Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy had always been spoiled.
There was hardly any point in denying it, because naturally, being the sole heir to the Malfoy fortune had come with its fair share of perks.
For example, if he so desired, he would never have to work a day in his life. He could speak his mind to just about anyone and get away with it. He could buy all the best clothes; the biggest houses; the newest models of the fastest flying brooms and never so much as graze the surface of his inheritance.
In short, throughout most of his life, it wasn't often that he'd ever been left wanting for something.
That was, of course, until Hermione Granger.
He hadn't wanted her at first, mind you. Not in the least.
But with time comes change. And he had certainly changed over time, in more ways than one.
In the physical sense, he'd grown taller. Filled out a bit from that thin, lanky teen he'd been years before, and could now boast that he had a fair bit of muscle on his bones. Not so much that it appeared he'd been trying too hard to buff up, but enough that he felt satisfied with his frame in the mirror.
He'd stopped slicking his hair back like some sort of greasy pervert and now wore it a bit longer than he had during his time at Hogwarts, allowing the fringe to fall over his forehead.
The things that had stayed the same were a given. He still had gray eyes. Silvery, white-blonde locks. Pale skin, though it didn't possess the same unhealthy quality it had before. Long limbs and broad shoulders, as well as particularly slender hands and fingers.
He wore the same rings. Maintained his usual impeccable posture. Walked with his head held high and nose lifted into the air, unconsciously looking down on all those who passed.
Because there were just some things that never quite changed about a person. Except, of course, the things that did.
And Hermione Granger had certainly changed since that first day he'd laid eyes on her aboard the Hogwarts express, inquiring as to whether or not he knew the whereabouts of a toad named Trevor.
She was the same in some ways, he supposed.
She still had that mess of curly brown hair, though it now seemed to gleam gold in the sunlight in a way he hadn't ever noticed before. She still poured every bit of herself into the goals she set, working as hard as humanly possible to achieve them. She still spoke with such unbridled passion, even when the person listening wasn't particularly an active participant in the conversation. She still worshiped books like they were her religion, and could be found most days in the archives of the DMLE, scanning through old case files and picking up on any missed details.
She wasn't even an Auror, for Merlin's sake. She just offered her assistance when she ran out of things to do with her own job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It was insane, and so incredibly Granger-esque that he couldn't help but laugh at the predictability of it.
Unsurprisingly, that was where he tended to run into her from time to time, coming upon her mass of frizzy curls amidst the rows and rows of dusty file boxes.
And each time, without fail, they executed the very same dance. Over and over again like they'd long memorized the steps.
First, he would freeze. Watch her glance up at him through her lashes in a halfhearted attempt to identify whoever it was who'd so rudely interrupted her reading. Watch her jolt like she expected for it to be anyone but him. Listen to her quick intake of breath. To her hastily muttered, "Merlin, Malfoy, you startled me."
Spot the bloom of blush spreading gradually up her neck until it stained the high points of her cheekbones. Tuck his hands into his pockets and merely smirk as she struggled to compose herself.
She would then begin to babble about something—anything, really, in an attempt to distract him from her reaction to his presence. Sometimes it was about her workday or her most recent project. Sometimes she went on about a detail she'd discovered in a file—a slip up the Auror department had made in a particular investigation due to a minuscule oversight.
She'd chastise the department as a whole for not being more thorough. Turn her aggravation on him and demand he pay more attention to the little details.
"You have my word, Granger." He'd say.
"Yes, Granger, of course."
"Sure, Granger. I swear it."
Always the same thing in different forms, time and time again. Though Draco never seemed to find himself tiring of it.
In fact, he more than looked forward to the days when he'd come across her, finding that it usually ended up being the highlight of his week. He supposed it was a bit pathetic to admit that the act of engaging in casual small talk with Granger was the thing he looked forward to most during his time at the Ministry, but it couldn't be denied: interactions with Granger brought out a bit of fire in him. Made him feel alive in a way he hadn't experienced since...well, since he was a boy.
Some days, he all but forgot he could feel so much as he did when he was in her presence. Whether it be annoyance, or awe, or simply contentment—he felt. And it was all thanks to her.
And so, when he finally managed to pluck up the courage to ask her if they could possibly spend a bit of time together outside the confines of the cramped, dusty archives, he hardly even considered the fact that she might say no. Because it was so harmless—so inconsequential—that there would be no reason for her to.
Which meant, of course, that when she did, it hit him a bit like a brick wall to the nose.
Thinking back on it now, it was possible that she hadn't understood exactly what he was asking of her.
He hadn't meant for it to be a date. Not yet, at least.
Was interested in her?
Yes.
Did he happen to find her rather attractive in a way that promised more than friendship if given the chance?
Yes, undoubtedly, yes.
And also yes, he certainly wouldn't mind pushing her up against a wall and wrapping her legs tightly around his waist, feeling the hard lines of his own body up against the soft curves of hers.
But that wasn't what he'd been proposing at that particular moment. He'd meant for the offer to come across as a casual outing as friends. And if she wasn't comfortable with that, acquaintances even. Two people who didn't mind spending time in each other's company. That was all.
But one pitying look from Granger had told him everything he needed to know.
That she was hardly interested in speaking to him in an office environment, much less spending any extra time with him in the limited work-free hours of her day. He was, after all, the enemy. Even after all these years—after all the efforts he'd made to redeem himself in the eyes of the wizarding world, the past would never change.
He could try to paint over it all he liked. Draw flowers and rainbows in the spaces where shadows used to reside. But the fact remained.
His history was tattooed in darkness. In hate, and prejudice, and bigotry. And his name, when referred to these days, meant one thing and one thing only.
Draco Malfoy—Death Eater.
The reformed part of that title was more often than not left out of the equation entirely.
And so, when she'd begun to say things like,
"Oh, Malfoy, I'm so sorry."
and, "It's not you. Really it's not."
and, "I've just been so bloody busy lately, and I really don't think I have the time to dedicate myself to a relationship."
He'd begun to wish that he could Obliviate the both of them to spare them from the horrible awkwardness of the entire conversation. But alas, he'd been forced to nod. Smirk, as if her answer didn't shred him up inside. Tell her,
"That's quite alright, Granger. I figured as much." And promptly flee from the archives like a dog with his tail between his legs.
All in all, it had been the most thoroughly humiliating day of his life—save the time he'd been transformed into a mustelid back in fourth year.
Which was why he found himself impossibly confused as to why the very same Hermione Granger was currently standing in the doorway of his office, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth.
He squinted, blinking a few times as to make sure she was really there, and not just a figment of his imagination. She was, and his stomach immediately twisted into an anxious knot.
"Granger?" he set down his quill, swallowing carefully and noting the way her eyes followed the movement of this throat. "Can I help you with something?"
A million possibilities began to whirl through his mind, each one more terrifying than the last. Perhaps she was there to berate him for so inappropriately propositioning that they interact outside the Ministry. Perhaps she'd found the entire thing to be grossly unprofessional and would be looking into getting him sacked from the department as soon as possible.
Or maybe she was finally ready to scream at him for the way he'd treated her in the past. He didn't take her for someone who enjoyed causing a scene in public, so this could be the perfect opportunity for her to get him alone. Lock the door and cast a few silencing charms before laying into him.
Merlin knew he would deserve it, and a part of him welcomed the verbal lashing.
"Sorry," she breathed out in lieu of a string of hexes, stepping further into the room and shutting the door softly behind her. She then shuffled in to stand stiffly by his chaise lounge, her fingertips reaching out to draw small, anxious circles along the patterns of the fabric. "I'm sure you're busy. And I realize now that I really should have checked with your receptionist instead of just barging in here unannounced and interrupting your—"
"Granger," he stopped her, "slow down a minute. Why don't you...er, take a seat, if you'd like. Then you can tell me what's going on."
He watched her gather a breath. Watched her approach his desk and settle into one of the empty chairs across from him. Watched her begin to fiddle anxiously with the cuff of her sleeve, stretching the fabric to the point of ruination.
"I—" she winced, then abruptly blurted, "Ineedyoutopretendtodatemeforafewmonths."
Draco blinked, having not understood a single word out of her mouth. "Sorry? Didn't quite catch that."
"I need—" she swallowed, "I need you to pretend to date me for a few months. If you're not already...er, spoken for, that is."
Again, Draco merely blinked. Shook his head. Absorbed what she'd just said. Failed, and tried to absorb it again.
"You want me to... to date you?"
"Fake date me." She amended.
"Fake... date you. For a few—"
"Months, yes."
More blinking, and he was still impossibly confused, with her offering up no further explanation. Just staring back at him with those wide, brown doe eyes of hers.
Was this a fucking joke? Was she trying to pull some sort of prank on him? Or...
Oh.
Oh. She was mocking him. Throwing his failed attempt at asking her out back in his face. Well, if she was going to be that way...
Draco scowled, immediately going on the offensive and throwing up every last mental wall he could construct. Stone upon stone upon stone, blocking any mental probing from being able to reach his subconscious. She wasn't a Legilimens, he knew that much, but he couldn't afford to take any chances.
"That's ridiculous," he sneered, leaning back and crossing one knee over the other. His hands gripped tightly to the arms of his chair. "Why in Merlin's name would I do that?"
"Because," she said, straightening up and allowing her voice to take on that familiar know-it-all tone it so easily slipped into. "It'll be of benefit to you."
His frown, if possible, deepened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means the Malfoy name could certainly use a bit of good press," she raised her brows as if to challenge him to disagree with her, and smiled when he offered no such resistance. "And being tied to the Golden Girl certainly wouldn't do any harm to your reputation."
Draco laughed in a way that held no real humor, and her smile practically dissolved before his eyes. "You think that highly of yourself, Granger?"
"I don't have to," she shrugged, "everyone else already does."
Well, he certainly couldn't argue with that, regardless of how much he wanted to. There was no denying it—the way people fawned over her whenever she stepped out in public. Ministry coworkers were one thing. They'd long grown accustomed to her presence, and mostly controlled themselves when it came to assaulting her with unwanted attention. But the general public was a different story entirely.
She was a war heroine, after all. Harry Potter's best friend. Sidekick. Brain. One-third of the golden trio.
Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes.
"Whatever," he gripped the arm of his seat tighter. "What makes you think I'd even be available? What if I have a girlfriend?"
Granger raised a single, doubting brow. "Do you?"
"Well," Draco's cheeks flushed, and he mentally smacked himself for allowing her to back him into such a humiliating corner. "Not at the moment, no, but I very well could—"
"See? There's no issue, then."
"There is an issue. I'm not interested."
Liar.
"I never said you had to be. Hence the fake dating. Emphasis on fake."
"What is this really about, Granger?" Draco leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the surface of his desk. She flinched a bit at the sudden movement, but quickly recovered, settling back into her chair and pursing her lips. "You can't possibly be proposing all this solely to redeem my reputation. How does this benefit you?"
"I was getting to that," she rolled her eyes, tongue flicking out momentarily to wet her lower lip. It was something she did often, most likely unconsciously, when she was nervous. He'd noticed it over the past year or so of interactions down in the archives, and silently cataloged the times when it happened most frequently. "I'm...well, you see, I'm rather sick of people telling me I dedicate too much of my time to my career."
Draco pinched his brows together, silently urging her to go on.
"Every time I go out with my friends, or even write to my parents, it's always 'Hermione, are you seeing anyone?' or 'oh, Hermione, I'm sure the right man will come along sooner or later.' Like I'm some sort of pathetic reject no one's willing to take out."
Draco scoffed, biting back the retort that he'd offered to take her out. But he supposed he didn't count in her personal opinion.
"So, I just figured..." she wet her bottom lip again, and Draco couldn't help but imagine her tongue in other places.
No. Fucking stop that right this instant.
Merlin, he needed to get laid. Desperately.
"Well, I figured if I dated someone for a few months, it'd get them all off my back. At least for a little while, so I can focus my energy on things that really matter."
Draco raised an unimpressed brow. "Like S.P.I.T.?"
"It's S.P.E.W." Granger shot him a glare that promised retribution, and he snickered under his breath. "And yes, like my career."
"I still don't understand what any of this has to do with me? Why not ask...Weasley, or one of his interchangeable siblings. I'm sure any number of them would do the job just fine."
"No, I can't ask one of them, because they're the very same people I'm trying to convince." She sighed like it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm pretty sure Ron is dating someone, anyway."
"Potter, then."
"Again, no. And he's taken as well. He's been engaged to Ginny Weasley for months now. Honestly, Malfoy, do you never read the Prophet?"
Draco wrinkled his nose. "Of course not. The Prophet's mostly unfounded gossip now anyway. There's no point in keeping track of rumors."
"Well, sometimes there's a glimmer of something factual in there." Granger had begun to tap her fingertips thoughtfully against her lower lip, and Draco found the action to be quite distracting. So distracting that he nearly missed what she said next entirely. "...getting off track."
He snapped back into focus, glancing up into her eyes and trying to piece together what he'd failed to hear. "The point is, Malfoy, that I need you to date me for a few months until I get them off my back."
"But why me?" he pressed, "I have a feeling most everyone in your social circles would be less than pleased to find out your new boyfriend is none other than the very Death Eater that let the Dark Lord's followers into Hogwarts. Oh, and then tried to murder their Headmaster."
"Oh, please," she waved him away with a flick of her wrist, "you hardly had any choice in the matter, as was decided at your trial, and I'm prepared to absorb any and all backlash I receive from my friends. All you need to worry about for the time being is looking pretty and being convincing enough to sell the lie."
It was low-hanging fruit, but he couldn't resist the chance to tease, "You think I'm pretty, Granger?"
Her mouth opened once—twice—like a gaping fish desperate for oxygen, and as the silence stretched, her cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red. Draco smiled to himself, satisfied that he'd successfully flustered her once again.
"Witch Weekly named you 'Most Eligible Bachelor' only last year," she finally forced out, voice tight and defensive. His smile stretched wider, pulling at the dimples that rarely had the chance to grace his cheeks. "It seems to be the general consensus that you are...er, rather attractive. I suppose."
Draco frowned playfully. "You suppose?"
"Yes."
He raised a hand to his chest, laying his palm flat over his heart. "You wound me, Granger. Truly. How ever am I to recover from this devastating blow to my overinflated ego?"
Another eye roll and he chuckled from deep in his throat. The sound only seemed to set her further on edge.
"I'll do my best to continue to humble you," she grumbled, glancing up at him through her lashes and smiling tentatively. "So...does this mean you're in?"
"Not so fast," he tapped his fingertips rhythmically against his desktop, watching her eyes flick down to clock the movement. "If I'm going to agree to this—which I haven't decided on yet—I do have some conditions."
Granger considered this momentarily, then nodded. "That's reasonable."
Not one part of this was reasonable, and he wanted nothing more than to sneer, but stopped himself. Now wasn't the time to be difficult.
"First, you're not to meet my mother."
Granger's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Agreed. I have little to no interest in being hexed into the nearest wall—or worse, thank you very much."
Immediately, a sense of protectiveness washed over him at the insinuation that his mother would ever stoop so low as to resort to violence. "My mother would never—" But the words wilted on his tongue as he remembered...
"Sorry." He could feel the blood draining from his face in an instant, immediate pressure building in his chest at the mere thought of that day. "Sorry, forget I said that. Sorry. Next condition..."
Granger looked as if she were just as horrified at the shift in conversation as he was, and let out a relieved breath when he continued on with his list. "I can tell my friends the truth."
"Absolutely not!" Granger protested, huffing indignantly. "Who's to say they wouldn't rat us out the first chance they got?"
"Ever heard of an Unbreakable Vow?" Draco raised a brow, "They tend to come in handy in times like these."
"Fine," Granger crossed both arms over her chest, pushing out her bottom lip in what looked dangerously like a pout. He wanted to bite it. Suck it until it bruised.
Fuck. No. Not appropriate, Malfoy—he chastised himself—get a fucking grip. And have a wank while you're at it.
"Which friends, specifically?"
Easy. "Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott."
"That's it?"
"Yes, Granger," Draco frowned sharply, unappreciative of her attempt to mock his short list of names. "That's it. Not everyone has the entirety of the wizarding world lining up around the block to for a chance to socialize."
"But what about the rest of your Slytherin friends?" she continued on, unperturbed by his biting tone. "I happen to remember quite a few Pureblooded cronies trailing after you back in school."
"Yes, well," Draco wrinkled his nose, reaching up to pick an invisible ball of lint from his suit coat. "Times have changed since then. You, of all people, should know that."
She hummed thoughtfully, crossing one knee over the other and staring off towards his bookshelf. "Hm. Yes, I suppose they have."
"Next condition," he went on, listing them off on his fingers, one by one. "This ends whenever I say I've had enough."
Granger scoffed, looking back at him like he was some sort of daft fool and letting her eyes roll back in her lids. "Absolutely not, Malfoy," she yanked at the hem of her skirt, unconsciously drawing his attention directly to the shape of her thighs. They were, of course, fucking perfect, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his face between them, tongue darting out to lap at her—
"...months at a minimum."
Draco blinked, reality seeping back in as he realized that he'd just missed the entirety of her last sentence.
"Sorry, what? You'll have to repeat that."
"I said, I'll only agree to at least five months. At a minimum."
"Five months." Draco deadpanned, raising his brows unamusedly. "Seriously, Granger? That's practically half a year."
She shrugged as it were the most reasonable thing she'd ever proposed. "I'm well aware of how long it is."
Draco couldn't help but scowl. "Two months."
"Four."
"Three."
"...fine."
"Shake on it?"
She reached forward, then quickly yanked away before their fingertips could so much as brush together. "When's the last time you washed your hands?"
"Are you fucking kidding me, Granger?"
"It's a legitimate question—"
"I hate to break it to you, but if we're really to sell this whole 'fake dating' thing to the public, you're going to have to be comfortable doing a lot more than shaking my hand."
"Well, I can at least assume the rest of you is kept fairly clean."
"How would you know I'm clean? Maybe I've been on a shower ban for the last two weeks."
"Oh, please, Malfoy." She rolled her eyes for what was surely the millionth time, and he wondered if it was possible for them to get stuck up there. It'd be a shame if she lost the ability to admire his beauty. After all, they were just getting started, and he planned to make the best of this rather strange situation. "I'm fairly sure a speck of dirt's never had the pleasure of gracing your skin. Though I would prefer you wash your hands. Regularly."
Draco smirked before lurching forward and capturing her hand in his own. "For your information, Granger, I happen to shower twice a day, and cast regular cleansing charms over every surface in my office."
He squeezed tightly, reveling in the way she squeaked in surprise, and delicately swiped his thumb over the back of her palm. Merlin, her skin was soft. "Can't back out now. You've shaken on it. It's practically a magically binding contract."
"The same goes for you." She yanked her hand away, wiping it against her skirt as if she were at risk of catching some sort of disease from the brief contact. "No take-backs."
"No take-backs?" he snorted derisively, "What are we, eleven?"
"No, and thank Merlin for that. We're adults." She stood abruptly, gesturing weakly between the two of them. "And I expect you to make this look realistic."
"Oh, don't worry, Granger," Draco simpered, leaning against the backrest of his chair and settling into a comfortable position, both his legs spread wide. Her eyes flicked downward—just briefly. But long enough that a blush began to creep up the sides of her neck, staining her cheeks pink and bringing a slow smirk to his lips. "I intend to give this my all."