Black was always acceptable for a funeral, and today felt like one. A funeral for her independence, her autonomy, her carefully planned future—all burned to ashes by a single Ministry decree. The irony of it all was suffocating. She had survived war, torture, and years of fighting for freedom, only to end up shackled in an arrangement dictated by the very government she had once believed in.
This was not the life she had fought for. Not the future she had spent years imagining. She had always envisioned something different—something built on choice, on love, on the kind of partnership that was forged in mutual respect and genuine affection, not one crafted from legal mandates and bureaucratic signatures.
But here she was. Marrying Lucius Jr.
She barely had time to register the knock before the door swung open, Malfoy stepping inside as if he owned the place. His usual arrogance faltered for a fraction of a second as his gaze landed on her, his silver eyes widening just slightly before he quickly schooled his expression. For the first time since she had known him, Malfoy was speechless.
Then, as if on instinct, he recovered, slipping into his default setting—smug bastard. He stepped closer, hands casually tucked into his pockets, but there was something different in the way he looked at her. Something almost reverent. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, but his voice, when he spoke, lacked its usual sharp edge.
"I'm aware that this isn't exactly helping your mood right now," he murmured, his gaze dragging over the curve of her shoulders, the way the sleek black fabric fit her like it had been designed just for her, "but you look breathtaking. Even in your funeral dress."
She turned to fully face him, arms crossing over her chest as she raised a skeptical brow. "Is that supposed to make me feel better, Malfoy?"
He shrugged, the ghost of a grin still playing on his lips, but for once, his expression was earnest. "I thought a bit of honesty might help with the nerves. And you do look stunning."
Beelzebub in traditional robes. Fantastic. As if she wasn't suffering enough, now she had to endure the sight of him looking like some pureblood prince straight out of a dark fairytale. It was infuriating. It was all a personal attack. She would sooner bathe in bubotuber pus than admit it out loud, but—Merlin help her—he looked positively climbable. Stupid, stupid blonde git.
He squeezed her hand—steady, firm, but beneath it, a rare glimpse of something unguarded, something almost fragile. His voice was softer than she had ever heard it. "Shall we, then?"
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken words and reluctant acceptance. The weight of what was happening pressed down on them both, binding them in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with circumstance.
She lifted her gaze, searching his face for any sign of deceit, of hesitation, of some hidden ulterior motive that would give her a reason to fight this. But there was nothing. Just him. Just Draco Malfoy, standing beside her, looking just as trapped, just as resigned, just as ready.
Her throat tightened as she swallowed back everything she wanted to say—every complaint, every protest, every bitter remark that would change nothing. Instead, she gave a slow, measured nod. "We shall," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Malfoy extended his arm, and she stared at it for a long second, willing herself not to make this harder than it already was. With a quiet sigh of surrender, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric of his robe. Together, they stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the Ministry, into their new reality, into whatever the hell this was supposed to be.
The ceremony itself was brief—cold and clinical, devoid of romance or sentiment. Just an official, some parchment, and the inevitable binding magic that swirled around them like golden threads, tightening, settling, rooting itself deep inside her like an unwelcome presence.
And then it was done.
No dramatic climax, no explosion of emotion—just finality.
Hermione let out a slow breath, so done with the entire ordeal, with the Ministry, with this archaic, government-sanctioned catastrophe. But then—then—as the golden strings sealed around their joined hands, something shifted.
A pulse of something ancient rippled through her, something deeper than magic, heavier than law. It wasn't just a spell—it was binding, absolute, woven into the very core of her being.
Her eyes snapped to him, wide with alarm, and—Merlin help her—he looked just as shaken.
She stood there, her fingers entwined with his, as an unexpected rush of something surged through her—an awareness, an undeniable shift in the space between them. It wasn't the golden tendrils of magic tightening around their joined hands that sent shivers down her spine—it was the way she could feel him. His presence, his weight in the world, the pull of him, like gravity tethering her in place.
Her breath hitched, and she looked up to find him already staring, his silver eyes flickering with something unreadable. He felt it too.
Draco Malfoy had spent a lifetime mastering indifference, yet in that moment, his carefully constructed façade cracked. The realization of what had just happened flickered across his face—the weight of it, the permanence.
She swallowed, her grip on his hand tightening slightly. "What was that, Malfoy?" Her voice was quiet, cautious, as though speaking too loudly might make this even more real.
Malfoy exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. "I..." He faltered, his voice lower than usual. "I think that was the bond settling."
The bond. The words settled between them like an unspoken truth.
Hermione inhaled slowly, the reality sinking in. "So that means there's no reason to lie to each other anymore," she murmured, her voice steadier than before.
He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, something almost bitter curling at the edge of it. "I don't intend to lie to you, Granger. Not anymore. Not ever."
LIAR.
Her gaze flickered to his, searching for even a hint of dishonesty, but there was none.
A small, tentative smile ghosted across her lips. "Good," was all she said.
For a moment, they just stood there, hands still joined, the remnants of golden magic crackling faintly around them, binding them in ways neither of them fully understood yet. It was disorienting, uncomfortable, something neither of them had prepared for—but there, buried beneath the uncertainty, was the possibility of something else.
Kingsley cleared his throat, drawing them both out of whatever moment had settled between them. The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur—unity, expectations, formalities. And then, just like that, it was over.
The weight of reality crashed down as they stepped away from the officiant, standing awkwardly in the middle of the Ministry, bound in ways they could never undo.
She swallowed, still adjusting to the unsettling awareness of Malfoy beside her. "We should... probably go home," she muttered, the word feeling foreign and uncomfortable on her tongue.
Malfoy, for once, didn't smirk. He merely nodded, glancing around at the lingering onlookers, their eyes filled with curiosity and speculation. His grip on her hand tightened just slightly, a silent reassurance—not just for her, but for himself. "Yeah," he agreed. "Let's get out of here."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They arrived at the penthouse just as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The golden hues of twilight stretched over the sleek, modern interior—a poetic and infuriatingly on-the-nose metaphor for Hermione Jean Granger begrudgingly morphing into Mrs. Granger-Malfoy.
He loosened the collar of his formal robes and strode toward the bar, his movements fluid, practiced. A crystal decanter caught Hermione's eye—the whiskey inside so old it might've been bottled before their great-grandfathers were even born. He poured two generous servings, the amber liquid swirling hypnotically in the glasses, before turning to her.
"To the both of us," Malfoy said, raising his glass in a mock toast before downing the whiskey in one effortless motion, as if that could burn away the absurdity of their day.
She took a measured sip, the warmth spreading down her throat, settling in her chest. "You have an impressive selection," she mused, running a finger along the polished bar top.
His lips quirked, that ever-present Malfoy smirk tempered into something quieter, more self-satisfied than arrogant. "I've always appreciated the finer things in life."
Silence stretched between them, not quite uncomfortable, but heavy—laden with too many unspoken thoughts. The events of the day clawed at her, the Ministry ceremony, the binding, the weight of her new name pressing down on her like a brand.
She set her glass down with a soft clink against the marble. "Malfoy, about today..."
He turned to her, swirling the whiskey in his glass, his silver eyes sharp but unreadable. "I know," he murmured, his voice quieter than usual. "It's not what either of us wanted. But we're in it now. Together."
She exhaled, crossing her arms as she studied him. "Yes, we are," she admitted. "I just..." Her fingers tightened against her biceps, nails pressing into fabric. "I didn't expect it to feel so... permanent."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "It is permanent, Granger. No loopholes. No undoing it." His voice was steady, but something flickered beneath the surface. Something almost hesitant.
She bit the inside of her cheek, then nodded, shifting her weight slightly. "We'll just have to figure it out."
He studied her for a moment, then, to her complete and utter horror, took a step closer.
"I don't want to make this harder for you," he said, his voice lower now. "I didn't ask for this, either, but that doesn't mean I want you to be miserable."
She searched his face for any trace of mockery, but for once, there was none—just quiet sincerity that threw her entire equilibrium off balance.
Her gaze drifted down as he reached for her hand, hesitant at first, as if expecting her to pull away.
She didn't.
"We can make the best of it," he murmured, his fingers cool against hers.
Hermione let out a slow breath, staring at their linked hands. It was... strange. Unfamiliar. But not entirely unpleasant.
"I suppose we can," she said softly, a reluctant, barely-there smile flickering at the corners of her lips.
Malfoy's thumb barely grazed the back of her hand before he pulled away, retreating a fraction, though his eyes still held hers.
The weight of their new reality settled between them.
Neither of them knew what came next, but for now, it was enough that neither had run .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hot water poured over her trembling frame, steam curling around her in thick, suffocating waves as she pressed her forehead against the cool tiles. Her quiet sobs were swallowed by the steady patter of water against porcelain, the weight of the day pressing down on her until she felt like she might break beneath it.
She had lost track of how many times she had cried in the past few weeks, how many moments had been stolen by frustration, grief, and exhaustion. It felt like her life had been yanked out from under her, replaced by a cruel joke she hadn't agreed to be the punchline of. A wife. She was a wife. A legal contract had bound her to Draco Malfoy, a name she had spent years spitting like venom, now etched into her future as if it had always been there. The absurdity of it was staggering, the injustice unbearable.
A sob wrenched itself from her throat, raw and ragged. She slid down until she was sitting at the base of the tub, water pooling around her, her tears indistinguishable from the shower's relentless downpour. It was too much. Too fast. Too final. She had fought tooth and nail against this wretched law, had thrown herself into every legal battle, every impassioned speech, only to be steamrolled by forces larger than her, uncaring of her efforts. They had stolen her choice. The same Ministry she had once devoted herself to had betrayed her in the most personal way imaginable.
She wrapped her arms around herself, nails digging into the damp skin of her arms, her breath hitching. How the hell was she supposed to make this work? How was she supposed to wake up every morning and pretend? Pretend that this was a normal marriage, pretend that Malfoy wasn't the ghost of every cruel memory she had buried deep? He was trying, she had to admit that much, but it didn't erase the past. It didn't erase her past—the war, the blood, the terror.
Closing her eyes, she willed herself to pull it together, to fight back the ache clawing at her chest. She had survived worse. She had survived war, torture, and heartbreak. She would survive this. But the thought didn't bring the comfort it should have. Because this wasn't something she could just fight her way out of—no spell, no hex, no clever plan would undo the golden threads that bound her to him. This wasn't just another battle. This was her life.
And right now, she hated every second of it.
He barely registered the fact that he had just walked into the bloody bathroom until he was kneeling on the wet floor, reaching for her. His heart was pounding, every nerve in his body screaming at him to fix this, though he had no idea how.
"Granger—Hermione—what the fuck is going on?" His voice was rough, but not from anger. From panic. She was curled into herself in the bathtub, drenched, her breath hitching between sobs that tore through her small frame. He didn't think—he just acted—grabbing her arms, lifting her out of the tub and against him, pressing her to his chest. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He wasn't built for this. Comfort, reassurance, holding her like she was something fragile. But she was fragile, wasn't she?
"What's wrong, love? What happened?" The word love slipped out without permission, unguarded and raw. It didn't matter. She was shaking in his arms, her fingers clenching the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the present.
"I... I can't do this, Malfoy," she whispered, her voice broken in a way he had never heard before. Not even during the war. Not even when she had every reason to break.
He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling sharply. He had no idea how to fix this. He was not the person people turned to for comfort—not the person who knew the right words to say. He was the person who caused pain, not the person who took it away. But fuck, he wanted to take this from her. He wanted to rip it from her bones, shake it from her skin, bear it for her if he could.
"I know," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know, love."
And fuck, he meant it. This was unfair. It was cruel, and stupid, and if he had any power left in this world, he would have burned the entire fucking Ministry down before letting them take her choices away. But he wasn't that powerful. He wasn't a hero.
Maybe in another universe, you love me, doll .
The thought slashed through him like a blade, sharp, unwelcome, cruel in its hopelessness.
It was a fantasy—the desperate, pathetic fantasy of a stupid twenty-five-year-old boy who had spent far too long wanting something he was never meant to have.
She pulled back slightly, looking up at him, her face streaked with tears, her eyes still red-rimmed, but… but she was looking at him. Seeing him. And Merlin help him, that was enough to make him fall apart.
"I don't know if I can trust anyone anymore," she admitted, and something inside him snapped.
He brushed a stray tear from her cheek, his touch hesitant, terrified he was going to make things worse, that she would flinch away, push him away, realize she was in the arms of her enemy.
But she didn't move.
"I understand," he said softly, because he did. More than she would ever know. He swallowed hard, fingers lingering on her damp skin. "But I promise you, darling, I will do everything I can to make this work. I won't let you face this alone."
Her breath hitched, her gaze searching his, flickering with something uncertain, something fragile. And then, in the smallest, most devastating act of trust, she nodded. "Okay," she whispered.
Draco Malfoy, pathetic, lovesick idiot that he was, felt the weight of that word settle inside his ribs like an ache he would never recover from.
"Let's get you to bed," he murmured, voice unsteady, because if they stayed like this for one more moment, if she kept looking at him like that, he was going to do something irreversibly stupid.
She let him lead her to the bedroom, let him hand her a dry set of pyjamas, let him tuck the blankets around her without protest. And he felt his chest cave in when she didn't push him away as he sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her damp curls away from her face, fingers lingering on her temple, tracing the delicate curve of her cheek.
Her breathing slowed. Her eyes fluttered shut. And he sat there, staring at her, wanting her, mourning her, worshipping her, until he was certain she was asleep.
Then, and only then, did he slip out of the room.
He barely made it back to the bar before his knees buckled, his hands trembling as he poured himself a drink with far too much liquor, not nearly enough self-control.
And then, alone in the dim glow of the penthouse, he buried his face in his hands and cried.
Although, for very different reasons.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She woke up to the sensation of luxury itself—the mattress beneath her was like sleeping on enchanted clouds, the sheets impossibly soft, the air around her crisp yet warmed by the lingering scent of cedar and something distinctly Malfoy. For a fleeting moment, before reality crashed down on her like a collapsing bookshelf, she let herself sink into the comfort, into the illusion that she wasn't bound by a contract, that she hadn't broken down in Malfoy's arms last night.
But the memories came rushing back.
Her humiliating breakdown, the way he had held her, the whispered reassurances, the warmth of his hands as they anchored her. Hermione sat up abruptly, groaning into her hands. What the fuck had she done? Had she really let Draco Malfoy comfort her? And worse—had she actually needed it?
Dragging herself out of bed, she headed to the en-suite, taking her sweet time under the scorching spray of the shower, as if she could scrub the vulnerability off her skin. But no matter how hot the water was, the sensation of his steady hands around her waist, his earnest voice murmuring against her temple, still lingered. She shut her eyes tightly, cursing whatever cosmic joke had put her in this position.
Dressed in a simple jumper and trousers, she finally left the room, padding cautiously down the sleek hallway into the open-concept kitchen. The penthouse was eerily silent, save for the faint sound of sizzling. Her stomach chose that exact moment to betray her, a low growl echoing through the space as she stepped in.
He stood by the stove, looking impossibly domestic, which was so violently at odds with everything she knew about him that Hermione almost tripped over her own feet. He glanced up as she entered, his expression curiously soft, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Good morning, darling," he greeted, voice uncharacteristically gentle as he turned his attention back to the stove.
She nearly choked. Darling? DARLING? Had she concussed herself in the shower? She barely managed to swallow her reaction, instead muttering a careful, "Morning."
There was an unspoken tension lingering between them, thick enough to smother a dragon. Hermione wasn't sure how to exist in this new dynamic, wasn't sure if she was allowed to acknowledge what had happened last night—that she had let Malfoy see her break and somehow, someway, he hadn't used it against her.
Malfoy, sensing her hesitation, deftly turned off the stove and set the plates on the counter with deliberate ease. "I made breakfast," he said simply, gesturing toward the island as if this were a normal fucking thing for them.
She hesitated before slowly sinking into the stool, watching as he placed a plate of eggs and toast in front of her—alongside a perfectly made cup of her coffee, prepared exactly how she liked it.
She froze, blinking at it. He remembered.
He slid into the seat across from her, pretending not to notice her staring at the cup like it was a cursed object. They ate in silence, the clink of cutlery the only sound filling the space.
She stole quick, stolen glances at him between bites, studying him, trying to understand what had changed. There was something different about him. She had spent years despising him, years painting him as nothing more than a sneering, spoiled, insufferable little ferret. But now?
Now, he looked... human.
And that was infinitely more dangerous than if he had been the cruel bastard she had spent half her life fighting.
There was something raw, something uncertain in his face when he finally glanced up, catching her mid-stare.
Hermione quickly looked away. This was going to be a problem.
After a few moments of tense quiet, Malfoy cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable, yet determined. "Darling," he started, voice softer than she was used to, "about last night..."
She looked up from her barely touched plate, meeting his gaze. He looked nervous. Draco Malfoy. Nervous. That alone was enough to make her sit up straighter.
"Yes?" she prompted, arching a brow.
His fingers tapped against the table, a subtle, restless movement. "I just want you to know that I meant what I said," he continued, his usual arrogance replaced with something almost uncertain. "I don't expect you to trust me overnight, but I want to try to make this work. For both our sakes."
She studied him carefully, the sincerity in his tone throwing her off balance. He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't playing a game.
She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cup. "I appreciate that," she admitted, her voice softer than intended. "I still don't know how I feel about all of this, but... I'll try too."
He blinked, almost as if he hadn't expected that answer. He offered her a small, almost relieved smile. "That's all I can ask for," he murmured, voice quiet, but certain.
The tension in the air eased, just slightly. They finished their breakfast in a far more comfortable silence, no longer suffocated by the weight of their forced circumstances.
After the meal, she helped clear the dishes, moving through the kitchen with practiced ease, surprised by how seamlessly they worked together. Malfoy, surprisingly, didn't hover or issue instructions—he simply let her exist in the space with him.
He disappeared into his study shortly after, leaving her to her own devices. She wasn't sure what to do with herself. The penthouse was, by all definitions, beautiful—all sleek surfaces, polished wood, and soft lighting. But it was still unfamiliar, still felt too much like his space, not theirs.
Determined to fix that, she wandered through the rooms, taking in every detail—the understated luxury, the sharp contrast to the warmth of her own cottage. He had spared no expense in making this a home, but that didn't mean it felt like hers.
The library, however, was different.
She stepped into the grand space, her breath catching at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the soft scent of parchment and ink wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. It was immaculate, yet clearly lived in—well-worn pages marked with magical annotations, books stacked haphazardly on tables, a quiet sort of chaos that hinted at Malfoy's genuine love for literature.
Her fingers traced the spines of first editions, rare magical texts, even a few Muggle classics. This was his world, and, to her surprise, it wasn't entirely uninviting.
She plucked a book on magical theory from the shelf and settled into a ridiculously plush armchair by the window. The afternoon slipped away as she read, her earlier tension dulling into quiet contemplation.
It wasn't until she heard footsteps—slow, deliberate—that she glanced up.
He stood in the doorway, watching her with an indecipherable expression, one hand braced against the frame as if he had been standing there for some time.
"Darling," he said, his voice quieter than before, "I've been thinking…"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She sat curled up on the plush sofa in the penthouse, absentmindedly watching as Crookshanks prowled through his new territory, his tail flicking as he investigated every corner. He, at least, seemed to have settled in just fine—adapting with an ease she envied. Several weeks had passed since she and Malfoy had come to their uneasy truce, a mutual agreement to at least attempt civility, if not something more substantial. They had established a routine, one that felt surprisingly natural despite the circumstances. Mornings consisted of brief interactions over coffee and toast, evenings brought quiet dinners or the occasional shared glass of wine, and somewhere in between, they were learning each other's habits and unspoken rules.
One evening, she arrived home earlier than usual, stepping through the front door to the unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed tea. She blinked in mild surprise—she had expected Malfoy to be holed up in his study or, perhaps, conspiring with his friends over something ridiculous. Instead, she found him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly brewing a pot of tea like he did this every night.
He glanced up as she entered, offering her one of those small, knowing smirks that she was begrudgingly starting to recognize as his version of a welcome. "Darling, you're home early."
She hung up her coat, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension from the day. "Yeah, it was a slow day at the Ministry."
Malfoy nodded, already pouring a cup of tea and handing it to her without missing a beat. "Here. I thought you might like this. It's your favorite blend."
She took the cup with both hands, warmth seeping through her fingers. "Thank you," she murmured, taking a sip. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. "Just what I needed."
Leaning against the counter, he observed her with that piercing gaze of his, the one that always made her feel like he was two steps ahead of her thoughts. "You seem tired."
Setting her cup down, she exhaled slowly. "It's been a long week. The workload's piling up, and the new regulations in my department are a nightmare."
He hummed in sympathy, tapping his fingers against the counter. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
She looked at him, lips quirking slightly in amusement. "That's a dangerous offer, Malfoy. You might regret it."
He tilted his head, silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Try me."
She hesitated for a beat before speaking, her voice firm but measured. "Firstly, my allowance…" She saw his brow lift slightly but pressed on. "I don't want it."
He straightened slightly, folding his arms across his chest. "You don't want it?"
She shook her head. "I understand that the previous Lady Malfoys had one, but I don't need it. It's… too much money."
His lips pressed into a thin line, considering her words carefully. "Darling, it's tradition. It's part of your role now."
She scoffed, crossing her arms. "My 'role'? I didn't sign up to be a trophy wife, Malfoy. I make my own money. I don't need to take from your vaults."
He sighed, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. "I get your point, Granger, but think of it this way—if not for yourself, consider using it for something meaningful."
She narrowed her eyes. "Like what?"
He smirked, as if he had already predicted this part of the conversation. "Charity."
Hermione blinked. "Charity?"
He nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets. "We could allocate a portion of it to causes you care about. Use the money to make a difference, instead of letting it sit and collect dust in some vault."
She stared at him, genuinely caught off guard. "You'd be okay with that?"
He smirked, tilting his head. "I have no interest in being another Malfoy hoarding obscene amounts of wealth while the world burns. If the money can do some good, why not?"
She bit her lip, her mind already racing with possibilities. "There are so many organizations that need support…"
He took another step closer, his voice softer now. "Then let's do it. Pick the ones you believe in, and we'll fund them together."
She studied him for a long moment, searching for any trace of insincerity, but all she found was quiet determination. This wasn't some ploy. He genuinely meant it.
Swallowing, she nodded. "Alright. We can allocate the allowance to charity. But I'm still not comfortable using it for myself."
He exhaled, shaking his head with a faint chuckle. "Granger, you are exhausting."
She smirked. "I've been told."
As they sat down to discuss the various organisations and causes they could contribute to, she felt a sense of partnership and understanding growing between them. Despite the forced nature of their marriage, they were finding ways to connect and make a positive impact together.