Chapter Text
The hour was growing late; deep within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in the office shared by Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy the sunlight beyond the enchanted windows began to fade. Hermione could sense it, even while engrossed in her work. The rapidly dimming light and the lamps that refused to go on unless expressly spelled to do so were a feature of the office, not a bug. She and Malfoy had designed their office magic this way on purpose, just one in a series of measures designed to prevent them from working far too late.
“It’s about work-life balance, Granger,” Malfoy had said in an irritating, lofty tone as they’d performed the charms together. “No one’s trying to stop you from working hard, just ensuring you take some time for yourself as well.”
Though she knew full well he must have read that in a Muggle magazine, and as much as she hated to concede it, deep down Hermione knew he was right and so she had, grudgingly, agreed.
Now as she squinted in the growing darkness she heard Malfoy began to stir, heard him arranging his papers into tidy piles and lining up his quills and ink just so.
“You ready to go, Granger?” he inquired. This was another of their anti-late-working measures—a firm agreement that when one left the office for the day, the other would as well.
“Yeah, one second, just let me finish up this last report.”
Malfoy didn't reply, but she heard the creak of his chair as he stood up from his desk and the swooshing noise as he put on his coat. Always so dramatic, she thought, shifting in her seat. The way he flung that coat around himself with a flourish and shrugged into it as it settled on his shoulders, then flipped the collar up in a single smooth move, the utter bastard. It was a ridiculous, pointless show, and one she eagerly looked forward to watching—covertly of course, through her eyelashes—every evening. She watched it now as she pretended to work, firmly ignoring the lust that pulsed low in her belly, and as soon as he had fastened his usual two buttons on the double-breast and put his hands in his pockets, she returned her attention to her papers.
A moment later she set aside her quill and looked up to find him gazing at the charmed windows, seemingly lost in thought, with his body in profile but his head angled slightly towards her. The collar of his coat curved from just above his earlobe to just below his lips, a curve that drew attention to the angle of his cheekbone in a way Hermione found deeply unfair. The entire coat, in fact, was devastatingly unjust—a tonal houndstooth tweed, charcoal-on-black, that darkened his storm-grey eyes and shaded his hair almost to silver, with wide lapels and a mid-calf length perfect for billowing around him as he walked. Stood there in it now, lit by magical twilight, he seemed carved from marble and yet also so soft she wanted to burrow into his arms—his coat, she corrected herself, burrow into his coat—and rub her cheek against the silky cashmere blend.
She had shared this office with Malfoy for just over two years now and once they’d worked through the remnants of their childhood animosity, it had actually become quite a satisfactory arrangement. They worked well together and actually liked each other, and their office had become a place blissfully peaceful and free of any discomfort… until about six months ago. Until Pansy Parkinson, of all people, coaxed Malfoy into going shopping with her in Muggle London. That, Hermione reflected crossly, had been the crucial turning point, the beginning of the end of her treasured calm. Almost overnight, Malfoy ditched his traditional robes—the ones that made him look unnervingly like his father—and started wearing sharply-cut suits in Italian wool and shirts with French cuffs. He had his hair cut short in a fashionable style and learned to fold flawless full-Windsor knots in elegant silk ties and Hermione could. not. handle. it.
Who could have predicted that the combination of Malfoy and Muggle clothes would be so devastating to her senses? Pansy, possibly; she had done little but gloat since Malfoy’s makeover, boasting how she, of course, had known he would take to Muggle fashion like a Grindylow to water, and Draco, for once, didn’t counter her hubris with cutting snark.
“You were absolutely right, Pans,” he’d said one afternoon a month or two before, as Pansy sat perched on the edge of his desk running her finger along the sleeve of the gunmetal pinstripe that ruined Hermione’s knickers every time he wore it. “Muggles may not have magic, but I must say they cut a truly excellent suit.”
Hermione had never been particularly fond of Pansy Parkinson but she’d never hated her either. Until now. Until she found herself so distracted at work she’d started making actual mistakes—foolish, careless ones that she would never make if her mind would just quit wandering to thoughts of Malfoy’s clothes at every opportunity. Or worse, to thoughts of stripping Malfoy out of his clothes and exploring the delights she felt certain lay beneath. The slim cut of his suits hinted at a firm body, not bulky but strong, sleek, with broad shoulders and narrow hips—precisely the sort of male form she’d never been able to resist. She wanted to nip his earlobe and his neck, run her tongue down the alabaster skin of his throat and beneath the crisp collar of his shirt, wanted to rip that shirt open and send its poncey pearl buttons flying everywhere. Wanted to bind his hands with his own silken tie and tease him until he was desperate, incoherent, until he begged.
It astonished Hermione to discover this new side of herself, these urges she’d certainly never felt before. But then, she supposed, Malfoy had never worn Muggle clothes before. An unusual kink, perhaps, but she imagined she could guess its origins. It was visual evidence, clear and incontrovertible, of just how much he had changed from the snooty little shit who had done his best to torment her at school. A proud display of how thoroughly he’d overcome his prejudices—something that was always pretty sexy of him in her eyes, even before it had come draped in houndstooth tweed.
Which meant, in pithy Muggle terms, that Hermione was fucked. And very much not in the way she wanted to be fucked by Draco Malfoy.
As if he sensed her thoughts—and Merlin forbid he should ever sense her thoughts; she would die of mortification if he discovered how shamelessly she lusted after him—Malfoy turned and caught her eye. The corner of his lip quirked in a smile; Hermione ground her teeth as she attempted to return it.
“You ready, then?” he asked.
“Mmhm.”
She retrieved her own coat, a not at all stylish navy mac, and tried not to look at him as they walked together from their office to the lift. Once inside, though, she could no longer avoid it. She could sense his eyes on her and so she looked up—so far up, he was so tall—and smiled again. He returned it, a quick quirk of his lip and a flash of warmth in his cool eyes.
“So I’ll see you tonight, then?” he asked, and she nodded.
“I’ll be there.”
“We’ll see if I recognise you,” he said teasingly.
“My mask isn’t that good a disguise, Malfoy,” she huffed. “It’s more for decoration than anything else.”
“And I suppose your hair will always stand out in a crowd, regardless of what’s on your face.”
“Yeah?” she shot back. “Likewise.”
He laughed. “Touché, Granger, touché.” He opened his mouth as if to say more but then closed it again with a snap and made a production of fiddling with the cuff of his coat. Hermione turned away and focused her attention on the lift as it made its creaky way to the Atrium. It seemed to get slower every year, she thought, or maybe it just seemed that way when she was alone in it with Malfoy.
“Er,” he said after a floor or two had passed, and reluctantly she looked up at him again. “I never asked if you’re—if you’ll be attending alone or… with someone. I know Mother gave you a plus one, but I wasn’t sure if you’d—”
“Ah.” Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm. “Yes. Um. I’m going with Michael Corner. He’s—”
“I know who he is,” Malfoy said sharply. He appeared to grapple internally for a moment then continued in a more measured tone. “He—he seems like a good chap.”
She nodded. “I think so.” Too good, really, to act as her human shield against the ignominy of attending the Malfoys’ annual Halloween Mask alone, but then when she had carefully explained after inviting him that she wasn’t looking for a date as such, he’d seemed much more relieved than disappointed and had cordially agreed. Draco, as Hermione was all too aware, planned to attend with Astoria Greengrass, and, well… it was foolish in the extreme but she couldn't face the prospect of spending the evening by herself, watching them together.
Malfoy cleared his throat. “Well. That’s good then.”
“Yes. I’m looking forward to it.” A blatant lie, but it seemed the thing to say.
The lift doors opened and they headed across the Atrium to the wall of Floos.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight, then, Granger,” said Malfoy, without looking at her. He stepped quickly into a fireplace and disappeared in a flash of green flame.
Hermione sighed, then headed into the Floo herself.
Some hours later, Draco stood waiting in the main foyer of Malfoy Manor dressed and ready to face the evening. Several of the portraits there were eyeing him in a distinctly suspicious manner, which he pretended, with ostentatious nonchalance, not to notice. One of them cleared his throat—some obscure Black ancestor, Draco observed; he favoured the man with a brief, bland smile of the sort that firmly discouraged conversation, but when the Floo behind him roared to life before the portrait had a chance to speak he couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief. Astoria stepped out of the fireplace, straightened her shoulders, flicked a few minuscule particles of soot from her champagne silk gown, then looked up at him with a smile.
“How are you?” he greeted her, bending to kiss her cheek. He didn't have to bend far; she was a tall woman, slender and willowy, and this evening she had the further advantage of a pair of high Muggle heels. Her dark hair fell in smooth waves across her forehead and the mask that concealed the top of her face was encrusted in tiny seed pearls.
“I’m fine.” She tilted her cheek to receive his kiss then looped her arm through his. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Arm-in-arm, they made their way to the ballroom, where Lucius and Narcissa were already present, waiting for their guests to arrive. They turned, wreathed in gracious smiles that quickly fell away as they got a good look at their son. Lucius’s eyes narrowed and flashed, ice-cold.
“What are you wearing?” he hissed.
Draco held firmly to his composure. “I believe the Muggles call it a tuxedo.”
Lucius’s jaw twitched. “No more of this, Draco,” he bit out. “I have indulged you in your every absurd little whim since you left school. I permitted you to postpone your betrothal. I permitted you to accept a job. I permitted you to wear Muggle clothing to that job. But this is our family’s ball and you will not embarrass me with petty shows of defiance this evening. What would Miss Greengrass say if she could see you?”
“I don’t know,” drawled Draco, as Astoria stepped forward and into Lucius’s direct line of sight. “What do you say, Miss Greengrass?”
Lucius’s eyes nearly leapt from his head as he took in the sight of Astoria in her Muggle evening gown, the slim cut of it and the threadlike straps that held it up. “I think he looks magnificent,” she purred, stroking Draco’s sleeve with fingernails painted ruby red. Her expression was sweetly innocent but her eyes danced with mirth. Draco stifled a grin and wished, for at least the millionth time, that his feelings were different. He liked Astoria, so much. He could love her, if only… If only.
“There you have it, Father,” he said coolly. “Miss Greengrass has spoken. Furthermore, permit me to remind you, yet again, that I am a grown man and you do not in fact permit me to do anything. I do not require your input on where I choose to work or what I choose to wear, or indeed any other choices I make in my life.” Such as when or whom or if to marry.
“I am your father,” Lucius spat. “I will cut you off—disown you—”
“Do it.” Draco lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “It’s clear you intend to continue using my inheritance as a stick to beat me with, and if that’s the case then I don’t want it. I can make my own way.”
Lucius sputtered in wordless, indignant fury but Narcissa gripped his arm before he could explode. “Later,” she hissed in his ear then skewered Draco with a glare. “Later.” From the foyer they could all hear the sounds of the Floo and the chatter of guests arriving, greeting each other, and beginning to make their way towards the ballroom. Lucius, with a visible effort, smoothed his features into a neutral expression and turned towards the entrance, ready to perform his duties as host. Draco and Astoria quietly slipped away.
“Well done,” she whispered, and gave his arm a squeeze.
He smiled at her. “You’re next. Will your father be here tonight?”
“I think so.”
“And your chap?”
Astoria flushed. “He said he was coming with a friend. I don’t know who.”
He returned her reassuring squeeze. “We’ll find him, and your father. I’m behind you all the way.”
The ballroom looked magnificent, done up in black and silver. Hundreds of floating candles lit it with a soft white glow that shifted and flickered, illuminating first one thing and then another, a bit of décor here, the edge of a mask there. Draco observed with amusement that his mother had succeeded in coaxing a number of the Manor’s ghosts into making an appearance and wondered what that had cost her. He caught sight of his great-great-great aunt Calpurnia floating in a corner making halfhearted groaning noises, and grinned at her. She rolled her eyes and shrugged, then resumed her groaning.
Draco fetched champagne for himself and Astoria and made companionable small talk with her as the ballroom filled with guests. He was laughing at one of her anecdotes about the non-profit organisation she volunteered for, when a sight met his eyes that stopped the laughter in his throat and the breath in his chest.
It was Granger, heartrendingly beautiful in a gown rather similar to Astoria’s in cut and fabric, only hers was a rich, deep burgundy. She was far shorter than Astoria however, and curvier, and the style that on a tall, slender woman appeared vaguely risqué on her was dangerously intoxicating. The delicate silk skimmed her figure in a way that set Draco’s blood racing and nearly overwhelmed him with conflicting urges—to wrap her up tight in his tuxedo jacket and snarl away any man who dared attempt to look, but also to peel that accursed gown slowly from her body, following it with his lips, until not an inch of tawny skin remained un-kissed.
And her hair—bloody Salazar, her hair—it wasn’t sleeked into a tame up-do as she generally did it for Ministry events but tumbled long and riotous down her back, contained only by a strand of garnets woven through it, glittering in the candlelight. His heart thundered and his hands curled into fists—fists he wanted to bury deep in that mass of curls and hold her still as he ravaged her mouth with his.
“Are you all right?” Astoria sounded concerned. “Your heart is pounding so hard I can feel it and you’re breathing really loud. Did your father do something?”
“No—” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut and forced the images of Granger from his head. He nodded. “I’m sure.”
Astoria was quivering with excitement. “He’s here,” she whispered. “My… friend. I just saw him.” She tugged on Draco’s arm. “Come on, dance with me for a while and then we can go deal with my father.”
Hermione held her smile as Michael led her onto the dance floor, despite the cavernous ache in her chest. Malfoy and Astoria made a remarkably striking couple, she thought. Tall and slim and elegant, one pale head and one dark. They would have beautiful children together.
And she shouldn’t care if they did. It wasn’t as though she even wanted anything with him, not really. She wanted to fuck him, yes, but that was surely just a phase. Just a weird reaction to his Muggle clothes—tonight’s tuxedo another panty-melting specimen—that would pass with time. It would pass. It had to. She couldn’t live like this much longer.
Belatedly she noticed that Michael’s smile looked as stiff as hers felt, and that he seemed both distracted and unusually quiet. She didn't know him particularly well—he ran a non-profit organisation aimed at helping Muggle-born witches and wizards and their families adapt to magical life, which she helped out whenever she could—but they had always been comfortably chummy and able to make easy conversation.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, fine thanks.” His smile softened as he looked at her. “Just woolgathering. Have I told you that you’re lovely this evening?”
She laughed. “You have. At least three times.”
“I believe it bears repeating.”
“Thank you. But you really don’t need to flatter me.”
“It’s not flattery, Hermione, you’re genuinely gorgeous. That colour does wonders for you and your hair is stunning.” His jaw tightened. “I have the most beautiful woman in the room on my arm tonight. Such things go to a chap’s head, you know.”
She laughed again as they spun about the floor in a complicated series of steps. The odd tension from earlier had broken and they chatted companionably until the dance ended and Hermione was claimed for the next by Kingsley Shacklebolt. She danced once with him and then three times more—including one terrifying waltz with Lucius Malfoy, who always seemed to be metaphorically holding his nose whenever social convention and the fact that she was fairly influential in the Ministry obliged him to interact with her—then Michael claimed her hand again and drew her aside for champagne and a rest.
They were lingering at the edge of the dance floor sipping their champagne when Hermione’s gaze was caught once more by Malfoy’s pale hair—as it inevitably was these days, anywhere, through any crowd—and her heart sank as she saw him engaged in what looked like quite an intense conversation with Byron Greengrass, Astoria’s father, as Astoria clung tightly to his arm. Finalising the betrothal contract, she wondered, or perhaps working out the details of the wedding? Regardless, the sight of them ate a hole in her chest that she had no desire to analyse or experience any longer tonight. She had done her duty, put in an appearance, and now she just wanted to go home.
“I—I’m not feeling well,” she told Michael. “Headache. I might head out.”
“So early?”
She felt a twinge of guilt at his genuine concern. “I’m so sorry. I don’t usually stay too long at these sorts of things—they’re not really my milieu. But please, you stay as long as you like. Have fun. Network. There’s no shortage of deep pockets in this room. I’ll see you next Wednesday for the meeting.”
“Of course.” As he smiled at her, she observed that his expression was strained again, tight around the corners of his mouth and eyes. He had his own troubles, it seemed, and she sincerely hoped he was able to deal with them better than she could hers.
In a burst of sympathy she stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks for coming with me,” she said. “I’d have hated to do this alone.”
“My pleasure.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Truly.”
Hermione slipped quietly from the ballroom, back out to the foyer and the Floo. She was reaching for the tin of Floo powder when something caught her eye. She turned to look, then gave a faint gasp. Malfoy’s coat. His soft, gorgeous tweed coat, draped over the newel of the grand spiral staircase.
She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But she couldn't resist going over and touching it, finally, as she’d been wanting to for so long. It was as soft as she’d imagined, silky and luxuriant. She stepped closer, pressed her cheek against the collar and inhaled deeply—it smelt like him, amberwood and apples, and she let herself imagine, just for a moment, that it was his chest her face was pressed against… that his arms were around her… his hands on her skin… they were dancing together, perhaps, as she’d hoped they might that evening… twirling through the ballroom in their own private world… bodies close, focused only on each other… his eyes would be so soft when he whispered in her ear that it was time that they went home—and then the memories of him dancing with Astoria rose up again and her lovely fantasy shattered into jagged, brittle, cutting shards. Which served her right, she berated herself. She had no business thinking this way about a man who was as good as married. She shouldn’t even want to. It was only Malfoy, after all. Only Malfoy.
Something on her cheek was wet… tears, she realised in vague surprise. Stupid, ridiculous, pointless tears, but they were flowing freely now and she found she couldn’t make them stop. Her fingers sank deeper into the soft wool of Draco’s coat, her arms wrapped around it, and though she still wasn’t certain why she felt quite so desperately sad, Hermione allowed herself to cry.
Draco was restless. He wandered through the ballroom, first absently then actively searching for Granger. All night he had made a point of keeping her in his periphery—under normal circumstances he rarely took his eyes off her—watching with stolen glances as she danced and laughed and kissed Michael bloody Corner on the cheek. But now he was finally free to claim some of her attention for himself she was gone, vanished before he’d even had a chance to ask her for a dance. He’d had his heart set on that dance—a brief moment during which he could hold her, feel her body close to his, her scent in his nose, her wild hair against his cheek—but she was nowhere to be found and he began to suspect that she may have left already. Draco shoved his hands into his pockets and loosed a streak of curses under his breath. He hadn’t meant to leave it so late; of course Granger wouldn’t linger. He knew how she disliked these balls. If it hadn’t taken so bloody long to extricate Astoria from beneath her father’s thumb, he’d have sought Hermione out long ago.
He supposed he may as well go home himself. Astoria had said her piece to her father and gone to find the man she was in love with—a wholly unsuitable man, so she claimed, a Half-blood, though she’d never mentioned his name. Draco’s duties were discharged but his prize was lost and now he felt exhausted, crushed by disappointment, and all he wanted was to be alone.
As he approached the Floos he heard a strange sound. A woman crying? But who on Earth? It sounded like… but it couldn’t possibly be… He quickened his pace nearly to a run and arrived seconds later in the foyer, looked frantically around, and then he saw her—that breathtaking dress, her unmistakable hair—tangled in his tweed coat and weeping as though her heart were torn in two.
“Granger,” he choked, stumbling towards her. She gasped and looked up, eyes wide and horrified, then turned her back on him. He could see her brushing frantically at her cheeks and it made him want to tear at something.
She turned to face him with a terrible false smile on her face and tears still welling in her eyes. “Malfoy,” she said. “I—I was just—” The tears spilled over.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. He felt useless and desperate. “What’s happened? Who do I have to have killed?”
She made a dreadful noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Nothing,” she said, “no one. I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” His hands were clenched in tight fists at his sides and he kept them there, firmly; if he let them relax they would reach for her. “Tell me—please tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s really nothing.” She stood facing him but one hand still clung to the sleeve of his coat. He wondered if she was aware of it. “I’m just tired. You know I hate these things.”
“Yes.”
“I’m just going to go—go home,” she quavered. “You should get back to—to Astoria. Don’t keep her waiting.”
“She isn’t waiting.”
Granger’s eyes flew to his. “She isn’t?”
Draco refused to hear hope in her voice. He refused to wonder if she was clinging to his coat because it was soft or because it was his. If he let himself believe what his heart was telling him and he was wrong—that would end him. He couldn’t risk it.
Could he?
“No,” he whispered. “She—we were never—she’s in love with someone else.”
“Oh.”
“Granger.” Merlin, he thought, he really should shut up. “Why were you hugging my coat?”
“I wasn’t,” she whispered. “I mean, I was, but I just—it’s just—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
Fuck, Draco thought, he was going to do it. He was going to do the one thing that terrified him more than any other. The thing he’d yet to find the courage to do over the best part of two years working with her, despite the daily agony of seeing her and wanting her and wanting to. He was going to bare his heart, and lay it at Hermione Granger’s feet. And if she stomped on it, or hexed him to oblivion—well, he’d have no one to blame but himself.
He reached out and took her hand.
When his fingers touched hers she gasped and so did he; magic burst like fireworks between them, bright and fierce and hot. Her eyes went wide, wondering, full of emotions that made his heart leap.
“Was it because of Astoria?” he pressed. “Was that why?”
She gave the tiniest nod. “You’re engaged.”
“We were supposed to be. But we’re not.”
“Not at all?” she whispered.
“No,” he replied forcefully. “Not even a little. We officially put an end to it tonight.”
“Then you’re free?”
That was definitely hope, now, in her eyes. His heart thundered. “I’m single,” he amended. His fingers tightened on hers. “My heart hasn’t been free for some time.”
“Oh.” She looked stunned, then thoughtful—he could all but see her clever mind working through the implications of his words—then her lips curled into a shy smile. She tilted her chin up—their faces were so close—and Draco swayed helplessly towards her. He longed to kiss her, a fierce, desperate longing, but he couldn’t. Not here. Not in the grand formal foyer of his ancestral manor with thirty generations of portraits glaring disapproval from all sides.
He caught himself with their lips a breath apart. “Come home with me,” he rasped.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes.”
Draco released her only long enough to grab his coat; he flung it around his shoulders so it enveloped her as well, tucked her close against his side and Apparated them away.