Make Damn Sure

Oh my soymilk, twenty-six reviews! Thanks everyone for reading and taking the time to review.
Also, thanks very much for giving me some grammar pointers. (Anon and Kimmi) I am beta-less and I’m relying more on how it looks and sounds like instead of the technicalities. Which… isn’t so great.
Thanks everyone for asking for more. Reviews really do feed the writer. x’D
Also, reading over the first chapter about ten million more times, I do agree (with Donovan) that they are really out of canon. I hope the next chapter and the following ones will give me the room to help bring out their old personality, and if not, explore new ones and sustain them so that they are more believable.
Also very many thanks to mona! I didn’t catch that mistake at all and I’m so glad you pointed that out to me! Heh, what a careless mistake.
I’ve had this plot bunny bouncing around my brain for a while now and couldn’t help but write it out. I guess being such a newbie, I posted it on the same day with no beta and the first chapter is extremely raw. I hope everyone will bear with me and I really will get better! I promise!
Alsoooo, about that little bit with Draco’s grandfather dying of Dragon Pox. Thank you so much for catching that, kazfeist. I had a small inkling of an idea before with something do with his grandfather’s help and that reminder is now a wonderful, glorious bridge from outrageous to convincible!
Yeah, I’ve been eating chocolate. ~_______~
Well enough of me, on with the story!


“Can you hear me now? Good.”

There was a muffled groan and two amber eyes peeped over a fluffy pillow.

“Can you hear me now? Good.”

A cream-colored hand felt around the cabinet next to the bed and finding it’s target, slammed down on the radio alarm.

“Can you—“

“Good,” Hermione muttered and squinted out the window. Her room was painted with soft pastel colors. There were crevices in the walls and if one touched it, they would feel stone. This was her sanctuary, her home, her hiding place. This was where she cried, laughed, screamed.

Stretching, the young witch yawned and got blearily out of bed. Trudging to her closet, she paused to peer at herself in the mirror. A slender woman with bed-hair blinked back at her. She had soft curves, none of that bouncy nonsense that Lavender was cursed with. It seemed as if Ron couldn’t get enough of it though. Shaking her head, Hermione proceeded into the walk-in closet.

7:00 am. Breakfast.

Hermione had thought about doing something with her hair but decided against it. Malfoy just simply wasn’t worth the effort. Spooning her cereal with more force than necessary, she allowed her thoughts to drift back to last night.

Two minutes of silence passed after Draco left, save for the minute cackling of him in The Daily Prophet. Instead of going for her wand, Hermione yanked open the kitchen cabinet and chopped at it with her chef’s knife.

Hearing the dull thunks of metal hitting wood, Harry opened the door so that a sliver of it opened. Peeping through, he winced as he watched Hermione mutilate the paper. Ron was mouthing rubbish in awe and was going to be no help at all. Pushing the door slowly, Harry walked slowly to Hermione. The chopping stopped when he reached three feet away from her.

“I’m okay,” she said, voice devoid of any tears although it sounded as if she had a very bad cold, “I’m fine. Just leave me alone please.”

Harry reached out to her but decided against it and let his hand fall to his side.

After both wizards left, Hermione sank into a chair.

That sudden outburst of sobbing sapped her energy and she felt light-headed and dizzy. She wasn’t going to cry anymore. Three years. Just three more years and she could go back to her life.

Dropping the knife into the sink, Hermione whisked away the pieces of the Prophet and mended the plates. It was a mundane task and she cleaned up without thinking. She wasn’t even there.

A few hours later, Hermione was in the right mind to call into her office to say that she was going to take a day off. No one would argue with her, she rarely went off on vacations and never called in sick. To her surprise and dismay, the secretary squealed at Hermione’s ‘hello’. She was then showered with congratulations and begged to sign an autograph for everyone at the office and lab. Her alarm grew when Hermione’s secretary finally got around to giving her the news that ‘His Majesty’ already checked ‘Her Majesty’ out.

She slammed the phone down but the surge of anger quickly ebbed away. It wasn’t because she was curious to know how Draco’s life was. It wasn’t because deep down inside, she couldn’t believe her luck.

“Misfortune,” Hermione said abruptly, “I’m fucking screwed. This isn’t a good thing.”

It was also the money that pulled her in. Not that she was greedy or wanted it, but there were problems at home. Big problems.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t the only one she tried to avoid.

Hermione went through her checklist:

6:55 a.m. – Wake up, get dressed. Check.
7:00 a.m. – Eat, brush teeth. Check.
7:10 a.m. – Brush hair. Trying.
7:20 a.m. – (I really need to get some better conditioner) Check appearance over again. Check.
7:25 a.m. – Resist locking the door. Resist putting knives in the fireplace. Check.
7:27 a.m. – Swallow down some coffee. Check.
7:30 a.m. – Stay away from throw able things. Not possible.

Nervously smoothing down her power suit and patting the bun that held her medusa hair together, Hermione stood in front of the door, her heels clicking against the tile. She had slathered on some makeup and then washed it off when thought about what Draco’s face would look like when he saw her. A light sheen of lip-gloss and a small amount of eyeliner was all she could allow herself. It wasn’t as if anything Hermione put on would make a difference.

7:30 a.m.

The doorbell rang.

Hermione lurched towards the door, her heart thumping as she turned the doorknob. She had to instantly step back at the sight that met her horrified eyes.

Draco Malfoy was standing on her doorstep wearing a designer Muggle suit, with not a wizard robe in sight. He stood there; tapping his (shiny) black shoes and looked at her impatiently.

“Granger,” He snapped, “I don’t have the time to play your little Muggle games with you right now. Get out of the damn house and get in the car.”

Hermione was hanging onto the door in amazement at his appearance. She knew that (most) men always looked good in tuxes but this wasn’t fair! She coughed and straightened her back, opening the door fully.

Draco’s eyebrows flew into his hairline. “What the hell are you wearing?” He asked, aghast. Hermione shifted her weight from foot to foot and stared at the ground, cowed already by this failure. He shook his head and beckoned her into a simple, black car. Not only were the windows tinted, but also four men in sunglasses surrounded the vehicle. It was like… the Secret Service or something.

Which Hermione voiced out loud.

Draco just stared at her. “I’m not even going to ask.” He muttered and pushed her into the car. Slamming the door, he walked around and entered from the other side. The four bodyguards got into four separate similar looking vehicles and followed.

“We’re going to have to make a small detour,” He called to the chauffer, “Bring us to the nearest wizarding shopping town, if you please.”

Hermione looked at him with renewed hate and crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong with my outfit?” she demanded.

“It’s horrible and makes you look twenty years older. Dull, not the least interesting, and it doesn’t flatter you at all. Do you try to look so bad?”

Stung by his answer, Hermione bit her lip and turned away from him, and decided that the window was yet again her only savior.

Suddenly, her head was yanked back as Draco pulled on her bun.

“Ow! Shit, Malfoy! What the hell are you doing?” she cried, holding onto her precious hair.

“Just shut up,” He retorted and yanked the hair bands and bobby pins out. “We’re going to have to put you into a salon too. Merlin, do you even use conditioner?”

Grabbing her hair accessories from his hand, she raked a hand through her hair and shook out her curls.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Many, if you must know the truth!”

Draco smirked and pulled out a comb from his shirt pocket.

“Don’t you dare,” Hermione edged away from him, eyes open in fear and her hands covering her head, “Get away from my hair you brute!”
“I would.” Draco bared his fang-like teeth at her in a mischievous grin and brandished the comb like a wand.

“Wouldn’t!” Hermione’s cry was now a thin shrill and her head was pressed against the window.

Draco gave her a look that made her breath catch in a throat. It was the only warning she got before he attacked her.


The chauffeur winced as the car was filled with yelps and screams. He could even feel the car bumping from side to side. If he didn’t know better, the flurry of movement behind him sounded quite provocative. He chuckled.


“Please, seigneur,” A woman ushered them into a clothing store that could easily have been mistaken for a hotel. Well, at least to Hermione.

Draco shoved her in through the glass door and bowed his head politely to the woman. She curtseyed back and continued in a husky voice, “We are honored and pleased that you have chosen our store to meet your needs.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. Draco glanced at her and hastily strode off, towing her in front of him to the formal gowns. “Pick at least five that you like,” he ordered, spinning her around to the rack. “Not too showy but elegant enough to impress, show some shoulder but no sleeveless, and the hemline had better be under the knee.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed towards the Changing Section.

Hermione muttered mutinously under her breath, but she didn’t disagree with his standards. ‘His standards! More like his tyranny! I’m getting brainwashed already. ’


Draco plopped – no not plopped – sat on a cushion bench next to the Changing stalls. He rested his head on his hands and let out a long breath.

It wasn’t going to be easy. Granger was still the same boring, prissy, stick that he had always remembered. Of all people he had to be betrothed to, it had to be her.

If only… If only she hadn’t refused his proposal. She would do a much better job than the Mudblood. And best of all, he would care about her. The word ‘love’ was banished from his mind because he could not believe that he would be so weak as to give his heart to anyone other than himself. But she was like no other woman he had met. She was amazing, brilliant, stunning, exotic, and alluring.

And she had refused him.

Running his hands through his hair, Draco laughed mirthlessly. And now, he was stuck with the know-it-all Granger. He was rather surprised at her meekness in the morning, but he could see the dark circles under her eyes.

And he didn’t care one bit.

She had everything coming to her. Now, she was going to be shut up in a big, empty manor that would offer neither love, nor kindness. He’d have to put up with her and her dirtiness but it would be so worth the agony. It was the perfect punishment for ruining his life.

This time, Draco’s smile was genuine.

They went through twelve dresses that Hermione had picked, went back five, and then finally settled on a simple one with a corset that wreaked havoc on her waist. It was tight and bunched up her chest but it wasn’t revealing and the hemline reached her ankles. The dress flowed and the material was soft against her skin. Hermione could’ve danced in it if it wasn’t for the killer bodice. Oh, the color. How could she forget about the color.

The whole outfit was green with silver embroidery.

She narrowed her eyes at Draco. “Malfoy, I let you brush my hair, I let you marry me, I let you drag me out of my house. You think I’m going to wear Slytherin’s house colors?!”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, infuriated. She was standing in front of a five-way mirror and stared at Draco through the reflection. He stretched on the bench and looked very much like a very satisfied cat.

“Because my grandfather said so.”

“And I should care, because?”

His face contorted for a split second and her heart jumped. She shouldn’t be afraid of him but she couldn’t help it. Believe it or not, the ferret was intimidating. Not like she was going to show how nervous she was around him. She was Hermione Granger for gods’ sakes.

Confident, sarcastic, and fucking witty. Yup, she had a lot of work to do.

With all of this mulling in her mind, Hermione didn’t see Draco behind her until his hands ghosted onto her hips. She jumped, stumbling on the long hemline and squeaked as he applied more pressure.

“What the fuck?” She was too terrified to turn her head back to him and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was smirking, and her head was pressed against his hard chest, the warmth of his hands wreaking havoc on the butterflies exploding in her stomach. Hermione tried to wrench away from him, and he let out a small laugh, his hot, wet mouth pressed against her earlobe.

Again.

“I know everything about you, Granger.” He spoke slowly, his words slithering from under his tongue into her ear and straight down into the fire in her belly.

‘No,’ she thought, horror-stricken. ‘He couldn’t possibly know…’ Her brain was scrambling for facts, for insults she could pull and sling at him like spitballs. Instead, her nerves were afire and focused on his hands – Merlin, those hands! – that fit so well into the curve where waist met hip.

He laughed again and his eyes darted to meet hers in the mirror. Draco loved watching her squirm. He delighted in the way she twitched in his arms, like she was shedding her skin. He watched her chest rise up and down as she sucked in deep breaths, her whole body trembling under his.

He loved it.

Draco drank it in. The fear, the hatred, the look in her wide amber eyes. His tongue moved inside his mouth and slipped out, wetting his lips. He saw her eyes riveted to them as they shone, slick with his saliva. Her scent filled his nostrils every time he breathed in. She smelled like spring. Like dew, like unfulfilled rain in the air, fresh and sharp and a slap to his face.

Another chuckle rumbled through his chest. And then, to answer her earlier question, he spoke softly into her ear.

“I can save your father.”