Deserving

The moment they arrived at Malfoy Manor, the warmth of the grand entrance hall enveloped them, a stark contrast to the winter chill outside. A house elf appeared instantly, bowing deeply before delicately taking Hermione’s fur wrap and Draco’s cloak.

Draco felt the absence of her warmth the moment the fur was gone, but instead of dwelling on it, he tightened his hold on her hand resting on his arm.

“Ready?” he murmured, glancing down at her.

Hermione exhaled softly, her fingers twitching against his sleeve. “As I’ll ever be.”

With a reassuring squeeze, he led her toward the ballroom, the polished marble floors echoing softly beneath their steps. The golden glow of chandeliers spilled into the corridors, growing brighter as they neared the grand double doors. The distant murmur of elegant conversation and the soft strains of music filled the space, growing louder as the ballroom came into view.

They had barely stepped inside when a familiar figure rushed toward them.

“Hermione, darling,” Narcissa Malfoy’s voice was warm, her expression alight with approval as she took Hermione’s hands in hers. She stepped back slightly, her keen eyes sweeping over her appearance. “You look absolutely breathtaking.”

Hermione flushed under the praise, opening her mouth as if to refute it, but Narcissa wasn’t finished. She turned to Draco, arching a perfectly sculpted brow.

“And you, my son, are impossibly lucky to have her on your arm tonight.”

Draco smirked, though the way his mother said it sent a ripple of something deep and undeniable through him. “I’m aware,” he replied smoothly, though his gaze flickered to Hermione’s profile.

She looked up at him then, something unreadable in her eyes, before turning back to Narcissa with a polite, “Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa waved a dismissive hand. “None of that, dear. You must call me Narcissa.” She linked her arm through Hermione’s briefly, beaming. “Now, come. I must introduce you properly before my guests start thinking Draco conjured you out of a dream.”

Draco chuckled under his breath, releasing Hermione’s hand as his mother led her forward into the heart of the ballroom. But not before he allowed his fingers to trail against hers for just a moment longer than necessary.

Because maybe, just maybe, his mother was right.

Perhaps she was a dream.

One he wasn’t willing to wake up from.

Draco watched as his mother guided Hermione gracefully into the heart of the ballroom, her arm linked through Narcissa’s as they moved among the glittering crowd. He stood back for a moment, taking in the way the warm golden light from the chandeliers played along the delicate tiara in Hermione’s curls, how the ice-blue gown seemed to glow against her skin. She was handling herself impeccably, offering polite smiles and composed nods as Narcissa introduced her to the elite of wizarding society—people who, years ago, would have scoffed at her very presence in this room.

But now? Now, they looked at her with intrigue, some with admiration. Others, he could tell, didn’t quite know what to make of her. The girl who had defied every expectation, every label.

His mother was clearly delighted, talking animatedly as she steered Hermione toward another small group. Draco knew exactly what she was doing—making sure that by the end of the night, no one would question why Hermione was here or why she was on his arm.

A flicker of movement at his side made him turn, and he found Blaise watching the scene with an arched brow, sipping from a crystal glass of firewhisky.

“You look like a man who’s about to risk it all,” Blaise muttered, amused.

Draco scoffed, straightening his cufflinks. “I don’t gamble.”

Blaise hummed, unconvinced. “Could’ve fooled me. You look at her like she hung the bloody stars.”

Draco exhaled sharply, schooling his expression before stepping forward, weaving through the crowd to rejoin Hermione. By the time he reached her side, she was mid-conversation with an elderly witch in dark plum robes, nodding attentively. She turned slightly as she sensed him approach, and the small smile she gave him—genuine, warm—sent something like electricity through his veins.

“Excuse me, Madam Greengrass,” Draco interrupted smoothly, slipping his hand to the small of Hermione’s back. “I hope you don’t mind if I steal my date for a dance.”

The older witch chuckled, her sharp eyes twinkling as they darted between them. “Not at all, dear boy. I was just telling Miss Granger what a fine match she makes for you.”

Hermione’s cheeks pinkened, but she only nodded politely, allowing Draco to guide her away from the group. He led her toward the dance floor, the music shifting into a slow, melodic waltz.

“You’re handling yourself well,” he murmured, guiding her effortlessly into the steps.

Hermione glanced up at him, her fingers curling slightly against his shoulder. “Your mother’s been very kind.”

Draco smirked. “She likes you.”

Hermione huffed a soft laugh. “Yes, I gathered.”

They moved in easy synchronization, as if they had done this a hundred times before. The rest of the room melted away, and for a few stolen moments, it was just them.

Draco studied her, the way the candlelight flickered in her eyes, the way her lips parted ever so slightly as she focused on the dance. He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat, fingers tightening slightly at her waist.

This was dangerous.

Because Blaise was right.

He was absolutely, unequivocally gone for her.

As the waltz came to an end, glasses clinked across the ballroom, signaling that it was time for the evening’s toast. Draco guided Hermione off the dance floor, keeping her hand in his as they turned toward the grand staircase, where his mother now stood with an effortless elegance that commanded attention.

Narcissa lifted her glass, a warm but regal smile gracing her lips as she gazed out over the gathered guests. The murmurs faded, and all eyes fixed on her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her voice carrying through the vast ballroom. “It is with great gratitude that I welcome you all to Malfoy Manor this evening. This year has been a testament to resilience, to growth, and to the strength of unity. Many of us in this room have seen hardships, have faced divisions, but in the end, we have come back together. And for that, I am truly thankful.”

A quiet ripple of agreement passed through the crowd. Hermione glanced up at Draco, noting the way his jaw tensed, his thumb lightly brushing the side of her hand as he held it at his side.

“I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Narcissa continued, inclining her head toward the tall wizard standing near the head of the room. “And to the many other ministry officials who have graced us with their presence tonight. Your dedication to progress and rebuilding our world does not go unnoticed.”

There was a round of polite applause, and Kingsley inclined his head in return.

“Furthermore,” Narcissa went on, her expression softening, “tonight’s gala is not merely a celebration. It is a step forward. I am pleased to announce the establishment of The Merlin Initiative—a charitable foundation dedicated to assisting Muggle-born witches and wizards as they integrate into our world. The proceeds from tonight’s silent auction will go directly to funding resources, mentorship programs, and educational support to ensure that no one is left behind.”

A stronger round of applause filled the ballroom, and Hermione felt her breath hitch at the words. She turned slightly to look up at Draco, his gaze fixed on his mother, unreadable, yet something in his eyes softened when he felt her staring.

Narcissa smiled once more, raising her glass. “And now, my friends, dinner is served. Please, find your seats and enjoy the evening.”

With that, the crowd dispersed toward the long, elegantly decorated tables. Draco kept his hand on Hermione’s lower back, guiding her toward their assigned seats near the head of the room. As they approached the beautifully set table, Draco wordlessly pulled out her chair.

Hermione blinked up at him, warmth flickering in her chest at the effortless gesture.

“Thank you,” she murmured, smoothing her gown as she sat.

Draco said nothing, only offering a small smirk as he took the seat beside her. As the first course was served, the warm glow of the chandeliers above cast a golden hue over everything, but Hermione barely noticed.

Because beside her, Draco Malfoy sat close, his presence steady, his gaze flicking toward her every so often, and for the first time that evening, she felt something she never thought she would within these walls.

Safe