How did it feel? It felt like he was barely holding it together. She, of all people, should shun him. Or yell at him. Curse him. Spit at him. Take out her wand and blast him off the face of the earth. It was crushing guilt and relief and confusion all at once when he looked at Hermione Granger. The monotony of Draco's daily routine had become both a lifeline and a noose. But this new habit of grabbing morning coffee with Hermione Granger is quickly becoming a reason to get out of bed and is unfortunately forcing him to re-evaluate his inconsequential existence. Hermione is living her life in fragments, separate pieces scattered about, and she can't find a way to step back and let the full picture form. Why is morning coffee with Draco Malfoy the only thing that makes sense anymore? *cover art created by @eternallyreadinggoodthings

Left by his fiancée a month before the ceremony, Draco never got his dream wedding, so agreeing to assist Granger with her own wedding planning to distract himself from his broken engagement seems like a great idea-though Draco probably shouldn't fall in love with the bride-to-be. Based very (very) loosely on The Wedding Singer.

Her gaze is encouraging, and Draco can do nothing but linger on the precipice of terrible want with remarkable self-restraint. She's right here; solid and real and welcoming. Slipping through his undeserving fingers. Is he allowed a trauma timeline? He has no idea when it's appropriate for him to reach suffering's endpoint and move on. He's a thestral with a beating wounded wing, still desperate to fly for her, to her.

The adverse effects of unknowingly imbibing Babbling Beverage while intoxicated include the urge to chatter incessantly, dizziness, short-term memory loss, and spilling your secrets to a fake version of Draco Malfoy.

Draco and his mother had behaved like upstanding citizens for years, donated thousands of Galleons, yet apparently it only took a bit of romantic fluff with Granger and he could consider himself fully redeemed. A bar so low he'd barely need to raise his feet to clear it.

Hermione is familiar with fighting: for respect, for attention, for justice. She's even made a career of it; working on behalf of creatures and beings. But her battle against the Ministry's marriage law is one she loses. Badly. And now, she has to contend with not only public derision and patriarchal politics, but her growing feelings for her government-mandated spouse.

Granger, Granger, Granger, Granger. In an unending echo of utter embarrassment. The presentation parameters were between five and ten minutes. Draco's clocked in at seven minutes and twenty-four seconds. It would have been less mortifying for him to lay on the floor for that amount of time and make dying whale noises.

It began as a way for Hermione to remember her parents, to honour a part of her childhood. But now every Christmas season, Draco Malfoy finds a way into her holiday tradition of attending a performance of The Nutcracker. Written for D/Hr Advent 2020.

Strange things, dreams. How much credence should we give to where our subconscious takes us? There are many things Draco did not need in his Sixth Year. He did not need Theodore Nott implanting strange dreams in his head, for one. In the ensuing years, he did not need to constantly remember that blissful, impossible dream. He further did not need Potter bursting into his mostly turned-around life to embroil him in a conspiracy at Azkaban. And he definitely did not need to embark on a clandestine investigation into prisoner mistreatment with Hermione Granger.

Hermione hadn't meant for this to become the focus of her evening. She had plenty of other, more professional, more productive things toward which she should direct her focus. Glasses. And an open collar. No, not those things. Hermione sipped her drink and tried to set her mind to rights. She needed to plan her conversations with donors tonight. She needed to concentrate on networking and pitching her latest ideas. She needed to stop ogling Draco Malfoy. For mightbewriting's birthday.