Chapter Text
Author Note (contains spoilers/general warnings): Welcome to my personal take on marriage law - in which Hermione is not matched with Draco, but it still leads them to each other. Please take note that this story does contain infidelity, but Adrian is an absolute prick and deserves every bit of it. In the same vein, while there is not non-con sex, every interaction between Adrian and Hermione is dubious due to the imbalance of power between them and her lack of choice in the matter. I would call this a dark story - the themes and concept are quite heavy, though it is not entirely bleak. Our sweet Draco is bright spot in an otherwise dreary situation.
This work is generally complete and will be updated weekly (usually on Sundays). Feel free to follow me on IG @aprophecygirl if you want to see me rambling about what I'm reading and/or writing. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter One: Matched
September 19th, 2003
Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Hermione, happy birthday to you!
Hermione stared at the lopsided cake in front of her and fought the urge to cry. No one would blame her for being glum. She had every right to be, all things considered.
She had known her matching letter would arrive in mid-September, and it seemed a cruel joke of the universe that it arrived on her twenty-fourth birthday of all days. She’d been awaiting the results like a guillotine blade for three months, ever since the Ministry announced their controversial new marriage program: The Matrimonial Compatibility Act. Hermione preferred to call it what it was: a draft. A farce. An abuse of governmental oversight.
She’d sacrificed her youth to fight their war, and now the Ministry had stolen her adulthood.
Ginny's voice was thin as she cut a large slice of cake and placed it on a ceramic plate. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?” Ginny slid the plate across the tabletop, then patted her hand atop Hermione’s. “You could at least open your letter while we’re here.”
Hermione poked her fork at the cake but didn’t take a bite. “I’m basking in my final few moments of free choice. Consider it my birthday present to myself.”
“Maybe it will be good,” Harry offered, sitting down beside her. “Neville’s name was pulled. Dean, too. You could end up with one of them. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
“Harry’s right. You have to consider it could be a good match. All is not lost.” Ginny smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Hermione said, “Your futures aren’t being decided by the Ministry of Magic.”
“For now,” added Ron. He was sitting in the corner of the room, drinking a beer and looking nearly as depressed as Hermione felt. “Our names could be drawn at any time. We’re just delaying the inevitable, aren’t we?”
Hermione nodded. Ron was right. While Ginny, Harry, and Ron had escaped the draft for now, the Ministry would be announcing new matches every few months for the next two years. It was their wildly aggressive solution to declining birth rates in the aftermath of the war. Rather than address the why - an archaic, anti-witch society coupled with war-induced trauma - the Ministry had decided to jump straight to the how: forced marriage and mandated childbearing.
Hermione was vehemently opposed, of course. She had protested at the Ministry and written countless letters, but all her efforts had fallen on deaf ears. She was told, time and time again, that refusal to follow the law would result in the removal of her wand, destroying all hope of building a life in the world she’d come to love.
Harry plucked the envelope from the counter and then handed it to her. “Open it, Hermione. You shouldn’t do it alone. We've always been a team. We can't stop now."
She sighed. “Fine. I suppose it can’t get worse.”
Ginny snorted. "They could pair you with someone ugly. Or ancient."
"Ginny," hissed Harry. "Now is not the time."
Hermione stared down at the creamy paper, her name written in red, swirling ink. She peeled up the Ministry seal with her thumbnail, then swallowed the tightness in her throat.
Her eyes caught the vaguely familiar name, and for a moment, she felt something like relief. No monster or villain - an old classmate. A faint hope stirred in her chest, but it quickly crumbled under the weight of reality: she didn’t even know him. And now, she had to marry him.
“Well?” Ginny craned her neck over Hermione’s shoulder. “Who is it?”
Hermione looked down at the paper, unsure how to feel. “Adrian Pucey?”
“Pucey?” Ron stood up, voice loud. “A Slytherin?”
“I played him in Quidditch back at Hogwarts. He was a bit of a blowhard, but not awful,” Harry said, his voice measured. “He’s got a decent reputation these days, as far as I hear. No criminal record that I’m aware of.”
“Reputation my arse,” hissed Ron. “They can’t pair her with a snake! Hermione is better than that. She’s a fucking war hero.” The tips of his ears flamed red as he stood and began to pace.
Harry drained his drink. “Hermione is better than all of this, Ron. But his school house is the least important thing about him, don’t you think?”
Harry and Ron disagreed in hushed tones, but Hermione did her best to ignore them. Slytherin or not, she tried to focus on that fleeting feeling of relief. She didn’t know Adrian, but at least his name didn’t strike fear in her heart. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. The tiny hope bounced around in her chest like a snitch in an empty room.
Ginny pressed a glass of whisky into Hermione’s hand. “Are you alright?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “I’m trying to be logical about this.”
“You know,” Ginny said, “It’s okay to be illogical sometimes. You’re being forced into marriage. If that doesn’t warrant your feminine rage, I don’t know what does.”
Hermione smiled with watery eyes. She wasn’t numb. She’d cried herself to sleep a dozen times in the last twelve weeks. Once the initial panic abated, she’d read the new law in detail, trying to find a loophole. Her only option to avoid a marriage was immediate procreation - and as much as she did not want to marry Adrian Pucey, getting knocked up with an unwanted child seemed a touch drastic. It seemed more reasonable to fight the law and advocate for the people she loved, rather than find a loophole that benefited no one but herself.
“Realistically,” Hermione said, swallowing a knot in her throat, “I have no choice but to comply, unless I want my wand seized. Even if I worked to strengthen my wandless magic, I'd have no standing. I couldn't get a job, or buy a home..." she trailed off. "I'd have to live as a muggle."
“Maybe that would be better,” Ron grumbled, expression dark.
“Ronald,” said Ginny. “This is Hermione’s world just as much as any of us. More, maybe. She can’t let them force her out of it.”
Hermione flattened her palm on the tabletop. “I can handle this. You know I can. I’ll be alright. I always am."
“You’ll be alright,” Ginny repeated, her face drawn.
Hermione nodded sharply. “I’ve been through worse, haven’t I?”
“Cheers,” said Harry. “He’s not Voldermort. How bad can he be?”
The first communication from Adrian came swiftly. The day after her birthday, Hermione awoke to a glossy black owl scratching its claw against the thick pane of her bedroom window. Adrian’s letter was long - rife with platitudes and self-aggrandizing rambling - but he seemed to be making a genuine attempt at sincerity. She could hardly blame him for overcompensating. He was just as much a victim in this as she was. At the end of his letter, he invited her to a dinner at his manor - a “proper meet-cute,” he called it.
On the evening of the dinner, Ginny helped Hermione select an outfit. She opted for a modest black dress, sleeveless and cut to the knee. As she stared at herself in the mirror, she thought it looked a bit like something one would wear to a funeral. It was fitting, in a morbid sort of way.
Harry dropped by with a bouquet of flowers, pulling her into a warm hug before she departed. In the years since graduation, their friendship had only deepened. When he’d come out three years ago, she was the first person he told.Hermione considered it her life’s crowning achievement that he trusted her enough to be vulnerable. Career goals paled in comparison to what it meant to be loved by her friends. It was the biggest reason she couldn’t imagine leaving the wizarding world. These were her people - her roots.
Ron had given her a wide berth since her birthday. She didn’t blame him. He’d always been a bit funny about her romantic relationships. Though he’d dated many women in the years since their breakup, she sensed there was a part of him that hoped they might rekindle their romance someday. Hermione knew it would never happen, but she understood the inclination. There was something attractive about familiarity, especially now.
But she couldn’t hold onto impossibilities. She would find a way to overcome this new version of war.
Hermione inspected herself one final time in the mirror before apparating to the grounds of the Pucey Manor.
The house was a monument to excess. The enormous estate sat atop a manicured hill that was somehow entirely devoid of flowers or trees. The facade - a mixture of limestone and black marble - glinted almost boastfully in the dipping sunlight.
Her heels clicked on the stone drive as Hermione stepped forward, trying to swallow back bile. She found the home distasteful. It looked like something that belonged in a muggle film or theme park. As she approached the massive double doors, she was wholly unsurprised to see that the wood was decorated with a varying array of glittering gemstones. It reminded her of the BeDazzler she’d received for Christmas at eight years old.
She lifted the heavy gold knocker and pressed it against the wood several times. When the doors swung open a few moments later, Adrian stood framed between them with his hands on his hips. Hermione could not deny that he was handsome. He was the picture of effortless, bland attractiveness. Entirely unremarkable, but not bad to look at. His dark hair was freshly cut and expertly styled, and his jaw was perfectly symmetrical.
He smiled at her, and he looked surprisingly approachable. “Hermione,” he said. “It’s been far too long. I thought the Ministry had made a mistake in pairing us. Surely, I couldn’t have gotten so lucky.”
She smiled softly, fighting the urge to ball her hands into anxious fists. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
He gestured for her to enter. Hermione could not help but note that he moved with a certain sort of ease, a kind of unencumbered action that came only to those who’d known little in the way of struggle. He wore a set of green robes with silver stitching, so perfectly tailored and creaseless that they did not seem real. She smoothed her skirt self-consciously, and his gaze traveled to her bare legs.
“You look beautiful as ever,” Adrian said before spinning to face the interior of the home. “Would you like a tour?”
She nodded, then stepped into the foyer. The entryway was monstrous, and the focal point was a garish crystal chandelier that was far too big for the space.
Adrian beamed with pride as her eyes took in the details. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”
She blinked. “It’s really something.”
He smiled, missing her judgment, and continued his tour. By the time they were done, Hermione had seen almost every corner of the home. Not a single room deviated from its singular goal to display wealth and extravagance.
She told herself not to judge. There were far worse things to be than filthy rich. Hermione had done well for herself since graduation, but she had to stick to a budget. Some extra spending money could be a perk in an otherwise inconceivable disaster.
Adrian seemed pleasant so far. When he concluded his tour, he led her into the dining room and pulled out an ornately carved chair. “The staff will serve us shortly. They’ve prepared spaghetti bolognese.”
“That’s my favourite,” she admitted, feeling a slight bubble of hope in her chest. “My mum used to make it every Friday growing up.”
“I know,” Adrian admitted. “I might’ve asked around.”
Hermione sat. “Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.”
“Anything for my future wife.” He smiled broadly, his teeth even and white. “And don’t worry, there’s nary a house elf to be seen in my manor.”
“No?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s unique for such a large wizarding home.”
“I employ a human staff. I heard you might find elves upsetting.”
She frowned. “Well, not the elves, but the practice itself.”
“Understood. Ah! Here’s the food now.” The doors to the dining room opened up and a man dressed in basic black robes carried in a tray with their food. The man served them each a steaming plate and filled their glasses with wine.
“I imagine this is all a bit overwhelming for you,” Adrian said, taking a sip of his drink. “I, myself, was not without worry when I learned my name had been pulled.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I…I was disappointed, if I’m being honest.”
Adrian paled.
“Oh. Not with you, Adrian. With the mandate. I would have liked to make my own choice.”
“I understand,” he said. “It’s all rather archaic. I know we need to focus on population growth. But I hate knowing that you’re being forced into this. I intend to make your life every bit as comfortable as possible, Hermione.”
“And I hope not to be too much of a thorn in your side.”
“I hope you will,” he said with a laugh. “My life is painfully boring. I suspect you’ll add some much-needed excitement.”
“We can only hope.”
“You know,” Adrian continued. “I’ve heard a lot about your work at St. Mungo’s. Your research into the recent uptick in blood curses was very impressive. I read your piece in Magical Medicine last month. Brilliant."
Her heart warmed slightly. Perhaps he wasn’t as superficial as he seemed. She hadn’t even been able to convince Ginny to read her article.
“And what is it that you do?”
Adrian set his glass down. “I work at Gringotts. Security and Risk Assessment.”
“That sounds interesting,” Hermione admitted. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” he said, smiling slightly. “It’s dry at times. A lot of paperwork. But I’m very detail-oriented, and I enjoy finding the cracks that need fixing. Perhaps our work isn’t all that different: we’re both looking to improve the world. You fix people, and I fix processes.”
Hermione nodded, feeling less anxious than she had. “That’s a good insight.”
Adrian leaned forward slightly, furrowing his brows. “You know what? As soon as I opened my letter with your name, I realised how empty this damn house is. I’ve been building my career from the moment I left Hogwarts, and I haven’t put much effort into anything else. I have a thousand books with uncracked bindings.”
“A tragedy,” Hermione gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
“Perhaps you’ll be the one to remedy it.”
She set her fork down. “Perhaps.”
He raised his glass. “Cheers. You’ll have to get started as soon as you move in.”
Hermione kept her glass planted on the table. “Move in? Here?”
“Is that a concern?” Adrian frowned. “It’s much larger than your flat, I assume.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “I hadn’t really considered the logistics.” Hermione’s flat was small. She couldn’t picture where Adrian would fit, exactly, but she loved her home. She’d put so much effort into cultivating a space that felt entirely fit for her. The idea of leaving it behind carved something raw and red in her chest.
He pressed a hand on top of hers. “I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous. We could move into your place if you prefer.”
“We–we could?”
“Absolutely. I suppose I was only thinking of my staff. I employ so many of them, and it wouldn’t be prudent to continue to pay them if no one was living here. I’d hate to disturb their livelihood, though…” he trailed off, frowning.
Guilt curdled in her stomach. “Right. I hadn’t considered that.”
“Why don’t you take some time to mull it over? We have a few weeks before the ceremony, and there’s no need to decide tonight.”
Hermione felt caught between two conflicting emotions: appreciation for his patience, and slightly grated at his initial assumption. She raised her glass and clinked it against his, which he still held out expectantly. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
“Wonderful.” Adrian beamed. “I’d really like to start our life together on the right foot. I know we didn’t choose this, but we can choose to make it something good.”
Hermione sipped her drink. Adrian seemed respectful and understanding - far better than she could have imagined. But something about it all unsettled her. Underneath his words, she felt a heavy implication that she would be joining his world rather than the other way around.
“Let’s try this again,” Adrian said, lifting his glass once more. “To figuring it out together.”
“Together,” she echoed.
After dinner, Adrian placed a lingering kiss on Hermione’s cheek and walked her to the front of the house. After he closed the doors, Hermione turned to stare up at the cold, ostentatious grounds. Though she’d asked for time to think, the next step was clear. She couldn’t be the reason that his entire staff lost their employment. And Adrian was right, it didn’t make sense for him to move into her flat. The very thought of his dragonhide shoes on her dented wood floors was absurd.
She would have to live here.
Perhaps Adrian would be open to some cosmetic changes. She could do her best to make the house a home she felt comfortable in. She turned back to face the stone drive. It was dark outside, lit only by the numerous stars above.
Dinner had been fine. Adrian was polite and intelligent. And yet, their conversation had felt hollow. She couldn’t quite place why, but it lacked something fundamental that she needed to feel totally at ease.
Perhaps it was her lack of choice in the matter. Maybe no one would have pleased her with the foundation of a forced marriage.
Hermione’s thoughts were punctuated by the sound of footsteps. She lowered her gaze to the walkway, hand fumbling for her wand, but paused when she realised she recognised the man standing before her.
“Malfoy?”
Draco Malfoy stood several metres away, his hands pressed into the pockets of a black coat. His light hair shone under the starlight, and he had a familiar, pinched look on his face.
“Granger,” he mumbled. His voice was laced with annoyance - as if she had offended him with her shock.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same. Though, I suspect I already know. I hear congratulations are in order.”
She frowned. “If you already know, then you’re well aware that your congratulations are both unwarranted and unwanted.”
He shrugged. “Classic Granger, unable to accept basic pleasantries. Or will I have to call you Pucey now?”
“I’m disinterested in whatever this is,” she snapped, waving a hand between them. “You didn’t answer me. What are you doing here?”
“Visiting a friend,” he breathed.
“You mean to tell me that Adrian Pucey is your friend?”
He took a few steps closer, and she was taken aback by his height. Had he always been so tall?
Malfoy looked down at her. “Is it so difficult to believe that I have friends?”
“Quite. I would have bet money on the opposite.”
He chuckled. “Good to see you’re still the same bitch I remember. It’s nice actually. A bit nostalgic.”
“And you’re still insufferable, though I certainly don’t feel wistful about it.”
He shook his head, smiling as if he’d truly enjoyed their interaction. “Good night, Granger. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.”
“I genuinely hope not,” Hermione responded.
“Till next time,” he quipped, walking past her and toward the house.
Hermione stared after him, baffled. There were only a few things that could have unsettled her more tonight - and Draco Malfoy was most certainly one of them.
Three days later, Hermione met Harry for a drink at the pub beneath her flat. Living above a pub had its downsides - a never-ending supply of obnoxious noise, for one – but it was a convenient location to drown her troubles.
Harry lowered himself in the seat across from her, a pint of beer in each hand. “I’ve looked into every file we have on Adrian - against policy, might I add - and there’s nothing of concern. He seems totally above board.”
“Hmm.” Hermione shrugged, sliding her drink across the table. “I didn’t expect you to find otherwise, but I appreciate you checking. Like I said, he seems fine. Nice, even.”
“So, what’s the issue? He’s fit.”
Her eyebrows shot upward. “What’s the issue?”
“Sorry.” Harry ran a hand through his rumpled hair. “Bad attempt at humour.”
“Terrible. I just…I can’t believe I have to move into his manor. It’s awful, Harry. And did I tell you I ran into Malfoy there? Apparently they’re friends. That can’t be a good sign.”
Harry nodded, sipping his drink. “Interesting. He’s caught up in quite the scandal right now.”
“Oh?”
“According to the papers, he was selected and then dropped from this round of the matching. He wasn’t compatible with anyone.”
She wrinkled her nose, then shrugged. “Well, that’s not terribly surprising. He’s a prick.”
“He is,” Harry agreed. “By the way, I have something to tell you.”
“Yes?”
Harry suddenly looked nervous. He looked from side to side, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m engaged.”
“What?” Hermione leaned forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “How can you be engaged? You’re not dating anyone.”
“I’m well aware, but thank you for the utterly depressing reminder. It’s not romantic. I proposed to Ginny.”
Hermione stared at him for a long moment, the noise of the pub dulling into a muted hum. She searched Harry’s face for a hint that this was an ill-timed joke, but his expression was earnest, bordering on defensive. Her mind spun, working to reconcile this version of Harry with the one she’d known at Hogwarts. Back then, he looked at Ginny like she hung the moon. Now? It felt like a lifetime away.
She forced a neutral expression before speaking. “Please elaborate, so I can decide whether to celebrate or scold you.”
“We were having drinks last night. Maybe a few too many. We talked about how easy it would be. Neither of us would be forced into a marriage if our names are drawn, and I love Ginny. Not in a romantic way, but I can think of worse things than being married to one of my best friends. One thing led to another, and the next thing I knew, I proposed with a ring conjured from her hair bobble.”
“If one of your names is drawn, they’ll still mandate childbearing, Harry."
“As they would with any of the random women they could pair me with. At least with Ginny, we’ve already slept together. It doesn’t count. My gay card will remain pristine.”
Hermione snorted. All things considered, it made sense. Harry and Ginny were taking back control in the only way they could. She had briefly considered asking Ron but had decided it would be cruel. Instead, she’d left it up to fate.
“Well, then, I suppose congratulations are in order. Cheers, Harry.”
“Cheers.” He clinked his drink against hers. “In other news, Molly is going to kill me.”
“One-hundred-percent. You’re doomed."
September 30th, 2003
Two weeks before the ceremony (she could not bring herself to call it a wedding), Hermione arrived at the Pucey Manor to discuss logistics. Adrian had insisted it needed to happen in person, though Hermione could not fathom why. A few other pairings (Neville Longbottom and Romilda Vane, Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown) had already occurred, and they’d been simple events with little fanfare. She hoped that her ceremony would be much of the same.
Adrian opened the door before Hermione could knock. He wore another expensive set of robes, this time in a deep shade of blue with a golden fastener at the neck. “Hermione! I’d worried you’d stood me up.”
“Sorry.” She stepped inside. “I got a bit caught up at work.”
“I love how dedicated you are,” he said, smiling warmly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve gotten started in the sitting room.”
Adrian led Hermione into the sitting room, where a fire crackled warmly. A tray of tea and biscuits sat on the table, and two velvet armchairs were pulled up close. A member of Adrian’s staff poured Hermione a cup of tea as she sat down. The woman seemed to know exactly how Hermione took her tea (Earl Grey, a splash of milk, and a half teaspoon of sugar).
“I thought we could start with the guest list,” Adrian said, smoothing a parchment across the table.
“The guest list? Won’t it just be us? I think that’s what the others have been doing.”
“We’ll need a witness,” Adrian offered.
“The Ministry official counts.”
“Ah.” Adrian’s face went serious for a second, and then he sighed. “Yes, that’s fine. I understand. Only, I’ve already given my parents word and they’re planning to travel home from Peru for the occasion. My mother is very sentimental, and she would be devastated to miss my wedding.”
She stirred her tea absently, watching the milk swirl into pale clouds. She didn’t want to pretend this was a romantic or sentimental affair. This was governmental legislation, dressed up with a fancy title. She bit back the instinct in her that longed to snap at him. There was no benefit in making an enemy of this man. She pressed her lips into a smile. “It will be nice to meet your parents.”
“You’re an angel, Hermione. Thank you. I fear they’ve already invited just a few relatives as well…”
Within ten minutes, Adrian had crafted a guest list of seventeen attendees. Hermione had talked him down from fifty-four, which felt like some measure of success. He seemed frustrated at her refusal to invite her parents, and she did not want to explain the details of their loving, but complicated relationship in the aftermath of their obliviation.
A bell sounded, and Adrian pulled a wristwatch from his pocket. “Excellent. The dressmaker is here.”
“The dressmaker?”
Adrian stood. “I’ve hired Madame Malkin herself to design our outfits.”
Hermione frowned, unable to tamp down her frustration. “I was hoping to wear something I already own. I don’t need anything special.”
“Let me spoil you. I know this wedding is forced, but I–”
She held up a hand to stop him. “I appreciate the generous offer, Adrian, but I’d really prefer to choose my own dress.”
He gaped at her for a second, as if he hadn’t expected her refusal. After a moment, his face softened and he nodded curtly. “Not a problem. I’ll go let her know that we are no longer in need of her services.”
Hermione put on her warmest smile. “Thank you, truly.”
Adrian stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Hermione’s body crumpled back into her seat, and she let out an exhausted sigh. Is this what it would feel like forever? Like she was on a stage, constantly performing?
Only seconds later, the doors opened once more. Hermione looked up, but it was not Adrian who entered the room. Much to her disappointment, it was Draco Malfoy, yet again looking like he was irritated to find her there.
“You,” she grumbled. “Again.”
“Me,” Draco said, smiling. “Why so glum, Granger? Adrian’s practically skipping in preparation for this wedding, but you don’t seem to match his enthusiasm.”
“No. I don’t.” Hermione made no effort to soften her delivery. One small perk of Malfoy’s presence: she felt no urge to perform. She did not care what he thought. “At least I have a match, Malfoy. Rumour has it that you are so unlikeable, they couldn’t even find someone willing to marry you.”
“Your insult falls flat, considering willingness isn’t a consideration for matching.”
Her cheeks burned. She hated how easily he’d always been able to ruffle her. “Details. I heard your compatibility results amounted to nothing. That doesn’t bode well for you.”
“Is that what you heard?” The corner of his mouth quirked up, as if he knew a secret she did not.
Hermione was about to spit another remark when Adrian re-entered the room. He looked from Draco to Hermione. “Is Draco bothering you?”
She shook her head. “No. I barely noticed him.”
They all remained silent for a moment, with Adrian looking back and forth between them. He cleared his throat. “Draco arrived about a week ago. He’ll be staying for a while.”
Hermione blinked. “I see.”
Draco's gaze prickled hot on her neck. She looked over at him and his eyes flashed with amusement.
“You won’t even know I’m here. You two lovebirds will have all the privacy you require.”
His tone was light, but Hermione did not miss the edge to his words. He was mocking her.
Adrian clapped a hand to Draco's shoulder. “Draco’s helping me with some personal matters. I hope you aren’t bothered, Hermione.”
“Of course not,” she said, too quickly.
She bit down on her lower lip, fighting the urge to ask more.
Hermione excused herself as quickly as possible once Adrian had finished fussing over the guest list. She’d managed to talk him out of floral arrangements and a three-piece string band for the processional, but the entire affair still felt stifling.
She was a catastrophizer by nature - a consequence of natural anxiety and the trauma of war - and her mind spun with the worst possibilities as she stepped out of the house. Still, she reminded herself that this wasn’t the end of her life. She would find a way out of this marriage. In the meantime, she would make do. Adrian was tolerable, even if he was vain and insufferably traditional. It could be worse. She could have been paired with Malfoy.
She clicked her way up the drive on her way to the apparition point. She was only steps away when she was interrupted by a grating voice.
“Granger!”
She turned around. Malfoy moved toward her, taking wide steps across the stone with something clutched in his fist. Even rushing, he moved like he had better things to do, and it annoyed her greatly. “What do you want?”
“You forgot something.” He stopped, holding out a small wooden box engraved with an image of a crescent moon. His grip on it seemed almost reluctant - like it repulsed him.
Hermione took the box from him suspiciously, then cracked it open. It smelled of cedar and nestled inside was a necklace: a silver chain, delicate but sturdy, with a small round pendant of moonstone. Its milky, opalescent surface seemed to catch the starlight, shimmering faintly as her fingers brushed against it. A tightness gathered in her throat. “This is a moonstone, Malfoy."
Malfoy tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “ I assume you’re aware of its use?”
She looked down at the stone, her heartbeat ticking chaotically until she heard it in her ears. Of course, she knew. The tradition had fallen out of fashion a century ago, but she remembered the historical context all too well. Wizarding brides wore the moonstone during the marital ceremony, and it was charmed to glow at the first kiss as a public confirmation of purity.
Hermione shut the box. Her face burned hot, and she refused to look at Malfoy. It was stupid, really. Why should she feel embarrassed about not being a virgin? She was a grown woman.
“I can’t wear this."
Malfoy raised a brow. “It’s a necklace. It isn’t cursed.”
“You know the purpose. It’s offensive. Misogynistic.”
“I don’t disagree,” he said, voice a shade softer. “I just assumed you weren’t the type to be concerned with such things.”
She shot him a sharp look.
“I just meant, Granger, that you don’t strike me as the woman to bend to purity politics. You were raised differently than a pureblood bride. It wasn’t an insult.”
“You can’t blame me for assuming,” she said. “Adrian wants me to wear this?”
Draco nodded. “You could say he’s a man who likes things a certain way.”
“Would he refuse the match if it doesn’t glow?” Hope ballooned in her chest. Perhaps this was the way out of this mess. She could handle an unending amount of public shaming to gain her freedom.
“You know damn well that he doesn’t have room to refuse.”
She inhaled sharply. “So, its only purpose is to, what, humiliate me?"
“Apparently."
She chewed on the edge of her lip. “This is ridiculous. I’m an adult. What I do with my body is no one’s business but my own.”
Malfoy inhaled, then looked around as if confirming they were still alone. He lowered his voice. “I can help you. If you want."
Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”
Malfoy stepped a hair closer, reaching out to the box. “I’ve got a nearly identical stone in my collection. A fake. I can swap it without Adrian ever knowing. I’ll charm it to glow regardless of your…status.”
“Why am I not surprised that you’ve got counterfeit stones on hand? And why would you help me? I would have assumed you’d relish in my public shaming.”
Malfoy shrugged, then let out a slow breath. “Don’t be cocky. It’s not about you. Let’s just say I have a vested interest in keeping Adrian Pucey happy. His disappointment in your sexual experience does not serve me.”
“I knew your visit was suspicious,” Hermione said, running a hand through her curls. “Visiting a friend. What a joke.”
He smirked. “You’re welcome, by the way. I’m preventing your fiance from learning that you’re a-”
She shot him a deadly glare.
“-a very experienced young woman.”
Rage blurred her vision.
And for the second time in her life, Hermione Granger punched Draco Malfoy square in the jaw.