The lions cave opening

Notes:

TW: Ronald Weasley.

I'm his number one hater. I'm not even sorry for that.

Hermione woke up to the comforting weight of Crookshanks curled beside her on the pillow, his purring a soothing vibration against her cheek. She scratched behind his ear absentmindedly, letting the rhythm of his steady breaths ground her as her mind flickered through the events of the previous evening. She had expected another cold, forced interaction with Malfoy, had braced herself for arrogance and tension, but instead… instead, he had been different.

The conversation they'd had still lingered in her mind—the quiet sincerity in his voice, the unguarded look in his eyes when he had told her he wanted to make this work. It unsettled her. She had spent years knowing exactly who Draco Malfoy was—spoiled, arrogant, cruel—and yet, that man hadn't been the one sitting across from her last night. That man wouldn't have taken her hand. That man wouldn't have looked at her like he was terrified of disappointing her.

And that was dangerous.

With a sigh, she stretched, forcing herself to shake off whatever strange spell Malfoy had managed to weave over her. It meant nothing. Just because he had some semblance of manners now didn't mean he was any less him.

With that thought firmly in mind, she got up, running through her usual morning routine—shower, tea, mentally preparing herself for another day of tolerating her impending doom. Except today was breakfast with Beelzebub, and for some reason, she had actually agreed to it.

Crooks followed her into the kitchen, curling around her legs as she made herself a quick drink before steeling herself for the day ahead.

"Alright," she muttered, exhaling sharply. "Time to tolerate a Malfoy before noon. Fantastic."

And with that, she Apparated.

She arrived in Malfoy penthouse to the scent of fresh coffee and—wait—toast? She blinked, momentarily thrown off by the entirely domestic scene before her. Malfoy, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, stood at the stove, cooking.

Cooking. Malfoy. Her brain short-circuited.

He turned at the sound of her arrival, glancing up from whatever he was stirring. "Granger." There was a hint of a smile, something that made him look far too human for her comfort. "You're just in time. I was starting to think you'd leave me to eat alone."

"Trust me," she muttered, taking in the alarming sight of him actually being competent in the kitchen. "The last thing I expected when agreeing to this was you playing house."

He smirked, flicking the stove off and turning toward her with an infuriating amount of ease. "What, did you think I survived off house-elves my entire life?"

She opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it.

He grinned like he had won a battle. "I had to learn how to cook at some point. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not entirely useless."

"That remains to be seen."

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he grabbed two plates and set them down on the table. "Tea?" he asked, gesturing toward the pot already waiting for her.

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you even know how I like my tea?"

Malfoy simply poured her a cup, added exactly the right amount of milk, stirred it once, and set it in front of her with a very smug expression.

Hermione stared at it. Then at him.

Then back at the perfectly made cup of tea.

"…How."

Malfoy smirked, leaning on the counter with obnoxious satisfaction. "I pay attention."

"That's deeply unsettling."

He let out a short chuckle and sat across from her, picking up his own cup. "And yet, here you are, drinking it anyway."

Hermione, to her absolute horror, realized that yes, she had already taken a sip without thinking.

She hated him. Deeply. Truly.

She took another sip.

They ate mostly in silence, the clinking of cutlery filling the air between them. It was strange—this thing between them, this inexplicable truce that had settled over their conversations. She wasn't used to it. She was used to bracing herself for him, for sharp words and condescending sneers, for the ever-present tension of their lifelong animosity. But here they were, having breakfast, discussing tea preferences, and somehow… it wasn't awful.

It was, in fact, tolerable.

"So," Malfoy said after a moment, setting his fork down. "I meant what I said last night."

Shelooked up at him, waiting.

"I want to try." His expression was unreadable, his fingers tapping lightly against the side of his mug. "I want us to try."

She studied him carefully, searching for any hint of deception, any indication that he was just saying what he thought she wanted to hear. But his face—for once—was open, honest.

"I do too," she admitted, the words foreign in her mouth. And yet, true. "I think… maybe we can figure this out."

Malfoy exhaled, something like relief flickering across his face before he nodded. "Yeah. One step at a time."

"One step at a time," she echoed, feeling the smallest, tiniest flicker of hope.

After breakfast, they cleaned up together, moving in surprisingly easy silence as they worked around each other in the kitchen. It was unsettling how quickly she had adjusted to being in his space—how familiar his home already felt.

"Would you like a tour?" he asked, motioning down the corridor.

She hesitated, then nodded. "That would be helpful."

She hadn't realized the penthouse was two stories high, nor that Malfoy had left entire rooms unfurnished—a choice that surprised her.

"This is my bedroom," he said as they walked past. "And yours is across from mine. I assumed you wouldn't want to share, so I had the guest rooms prepared."

Hermione blinked. "That's… oddly thoughtful of you."

He smirked. "I'm full of surprises."

They continued walking until they reached a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

"…And this," he said, with obvious satisfaction, "is the library."

She stared.

She stepped inside, running her fingers along the spines of first editions, her heart stuttering at the sheer volume of knowledge surrounding her.

"…It's beautiful," she murmured, almost in awe.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching her with a small smile. "I've been collecting since Hogwarts."

She turned to him, surprised at the softness in his voice.

He met her gaze. "Feel free to borrow whatever you want. I know you're a bit of a swot."

She laughed, the tension easing between them. "And you weren't?"

"I was studying you , Granger."

She froze.

He smirked.

And just like that, she walked straight into him, their bodies colliding in the narrow doorway as they both tried to exit at the same time. Her back met his chest, his warmth bleeding through the fabric of her dress, and her pulse jumped—hard, too hard.

Malfoy went stiff as a board. Not in the charming, effortless, play-it-cool Malfoy way. No. He froze. Completely.

His breath hitched so violently that it was almost pathetic, and for a horrifying second, it seemed as though his entire nervous system had short-circuited. His ears turned pink.

She felt it before she saw it—the slow, traitorous bloom of color creeping up from the collar of his shirt, staining the tips of his ears, the side of his neck, the sharp curve of his cheekbones.

"…Sorry," she murmured, clearing her throat as she tried to step away.

But he didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't function.

Malfoy stood there like an idiot, staring at the wall, blinking rapidly as if his brain was currently trying to reboot.

It was so ridiculous that she almost laughed.

He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing, hands clenched into fists at his sides as if he was physically restraining himself from touching her. His eyes darted everywhere except at her—at the floor, at the bookshelves, at the goddamned ceiling.

"No, it's… fine," he finally managed to choke out, except it wasn't fine at all. His voice cracked.

She blinked, unsure if she had imagined it.

Malfoy, utterly mortified, promptly turned an even deeper shade of red and took a full step back, hands stuffed into his pockets like a guilty schoolboy caught passing notes.

"I mean—right—yes, sorry, I should've moved—shouldn't have stood there like some kind of absolute—" He cut himself off, clearing his throat violently. "Right. Anyway."

She raised an eyebrow, slowly crossing her arms. "Are you blushing?"

Malfoy made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a strangled dying animal. "Absolutely not."

She smirked, because he absolutely was.

His eyes darted away again, refusing to meet hers.

"…Do you need to lie down, Malfoy?" she asked, mock-concerned. "You look a bit… feverish."

His lips parted as if to retort, but whatever Malfoy-esque comeback he had prepared died an immediate death in his throat. He huffed instead, exhaling sharply as if he were battling for his life. "I am fine," he gritted out.

She tilted her head. "Are you sure? Because your face is doing something very—"

"We're not discussing this."

Hermione grinned.

Malfoy huffed again, ears still red, jaw tightly clenched as he took a completely unnecessary step backward, as if more distance would make him less of a mess.

"Right. Well. This has been a disaster." He turned, nearly walking into the doorframe.

She bit her lip. Hard.

She wasn't sure what was more amusing—the fact that Draco Malfoy had just malfunctioned at full capacity, or the fact that he was still so completely, utterly, helplessly in love with her that he could barely survive standing too close.

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

Hermione's Sunday routine was sacred. It was supposed to be calm, structured, predictable. She was to arrive at Ginny's flat by noon, eat too many pastries, drink too much tea, and pray to every celestial deity that Harry and Ron wouldn't show up to ruin her day.

But not all prayers are answered.

The second she stepped out of the Floo Network, the first thing she saw was red.

And not just any red. Weasley Red. Plural.

Because of course.

There, in the middle of Ginny's living room, stood Ronald Bilius Weasley, in all his aggressively ginger, jaw-clenched, still-can't-tie-his-own-shoes-properly glory.

Next to him was Lavender Brown, who looked like she had just won the lottery and named her prize Ron's unfortunate middle name.

And beside them—oh, of course—was Harry, awkward and uncomfortable as ever, standing with his own 'I was forced into this' match, Cho Chang.

The room went silent.

Unbearably, painfully, 'Hermione would rather be anywhere else' silent.

Ginny, bless her, was the first to break the tension, her voice loud, bright, and aggressively cheery as if she could somehow overcompensate for the absolute disaster this brunch was about to become.

"Mione, babe, hello!" she said, her grin a little too forced. "Come on in, love!"

She swallowed the immediate urge to commit murder.

Her entire soul wanted to turn back, step back into the fireplace, and yeet herself directly into the void. But unfortunately, her body was already moving forward, traitorous thing that it was, carrying her toward the table where the world's most miserable double date had taken residence.

She forced a smile that felt so unnatural it probably made her look like she was plotting a mass homicide.

"Morning, everyone," she said, voice flat, emotionless, dead inside.

Ginny thrust a steaming cup of tea into her hands before she could even sit down, like an emergency sedative to prevent incoming violence.

She gripped it tightly, as if the warmth could somehow thaw the ice spreading through her veins.

"I didn't know they were coming," Ginny muttered under her breath, guilt evident in her voice.

And if she had, she would have stayed in bed, read a book, or drowned herself in the Black Lake. Anything but this.

As brunch progressed, the conversation was a trainwreck, an absolute exercise in forced civility and deeply buried hatred. The room was thick with tension, with stolen glances, passive-aggressive remarks, and the occasional, pointed scraping of cutlery against porcelain.

Hermione kept her gaze glued to her plate, violently stabbing at her food instead of stabbing Ron directly.

Ron, meanwhile, was doing the exact opposite.

He was loud, obnoxious, and trying way too hard to look like he wasn't watching her every move. Lavender was hanging off his arm, laughing a little too loudly at things that weren't remotely funny, and she wanted to peel her own skin off.

Then, inevitably, it happened.

Ron, never one for self-preservation, suddenly exploded.

His chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet, his face red—angry red, the Weasley kind of red that meant someone was about to get hexed.

She sighed. Because of course.

And then he did it. He spoke. "How could you, Hermione?"

She froze, every muscle in her body tensing.

Ron's voice was loud, sharp, accusing. He was seething, his hands clenched into fists, his jaw so tight it looked like he was actively chewing on his own rage.

"Marrying Malfoy of all people? Have you lost your mind?"

The room fell silent.

Hermione took a long, slow breath. She set her fork down with extreme care.

Then, she looked up. "Ron, it wasn't my choice," she said, voice dangerously calm.

Ron scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. "Choice or not, he's still a slimy, arrogant git!" he shouted, glaring at her like she had just betrayed him personally.

Her patience was already hanging by a thread.

"Oh, wow, what an insightful take, Ron. Tell me more about how my forced marriage is inconvenient for you."

But Ron was not done. "Do you have any idea what he's done? What his family has done?"

Hermione slammed her tea down.

"Yes, Ronald, I am aware. In fact, I was so painfully aware that I was there for all of it. Did you forget? I certainly haven't."

Ron's nostrils flared. "So what, you're just forgiving him? Letting him play house with you? Pretending like he's some great, reformed man?"

"People can change, Ron."

"He'll never change!"

"He's trying."

"You're defending him."

"Because I'm a fucking adult, Ronald. Try it sometime."

Ron snarled, his face twisting into something ugly. And then, with zero shame or self-awareness, he said—

"Are you getting off thinking about him fucking you in his Death Eater mask?"

The slap echoed. It was loud, visceral, and deeply satisfying.

Ron's head snapped to the side, his cheek instantly flaring red. His eyes widened in shock, then narrowed into pure fury.

Her voice was ice. "DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT EVER AGAIN."

The entire room held its breath.

Ron glared at her, his anger simmering into something that almost looked like shame.

Then, finally, he muttered, "I hope you know what you're doing, 'Mione."

And then he left.

A full minute of silence passed before Ginny cleared her throat, sipping her tea like nothing had happened.

"Well, that was absolute shite."

Lavender dabbed at her lips with a napkin, looking unbothered.

Cho nodded.

Harry sighed deeply.

She simply picked up her teacup again. "I need a fucking drink."

She should've put a collar on him ages ago.

The rest of brunch was an endurance test, filled with meaningless chatter that blurred into white noise, the occasional forced laugh punctuating the palpable discomfort. Hermione tuned most of it out, nodding at the right moments while she focused on drinking her tea as if it contained the last drops of sanity she had left. Lavender, ever the insufferable narrator of her own life, had embarked on yet another overly detailed recounting of her "soulful" travels, waxing poetic about sunsets in Santorini and the deep, mystical connection she had forged with the sea turtles in the Maldives. It was unbearable, not only because Hermione couldn't find a single shred of interest in whether or not Lavender's chakras had been realigned, but because she was expected to sit there and listen as if her own life hadn't just been uprooted and tossed into a cauldron of absolute hell.

She barely managed to hold back a sigh when Ginny's hand landed on her arm, the warmth grounding her for just a moment as her best friend leaned in, voice low with concern. "Are you alright?" The question was soft, meant just for her, but she could feel every pair of eyes at the table subtly flickering toward her, waiting for some kind of reaction. She forced a tight-lipped smile, one that didn't reach her eyes, knowing full well that it was unconvincing but unable to offer anything more. "I'm fine, Ginny," she murmured, voice clipped, fingers tightening just slightly around the rim of her teacup as she took another sip, pretending that the warmth could soothe away the dull ache Ron's words had left behind. "Just… a bit overwhelmed."

Ginny wasn't fooled for a second, her grip on Hermione's arm firm and reassuring, her sharp gaze burning with something close to fury. "It's okay not to be okay," she said, her voice steady, unwavering in its loyalty. "You've been thrown a bloody avada-level curveball, that's for sure, and Ron—well, Ronald can be a stubborn, thick-headed idiot at the best of times. He'll come around eventually, you'll see. And if he doesn't, then that's his problem, not yours. You are stronger than him, Hermione. And better."

Hermione met Ginny's gaze, something flickering deep in her chest at her words. The unwavering support, the sheer confidence Ginny had in her, it should have felt comforting, but all it did was reignite the slow-burning rage curling in her gut. She didn't want Ron to come around, didn't need his understanding, his reluctant forgiveness, his eventual smug reconciliation where he'd act like he was granting her some great mercy by deciding to accept her life choices. No, she was done with Ron's temper tantrums, done with his deluded hero complex that convinced him he had the right to dictate what was and wasn't acceptable in her life.

Her fingers itched for another sip of tea, but instead, she exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to stay calm. "I don't want him to come around," she admitted, her voice quieter this time, steadier, as she held Ginny's gaze. "I want him to stay exactly where he is—far, far away from me." Ginny's lips curled into the smallest smirk, her head tilting in approval. "Now that's the energy I like to hear. Merlin knows you deserve peace."

She let out something between a scoff and a breath of laughter, shaking her head, some of the tension melting away from her shoulders. "Peace? In this economy?" she muttered, taking a long, deliberate sip of tea as Ginny chuckled beside her, and for the first time that morning, the weight of everything didn't feel quite so suffocating.

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

She left Ginny's place in a whirlwind of frustration, her thoughts tangled in a web of irritation and lingering disbelief. The audacity of Ron's outburst, the sheer entitlement in his voice, as if he had any right to an opinion on her life after everything, made her stomach twist in resentment. Their relationship had ended years ago, yet he acted as if she'd personally chosen to ruin his existence by being forced into marriage with Malfoy. It wasn't just misplaced anger at the situation—it was something deeper, something festering, and she hated that a small part of her even bothered to dissect it.

Because what exactly was Ron so upset about? Was it the forced marriage itself, or was it who she was married to? Did it sting his fragile ego to see her in a position where she had no choice but to share a life with a man who would probably do everything better than he ever could? Someone who wouldn't sulk when she bested him in an argument, someone who wouldn't whine about her spending time at the Ministry, someone who wouldn't—oh, let's be honest, Hermione—leave her unsatisfied in every possible way? He never made her cum for Merlin's sake, and that was the real tragedy here.

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head as she willed the thought out of existence. There were far bigger problems in her life than Ron bloody Weasley's unresolved feelings. If he wanted to stew in his own rage, let him. She wasn't going to play therapist for his fragile male pride.

With a sharp crack, she Disapparated, the cold air rushing against her skin as she arrived outside her cottage. The tension in her body hadn't fully faded, but the familiar sight of home brought a sliver of relief—until she noticed a familiar silhouette perched at the window.

A dignified silver owl stared at her expectantly, the Malfoy crest gleaming elegantly on the envelope it carried.

She sighed, already exhausted. She should've known Malfoy wouldn't let her brood in peace.

Crossing the room, she unlatched the window, watching as the owl stepped inside with impeccable poise, extending its leg with an air of importance. Typical. Even his bloody owl had a superiority complex.

With a resigned huff, she untied the envelope, the cool, expensive parchment soft against her fingertips. Malfoy's handwriting, sharp and calculated, stared back at her.

Because, of course, this day just wasn't over yet.

She took the letter with a sigh, fingers grazing the expensive parchment as if the texture alone could tell her whether she was about to be thoroughly annoyed or just mildly inconvenienced. Considering it was Malfoy, she was willing to bet on both. She unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the sharp, elegant script, his handwriting infuriatingly perfect, as if he'd somehow managed to make even his damn ink strokes condescending.

Dear Granger,

I would like to extend another invitation for you to join me for dinner tomorrow evening.

P.S. How do you get rid of the Weaslette? She keeps asking me questions about Blaise, and I do not want to entertain her.

Yours,

DLM

She blinked, reread the postscript, and then let out a half-laugh, half-groan as she pinched the bridge of her nose. Of course, Ginny was harassing him. And of course, Malfoy was being his usual dramatic, put-upon self about it.

The absolute nerve of this man.

She set the letter down, rubbing her temples. Another dinner. Another evening spent trying to mentally wrestle with the reality that Malfoy was now an unavoidable part of her daily life. It was exhausting, but it wasn't like she could ignore the situation indefinitely. Their so-called marriage was looming over her like a bad prophecy, and she had to at least try to establish some form of order.

With a sigh, she grabbed a quill, tapping it against the desk for a moment before dipping it into the ink and writing her reply with the kind of careful precision that masked her growing exasperation.

Malfoy,

I will attend dinner tomorrow evening. Let's meet at 7 PM.

P.S. Ferrets and Weasels are both part of the Mustelidae family, so perhaps you should try being a little nicer to your relatives.

Regards,

Hermione Jean Granger

The smirk that tugged at her lips as she signed her name was completely involuntary. She wasn't sure what exactly it was about baiting Malfoy that felt like the only satisfying part of her day, but she wasn't about to analyze it too deeply.

She folded the parchment, attaching it securely to Aquila's outstretched leg. The owl gave her a look, one that uncomfortably reminded her of its owner, and then swept out the window into the night, disappearing into the evening sky.

Leaning back in her chair, she exhaled, already dreading whatever ridiculous conversation awaited her at dinner. Whether it would be a tense negotiation, a passive-aggressive exchange of insults, or some horrifying hybrid of the two, she had no idea.

All she knew was that, somehow, this ridiculous ferret of a man had wormed his way into her routine. And, if she wasn't careful, she was going to have to start restructuring her entire coping mechanism just to deal with him.

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

The next evening, after a long day of pretending to care about Ministry bureaucracy, she returned to her cottage with a singular mission—prepare for another evening of suffering at the hands of Beelzebub.

And yet, despite her irritation, despite the rational, logical part of her brain screaming at her to maintain nothing but professional detachment, something deeper, something inexplicable kept pulling her toward him. It was an unspoken force, like an ancient spell she hadn't agreed to, whispering in the back of her mind, luring her in with the kind of dark curiosity one feels when staring into the abyss.

Her hands lingered over her wardrobe, fingers brushing past options until they landed on something simple yet elegant. She refused to put in extra effort for him, but if she was going to endure his company, she could at least look good while doing it. The dress she selected hugged her in the right places, flattering but not flashy, and as she caught her reflection in the mirror, she took a slow, steadying breath, mentally preparing herself for the battlefield ahead.

By the time she arrived at his penthouse, the sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting the city in shades of gold and violet. The transition from the quiet of her cottage to the sheer extravagance of Malfoy's residence was nothing short of jarring—sleek, modern lines, dark marble, and an air of effortless wealth that practically sneered at the concept of modesty. She stepped out of the Floo, brushing the soot from her sleeve just as he appeared, moving toward her with a grace that could only come from a lifetime of rehearsed elegance.

He didn't speak immediately, just took her coat with that same practiced ease, his long fingers brushing against her wrist for the briefest second, sending an unwelcome flicker of awareness through her. She hated that she noticed it.

Her gaze flickered over him as he moved—because of course he was immaculately put together. The tailored suit he wore fit like a second skin, the dark fabric emphasizing the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the effortless arrogance in the way he carried himself. His silver-blond hair was just slightly tousled, giving him a frustratingly roguish edge, and when he finally turned to her, his stormy grey eyes lingering on her dress for just a second too long, she felt her stomach tighten against her will .

"Good evening, Granger," he greeted smoothly, his voice effortlessly composed, like the opening note of some carefully orchestrated performance.

"Good evening, Malfoy," she returned, her tone polite but edged with her usual guardedness. Her gaze flickered downward, her eyes catching on the bouquet of flowers he held out toward her—a strange, thoughtful arrangement, certainly not from a generic florist's shelf.

Rosemary, for remembrance. Pansies, for thought. Fennel, for strength. Rue, for regret. Columbines, for foolishness. Daisies, for innocence.

Her breath caught for a moment as she mentally unraveled the meanings. Did he choose these deliberately? Or was this just another coincidental enigma wrapped in an infuriatingly attractive suit?

"These are for you," Malfoy said, holding out the bouquet in a manner that was almost hesitant, almost schoolboyish, as if unsure whether she would accept the offering or set them on fire in front of him.

She blinked at him, momentarily thrown. The Malfoy she had known at Hogwarts wouldn't have handed her anything unless it was hexed, cursed, or dripping in condescension. And yet, here he was, standing in his ridiculously expensive penthouse, handing her a bouquet that practically screamed hidden sentiment.

"Thank you, Malfoy," she murmured, reaching out to take them, the scent rich, earthy, and bittersweet as she inhaled. Something in her chest loosened, just slightly. "They're… lovely."

"I thought you might appreciate them," he replied, his lips quirking into a faint, knowing smirk, as if he expected her to decode them. And of course, she did.

He gestured toward the dining room. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

As she stepped further into the space, she was met with a table set with painful precision—fine china, crystal glasses, and candles flickering with a soft, golden glow, casting everything in a warmth that felt almost too inviting. It was… intimate.

Too intimate.

Suppressing the absurd flutter of discomfort, she found a vase waiting for the flowers—of course, he had thought of that too—and arranged them before taking her seat at the table. Malfoy settled across from her, pouring her wine with a practiced ease that should have been irritating but somehow wasn't.

The first few bites were accompanied by a stilted silence, punctuated only by the soft clink of silverware against fine porcelain. But slowly—painstakingly—they found a rhythm.

"I noticed you have a rather well-stocked Shakespeare collection in your library," she said abruptly, unable to suppress her curiosity any longer. "Do you read them frequently?"

Malfoy, who had just raised his wine glass, paused mid-motion, a hint of amusement flickering in his gaze. "Yes, actually. My mother introduced me to Shakespeare when I was younger. She believed that understanding Muggle literature would help me become more… well-rounded."

She tilted her head, intrigued. "Narcissa Malfoy, a Shakespeare enthusiast? That's not exactly something I would have guessed."

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, warm and unexpected. "She's full of surprises," he admitted, swirling the wine in his glass. "Her favorite is Macbeth. "

She let out a soft, knowing laugh. " Macbeth? " she repeated. "That checks out. Powerful women, political ambition, ruthless efficiency… your mother must have admired Lady Macbeth's ability to get things done."

Malfoy smirked, his expression bordering on conspiratorial. "Let's just say she has a healthy appreciation for women who take charge of their own fates."

She raised her brows. "And what about you?"

He exhaled, considering. "I'd have to say The Winter's Tale is my favorite. There's something about the themes of redemption and forgiveness that resonates with me."

Her lips parted slightly in surprise. "Really?" she mused. "You don't strike me as the redemption-and-forgiveness type, Malfoy."

He arched a brow, gaze steady. "No? What type do I strike you as?"

She set down her glass, fingers tracing the rim absently as she studied him. "More Richard III, perhaps. Or Taming of the Shrew. A well-dressed villain with a sharp tongue and a penchant for manipulation."

Malfoy feigned a wounded expression. "I'm wounded, Granger. Do you really think so little of me?"

She smirked. "No, actually. I think you're far more layered than you let people believe. But The Winter's Tale? That's a choice."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "You're avoiding the question, Granger. What's your favorite?"

Shehesitated for the briefest of moments before admitting, " Much Ado About Nothing. "

His smirk deepened. "Oh, of course. The quintessential enemies-to-lovers story. I should've known."

She narrowed her eyes. "It's about wit, Malfoy. Banter. Two intelligent people who spend the entire play arguing because they're too bloody stubborn to admit how they feel."

Malfoy exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Sounds painfully familiar."

She blinked, caught off guard by the weight in his tone. It wasn't teasing—it was something else.

Their gazes locked for a fraction too long, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over expressions neither of them seemed ready to name.

Malfoy took a slow sip of his wine, breaking the moment. "It's a good play," he murmured finally. "And a fitting choice for you, Granger."

She raised a brow. "And why's that?"

He smirked, but there was something quieter, more contemplative beneath it. "Because, no matter how much she argues otherwise, Beatrice was always going to fall for Benedick."

Her breath hitched—just slightly, just enough for her to feel thoroughly betrayed by her own body.

Taking a steadying sip of her wine, she tilted her chin. "And what makes you so sure that I'm the Beatrice in this scenario?"

Malfoy's gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, slow and deliberate.

"Because, Granger," he said, voice smooth and maddeningly certain, "you're already at my dinner table."

Flirting with her own name. The absolute nerve. Smug, silver-tongued, entirely-too-climbable git.

Hermione looked at Malfoy, her fingers tightening subtly around the stem of her wine glass as she studied him in a way she never had before. His expression was open, unguarded in a way that unsettled her. For so many years, he had been the embodiment of everything she despised—privilege, arrogance, cruelty wrapped in fine silk. And yet, here he was, sitting across from her, speaking about hope and redemption as if they were concepts he actually believed in. She felt her cheeks warm, an unwanted blush creeping up her neck as she tried to reconcile this version of Draco Malfoy with the one burned into her memories.

"I never thought I'd hear you talk about hope and redemption, Malfoy," she admitted, her voice carrying an edge of disbelief, as if waiting for the punchline that never came.

He gave a small shrug, but there was something self-aware about the gesture, as though he knew exactly how absurd it sounded. A wry smile tugged at his lips. "People can change, Granger." His voice was softer than she expected, almost thoughtful. "Maybe this forced marriage is an opportunity for both of us to find some redemption."

She studied him carefully, searching for a flicker of insincerity in his words, but she found none. It was unsettling, the idea that he might truly be trying. Could he change? Could they?

"Maybe," she said finally, swirling the last remnants of her wine before setting her glass down with a quiet clink. "But it's going to take a lot more than just talking about Shakespeare to make this work."

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "I had a feeling you'd say that. Always making things difficult for me, Granger."

She smirked, arching a brow. "I could say the same about you."

His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, the flickering candlelight casting sharp angles across his face. There was something there, something she wasn't quite ready to name.

"I know," he said, his voice carrying a rare sincerity that made her throat tighten. "And I'm willing to put in the effort. I hope you are too."

She held his gaze, trying to ignore the strange pull in her stomach. The part of her that wanted to believe him, that wanted to see the possibility in this mess.

"I am," she admitted, voice quieter now, more certain. "But actions speak louder than words, Malfoy. We'll see how things go."

His silver eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them. Determination. A challenge. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. "I understand," he murmured, voice low and unwavering. "Let's take it one step at a time."

She nodded, but for the first time, she wasn't sure which one of them was truly in control of this game.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of parchment, his expression shifting into something far more serious than before. He hesitated for just a fraction of a second before extending it to her across the table. "I need you to read this, Granger," he said, his tone calm but firm.

She arched a brow, eyeing him suspiciously as she took the parchment from his outstretched hand. "Malfoy, this is quite a short list," she observed dryly as she unfolded it.

He leaned back slightly, watching her with an unreadable expression. "It's a list of things we are not going to talk about."

Her curiosity deepened as she glanced down at the parchment, scanning the three simple words written in his elegant script:

MoneyChildren in the futureIntimate life

She blinked, then looked up at him, lips pressing into a thin line. "Avoidance isn't exactly a solution," she pointed out, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. "We can't just pretend these things don't exist forever."

Malfoy exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if weighing his response. "I know," he admitted, fingers tapping idly against the edge of the table. "But we don't know each other well enough to discuss them now—not without it turning into a battle. These are topics that need... time. And trust." His eyes flickered toward her meaningfully. "Until we have that, I don't see the point in bringing up things that will only cause unnecessary conflict."

Hermione studied him for a long moment, feeling an unexpected flicker of understanding. He wasn't wrong. They were barely on speaking terms as it was—forcing conversations about finances, children, or anything remotely personal would only serve to widen the chasm between them.

"Fair enough," she finally conceded, folding the parchment neatly before tucking it into her bag. "But we do need to establish some boundaries and expectations. We can't just shove everything under the rug indefinitely."

Malfoy nodded, his expression neutral but his gaze steady. "I agree. But let's focus on surviving the next few days before we attempt to tackle the big things. One step at a time, right?"

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. "Right," she muttered, though her mind was already racing ahead, mapping out all the inevitable conversations they'd eventually have to have—whether he liked it or not.

After a pause, she straightened her posture, fixing him with a determined look. "That being said, there's something we do need to talk about right now."

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

She inhaled deeply, bracing herself. "Wednesday," she said firmly. "Our ceremony. We're going to be the first ones sacrificed to the Ministry's Marriage Law, and I refuse to let it become some kind of public spectacle. I insist that it's just the two of us."

For a moment, Malfoy didn't react, simply watching her with a contemplative expression. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I understand," he said, his voice quieter but no less resolute. "Keeping it private makes sense. This is already... overwhelming enough without an audience."

"Exactly," she said, relieved that he wasn't arguing. "The fewer people involved, the better. We need to focus on us and what this means—not on how the rest of the wizarding world perceives it."

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second before adding, "And after it's done? You'll meet my mother?"

The question lingered between them, heavy and full of unspoken implications.

She considered it, then gave a small nod. "After the bonding is complete, we can deal with the rest—including your family."

Malfoy let out a slow breath, something flickering behind his grey eyes. "Alright," he said simply. "I'll take care of the arrangements. No guests, no press, just you and me."

She exhaled, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders. "Thank you, Malfoy."

A small, almost imperceptible smirk played at the corner of his lips. "Don't thank me yet, Granger. You still have to spend the rest of your life legally tolerating me."

She rolled her eyes but stood, reaching for the bouquet of flowers he had given her earlier. As she turned toward the Floo, her fingers brushed absently over the petals—rosemary for remembrance, pansies for thought, fennel for strength, rue for regret, columbines for determination, and daisies for new beginnings.

Her steps faltered slightly.

No way he chose those at random.

Her gaze flickered back to him, but Malfoy merely watched her with his usual composed expression, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

Shaking her head, Hermione turned back toward the fireplace, tossing in the Floo powder. As she stepped into the green flames, she couldn't shake the lingering thought—what exactly was Draco Malfoy trying to tell her?