Malfoy sat at his cluttered desk, the weight of another mundane day pressing down on him. He shuffled through the stack of letters with a weary sigh, his gaze drifting until it landed on one bearing the Ministry of Magic's official seal. With trembling fingers, he broke the wax seal and began to read.
Draco Lucius Malfoy
[Wiltshire, SP2 8HP, South West England]
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
We write to inform you that in accordance with the Forced Marriage Act of 2002, you have been selected to participate in a binding magical union.
This act, designed to ensure the stability and prosperity of the wizarding community, necessitates the pairing of eligible individuals for the purpose of procreation and social cohesion.
After careful consideration of various factors, including magical aptitude, blood purity, and familial ties, we have determined that your lifelong partner will be Hermione Jane Granger.
A formal ceremony will be arranged to solemnize this union. Further details regarding the date, time, and location of the ceremony will be provided in due course.
Please be advised that any attempt to circumvent or disobey the provisions of the Forced Marriage Act will result in severe penalties.
Yours sincerely,
Penelope Puffington Plimpton
Head of the Forced Marriage Act Division
Ministry of Magic
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was an ungodly hour—far too deep into the night for anything good—when a soft, insistent knock shattered the quiet, dragging Hermione forcefully from the cocoon of her sleep. For a long, disoriented moment, she hovered in that hazy space between dreaming and wakefulness, the sound dissolving into the remnants of whatever half-formed thought had been drifting through her mind. But then it came again, sharper this time, more demanding, cutting through the stillness of her tiny cottage like a blade.
Blinking against the oppressive darkness, she turned her head toward the bedside table, fumbling blindly for her wand. Her fingers brushed against the cool wood just as another knock echoed through the room—louder, more impatient, rattling the fragile peace of the night. A slow, irritated exhale left her lips. Who in God's name would show up at this hour?
"Just a minute," she muttered groggily, though whoever was on the other side of her door clearly lacked patience. The spring air was sharp against her bare skin as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and she hissed under her breath, goosebumps prickling up her arms. "Bloody hell," she grumbled, voice thick with sleep as she cast a weary Lumos, her wand tip flickering to life with a pale, silvery glow.
The faint light stretched across the room, chasing shadows into the corners as she pushed herself to her feet, shuffling toward the door with the kind of exhaustion that made even the simplest movements feel like a chore. She should have ignored it, should have turned over and buried herself beneath the warmth of her blankets, but something in the cadence of that knock—something urgent, insistent—refused to let her.
Barefoot and scowling, she reached the door, irritation laced with a reluctant sliver of curiosity. She hesitated only a second before undoing the latch, opening it just a crack, enough to peer through the sliver of space and tell whoever had dared to wake her exactly what she thought of them.
What she hadn't expected—what she never could have expected—was the sight of him standing there, pale and sharp and out of place against the backdrop of the darkened patio.
Draco Malfoy.
For a moment, all she could do was stare.
It had been months since she'd last seen him in person—fleeting glimpses across the gilded halls of the Ministry, polite nods at high-society functions, the occasional run-in at the Leaky Cauldron that always ended with too much whiskey and not enough distance between them. But even after all this time, he was still impossibly, unfairly handsome, the kind of handsome that made her want to scowl. He had no right to look that good, especially not in the middle of the night, standing on her doorstep with his shirt slightly rumpled and his platinum hair tousled in a way that suggested he'd run his fingers through it too many times.
Damn him and his infuriatingly perfect face.
His expression wavered between urgency and reluctance, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to jump or turn back. He didn't belong here. He knew it. She knew it. And yet, here he was.
"Hello, Satan," she said, her voice icy, threaded with a quiet fury that crackled beneath her words. "To what do I owe the misfortune of your visit?"
He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting around the patio as if searching for something—anything—before it finally locked onto hers. "I need to talk to you, Granger. It's… important. For both our sakes."
She hesitated, eyes narrowing as she studied his face, then with a reluctant sigh, she stepped aside, allowing him entrance.
As he crossed the threshold, his tall, imposing figure seemed to swallow the light, casting a shadow that chilled the very air. The warmth of the cottage—a sanctuary she'd built with care—seemed to dissipate with his every step. Hermione tightened the blanket around her shoulders, her gaze never leaving him.
"So, what brings you here at this ungodly hour?" she asked, her tone sharp as a blade now.
His silver eyes met hers, their usual arrogance gone, leaving only a rawness—something far more vulnerable. "Granger," he said, his voice low, almost gravelly with bitterness. "I'm here to tell you that the Ministry has ordered us to get married."
Her breath caught in her throat. The words struck her like a bolt of lightning, their impact too swift to avoid. The air in the room thickened, suffocating her. His declaration hung in the space between them like a dark prophecy, its weight pressing down on them both—a future neither of them had chosen, yet one they would inevitably share.
In that exact moment, her life ended. Not Voldemort, not Greyback, not even that deranged cow Bellatrix had managed to finish the job—but of course, leave it to Lucius Jr. and his perfectly coiffed hair to deliver the killing blow. One single sentence, six measly words, and just like that, her existence crumbled into a bureaucratic nightmare of Ministry-mandated matrimony and Malfoy-brand misery.
"Would you like a cuppa?" She asked, her voice as flat and lifeless as a hospital monitor after a fatal blow. Because apparently, that was how she handled world-ending revelations now—offering refreshments.
She had to physically stop herself from pinching her own arm, half convinced this was just one of those deranged, stress-induced dreams where reality bent itself into something so utterly ludicrous it had to be fiction. But no—this was real. Painfully, horrifyingly real.
Malfoy blinked at her. Actually blinked. Like she'd just asked him if he fancied knitting a bloody scarf together.
"Uh… thank you?" His eyebrows shot up, clearly thrown.
"Black tea or Earl Grey?" she continued, her voice breezy, detached—as if this were a perfectly normal Tuesday and not the single most catastrophic conversation of her life.
He hesitated, still processing. "Black tea. Two sugars, milk." The words came out slow, like his brain was struggling to catch up. He looked thoroughly baffled, like she'd smacked him over the head with a teapot instead of offering him one. Which, frankly, was still an option.
With exaggerated calm, she set the kettle on, barely sparing him a glance. "Please, Malfoy, don't look so shocked. We went to school together, in case you've forgotten. Seven years of shared oxygen, shared hallways, shared trauma…" She flicked him a sideways glance, voice dripping in something too smooth to be entirely friendly. "I know how you like your toast. I know which apples you'll actually eat. And I've definitely seen that look of pure, unfiltered disgust every time we accidentally made eye contact across the Great Hall."
His lips twitched—something caught between amusement and the flicker of an emotion she couldn't quite name.
She ignored it.
Instead, she focused on the kettle, keeping her tone cool, distant. Because if she didn't, she might actually start screaming.
This bitch was mental.
That was the only coherent thought bouncing around Draco's skull as he sat in the dim, cold stillness of his penthouse, the letter from the Ministry discarded on his bed like the omen of doom it was.
He hadn't slept. Obviously. How the hell was he supposed to sleep after reading something like that?
A neat, self-important bit of parchment, signed and sealed with the authority of the Ministry, had just handed him what felt like a death sentence:
He was to be forcibly shackled to Hermione bloody Granger.
The Gryffindor princess, the Golden Girl, the bush-haired, insufferable little swot who had haunted his every waking moment since he was eleven years old.
Draco leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply as his gaze flickered toward the window. The moon hung heavy over the city, its silvery light spilling across the polished floors, stretching shadows long and restless. He hated how poetic this all felt. How fitting. How… inevitable.
Because, truthfully?
He had spent years trying to ignore this thing inside him—the sick, twisted, utterly inconvenient fixation that had burrowed deep beneath his skin.
For years, he had told himself it was hate.
Hate was easy. Hate made sense.
But it had never been just that, had it?
Not when he spent every sleepless night in sixth year staring at her across the library, watching her bite her lip in concentration over some ridiculous Arithmancy equation.
Not when he had replayed that moment in third year one too many times, the moment her fist had collided with his jaw, her eyes blazing, her breath coming in furious little gasps. He had been hard for weeks after that.
Not when, even now, his cock twitched at the mere thought of her scent, the way his Amortentia had once betrayed him so completely, so brutally, that he had stood frozen in Snape's classroom, praying to every god that existed that no one had noticed the way his pupils had blown wide.
He scoffed at himself, shaking his head. Pathetic.
For all his years of posturing, for all his practiced indifference, Hermione Granger had never been anything less than his most consuming fascination.
And now, thanks to the Ministry, she was about to be his wife.
The irony was almost laughable.
Draco clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into the armrests of his chair. This was not the life he had envisioned for himself after the war. He had planned to rebuild, to rewrite the Malfoy name, to carve out something that was truly his. Something untethered from the ghosts of his past.
A pawn in their grand, noble little scheme for reconciliation. A sacrificial lamb to unity and procreation and whatever other bullshit excuse they had dressed this up as.
Married. To Granger.
His wet dream and worst nightmare wrapped in one infuriating, brilliant package.
Draco exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his already-messy hair.
Fuck.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
"I wanted to be the first to tell you myself." Draco finally steadied his voice, though his expression betrayed a flicker of discomfort. "I want to offer my… condolences. I'm sorry that your match is with me."
She was more than aware of the Marriage Act. Of course she was.
She'd been working at the Ministry for six years now, thank you very much. Still besties with Kingsley, still getting all the latest dirt while everyone else pretended to be shocked and appalled by the wonderful new policy.
When she'd first heard the news, she'd lost it—completely lost it. Thrown a full-on tantrum worthy of any teenage drama queen. She'd stormed into the Minister's office, and let's just say the decor hadn't stood a chance. Three smashed windows, a broken filing cabinet, and a pile of shredded paperwork. That was a fun day.
Not that anyone appreciated her "emotional outburst"—but really, who wouldn't lose their mind at the idea of being shackled to Draco Malfoy for life? Because, clearly, the Ministry was seriously that clueless.
Her brow arched slightly at his apology, her skepticism barely concealed. This was not the reaction she had expected from Draco Malfoy—the same Draco Malfoy who had spent his school years making her life a living hell, who had never been one for apologies or sympathy, and yet here he was, standing in her cottage like some solemn messenger of doom, offering condolences as if she had suffered some great personal loss rather than been sentenced to a lifetime of Malfoy-brand misery.
"Thank you," she said at last, voice steady but dripping with disbelief, because what else was there to say? "I appreciate your… whatever that was."
His gaze flickered downward for the briefest moment before he schooled his expression back into that carefully composed blankness she knew too well. "This isn't what you wanted," he admitted, his tone quieter than usual, almost careful, as if he thought she might shatter beneath the weight of this newfound reality, and it was almost insulting that he thought she needed that kind of delicacy.
She let out a slow, measured breath because understatement of the fucking century didn't even begin to cover it.
The idea of being shackled to Malfoy in some archaic, Ministry-mandated farce of a marriage, of having her future forcefully entwined with a man whose presence had once been synonymous with cruelty, of living under the same roof as someone who had stood by and watched while she was tortured on his own damn floor, was so far beyond comprehension that her brain barely knew what to do with it. The sheer absurdity of it all was almost laughable, but if she started laughing now, she might not stop
"I suppose we'll have to make the best of it," she said finally, her voice clipped and controlled, before tilting her head ever so slightly, a slow, sardonic smirk pulling at her lips, her tone deceptively pleasant as she added, "That said, if this goes sideways, I will personally ensure I end up in Azkaban with your blood on my hands."
He had been terrified of Granger for most of his life—not that he'd ever admit it. If killing him would make her happy, he'd hand her the knife himself. Pathetic? Yes. True? Absolutely. He had no right to want her, but he always had.
The silence between them was thick, suffocating, the weight of their impending marriage pressing down like an unbearable curse. Neither of them had asked for this, yet here they were, bound together by forces beyond their control, standing at the edge of a future neither of them wanted to claim.
"Is there anything else?" she asked, her tone edged with impatience, breaking the unbearable stillness.
Malfoy hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line, as if weighing something unsaid. After a moment, he exhaled sharply and shook his head. "No, that's all," he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, lacking its usual sharpness.
The tension between them was suffocating, stretched taut like a fraying rope, neither willing to snap first. They sat at the table, their silence louder than any argument, the weight of their forced union settling between them like an unwanted specter. When she finally led him to the porch, the night air did little to dispel the unease. He stood there, looking both exhausted and properly pissed, a man torn between defiance and resignation, and for the first time since this conversation began, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
They stood amidst the beautiful roses in her garden, their petals vibrant and lush under the sunlight. Narcissa would be proud.
"You have beautiful roses in your garden," he noted, attempting to break the silence.
She nodded silently, her gaze fixed on the eight little stacks of stones placed among the roses.
"It is a graveyard for the memory of the people that I lost," she said in a whisper, her voice tinged with sorrow. She looked over at the stones, each marking the final resting place of those who had fallen in the war—Sirius Black, "Mad-Eye" Moody, Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Colin Creevey, and her own parents.
She sighed, her shoulders slumping in weariness. "I wonder what they turn into," she said in a tired voice, her gaze drifting back to the roses.
He studied her quietly for a moment, his anger momentarily overshadowed by a flicker of sympathy. He knew loss too well, having seen the devastation wrought by the war firsthand. The idea of finding solace in a garden of roses amidst a graveyard was both poignant and haunting.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, his voice softer than before. "I didn't realize..."
She shook her head, a sad smile touching her lips. "I suppose that is alright, Malfoy, we all carry our burdens."
He nodded, unsure of what to say next. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves in the summer breeze.
"They're symbols," she said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. "The roses, I mean. They represent hope, love, and the enduring beauty of life. Even in a place of loss and sorrow."
He listened intently, his gaze softened as he looked at her. "And what do you think they turn into?" he asked quietly.
Her eyes met his, reflecting the moonlight. "I like to think they turn into memories," she said softly. "Sweet memories that we hold onto, even as time passes and life moves on."
He nodded, his thoughts drifting to the past and the future that lay ahead of them. "Perhaps," he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
She glanced at him, a flicker of something akin to understanding passing between them. Despite their differences, they were both survivors of the war, each carrying their own scars and losses.
"I should go inside," she finally said, breaking the moment. "I need to get ready for work."
He nodded in agreement, a faint smile appearing on his lips before he disapparated.
As she stepped inside, the weight of their shared grief hung over her like a shroud.
But in that brief moment in the garden, amidst the roses and the stones, they had found a common ground—a fleeting connection that neither of them fully understood but were both willing to explore.She stood on the porch, fury simmering beneath her skin, coiling tight in her chest like a curse waiting to be unleashed.
Hermione Jean Granger and Draco Lucius Malfoy—the first sacrificial lambs to this ridiculous law, the shining examples the country would be expected to admire, the martyrs for some twisted vision of unity. The thought alone made her stomach churn. She had fought tooth and nail for freedom, for a world where people could choose their own futures, carve their own paths, love who they damn well pleased. And now? Now she was shackled by a decree that spat in the face of everything she had bled for.
Her gaze drifted over the garden, the roses blooming defiantly beside the worn stones—a graveyard of memories, a battlefield of resilience. This union would not break her. She would meet it head-on, wielding every ounce of strength and dignity she possessed.
But that didn't mean she had to likeit. Not one bloody bit.