ambpersand
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Fifteen years after the war, Hermione finds something unexpected at the Hogwarts Holiday Gala.
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Hermione instinctively takes a step back. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?”
“It was you this whole time?” Rage deepens his voice. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“What?” Her head begins to feel light and woozy. The eucalyptus scent. It’s him. It’s Malfoy, not the old tenant.
Oh no. She raises her hands to cover her mouth and nose, her fingers cold and shaking.
“You’re not—”
“You can’t—”
They speak and stop at the same time. His lips thin and his pupils have blown his grey eyes to black. Neither makes a move to say anything again, instead measuring each other from the safety of their respective doorsteps.
It’s been years since she’s seen him, and it’s awful how good he looks. And smells.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit. He’s an Alpha? And her neighbour? Gods, this can’t get any worse.
(THIS FIC IS ON OFFICIAL HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE)
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“Christmas Crackers?” Malfoy asks, holding one up, then looks at her with a surprisingly warm expression. “Cute.”
Hermione fights a blush. They’re no ordinary Christmas Crackers. She had George and the staff at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes whip up a special surprise for the Ministry—except she explicitly requested they be red and green, not gold and silver.
It’s not that big of a deal. She’ll get over it. Tomorrow.
Malfoy busies himself by helping to distribute several tubes on each table without request. It’s easy, working with him in a silent tandem. They’ve done it a few times on shared projects, holing up in her office or his, and quickly fall into an easy rhythm. Every time she sneaks a glance, he’s conveniently looking elsewhere.
At the final table, he shakes one close to his ear. “So what’s inside? They’re light.”
She hurries over to him. There’s few enough people around that the surprise won't be ruined if she gives him a peek, and the prototypes were perfect.
“We’ll have to be quick.”
A sly smile pulls at his lips, and he holds one end towards her. “On three?”
Written for D/Hr Advent 2024.
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“Tell me, Malfoy… Do you enjoy being told what to do?”
He goes still, the air freezing in his lungs.
Yes. No.
It’s the only thing he knows how to do, isn’t it?
It’s what they wanted for him.
It’s what he became.
And now, as an adult, he’s wandered. Waited. Found ways to keep himself busy, but achieved nothing through his own initiative or merit.
His silence speaks enough. He doesn’t need to say it out loud. She knows just as well as he does.
“That’s what I thought,” she murmurs.
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Through a few forced breaths, Hermione manages to settle her nausea well enough to slide out of bed, squinting at the bright morning light. The braid of ribbons follows her left hand as she pulls the curtains closed, a giant knot of silver and gold that won’t shake free. While she works on unwinding them from her hand and arm, she checks the papers, finding the signatures she hoped they would be too drunk to remember to complete.
Unfortunately not. There they sit, sloppy and side by side.
Her’s a little cramped and rushed, his a little too large and loopy.
Her lungs squeeze tight. They actually did it. At some point between the first glass of nettle wine and the last bottle of Dragon Barrel brandy, it must have stopped being a joke.
She’s still wearing her dress from the night before, which fits the messy carnage that surrounds her. It’s wrinkled and a bit twisted around her waist, but at least it’s not tossed on the floor with the rest of her marriage licence.
The only thing missing is her apparent husband.
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