The invitation

Hermione was still reeling from this morning's absurd encounter with Malfoy—or Mephistopheles himself, as she had so aptly decided to rename him, because really, who else could single-handedly ruin her life with such effortless precision? The sheer irony of it all made her want to laugh, but only the kind of laugh that ended in a breakdown, a fire, or possibly both.

As she got ready for work, her thoughts churned in a relentless storm of disbelief and fury. Malfoy. Of all the people in the world, of all the miserable, self-important, smug-faced bastards she could have been shackled to, it had to be him. The idea of marrying into the Malfoy family—a family that had once stood behind Voldemort and watched as she was tortured on their bloody floor—was enough to make her physically ill.

Still, life didn't stop for existential crises, and she wasn't about to let this complete and utter farce turn her into some weepy, helpless damsel. With the kind of rigid composure that had carried her through far worse, she dressed, fixed her hair, and made herself look as presentable as possible, if only to convince herself that she had even an ounce of control over her life.

The Ministry atrium was already alive with its usual chaos when she arrived, a blur of robes and clipped conversations, the clatter of heels on marble blending with the hum of early-morning bureaucracy. Hermione wove through the crowd with purpose, ignoring the way her pulse thrummed with lingering irritation.

She stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and as the doors slid shut, she was left alone with nothing but her own reflection in the mirrored enclosure.

The ride was brief but felt like an eternity, each second stretching uncomfortably long as she studied her own face—a mixture of frustration, exhaustion, and the kind of determination that bordered on sheer stubbornness. She refused to let this marriage consume her, refused to let Malfoy, of all people, become the axis around which her life now revolved. The Ministry was still a political battlefield, wizarding Britain still fragile in its so-called "recovery," and she had work to do—real work, not this circus act of forced matrimony.

The elevator doors slid open, spilling her into the bustling heart of D.R.M.C., the familiar hum of activity washing over her. She greeted her colleagues with brisk nods, already pushing thoughts of Malfoy to the farthest corners of her mind as she strode toward her office, her brain automatically switching to the day's priorities.

Sinking into her chair, she let out a slow breath and reached for the first of many files cluttering her desk, determined to lose herself in the steady, logical rhythm of work.

Unfortunately, fate was not known for its generosity, and today would prove no exception. Because the universe, in its infinite cruelty, was not even close to being done with her yet.

"Good morning, Pam," Hermione said in a voice far too high-pitched to be genuine, but she was trying to be civil, damn it.

Pam Beesly, longtime receptionist, administrator, and unspoken queen of Ministry gossip, had been working under Kingsley Shacklebolt for years. The will-they-won't-they tension between them was a favorite topic among employees, a whispered office romance that had yet to materialize into anything official. It was honestly endearing, watching Kingsley linger just a little too long at her desk or drop by under the flimsiest excuses. A man could run a government but couldn't ask out his own secretary? Classic.

"Good morning, Ms. Granger," Pam greeted, her voice warm but heavy with sympathy. "Condolences."

"Thank you so much, Pam, it means the world," Hermione said with an overly sweet smile before letting her expression sharpen just a fraction. "But really, no need to feel sorry for me. After all, I'm simply being forcibly shackled to Draco Malfoy by order of your boyfriend. Nothing more to discuss."

Pam's eyes went wide. That landed.

"I… I had no idea," she stammered, looking genuinely shaken. "I can't believe Kingsley would—"

"Oh, believe it," she cut in, her tone edged with exhaustion. "The Ministry is calling it a 'new law for unity and reconciliation'—which is a very diplomatic way of saying they're forcing pure-bloods and war heroes to repopulate the wizarding world like we're a bunch of bloody breeding stock. Apparently, pairing me with Malfoy is meant to heal wounds and foster unity."

Pam's brow furrowed, clearly trying to process the insanity of it all. "But… you and Malfoy?" she asked carefully, like she was afraid the sheer mention of his name might set her off.

Hermione let out a humorless laugh. "Yes, me and the devil himself, walking side by side into holy matrimony," she deadpanned, voice dripping with bitterness and disbelief. "Not exactly how I pictured my future."

"I can only imagine," Pam said softly, reaching across the desk to give her hand a supportive squeeze.

Hermione mustered a small, weary smile. "Thanks, Pam," she said sincerely, squeezing back. "I appreciate the support, but please—keep your pity. I have enough of my own."

Pam hesitated, then offered, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

She exhaled, shaking her head. "Not unless you can rewrite legislation or Obliviate me into forgetting this is happening."

Pam winced in sympathy. "I'd do both if I could."

She huffed out a small, dry laugh. "I know."

Pam gave her one last encouraging smile. "Well, if you need someone to vent to—or an escape plan—you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Pam," she said, feeling a flicker of gratitude beneath the storm raging in her mind.

Pam stood, smoothing out her robes, offering one last hopeful glance. "Maybe… maybe things will turn out better than you expect."

Hermione seriously doubted that, but she just nodded, her thoughts already spiraling toward the utter disaster ahead.

How far can she run before she finds herself in Azkaban for murder. A girl can only dream.

By lunchtime, a beautiful silver envelope arrived at her desk, adorned with a monogram—DLM. Judging by the color and aristocratic style, it was obvious that the letter was from Malfoy.

Dear Granger,

I hope this letter finds you well. I know this situation is far from ideal for either of us, but I would like to extend an invitation for tea tomorrow afternoon at my home, so we can discuss the terms of our marriage contract in a way that feels fair to both of us.

Please let me know what time would be most convenient for you—I'll make sure everything is arranged accordingly.

Looking forward to our conversation.

Yours,

DLM

Hermione was, quite literally, shook.

Malfoy's letter sat on her desk like some cursed artifact, its elegant silver envelope still in her hand, taunting her with its absurdity. To my home? Was he out of his pureblooded, entitled, aristocratic mind? There was no reality in which she would willingly step foot in Malfoy Manor again—none.

Her stomach twisted at the thought. The invitation had been unexpected, but the idea of discussing their forced marriage contract in a place she had once feared, despised, and bled in made her skin crawl. The war was over, the world had moved on, but some ghosts refused to be exorcized.

Refusing outright wasn't an option, not unless she wanted to spark some ridiculous diplomatic scandal over tea and biscuits, but she wasn't about to let Malfoy dictate the terms of their legally mandated hellscape either.

With a steadying breath, she picked up her quill and scrawled her reply.

Malfoy,

Thank you for your invitation. However, I must insist we meet in a neutral location. The Leaky Cauldron, perhaps? Tomorrow afternoon will work for me. Please let me know if this arrangement suits you.

Sincerely,

Hermione Jean Granger

She sealed the letter and called for an owl, watching as it disappeared into the afternoon sky. The moment the envelope was out of sight, she exhaled, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. Good. She had set a boundary. She was not going to let Malfoy control the narrative—not if she could help it.

But her relief was short-lived.

Exactly sixteen minutes later, to her absolute horror, the same silver envelope reappeared on her desk, looking entirely too smug for an inanimate object. She glared at it, silently debating if setting it on fire would be a productive use of her lunch break.

With great reluctance, she tore it open, already bracing for whatever nonsense he had written this time.

Dear Granger,

I must apologize—I hadn't realized you were aware of my relocation. However, I no longer live at Malfoy Manor.

I understand your hesitation, and I assure you that my home is no longer tied to the ghosts of the past. I've had my own penthouse in Central London for years now, and I would truly like for you to visit so you can become familiar with your new home.

Also, please let me know if blueberry scones are still your preferred pastry so I can have some ready to welcome you.

P.S. You weren't the only one paying attention to how you took your coffee or what foods you liked when we were at school.

P.P.S. If you're wondering—I do not have any house-elves in our home, in case that was a concern.

Yours,

DLM

Hermione stared at the letter. Then stared harder. Her brain short-circuited somewhere between familiar with your new home and you weren't the only one paying attention.

For a long moment, she just sat there, blinking, her emotions caught somewhere between disbelief, annoyance, and an uninvited flicker of something else entirely.

What. The. Fuck.

A very, very small part of her was begrudgingly touched by his consideration—but let's be clear, this was still Malfoy. The devil in a well-tailored suit, a man who had spent years making her life hell, and now he was casually dropping our home into conversation like they were some newly engaged couple picking out china patterns.

She took a slow, steadying breath, shoving aside whatever dangerously confusing emotions were creeping in, before dipping her quill into ink and composing

Malfoy,

Thank you for clarifying your current residence. I appreciate your understanding of my concerns.

I am willing to meet at your penthouse in Central London if that would be more convenient for you. Tomorrow at six in the afternoon works for me.

P.S. Yes, blueberry scones are still my favorite.

Sincerely,

Hermione Jean Granger

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unfortunately the next day, at 5:54 PM sharp, Hermione found herself standing in front of the full-length mirror in her office, next to the fireplace, fidgeting like an idiot as she gave herself one last once-over. She had no idea why she cared about looking presentable for what she had sarcastically dubbed "a meeting with Beelzebub himself." She didn't want to see Malfoy, had no desire to entertain whatever theatrics he had planned, and yet here she was, checking her reflection like some nervous debutante.

Her own eyes stared back at her, wide, uncertain, and deeply unamused. Her usually wild curls had been tamed into something resembling order, her simple blue dress was perfectly fine, and yet she kept fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve, her fingers betraying the nerves she refused to acknowledge.

At 5:59 PM, before she could spiral any further, she squared her shoulders, inhaled sharply, and stepped into the Floo Network.

A second later, she was on her way to her new "home."

Brushing the lingering traces of Floo powder from her dress, Hermione barely had a second to orient herself before she noticed Draco Malfoy standing directly in front of her. The room—which she assumed was the living area—was warm and softly lit, a stark contrast to the tension coiled tight in her chest.

"Good afternoon," he blurted out immediately, the words coming a bit too fast, a bit too awkward, and—*or a fleeting second—he actually looked shy.

Hermione arched a brow but kept her expression carefully neutral. "Good afternoon to you too," she replied smoothly, ignoring the way her nerves coiled tighter.

"Welcome to our home," he continued, his voice more controlled now, but those two little words made her bristle.

Our home. Merlin's bloody beard, he needed to stop saying that.

There was no our home, no our anything. She had no desire to share space with him, let alone a life, and the mere suggestion made her skin itch. But she swallowed the urge to snap and instead forced herself to nod. "Thank you, Malfoy. It looks… beautiful."

Beautiful was an understatement. Breathtaking would have been more accurate. The penthouse was elegant in a way that felt both effortless and expensive, a blend of modern design and rich, artistic touches that screamed old money and annoyingly good taste. She refused to be impressed, but the part of her that loved architecture and design had to admit—he had done well.

Malfoy gestured toward a separate room. "Shall we?"

She followed him into what could only be described as a tea room, because apparently, one needed a separate room just for tea when one was obscenely wealthy. The space was absurdly well-stocked—and clearly over-prepared.

She eyed the veritable shrine to blueberries on the table, lips twitching despite herself. He had gone wild—blueberry scones, blueberry tarts, blueberry muffins, and at least two different varieties of blueberry jam. It was ridiculous.

"Thank you so much for the… blueberry everything," she said, the corners of her mouth quirking into something dangerously close to amusement.

He shrugged, but there was something genuine in his expression. "It's my pleasure. And thank you for coming," he added, his tone surprisingly sincere, before reaching into his robes and pulling out a scroll so thick it might as well have been a weapon.

"I'd like to present you with our marriage contract, if you don't mind," he said, setting the monstrosity in front of her.

Hermione stared. That thing had chapters.

With a slow, steadying breath, she unrolled the scroll, her eyes scanning the meticulously detailed clauses. Financial arrangements, legal obligations, living accommodations, even an entire section outlining expectations for potential children—her head spun as she tried to process the sheer enormity of what was being laid out before her.

The room was silent save for the sound of parchment shifting as she turned the pages, but she could feel his gaze on her—steady, unreadable.

She had known this was coming, had braced herself for it, and yet reading it in black and white made it all feel horrifyingly real.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally set the scroll down and met his eyes, her expression guarded, but resigned.

"Well," she said, her voice carefully measured. "This is… thorough."

He nodded, his gaze locked onto hers, searching, measuring, as if trying to predict how badly she was about to react. "It's a legal requirement under the new Marriage Law," he explained, his voice even, too even, like he was bracing himself. "I'm open to discussing any concerns you might have."

She hesitated, her fingers tightening against the parchment as she fought to keep her emotions in check. "I understand," she said finally, her voice clipped. "I do have a few questions…"

She drew in a steadying breath, her heart pounding in her chest. "Why do we have to live together?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady, though curiosity and suspicion laced every syllable.

He held her gaze, his silver eyes unwavering, filled with something dangerously close to resignation. "Because there will be a soul bond ceremony as part of the wedding," he said, the words smooth, matter-of-fact, completely detached from the horror they carried.

She felt the breath leave her lungs like she'd been hit with a Bludger.

"A soul bond?" she repeated, voice rising in pitch, before pure, unfiltered rage flooded through her. "Malfoy, what the actual fuck are you on about?"

She shot up from her chair so fast it nearly tipped over. "I do not want a soul bond with you. I do not want any bond with you. I don't want to live with you, and I certainly do not want to procreate with you! Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

Malfoy's jaw clenched, and for a second, she saw it—the flicker of frustration, exasperation, something dangerously close to panic beneath the carefully controlled mask he wore. "It's not what you think, Granger," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, but she could hear it, the thinly veiled tension, the way he was barely holding himself together. "But yes—it is mandatory to have a child within three years of marriage, and I do not particularly wish to spend my life in Azkaban."

Her head spun.

"A soul bond is a magical contract required by the Ministry in cases like ours," Malfoy continued, his voice edged with something bitter, as if he hated every word leaving his mouth. "It's meant to ensure the stability and longevity of the marriage, to—"

"To what? Force us into a relationship we never wanted?" she snapped, her voice trembling with rage and disbelief, her breath coming too fast, too shallow. "I cannot believe you would just accept this!"

He exhaled harshly, running a shaky hand through his platinum hair, the first real sign of his own unraveling. "It's not like I had a choice, Granger," he said, voice low and tight, his frustration starting to crack through his carefully crafted composure. "This marriage is mandatory, and the soul bond is non-negotiable. We either comply or face consequences that I highly doubt either of us are prepared for."

She stared at him, disbelieving, her mind racing through every law she had ever studied, every precedent she had ever read about, searching for a loophole, a way out, anything—but nothing came. Nothing except the cold, inescapable truth.

"A soul bond ceremony," she whispered, almost to herself, the words tasting like poison on her tongue. "It's not a ceremony—it's a life sentence. We will never be rid of each other."

And that realization? That was the part that broke her.

The idea of being tied to him, bound to him, linked in a way that even death might not undo—it made her feel sick.

"Well, I refuse to comply," she spat, her eyes blazing. "I won't be forced into this. I won't let the Ministry dictate my life, my future, my—everything."

His eyes darkened, something unreadable passing through them before his expression softened just slightly, his voice quieter now. "I understand how you feel. Believe me, I do," he said, and for the first time, there was something real in his voice—something raw, something broken. "But we're in this together. If we don't comply, we could lose our wands, be imprisoned, or… worse."

That was it. That was her breaking point.

The rage that had been bubbling under her skin erupted, wild and uncontrollable.

"I DON'T WANT TO BE BOUND TO YOU FOR LIFE!" she screamed, her voice reverberating through the penthouse, raw and unfiltered, every ounce of her fury crashing down all at once.

Malfoy took a step back, blinking, clearly taken aback by the ferocity of it. But then, something shifted in his expression—not anger, not indignation, but something else. Something… searching.

"What happened to the girl?" she echoed, her voice trembling with a rage so deep it shook her to the core. Then, in one breath—one brutal, unforgiving breath—she let the truth tear itself from her throat like a curse.

"THE GIRL YOU KNEW DIED ON YOUR DRAWING ROOM FLOOR."

The words slammed into Malfoy like a physical blow.

For one agonizing moment, the entire world seemed to stop, the weight of her words suffocating. Malfoy stood frozen, his silver eyes wide, his breath caught in his chest as memory—vicious, merciless memory—dragged him under.

The screaming. Her screaming.

The gleam of Bellatrix's knife.

Blood on marble, her blood, staining the very floor his family had once walked across like gods.

Her body writhing in pain, her voice hoarse from screaming his name—his fucking name.

And he had done nothing.

He had stood there.

Malfoy barely registered the shatter of porcelain as Hermione pushed up from the table so violently that a teacup crashed to the floor, splitting into jagged shards. She didn't flinch, didn't look down, just stared at him like he was something lower than filth, something not even worth hating anymore.

And that destroyed him.

Her chest heaved with the force of her anger, but beneath it—beneath the fury and the fire—was something darker. Something broken. Something she would never, ever forgive.

She turned on her heel, strides unforgiving as she stormed toward the Floo.

"Granger—" His voice cracked, but she didn't stop.

She grabbed a handful of Floo powder, her hands trembling, her knuckles white, her tears burning tracks down her cheeks—not from sadness, but from the kind of rage that would never die.

"MINISTRY OF MAGIC!" she screamed, hurling the powder into the flames, her voice shaking with all the fury, all the grief, all the things she had never said.

And then she was gone.

The emerald flames swallowed her whole, and Malfoy remained rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space where she had stood, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted to escape.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his breath coming uneven, sharp, wrong.

The image of her face—that look in her eyes, that look that told him she saw him as nothing but a reminder of her worst nightmare—ripped through him like a blade.

He swallowed hard, forced his body to move, but the tension in his shoulders felt like iron chains.

Then, with a sharp, silent crack, he Apparated.