Some Things Change

That Friday they ended up getting Chinese takeaway instead of eating at the restaurant. They went to Hermione’s apartment, to Draco’s displeasure. He’d never been inside, but couldn’t imagine there would be much to it.

He wasn’t wrong. Her flat was about a third of the size of Draco’s own suites at Malfoy Manor. Hermione put her keys in a small bowl on a table by the entrance. She hung their coats and put her briefcase and purse of the kitchen table.

A place for everything and everything in its place, he thought with a mental smirk, watching her get plates and cutlery for their dinner.

They sat in the living room to eat, with Hermione mentioning that she rarely ate at the dinner table, a throwback to her youth when she and her parents always ate in front of the television.

“So, where do you put all your stuff?” Draco asked innocently, only half joking. This place really was tiny.

“What do you mean? My priceless statues and artifacts, my multiple trousseaus and wardrobes, or my endless collection of Louis XIV furniture?” Hermione answered, just as innocently, scooping a delicate forkful of rice into her mouth.

“All of the above, I suppose. I’m just saying, your apartment is a little on the… petite side.”

“Draco, you live with your parents!” she exclaimed incredulously.

“What on earth does that have to do with the size of your place?” Draco was truly confused.

“You’re mocking me for having a small flat, which I furnished and pay for myself, on time, every month, while you live under your parents’ roof, and probably will for the rest of your life!”

“Well, well, the claws come out, eh Granger? All Pureblood families live under the same roof until the kids are married, and even then, most still do. It only makes sense, there’s more than enough room,” he looked at her pointedly, “And I’ll just be moving back there one day anyway, when the Manor is mine.”

“So you don’t see anything strange about living with your folks and continuing to do so?”

“It’s not like we ever see each other anyway. My dad works long hours, and keeps mostly to his rooms, his study, and the library. We’ve gone weeks without even bumping into one another.”

Hermione had to concede that they obviously lived in different worlds. She loved her place, loved that it was all hers, and she worked hard to make it home. Draco loved that he didn’t have to do that. But she noticed he only mentioned his father and not Narcissa.

“Draco…” she began hesitantly, uncertain if the topic was verboten. “Does your mom still live at the Manor with you and your dad?”

Draco shrugged, sensing her discomfort. “No, she lives in Italy. She left my Father not long after the war ended. It’s better this way.” He shrugged again, and Hermione could tell he was a little sensitive about the subject, so she dropped it.

“So your dad tried to make me feel better about that colossal budget coup the other day.”

“Did he now? That’s unlike him.”

“I thought so too! But he was quite sweet, calling us all cogs in the machine.” She giggled at the memory; it had been so out of character for the cold and ruthless Malfoy. Draco didn’t respond, only looked thoughtful, and Hermione wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. She was more conscious of her words these days, aware that she was sometimes a little cutthroat with them, and for some reason, she didn’t want to drive Draco away.

They finished up with their dinner, and Hermione told herself not to talk about Draco’s parents, since they seemed to be a bit of a sore spot with him.

She tried to make him go over a proposal she’d written for a client, but he would have none of it. He told her to put it away; they were on a date for goodness’ sake.

This led ever-suave Hermione to ask, “Are we dating, then?”

Draco cocked his head to the side, wondering what she wanted to hear. He decided to answer honestly.

“If you want to be.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to think. She looked at Draco long and hard, and he met her scrutinizing gaze unflinchingly.

“I’ll think about it,” she promised. She did want to date him, but needed more time to ease herself into the idea of going steady with her erstwhile enemy. It was disconcerting, but at the same time, thrilling.

When the evening wound to a close, and there was nothing else to conceivably do within the confines of her apartment, she told him they should call it a night. Ever the gentleman, Draco agreed and let her walk him to the door.

He stopped in front of it and turned to her, capturing her hands in his.

“I had fun tonight, Granger. But next time we go to my house,” he winked salaciously, and she snorted.

“You’re on.”

Hermione looked at their clasped hands, reveling in the strong warmth of his touch. His hands were surprisingly rough for a Pureblood, she thought somewhat unkindly. She looked up at him, drawn in by the molten silver of his gaze. Before she knew what she was doing, she stepped up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips gently against his. She held the kiss for a second, and fell back on the heels of her feet. She blushed, and couldn’t look at him. She felt about twelve years old.

Draco grinned at her cute display, wondering if everything about her was as innocent as her kisses. Needing to find out, he put both hands on her face and tilted it up to meet his. He met her eyes, giving her a silent warning of what he intended to do. Her gaze darkened, and his lips descended. His kiss was soft at first, searching. But he tilted his head, tipping hers farther back, and pressed harder against her, demanding entrance to her mouth. She relented, and Draco plunged his tongue into her mouth, wasting no time. She made the most delicious whimpering sound. Draco caressed her mouth with his tongue, nipping at her lower lip before drawing it into his mouth. He licked at her lips, and her tongue grazed his ever so slightly. He ended the kiss by pulling on her lower lip with his teeth gently.

Their foreheads touching, the couple breathed heavily as they regained their senses. Draco bussed her lips once more, before slipping out the front door, leaving her standing there, hand to mouth, wondering where the heck that had come from.


Lucius was pacing his study again. He was beyond annoyed at himself, and he deserved every moment of his self-reproach.

He should never have even spoken to her; his son had staked his claim, and that should have been enough. But Lucius was never one to bow out gracefully; no, he usually fought until the bitter end, often continuing even after the battle was lost.

His annoying propensity for tenacity was sure to be the death of him. He only hoped it wasn’t at his son’s hand, if he ever realized what was going through Lucius’ thoughts at the moment. He’d rarely cared about anyone else in his life: Narcissa once, and Draco. That was it. Now Draco was the sole recipient of his loyalty, if it could be called such at this point. Draco’s opinion was the only one that mattered, and yet Lucius was the epitome of disloyalty at this moment.

He was abhorrent.

He wanted Hermione Granger. Wanted her like air, like a flawless reputation, like priceless jewels. Wanted her like life. She was passion, effervescence, vivacity. She was simply lovely, and he wanted her.

But the worst part was his magic wanted her. He hadn’t experienced such a disruption in his magical force since he’d first met Narcissa, and even then, it had lasted a week before it dissipated completely, never to return. He only hoped this current problem would last only that long. But something told him he’d be erroneous to assume that.

When he was around her, he was drawn to her; she pulled him in. Her scent, her force. His magic wanted her magic. It was undeniable. When he was near her, his magic fairly crackled. He’d hardly been able to contain it when in the elevator with her after her presentation. It had taken all his considerable self-control to reign himself in and not fuck her against the elevator wall, letting their magic claim them in a firework frenzy, exploding in sweet and violent ecstasy.

But she was his son’s. There was no way Lucius would ever jeopardize the new rapport he shared with his son, the newfound trust Draco had in him, perhaps undeserved. He wanted his son to respect him, to love him. That would never continue if Lucius tried to steal Hermione from him; and it wasn’t even certain that she would be amenable to his advances. It was possible she didn’t feel the same pull; she hadn’t acted as though she felt anything, except for a brief stuttering during her speech.

It could be that his magic was just going haywire, and it had nothing to do with her. It could be that it was a total fluke and would never occur again. It could be that house elves stole his real wand, replaced it with a faulty one in a bid to render him useless, take over Malfoy Manor and then the world at large.

All options were equally viable at this point.

All Lucius knew, all he needed to know, was that Hermione was off limits to him, and would be until Draco was no longer interested, and even then, he would have to ask his son (in a way that did not sound like a request at all, of course). But Lucius knew his son had changed, and suspected he genuinely cared for Hermione, which was all he could want for his son. Draco deserved happiness more than he himself did, after all. Draco had not made such glaring mistakes.

He owed Draco this much and more.

But all the self-delusion in the world could not change the fact that when he saw Hermione Granger, his body and his magic reacted to her in such an intense way, he truly did not know how long he could retrain himself. Or how long he would want to.