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Three hundred and sixty-four days. That was how long they have been married. The Ministry of Magic had not been the most romantic setting for their nuptials, but then again, romance was never part of the equation.
Three hundred, thirty-two days since they resolved to make the best of their situation, and three hundred and one days since they decided to be friends.
That , Hermione thought, was her biggest mistake. To let go of her preconceptions about who he was—to look past the scared, insecure boy who had tormented her in school and see the man who had learned hard lessons in life and had come out for the better—
That was where she had gone wrong. Because now it had been two hundred and seventy-one days since she had realized that she was madly, undeniably in love with Draco Malfoy.
Hermione stared into the ornate vanity mirror. She certainly didn’t look like a ‘Malfoy’, yet here she was in her own room in the Malfoy estate. Her bed was made up with the softest silk covers and her wardrobe was bursting with dresses and robes so grand they made Pansy Parkinson as green as her Slytherin tie.
“My name is Hermione Malfoy,” she whispered to her reflection, “and I’m in love with my husband.”
A sudden tapping on her door made her jump off her bench. Laughing quietly at her own silliness, she checked to make sure her dressing gown was secure before she crossed the room and opened the door.
Just beyond the threshold, Draco stood wrapped up in his own dark green robes, hair damp from a bath. Unconsciously, she took a step toward him, drawn by the clean scent of soap and lotions wafting from his skin.
Draco tilted his head, a careful look in his eye.
Hermione steadied her hand on the doorknob and cleared her throat. “Yes?”
“I just came to say goodnight,” he said. “And to let you know that everything for tomorrow’s party is in place.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Mother thinks she’ll be able to come down and join us. At least, for some time.”
She nodded. “Very well. I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
A corner of his lips lifted. “That’s too bad,” he said, so softly that Hermione wondered if she had heard it correctly. Before she could question him, he was already walking away. “Have a good night, Hermione. I’ll see you in the morning.” He disappeared behind his bedroom door, which closed with an audible click.
For a moment longer, Hermione stared at the mahogany door across the hall. “Goodnight.”
The ballroom was filled with their friends and family. They were an attractive bunch, though it was less due to their long evening gowns, bow ties, and glittering jewels, and more because of their bright, comfortable smiles and easy laughter in each other’s presence.
Whether such congeniality was a planned consequence of the marriage law could only be known by the special council that drafted the bill.
A hand took hers, and she glanced up to find Draco at her side.
“All right?” he asked, giving her hand a comforting squeeze.
Briefly, she reveled in the warmth of his touch; she nodded.
“Mother is here.” He nudged his head toward a set of French doors that opened into the main hall.
Narcissa Malfoy looked resplendent in a blue gown that complemented her fair skin and white-gold hair. She did not look like a woman in her fifties, nor did she look as though she was at death’s door.
But she was both, and the latter fact wrung Hermione’s heart. Without Lucius’ poisonous influence, she and the Malfoy matriarch had gotten to know each other well. Narcissa’s cold demeanor was a facade to hide just how very deeply she felt. She was a woman and a mother in a world that valued neither, but for years, her only concern was the survival of her son. More than anything, she loved Draco.
Hermione understood that sentiment perfectly.
Which is why, a few months into their marriage and at Draco’s request, she had agreed to his plan: to pretend, at least in Narcissa’s presence, to have a happy marriage. To send her to the great beyond with the knowledge that her son is well-loved by his wife.
Hermione glanced down at their clasped hands. If only they knew.
“May I have your attention?” Draco clinked the glass of champagne in his hand. The room hushed as all turned to face him. “My wife and I,”—he wrapped an arm around Hermione’s waist—”would like to thank you all for celebrating our anniversary with us. Like many of you, our marriage was not one made by choice—”
A titter spread throughout the room as couples gave each other knowing looks.
“But if I had a Time Turner,” he said, pinning Hermione in place with the warmth of his gaze, “I would go back and marry her over and over again.” He raised his glass. “To my Ministry-appointed wife, who, with Morgana's blessing, turned out to be the love of my life.” With a broad grin, he faced the crowd and raised his glass higher. “To Hermione.”
In the periphery of her vision, she noted the crowd lift their drinks and toast to her. But her attention had turned inward at the words…”love of my life”. The phrase both heated her skin and froze her in place. It was the Pied Piper’s music, and her heart skipped happily to its rhythm.
At a table nearby, Narcissa beamed at the couple so widely she practically glowed.
And the sky fell on Hermione. Through the rounds of toasts and well-wishes, she forced the smile on her face until her cheeks ached. With every speech, her vision blurred with checked tears. She nodded and laughed along with the crowd until the band struck a lively tune, and couples swarmed the dance floor once again.
Then she stepped out of Draco’s hold, setting her empty flute on a passing tray.
Draco angled his head down, peering at her with concern. “Is everything all right?”
Hermione shook head. A tear spilled out of her eye. “Excuse me,” she whispered. She turned around and escaped through a side door, away from the boisterous celebration of her sham of a marriage.
“No!” Hermione yelled at the door. The rapping on the wood became sharper. She ripped her diamond earrings off and tossed them onto the vanity table. “Go away!”
There was a stillness on the other side of the door, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione was afraid that she was actually left alone.
And then the door opened, admitting Draco inside. He leaned back to close the door and waited.
Hermione glanced at his cautiously neutral expression through the mirror. “I’m sorry.” She sighed.
Draco took a single step towards her. “Forgiven,” he said. “Although I have a feeling that I owe you an apology as well, though I’m not sure what for.”
She turned on her heel, the cauldron of emotions bubbling over once again. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
He inclined his head, motioning her to explain.
“You called me the ‘love of your life’.” She laughed—a hollow sound. “I know you want us to play the happy couple in front of your mother, but that was a bit too far—”
“You’re upset,” he said, wonder growing in his tone, “because of that ?”
She threw her hands up, exasperated. “In front of the whole damned room! It might have been okay if it was just your mother, but all of our friends were there, too. And my parents—my parents , Draco!” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You didn’t have to try and sell them on such a monumental lie.”
His expression morphed from wonder to shock. And then he did something she least expected—he threw his head back and laughed. He guffawed until he was doubled over, leaning against a post on her bed for support.
Despite herself, the sound of his laughter eased the tension in her shoulders. “Funny, am I?” she asked dryly.
“Oh, Granger,” he chortled. “If I didn’t have such an ingrained fear of your right hook, I’d dare to say how incredibly thick you’re being right now.”
“And yet…” she warned.
Draco straightened up, wiping the tears of laughter from under his eyes. When he settled down, he gazed at her squarely. “If I said I meant it, what would you do?”
“Berate you for saying such a lie.”
Slowly, he closed the distance between them. As he came closer, the mirth in his eyes altered into something more...heated. It charged the atmosphere and turned all of Hermione’s senses up full blast. “And then?” he drawled.
“Slap you on the wrist for good measure,” she responded, although the air seemed to be getting thin with his looming presence.
His hands reached up to her shoulders, sliding down the bare skin of her arms until they settled on her hips. “And after that?” he whispered, pulling her towards him until there was little space between their bodies.
The last of her breath left in a shallow sigh. His lips were at the level of her eyes, and it was all she could see. “Kiss you,” she said. Her tongue darted out to wet her own lips, unbidden. “Kiss you until you did mean it.”
“I think you’ll find,”—he leaned down until a hair’s breadth separated his lips from her own—”that I won’t take much convincing.”