Archive of Our Own

“Granger, Granger, Granger.” The bag drops to the floor. “You magnificent creature—I fucking knew it.”

Cap-toed, hand-stitched shoes clip across creaking wood. Old—seventeenth-century romance wrapped in a luxurious modern suite. Not his taste, but exactly hers.

Draco Malfoy’s morning has just gone from good to superb.

Strasbourg’s cathedral bells chime the hour. In a floor length mirror, he inspects himself. A lock of pale hair brushes his forehead and he shakes more strands loose to soften his angular face. Only a few minutes before he needs to be at the conference—before their real game begins.

And now he sees the ending.

Because he knows Hermione Granger wouldn’t put them up in a boutique place like this if she weren’t absolutely gagging for him.

A letter, folded in the shape of a raven, flutters from the bed and speaks:

Bonjour Monsieur Malfoy, et bienvenue à l’Hôtel Le Cœur du Corbeau.

We are delighted to welcome you. Our establishment caters to both Magical and Non-Magique guests; therefore, we would appreciate if you would refrain from any magical practices in the common areas accessible to Non-Magique guests.

We hope you enjoy a most pleasant stay.

La Réception

Part Muggle. He smirks. Oh, she likes him now, he knows, but she still likes to test him from time to time. Perhaps this will be the final one.

The board is set. First moves made. Frequent run-ins, lively banter, getting to know each other—his own effortful change thank-you-very-much—the blushes, her increased bossiness (he isn’t certain there, but it feels pertinent).

At the window, a box of red geraniums greets the rising sun. A cobblestoned courtyard unfolds below, crossed with archaic wooden bridges and half-timbered balconies.

Merlin, this place is bloody charming.

The bed is big, luxurious. He slides his hand along the soft duvet. Egyptian cotton with temperature control charms interwoven. Ah, and sleep charms. He rubs his fingers together.

Granger, you wicked thing.

There’s no way the Ministry would ever go for what this place must cost.

The longer he breathes French air, the more he sees it. Get him to a lovely hotel in Alsace, wine and dine him, take him on a long walk by the river—she’ll confess her desires, they’ll fall into bed…and he…will try very hard not to vomit that he’s been hoping for and imagining exactly this for ages and might actually cry if she looks him in the eyes while they finish together—no, he honestly will.

Fucking fuck. He scrubs a hand over his face. Get a bloody grip.

With a wand tap, his luggage flies up, opening like a steamer chest. Robes zoom to the nearest wardrobe. A slim attaché zips from the bottom to a large, tastefully carved desk and clicks open. Draco summons the folio inside with his itinerary.

Instructions, maps, a note scrawled in the margin in Granger’s ruthless hand:

‘You have fifteen minutes to change and get to the welcome reception, so do not spend more than two looking at yourself in the mirror. I mean it.’

He’ll cut it very close, but only because he wants to look his absolute best, and that means the dark blue robes.

જ⁀➴

A week earlier:

“You’re coming to the Biodiversity and Ecological Agreements for Species & Territories conference next week.”

“Good morning, Granger. Take a breath. Was there a question there?” Draco licked the edge of his finger where a drop of milk for his tea had landed.

“No,” she said, watching his hand. “Duncan is out. I need someone else from International. You’re up.”

“Me?” He stirred his tea.

“You. Keep up.” She sighed, like this was all such a burden. The corner of his lip twitched. “I’ve already spoken with Martine: you’re approved. You’re going.”

“To?”

“Godric, Malfoy, I just said,” she muttered. Delightful. He loved it when she rubbed her temples like that. “BEAST.”

“Good god.”

“I didn’t name it.”

“Right. You’d have come up with something gentler like FANG.”

Granger scowled, but didn’t quip back. Disappointing. They had a nice tête-à-tête rhythm to keep up, and he didn’t much appreciate being left holding the racket after a volley.

“What happened to Duncan?” he tried instead. “Thought he’d been prepping for ages.”

An odd sort of far-off look crossed Granger. “He’s…unwell. Quarantined for at least a week, or some such.”

Quarantined? Shit, but he’d been in close quarters with the man. The back of his hand pressed to his cheek, checking. No fever, thank fuck.

He glanced at Granger. She’d pursed her lips and let her face go all scrunchy while she studied him with something verging on vexation. She looked fretful like this, stressed even. Perilous. One wrong push and it could all go from banter to brawling.

“This wouldn’t happen to be that conference where you’re giving a keynote speech, hmm?” He knew it was, but the remembering was sure to—ah, there it was.

Pink dusted her cheeks. “The same.”

“Strasbourg, then. Making me brave Alsace at this time of year?” He tsked.

“You have a house in Colmar.”

“But the pollen, Granger.”

“Don’t even start. I know you don’t have allergies.” She sniffed. “And anyway, I’d rather you stay in town. In case you’re needed.”

“Needed quicker than by Floo?” He scoffed.

Then his brain stalled. She’d gone pink again.

Granger was a brilliant secret keeper when she wanted to be, but not with her feelings. It was delicious watching them play across her face, trying to ascertain the meaning. Like watching the shifting light of clouds playing over a sunny vista.

“Yes,” she clipped, not meeting his eye. “I’ll arrange everything.”

Oh, would she? A sneaking suspicion wormed its way up his spine.

“You know I hate those Ministry-approved hotels,” he prodded.

Granger rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “Mmhmm.”

Oooh, yes, she did. She most definitely did.

Maybe... Probably.

“What do you need from me?” he asked. Helpfulness often caught her off guard.

Perfectly wide eyes flashed to him. “Go over all the materials I sent to your office. Everything is there that Duncan had, and you’ll just take over his itinerary.” Her gaze lowered to his robes. “Oh, you’ve got a little–a little tea just—” and one of her slender fingers came up and tapped over the drop. His heart lurched to a complete stop at her touch. “Erm, see you, Malfoy.”

Then she’d flounced off through the canteen without a backward glance.

Shame about the stain. He fixed it with a quick spell while he walked. She could’ve bloody well cast one if she was going to point it out.

But he couldn’t bother being put out while he reveled in the little red cheeks, the short notice…

Hermione Granger wanted him.

He’d been waiting for a Turning Point from friendly coworkers to…an open space of possibility.

And all indications right now were fucking strong.

જ⁀➴

Despite playing unaware to Granger, he has actually heard something about this “BEAST” conference. Alright, several somethings. Quite a lot, actually.

He even spoke with his superior about accompanying any members of the DRCMC who might want to participate. (While he had known perfectly well that would be Granger, his motives had been reasonably pure. Ish.) However, it was decided that a more senior (less controversial) member of the Department of International Magical Cooperation should attend. Of whom there were several.

So with Duncan out, Granger must have pulled some strings to get him.

Which—though flattering in respect to Granger—is a frustrating thing to always have dogging him. Why could you never quite shake loose your shadow?

Striding up to the reception desk and checking in with a tap of his wand, he has a certain flush of professional pride. No one gives him a second glance, whispers don’t follow in his wake. He isn’t being looked at suspiciously as they hand him his badge, etc.

Maybe the corner has finally been turned where he’s known more for his own work, not only philanthropic, but within the DIMC—

“Draco fucking Malfoy,” a goat from his nightmares bleats.

He pivots slowly, affecting an arch grin. “Graham Montague. Delightful.”

“You’re starting to sound just like your father,” Graham laughs, brassy. Draco’s stomach turns. “Hope the old man is enjoying his ‘extended seaside vacation’?” He winks and snickers, the fuckwit.

“This isn’t your usual scene. What brings you to BEAST?” Draco asks, jaw tight.

“Our holdings in Baden-Württemberg.”

“The new reserve?”

“And those migratory corridors—ridiculous,” he mutters the last. “These governments…always with new ways to bleed us dry.”

“And here I thought you were generous.” Draco taps his signet ring.

“There’s such a thing as too generous.” Graham glowers. “Anyway, I want to meet this Hermione Granger person. She’s giving us a lot of grief.”

Draco grips the ring and stills, his shoulders tightening. He envisions a Quidditch pitch, his mind a serene landscape, and lets the feeling sink back into the forest behind it.

“Catch her keynote in an hour.”

“Right, right. I hear she’s pretty enough. Maybe I’ll soften her up to my perspective,” Graham grins, flashing a sharp canine.

A wisp of brown curls catches the corner of Draco’s eye. Granger stands in the doorway to the opening reception. Her gaze wavers briefly to Graham. She stiffens.

“Let me give you a word of advice about Granger,” Draco says, “she’s immune to your type of game playing.”

Graham scoffs. “No one is.”

“Best of luck, then. Don’t be maudlin when you’re left with only the ancestral pile.”

Draco’s eyes flash again to Granger. She gives him a curt nod, then marches into the reception hall, beautiful purple robes fluttering in her wake.

He follows. Of course.

જ⁀➴

Cloying yellow is splashed on the walls of the large reception hall. Absolutely stuffed with people—too much space, yet not enough. Draco tips his chin up so he keeps sight of the vaulted ceiling and remembers there’s air.

God, but he’s chosen a stupid set of robes—color be damned. Too tight around the collar. Just this side of strangling him.

Fortunately, he’s lost Montague. Unfortunately, he can’t find Granger.

Fine. He’ll focus on his job.

Greetings, hellos, bonjours, bises… Familiar faces, new ones… Draco is good at this part. More than good, he’s brilliant. Years of events with his parents have made the subtle art of socializing a simple thing.

Shortly before the keynotes, he snatches a moment to himself. A lovely apricot tarte in hand and a cup of tea hovering beside him, Draco budges up near a window.

“I say, Draco!” Colin, a short, garrulous wizard, waves, coming toward him.

“Hello, Colin.” A swallow of tarte passes the collar like a stone. Draco coughs.

“Watch it there.” Colin does something weird with his wand that eases the swallow.

“What was that?” Draco grimaces.

“Dunno exactly, but I’ve seen dragonologists use it before on choking dragons.”

“You used a bloody dragon spell on—”

“Brilliant, you’re here as well.” Colin elbows him right in the kidney, cutting him off. “Now we can make a bit of a lad’s weekend out of it! Where’ve they put you up?”

Colin Midgen, rosy-cheeked liaison for the Romanian Dragon Offices, has grown on Draco over the years—not least because, in the early days, he was the only one willing to talk to a Malfoy much at all.

“It won’t be like that this time.” Draco smooths his robes down, trying to pull them away from his neck. “I’ve got plans for the evenings,” he says, praying that won’t jinx it. “I’m in a boutique hotel.”

“Ooh, well la-di-da for you!” Colin coos. “Are your ‘plans’ a person? Because if they’re just you moping again, can you come out tonight anyway? Bit dull in the Quartier Magique, but I’ve heard there’s a Muggle club—” He pauses and glances to the side, eyes catching on something. “Ah! Bugger, she’s here.”

Draco scans around wildly for Granger, then gets a hold of himself. “Who?”

“Olivia van der Hout—you wouldn’t know her.” Colin flaps his hand, his face an aspect of acute illness. “She’s gorgeous and sweet and clever, and I’m such a—” Colin fixes him with a serious look, “Draco, help me.”

“I’m not sure anyone can.”

Colin groans. “Yes, you can! Just be normal near me. Help me look normal.”

Draco takes a last bite of his tarte. Through contemplative chews, his thoughts turn over whatever the fuck normal means. Granger, surrounded by several delegates, crosses his view.

His mouth goes dry. Shit, is there a bit of crumb on his lips? He darts his tongue out, sweeping his pinky along. Just then, Granger looks his way. He sucks a crumb off his pinky. Her brow arches, lips part, a light flush glows on her cheeks, and…she glowers at him and walks briskly away.

“Think Olivia will notice I’m not as tall as you?” Colin asks, his eyeline around Draco’s chin.

જ⁀➴

“Magical Habitat Fragmentation and Its Impact on Migratory Creatures - Hermione J. Granger, O.M.” Draco’s thumb brushes over the line in his itinerary before he stuffs the paper into his inner pocket.

The auditorium seats are tight and narrow. He pulls on his robes again, trying to get comfy.

“Stop that,” Colin hisses on his left. “Just sit still, will you? Olivia can see us, and you’re wiggling like a toddler.” Then he bats Draco’s wrist.

Fuck—this collar.

Draco slides his fore and middle fingers into it, trying to widen the space. Two seats to the left of the podium, Granger catches his eye. Excellent, this is exactly why he picked these seats right in her view.

He smirks at her and flicks a brow up. To this very amiable greeting, Granger presses her lips together and gives him a sharp, warning look. Merlin! Those brows could command an army.

His heart rate ticks up, which doesn’t help the collar situation at all. He’s hardly in the right setting to finesse the wand work required to fix it, and if Colin elbows him again, he might accidentally commit murder.

Instead, he gently brushes his hand along his neck, soothing his throat.

Granger’s brows coalesce into a single fierce unit.

There’s some applause, and she jolts a fraction, then collects herself before rising and taking the podium.

“You know I’ve worked with her a few times,” Colin mutters, leaning far too close to his ear. “Brilliant as they say, but a bit mean.”

A grin pulls Draco’s cheek. “What’s wrong with mean?”

Colin hisses in his ear. “There’s something wrong with you, Draco.”

Words flow from Granger, washing over the whole audience—over him. She’s compelling, knowledgeable, righteous—Draco can’t look away. Her eyes find his, and Draco’s diaphragm constricts, nerves fluttering. It’s a little hard to breathe. He raises his hand to his throat and… lightly strokes the fabric there, because a gentleman shouldn't tug at his clothes while a person he’s making eye contact with gives a keynote address…even if his collar is trying to garrote him.

He swallows, his Adam's apple uncomfortably pressed. Even his fingers sweeping back and forth hardly soothe.

Granger’s shoulders tense. Her eyes narrow the barest fraction and then shoot away from him, leaving him cold for the rest of the speech.

That’s…well, unexpected. Does she have a problem with Colin, or something?

But the horrible-fucking-robes are too distracting to think. When it’s all over, he makes a hasty retreat for the loo.

A glance in the mirror, a charm, and—thank fucking Salazar!—the tailoring eases.

He’ll be finding a new cleaner when he gets home. Unpardonable, that.

જ⁀➴

Returning to the hall for a coffee break, Draco’s upper arm is suddenly gripped, yanking him to a wall by a very large palm fern. Sharp fingers dig into his bicep. Yes-yes-yes, this is it.

He clears his throat. “Your speech was exce—”

“What are you playing at?” Granger hisses, arms crossing tight.

“What?”

She purses her lips and gives him such a sharp glare he’s pierced. There’s a crease between her brows, which isn’t good. This is a tread-carefully moment, and for the life of him, he can’t think why.

“I don’t think I—” he drifts, unsure which tack to take.

She studies him and chews her lip. A long blink and, “Never mind.”

“Did I do some—”

“Forget about it.” She pushes a hand into her hair.

“If this is about Montague—”

She rolls her eyes. “That arse?”

“So you do know him,” Draco sighs.

“Did he let on what he’s here for?”

That tone—not accusing, not assuming he wanted to talk to the man—Draco can’t help how it loosens something in his spine; he didn’t realize gripped there.

“Some holdings in Baden-Würtennburg.”

“Of bloody course,” she grits through her teeth. “You wouldn’t believe the hoops he’s put us all through. So magnanimous of him to generously offer such a robust gift. Please. It wasn’t as much as he thinks.”

“Mmm, sounds like Montague.” He scans the room. People are going to look for her. They probably already are. It’s only a matter of time before— “Look, Granger, get out of here. You’ve got to answer questions, not be shoved behind a fern with the likes of—”

She gives him an assessing look. Oh, this he can read: Granger-is-sorting-something-out. Her jaw clenches and scarlet dances up to her chin: ready to defend…maybe him, maybe, even from himself.

Or maybe not.

She nods once and turns away. Her robes fly out behind her as she plows head first into the crowd. Draco is left a little breathless in her wake.

જ⁀➴

Desire has many shades.

It pressed tight against his trousers and surprised the shit out of him at age eighteen when Granger flounced through their eighth year common room in a short velvet skirt. What a shock that had been.

Not much had come of it besides watching. And an inconvenient softening inside that gradually turned his hard muscles into a gooey pudding around her. Salazar, the horrors.

He didn’t see her for a while after Hogwarts. Desire eased and shifted, becoming a thing of moments; held gazes through air thick with cigarette smoke and the tang of booze. Bodies pressed into corners, on untidy beds, in small showers. Witches, wizards… great fucking fun.

And maybe that’s all Granger feels now.

But what he feels... might be…might be something else. Something infused with this idea of her and him becoming more.

જ⁀➴

He watches her across the room. Oh, certainly he’s talking to people. He knows how to do his job well and keep an eye on her all the same.

She isn’t graceful. There’s a finality to the chopping motion her hands make, slicing through horse shite to make her point. Grace and elegance aren’t Granger’s style. She pushes her hair off her shoulders, purses her lips, shifts her weight, her whole body communicating in raw, untempered righteousness with a dab of fury. It’s brusque, sometimes brutal. She loses friends. He’s certainly left conversations bruised before.

Even so… He watches her and imagines those firm hands pressing on his chest. Imagines that raw righteousness brought to bear on him.

“And that’s why this is a bit of overreach,” a witch beside him says.

He keeps that soft peripheral focus on Granger as he replies, “Hardly overreach. Your own government proposed the targets.”

Another scoffs. “It infringes on Austrian national competence. We don’t need—”

Draco sips his mineral water while the two witches carry on agreeing with one another. His fingers drum against the glass as he lets his focus slide to Granger. And there, across the room with her chin tilted down and a furrow in her brow, she glares at him.

જ⁀➴

Shortly before lunch, he wonders if there’s time to pop back to the hotel and make sure he isn’t accidentally wearing Granger’s least favorite color or something. He can’t recall the last warm look he’s caught from her, and he’s beginning to feel a bit pressed. All he’s done so far is have intelligent conversations and absorb information. What else does she expect?

She does want him…doesn’t she?

He’s nearly at the Apparition point when rogue bludger Granger slams into him from the side.

“Shitting, Merlin!” he hisses, rubbing his arm. “You’ve got to stop ramming into me like that.”

“Don’t be delicate. I do not ‘ram into' you,” Granger clips. “Where are you going?”

“I need to check something before lunch.”

Well… maybe not now if she’s going to be interested… He slows his pace to a crawl.

Granger grips his forearm and brings them to a halt. “Listen, you don’t—Stop smirking.”

“I can’t help it, Granger.”

“Try.”

He sucks his cheeks in, clamping them between his teeth.

“God, you look emaciated.” She shakes her head. “Look, you haven’t got time to go anywhere: Duncan changed the luncheon schedule, so you’ve got to go right now.”

He huffs. “I know how to deal with Messner.”

“Not just him anymore: the Belgian delegate too.”

“What? I only have Messner in my notes.” He spins his signet ring, working it back and forth below his knuckle.

“Yes, that’s what I came to tell you.” Granger sighs deeply. “And, erm, sorry but it’s Keppens.”

“Merlin, fuck.” He’s going to die. Lunch is his last meal.

“Maybe she won’t be so bad this time.”

“Impossible.”

Granger’s lips twitch. “You know, I’m convinced it’s all an elaborate act to stop anyone from pressuring her into actually pushing legislation through.”

“Very convincing act. Dull, tedious and just on and on and—”

“I know, I know. But you can manage.”

She smirks and bites her lip, and god does he want to bite it himself.

Are they alright then? This feels more normal. Fewer frowns, certainly.

He twists his ring around his finger and taps on the signet. She glances down, ears going pink and… and there’s the scowl. Again. He’d throw his hands up in defeat if he were the dramatic sort.

Her shoulders roll back, and she shakes her head. “Just keep yourself together and see you do what you’re good at, Malfoy.” Her posture draws up, and she marches away from him.

જ⁀➴

Draco considers himself a moderately patient man, but Claudine Keppens tests his limits. Over half an hour passes and they’re no nearer to an actual fucking topic about anything to do with anything, no matter how much he’s angled and—

He takes a large drink and resigns himself.

“It’s absurd! Leaving it in that musty old building,” Keppens says, piercing a mussel with a tine and ripping it from its shell.

Draco tries very hard not to let his lip curl at the sliver of juice that trails down her finger.

“And it’s foul and dark there. Odious,” Keppens goes on, describing the cathedral. “I’m sure a wizard made the clock. Honestly, can you even imagine? A Muggle?”

“I can, actually,” Draco says coolly, but it goes ignored.

Keppens drones on, leaning into Messner, who is busy sorting bits of lettuce. His whole body is contorted away from Keppens, and he keeps shooting Draco looks of complete blame. Draco considers legillimency to communicate that this is actually all that cretin Duncan’s fault. He wouldn’t have done this to them.

A mad idea springs to mind.

“Let’s go see it,” he says. “Right now.”

“What?” Keppens gapes.

“The astronomical clock. Now. You should join me, Claudine.” He rummages through his mind for something he half remembers Granger telling him when she’d first mentioned her keynote here. “Did you know, Victor Hugo said it was a true marvel?” he says, rising from his chair. He looks meaningfully at Messner. The man’s eyes go round, then he takes a swig of his beer and pushes up from his seat as well.

“Yes, yes, let us see this marvel.”

“Victor Hugo?” Keppens turns up her nose. “Never heard of such a person.”

“Shame,” Draco says, pulling her chair out and ignoring her squawk of protest, “he was a writer. Rather decent one, I think, although I haven’t actually made it through the whole book Granger gave me. It’s miserable.”

“Les Misérables?” Messner straightens his robes.

“That’s the one. He was a Muggle, Claudine, so I can understand how you might’ve missed him in your studies.”

She’s giving him a nasty look, but, and here’s Draco’s favorite part, she is still a pureblood twat. Connected well enough, but not so very well. Could be better. And that means she’ll follow the eccentric whims of a Malfoy.

Names never fall much lower than vault balances, Draco has found.

“I believe they imagine we are strange monks,” Messner snickers, voice echoing in the cathedral nave. He pinches the edge of his robes and waggles bushy eyebrows.

The Strasbourg Cathedral is magnificent, Draco has to admit. It’s dark, alright, Keppens wasn’t wrong, but the shadows that hang between him and the immense vault feel strange and ethereal. There’s a sense of the infinite rising.

“Just here, Claudine,” Draco says, steering the horrified witch along the aisle to her precious clock.

Draco doesn’t know if the astronomical clock has been touched by wizards, and he doesn’t care. If you listened to most purebloods tell it, everything worth making was done with magic. It’s probably well-engineered, interesting, historic—he honestly doesn’t give a fuck. But it’ll irritate the shit out of purist Claudine Keppens to look at it amongst a teeming mass of Muggles.

Draco is practically giddy.

Messner walks steadily beside, keeping up a dialogue about the architecture that neither Draco nor Keppens are really listening to while locked in this odd battle of wills.

They reach the clock, and it’s better than Draco could have hoped for.

Draco smiles at Keppens. “Have you got any euros?”

Her glare is a shard of ice.

“No worries.” He digs in his pocket with his wand and transfigures a knut. He drops the newly minted piece into a box, and the clock lights up. A few tourists nod in thanks.

“Merlin and Morgana, are they destitute?” Keppens whispers, clutching her throat.

They observe the clock until Draco has had his fill of Keppens twisting her robes, shuddering every time a Muggle bumps her.

“Thanks for this indulgence. Shall we head back?” Draco says, smoothly offering her his arm. “We wouldn’t want to miss afternoon meetings, and it is getting on.”

Keppens’ hand twitches over her wand in her pocket. “I think I’ll just—there’s an Apparition—I’ll see myself off.”

She flees down the aisle and out a side door like a desperate wraith.

“I hope you didn’t need her cooperation for anything significant,” Messner murmurs at Draco’s side.

“Probably did,” Draco admits. “But I just can’t stand that shite anymore.”

“Mmm, jawohl.” They amble quietly. “When I was young, I smoked all the time. American cigarettes. Then I gave it up. And now? The smell is abhorrent to me.” He sighs. “Ich kann nicht mehr.”

Draco thinks of the things he can’t do or say anymore. Smoke of a different kind that seeped into pores and lungs and choked the life from him.

“I can’t either, any more,” he says, meeting the older wizard’s eye. A wizard who hadn’t liked him at first several years ago. A wizard who has a Muggle father. “It’s abhorrent to me. Utterly.”

Messner grins. “This is better than being diplomatic with Keppens.”

He wonders if Granger will think so. He chews his cheek; she seemed so irritated with him this morning. The darkness of the building is near its end. He looks back once… she would like it here.

જ⁀➴

He dashes into the room, the last to arrive, straightening his sleeves and giving abashed nods all around. In Draco’s peripheral vision, Granger stares him down while he takes a seat across from her.

The meeting cycles into the same old arguments that resurface again and again. His gaze drifts.

Granger’s glass pen catches the light. Merlin, of course, she would use that weapon. He clenches the arm of his chair. Draco has a love-hate relationship with that pen, mostly because Granger rests its rounded end on her lower lip when she’s thinking—which she is about half the time during meetings. God! It’s maddening and deeply erotic and terribly inappropriate to think so.

Draco shifts, unable to look away. Watching the pen glide along her lip, he wonders—what might it feel like for him to—

His own forefinger slides across his lower lip.

Granger’s gaze sweeps the table and lands squarely on him. Her eyes widen, then narrow. She purses her lips around the end of the pen, then lays it down and gives him an absolutely pointed look that he’s sure is trying to communicate something.

He startles a little, pinching his own lip, and glares right back.

What the fuck is her problem today? It’s one tight look after another, and he’s beginning to feel on the back foot here.

Is he supposed to seduce her? Maybe he should have just grabbed her around the waist before lunch and—

A statement interrupts his thoughts. Their attention snaps back to the meeting.

“I don’t agree with that at all,” Granger says firmly to a witch down the table. “If we want the establishment of these protected areas to be ethical, then we must continue to maintain the privacy rights those suffering lycanthropy have earned. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Malfoy?”

His heart flutters, blood surging. “Yes,” he says, a ridiculous flush creeping up the back of his neck. He directs his attention down the table. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to support mandatory registrations in these territories either. Certainly not for British citizens.”

The rest of the meeting goes fine. Fine.

Fine.

Fine.

Fuck.

They gather their things to leave. Granger has become all tension and sharp edges, and he can’t figure out what the actual fuck. But it’s about to get worse, and he knows it. She’s about to—

“Right. How’d the luncheon go?”

“Well…” he hedges and considers how high this window is.

“Keppens. Tell me.” She’s spinning her wand between her fingers, and he’s backed into a veritable corner here. Alright, a literal corner.

“Probably not how you’d prefer.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he sighs and straightens his cuffs, “that Keppens wouldn’t stay on topic and so I dealt with it…creatively.”

“Creatively.” Granger’s mouth becomes a thin, vexed line. “She always does that. You were supposed to deal with it.”

“Yes, well.” He runs a hand over his jaw. “I did.”

“By being a petulant prat?” She huffs and turns from him, shaking her head. “God, Malfoy, you’re good at this. I know you are. But you’ve got to keep your temper in check.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She’s all fire and the edge of fury. Sunlight is catching in her curls, and they glow auburn against that purple.

He swallows retorts he’d like to shoot back. There’s another meeting ahead. And anyway, he’s getting tired of this. It’s been a tedious day and maybe if there were a little less vitriol—

He clenches his fist and pushes off the wall. Granger takes a step back.

“I am good at this, Granger. Maybe someone as disagreeable as Keppens isn’t someone I can reasonably work with, hmm? God, should anyone? But don’t fret too much, darling, Messner and I talked on the way over and he’s completely in agreement with your ideas about the new reserve, the werewolf territory, etcetera. He would love to set up a meeting with you after this is all over, so, alright, yes, Keppens is a loss, but the Magical Environmental and Species Commission? Grand.”

He’s crowding her against the wall now. Looming. God, shit, he knows he’s looming. She has the crease between her brows, but…oh, there’s that look. That heat behind those eyes and in those cheeks. She’s breathing quickly. Maybe. Maybe they could still—

“Back up, Malfoy,” she breathes, cold and flat. “You are. Too. Close.”

He takes two long strides back until he hits the opposite wall. Granger’s expression has gone hard and he can’t—he isn’t—what is he supposed to do with this?

He turns his palm up at his side.

“I’m not—”

“Don’t be inappropriate,” she says, still cold, still low. She glances to the side, muttering something with the words “obvious” and “your intentions” thrown in there.

And of bloody course—it washes coldly through him: he’s a classic idiot. They’re in the corridor. Others can see.

Her voice is softer when she speaks again, though her expression is no less hard. “Let’s just get through these last meetings and I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Right. Of course.”

જ⁀➴

“Fancy seeing you again,” Colin chimes.

Draco wilts over a table and a cup of tea in a refreshment room. The whole day has been off. There’s a suite waiting for him—god, it’s going to be lonely, isn’t it? He rolls his ring over the tips of his fingers, fore to pinky and back, over and over.

“What’s wrong? Something happened over lunch?” Colin probes

“Lunch was fine.”

Colin drums his fingers. “Saw you with Granger.” Draco angles his head away. “Was her, wasn’t it? Told you she can be a bit mean.”

A grin struggles loose. “Maybe,” Draco says.

Maybe he likes it anyway.

A pair of house elves come through, handing out pamphlets to an event they're hosting. Draco sighs and folds one into his inner pocket, begging Merlin, Morgana, Circe—anyone—to intercede for him and make sure Granger doesn’t ruin his last shreds of hope for the evening by insisting.

A soft voice pulls his attention. “Colin?”

“Olivia!” Colin squawks. A bit of tea goes sloshing. “What’re—What brings. Erm, how are you?”

Olivia has either recently been severely burned or is blushing the fiercest scarlet Draco has ever witnessed. And he’s seen his own blush in the mirror, much to his chagrin.

A nervous glance darts to him, then back to Colin. Olivia clears her throat. “I’m well. Colin, might I have a quick word?” She gestures to the corridor.

“Er, yeah. Of course. Sure.”

She flashes a grin and drifts out of the room.

Colin rounds on Draco. “Shit, oh-my-grim-fucking-gods.”

“She seems nice.”

“She’s-not-fucking-nice-she’s-extraordinary-and-I-fucked-it-up-once-already-and-I-don’t—”

“Merlin! Breathe.” Draco’s lip curls at the man. Desperate, eugh. “Go talk to her.”

“Right. Yes.” Colin brushes his robes smooth. Halfway to the door, he whips around and shoots: “Sit with me at dinner.”

“It’s assigned,” Draco invents.

“No, it isn’t. Sit with me.”

There’s a lot he could yell back, but at that moment, Messner strides up with a lovely “Hallo,” and he’s pulled into conversation. His hopes of dinner next to Granger dissipate with Colin’s exit.

જ⁀➴

There are a few moments to dash back to his suite before dinner, so he takes them.

Daylight has slipped away. Music from the courtyard drifts up and winds about his ankles. He’s half undressed, lying on the bed with an arm thrown over his face.

God. The day hasn’t gone at all as he hoped. Not that he needed smiles and simpering from Granger—even the thought of that is ridiculous—but he certainly hadn’t intended to loom over her and press her against the wall. In public. Where anyone could see.

He can’t seem to get the hang of this, can he?

He recalls the first time they worked together. Legislation drafting… long hours in the office… becoming arguments over take-out… evolving to a meandering walk for coffee… growing to friendly drinks to celebrate.

His hand splays over the fine duvet. The bedding is so soft. Burgundy with cream sheets. He trails his fingers across the fabric until he reaches his thigh.

She squeezed him there once. Not long ago. Startled the hell out of him, until his glance shot up and there: berry-stained cheeks and lashes fluttering against them.

She’d wanted him.

She wants him.

He just…he just has to get this back on track over dinner.

જ⁀➴

She’s in a circle of people, all listening with rapt attention. Midnight blue robes drape from her shoulders, shimmering with golden stars. Her curls tumble down her back. A cosmic rightness settles over him at the sight, because his own robes, darkest teal, are adorned with silver stars.

As if he’s willing it to happen, Granger turns and catches his eye. For once today, the smile gracing her face brightens at the sight of him. He could run to her.

He takes a step into the room.

“Draco!” God…Colin. “Got you a nip you like. We’re over here.”

A glass is pressed into his hand, and he’s steered to a full table. Draco makes polite introductions as he edges around until—

His blood runs cold.

“Bonsoir, Henri,” Draco manages, voice pitching softer than he’d like.

A devastating, dark-haired wizard arches a brow. “Bonsoir. Je t’ai vu de l’autre côté de la salle.” Henri rubs his thumb across his lower lip. “I told myself you wouldn't come to my table... and yet.”

“Colin’s fault,” Draco says, flapping a hand toward his friend.

“Please, sit.” Henri pulls out the chair beside him.

There’s a sort of spell Henri has a way of working. Draco hasn’t yet figured it out, but when he does…he’ll inoculate himself immediately. His jaw clenches as he sits.

He darts a glance at Granger, who—shit, she’s noticed. That crease between her brows is a crevasse. Worse, she’s not even looking at him: she’s boring two holes into Henri’s emerald robes.

“It’s been too long,” Henri says, his knee brushing Draco’s. Oh, fucking, Merlin. Really? Now?

“Not long enough.” Draco sips his Campari, wishing it would drown him. Just a little.

“You’ve been missed in Lausanne.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Henri hums, pressing his knee to Draco’s once again.

People take their seats. A speech is made. The first course is served. Someone praises the Romanian Dragon Reserve, and the table is swept into a discussion about what a great example of international cooperation it is. Colin is especially lively. The second course arrives amidst distraction and chatter.

But beneath the table, Henri is ruining Draco’s evening.

First, a nudge of a toe—coy, minimal. Then the knee again. God! Then—Draco grips his cutlery—a finger traces his knee cap.

He drops his napkin. As he leans to fetch it, he breaths to Henri, “Touch me one more time and I’ll hex you through the fucking floor.”

A slow laugh rumbles. “Oh, Draco,” he coos, a soft caress.

“I’m dead serious. Fuck. Off.”

He snaps upright and politely recommends a dessert spot to the witch across the table. A single, icy glare is spared for Henri, who examines him studiously. Draco focuses on his plate for a little while. Everything is tasteless.

Helpless to resist it for long, he searches out Granger. She’s laughing easily with someone beside her. The gold threads of the stars in her robes twinkle like a shimmering night. Maybe the robe is velvet? He’d love to have it between his fingers.

A bit of gravy gets on his thumb. He lifts it and sucks it clean. As if she feels him watching, her gaze shifts and finds him. She stills. His heart shudders to a stop. The smile she’s worn shifts from bright to something else…something soft and—maybe he hasn’t been wrong? But in an instant, her forehead crinkles and her chin tilts down.

“Aah, I see,” Henri drawls.

Draco pulls his thumb from his mouth and wipes it on his napkin, scowling.

“Did you wear your stars on purpose?” Henri mocks softly.

A flush rises on Draco’s neck.

“Ooh, my. She’s glaring now.” Henri leans closer and clicks his tongue. “Is she displeased with you?”

“We’re not together,” Draco hears himself say and instantly regrets it.

Henri’s eyes flash with mirth. He turns more fully to Draco. Out of sight, he pinches the fabric of Draco’s robe, rubbing it between his fingers.

Granger darts a glance at Henri, he thinks. It’s hard to tell from far away. He wants to bellow across the hall, ‘Ignore this prick, Granger! I certainly try to.’

But his fingers curl and clench, impotent.

Granger stares at him. She’s studious, assessing. She scrutinizes…and she is—she is—she just is. Beautiful, so vibrant, clever. And he gets to witness.

The room falls away. Henri falls away. There’s hardly anything for it. Draco quirks his lips, biting the lower one, and shrugs a shoulder.

Her brows draw together slightly in answer. She could be irritated, probably is, but this expression—this he’s so sure he knows. She’s deep in thought.

Henri clears his throat.

The connection snaps like a cut wire.

Granger focuses on her table once again as if there had never been a moment’s distraction. Her hands move again in those decisive sweeps. He witnesses for a moment longer, aching.

“Ah, I remember now,” Henri murmurs. “She’s that witch who helped the Potter boy. Must be agonizing for you.”

“Why?” Draco asks before he can stop his stupid mouth.

“Because of your involvement.”

Ah…his shadow prods his heel.

Draco looks down at his signet ring and gives it a turn with his thumb. Light catches in its delicate etchings.

It’s been a long day. He’s suddenly so very tired. Draco’s stomach hollows. He couldn’t eat another bite—can’t stand to be here.

He rises abruptly, chair screeching. He says goodnight politely enough, if a bit terse. He just needs rest. That’s all, probably. Tomorrow will be better.

There are a few pauses, a few handshakes. One last glance back over his shoulder at Granger to see if she’s noticed him leaving, but his shadow is clouding the view.

And he slips from the room.

જ⁀➴

Strasbourg’s night is sweet with spring. A faint chill rustles his robes.

He wanders for what feels like ages, rolling his signet ring between his fingers. His shoes clip on the cobbled stones. The river laps softly beside him.

It’s an old ring. He’s not sure how old. There used to be an M etched on it, but that’s gone now. Once, years before, Draco held it tight in his fist with his wand pressed against it and now… it’s adorned with three oak leaves.

He meanders in and out of narrow lanes, not minding looks from Muggles who barely take second glances at his robes. He learned a long time ago that dressing a little strangely rarely bothers them.

He and Granger could be friends. They are friends.

But even if she thinks—even if he wants—

The day’s been too confusing. Maybe he was always confused. He isn’t sure what the point of the quaint hotel is. Sometimes a hotel is just a hotel. Maybe he’s as messed up as Colin has implied if this day is what seduction feels like.

He doesn’t feel he’s been charmed.

He certainly hasn’t charmed Granger.

The bells chime ten just as he makes his way to the hotel’s courtyard.

His steps skid on stone. He imagines she’s back, and they will be only a wall, and yet a world apart. So near…so far. Which is her room? He tilts his chin and spins around the courtyard, observing every glowing curtain, wondering.

A clink of glass against wood echoes.

“Bonsoir, Malfoy,” her voice calls from the shadows.

He startles, confused.

The shadows ripple on the balcony, and Granger, wrapped in starlight, appears. A glass of wine is in her hand as she leans over the rail. A silk nightgown clings to her, while her starry robes drape over like a cape.

There’s something daring about it all, and yet it’s perfect—she’s gorgeous. An aching pit in his stomach yawns.

“You left before dessert,” she says.

“Had to clear my head.”

“Did it work?” She takes a drink.

He shrugs.

The wineglass stem rolls between her fingers. “There was a house elf concert after.”

“Good?”

She shrugs and sips her wine.

“Listen, Granger,” he starts, then stops. He doesn’t know what he’s even thinking. Not that it’s ever stopped his fat mouth before. “The hotel’s nice.”

A sly grin works its way across her face. “Not really the Ministry budget, I know, but when I saw it, I couldn’t resist. Bit of a short-notice choice.”

Warmth steals through him, flooding him with—but no. He shouldn’t. He can’t assume. He only wants.

“Needed a break?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

It’s a hard angle looking up at her like this. He rubs his aching neck, tilting his head to the side. Granger’s gaze is riveted to him.

“I went to the cathedral today.”

He doesn’t know why he tells her, really. She was pissed enough about Keppens. But she blinks and waits.

“Keppens was just—well, she was going on and… You know it’s awfully dark in there,” he says. “But there are candles all around, and the light comes through the stained glass in this sort of watery way. I’m not explaining it well—”

She laughs and shakes her head. “You took pureblood bitch Keppens in with the tourists?”

A grin splits his face. “Yeah.”

“Did you see the clock chime?” she asks, leaning forward.

“Saw it, but it didn’t chime. There was this little figure of death I liked, though.”

“You would.” A smirk curves her lovely face.

He rubs his chin, abrading his hand on his own stubble. A breeze curls through the courtyard, rustling the geraniums. It brushes her nightgown, pressing it to her body. He ought to look away, perhaps, but he doesn’t. This moment, he will seal in his mind.

If only…

He yawns. What an eternity it’s been since morning.

“Tired?” she asks, and he nods in reply. “You should go to bed.”

There’s such a death that happens in him at her words. Such profound loss in this charming, perfect, chocolate box place.

“Probably right,” he manages, but can’t seem to move.

“Draco.”

His head snaps up. She’s never used his given name.

She’s grinning, her lower lip caught there in her teeth and— The robe slides from her shoulders, dropping to her elbows.

He’s frozen in place—in time.

Slowly, she draws back from the railing and through a balcony door.

He waits. Is she—?

“Come up, Draco.”

No thoughts are in his head as he climbs the stairs.

Up, a swell of hope.

Up, heart in his throat.

Up, pulse pounding in his fingertips.

The corridor is narrow and softly lit. He treads slowly until his feet bring him to his door. Directly across the hall: Granger.

She leans against the frame—robe abandoned. He stares like he’s stared all day. Such a long day.

He pulls his wand from his robe pocket. It rolls between his fingers. Granger looks down at it and takes a step toward him. He reaches back, pressing the wand to the door, unlocking. She raises her eyes.

This look is hot and hungry. Oh, he hasn’t been wrong. Does she? She does.

Behind him, the door clicks softly. He can’t—won’t—look away from her. A kick of his heel opens it further. Draco takes a step back, another, over the threshold, into the room. She’s in the corridor, muscles coiled, ready to spring. He can feel it. He can be brave. A frisson of courage rushes through him like a torrent of molten lava.

“Well?” he says, burning all over, “Come on, Granger. Better pounce.”

He’s grabbed by his robes and shoved back against the wall before he can breathe. The door slams shut.

His wand clatters on the floor—batted by one Hermione Granger who’s gripping his lapels and—

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all day?” she growls.

What? He licks his lip. “Tell me.”

“All day,” her hands loosen and slide down his front—he swallows— “these ridiculous, beautiful hands—flexing, caressing, rubbing your throat. Merlin, what were you thinking teasing me like that during my speech?”

“I—what? I wasn’t! I—”

“And thumbing your lip in that meeting?” she scoffs, and licks her own.

“You’re one to talk. That glass pen? God! It’s indecent.”

Her lips curve dangerously—wickedly—a mad feline grin.

“Merlin, fuck! You bloody know.” His head knocks into the wall.

She shrugs, sliding her hands lower until they come to rest on his stomach. His heart is pounding.

Is this—can this be?

“And what about playing with that signet ring of yours, hmm?”

He arches a brow and bites his lip. “I feel a little objectified.”

“Oh, you should.” She says, eyes riveted to where he’s working his lip between his teeth.

He should? He should. His fingers flex. God, how he’s wanted—how she’s wanted—

His blood is roaring through him. “Trouble is,” he says, daring to grip her, sliding his hands down to draw teasing circles over her bum, “now you’ve shown your hand, haven’t you, darling?”

She leans—leans!—into him, and says, “I don’t think it’s my hand we should be focusing on right now.”

He can hardly breathe, can hardly think, but it doesn’t matter because he knows: she wants him.

She grins, biting her lip, and there’s that flush, and, oh-bloody-fucking-yesyesyes— Maybe this is more. Maybe it can be. Maybe there’s a chance for them.

He grips the point of her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tips her face to his. “I’m not playing games, Hermione.”

“Me either,” she whispers.

He draws her in, pressing his lips to hers. And that cosmic rightness sinks between his ribs. She sighs, gripping him tight. Their bodies so close— it’s a madness, isn’t it? The wanting is pounding harder and harder. Desire—not a thing of moments—not a shock—a deep, lush thing soft as a velvet skirt or robe.

It’s a slow dance to the bed. A push and pull between them, barely parting. One step, two steps, he rids himself of shoes. She pushes his robes from his shoulders. They pool at his feet.

“I like the stars,” she murmurs, guiding him over them.

He nips her jaw, trailing kisses down her throat. Tender lips on delicate skin.

“God, you’re so soft.” He lets his teeth scrape her collarbone. Rubs his stubble on her shoulder. She shudders, and he’s euphoric. Again, he grazes her, feeling her pull tighter to him.

She has a hand in his hair, caressing. The other he can feel at work on his belt.

He skims the backs of his hands along her sides, relishing the silk. Then up, up, up, thumbs slip beneath thread-thin straps. Their eyes meet, and he lifts, pulling it over her head.

When she’s bare before him, he stops—the whole world stops. He blinks, uncomprehending, because there she is. She just is. It isn’t a fantasy. It isn’t a wild hope. He gets to witness her.

He shakes his head and marvels.

She arches her brow, the corner of her lips curving. “Your turn.”

Slowly, to give her as much of a show as his poor body can manage while he stares at her, he removes his shirt. Button by button. He sees her nipples tighten as he tugs it off, tossing it away. God, he wants to sink onto the floor and—

Her finger swishes like a wand in a motion for a removing charm aimed at his belt. He bites his lip and plays along. Belt pulls free, flung across the room.

“Those,” she breathes, miming the wand motions for vanishing. He kicks his trousers and socks away.

“One more,” she whispers.

A flush spreads across her chest as she watches. If he could lick—but there’s one more item and one request.

His left hand drifts down his abdomen, lingering over each scar. She knows them all, even if she’s never seen them. His shadow laid bare through years of shared history, even unwanted. He slides his right hand up his thigh, a single finger like an arrow.

His hands meet at his hip bones, loose, relaxed. Thumbs hook beneath the waistband.

“This, Hermione?” he asks, softly.

“This.”

He pushes his pants down his legs and kicks them free, then straightens. For a lingering moment, they study one another. No more rooms, no more barriers, not a stitch between them.

She raises a hand to cover her brilliant smile, shakes her head, and chokes a single disbelieving laugh. God! She knows, too—she feels it, too. He can’t help but laugh as well.

He holds out an open palm and she’s drawn in. Caught, he drags her to the bed. They tangle and roll, curls surround him. He encircles her.

Lying on her back, she stares as he pulls away, letting her knees sway and fall apart. Open to him.

There’s a dare in her eyes, a challenge. She like to test him, after all. Maybe this is the last one. So...She’s watched his hands, has she? He traces one over her breastbone. Then he’ll let hands do what he’d like his lips to do.

Touch, he gives her. Everywhere, his touch. A finger swirls around a peaked nipple, then gently cups her breast. Firmer, rougher caresses until her back arches. Lightly, he drags his hand down her belly, gripping her hips and pulling her to him. All over her, he journeys, sliding a hand into her hair, dragging a thumb along her lips.

She’s flushed and gasping. Her own hand in his hair, pulling.

This. This. He’s wanted exactly this.

“Me too,” she murmurs. “For—god—so long.”

He kisses her—gently. But then her tongue brushes his, and it’s all heat and desire. And, oh, he knows some things about desire.

Down, he travels, to yielding flesh and, coating his fingertips in her, swirls them just where she needs him, over and over, until—

“Draco!” she gasps, and he moves his other hand to her mouth, slipping two fingers over her parted lips. Her tongue curls around them. Fuck—he could melt. He could shake to pieces like this, every muscle on fire.

His other hand slows as she cries out, sliding two fingers fully across her clit, gently massaging and drawing her orgasm on.

Kisses, caresses, his nose against her cheek. Slowly, they return, nudging her back into herself.

Her breath steadies. She’s pink from head to toe.

He could tell her things—wild things—too soon, too reckless. And yet. His heart is gripped so tight. She lays a palm on his face, and perhaps—maybe this they both know. Not yet, but soon.

With a savage grin, she grips his shoulders and flips him over. “My turn.”

જ⁀➴

Dawn creeps in. A golden ray bands Hermione’s naked calf. They’re so tangled in his sheets, he hasn’t a clue how to unravel them. Draco traces arcs along her naked back. She lifts her head and grins, then kisses his chest.

“What would you have done with this place if Duncan hadn’t gotten ill?” he muses into her curls.

She stiffens beneath his hand. He stops. “Hermione.” She lifts her eyes to him with a half-mad look of glee. “No. Did you? No. You didn’t….did you?”

“No, of course not,” she says, blowing a curl from her face. “But he’s perfectly fine—it’s a Muggle cold.”

He gapes at her. “A cold.”

“That’s right. He sent me the stupidest owl about it all, and I left him with some paracetamol.” Her lips twist to the side, she kicks a leg up and lets it sway. “But once I saw him, well, I had a bit of an idea about who might replace him. So I told him he was highly contagious and ought to be quarantined. And, well, I hadn’t booked the hotel yet…so…”

Beneath her lashes, her gaze is pure desire. He runs his thumb over her lip, dragging it open. Her tongue darts out and circles around it.

“And besides,” she says softly, “it’s good for your career to come to more of these things.”

The bells ring in the cathedral tower. A delirious grin overtakes his whole face—his whole body. He grips her by the hips and relishes her startled squeal as he flips her over.

Hovering above her, rubbing his body against hers while she laughs, he licks a stripe up her neck.

“Hermione Granger, you magnificent, wicked creature—I fucking knew it.”