1. What Is
Draco Malfoy was a lucky man—no, the luckiest man alive. He thought so every time he laid eyes on her, every time she so much as breathed in his direction. And tonight, as he stood across the crowded ballroom, watching her, he thought it again. Over and over, like a silent mantra.
She was radiant, wrapped in a dress so perfectly sinful it felt like a taunt, like a challenge meant only for him. Hermione Granger—his wife, his heart, his obsession.
How had he done it? How had he convinced a woman like her to be his? He had no answer, only the quiet disbelief that followed him every day. He was undeserving—Merlin, he knew that much. But Draco Malfoy had never been a good man, not really. He was a selfish, greedy, insatiable man, and she was the one thing in this world he refused to let go of. Even if he didn’t deserve her, he would keep her.
Some nights, he lay beside her in their vast king-sized bed, his gaze tracing the constellations of freckles that adorned her skin, committing to memory the delicate rise and fall of her breathing. He would watch, transfixed, as the golden light of dawn tangled in her curls, as her lips parted in sleep, as her fingers twitched, reaching for him even in dreams.
Other nights, patience was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He would wake her too early, stealing her from the peaceful embrace of sleep because his need for her eclipsed reason. She would grumble at first, drowsy and soft, but then she would turn to him, let him pull her into his arms, let him take from her what he craved so desperately.
Tonight, though, he had to endure the torturous distance of a crowded room. He had to watch as others vied for her attention, as she smiled at strangers, as she moved like the most exquisite thing he had ever seen. And he could do nothing but wait.
But then—then she turned her head, and just like that, her eyes found him. Instantly. As if drawn to him by some invisible tether, some unspoken promise that even across a sea of people, she would always find him first.
Her lips curled into something knowing, something wicked, and then—Merlin help him—she winked.
His breath hitched. His pulse stuttered. His knees nearly gave way beneath him.
Hermione Granger had always been an exceptional woman. Talented, brilliant, unstoppable. The Brightest Witch of Her Age—a title bestowed upon her when she was barely more than a child. For years, she had carried it with grace, with quiet modesty, though how could anyone truly remain untouched by such constant praise?
It was intoxicating, being revered, being known.
And yet, all it had taken was one man—one scandalous, impossible, forbidden man—to make the world suddenly question the mind they had once so admired.
Draco Malfoy.
Her husband.
Once a Death Eater, now a reformed philanthropist. A man who had spent years unlearning hatred and rebuilding himself, carving out a new legacy from the ashes of his past. A man who had, against all odds, found love with her.
The tabloids had never once dared to question her intelligence—until him. Until the first whisper of their relationship had graced the front pages, until the photos surfaced of them at a quiet café, his hand resting so effortlessly over hers. Then, suddenly, she was no longer the Brightest Witch of Her Age but a fool. A woman led astray.
They asked who she had become, if she had betrayed her own, if she had forgotten which side she was meant to be on.
The war had broken down those sides—hadn’t it? She had thought so. Foolishly, perhaps. Because when the headlines came, it was clear: the world still wanted their heroes and their villains. They wanted their golden girl untarnished, untouched by grey.
So, in true Hermione Granger fashion, she had not cowered. She had not explained, nor justified, nor begged for their approval. Instead, she had flaunted him like the most enviable possession in the world, her own declaration of defiance. If they wanted to talk, then she would give them something worth talking about.
This was no longer the Golden Trio versus the Death Eaters.
This was Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy against the world.
And as she stood now, draped in gold, her gaze locked onto the man who had changed everything, she knew, without a shred of doubt, that she had chosen right.
Draco stood across the room, radiating that quiet, effortless confidence he wore so well, his silver eyes scanning the crowd until—there. He found her. He always did.
A smirk curled at the corner of his lips, slow and knowing.
And Hermione—oh, she felt it then, that unmistakable pull between them. That magnetic force that had defied every expectation, every rule.
So she let herself go.
Walking to him had always been the easiest decision she had ever made.
And when she reached him, he welcomed her as he always did—with a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs, with a hand firm and possessive against the small of her back.
Only this time, he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice nothing but a velvet whisper.
A promise. A tease.
And just like that, it was her turn to be reduced to jelly.
To the outside world, Draco and Hermione were the picture of devotion. A couple so in sync, so utterly enamored with each other that it was almost cinematic. Ginny, ever the observer, had taken to documenting them whenever she could—her photo album was a testament to their striking presence, pages filled with stolen moments of laughter, longing glances, fingers brushing in unspoken promises. Hermione adored the pictures, often requesting copies to add to the growing collection in their own home.
They had always been like this—deep in conversation for hours, lost in each other to the point where the rest of the world didn’t just blur; it ceased to exist entirely. Together, they were unbreakable. A fortress of two.
But lately, when they were apart, the cracks began to show.
Ginny noticed it first in the little things. The way Hermione hesitated before answering questions about Draco, the subtle shift in her tone when she spoke about him, the way her brow furrowed just slightly whenever he wasn’t in the room.
And now, sitting across from her in the dim glow of a Muggle pub, Ginny knew for certain something was wrong.
Hermione was already several drinks in, her words slipping into hiccups, her fingers clenched around the stem of her glass. This little tradition of theirs had started a year ago, after Ginny’s third breakup with Harry—an attempt to drown heartbreak in alcohol and questionable pub snacks. But tonight, Hermione wasn’t just tipsy. She was frustrated. Wound tight. And whatever was eating at her had finally found its way to the surface.
“And—” Hermione’s voice wavered, her glass slamming onto the table, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. “He never lets me see him paint.”
Ginny blinked, momentarily thrown. Paint?
“I mean,” Hermione continued, voice high with emotion, “I’m expected to constantly reassure him about everything, to hold his hand through every damn insecurity—which I do, gladly! But he has this whole part of himself that he keeps hidden from me.” She exhaled sharply, pushing her curls back with one hand. “It’s not even the painting that matters. It’s the secrets.”
Ginny leaned forward, placing a steadying hand over Hermione’s. “What do you mean?”
Hermione let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “I just... I want to know my husband. And I do—trust me, I do—but sometimes it feels like there’s a part of him, some piece of himself, that he refuses to share. And I don’t know why.”
The confession hung between them, thick and heavy, settling into the quiet space between drinks and decades of friendship.
For the first time since Hermione and Draco had gotten together, Ginny wondered if maybe—just maybe—the cracks weren’t just beginning.
Maybe they had always been there.
The following week, Ginny considered bringing up their conversation again. But when she arrived at the Malfoy-Granger residence, the thought nearly evaporated.
Draco greeted her at the door with open arms and effortless charm, a smirk playing at his lips as he teased, “Come to steal my wife away again, Weasley? Should I be worried?”
Ginny rolled her eyes but found herself smiling anyway, playing along as she always did. “As if you could stop me.”
He chuckled and ushered her inside, leading her through the elegant corridors to the drawing room—where Hermione sat, radiant and entirely at ease.
Ginny faltered for a moment, thrown by the sheer normalcy of it all. Hadn’t she been clutching onto some newfound revelation, some proof that all was not as perfect as it seemed? And yet, here was Hermione, nestled against Draco’s side, their bodies pressed together as if even an inch of space between them was unthinkable.
Draco’s gaze never wavered, fixed on Hermione as though she were the manifestation of every impossible dream he had ever dared to have. And Hermione, seemingly oblivious—or perhaps just accustomed to the intensity of his love—slipped her hand into his absentmindedly, her attention fixed on a passionate rant about some Ministry legislation she was determined to push through.
It was disorienting. A kind of emotional whiplash that left Ginny uncertain of her own judgment.
Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe last week had just been a bad day, an outlier in an otherwise perfect marriage. Maybe she was projecting her own struggles onto her friend, seeing problems where there were none.
But then Draco stood to leave the room.
And Hermione didn’t change, not in any dramatic way—she didn’t drop the act or shed some carefully constructed façade—but something shifted. Ever so slightly, she seemed to exhale. The ever-present warmth in her gaze dimmed just a fraction, the tension in her shoulders ebbing, as if she had been holding onto something she hadn’t even realized.
Ginny noticed.
She hesitated before speaking, wary of the answer she might receive. “How are things with you two?”
Hermione turned toward her fully, twisting so that the light caught on her wedding ring, sending a glimmer across the room.
“Perfect,” she said, the word clipped, her smile tight at the edges.
Ginny’s gaze flickered to the framed wedding photo on the mantle. Hermione and Draco, frozen in time—smiling, glowing, untouched by doubt.
Perfect.