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Hermione’s hand hesitates over the enchanted parchment. Draco’s signature is still glistening—the dark blood stark against the white of her sleeve—and she feels her heart sinking to her stomach as she signs her name underneath his.
“Congratulations,” the bored Ministry clerk says as Hermione straightens from the desk. “Copies will be owled to you within the week.”
“That’s it?” Hermione says as she sets down the quill. “We’re done?”
“Yup.” The clerk waves her away towards Draco.
Her husband.
Hermione’s stomach twists as the two of them walk outside—past the other stragglers waiting to sign their certificates. She takes a deep breath of fresh air as he opens the door for her and tries to swallow the tears that stick in her throat.
The problem with deadlines is how they sneak up on you, she thinks numbly as she follows Draco through the cobbled streets. She had always assumed she would have years and years to find the person she loved enough to marry. But the Ministry had passed the marriage law decree, and that time had slipped between her fingers, faster the more desperately she tried to hold it. And now she was here, trying not to cry as she follows her childhood bully into the bustling Leaky Cauldron.
He wordlessly escorts her across the room—straight towards the fireplace—she steps closer to him so that she doesn’t lose him in the throng.
Draco glances towards her and gestures towards the flames. “You can go first.”
She wants to go home. Hermione blinks away the rush of tears as she grabs the pinch of floo powder and throws it into the flames.
“Malfoy manor,” she says as she steps into them, wishing they’d burn her away, wishing she’d get deposited in some lonely moor on the other side of the world where they’d never find her bird-picked bones.
But she arrives in the darkened sitting room and squints into the shadows. Steps out of the way so that Draco doesn’t stumble into her.
The light flares green—she turns slightly to watch him step out of the flames and cough as he needlessly dusts his shoulders.
“I need to key you into the wards,” he says as he flicks his fingers and the candles flare with soft orange light. “Hopefully they cooperate.” He makes his way to the arched doorway.
Hermione follows behind him. “Hopefully,” she echoes weakly.
Draco glances over his shoulder at her. “Are you—” he clears his throat and frowns. “Would you like a drink? Water? Firewhiskey? Wine?”
“You’re supposed to drink champagne during celebrations,” Hermione murmurs as she studies the back of his shoulder.
“I don’t think we have much to celebrate,” Draco replies in a dry tone of voice. “Come on.”
He changes direction and Hermione sighs softly as she continues to follow him. Perhaps this is just her life now, she thinks morosely. Following behind a man, miserable and discontent.
Draco leads her into a spacious kitchen and nods towards the stone-topped island. She leans her hip against the counter as she watches him move through the space—fetching two glasses—the firewhiskey—ice from the icebox. He pours two drinks and then seems to reconsider—fills the glasses almost to the brim and then sets the bottle under his arm.
“Getting drunk isn’t going to make a difference,” Hermione says as he sets the glass in front of her.
“No,” he says, setting the bottle down between them. “Probably not.”
She lifts the glass towards him—a mock salute—and then tilts it towards her lips—grimacing slightly at the burn as the firewhiskey courses down her throat.
The empty glass clinks as she sets it down on the stone. Hermione closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Do you want another?” he asks.
“No.” Hermione squeezes her eyes shut for a moment—childishly wishing she could open them to a different place—and opens them to see Draco following suit and draining his own drink. “Maybe after the wards.”
He nods as he sets the glass down. The ice clinks with the movement. “Alright.”
Twilight settles around the manor as they smear Hermione’s blood on the cornerstones. Moonlight glints through the windows as she stands in the centre of the manor and feels the magic of the stones settle over her skin.
Ancient. Angry. Pricking through her blood like jagged glass.
She takes a deep breath—clenches her fingers around Draco’s—and heaves her will against the pressure.
I belong here, she thinks with as much conviction as she can muster. Swallows the bile rising from her churning gut. I am a Malfoy by rite and by blood.
The magic pushes against her—buffets frigid winds that slice across her bare skin—she squeezes her eyes shut and refuses to budge. Bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes her blood—his blood—their blood mingled together.
With a whispering sigh the magic fades. She can feel the thrum of it under her skin—the pulse of it against her heartbeat—the weight of an ancestral house nesting against her bones.
For a long minute she stands there, adjusting to the new magic slithering through her body. Draco’s fingers flex against hers and she opens her eyes.
“I’d like that drink now,” Hermione says quietly as she unlaces their fingers.
“Of course.”
They finish the bottle as the moon rises and illuminates the kitchen in a gentle silver glow. She watches the shadows of shifting curtains drift across the flagstone floor.
“We have thirty days,” Draco says as he balances the glass on its edge and slowly rotates it underneath his fingers. “If you’d rather wait.”
She watches the light dapple across his fingers. The interplay between light and shadow; pale skin and silver moonlight; fathomless darkness.
“No,” Hermione says as she pushes away from the counter. “I’d rather get it over with now.”
She notices the almost imperceptible wince as Draco sets the glass down. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”
It would be so easy to ask him what he’d prefer. Hermione twists the signet ring around her finger—so tight it seems to bite into her skin—and does not.
The aphrodisiac potion tastes sickly sweet—sticks in her throat as she swallows—reminds her of cough syrup and childhood illnesses.
Her fingers tremble as she unbuttons her blouse. It was only paperwork they signed—she is not, will never, can never be married dressed in the fairytale styles of her romantic fantasies—she conceded a white blouse to her crushed dreams and withered heart.
She hears the rustle of cloth from the other side of the bed. Hermione drops her blouse to the floor and wishes she was somewhere—anywhere—anyone else. Unzips her skirt and steps out of it.
They only have to consummate the marriage once. Had agreed to it during the first round of negotiations. Signed the contracts with ink and blood.
But that was then. Hermione takes a deep breath—swallows the urge to scream—and unhooks her bra.
“Have you—are you—?” Draco asks as he hovers above her.
“Have you?” she asks as she closes her eyes.
A pause. His hand shifting by her head. “No,” he whispers.
“Me either,” she breathes as the tears trickle down into her ears.
The night air is cool against her skin as she steps outside and looks up at the stars.
At least he had been gentle. At least it had been quick. At least they would never have to do it again.
She tugs the silk robe around her shoulders and stares up at the gleaming moon until her eyes water. Until the tears drip down her cheeks.
“Hermione?” His voice is quiet.
“Do you still smoke?” she asks without turning around.
A rustling noise. The click of a lighter. The sudden acrid smell as he passes her a lit cigarette.
Her fingers brush against his as she takes it. The taste of him still lingers as she puts it to her lips and inhales. Mint, of course.
She holds in the cough as she fills her lungs. Closes her eyes and exhales slowly.
The lighter clicks again. She hears his sighing exhale.
“Do you want—need—anything else?” Draco murmurs.
Hermione looks down at the cigarette in her hands. The glint of the silver ring in the moonlight.
“Do you think we’ll ever be happy?” she asks as she watches the ash burn away from between her fingers. She takes a drag—coughs softly—tries again.
“I don’t know,” Draco says slowly. “But we could try.”
She glances towards him. “Do you want to?”
He touches the cigarette to his lips. Looks away from her as he exhales. Her heart starts to sink.
“Yes,” he says as he turns towards her. “More than anything.”
“What happened to marrying her would be worse than death?” Hermione whispers.
His lips twist in a frown. “Is that…” he shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “You’ve never told a lie because the truth is too complicated?”
Hermione shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Maybe,” she admits slowly.
“The truth is that you were first on my list,” Draco says as he finishes his cigarette and flicks it away. It ignites—sparks with pale blue magic as it disintegrates into fading sparks. “I assumed I was last on yours.”
Hermione flicks her cigarette the same way and watches it burn into nothing. “You weren’t last.”
Draco rakes his fingers through his hair. Adjusts the belt of his robe. “What was I?” he finally asks.
Hermione licks her lips. “First,” she whispers.
“Oh.” Draco takes a half-step closer towards her. “Then I’d like to change my answer.”
“To what?” Hermione crosses her arms and rubs at her elbows.
“Yes,” he says as he closes the distance between them and hesitates—raises his arms and settles them around Hermione’s shoulders like a blanket. She inhales sharply—gingerly touches her fingertips to his waist—feels her heart unmoor from her chest and swirl between her ribs. “I think we will.”