AN: I do not own any part of the HP universe/franchise. All rights to JK and co. See the end for notes.

This is a sequel to What Breaks Us Apart and a prequel to What Brings Us Together.

Hermione hurried down the street, pulling her coat closer about her petite figure as she shivered in the chilly winter air. Darkness was falling earlier each day and she knew she needed to make it indoors before the night watch began. Her bank account was fine, that wasn't what concerned her about the hefty fines single witches and wizards were subject to when out past curfew. No, it was her dignity and integrity that was at stake. Her mind wandered back to her last conversation with her supervisor at the ministry.

"Miss Granger, it's positively unseemly that a witch of your stature, of your potential, is so unrealized at this point in her career. Perhaps if you had fewer citations on your record…"

She shivered again, not from the cold, and increased her pace. Had it been so dark just a moment ago? Had the shadows been so long? Hermione ducked her head against another chill wind and broke into a light jog, her work satchel banging uncomfortably against her legs. She was just passing through the main street of Diagon Alley, coming abreast of the twins' joke shop, when a commotion caught her ear. She lifted her head in the direction of the sounds and her steps slowed.

The night watch was out already and they had accosted a tall, ginger wizard who was just exiting the front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Hermione hesitated only a moment more before making what she hoped would be a mutually beneficial decision.

"There you are!" she called out. The small clump of people all turned, startled, and to her gratification she saw a smile break out across the face of whichever twin she was rescuing.

"Excuse us, Miss Granger," the witch who was part of the watch team demurred as Hermione neared them. "We didn't realize…" She gestured to the twin beside them – Fred? Yes, both ears. Fred.

"Yes, well, it's not set in stone, is it? We were trying to keep our private lives private," Hermione replied, bristling, and was glad her ire was real enough. She smiled prettily at Fred, who smiled back at her, then at the night watch, disarmingly.

The wizard on the watch team glanced from ginger to brunette, disbelief etched on his face. "You're not listed on the matched list," he began, but was cut off when the door to the shop opened and a second ginger stepped out.

"Fred, I told you to go on ahead," he said, but his words were lost as he accidentally barreled into the watch wizard, whose obvious disbelief appeared to be growing larger by the second.

"Er, Miss Granger, this is very out of the ordinary," his partner said softly, her big blue eyes flicking between the twins and the war hero witch.

Fred grinned, clicking his teeth as he smiled like a Cheshire cat with Alice between his paws. "Not at all," he murmured conspiratorially. "I'm their chaperone."

Hermione huffed, George blushed, and the watch team blustered.

"This is ridiculous," she finally said, though she was sure her cheeks matched the twins' hair. "Can we please just go on our date?"

"Yes," the witch said at the same time her partner muttered, "No." Then, her face growing furious and blue eyes still troubled, the watch witch grabbed her partner by the scruff of his neck and dragged him away. He was still attempting to squabble at her as they rounded a corner.

Fred laughed and waved cheerfully at the pair; George joined him after a moment; and Hermione sighed and drew her coat close about herself again.

"Well, where do you want to eat?" she asked.

Fred's laughter died down and he turned to look at George first, then her. "You're serious?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm serious! I've already had two citations just this month. My supervisor is suspicious and threatening not to promote me, and I've had to change my phone number, not to mention my floo, three times in the last year because of all the interfering witches and conniving wizards determined to throw themselves in my path! And if you think that night watch won't report this back to their department and investigate our date thoroughly, then hit us with some outrageous and completely made-up fine first thing in the morning, you're loonier than Lovegood! Now, where do you want to eat?"

George shook his head. "I am not going out. I told the ministry watch group when this all started that they could fine me all they wanted. Fred, have a good time."

"Too late, George," Hermione said, face a complete blank. "He already said he was chaperoning us. That means you go, too. Now get over yourself and pick a place. I'll buy, for Merlin's sake."

George hesitated, as if steeling himself against a tidal wave of rage – or perhaps laughter – or perhaps resignation – and closed his eyes. "If you buy, they'll be even more suspicious. I'm buying."

Fred looked delighted. "Excellent! I know just the place."

George leveled a glare at him. "I'm not buying yours, you idiot."

Fred actually looked crestfallen, and Hermione felt a corner of her lips twitch upward. "I'll buy yours, Fred," she offered. He looked like a cheerful spaniel once again.

"You know what that will make them think," George said, and Hermione eyed him for a moment, then shrugged.

"Maybe it will get them off my case for a while," she replied, and then started in the direction of the food district, leaving the gob smacked twins to trail behind her.

Fred, gleeful in his role as chaperone, left them alone at their table far too often throughout their quiet dinner. Hermione merely shook her head every time he got up, claiming the loo, or the bar, or something even more facetious. George didn't even bother shaking his head. He instead remained focused on his food, or his drink, or the wall. Hermione gave him a small smile.

"You don't go out much, do you?"

"No reason to," he replied, and though he was clearly avoiding looking at her, his voice was easy and his manner not unkind. She nodded.

"Except for the twenty-five reasons they give us, you mean."

"Mating laws. As if we were cattle," George responded, his voice gone soft. "It's sick. In some ways it's no better than what the Dark Lord wanted. Their own experiment in eugenics. Not that they'd ever call it that."

"Or tolerate it being called that," Hermione added. She glanced off, over the small, but crowded restaurant's dining room and brooded. "The thing is, I know I'm going to have to give in. Go to the matchmakers."

George gave a start and nearly dropped his fork. "Hermione."

"What? It's not like I can stop it. I spent so long trying to stop it my options are all gone. This is it. This is the world we're stuck with, unless I want to move to…America." She wrinkled her nose.

Hermione felt a weird tension radiating off of the man seated across from her and looked up to find him staring at her, his face reddened, one hand clenched around his utensil.

"I'm sorry," he offered. "It's easier for us, for the wizards."

"It always is," she replied. "I don't suppose…" she deadpanned, and George had to laugh at that.

"You wouldn't make a very good wizard, Hermione," he said and she realized he'd mistaken her meaning. That, or the very thought of her brought up too many memories. Or just one very large memory, too big to ever forget. But she couldn't hold that against him. His shock of red hair brought up the exact same memory for her.

"Fred hasn't been yet. To the matchmakers," George qualified at her silence and she suddenly saw he had not mistaken her meaning at all. He just wasn't sure what to do when the focus was on himself.

"Oh, George," she replied, "we would be horrible together."

"Probably," he admitted. Fred came back at that point and settled in beside his twin.

"Well? How are we? Any plans for more grandbabies for mum yet?"

"Hardly," George responded. Then he pushed away from the table. "My turn for the loo, brother. Be nice while I'm away."

Hermione watched him go, a wistful look on her face, and Fred leaned closer. "He hasn't been to the matchmakers yet," he offered, and it made her laugh.

"He just said the same thing about you," she explained into his confusion and he glowered.

"Did he? That wanker," he expelled, but his voice was cheerful and relaxed as ever. There was a brief lull and he leaned back, looking at her thoughtfully. "But I suppose Ron…"

"You suppose right," Hermione replied quickly, cutting off that conversation before George could come back and make it that much worse with a double helping of ginger hair, easy smiles, and a dusting of freckles. "Now, let's get the check and you can escort me home."

Fred hesitated a moment more, then nodded and lifted a hand, signaling for their waiter.

In the end, Fred had bought dinner for all three of them. "Let the watch dogs make what they will of that," he'd said, chortling as he signed the receipt with a flourish. Then they had spent a quiet walk back to one of the ministry-designated apparating points, each lost in their thoughts: Fred marching along behind the "happy" couple by exactly two meters, and George trying hard not hold Hermione's hand too tightly, though it was difficult to gauge when one was as nervous as he clearly was. Hermione finally wriggled her hand from his grasp and wound it about his arm instead.

"Thanks for playing along tonight," she murmured quietly, in the practiced way of lovers. No night watch team would suspect they were anything but out on a much desired date.

"It's entirely Fred's pleasure," George replied, offering a cheeky grin. Hermione felt her own lips curve in an answering smirk and she shook her head.

"I'm sure it is," she replied, catching a backwards glance at their still gleeful companion. Then she faced forward again and slowed to a stop. George paused as well and glanced down at her.

"Will you be all right?" he asked and she nodded.

"Of course. Just a quick trip home from here." The dejection that was clear in her voice could easily be mistaken by a stranger for sorrow at ending a lovely evening, but George knew better. He knew the brightest witch of her age was thinking that this was her last free evening in a long time; that she'd be giving her name to the matchmakers in the morning; that her world as she knew it was being forced to end, all over again, by dictatorship of a different kind.

He wished he could help, but all he felt was helplessness. So instead of bravely offering himself, he did the only thing he could think of, which was to lean down and very quickly press a kiss to her cheek.

"Cheer, up, Hermione," he said when he drew back. "You'll get through this."

"Thank you, George. I know that, I guess." She hesitated as she looked up at him and a single snowflake drifted down to land on the end of her nose. She laughed ruefully and wiped it away before George could do it for her and regret it for the rest of his life. Or would he regret not doing it?

Whichever it was, Hermione saw something in his face and for a moment, her own expression softened in response. "Will you be ok?" she asked.

George's face relaxed back into its easy smile as Fred came up behind him, throwing an arm about his shoulders.

"Of course," he replied. "I've got this idiot to look after."

Fred cuffed him about the ears and George ducked his head, laughing, as the snow began to drift down in wide circles around them. It was a pretty picture and Hermione tucked it away in her memories. She loved this family so much.

"See you all later," she called out before turning and stepping onto the apparating point. George and Fred raised their opposite hands to wave goodbye, one arm each still about the other's shoulders, but they were too late. Hermione had already twisted away into the increasingly cold night without a sound.

"This is asinine! For all intents and purposes I am living like a Muggle and yet they expect me to pay what in taxes to a ministry that has never done me any favors!"

The scroll went hurtling towards the wall and Walt, Draco's personal assistant, ran back to fetch it. He was glad when he had to kneel to pick it up, because just at that second a tape dispenser followed it, leaving a dent in the wall. Fortunately it bounced away without hitting him.

"If I may, Sir?" he began, straightening up and bringing the scroll and tape dispenser with him. At a slight nod from Draco, Walt continued. "You may be living like a Muggle some of the time, but you aren't one. And unless you want the ministry to properly make you a Muggle by binding your magic, which I doubt they would at this point in time, then you're just going to have to pay the piper, so to speak."

"Blast it, I know all that," Draco replied, sinking back down into his overly plushy office chair. He waved a hand and brought the scroll and tape dispenser out of his assistant's hands and back to rest on the desk in front of him. Walt murmured a quiet thank-you and walked back over to his own chair and roll-top desk in the corner. He watched his superior brood for a moment, then turned back to his work. Living like a Muggle, indeed. Hilarity. After all, the great Draco Malfoy, that infamous coward of the Wizarding War, made his living playing Professional Quidditch. The man didn't know how to survive without performing some sort of spell every ten minutes, at least. Using tape instead of a sticking charm and taking the tube to and from work every morning hardly equated to living like a Muggle. Of all the arrogant…his thoughts dissolved away under the weight of his work and the office was blessedly quiet once more. Of course, it didn't last.

After a few seconds of silence, Draco's voice broke into his train of thought again.

"Make an appointment for me," he said, his tone all business once again. Walt glanced up, surprised.

"With whom, Sir?"

"With the matchmaker," Draco replied, sighing noisily. Then, in the face of his assistant's astonished silence, he unrolled the scroll demanding an unruly sum in Singles Taxes; amended it to request an extension and signed it; and then threw it back over his shoulder and into his office's fireplace, where it vanished into a green flame.

"Make it for today, if you can," he offered further when he saw the stunned expression on Walt's face. "I only asked for a ninety day extension. I'm not sure how much time they'll actually give me and in my experience, wooing a witch takes some doing."

Walt found his voice. "What on earth are you going on about, Sir? You can't actually – I mean, you? You're Witches Weekly's Most Eligible Bachelor!"

Draco couldn't help smirking slightly at the title. He was, wasn't he? What he also was, was unfortunately single and subject to an unfair tax rate that was soaking him dry.

"Not anymore, Walt," he replied. "My days of carefree carousing are coming to an end." He paused and took in the continued astonishment of his assistant. More gently, as if he was explaining to a child, Draco stated, "I'm getting married."

The minute the words were out of his mouth, Draco felt a strange sensation come over him. He stood up again and braced both hands on his desk. His smile was just a little brighter, his eyes shiny with either a fever or rage, Walt couldn't tell, and he announced it to the room again, as if he were convincing not just himself, but the entire Wizengamot.

"So help me," Draco said, confidence and confusion rolling off him in waves. He grinned and if it was a little mad, Walt couldn't blame him.

"I'm getting married."

AN, again: This is a sequel to What Breaks Us Apart and a prequel to What Brings Us Together. The one began as an experiment, the next as a longer experiment, and now here I am, before What Brings Us Together is even finished, writing the back story to it. However, I felt it was a story that needed telling in order for me to move ahead with the other. So, without further ado, I present to you another gem in my long list of procrastination creations. Please let me know what you think and I'll keep working at it.

And while our doubtful pair ultimately does not get a happily ever after (if you've read What Brings Us, etc.), I will give them a happy ending in this piece. There's enough sorrow in the world. So, expect weird, expect angst, expect tenderly building romance and contentment. Multi-chapter and I'll do my best to keep the momentum going. If, however, there isn't a market for this particular story, let me know that too, and I'll shut up and finish my other stories. Love and cheers.