The Man Next Door

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/58024093.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Post-Hogwarts, Psycho Simp, Stalker, Is it stalking if
he's sexy, I'm afraid so, Is it stalking if you don't know he's stalking?,
Still yes, draco malfoy is down bad and insane, Durmstrang alum Draco,
weaponized competence
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-08-08 Completed: 2024-09-24 Words: 17,517 Chapters:
5/5
 The Man Next Door
by greenflowerpot

Summary

Hermione Granger is starting to develop a little crush on her new neighbor. His name is
Draco, and he's kind and funny—not to mention easy on the eyes.

What's more, it seems like ever since he moved in things are just... working out for
Hermione. Maybe Draco is some kind of lucky charm? That's silly. But with him nearby, it
does feel like her life is easier and more pleasant than ever before.

OR

Draco Malfoy, psycho simp - stalker edition

Notes

This fic is a gift for orangeandivy. She found me on twitter a few weeks ago to tell me she's
making a bound copy of my fic (His Girl) for her friend, and offered to send me one too! It's
such a beautiful binding. I offered to write her a little fic in return - so here it is :)
 Chapter 1

Hermione Granger lived on the second floor of a sweet old building called Flora Place.

Her flat—number seven—had one bedroom, a small kitchen and a lovely little balcony where
Hermione occasionally tried to grow tomatoes.

Hermione was partial to historical architecture, especially after her years spent at Hogwarts.
There were just so many things to love about old buildings. At Flora Place, for instance, the
ivy grew thick and lush over the red brick walls. The fireplaces were small and stone, their
sooty interiors bringing to mind blackened tea kettles whistling over a fire. Even the windows
—the glass thick and a little rippled, each pane lined with old-fashioned metal—these were
the kind of details you could never hope to find in a new building, especially in modern,
bustling London.

Yes, Hermione absolutely loved her flat. And up until today, she had never had a single
complaint about it.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, lying flat on her back and staring up into the dusty recesses of
her broken furnace. "Try to cooperate, you blasted machine."

All the appliances in Flora Place were just about as old as the building itself. As a result, they
were unusually curmudgeonly and resistant to being repaired. Hermione wouldn’t have
assumed this would be an issue. Surely she (top of her class in all three Arithmancy, Charms
and Potions) would be more than equal to the challenge of fixing any stove or heater that
happened to putter out under her care?

But, as she stared up into the iron underbelly of her broken furnace, trying to ignore the way
it occasionally spat dust and metal flakes into her face, Hermione was forced to admit that
perhaps she might have underestimated how stubborn it was possible for a furnace to be.

Merlin, this was a terrible experience.

The tile floor was hard as a rock under her back. On top of that, it was absolutely freezing in
here. Hermione was wearing two jumpers layered on top of one another, and she could still
feel the chill.

Her hands were going a little numb, but after another few moments of fiddling Hermione
managed to locate a loose metal lever that seemed promising. Maybe this was what was
broken? She held her wand carefully between her teeth to free her hands, then gave the metal
handle a little twist, trying to tighten it.

Nothing.

She tugged it again and this time the lever snapped off in her hand, sending a small shower of
dust over her face. The furnace made a rattling sound that sounded suspiciously like a
raspberry.
Hermione let her arm go limp and closed her eyes, counting backwards from ten for patience.

Maybe she didn’t need working heat. Wasn’t there some recent muggle research about the
benefits of cold plunges? Perhaps it was actually beneficial for longevity, living in a frigid
flat…

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Hermione jerked up in surprise, instantly hitting her head on the underside of the furnace.

“Ow,” she hissed, rubbing her forehead. “Coming! Just one second.”

She slid clumsily out from under the furnace, trying not to get more dust on herself. She
wasn’t expecting anyone—who could that be? Probably old Mr. Neffer, come to complain
about some of the other neighbors again.

Hermione opened the door. It was not Mr. Neffer.

Instead, there was a very tall, very handsome and very blond man standing outside
Hermione's door.

“Hello," he said. He gave her a little smile. "Oh, sorry—did I catch you in the middle of, um
—?”

He didn’t seem to know how to describe what Hermione was doing. He gestured towards her
grease-covered hands. Hermione tried to wipe some of the dust from her face, wishing
instantly that she was wearing something other than pajama trousers and two jumpers layered
over each other.

“I was just fixing something,” she explained, cheeks burning. “Sorry. I, um, don’t normally
look like this.”

“It’s no problem,” he said at once. “I—think you look nice.”

They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment.

“I just came by to introduce myself,” he said, clearing his throat. “I just moved into the flat
next door. I’m Draco.”

“Oh! It’s nice to meet you. Draco—that’s a neat name.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said with a laugh. He had a great smile, easy and confident. “I saw in the
Owlery room that this unit belongs to H. Granger. Is that… Helen? Hera?”

“Hermione,” she said with a laugh. “Good guesses, though.”

“Hermione,” Draco repeated, sounding it out slowly. His voice was low and attractive.
“That's pretty.”
Hermione blushed. She wasn’t used to people not knowing her name, after the publicity of
the war. But she supposed that was three years ago, by now.

“Are you in number eight?” she asked, peering down the hall. “I didn’t realize Mrs. Potts had
moved out.”

“Yes, I think she’s heading overseas,” Draco said. “She said her daughter in New York is
going through a divorce.”

“Oh no,” Hermione said with genuine sadness. She didn’t like hearing about failed
relationships. “That’s too bad.”

“It is,” Draco agreed. “Though I suppose it’s sweet of Mrs. Potts to move to a new country, to
help her daughter and all…”

Hermione nodded. Draco held her gaze for another moment, then blinked and looked down at
his hands. Hermione realized he was carrying a small box, and inside were some small
bouquets of flowers.

“Um,” he said, cheeks a little pink. He held up the box. “Would you… like one of these? I
figured I’d bribe the neighbors into being fond of me. Everyone likes flowers, right?”

Hermione laughed, delighted.

“How sweet,” she said, peering into the basket. The flowers were beautiful—and there were
many different kinds, each bundled in their own bouquet. “You're going to be a big hit around
here. Ooh, daisies. Is it alright if I take those ones?"

"Yeah, of course. Please."

The daises were wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with a white ribbon. Hermione
recognized the logo on the fabric; the flowers were from a high end florist near Covent
Garden. She wondered if Draco worked in that neighborhood. He was dressed for work, in a
crisp white shirt and a dark tie. But his tie was tugged loose, like he'd wanted to undo it after
a long day.

“Are you planning on throwing loud parties, or something?” Hermione asked, forcing herself
to look away from his tie. It was oddly attractive—like she knew Draco wanted to be more
undressed than he was. “If so, I’m afraid you might need more than daisies to win Mr. Neffer
over.”

Draco laughed.

“No loud parties,” he said. “Just—trying to get better at making friends.”

Hermione smiled.

“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble,” she said. “The flowers are a really sweet idea.”

“Thank you."
He held her gaze again, then—as though remembering himself—smiled and cleared his
throat.

“Well, I, er—better continue my rounds. I still have six flats to bribe, you know. It’s really
nice to meet you, Hermione.”

“You too,” she said.

Hermione gave him a little wave before closing the door. She looked down at the daises,
holding them close to her chest.

They were very pretty. What a nice man Draco was. And he was terribly good-looking,
wasn’t he? Hermione liked everything about him, from his height to his voice. He spoke
calmly—low and attractive. Hermione had come to appreciate men who were steady and
collected.

She fiddled with the white ribbon. Draco had said he was trying to get better at making
friends—Hermione had been meaning to make more friends herself. Would he have a
housewarming party? Maybe she should bring him a bottle of wine…

Hermione carefully arranged the daisies in a vase with some water. Then, with a resigned
sigh, she returned to her work on the furnace.

Outside her flat, Draco Malfoy remained standing silently in the hall.

He looked unseeingly at a spot on the worn carpet, his head cocked slightly to the side as he
listened carefully to what went on behind Hermione's door. He heard the clink of tools, the
faint popping sound of a Fix-It charm.

Her furnace must be broken. The air inside her flat had been chilly—and she bad been
wearing two jumpers.

She was prettier than he remembered, prettier than the photos in the Daily Prophet could
capture. Those brown eyes...

Draco felt a pang of regret, as he often did, that his parents had opted to send him to
Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts. If only he and Hermione had gone to the same school, he
could have had years to charm her.

Ah, well. There was only the present to think about.

He strode back into his empty new flat and tossed the flowers Hermione hadn't wanted into
the bin.

Daisies were her favorite—he should have known. What darling taste she had.
 ~*~

The next day was Thursday.

Hermione never looked forward to Thursdays, because that was when her weekly reports at
the Ministry were due.

The reports weren’t that big of a deal—not a big deal at all, actually, for the majority of
Hermione’s colleagues—but Hermione had very strict standards for herself. Especially now
that her personal life had taken a dive (don’t think about Ron, she reminded herself), her
reports had taken on a level of detail and fastidiousness that was almost outlandish.

She attached appendices. There were footnotes and color coded tabs.

Hermione stayed late into the evening, working on the notes until she was satisfied.

It was nearly nine o’clock when she finally trudged heavily down the hall of Flora Place. The
strap of her heavy messenger bag dug uncomfortably into her shoulder, and her hair was
winning the war against the weak elastic trying to hold it in a bun. She realized, as her
stomach grumbled, that she’d forgotten to have dinner.

Well, she had some crisps in the pantry. Hopefully those weren’t expired.

As she walked past number eight, Hermione couldn’t help but glance down at the gap under
Draco’s door. The lights were on—he was home. What was he doing just now, she
wondered? Maybe he was sipping a glass of wine, having dinner. Surely he wasn’t the kind
of person who forgot to eat and had to scrounge for hopefully-not-expired crisps.

It occurred to Hermione that Draco very likely had a girlfriend.

She tore her eyes away from the strip of light under his door and walked a little faster.

She dropped the keys twice trying to enter her flat. It was cold outside. She hadn’t managed
to fix the furnace yet, and the prospect of her frigid flat was an unappealing one. At least her
stove worked; maybe Hermione could make some hot tea.

Finally, she managed to fit the key in and open her door.

To Hermione’s surprise, her flat was cozy and warm.

She dropped her bag next to the door and walked over to the furnace that, just this morning,
had been a hunk of unresponsive metal. It was running hummingly now, emitting toasty air
with a satisfied purr.

“Well done, you,” she said to the furnace happily. “I knew you’d come around, you crotchety
old thing.”
Hermione had been dreading showering, given that she’d have to step out of the water and
into a freezing flat, but now a shower sounded wonderful.

She hummed quietly to herself under the steamy water, scrubbing the long day from her skin.

Her thoughts wandered to Draco. She thought—or perhaps hoped—that she could hear his
shower running too, through the wall. But that was nonsense and Hermione steered her
thoughts firmly away.

After work the next day, Hermione received a delivery from Harry. It was a (very late)
birthday present.

The gift took two owls to deliver, and they waited indignantly on her second story balcony
for over an hour before she managed to rush home and receive the package. The Owlery
room was only for small parcels.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, sliding open the glass door and stepping outside. The owls looked at
her with twin glares. She bought their forgiveness with a handful of treats each and then
accepted the large wrapped package they’d been charged with delivering.

Happy birthday, Mione read the untidy scrawl.

Nothing else.

Hermione tried to guard herself against the wave of hurt she always felt when faced with the
cold shoulder of one of her oldest friends.

She didn’t blame him. How could she? Harry had had to pick a side, and Ron was his best
friend in the world.

It was nice of Harry to send a gift, even if it did sort of savor of Galleons spent to assuage
guilt. It was a large collection of encyclopedias, with leather covers and golden embossed
titles stamped on each one.

Hermione left them on the counter unopened, the gift ribbon still dangling from the
uppermost one. She didn’t feel like looking at them just now.

She felt a bit better, though no less lonely, after a hot shower. With a towel wrapped around
her hair, she perused her bookshelf for a novel to keep her company.

Something romantic. Something escapist.

She was cross-legged on the couch, halfway through the first chapter, when she heard an
unusual sound.

The neighbor’s balcony door had just slid open.

Mrs. Potts had never once opened the balcony door due to her fear of heights. Mr. Neffer—
Hermione’s neighbor on the other side—also made no use of his balcony. He complained that
the “outdoor air” was bad for his aching joints.

As a result, Hermione had up until now enjoyed full privacy when sitting outside, looking at
the crooked garden downstairs and the treetops in the distance with a cup of tea warming her
hands.

But now, as Hermione pressed her cheek against the window in an effort to see the balcony to
number eight, she found herself not minding that the outdoors might now be shared with a
certain blond wizard.

She sat back on the couch, drumming her fingers anxiously on the cushions.

Then, deciding, she stood and shrugged on a jumper before walking out onto her own
balcony.

“Hi,” she said with a smile, sliding her door closed behind her. “Fancied a bit of fresh air?”

Draco looked happy to see her.

“Hey,” he said, stepping closer to the waist high partition between their balconies. “Yeah, just
taking a break from unpacking.”

He leaned his elbows on the partition, to Hermione’s flustered pleasure. She’d expected him
to say a few obligatory niceties before going inside.

“Got a lot of boxes?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, grimacing. “Some of them are still arriving too. Shipped in.”

“Where did you used to live?” she asked curiously.

“Bulgaria.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, surprised.

“My parents sent me to Durmstrang,” Draco explained. “We’ve got family in Bulgaria.
Anyway, I graduated a few years ago but I stuck around for work, for a bit.”

“That must have been very interesting,” Hermione said. “I’ve always wondered what it might
have been like to go to one of the other magical schools. I graduated from Hogwarts—two
years ago.”

“Ah,” he said with a crooked smile. “You’re younger than me.”

Something about the way he said it gave Hermione butterflies. A sort of masculine flirtation,
even though the words were innocuous.

“I suppose I am,” she managed to stammer.

He looked at her for a moment, and Hermione turned pink and looked down at her hands.

“Hey,” Draco said. “I've, um, actually got some butterbeers here. Do you want to have one
with me? Since we’re both out here.”

“Well, okay,” she said, smiling.

Draco looked pleased. He popped out of sight for a moment, then returned with two bottles,
holding them both in one hand. His long fingers were wrapped easily around the bottles’
slender necks, and the glass clinked together as he walked. Hermione couldn’t help but think
about how large his hands must be, to be able to carry two bottles so easily.

“Cheers,” he said, handing her one.

She took it and he clinked his bottle to hers, tapping them together near the top of the bottle
instead of the bottom. Hermione suppressed another wave of pleasant butterflies.

She took a long sip, savoring the sweet bubbles.

“So—how is moving in going?” she asked.

Draco sighed and rubbed his neck.

“Tiring.”

“I can relate,” she said. “I moved in last year. I still remember how tough it was. I had to
bring the boxes upstairs one by one. The lift was broken, even back then… I’m starting to
suspect it’s actually a broom closet and the building manager is lying to us all.”

Draco didn’t laugh at her joke.

“You moved your stuff without a working lift?” he asked, looking at her seriously. “You
shouldn’t have had to do that.”

His eyes were dark, shaded in this angle of the sunset. For a moment, Hermione thought she
saw a flicker of some nameless feeling behind them. Quick and dark, like a shark darting
through black water.

She blinked.

“Um, you know,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Not too bad.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly, turning his gaze out at the trees. “The stairs—just seem a bit
dangerous in this building. That’s all."

"Yeah," Hermione agreed. "They're definitely a bit rickety. But I think it's a small price to
pay. The building is so charming."

“It suits you,” Draco said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “It’s—warm. Sweet.”
Hermione blushed and looked down.

“Well, I better go scrounge up some food,” she said, her cheeks warm. “It’s getting late.”

"Sure. Er, what do you mean scrounge?"

“I just forgot to do the shopping. But I have a tin of beans I can heat up, and some crisps.”

He just nodded.

Hermione gave him a little wave and then went inside. The outdoors were chilly and
Hermione’s newly toasty flat was welcome.

After a moment, Hermione heard Draco’s balcony door open and close too.

She was rifling in the pantry for food when there was a knock on the door. Hermione
answered it to find a pimply delivery girl chewing gum and holding a bag. Hermione
recognized her—the girl waited tables for Hunan Palace, which was Hermione's favorite
Chinese place.

“‘Ere ya go,” the girl said.

She turned to go, still smacking her gum, when Hermione emerged from her confused
surprise.

“Hey!” she called. “I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order this.”

The delivery girl frowned and looked down at a notepad.

“Huh,” she said indifferently, smacking her gum. “You’re not Sharon McPhee? We got a call
in order for this address.”

“No,” Hermione said, making to hand the order back to the girl.

But the girl shook her head.

“No take backs. Policy. Go ahead and keep that, we’ll figure out the original order.”

“I didn’t pay for it.”

“Iss paid for. See ya.”

And the girl left, smacking her gum all the way down the stairs.

Hermione blinked and looked down at the bag.

When she brought it inside and opened it, she found pork belly, rice and some fried eggplant.
Her favorites!

Hermione picked up a piece of pork belly with the disposable chopsticks and popped it in her
mouth. So good. Maybe her luck was finally turning around.
 Chapter 2

On Saturday morning, Hermione’s alarm didn’t go off. She was exhausted and, without the
trusty beeping of her alarm, slept until noon.

When she finally woke, it took her a moment to register how bright the light streaming
through the window was.

She sat up at once, curls flying, and swore.

“Shit, shit, shit—“ she muttered, pulling a shirt on and yanking her hair into a ponytail.

What time was it? Eleven?

She was supposed to have met Charlie Weasley almost an hour ago. Was he still there?
Waiting at the cafe?

She washed her face as quickly as she could, then grabbed her purse, pulled on worn trainers
and ran out the door.

She collided directly into someone standing in the hall.

Hermione’s face hit the man’s chest in a way that would have been comical to anyone
watching but, for her, was just humiliating and painful.

“Ow,” she hissed, holding her nose. “Sorry, I didn’t see—“

It was Draco.

Hermione wished with every fiber of her being that she’d spent a little longer on her
appearance. At least she wasn’t wearing pajama bottoms this time.

“Sorry,” she said. Her cheeks burned and she tried to avoid looking at him, hoping he
wouldn’t notice her morning breath. “I’m—running late. Sorry.”

“Hey, no worries,” Draco said. His arms had lifted at their collision and hovered just over her
elbows, as though deciding whether he needed to steady her. “Where are you going in such a
rush?”

“I have to meet my friend,” she said, glancing down at her wristwatch. “I’m really late. Sorry,
I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Hermione ran towards the stairs, her loose trainers making ungainly flapping noises against
the hard tile.

“Hey!” Draco called. “You should take the lift. And your shoes are untied—”

“The lift’s broken!”

“I think they fixed it,” Draco said. “It works fine now.”

Hermione tried it and found he was right.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Hermione said, streaking across the busy cafe and landing in the red
vinyl chair across from Charlie Weasley.

He grimaced at her.

“I’ve been waiting for an hour—“

“My alarm didn’t go off,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Charlie said, taking pity on her. His freckled face was tanned, his broad hands
resting clasped on the table before him. “I brought some of your stuff. From, you know.
Ron’s place.”

Although they had split up nearly three years ago, Ron still had some of Hermione’s
possessions.

Her favorite, annotated copies of books. A necklace her mother had given her. A scarf she’d
worn in her first year at Hogwarts.

Very meaningful things, in other words.

Hermione had asked for them a few times in the last three years, but each time she’d had a
difficult time getting a response from Ron. Perhaps Lavender didn’t like him staying in touch
with exes.

“Thanks Charlie,” she said. “I’m sorry to put you out like this.”

Charlie had always liked Hermione. She sometimes wondered if they mightn’t have had
something between them, if she’d never met Ron…

He gave her a small smile. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Oh, you know. Just—working.”

He gave her a pitying sort of look.

“What about you?” she asked, squeezing her paper cup of coffee tighter. Charlie had gotten
her one—it was almost cold by now, but she was still grateful. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing ok.”

An awkward silence.
Charlie rubbed his jaw, like he was trying to decide whether or not to say something.
Hermione watched his thick fingers scrub over the light stubble.

“Hey,” he said finally, abruptly. “What do you think—about maybe grabbing a drink
sometime?”

A little spark of disbelieving joy came to life in Hermione’s chest. He was asking her out?

“I thought you were seeing that girl?” Hermione asked.

“Nah. We just called it quits last weekend.”

“You don’t think it would be weird?” Hermione asked. “For us to…”

Charlie shrugged his broad shoulders, already smiling.

“Who cares?”

“Okay,” she said, smiling. “Yeah. Okay.”

Charlie’s warm brown eyes lit on something over Hermione’s shoulder. They lifted higher as
whoever it was approached.

Hermione turned to find Draco. He stood behind her chair, a cup of coffee in his hands.

“Oh, hello!” she said. “I see you’ve found the local café.”

“Kitchen stuff isn’t unpacked yet,” he explained, smiling at her. “Decided to explore the
neighborhood.”

His eyes moved to Charlie.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh! Draco, this is my—“ Hermione hesitated. “Friend. This is my friend Charlie.”

Draco extended his hand, and Hermione saw the glint of cufflinks and a silver ring as he
reached past her shoulder. A silver ring—was Draco married?

Charlie shook his hand. He looked surprised by Draco’s firm, abrupt handshake.

Hermione peeked at Draco’s hand again as he withdrew it. It was a pinky ring. She relaxed.

“How do you know Hermione?” Draco asked Charlie.

Charlie looked taken aback by the directness of the question.

“I—we were friends when she was in school,” he finally said, which was not exactly
accurate. He graduated well before Hermione started Hogwarts.
Charlie Weasley was a stolid, tall man in his own right. He worked outdoors with dragons,
had a steady and unflappable sort of attitude. But as he met Malfoy’s eyes, Hermione thought
she saw uncertainty flicker in him.

Draco looked unflinchingly back, no such concern on his own face.

“I see,” he said.

“And how do you know Hermione?” Charlie asked.

“I’m her neighbor.”

Charlie shot Hermione an odd glance then. She wasn’t sure why.

“Cool,” he said. Then he repeated it: “Cool.”

“Nice to see you,” Draco said to Hermione. He rested his hand lightly on the back of her
chair, though he didn’t touch her—Charlie’s eyes followed the movement. “I’ve got an
appointment with my interior designer.”

“Okay,” Hermione said. “See you later.”

Draco left, and the bell over the door tinkled.

Hermione watched his retreating back for a moment, then turned her gaze back to Charlie.

“That guy is—odd,” he said, still watching the door. “Did he say Malfoy? Lucius’s son?”

“He’s nice,” she said. “Anyway—when do you want to grab those drinks?”

After coffee, Hermione was feeling rather good about herself. Instead of going home, she
stopped by a shop that always had beautiful, colorful dresses in the window. She’d been
inside once before and scurried out shortly after, intimidated by the prices. Nothing too
exorbitant, not like some French designer or anything, but more than she usually spent.

Today though, she felt like splurging.

She walked through the wide, minimalist aisles of the shop. One dress of each kind hung on
floating wooden rods. If you needed more sizes you’d have to speak to one of the excessively
cool shop girls.

Hermione lingered by a green dress, cut high on the thigh and high on the neck. She never
wore things like this. Little mother of pearl buttons glinted at the collar.

She touched the shimmering fabric wistfully, then remembered what Ron had said the one
time she came home with a nice, albeit short, dress.
What are you getting all dressed up for? You want guys to think you’re gagging for it or
something?

Ron had never spoken to her like that before.

But he’d had a few pints, and this was when their relationship was already hanging on by a
thread.

Hermione had been so hurt that she physically flinched. Ron apologized instantly, but it
hadn’t been the kind of thing that an apology could patch.

Hermione stared at the green dress for a moment longer, lost in memory. Then she let go of
the fabric. She suddenly didn’t feel like shopping any longer.

She secured her bag a little tighter around her shoulder and walked out into the brisk autumn
air.

Promptly and for the second time that day, she collided with Draco Malfoy.

Again?! What was going on—

“I am so sorry,” Hermione sputtered.

Draco seemed equally incredulous, though he appeared to find the situation funny. He
laughed, and this time his hands actually steadied her elbows instead of just hovering over.

“Are you following me?” he teased, his smile wide and relaxed.

“I don’t know what’s with me today,” she said. “I must be distracted—knocking into you
everywhere I go.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He squeezed her elbows slightly and then let his hands drop
to his sides. Hermione unconsciously let her hand drift to the spot on her arm where he’d
touched her. “Were you doing some shopping?”

“Um—not really.” Hermione didn’t want to talk about it. “I thought you were going to meet
with your decorator?”

Malfoy tipped his chin up at the building next to the shop.

On the frosted gray glass in the front read the words: Miriam Stone. Interior Design. London
/ New York.

“Oh,” Hermione said. “That looks—fancy.”

“They cancelled. Accidentally double booked.”

Hermione realized she’d never stepped away from Malfoy. She could feel the heat of his
torso, through his shirt. If she reached forward just a tiny bit she would feel his lean, no doubt
hard stomach.
She took a step back and—was it her imagination?—he seemed disappointed.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. “What’re you doing now? Want to grab some lunch?”

Hermione had only had a coffee. It hadn’t seemed like Charlie could stay long, so she didn’t
want to linger for a scone.

“Sure,” she said, smiling up at Draco. “Yeah, I’m actually starving.”

They wandered down the street until they reached a little bistro. Hermione ordered a croque
monsieur. Draco ordered steak-frites and a glass of red wine.

The conversation was so easy. Draco made her laugh. And he seemed pleased to be spending
a meal with her, even lingering once the food was done to chat longer.

Was he—interested?

Hermione found it difficult to tell. But surely he was just being a friendly neighbor. He’d just
moved from Bulgaria, after all. Maybe he didn’t know many people yet.

Once lunch was over they walked back to Flora Place together, so close to each other that her
shoulder occasionally bumped his arm.

“That was fun,” Hermione said, outside the door to his flat. “Thanks for lunch. Let me get the
next one?”

“We’ll see,” he said, smiling down at her. “Thanks for hanging out.”

She fought back a little burst of butterflies and quickly said goodbye.

Draco watched Hermione enter her flat. Then he unlocked the door to his own flat and
stepped inside.

It was sparse. Contrary to what he’d told her, he hadn’t put too much of an effort yet into
unpacking. The flat was entirely empty of furniture—there was a table in the kitchen, a bed in
his room, and a single desk by the window, with drawers underneath.

Malfoy walked to his desk and took a notebook from his drawer.

She liked coffee.

Croque monsieurs.

Green dresses.

Charlie?

He took careful note of each one, adding them to the list under his last entry (daisies).
Draco was good at facts. He recognized patterns—he’d had to, in order to blend easily into a
world full of people who had a natural intuition for empathy that he, somehow, had not been
born with.

He’d sometimes wondered if this deficiency made it impossible for him to love in the
traditional sense. But the question felt almost pedantic. Irrelevant. What he harbored for
Hermione was—if not love—something purer and stronger.

After all, who else would put this level of effort in? Who would memorize the language of
her needs and wants, would single-mindedly study what it meant to be perfect for her?

He kept fastidious track of the issues in her life. Broken furnaces, chips for dinner…

Shoddy men, calling her up only after their most recent fling had ended.

Draco exhaled shortly through his nostrils.

He organized the notes, making sure the edges of the papers were all perfectly aligned, then
slid the notebook back in its drawer.

Draco went to his bedroom closet then and gazed at the large corkboard that made up most of
one wall.

After a few moments, he removed something from his pocket and carefully pinned it to an
empty square of the board.

It was a napkin from the bistro, with Hermione’s lip marks on it. The warm blush color of her
lipstick.

Malfoy stared at it for a long moment. He touched the mark of her lips with his thumb.

Then he adjusted his trousers, clicked off the light and shut the door.
 Chapter 3

Charlie Weasley rescheduled his date with Hermione three times, which she was surprised to
find herself somewhat ambivalent about. This was mostly because Hermione was focused on
trying her best not to fall stupidly in love with her handsome, thoughtful neighbor.

Draco was one of the most charming men she’d ever met. And specifically in the way she
liked—he had a good sense of humor, attractively serious eyes, and a wry smile. She got the
sense, sometimes, that he was different from other people. She liked it. She was a little
different too, after all—bookish and overly intense. Soft-hearted.

Around a week after Draco moved in, Hermione had to rush home unexpectedly from work.
She’d forgotten a copy of a document she wanted to include in her report.

She took the lift up to the second floor (it was a lifesaver, this lift—the stairs at Flora Place
were unusually steep and the building was unusually tall) and found Draco standing directly
outside her door.

He looked up abruptly at the sound of the lift door opening.

“Draco?” she asked, surprised.

“Hey,” he said easily. He took a casual step away from her door. “Back from the Ministry
early?”

“Yes, I just—” she frowned. “Did I already tell you I work at the Ministry?”

“I saw you in the Prophet a while ago. With that Magical Creatures bill you were trying to
pass.”

“Oh!” Hermione was pleased. “Wow, I’m glad people saw that! It was just a tiny article. But
the more people know about the challenges our Magical Creatures face, the better…”

She walked up to him; Draco slid his hands in his pockets and smiled down at her.

“I think it’s great that you work on things like that,” he said. “I donated to the endangered
creatures fund, actually, because of that article.”

“That’s amazing!” she said, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. “Wow. Thank you for letting me
know.”

“You’re welcome.”

Draco wore no tie today. The top button of his shirt was undone and Hermione noticed—with
great interest—a flash of black ink near his collarbone.

Good lord, did Draco have a tattoo?

What was it of? He looked so clean-cut, she wouldn't have expected any ink.

Did he have any others?

Hermione cleared her throat and tried not to stare at the bit of exposed skin.

“What, ah—what are you doing?” she stammered, forcing herself to look away.

“Ah,” he said. “I was just looking at your doormat. I was wondering if I should get one for
my flat too.”

“Oh! It’s cute, isn’t it? All the flats here have got novelty mats. I think it must be a building
culture thing. I got mine once I realized everyone else had one.”

Her doormat was green and said Leave Me To My Books.

“Really cute,” Draco agreed, looking at the mat. He shot her a glance out of the corner of his
eye. “Bookworm, are you?”

“Yes,” Hermione said proudly.

Draco smiled.

“Shoot,” she said, checking her watch. “I just came back home to grab something—I better
get back to work.”

“Sure.”

Draco stepped to the side, clearing her path to the door, and she gave him a quick, grateful
smile.

She found her binder on the counter where she’d left it, then ran out the door again. She
resolved to start another conversation with Draco later. Maybe she’d ask him if he intended to
get a doormat, and what would it say if so? Or would that be too transparently flirtatious…?

Draco waited for Hermione to leave the building, then went to her door once more.

Frowning, he crouched down to examine something on the mat.

There, just on the edge of the word Books, was the unmistakable outline of a large shoe print.
Much larger than Hermione’s little feet. This was a man’s shoe—nearly as large as Draco’s
own size.

Had someone been here?

Draco knew that Hermione hadn’t hosted any guests since he’d moved in. He would have
heard them through the wall—and anyway, he paid somewhat careful attention to who went
in and out of Flora Place. Although he’d apparently missed someone.
He straightened up, dusting off his trousers. Looking to make sure no one was around, Draco
muttered a quick series of spells and unlocked Hermione’s door. He stepped in.

Hermione was very clever. She had some rather advanced security charms along the
threshold, but Draco had worked for a stint in the Bulgarian Ministry’s Auror Department.
Civilians—even intelligent ones, like sweet Hermione—stood no chance against anyone with
formal training.

He took off his shoes before he set foot in her kitchen, mindful of keeping things neat. He
knew, after all, that Hermione was a tidy little thing. Her kitchen was charming and warm—
she had burgundy oven mitts that hung cheerily over the oven, and her stove was home to a
mismatched set of cookware that made him smile.

All the cookware in Malfoy Manor was severely matching. Cast iron or stainless steel. But
Draco had no problem at all with breaking tradition, especially if it meant Hermione would
be able to make his kitchen as hodge podge and cozy as she liked. He wanted her to do
whatever he wanted with the house, he’d already decided.

With this happy thought in mind, Draco walked through the kitchen and into the living room,
checking the rugs for any more shoe prints.

He checked her bedroom too, keeping his eyes carefully fixed only on the floors. Draco
wasn’t a creep. He had no desire to nose around her underthings, or to peer in her nightstand
drawers. He only wanted to keep her safe—and keep himself apprised of what goings-on
might impact her.

There were no more shoe prints, to his relief. And finally, on a sticky piece of paper tacked to
the fridge, he found the answer.

PACKAGE DROP OFF NOTICE - Dept. Magical Beasts - Recipient H. Granger - NOT
HOME; notice to pick up files from front desk in Atrium before October 12.

The shoe print had belonged to the delivery man.

Satisfied, Draco gave Hermione’s furnace a quick check (it was still running smoothly), then
left. He was glad there had been no more sinister meaning behind the shoe print. He wasn’t
sure what he would do, if some strange man had been in her home uninvited.

All in all, Draco Malfoy had been exceedingly blessed by nature.

Generations of very wealthy men and their extraordinarily beautiful wives had produced sons
like Draco: strong and tall and with the beauty of both titans and sirens blended in his face.
He had the sort of vicious good looks that turned normal men into lazy, self-indulgent
layabouts. Only—he wasn’t a normal man.

For all his gifts, Draco lacked one thing in particular that most people considered crucial.
Psychiatrists called it empathy, philosophers called it a soul… Draco felt it was probably
something in between the two. He just wasn’t like other people.

When he was five years old, in Year One of schooling, his teacher had called both his parents
in.

Is everything alright at home? Draco is a very smart boy. But he doesn’t talk much. He
doesn’t laugh with the other children.

And…

And there had been that dead bird.

Draco hadn’t been the one to kill it, actually, but he’d found it behind the classroom one
afternoon.

He touched its soft head, its sharp, tiny beak.

Draco was curious about it—a scientific, intelligent curiosity. But his curiosity was
undamped by the fear that all children had, undamped by the sadness a normal little boy
would have felt about a dead bird. So when Miss Ethel saw him examining the small carcass,
his face serious and his fingers grazing the bird’s lifeless face, she’d been frightened.

Draco decided—in his utilitarian little way—that he didn’t want to be frightening. He wanted
to be successful and powerful and admired. So he observed the other boys and girls in school,
learning how to mimic their multitude of expressions and the little ups and downs lilting in
their voices—down for sad, up for happy, down-up for a question…

He was a fast learner. His Year Two teacher sang a very different tune from Miss Ethel.

I’ve never met a sweeter child!

He’s perfectly darling. And the way he makes the other children laugh, my goodness.

Intelligent, kind-hearted, and humble. I’m sure Draco will go far.

Draco was no serial killer, nothing like that. His lack of empathy was not by choice, it was
simply the lot he’d been born into. He still enjoyed having friends, still enjoyed a Friday
evening at the pub with a few of the Durmstrang boys who’d come from similarly aristocratic
families. They were fun to be around, with their raucous laughter and their boyish interest in
expensive scotch and beautiful girls.

Draco was not immune to those temptations either. Even as a sixteen year old he loved fine
things—imported wine and weekends in his parents’ holiday villa overlooking the
countryside. And when it came to girls—Draco’s libido was perfectly functional, if not even
a little over-active. But he was no animal, and as he grew a little older he ran into a very
straightforward issue: namely, Draco was evidently the kind of person that required some sort
of emotional interest to muster up sustained physical excitement.

And—as cruel fate would have it—he simply didn’t possess enough of a soul (as the
philosophers would have said) to harbor emotional interest in anyone.

So at seventeen, Draco determined that he didn’t need to find passion in his life. He would
become successful and wealthy and respected, and then—at the age of thirty, or something—
he’d find himself a wife. She would be beautiful and intelligent and come from a good
family, and he would make her pregnant. Then the Malfoy line would have its next heir, and
Draco could return to focusing on the family’s investment portfolios while his faceless wife
traveled the world, or whatever it was she wanted to do with her days.

As bleak of a prospect as this might have been for most seventh year boys, Draco found the
whole plan pleasing in a cold, detached sort of way. Satisfying. Like putting together a
cardboard puzzle.

But then, of course, he met Hermione.

A kaleidoscope.

The Yule Ball was the best it could be, considering that it was hosted by Hogwarts.

Draco hadn’t really wanted to attend. But Headmaster Karkaroff insisted on the presence of
all his favorites, so—dressed in stiff formal robes and bored out of his mind—Draco showed
face.

His date had been arranged for him. She was a petite, honey blond Beauxbatons girl in his
year, who very clearly hoped to make a positive impression on Draco.

He did all the right things to make the evening pleasant and just flirtatious enough for Belle
(was it Belle? Maybe Blanche?) to stay eager, yet not quite flirtatious enough to demand any
follow up interactions once the night was over.

Draco’s school champion, Viktor, had a Hogwarts girl as his date.

She was remarkably beautiful, and being as her date was the most famous Quidditch player in
Europe, Draco was not the only one to be eyeing her with warm curiosity.

Not his usual type. She had some freckles, and Draco’s mother had always told him that
unblemished skin was most desirable. But freckles looked good on this girl.

And she had the most amazing smile Draco had ever seen.

Wide and beaming. No shrewdness or sharp-eyed strategy, even though her date was one that
almost any other girl here would have gladly stabbed her between the shoulder blades to get.
She radiated pure happiness.

Draco looked at her for a few moments longer than was normal. And he, along with everyone
else in the room, fell very briefly in love with her.

But then the Beauxbatons girl tugged at Draco’s hand and he looked away from Krum’s date.

“You want to dance?” he asked Belle or Blanche.

“Oui!”

“Allons-y, then.”

Draco danced with the girl and didn’t think about Krum’s date for the rest of the party.

Afterwards, Draco decided he’d partaken in enough innocent festivity to have earned himself
a few sips from the flask he’d snuck in. The Hogwarts students might be tooth-achingly
wholesome, but he was a Durmstrang seventeen year old. In his pockets were Firewhiskey,
cigarettes, and a pocketful of Galleons for when the other boys finished with their dates and
were ready to go to the speakeasy slash strip club that one of their father’s owned in Diagon
Alley.

Until then, Draco wandered into an empty classroom and took a few swigs of liquor while
looking at an Arithmancy proof on the chalkboard.

He snorted.

Good grief. He’d never seen a more pathetic attempt at a proof.

Draco picked up a piece of chalk and prepared to remedy it, but just then there was the
unmistakable sound of a row in the corridor outside.

A girl was yelling, fury evident in her voice. There was the sound of her little heeled shoes
stomping down the corridor.

Draco, having no desire to interact with her, dropped the chalk and took a few slow strides
back into the more shadowy recesses of the classroom. Which was a good thing, because
shortly afterwards the girl ran right into the classroom.

It was Krum’s date.

Draco’s eyebrows lifted. Had she rowed with Viktor?

He took the opportunity to take in the sight of her again. She was very pretty, though her
previously joyous face was now streaked with tears. She rubbed her cheeks angrily, slamming
the classroom door shut behind her.

Draco grimaced and tried to keep his breathing quiet. He had no interest in comforting this
girl, however beautiful she was. He had expended most of his social performance energy
already on Belle-Blanche.
Luckily, Viktor’s brunette date seemed distracted with her own problems. She covered her
face with her hands and gave a muffled, angry scream.

What had Viktor done, Malfoy wondered with some amusement, to upset this girl so much?

But then the door flew open again (Malfoy groaned inwardly) and a boy ran in. A redheaded
boy, with long ungainly limbs and a scowl on his face.

“Go away!” the girl screamed. “Haven’t you ruined my night enough?”

“Come on, Hermione! Don’t act like I’m wrong. You’ve been dancing with the Durmstrang
champion all night, you don’t think that—?”

“No,” the girl (Hermione?) snarled. “No, I don’t think. And you know what? Maybe I’m tired
of thinking! Maybe I’m allowed to dance with a handsome, famous Quidditch player without
having to worry about what you’ll think!”

She had a surprising amount of fight in her, Draco had to admit. And her face was somehow
even harder to look away from now, flushed with anger. Her eyes flashed like dangerous,
sharply cut jewels.

Draco stared.

“You’re fraternizing with the—“ the boy started saying.

But Hermione whipped out her wand then and pointed it directly at the boy’s face. She
screamed a spell and a dozen golden birds flew out of her wand and shot towards the boy like
so many gold-tipped arrows. He yelled hoarsely and fled the room, the birds drawing blood
from his face and neck.

Draco was, by this time, undividedly interested in Hermione.

Nobody was watching him—she didn’t even know he was in the room—so Draco didn’t have
to worry about how his face looked. If he’d been in a crowd, he would have had to pay
careful attention to his expression. Probably he would have frowned very slightly—not to
show displeasure, but to indicate careful thought. His eyes would have been soft and curious,
in a friendly way. All the little things he’d learned to do, so as not to scare people.

But here, in the shadows, Draco didn’t have to mask himself. So he stared at Hermione with
naked interest, his eyes hard and hungry. He’d never seen that spell before. Had Hermione
invented it herself? He never would have guessed such a sweet-looking girl could be so
vicious.

He darted his gaze all over her, starving for more information.

Hermione’s lipstick was smeared. So she’d been kissing someone, then. Not the redhead; he
had no lipstick on his mouth. It must have been Krum.

Draco felt a cold and foreign tide of jealousy in his stomach.

He continued to watch as Hermione stamped her foot and screamed into her hands, obviously
still furious at the red-headed boy. It was oddly cute. A smile flickered across Draco’s face.

Hermione then smoothed her skirt down, still breathing hard, but seemingly preparing to re-
join the ball. She fiddled with her hair and started walking out of the room.

Draco was struck with the bizarre urge to follow her, but then Hermione stopped abruptly in
her tracks and he recoiled silently back into the shadows.

Hermione wheeled to face the chalkboard. She glared at the clumsy scrawlings, and—with an
angry, frustrated pah! of derision—snatched up the same bit of chalk Malfoy had held earlier.
In seven vicious scrawls Hermione fixed the proof. Then she slammed the chalk back onto its
holder and stormed out of the room.

Draco stared after her. He realized distantly that he had, at some point, become hard.

Hermione’s date with Charlie Weasley was on Wednesday evening.

She’d felt a little disappointed when he told her that Friday wouldn’t work, that he was
supposed to have drinks at the pub with his brothers and Harry that day.

But Wednesday, she told herself firmly, wasn’t bad. It didn’t mean that he’d be keeping her a
secret from them forever. Just now—on their first date. That made perfect sense.

She left work a little early to run home and change out of her work clothes. She did her hair,
then her makeup, and was out the door again.

Draco was in the hall as well, waiting for the lift. At the sight of her he smiled.

“Hey,” Draco said. He was holding a bag of groceries. “Wow. You look great.”

“Oh! Thank you—I’m just on my way to a… dinner.”

Hermione realized she didn’t want Draco to know it was a date. She was—truthfully—
starting to wish it wasn’t a date. Having drinks with Charlie had seemed fun and a little
naughty when he suggested it last week, but now that the day was here, dread filled her
stomach. What was she doing? Ron’s older brother?

She cleared her throat.

“Are you heading somewhere too?” she asked.

“Yeah. One of my friends is having a dinner party.” He gestured to the grocery bag. “I was
tasked with bringing wine and dessert.”
The lift arrived and they stepped in. Draco shifted slightly, rebalancing his grocery bag. His
shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. He had nice arms, Hermione noticed. They looked...
strong.

“Looks like you’re running late?” Draco asked.

“Hm? Oh!” Hermione said, checking her watch. “Yes, a little. I think Charlie will probably
—”

With a jolting sway, the lift came to a halt.

Hermione toppled to the side, catching her balance against the wall. She had changed out of
trainers and into sandals for the date, and her ankle nearly twisted. Draco caught her arm with
his free hand.

“Jesus,” she said, straightening up. “What was that?”

The lights in the lift flickered on and off, on and off. She couldn’t make out Draco’s face, but
heard him clear his throat.

“Is your ankle alright?" His silhouette looked around. "Looks like the lift broke.”

“Oh, no. God—I can’t be any later than I already am…”

Hermione pulled her wand out of her dress pocket and opened the small compartment in the
elevator that held its magical workings. She tried to peer inside—sparks flew and the
compartment made an insulting sort of farting noise. These damn, truculent building
appliances…

Draco laughed, then started picking up his groceries.

“Shit, sorry,” Hermione said, whirling to help him. “I didn’t see you drop all that. I didn’t
even thank you for catching me.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Hermione helped Draco pick up the cake box, which was luckily only slightly smushed,
while he picked up the wine bottle.

“I’m glad this didn’t break,” he said, checking the bottom of the bottle. “Those pretty shoes
of yours would be no help against a floor full of broken glass.”

“Thanks,” Hermione laughed. He must have great eyesight, to be able to see her blue sandals
in this flickering half-dark.

She handed the cake to him and then turned back to the lift compartment box.

“Reparo,” she said hopefully.

The lift box barked a creaky laugh and slammed shut, narrowly missing her fingers.
“They’ve got a mind of their own,” Draco said. She heard him shift a little, saw his silhouette
check his watch. “It’s still five minutes to eight. Was that when your date was?”

Hermione was glad it was too dark for him to see the way her cheeks heated. She wanted to
tell him it wasn’t a date—she was harboring an increasingly intense crush on Draco, and
didn’t want him to think she was unavailable. But she couldn’t lie.

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s—I don’t know. I’m starting to wish I had never agreed to it.”

Draco’s silhouette shifted a little.

“Then… maybe it’s good that you’re not making it on time,” he suggested.

“Optimistic outlook,” she said with a weak laugh. “I like that.”

“We can’t always control events. But we can try to control our mindset,” he said with gentle
fondness. “I am the captain of my soul, as the poets say.”

“Invictus?”

“Yes.”

Hermione sighed, leaning against the wall. She slumped to the ground. The lift was tiny, and
her toes nearly touched the opposite wall when she stretched her legs out.

Draco sat next to her and his legs were too long to extend. He relaxed against the wall with
his knees partially drawn up, setting the bag of groceries between his legs.

“Well—the earlier part of that quote says differently,” Hermione said, fiddling with her
sandal strap. “I am the master of my fate. If I really were the master of my fate, my life could
go just as I wanted it to.”

Draco didn’t say anything to this for a moment.

They were sitting very close together, here in the blue-ish half-dark of the broken lift.

Hermione could feel the heat from his shoulder. She could hear the sound his wool trousers
made, shifting against the thin carpet of the lift floor.

“It’s never possible to really master fate,” he finally said. “You can only guarantee so much.
There will always be some things you just have to hope for. Though it's good to try to control
as much as you can.”

Hermione smiled, though she was sure he couldn’t see it.

“How very romantic,” she said.

“Yes,” Draco said. “I think so too."

 Chapter 4

“What time was your dinner party supposed to start?” Hermione asked.

It was dim in the lift but she cast a Lumos, then leaned her wand against the wall. The effect
was vaguely candle-like, and Hermione thought about how—at just this moment—she was
supposed to be sitting at a candlelit table and making conversation with Charlie.

“Eight thirty,” Draco said, checking his watch. “I can probably still make it, if the lift repair
guy gets here in the next fifteen minutes or so.”

There was a maintenance contact button on the wall that they'd used to send a notice to the
elevator repair company. Hermione secretly thought it wouldn’t be the worst if she and Draco
were stuck here longer than fifteen minutes. She liked spending time with him, and it felt like
they were suspended in some sort of outside-reality little box at the moment. Untouchable by
the rest of the world, just making conversation.

Hermione crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned back against the lift wall.

“This was supposed to be my first date in over a year, you know," she said. "I'm not surprised
that the lift broke. I’m sort of cursed when it comes to romance.”

"Oh?" Draco asked.

Hermione wished she could see his face. But the light from her wand was dim.

“My last relationship didn’t end well," she said, clearing her throat. “And Charlie is, um. He’s
actually my ex’s brother.”

Draco was silent. Hermione was worried he was judging her, and regretted saying anything.

But then Draco moved slightly and the paper bag between his legs rustled; he pulled out the
bottle of wine. He muttered a spell and Hermione saw his silhouette cup its hand over the
bottle as the cork popped neatly out.

Hermione laughed.

“Opening the wine?" she asked. "Don't you need that for the party?"

“Your predicament feels more dire,” he said. His voice was low and warm, softened with
fondness. “Unless you don’t drink? We can have cake instead.”

“I won't say no to wine," Hermione said, smiling. “Let me see what I can Transfigure into
glasses.”

“Here,” Draco said, fiddling with his wrist.

He reached for her hand and positioned it palm-up, then dropped a cufflink into it. He took
his other cufflink off and handed it to her as well.

“These look nice,” she said, holding the silver circles up to the wandlight. “Are you sure you
want them turned into glassware?”

“It’s fine. Go on.”

Hermione picked up her wand and Transfigured the cufflinks into two sparkling wine glasses.
She held one out to Draco and he filled it, then took the empty one from her and filled it for
himself. Their fingers brushed and she quelled a little flutter of butterflies.

“Cheers,” Draco said, clinking his glass to hers. "I'm sorry you're missing your date. It's a
shame you got dressed up for nothing."

Hermione took a fortifying sip of wine.

"Not for nothing, maybe," she said, fiddling with her glass. "You're here, after all."

She heard his soft, low laugh. Hermione flushed a little. Draco was a few years older, and she
worried that the self-consciously flirtatious lilt in her voice was pathetically transparent to
him.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Must be my lucky day.”

Draco hadn’t been sure which wine to bring. He wanted to bring one Hermione would like,
but there had been no bottles of wine in her flat so he was uncertain of her preference.

He’d taken a chance and brought one of his favorite Merlots. Maybe she would like it too.

He didn’t feel guilty about getting them stuck in the elevator, although he did feel bad about
bringing the lift to a halt so aggressively. The mention of Charlie had aggravated him; he
didn’t mean to be so rough. Hermione's poor little ankle.

Draco hadn’t been totally dishonest with Hermione. There was, in fact, a dinner party this
evening. It was thrown by a woman named Pansy Parkinson who had invited him at the
request of her parents, who were old friends of the Malfoys. And while Draco was sure that
Pansy was a perfectly nice person—and he did look forward to making some friends in
London once this whole business with Hermione was good and settled—he didn’t have time
for that tonight.

Given Draco's deficiency of empathy, much of his ability to blend in and succeed in
interpersonal matters came down to planning. To know what sorts of things he would have to
do to make what sorts of impressions on people. What would he say, and when? What would
his facial expression need to look like? He did not have the luxury of acting on instinct, of
deciding what to do in the moment.

Because when Draco acted on instinct, he scared people.

His plan to win Hermione, therefore, had been carefully crafted and years in the making. It
was an all-consuming effort. Draco had hoarded information, had put together and discarded
dozens of possible forays into her life. He’d kept an eye on her from afar—his beautiful,
sparkling girl. Sharp and complicated; a cut glass charm hanging from a wind chime,
fluttering just out of his reach. And although Draco was impatient to have her, he'd taken his
time. He waited until he had the sense she was longing for a man in her life, and ready to
settle down.

Moving to Flora Place had been the first step. Being as Hermione was a pragmatic sort of
girl, Draco was sure she wouldn’t want to get involved with a neighbor. So this period of time
was all about fostering their friendship, fostering trust and warmth. Then, in five weeks,
Draco would tell her he was moving out of Flora Place.

I’m moving to my family home in the country. There’s business there I need to be around for.

He would tell her that, standing in her doorway with some daisies in hand. He would make
sure his face was the perfect blend of nervous and resolute. And then:

I’ve been working up the courage to ask. And I worry it’s now or never. Can I take you to
dinner sometime?

And Hermione would say: Yes! I’d love that.

Draco watched her in the dusky dark of the lift, playing that rosy future scenario in his head
over and over, like a favorite part of a novel. Hermione didn't even know yet, how good of a
man he would be to her. Even now, she looked embarrassed at having told Draco about her
date with her ex boyfriend's brother. As though such a small thing could color Draco's
feelings towards her.

You don’t need to worry, sugar, he wanted to say. Everything is going to work out perfectly
anyway.

One glass of wine later and things were moving along quite well. Hermione was telling him
about her childhood.

“I always sort of wished I had a sibling,” she said, pouring herself a little more from the
bottle. “It was just—a bit lonely. My parents both worked.”

"I understand," Draco said. "I'm also an only child."

“Were you lonely? Growing up?”

For a moment, Draco was silent. He was trying to figure out which answer Hermione would
most like to hear, which answer would endear him to her more. But being in this small space
with her—smelling her shampoo, seeing the delicate curve of her nose and cheeks
illuminated by wandlight—was more distracting than he'd expected.

“Yes,” he finally said, opting to tell the truth. “I was.”

Hermione sighed quietly.

They were sitting next to each other, very close. Draco was extremely aware of the single
place their bodies were in contact: her shoulder against his bicep. She was so much smaller
than him.

He was just about to shift slightly away from her (he needed to maintain strict focus, and the
constant brush of her shoulder against her arm was starting to feel too good) when—to
Draco’s extreme surprise—Hermione moved closer.

She shifted her body a little, then leaned her head tentatively against his shoulder.

Draco froze.

This was not in the plan. Physical intimacy of any kind was not meant to happen tonight, and
Draco was unprepared even at this small contact.

“Are you—feeling alright?” he asked.

Hermione's cheek was soft against his shoulder. He looked down and saw the dark sweep of
her eyelashes, curving sweetly against her cheek.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m having a nice time.”

“Oh. That’s great. I’m happy to hear that.”

“I’m a bit of a lightweight,” Hermione admitted. “Make sure I don’t have another glass,
okay?”

“Of course,” Draco said.

He picked up the bottle and set it further away from her.

Hermione hummed contentedly, then nuzzled her cheek a little against Draco’s shoulder.
When she tipped her face into his collar, her breath a hot tickle against the sensitive skin of
his neck, his breathing stuttered to a stop.

“Hermione,” he said. "I don't know if this is—"

Hermione inhaled against his skin. Then she pressed a kiss to his neck, just over his pulse
point.

Draco's self control snapped like a twig.

He seized her jaw with one hand and dragged her to him. Her lips were soft. Draco made an
involuntary noise of need and gripped her by the waist with his other hand, pulling her closer.

Her body was warm. He wanted her closer. Draco wrapped his fingers around the curve of
her thigh, trying to pull her to him…

Hermione lurched suddenly away from him, her breathing heavy.

"Um..." she breathed, sounding dazed.

She touched her hand to her mouth. She seemed overwhelmed.

Draco collected himself, quelling the vibrating, urgent desire in his chest.

He'd gone too fast.

He’d scared her.

"Sorry," he said, trying to control his breathing. “Sorry. I—“

Hermione didn’t speak and he needed her to say something. In the darkness of the elevator,
her expression was too shrouded for him to be able to read her.

He inched backwards, trying to indicate that he was giving her space. That he
wasn't frightening.

"Hermione?" he asked. He cleared his throat. "Are you alright..."

The lift gave a sturdy jolt. The lights flickered back on. A moment later, it had started its
descent down to the ground floor.

Draco had been too distracted to maintain the Holding Charm he'd been using to keep the lift
suspended between floors.

Everything was falling apart. The plan was falling apart.

Draco’s heart hammered like an overheated machine in his chest.

Fuck.

Fuck.

His eyes adjusted to the sudden return of fluorescent light and found Hermione’s expression.
She looked shocked. Her eyes were wide and she was still touching her mouth, her cheeks
bright and flushed.

They stared at each other.

Hermione's eyes dropped to Draco's mouth, and he realized he probably had her lipstick all
over his face. He quickly rubbed his lips with his thumb, trying to remove the stains. He
didn’t want her to look at him and see him debauched, he didn’t want her to think he was
sloppy—

"I didn't want that," he tried to explain, his voice shaking, wiping his mouth.

Hermione flinched.

”What?” she asked. "What do you mean?"

”I—you leaned on me,” he said. “And I—“

“Right,” Hermione said, and her cheeks were red. “Sorry, no—that was, um—”

Draco was shaking. He was saying the wrong things, this was why he'd needed a plan to start
with. Before he had time to salvage the situation, the lift doors opened.

“Okay, well,” Hermione said quickly, avoiding his eyes. "Goodnight! And sorry, you can just
pretend I never…”

She gave him a quick, awkward smile and scurried out of the elevator, her purse gripped in
white-knuckled hands. Draco watched her leave, his heart pounding.

Fuck. Fuck.

Draco had not felt panic like this in years, if ever. Why had he fucked up the plan like this?
What if he'd ruined everything?

He rushed back to his flat and fumbled for the notebook in his desk drawer. In an
uncharacteristically untidy scrawl, Draco wrote down the events of the evening. Methodical
record-keeping was important. Only with an accurate understanding of where things had gone
off the rails would he be able to come up with a new plan that could fix things.

What had happened? He had urged her forward too quickly. He'd accidentally hurt her
feelings too, after. What had he done?

Draco stood suddenly from his desk and rubbed his face. He paced back and forth in his
bedroom, too adrenalized to sit still. There was a box of photographs of Hermione under his
desk and after a tortured moment he dragged it out. Looking at photos of her was always
calming. It would ground him right now.

Most of the photographs were clippings from the Daily Prophet. But some—a small number,
not too self-indulgent—were candids that Draco had taken from the street outside Flora
Place. Hermione sometimes read on the couch near her balcony window. The most recent
photo showed her in an oversized t-shirt, hair still wet from the shower and a toothbrush in
her mouth as she organized her bookshelf.

Draco held up the photo to his face, his jaw clenched.

She was so beautiful.

He hadn't meant to scare her.

Draco stood and brought the photograph with him into his closet. The corkboard there was
covered in all his favorite mementos: moving black and white photographs of Hermione
smiling out of Hogwarts class photos, Daily Prophet articles featuring her beaming face,
proud and happy as she received awards. The napkin with the kiss of her lipstick on it, that—
since that afternoon date—Draco had sometimes gazed at and touched, pining for the day he
could kiss her for real.
He'd refrained from pinning up this candid photograph in particular, because he loved
holding it, loved looking at it. But right now, the thought of fixing it carefully to his wall gave
him some comfort. He could exercise control here, if not in the larger events of this evening.

Draco fastened the photograph securely to the center of the board, then swallowed. He
returned to his bedroom and started looking through the rest of the cardboard box of
photographs, pulling others out that he wanted to put on his wall. He laid them out carefully
on his bedsheets, in neat rows.

Just then, there was an abrupt knock on the door.

Draco straightened up and flicked his gaze out his bedroom, through the kitchen and to the
front door. In his time with the Bulgarian Aurors, Draco had made a small number of enemies
who, on occasion, showed up at his doorstep. He produced his wand from his coat pocket and
went to the door. He opened it without checking the peephole, a lesson he'd learned after a
face-first run in with a Stinging Hex.

But it was not a grizzled petty criminal standing out in the hall.

It was Hermione. Draco dropped his wand out of shock. It clattered to the floor and he swore
and picked it up.

“Hey,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Hi. Are you alright? I wasn’t expecting—”

Hermione's eyes were bright, her cheeks very pink.

“Do you like me?” she asked.

He stared at her.

”Yes,” he said. “Probably too much.”

Hermione rushed forward to kiss him.

Her lips were soft. She was much shorter than him and had to stand on her toes to reach him.

Draco fielded an animal rush of consuming desire. He yanked her closer by the waist and bit
down on her lip. Hermione made a choked noise of pleasure and arched against him.

”You came here instead of your date?” Draco hissed against her mouth. She shivered and
nodded, such a good girl.

He mouthed at her neck and Hermione gasped, then pressed her palms flat to his chest and
urged them backwards into his flat.

He stumbled back and let her in without a second thought.

Hermione seemed beside herself with nerves and desire. Her face radiant and flushed, and her
fingers trembled as she fumbled with his shirt buttons.
“You're so handsome,” she whispered. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Of course—“ he slurred against her mouth, but then he froze.

Draco reached up and grabbed her wrist, stopping from her undoing more of his shirt buttons.
Hermione couldn’t be here in his flat.

The notebook. The files… the photos—

She seemed to like the way he seized her wrists and kept her still, she whined and pressed her
face against his collarbone, kissing the skin there.

“Hermione,” Draco said, and his voice was rough and hoarse. “Let’s go to your place. Not
here.”

"Why?" she asked.

“Let’s go,” he said again, not answering her. She started to look over his shoulder and he
kissed her, angling her body away from his room. “Come on, sweetheart. Let's go to your
place...”

“I want to stay here,” she whispered, clutching his hand, even as her back arched against him.
“Please? To your bed…”

She tried to turn and Draco—fast running out of options—picked her up. This elicited a gasp
of excitement from Hermione.

He set her on the kitchen counter, facing safely away from his bedroom. He moved close to
the counter and Hermione’s knees parted automatically to let him near. Her dress rode up.
Her underwear was pink.

“My room is a mess,” he whispered in a strangled voice, unable to stop himself from gazing
at the soft pink fabric. "Okay? So let's go to your flat, and you'll be more comfortable."

Hermione's expression flitted somewhere between hurt and suspicion.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Why don’t you want me in your room?"

Draco didn't answer. His mouth had gone dry. And in that moment, a dark shadow of
uncertainty came over Hermione's pretty features. He had seen that look before. In people
who were just starting to realize that there was something other about Draco.

He reached for her cheek, stroked his thumb against her soft skin, trying to salvage the
situation.

“Nothing is wrong," he breathed. "Of course nothing is wrong."

“Then take me to your bedroom,” she said, her eyes wide and nervous.
He did. It was the right decision—or so he tried to convince himself. He scooped her up from
the counter and she wrapped his legs around him at once, her suspicion melting into happy
desire. The spot between her thighs was so warm, pressed against him, hot against his navel.
She kissed his cheek, his nose, his ear. Draco felt drunk with the pleasure of it all.

The lights in his room were off, he reasoned to himself. The closet door was mostly closed,
he just had to make sure she didn't see any photos he'd left lying out.

He glanced at the bed, at the desk, at the floor. Hermione took advantage of the angle of his
head to nibble at his neck and Draco groaned, willing himself to focus.

The cardboard box full of photos was closed and under his desk—that was good.

There were at least half a dozen photographs of Hermione laying neatly side by side on
Draco’s bed—that was bad.

“Close your eyes,” he said, not knowing what else to do.

Hermione’s breath stuttered.

“Are you bossy in bed?” she breathed. “Oh, I like that.”

“Be a good girl,” Draco whispered against her ear. "And close your eyes."

She shivered and covered her eyes with her slender fingers.

Draco dropped her on his bed. Her brown curls spread out like a halo behind her head, soft
and lovely against his dark sheets. As soon as he Vanished these photos he was going to make
her scream his name.

He reached in his pocket and realized he'd left his wand in the kitchen. He looked over his
shoulder. He'd left it on the counter, distracted by Hermione's parted legs in front of him.

Draco picked up the photos instead, as quickly and quietly as he could, and tried to shove
them in the nightstand drawer. But Hermione writhed impatiently and searched for his arm,
then held his wrist and dragged it to her lower stomach.

“Touch me,” she begged, lifting the hem of her dress.

Draco had to let go of the photographs. A few landed face-down on the nightstand, and a few
fell to the floor.

One landed face up on the bed, right next to Hermione's face. A candid. She was in a bra,
holding a mug of tea to her lips.

Fuck.

Hermione kept her fingers on Draco's wrist, as though making sure he would touch her now,
where she needed him to.
Draco slid his hand under the dress and ran his thumb over the gusset of her underwear,
making Hermione's hips jump.

His eyes remained fixed on the photo of Hermione. The moving black and white image
looked back at Draco, looking scandalized at what he was doing with her flesh and blood
counterpart.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, pulling his hand away. “Just give me one second..."

But as his touch left her, Hermione whined and her eyes opened. If she only turned her head
by ten degrees she would see the photo—

Draco hushed her soothingly and returned his hand to her center. Automatically, Hermione's
eyes rolled back and drifted shut.

The situation was too fragile. Draco was intensely aware of how dangerous it was, how
everything seemed like a huge pane of glass that would shatter irreparably if given single
firm tap in the right place.

The adrenaline and panic and arousal mingled confusingly in his stomach, and he was harder
than he'd ever been. The photograph of Hermione looked accusingly at him and he tried to
ignore it. He pulled Hermione's underwear to the side, groaned at the sight of how wet she
was.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at her. So beautiful. Wet and slick and pink, the sight
alone made his mouth water.

“Touch me,” Hermione begged again, and Draco looked up at her to see that her eyes had
opened again.

"Close your eyes," he ordered again, an edge of urgency in his voice.

Hermione giggled and did, but Draco realized he couldn't rely on her self-control. His sweet
needy girl. His eyes fixed on her face, making sure she didn’t peek, Draco tugged at the tie
around his neck, unknotting it with one hand and pulling it free from his collar.

He put it over Hermione's eyes, then eased her head slightly up to wrap the silk tie around her
head.

It was clear Hermione liked this. An eager shiver ran down her and she parted her thighs
wider.

“Eyes covered,” he cooed, kissing her inner thigh. “Okay? Like a good girl.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I want to be good.”

Draco made an involuntary noise. His cock was achingly hard and he pushed his hips into the
bed a little, trying to relieve the ache.
He pressed two fingers to Hermione’s clit and dragged them in a firm circle around the
sensitive peak.

Hermione gasped and thrust against his hand.

“Yeah?” he breathed, staring into her face, the lips and nose and bright cheeks twisted into an
expression of pleasure under the thick band of his tie, wrapped tight over her eyes. “That’s
how you like it, sweetheart?”

He dragged his fingers a little harder, the circle tighter and faster, and Hermione sobbed.

“More,” she begged.

"I can do more," he promised, letting his thumb drift up and down over her entrance while his
fingers still toyed with her clit. "I can do that for you. Can I put my finger in you?"

"Yes, yes..."

Draco pulled aside her underwear and slid his thumb into her. She was soaking wet, slippery
and vice-tight, clenched responsively at the entrance of his thick thumb into her.

“You’re so tight," he said, seeing spots as her walls pulsed around him. "Oh, fuck."

He removed his thumb from her and slid in his index finger instead, the better to reach along
her inner wall for the soft spot that he knew would make her—

Hermione screamed.

Draco exhaled sharply, then pushed again and again at the spot, groaning when little spurts of
fluid started trickling out around his finger.

“Yes,” Hermione sobbed, thrusting uselessly against his hand. “Yes, more, more.”

Draco was starting to worry he was going to come in his pants. Hermione seemed to be
thinking along a similar vein.

"I want you to fuck me," she said, touching her breasts.

Before Draco could react—his strategic mind slow and sluggish, all the blood in his body
decidedly lower than his brain—she’d rolled onto her stomach and then risen to her knees,
her hands spread before her and her spine arched with her arse up.

The sight of her was impossibly perfect. The arch of her spine, the dimples over her arse, the
lewd way her bottom was partially covered by the crooked hem of her dress, the streaks of
shining fluid visible on her thigh in the light coming in from the kitchen.

Draco got to his knees on the bed, staring greedily at the sight of her with his hand pressed to
his cock through his trousers.
The photograph was centimeters from her face, but it was almost hard to care at this moment.
His good girl had her eyes covered anyways, and she clearly needed him to make her come,
and he wasn't about to deny her anything, let alone an earth-shattering orgasm.

“I want to come with you inside me,” Hermione said. “Please, please.”

Draco fumbled at his belt, using one hand to steady himself against Hermione's hips. God,
her skin was so soft. He squeezed her lightly, then ran his fingers up and down her wet slit.
He unzipped his trousers with his other hand and dragged his head against her.

He was hard, aching, frantic to feel her around him.

“Draco,” she gasped, feeling him at her opening. “Please, Draco—”

He guided the tip of his cock in.

She was so tight that he nearly passed out.

“Jesus,” Draco gasped, his eyes fluttering shut as he rocked against her.

Hermione ground against him, and Draco knew she was trying to get his cock to push where
his finger had. He angled himself a bit to help her, then reached around her hip to press his
palm to her lower stomach, applying more pressure.

Hermione sobbed.

"Yes," she gasped, her cunt clenching. "God. Feels so good—thank you, thank you—"

Draco was dangerously close to coming. He felt the curling frustration peak in his lower
stomach, had to stop moving to stop himself from emptying into her this exact moment.

He looked blearily up and saw that the tie around Hermione’s eyes had come loose.

The silk fabric was slippery, and the knot was nearly undone. As he watched, the band of his
tie slid lower.

He cast another panicked look at the photograph by Hermione’s face, but then she clenched
around him and he realized he was going to orgasm.

“Wait,” he said through clenched teeth, jerking his hips back. “You’re going to make me—”

“In me,” Hermione begged.

“Fuck,” he spat.

Every molecule in his body protested, but he pulled out of her.

The tie was going to fall. There were probably better strategies Draco could have employed,
but he was all testosterone now, all agonized arousal, and he had noticed already that each
time he touched her Hermione's head dropped low, her eyes squeezing shut as she was
overcome with pleasure. He would make her do that now, she would come with her face
pressed into the bed and she wouldn't see anything...

Draco slid three fingers into Hermione and sought her sensitive spot again, fucking her with
his hand with relentless precision. No teasing, he needed to get her over the edge
immediately. With his other he reached around her hip and pressed two fingers to her clit,
rubbing quick and hard.

Hermione started to come just as the tie slipped down to her nose, fully dropping from her
eyes.

She screamed, pushing back against Draco’s hand. He pressed her clit again and again, until
her head dropped forward and her shoulders shook with violent spasms of pleasure.

Her scream were muffled by the blanket that she was now face-down against. Draco curled
his fingers inside her once more for good measure and she shuddered and let out another sob.
Another small gush of fluid came from her cunt and soaked Draco's fingers. His neglected
cock bobbed against his stomach.

Hermione was limp and quivering now, a puddle of a girl face-down in his bed. Knowing he
had only seconds, Draco lunged over her and grabbed the photograph. He crumpled it in one
fist and managed to drop it behind the nightstand just as Hermione rolled onto her back
underneath him. Her face was glowing, her eyes still hazy and drunk with pleasure.

She groped blindly for his cock, and when she squeezed the head Draco saw spots.

"Can you put it in me now—?" she started to say.

But it was too much.

He tried not to. But as Hermione slid her fingers down his shaft, Draco came with an
embarrassingly agonized groan. He felt it spurt all over her fingers and onto her stomach, and
he thought about how very unfunny it would be if after all of this, Hermione lost interest in
him for coming pathetically fast.
 Chapter 5

Hermione moved into Malfoy Manor on a hot summer’s day.

A lazy breeze curled its way through the grounds, carrying with it the sweet scents of sun-
toasted wisteria and ivy greens. All around were the sounds of the country. Cooing birds,
singing insects—all the little signs of a bustling natural world that were so conspicuously
missing from a great grey city like London.

The Malfoy estate was much larger than anywhere else Hermione had ever lived. It was hard
to not feel a little self conscious here—like she was out of place.

Hermione didn’t know what Draco’s parents thought of her; they’d only been dating for two
months and she’d met them once at a polite but rigidly formal dinner. Surely they didn’t
approve of how fast their son had moved Hermione out here? Hermione couldn’t help but
wonder if Draco’s parents would have preferred him to be with a woman who had experience
managing an estate like this.

She’d expressed this self-consciousness to Draco last week, but he’d been so vehemently
reassuring—as well as visibly anxious that she might change her mind about moving in—that
Hermione hadn’t had the heart to voice the thought again.

Draco always seemed so worried that Hermione might one day come to her senses and break
up with him. It was endearingly silly. Didn’t he know he was a catch?

Hermione walked around the grounds with Draco now, holding her two tomato plants from
the balcony at Flora Place in her arms.

The terracotta pots of the tomatoes had always been cold and a little damp to the touch in
London, sitting in the shade on Hermione’s little balcony. But now they seemed to absorb all
the sun and light around. Like the clay was breathing a sigh of relief to finally be out of the
metropolis.

Draco walked next to her, one of his hands surreptitiously bracing the bottom of one of the
tomato pots. Hermione had told him she was fine to carry the plants, but it was clear that
Draco didn’t love the sight of Hermione carrying things. She smiled to herself; he was so old-
fashioned sometimes.

“It’s beautiful, right?” Draco asked. Gauging her reaction to the grounds. “The loveliest this
side of the Atlantic. Or so we’ve been told.”

Hermione laughed.

“What’s on the other side of the Atlantic?” she asked.

“Nothing worth leaving here for,” he said firmly, and she laughed harder.
“Cute,” she teased. “I don’t need much anyway. All I want is a corner to stick my tomato
plants in.”

“Thank you, tomato plants,” Draco said seriously, looking down at the withered leaves. “For
giving Hermione incentive to move here. I hope you’ll do much better than in London. Trust
that we have servants who know how to garden, and so you’ll no longer be victims to
Hermione’s overeager pruning and forgetful watering—“

“Stop!” Hermione laughed, snatching her plants away from him. “How dare you insinuate it
was my doing? You give it a try.”

“What an unbelievably perfect segue,” Draco said, turning her a little by the waist. “To my
surprise.”

Hermione peered in vain around the leaves and wooden poles of her tomato plant.

“What is it?”

“Here,” Draco said with a laugh. “Give me that.”

Draco took the plants from her. He set them on a stone bench, next to what appeared to be a
vast, empty square of fresh dark soil.

It was divided into little rows, and there were wooden signs along each row with cute
etchings in the shapes of flowers or vegetables.

It was—

“A garden!” Hermione screamed.

The delighted noise was so abrupt and loud that a small group of birds took flight with an
alarmed flutter.

“Tomatoes are going to be in a row over here,” Draco said eagerly, showing her. “The ones
you have already will go in the corner, and I have more seeds we can use to fill in the rest.
I’ve never planted anything before, but you kept talking about the garden in your parents’
backyard and I just wanted you to have everything you want here—“

It was so beautiful. The garden was surrounded by a neat row of pink quartz tiles, and
everything they needed was already laid out. A silver tray with two new trowels and two new
hand rakes on it. Two sets of gloves, and even a picturesque gingham blanket laid out with
paper packets of seeds. Two chilled glasses of lemonade on the side.

Hermione was on the verge of tears.

“We’ll do it together?” she asked, turning to him and flapping her hands. “I thought you
hated gardening!”

“I never said that!” he protested. “I just said I never spent any time in gardens. I want to learn
with you, now.”
Hermione could think of one time she’d asked Ron to do something with her—ballroom
dance lessons. He’d told her he’d never be any good and to just go without him.

“Thank you,” Hermione said to Draco, crying in earnest now. “Thank you—I’m so excited to
plant things with you. You’re so sweet for thinking of all this—“

Hermione, too overcome with gratitude to be able to formulate a more coherent response,
grabbed Draco by the collar and got on her toes to kiss him.

They planted tomato and radish seeds that day, despite learning that it wasn’t quite the right
season to be planting either. It was just fun to be out in the sunlight, fun to watch Draco read
the gardening book with a serious frown. Hermione teased him until he gave up and climbed
on top of her on the gingham blanket instead.

Two weeks later, around when the seeds had grown into sturdy little shoots, Draco proposed
to Hermione.

They had spent a Saturday afternoon drinking aperol spritzes and reading sonnets to each
other on the great stone terrace outside their bedroom. Evening had fallen and now Draco and
Hermione were lying on the cooling stone tiles, holding hands and looking up at the brilliant,
serpentine twist of the Milky Way above.

There was no light pollution here. Hermione could see for galaxies. She could see the rest of
her life.

“Hermione,” Draco said quietly.

“Mm?”

She turned to look at him, resting her cheek on the terrace stone.

Draco was already watching her.

She could only just make out his features in the dark. The white sweep of his blond hair, the
stark edge of his jaw.

His eyes were black in the dark, hard to see. But the shine from the stars overhead glittered in
them like the lanterns of undersea creatures, glowing their way to her.

“Hermione,” he said again, his voice a little tight. “Will you marry me?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away.

“What?” she whispered. “But—it’s so soon.”

Only three months.

But a balloon of joy was expanding in her chest. She felt tears on her cheeks. Was he serious?

Draco crawled to her and kissed her.

“Marry me?” he asked, holding her cheek. “Please…”

“Yes,” Hermione said, sobbing. “Yes, Draco! Oh my god—yes—”

Later that night, as Draco thrust into Hermione again and again, he hissed into her ear that
she was his, that he would take care of her forever and ever.

Hermione’s new diamond ring glittered on her hand, splayed out onto the sheets before her.

“I love you,” she whimpered, and he groaned in response to the words.

“I love you,” he said. His thumb slid from her wrist down to the ring, and he pressed the
platinum band, as though reassuring himself it was there. “I love you, I love you.”

Draco brought her breakfast in bed the next morning and Hermione was certain that her life
was completely perfect. That there was nothing else she could possibly want.

But she was wrong.

On a crisp October morning, Hermione stood with bare feet on the warm marble tile of the
master bathroom and stared down at a glimmering charmed line on a positive pregnancy test.

She and Draco were going to be parents.

Hermione cried joyful tears in the bathroom, trying not to let him hear. She wanted to
surprise him.

Her husband worked so hard to make her happy. She sometimes felt she must have been a
saint in a previous life, to have deserved someone like Draco. Hermione often worried she
couldn’t even come close to being as good of a partner for him—but finally, finally, she could
give him something perfect.

Draco would be thrilled.

He was outside at the moment, building a low wooden fence around the newest addition to
their garden: a daisy patch.

Hermione would take advantage of the time to pick a room to convert into the nursery. She
had rosy imaginings of setting up a crib with a gift bow on it, and of Draco’s face when he
learned the news.

“Your daddy is going to be so excited,” she whispered giddily to the baby. Already she was
starting to talk to her stomach, even though she knew it would be at least a month before the
bump appeared. “He’s going to want your nursery close to our bedroom. So we can say hello
to you first thing in the morning and last thing at night.”

Their bedroom was upstairs. The halls were quiet and peaceful on this long fall afternoon.
Hermione kept her hand on her stomach as she walked softly down the wide, gleaming
floors.
She wanted the nursery to have big windows, windows that would face south so the baby
could see the daisy garden.

On this floor, there was only one room other than the master bedroom that fit that criteria.

It was all the way down the hall, round a corner. Draco had once mentioned that the room
held some old furniture from his school days, and that because of all the dust and possibly
even mold in there, Hermione should avoid going in. He’d promised her that once he
managed to clear everything out, they could turn the room into whatever she wanted.

The prospect of mold was certainly frightening—especially since Hermione knew pregnant
women had to be very careful about air toxins like that. But she decided to be brave. The
promise of a perfect surprise for Draco was too hard to ignore.

She cast an air filtering charm over her face and promised herself to leave the room after only
a minute or two.

When she tried the door, she found it was locked.

Undeterred, Hermione tried Alohomora. But whatever locking spell was on this room was
stronger than that. It was clear Draco didn’t want to take any chances with Hermione
breathing in that air.

She finally managed to get it open after trying a series of more robust breaking-and-entering
spells she’d learned from Fred and George back in their Hogwarts days. With a groaning,
admonishing creak, the heavy door opened.

Hermione smiled. She stepped inside.

It was terribly dark.

The windows were fully covered, drawn shut and keeping out the sunlight. If Hermione
squinted, she could just make out the dark silhouettes of a few covered pieces of furniture,
evidently in storage.

But—even in the dark—it was clear that this room was a very promising size and shape for a
nursery.

Hermione pulled the curtains open, trying to get a better look. She paused at the window for
only a moment. She could see Draco in the daisy patch, and she smiled.

Just the sight of him gave Hermione butterflies. He was so handsome.

Draco’s usually white blond hair was a little dark at the temples with sweat, and he wiped his
forehead with the back of his hand. His arms were strong; the lines of his forearm flexed in
the sun.

“Daddy is so good-looking,” she said to the baby, running her palm over her stomach. “Like a
knight in shining armor.”
Hermione let herself daydream about her husband’s tall, strong body for a little longer. He
seemed about to take off his shirt…

But she finally forced herself to turn away from the window. She would get nothing done at
this rate.

The room was absolutely perfect for a nursery. Not too big and not too small—and the
windows were beautifully large, letting in plenty of country sunlight. They would just have to
make sure the crib was somewhere the baby couldn’t accidentally get a sunburn.

Actually—the crib would look very nice where that old desk currently stood!

It was partially covered by a heavy white sheet, which Hermione tugged to the floor, trying to
see what color the wood was. It would be easiest to imagine the crib there that way. The
fabric fell with a rustle and a large plume of dust. Hermione covered her nose and mouth with
one hand; with the other, she waved the tiny motes away. They floated off, effervescent with
the afternoon light from the window behind them. Once the air was clear, Hermione checked
to make sure her air filter charm was still solidly in place, then lowered her hand.

The desk was warm, honey-toned. How lovely! A crib in the same hue would look perfect.

Hermione ran her hand over the reddish wood, brushing off some of the lingering dust. Then,
her attention caught on a cardboard box, shoved back against the wall. It had been covered by
the sheet.

The box was sealed tightly shut, the opening wrapped with multiple layers of Spell-O-Tape.
Hermione had never seen another cardboard box in the Manor. Much less one that looked so
ominously closed-off.

Part of her worried she was about to stumble upon evidence of an affair. Maybe sordid love
letters? Details of secret properties for Draco's second family?

Outside the window, Draco was still diligently at work. Hermione bit her lip. Then, before
she had time to second guess herself, she used her wand and slit open the tape on the box.

She almost laughed at the sight inside. How silly she’d been to be worried! The box was just
full of pictures.

Relieved (and chastising herself for her paranoia), Hermione reached in and pulled the top
few out. How sweet. They weren’t just photos—they were photos of her. It seemed Draco
was preparing to make a collage of some kind? Perhaps for a Christmas gift? The photos
were clearly old. There was one from her Hogwarts years that Draco must have had to call
Harry or Ginny to procure. In it, Hermione had just won the Arithmancy competition, and
was beaming at the camera.

She smiled, then leafed to the next photo. It was one her old Ministry boss had taken the day
their department had won a new grant.

Hermione flipped to the next photo.

She froze. Then she held the photo up closer to her face.

This was a photo she'd never seen of herself before. She was half-naked in it. In just a bra and
sleep shorts, facing off to the left. Her nipples poked through the bra—it seemed she had just
taken a shower.

Hermione stared uncomprehendingly.

What?

This photo had to have been taken from outside, from downstairs. By some creep—

Hermione put the photo down. There was a sick, scared feeling in her stomach.

She emptied the rest of the box onto the desk.

God, there were so many. Even the innocent ones took on a garish, frightening significance
now. At least a dozen of the photos were like the one of her in Flora Place. Unknowing that
she was being watched. Sometimes fully dressed, sometimes in a bra, and once only in a
towel. Always looking away from the camera, always unaware she was being watched.

Why did Draco have these?

It was a stupid question. Hermione tried not to comprehend the answer. But it was
impossibly, terribly obvious.

Some of the photos had been taken last year. Before Draco had even moved into Number
Eight.

Hermione’s breathing had gone ragged and unsteady. She was panicking. But even as she did,
a little unignorable voice in her head was speaking up now, cutting through the turmoil. A
voice that told her that this, finally, made sense. That it had never quite added up, how
perfectly Draco had swept into her life. How he had always been utterly too good to be true.

Hermione covered her mouth with one hand, trying not to throw up.

She finally looked up, out the window and into the garden. A strange man she’d thought she
known was tending to the daisies.

Draco looked every inch the gallant and devoted husband. Even now she couldn’t believe
how handsome he was. Hermione watched as he carefully snipped some daisies and put them
into a cut crystal vase.

He brought her fresh-picked flowers every afternoon. They’d been together almost seven
months and he’d not forgotten once.

“You don’t have to be so intense about the flowers,” Hermione had giggled once, teasing him.
He was fastidious about every broken petal, every scarred leaf. “You look almost—scary
when you’re checking them.”
To her surprise, a flicker of shame had passed over Draco’s serious grey eyes. The expression
was almost too quick to catch.

“I just want everything to be perfect for you,” he said, clearing his throat. “I want that a lot.
That’s all.”

She remembered this exchange now as she watched Draco stand from the garden, twenty
perfect daisies arranged in a perfect vase for his wife. A few moments later he was at the
downstairs door. Hermione heard the telltale sound of him toeing off his boots at the door.

“Sweetheart,” Draco called. “I brought you flowers. And you’re never going to believe what I
saw—I think the little brown rabbit we always see has found a little rabbit wife.”

His voice was warm, loving. Hermione could hear the affection thrumming in each word.

She stared down at one of the photos of herself, taken from the street outside Flora Place.
This one had to have been December; her small Christmas tree was visible on the kitchen
counter.

The angle of the photo suggested Draco had been standing in a shadowy section of the street.
Partially covered by some trees.

Hermione tried to imagine him like that. Standing out in the cold, all alone. Watching her
through the glass.

Daydreaming, maybe, of the day he would bring her daisies from their garden.

Hermione put the photos back in the box.

Draco loved her. He loved her more than anyone else ever had—and now, Hermione was
fairly sure he loved her more than a normal man was even capable of.

She closed the cardboard lid and repaired the Spell-O-Tape. She threw the white sheet back
over the desk, then left the room as quietly as she could.

“Sweetheart?” came Draco’s voice again from downstairs. Worried.

“Yes!” she said. “I’m coming.”

Her husband was strange. Maybe even a little frightening. But Hermione was surprised to
feel a sense of pride at the fathomless depths of Draco’s love. Dark and unknown, maybe.
But every iota of it for her.

Well—not just for her. Not any longer.

“Daddy loves us,” she said, resting her palm on her stomach. “So much. Look how hard he
worked, just so he could love us.”

Maybe she was strange too.

“Draco,” she said, climbing down the stairs. “I have a surprise for you.”

She tried not to let her excited smile show as Draco instantly stopped what he was doing to
come see her.

“A surprise?” he asked, his grey eyes lighting up.

His gaze went first to her face, to her eager smile. Then to her hand. Resting on her stomach.

Draco looked immediately back to her face. His eyes were wide, the sharp, strong line of his
jaw tight with disbelieving hope. She giggled.

Hermione would tell Draco that she found the box of photos later, she decided, as he bounded
up the stairs two at a time to her. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow…

Just as soon as they picked a name for the baby!

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