he would ask her why she liked music so much. There was a story there. Maybe she'd tell it to him over dinner. Maybe he'd tell her about how his mother had taught him to play, how he'd written her his first song before he left for Hogwarts so she wouldn't miss him. He glanced up at Hermione Granger again and she was still smiling. At him.

Definitely. They'd talk over dinner.


	66. Blended Souls

When Hermione woke up her head felt like she'd done a round with a full bottle of fire whiskey and lost. She groaned and went to sit up then, thinking better of that idea, groaned again and tried to remember what she'd done to end up in this state. A hand slipped a vial onto an unfamiliar nightstand in her view and a voice said, "It's a pain potion. It will help." She didn't try to identify the voice because what her brain was telling her was impossible; instead, she just reached past a pile of old books, took the vial, uncorked it and, propping herself on one elbow, drank it all in one swallow.

It did help.

Her head cleared almost immediately and she was able to sit up and look around. She wasn't a fan of what she saw.

Draco Malfoy leaned against one wall, slouching and patrician and arrogant as always with no expression on his shuttered face. A quick turn of her head revealed Greg Goyle hunched over in an arm chair, his arms wrapped around himself as though he were about to be ill.

"I didn't know," Goyle said. "I didn't."

Hermione did not find those words reassuring. She turned, slowly this time, and looked back at Draco, noting as she did so that she was fully dressed, down to the wand at her leg, so whatever had happened wasn't the obvious. That meant it was probably worse. "Explain," she said to Malfoy.

He flinched at the short, harsh word but began to speak. "Goyle here," he said, "thought it would be super funny to spike our drinks with a love potion last night."

"There are no love potions, not really," Hermione said, repressing the memory of Ron and his brief, drug-induced infatuation with Romilda Vane.

"Oh, look at the Muggle-born who spent all of six years at Hogwarts and now knows everything there is to know about magic," Malfoy said with a hint of his familiar sneer, a sneer she somehow realized was defensive and scared and a sneer she wanted to ease from his mouth. "I realize you're used to being the smartest person in the room at all times, but try to consider that in that whole Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library there may be a lot of unpleasant magic no one teaches to teenagers."

"Not technically a love potion," Goyle said. He sounded miserable.

"No," Malfoy agreed. "If you'd just drugged us into rutting like rabbits in heat I might have beaten you to a pulp when I came to, but you had to go and do something much, much worse." He crossed his arms. "What dear, _dear_ Goyle doctored our drinks with is an automatic sentence to Azkaban for just possession. He found it in his loving father's collection of purposely mislabeled Dark Arts items and didn't realize what it was." Draco Malfoy took a deep breath and let out a long, shuddering sigh that tried to conceal what sounded like desperation.

"What was it?" Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to know. Hermione had a feeling she did, however, impossible it was.

"Soul potion," Goyle whispered.

"What?" She understood immediately but shook her head at the impossibility of it.

Malfoy was talking again, however, and she stopped. "Take two glasses of water, pour them into a pitcher, then pour them back into the glasses. What happens?"

"The water mixes," Hermione said as he confirmed everything. "No," she said. "No."

"Oh yes," Malfoy said. "I'm glad to see you're as bright as everyone always claimed. Our souls have been mixed. Blended. I have some of yours. You have some of mine." He looked at Goyle. "If you want to send this sodding arsehole to Azkaban, just say the word."

"I need to go - "

"To the library?" Malfoy cut her off. "Don't bother. I brought the books to you." He pointed to the books at the bedside table. "Let me sum up. People have managed, after taking this, to live separate lives. The more contact we have with one another the more difficult separation will be. Touching is ill-advised as that will increase our mutual misery upon parting. No one has ever managed a successful romantic partnership with anyone other than their bloody soul-whatever-we-are, but we could pour ourselves into research or travel and, with some mental discipline, be reasonably happy." He did not look reasonably happy. "Or so the books claim. There isn't a lot of research data because of this being hellishly illegal."

Hermione looked at the hunched over Goyle again. "Get out," she said. He didn't need telling twice and he bolted. Left alone with Malfoy she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. "I don't want anyone to know," she said.

"So no Azkaban," Malfoy said. "Done." He smiled bitterly. "Greg's luckier than he deserves."

She took a step toward him and he got paler, something she wouldn't have thought was possible.

"Don't touch me, Granger," he said. "It will make being apart from one another awful and I have no desire to suffer any more than we already will."

"I just want to clarify," she said. "This bond, it's not going to fade."

Draco Malfoy turned away from her to look out the window. "You feel it too, then," he said.

"I don't love you," Hermione said. "But - "

"Exactly," he said. "Just go and you'll probably be fine. I'll try not to kill Greg and find some research topic I can become very interested in so I don't think about you."

She look another step and she could see his shoulders tense. She could almost feel his shoulders tense. "Malfoy," she said. "Draco."

"I realize that I have no right to ask you anything," he said. "After bullying you in school, and the war, and Greg bloody well drugging you into this, but, Granger, please do not make this worse. We both know you're going to walk out that door and become a brilliant something or other while I sit in some moldering manor and write detailed research treatises on things no one cares about." She could see him trying not to cry. "Just don't make it worse."

"Draco," she said again.

"You see," he said without turning around. "That would be making it worse."

She reached a hand out and let it hover over his shoulder. "I don't think I want a loveless life buried in ideas so I don't have to feel," she said.

"The alternative is me," he said.

"You're letting me choose?" she asked.

His head jerked in a nod, a short, unhappy movement, and she let her hand drop so it rested on his arm and then, burning with the need for more contact, to be reunited with her own soul, and his, she slipped it under the edge of his shirt and splayed her fingers against his skin.

He was warmer than she would have expected, almost burning, and he gasped at the touch. "Granger," he said with raw desperation. "Hermione."

"Yes," she said.

He turned to face her again and put his hands on either side of her face and, searching her eyes with his, said, "Oh, please, tell me you mean this. I'd let you go. I'd pay that price for what Greg did, but - "

She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his, the tentative touch turning to passion in moments and he was clutching at her and she had her arms around him and her fingers in hair that was so fine, so very fine, and when he stopped kissing her she could barely breathe.

"I'm hungry," she said, trying to ground herself in the ordinary, "and I want to go back to my flat and shower and get clean clothes." He stepped away from her, his eyes guarded again and she added, with a touch of impatience, "Are you coming with me?"

"We'll figure this out," he said. "Right?"

She raised a hand to her mouth and felt the way her lips seemed swollen after the way they'd kissed, felt the way those lips turned up in a smile. "I think we already have," she said.

"Right," he said again. His smirk returned and he said, "And you really could use that shower."

"Prat," she said, but the smile wouldn't fade.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - A drabble for someone on tumblr whose kind words meant the world to me yesterday.**


	67. The Mask

Hermione laughed when Draco was thrown at her feet. He looked a little brutalized, with blood in his matted blond hair and clothes that had seen better days. He spit at her; Narcissa Malfoy let out a sound at the red tinge in the spittle. Hermione laughed at that too.

She looked over at the Malfoys. Lucius seemed paler than usual, something she wouldn't have believed possible, and Narcissa had regained control of herself after her momentary lapse. "The prodigal son has returned to us," Hermione cooed. She looked back at Draco who had laid his cheek down on the stone floor in apparent despair. "Well, your prodigal son," Hermione corrected herself. "If I had a son who had fled to the Order of the Phoenix after the Battle of Hogwarts I might have killed myself from the shame." She smirked at Lucius. "I see you are not so nice."

"My Lady," Lucius began but she waved a hand at him in irritation and he fell silent again as the whole room waited to see what the Dark Lady would do with the boy collapsed on the floor. There had been a momentary power vacuum at the end of the climatic battle and, with the Dark Lord conveniently dead, Hermione Granger had risen from the ashes to terrorize her way to the head of the Death Eaters.

The Order of the Phoenix had seemingly been so stunned by her defection it had taken them too long to respond; by the time they did, she'd solidified her power base and couldn't be toppled.

The Death Eaters had learned to not cross her.

She'd yanked the Carrows out of Hogwarts and told Minerva McGonagall, newly appointed Headmistress, chosen by the pleasure of the Dark Lady, to get the place rebuilt and ready for the incoming class or else. The woman had glared at her and, in full view and hearing of the Death Eaters ranged behind their new queen had said, "I regret the day I took a viper to my bosom."

"Regret away," Hermione had said, unmoved. "If this place isn't rebuilt by September, you'll regret it without your skin."

She'd patted Lucius Malfoy on the cheek as he'd struggled not to flinch and told him to do the same to the Ministry. "You always wanted to by Minister of Magic," she'd smirked at him. "And now you are."

"I'm very grateful," he'd whispered, "My lady." He'd avoided looked at the mangled corpse of the first Death Eater she'd trusted with the position. He had let her down and it had taken him two weeks to die. Hermione didn't opt for _avada kedavra _and hungry snakes. She liked to kill people by inches.

Now she looked down at Draco Malfoy and let a cruel smile play along her lips. "Take him to my room," she said at last.

"My lady," Narcissa began, but fell silent when Hermione turned those brown eyes on her.

"You have an objection?" Hermione asked. "He betrayed his own side, betrayed his own family, and still you advocate for him?"

"He's just a boy," Narcissa whispered.

Hermione shrugged. "And I'm just a girl," she said. She leaned back as one of the Lestranges - she never bothered to even try to tell them apart - lifted the boy up and began hauling him away. "Don't break him," Hermione called out, the lilt to her voice making everyone shiver. "He's my new toy, not yours, and I get displeased when people break my things."

Lestrange visibly shivered and shifted Draco so he was held more comfortably in the man's arms.

Hermione smiled at Narcissa. "I wonder if he regrets all those times he called me Mudblood?" she said.

Narcissa kept her eyes down and didn't reply and, with a horrifyingly cheerful chirp that she supposed she was about to find out and wouldn't it be fun to train the arrogant and traitorous Draco Malfoy to dance to her tune, Hermione almost skipped out of the room after the pair.

When she got to her suite, latching and warding and silencing the door behind her, she turned to look at the man. He was setting a flask down on a table. "I helped myself to a pain potion or two," he said. "I didn't think you'd mind. The bastard who captured me seemed to think you'd like me bloodied up a bit."

He turned and they looked at one another for a long moment before he grabbed he and held her as tightly as he could. "I couldn't believe it when I got your message," he whispered into her hair. "They're really all gone?"

"If they aren't in that main hall, they're dead," Hermione said. "Every last one of them. Death Eaters. Snatchers. Informers. All gone. His whole structure is gone." She shivered. "I've done things, Draco… I don't sleep well at night anymore. How long can you wear a mask before it's who you really are?"

"I've missed you," he said. "So much. Harry sends his love. Ron sends love. McGonagall told me to tell you to keep your chin up. You've done your part. You've gotten us the information, you've slaughtered them, you've kept them distracted. You can set this down now and let us throw the rest into Azkaban."

"It was a damned awful plan," Hermione said. "Damned. _Damned_."

"I know," Draco said. "I know, love. And you bore the brunt of it, you crazed, Gryffindor fool." His voice hitched. "And you kept my parents safe. I can never - "

"I promised you I would," she said. She shuddered. "They think I'm in here torturing you."

"They'll live thinking that for an hour," Draco said. "You've released the wards?"

She nodded. "As soon as I saw you."

"Then it's over," he said. "Our side will come in and get them all and it's really and truly over. No zealots left to try again. Everyone accounted for." He swallowed hard and said, his voice almost but not quite steady, "I have a portkey to an island where I plan to make you lie around on the beach and I'll drop bits of fruit into your mouth and we'll live happily ever after."

"You hate the sun," she said, holding back a sniffling laugh. "You burn."

"Well," he said, "I may try to talk you into sitting under an umbrella."

"I can do that," she said. "I'd love to do that."

. . . . . . . . . .

**_A/N - Happy early Birthday, kiananishirami_**


	68. Vamp

Food was disgusting. And inefficient. And a waste of resources.

Hermione was going on again and Draco tuned her out, making 'mmming' noises whenever she paused for what he supposed wasn't breath, exactly, given that she didn't need to breathe any more, but habits die hard and so she still took breaks in her spiels.

There were a lot of people in the world, she went on. A lot. Too many. Did he have any idea what water shortages in third world countries meant?

Draco did not. Nor, to be honest, did he care. She'd promised to keep herself to Muggles and, as far as he knew, she had, and that was all he cared about. Well, that and the sex.

Immortal women who didn't need sleep turned out to also be nearly insatiable in bed. And on the couch. And the counter. And the floor. And against the wall. And, once, in an elevator at the Ministry.

Ron had walked in on them as he travelled from one part of whatever his tedious and pointless job was to another part and Draco had had to obliviate the man and obliviation spells gave him a headache so, alas, no more Ministry adventures. There were limits. A Muggle-born girlfriend? Fine. A _vampire_ Muggle-born girlfriend who was currently asking him if he knew what Kierkegaard would have thought of taking full advantage of one's place in the food chain? Also fine.

Draco, of course, neither knew nor cared what this Kierkegaard would have thought about justifying vampirism by redefining oneself as an apex predator.

Headaches, however, were not fine. Draco despised headaches. Also Thai food, laundry, and the way Hermione left blood soaked wash clothes on the counter in the bathroom after she washed her face. Mostly, however, he despised headaches and so, despite the way sex in public places and the risk turned him on, they'd stopped because every few times he'd had to obliviate someone and Hermione always selfishly refused to do it.

She justified that using Kierkegaard too.

Blaise had asked once what he found so appealing in the woman. "She's a vampire, Draco," the man had said. "Not sure how that happened, but generally vampires are bad news. And, worse, she lectured me on something about truth and subjectivity for almost an hour one night while you were fussing with your hair."

"She's perfect," Draco had said with a dreamy sigh, watching the magnetic woman smile her toothy smile at some idiot across the room. "She's brilliant and, oh Merlin, the flexibility you get when you're undead, and we don't even need to use contraceptive charms."

"You," Blaise had said, "are just being led around by your cock."

"I know," Draco had replied. "Isn't it great?"

He cut her off now, mid-sentence. "I found a new Muggle bistro," he said. "Great French food and an alley in the back where the wait-staff take smoke breaks."

"Win-win," she said and licked her teeth in anticipation. "As long as you agree with my point on - "

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"I'll get my bag," she said, conceding that she knew he hadn't listened to a word she'd said. "I've been peckish all afternoon."

"I can tell," he said. "Hunger always makes you talkative. The bathroom doors lock, too. Or so Theo reports."

"Definitely win-win," she said with relish as they left for dinner.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N This was written as part of a creature fic Halloween challenge with a few fanfic writer friends.**


	69. The Thin White Line

The scar hadn't been there when Hermione was born; she'd had the perfect, unblemished skin of any other newborn. Early in June of her first year, however, it appeared: a nearly perfect white circle around her wrist. It looked like thin, long-healed, scar tissue and Jean Granger sat her daughter in the doctor's office with worry in her eyes. "It just appeared," she said. "Last Thursday."

The doctor controlled her irritation that she'd wasted an appointment slot on this. She despised these hovering, middle-class, professional mothers. Half her patients didn't have enough food and this woman was worried about an obviously harmless birthmark. "It's fine," she said. She added, "Bring her back if any more show up," as a sop to the woman's fears.

No more did appear and Hermione grew up never really thinking about her scar. All kids had scars. It wasn't until she discovered she was a witch and started Hogwarts that she even gave it a second glance. "You have a soul mark," Ron Weasley said in what sounded like awe as she reached across the breakfast table to snag the marmalade from his greedy fingers.

"A what?" she asked.

He explained. They were very rare, his aunt had had one, and there were rumors Dumbledore did but since he wasn't married those had to be false. It meant that somewhere out there was her perfect match, a partner she met and remet every cycle of rebirth. Whoever the person was he - or she - would have the exact same mark in the exact same place.

"Like true love?" Hermione asked doubtfully. That sounded to her mind about as absurd as Divination but Ron shook his head.

"More like… I dunno," he said. "There's a stupid poem somewhere my mum made me memorize as part of her idea of Hogwarts prep. Something about being the dark to your light, fear to your bravery." He shrugged. "More like a balance thing. All ying-yangy."

"So if I'm smart this person will be dumb?" This did not sound like a good bargain to Hermione.

Lavender, who'd been eavesdropping, snorted. "No," she said. "It means they're perfect for you. The fear bravery thing, if you tend to rush in, they'll be cautious. It's a… a complement. You're supposed to complement each other, bring out each other's strengths." She seemed pleased at having remembered the right word and then looked at Hermione's wrist. "Thought that looks more like just a scar to me. She sniffed. "True soul marks are very rare. I doubt a Muggle-born would have one."

Hermione privately agreed with Lavender that it was just a scar, probably some kind of baby bracelet that had been too tight and cut into her skin that her mother had conveniently forgotten about, but she did enjoy hearing Ron tell Lavender she was a fool, and what did she know about it anyway, and Hermione was just as good as any other witch and so why shouldn't she have a soul mark?

Then she promptly forgot about the whole thing until she punched Draco Malfoy in the nose in their third year. He grabbed at her wrist and she thought he was going to twist her arm and was cursing herself for being so careless but all he did was stare, shocked, at her wrist and then put a sneer on. "Nice scar, Mudblood," he said. "Don't you ever touch me again with your filthy, disgusting hands, do you understand?"

She was going to retort, going to tell him where he could go and offer some suggestions as to what he could do when he got there, but he flung her arm down and ran off, his pack of sycophants at his heels, before she could get a word out.

"Blighter," Ron said, wrapping an arm around her. "That was awesome, Hermione."

By the time the Battle of Hogwarts was over, Hermione had a lot more scars than just a thin white line around her wrist. She'd braced her shoulders as Aurors rounded up Death Eaters and had slipped away from Harry and Ron to make her way from person to person in the Great Hall, seeing if they needed any help. When she took a break and went outside to find some quiet instead she found Draco Malfoy sitting alone on some steps, tucked out of view of the main hall.

He looked at her. "Granger," he said. "I'll go."

She waved him back down when he started to stand and just sat next to him, too exhausted to care any more about sides or childhood bullies. They'd won. He'd been as trapped as the rest of them, maybe more so. Maybe tomorrow she could go back to despising him but today she didn't have the energy. She clasped her hands in front of her and sat, staring at the blood and dirt on her palms and under her fingernails. She was thinking with borderline hysteria that she could use a good manicure when she looked over at the other set of hands similarly clasped next to her. Draco Malfoy had soot on his, and dirt, and blood, and there was a thin white scar encircling one wrist.

Her heart almost stopped.

She reached a finger out and touched it and felt an almost electric shock jolt through her.

"Secret's out, I guess," he said. She felt a surge of rage that he'd known - _he'd known_ \- and hadn't told her, and then felt something akin to despair. Bad enough that Ron had never returned her feelings, but to be rejected by someone supposed to be a soulmate seemed like too much to bear. "He would have used you," Draco said. The words were very soft. "At first I… it seemed like an insult. To have this special thing and then have it be _you_. By the time I… he would have used you. Killed you in pieces in front of me. I could never… obviously after everything you'll want nothing to do with me but it was all I could… I had to _protect_ you and the only way I could was - "

He stopped and took a deep breath and began to stand again. "I'll let you have some peace."

"Malfoy," she said then, as if tasting the name, "Draco."

He sat back down and when she looked at him she could see his throat bobbing. "I'm not a good man," he said. "I've done… things. I've done bad things, Granger."

"Me too," she whispered. She reached over and very tentatively laced her fingers through his. The white lines seemed to glow for a moment and he tightened his grip on hers. When Harry found then she'd fallen asleep against Malfoy's shoulder. Harry's eyes first narrowed at the sight then, when he saw the line on Draco Malfoy's wrist, they widened. He gave the man a short, curt nod before he walked back into Hogwarts and left the pair, one asleep and the other trying to balance her against his body without disturbing her, as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - for rebelsaurus29**

**FYI - June 5th, 1980 was a Thursday.**


	70. Gifts Aren't Hard Right?

He was sure he'd bungled it.

Draco Malfoy wanted to get this right and he was already afraid he'd done it wrong. He sat, looking at the seven small boxes, each tied with a pink bow and each charmed to somnolence, and shredded a small piece of paper in his hands. His nerves were already in tatters and Hermione had just walked in.

Seven months, he thought as she dropped a kiss on his forehead, her eyes scanning the handful of letters she'd gotten via owl post, and this still feels fragile. "Harry sent a note," she said.

"Oh?" Draco asked. Why was Harry-bloody-Potter, the Boy Who Never Made Mistakes, sending_ his_ girlfriend a note? That seemed a little cheeky.

"It's for you." She passed it over and Draco took it, afraid it might explode or burst into song or yowl at him. He opened it anyway and, when there was no immediate curse invoked, began to read. "_Your grey eyes shine like boring rocks, your hair is white as snow. If you hurt Hermione, what I'll do you know."_

He looked up at Hermione who was trying to look offended instead of laughing. "Stupid Potter," Draco muttered. "Like I'm supposed to read what passes for his mind and know what he'd do." He picked up the first box and handed it to her. "This is for you."

Hermione made appropriate noises of surprise and anticipation, as if there had been any doubt he would get her a present, and undid the bow. Her eyes widened and she pulled out the sleeping white kitten. "Draco," she said with delight. "A pet."

"I checked with the landlord," he said, hearing that he was babbling on but unable to stop himself, "And pets are fine in this flat. Not dogs and nothing exotic - "

"So no ferrets then?" she teased and he ignored her.

"- but cats are fine."

"She's darling," Hermione said as the kitten, the sleeping spell broken when the box had been opened, began to stir. Hermione settled the tiny creature on her arm and said, "We can call her Snowball, in honor of her hair and Harry's attempt at a poem."

"So…you like the white one then?" Draco asked.

Hermione glanced at the other boxes and said, her tone filled with caution, "White's fine, Draco. Why?"

He nudged the next box toward her.

Six boxes later Hermione sat under a pile of kittens. "I just didn't know which one to get," Draco said as the grey one - already named Rocky - climbed into his lap and began kneading her paws, miniature razor claws out, up and down on his leg. "They were all so…I picked up one and the next looked at me like I'd let her down by choosing someone else, and then I took that one and the first one began to mew in this sad little way, and then that stripey one on your shoulder began to purr and I thought you'd love _her. _And then - "

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione said, leaning over to kiss him, this time on the mouth and with far more attention to detail than she'd spared him earlier, "You are ridiculous."

"So… it's okay then?" he asked. He had a lifetime history of mucking things up, and a threat from the Boy Who Got on His Nerves just this afternoon to remind him he tended to do things wrong.

Hermione tugged him closer and said, "It's perfect."

I did it, Draco thought to himself as tiny claws went in and out of his thigh and Hermione Granger pressed her lips against his. "Happy Valentine's Day," he whispered against the side of her mouth before their kisses rendered speech impossible.

. . . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - Written for Weasleyey as part of dhrfavorites Valentine's Exchange on tumblr**


	71. Lost

Draco's jaw clenched as he stared fixedly at the spot just above Hermione's head, trying to stop the flow of tears.

"Lost?" he repeated, as if he could force his brain to understand what she was saying, force it to be untrue, just by repeating it. He couldn't, of course.

He hadn't wanted any of this when she'd first told him and he'd railed at her for being careless. He'd even accused her of trying to trap him and all his galleons. She'd screamed at him to go to hell, and he'd spent months apologizing for that fight because he knew he had been unfair. During those months he'd somehow fallen in love with the woman who'd never been supposed to be more than a one night stand, the woman who was standing in front of him now with empty eyes.

"What do you mean, we lost the baby?"

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - for rainandpetichor**


	72. Curse & Balm

"I want to die," Draco confessed. He waited for Hermione to say something but the chair where she'd curled her body under a blanket remained silent so long he thought she had fallen asleep. He couldn't blame her. They'd held themselves to a brutal pace in the hopes of reaching this tiny lodge, long forgotten among the grand properties the Malfoys owned, but precious for all the spells hiding it. He turned in the bed she'd insisted he take _because you're the one the curse hit, Malfoy, don't be a fool_ and tried to find a way to be comfortable. He failed, and turned back, then tried to adjust his pillow, then turned again.

At last she spoke. "That would be letting them win, Malfoy, and I know you're too proud for that."

"I don't think I am," he said. The burning only stopped when she touched him and the Death Eater who'd struck him had laughed himself sick that he'd doomed the traitor to rely on a mudblood even as Hermione had cursed him. She'd stopped pulling her punches long ago and the man had dropped, dead before he hit the forest floor. "It hurts, Granger. It hurts more than I think I can bear."

He hadn't told her what the curse did. He didn't want her to feel obligated, perhaps, or maybe she was right. He did have some pride left.

"You did all right while we were moving," she said.

"Distraction," he said. "Being afraid they'd show up to finish the job helped too." Now he had nothing to think about but the pain. It was endless. It was eternal. He'd been given hell on earth, courtesy of a bastard cleverer than he had any right to be.

He turned again, and froze when she lay a hand along his shoulder. Balm spread out from her touch and, against his will, he let out a shaky sigh. When she pulled away the pain returned, flaring higher than before as if to taunt him and he could feel tears begin to leak out of his eyes until she slid in the bed behind him and pressed the miracle of herself against him.

"That chair is uncomfortable," she said. "You'll have to bear my polluted touch because I'm not giving up sleep for your prejudices."

"No," he said, grateful beyond words and wondering if she knew. "Of course not."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - for Rowanofferelden**


	73. Stay With Me

"Stay with me?"

The words had no sooner left his mouth than Draco cringed. He sounded plaintive. He sounded pathetic. He sounded so unlike himself that Hermione stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and turned to look at him with obvious surprise on her face. He tried to summon his usual sneer, but it felt a bit flat and he suspected he looked more lonely than arrogant. He expected her to frown and leave. He probably would have had she been the one injured and he been what passed for a field medic as the war dragged on. No one ever said, _Draco Malfoy, now there's a compassionate soul._

No one said that about her either, of course. They said she was scary or _so talented when you consider her background_. He'd felt smug at the polite reminder she was one step away from muggles at first, then annoyed. Why should she have to endure that kind of surprise she was capable by the people she fought with and for?

"I'm sure you've got better things to do," he muttered, embarrassed by the way he'd been staring at her. The light from the window hit her hair and made the brown curls light up with shades of gold he'd never seen before. He blamed that observation on the potions she'd fed him. They had to be messing with his judgement. He ignored the voice that whispered they hadn't even started to dull the pain yet so it was unlikely they were making him see beauty where none existed.

"Just until you fall asleep," she said and turned back to sit at the chair by his bed. No one else had sat with him in all his time as a defector and he'd been injured more times than he could recall. He fought like a man with nothing left to lose, after all, and that made him dangerous but also got him hurt rather a lot.

She took his hand in hers and held him as, drop by drop, the potions did their work and masked the pain until they slowly lured him into sleep. He could feel her turning the Malfoy signet ring round and round his finger with its horrible motto and he tried to tell her he didn't think that way about purity any more, but he couldn't get his mouth to work. Sleep claimed him.

When he woke, she was gone.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - for hogwartsandbutterbeer**


	74. Miss Me?

"Did you miss me?"

Hermione didn't look up from her book. This had become a game she despised and didn't understand. Victor Krum had stared at her awkwardly as she studied and mumbled out heavily accented declarations about her beauty and how he'd never forget her. It had been weird, and had made her a little uncomfortable, but it had been flattering too. Malfoy wasn't awkward, but what he was doing was definitely weird. He'd slide into a chair across from her, kick his feet out, and smirk. All she wanted to do was take her N.E.W.T.s in peace and instead every day Draco Malfoy sauntered into the library and disturbed her.

"Why would I miss you?" she said and turned a page. "I know it may be hard to get this through your thick skull, but most girls don't crave slurs and insults."

"What do you want? Bet I can get it."

She sighed, marked her place, and looked up. "For you to go away?" she suggested. His arrogant grin faltered for just a moment, and his grey eyes clouded. That made a tiny frisson of unwelcome guilt churn in her gut and she cast about for something else she could say. "Don't you have friends you can bother instead of me?" she asked.

"Oddly, no," he said.

"Must be your winning personality," she said without thinking. He looked away at that, and his fingers tugged at the cuff of one of his sleeves. Her throat tightened at the thought of what that sleeve hid. Worse, she knew one of his two goons had died in that final Battle, and her mind flashed to what it would be like if Harry or Ron hadn't made it. The idea was unthinkable and her brain shied away from it before she started to cry. She still had nightmares where she saw Hagrid carrying Harry's limp body. Unlike her, Malfoy had had no miracle. Crabbe was still dead. Taunting him about friends had been cruel.

"I'm sorry," she said, then gave him the gift of honesty. "Everything is terrible."

"Yeah," he said, still looking down. "It is." He summoned what she could see was bravado. "I'm forced to try to talk to you."

"Every day," she said.

"It's not as if you hate it," he said. "I can see you look for me when I come in."

She started to deny it, then grimaced. It was true. Whenever the door opened she looked up, expecting it to be him. He'd become a habit. She wouldn't say she looked forward to his company, but she'd started to anticipate it. If he'd missed a day, she would have wondered what was wrong.

"Because I know you're going to interrupt me," she said. "That's the only reason."

"If you talked to me outside the library," he said, "I might stop bothering you in it."

She looked down at her book. _Ancient Runes for your N.E.W.T.s_. She was effectively alone at Hogwarts too. Neither Ron nor Harry had wanted to come back and, in truth, she'd never really had friends other than the pair of them. She hated to admit she was lonely enough to sink to bonding with Malfoy, but she was. "It's not a date," she said, "but we could get tea later."

His smirk returned, tugging up one corner of his mouth in a lopsided grin she found surprisingly endearing. "Of course it's not a date," he said. He sounded offended at the idea but she thought she could hear a bit of mockery under the pretended shock that he, Draco Malfoy would date her. She was pretty sure he was laughing at her, but not for the reason she would have assumed. She decided not to pursue that, and had opened up her book and found her place when he said with smug pleasure, "Not yet."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - for winniethepoohloathesyou**


	75. The Lie

She could see the hurt in their faces. A part of her wanted to explain but a larger part was angry both at them and that Draco had been right. _They'll never believe I could be on the side of the light_, he'd said as he traced his fingers along the scar on her shoulder. She could still see the dull morning light coming in through the window. It had turned all the dust in the cellar into stars that drifted down in slow spirals, a galaxy in the air, and she'd stared at them and argued that they could tell the truth, they could trust Harry and Ron and the rest of the Order to do what was necessary without resorting to lies.

He'd been right and she'd been wrong.

It was galling how often that was the case.

"How could you?" Ron was the angrier of the two. Harry looked like her betrayal was just another blow he'd always been braced against, but Ron nearly spat at her in his rage. "Whore," he said. "You sold us out for Malfoy gold."

"It is rather a lot of gold," Draco said. "It will look very pretty around her neck."

"Diamonds too," Hermione said. She pretended to examine her fingernails and concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking with rage. Six years of adventures at school together, and two fighting this war, and they were both willing to believe she'd traded them in for her own personal safety and wealth. Neither stopped to even try to see the larger pattern. "There are a lot of diamonds, or so I've been promised."

"Ropes of them," Draco said. He slid an arm around her waist with a proprietary air, though she could tell by the way his fingers curled into her skin that he was having as much trouble controlling his anger as she was even though he'd predicted this. _We can't just tell them what to do_, he'd said. _You can't tell them I turned over the last horcrux. They'll think it's a trick._

_Because you're the enemy_, she'd said. They fit together like puzzle pieces that had lived their whole lives on opposite sides of the box and were as surprised as anyone else when they slid perfectly into alignment. Her hip rested against his thigh; his arm curved around her shoulders.

_Because I'm the enemy_, he agreed. _We do it my way?_

She'd agreed, and now all the pieces had been set and she felt sympathy for Dumbledore for the first time in years. Sometimes people wouldn't listen and you had to let them discover the truth on their own. It was a bit of knowledge she could have lived without knowing. It had been more comfortable hating the man for using them as pawns then taking on his role.

Draco smiled down at her. "Sweetheart," he said, "as much as I hate to leave the charmingly slummy company you've been keeping, we have places to go."

"Diamonds to wear," Ron said. She could see his hands twitch toward his wand. He wanted to curse her. She hoped he managed to restrain himself because if he drew on her, Draco would turn into a whirling top of violence. He'd never liked Ron and the right of what he called 'your indigent git ginger' trying to curse her wouldn't end with peace.

"That's right," Hermione said. "It's been fun."

Draco spun them both away via apparation and she stumbled a bit when they landed outside the tiny, Muggle house. They let themselves in and she sank into the old, wooden chair in the kitchen and looked down at the scarred linoleum. "I think you promised me diamonds?" she said.

Draco laughed and put a kettle on the stove. "Settle for tea?" he asked. "I think I'm quite persona non grata at the Manor and, thus the bank, right now, and diamonds are going to have to wait."

She forced a tight smile to her face. "So long as they follow the trail of breadcrumbs we laid out," she said, "who cares about diamonds?"

"They will," Draco promised. He stopped to rest a hand on her shoulder. "It's almost over."

She hoped he was right. When he passed her the cup of tea she thought she could see Ron's accusing eyes looking back up at her from the water and thought with bitter anger that the war might not be done, but two friendships were.

She'd thought they'd know it was a trick. She'd thought they'd never fall for the lie she'd betray them all.

She knew they'd forgive her the lie when they realized the reason behind it. She didn't think she'd ever forgive them for believing it.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N - for ratclanqueen**


	76. Why? How?

"You know how contraceptive charms work, right? Harry demanded. Hermione rubbed at her forehead and tried to find a way to answer that that wasn't just a reaction to the insult that she might not.

"Forget charms," Ron said. He was battling outrage and the heat of the day, both of which were making his face even redder than usual. It wasn't a good look. "Why did you have sex with Malfoy? _How_ could you have sex with Malfoy?"

Hermione later blamed her response on how incredibly irritated she was with both of them and their ridiculous, mistaken belief that they had any right to an opinion on her sex life. She took a long, slow sip of the sparkling water, hoping it would settle her stomach the way the Healer claimed it would. "He does this thing with his tongue, you see," she said to Ron.

He got redder at that and even Harry's eyes bugged out a little.

"As to how, well, if you don't know how intercourse works by now, I'm not sure I should be the one to enlighten you."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N for **__**supersonicsleepingkitten**__** from a game on tumblr**_


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Harry Potter, Angst, Romance