Author's Note:

Hello and welcome! I couldn't be more excited to be sharing this fic with all of you :) A lot of time and effort went into writing this story, but I couldn't be prouder of it, so I sincerely hope you enjoy.

This story would not have been possible without my incredible support team. Thank you endlessly to my beta LightofEvolution who has stuck with me through all of it and to mcal who has been my constant cheerleader.

And thank you to *you* for opening this fic! Any comments you have along the way make my entire day, so please do not hesitate to share your thoughts with me, regardless of when you are reading this fic! I assure you that I appreciate whatever you have to say 💙

Let us begin!

It was a Wednesday afternoon in early-October, yet Flourish and Blotts had never been more crowded. There was hardly an empty spot in the store as witches and wizards of all ages stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped aisles, doing their best to avoid bumping into each other as much as they could help it. A few chairs were organised in haphazard rows, all of which had been filled hours prior.

The sound of the bell at the front of the store tinkled as more people crammed their way inside. The crowd grumbled at the late arrivers who tried to shove their way forward, all of them impatient for the highly anticipated author. Lucky for them, he wouldn't keep them waiting too much longer.

Draco peered out at the hoards of people and grinned to himself. The war may have left a lot of things in ruins, but the Malfoy name was not one of them. The Malfoys had always had a knack for, for lack of a better word, weaselling, their way out of trouble. After all, his father had managed to evade Azkaban after the first war, why should the second war be any different? All they had to do was lay low for a few years, and when they eventually emerged from behind the gates of Malfoy Manor, the vast majority of the wizarding world had been all too willing to let the past stay in the past and accept them back into their good graces.

Of course, his memoir had certainly helped in that process. The war had ended years ago, yet people still scurried to read about the sordid details — and life inside the Malfoy Manor during that time piqued nearly everyone's interests. There were moments where he and his family didn't come off in the best light, but that had been a necessary element in the storytelling. He wasn't daft enough to portray his family as entirely infallible; no one would accept his trustworthiness as an author otherwise. It also didn't hurt that people were quite forgiving when your mother was the one who lied to the Dark Lord to save their precious Potter.

Draco walked out from behind a bookcase, and the crowd broke into low applause as he made his way to the table. In the sea of faces, he saw a mixture of emotions. A collection of witches and wizards in the front row smiled as they clapped their hands in appropriate decorum, while in the far corners of the room, there were patches of witches and wizards with stern faces and arms folded against their chests.

This came as no surprise. They may have all come to hear him speak, but he was fully aware that many still considered him an enemy not worthy of any sort of ovation. He supposed there was some truth behind that, but it didn't bother him. It didn't matter if the person attended because they sincerely enjoyed his book or just wanted to get a glimpse of the infamous Malfoy. Regardless of their motivation, they were there to see him, and that alone proved that his status in the wizarding world wasn't one of the victims of the war.

With one firm ahem, the crowd grew silent. Draco briefly wondered what else he could make them do with such captivation, but thought better of it, opting to proceed with discussing his book as they all listened with careful ears and the utmost attention. He recounted some events of the war, from the branding of his Dark Mark to the final battle itself, and the witches and wizards interjected with the appropriate gasps when fitting. They lingered on his every word, desperate to hear the story they anticipated most, but if they wanted to know more about what happened on the Astronomy Tower, they'd have to read it for themselves. After all, he was still trying to sell copies of the book.

Once he had concluded, a Flourish and Blotts employee did her best to arrange the jostling crowd into some semblance of a queue for him to sign their books. Her job was a bit easier once the people who came out of mere curiosity had left, but the queue awaiting his autograph still snaked through the aisles and out the door onto the cobbled alleyway.

Draco reached into his pocket and looked down at his watch. It was already half past one. Judging by the size of the remaining crowd, he'd still have several hours to go until he could leave. His hand preemptively ached just thinking about how many signatures he would have to produce during that time. Refusing to do all that work, he charmed the stack of books at the edge of the table to automatically open to the title page, followed by an enchanted quill to sign his signature. Draco would be the final portion of the assembly line, adding the finishing touch of the person's name.

He moved through the queue quickly, barely permitting himself time to acknowledge the patrons as they proceeded down the length of the table. He asked each person for their name before scribbling it above his signature, then handing the book back to the person and immediately moving onto the next witch or wizard so that they didn't get the impression that chit-chat was permitted.

This process continued for what felt like a never-ending stream of customers. His quill hand was growing quite tired, and rather soon, he'd have to bewitch another to do the names as well. He paused to shake out his hand, and then picked the quill back up to continue.

"Next," he called, looking down at what was probably the four-hundredth copy of his book that day. "And who should I make it out to?"

"I prefer that you write Hermione."

His quill froze. Perhaps there were two sets of parents who had named their child as such, but he highly doubted it. He pried his eyes off the book and examined the woman before him. She was wearing a scarf to cover her hair, a feeble attempt to be somewhat discreet, but it was the unmistakable face of Hermione Granger.

It had been years since he'd seen her in person. The last time he had had a solid look at her, they were in the Great Hall in those early morning hours as the dust was still settling. Since then, he'd seen pictures of her every so often in the Daily Prophet that his father read at breakfast, but Draco had been careful not to let Lucius notice the way his eyes had lingered on her image more than his father would have deemed appropriate.

During his time of isolation in the Manor, he had taken quite an inconvenient interest in her. Consider it a side-effect to having spent so much time reflecting on the war in order to write the book. Time brought perspective, and with it, he had reluctantly accepted that he had been mistaken about his initial judgement about her. The whole wizarding world now fawned at her feet, and while he would never submit himself to such a practice, he was admittedly curious to get to know the real Hermione Granger — the one he had refused to properly acknowledge while they were at Hogwarts.

Someone further down the queue coughed, and he was suddenly aware of the other witches and wizards still waiting.

"And how do I spell that?" he asked, taking hold of his quill just a bit tighter.

"You? Well, you've been spelling it G-r-a-n-g-e-r your whole life, but it's actually H-e-r-m-i-o-n-e."

He couldn't resist the quirk of his lips at her retort. The quill met the pages of the book and scratched both her first and last name. When Draco finished, he handed her the signed book, still open to the title page for her to see.

She looked it over and even managed a slight laugh. "A fair compromise." She placed the book in her bag and gave him a curt nod. "I look forward to reading about the war from your perspective."

Draco kept his eyes on her until she was out the door, continuing to follow her through the window as she proceeded up the alley. The next witch in the queue had to clear her throat for him to remember the reason he couldn't chase after her to have a proper conversation. The signing may only be halfway done, but he knew what his mind was going to be focused on for the rest of the afternoon.

...

A quarter after five, Draco finally finished the last signature. He wasn't certain he'd be able to hold up a fork, let alone a full pint of beer, but he was in desperate need of a small bite and a drink before he made it back to the Manor for dinner. From the other end of Diagon Alley, the Leaky Cauldron called his name. He thanked the owner of Flourish and Blotts, who assured him that he was the one who should be thanking him for such a successful event, and made his way to the old pub.

He sat down at the bar and was beginning to peruse the menu when he noticed the witch seated across the way from him, scarf no longer serving as a disguise. Her wild hair had never been particularly difficult to spot, and it was especially easy on a Wednesday before the post-work rush. She was seated alone, a plate of chips and ketchup before her. The thing that caught Draco's attention the most, however, was the fact that she was actually reading his book and appeared to already be halfway through it.

Without a second thought, he strolled across the pub in her direction. He leaned against the bar and snagged one of the few remaining chips, taking an overdramatic bite.

She looked up, using the dust-cover flap as a placeholder as she shut the book, and gave him a sharp glare, evidently displeased at his interruption. "Who said you could have one of those?"

Draco shrugged and stole another. "No one, but I'll buy you another plate if that's what you're so concerned about, Granger."

"Hermione," she corrected. "We're adults now."

"Fine. I'll buy you another plate, Hermione."

A quick wave of his hand and a couple of seconds later, the barkeep stood before Draco, ready for his order. As he told the barkeep what he wanted, Draco watched her from the corner of his eye as she returned the book to her bag. Apparently, she was smart enough to realise that she wasn't going to get any more reading done now that he was there.

It didn't take long for the barkeep to return with a freshly poured pint for him and a hot serving of chips for them both. He positioned the chips between them and she picked one up, blowing on it to cool down.

"This wasn't necessary," she said, smothering the chip in an overly generous amount of ketchup.

"Seeing as you bought my book, and I get a portion of those profits, consider this the spending of that money." He reached over and grabbed a chip for himself. "And now you can't complain about how many I take."

He swallowed it down with some of the beer, all the while, keeping his gaze on Hermione. He hadn't gotten enough of a proper look at her earlier in the day, too consumed with the surprise that she was there in the first place, but now she was right beside him, and nothing was barring him. Most of her hadn't seemed to change in the past few years; her hair was the same unruly mess and her brown eyes were just as rich, but there was a general softness that he was unaccustomed to.

Perhaps that was just what she looked like without the constant stressor of war. It suited her.

But enough with the small talk and the irrelevant observations. Draco took another swig of his drink and got right to it. "So what were you doing there today?" he asked. It was an innocent enough start, suffice to get her talking.

She leaned back on the barstool and took the bait. "I read Rita Skeeter's review in last week's Prophet, and even though I take very little stock in what she has to say, I thought your book sounded interesting. I intended to purchase a copy eventually, but when I noticed the sign in the window this afternoon, I figured I might as well hear your perspective firsthand." She shrugged and picked up another chip, swirling it around in the vat of ketchup. "I suppose work is probably wondering where I am right now, but I finished my tasks for the day, and I didn't have any meetings, so they won't mind."

"And what exactly is it that you do nowadays?" he asked. The last he had read in the Prophet, she had just left her post at the Ministry.

"I recently started with a small education firm, creating a pilot program for wizarding families that integrates more streamlined education standards for young witches and wizards prior to them entering Hogwarts," Hermione explained. "Our goal is to introduce a universal ten hour a week at-home program that focuses on fundamental reading, basic maths, and Muggle history."

Draco snorted.

"What?" she snapped.

"I'm sorry, but that's just about the most Hermione Granger thing I've ever heard."

Hermione's cheeks flared red. "Do you have a problem with it?" She glared at him, seemingly ready to jump into a long lecture justifying her program, but she need not bother.

"No need to get so worked up," Draco said with a laugh. Part of her was just as he had remembered from their school years, especially the staunch certitude that she was always in the right. It had annoyed him as a child, but he supposed there was an aspect of it that was mildly endearing.

"Believe it or not, I think it sounds like a worthwhile program," he continued, much to her apparent surprise. "Although, if I may put in my two Knuts, ten hours a week may be a bit much for some parents, especially those who work. And I am rather curious how you think your reading program would be different from what wizarding families already do on their own. Wizards are entering Hogwarts with the ability to read, so I don't know what changes you hope to bring."

A smile stretched up to her cheeks, and without pause, Hermione launched into what was essentially a full-blown business pitch in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron. She detailed every aspect of the program, from the curriculum to the resources, and even the funding. When she was still only about halfway through, she already had Draco considering whether or not he should offer to invest in the firm.

By the time she finished, the Leaky Cauldron was starting to fill with witches and wizards who had just gotten off the clock, coming in for their own after-hours pick me up. He pulled out his watch and saw that it was now past six. His mother would be expecting him home soon, and if his childhood had taught him anything, it was that he did not want to endure the wrath of Narcissa Malfoy when someone was late for dinner.

Draco drained the rest of his glass and took one final chip. "I have to get going," he said, nodding his head in farewell. "It was nice seeing you again."

And he meant it.

He had barely taken a step away from her when he felt a warm presence on top of his sleeve. Draco froze at the sensation, surprised to see her hand carefully rested on his arm.

"Surely you can stay for just one more beer. We haven't even discussed your book yet."

She looked up at him with those large brown eyes, and Draco felt a strange pang at the idea of actually leaving. Sticking around for another round couldn't hurt. Besides, his family didn't typically start dinner until closer to seven. He could spare a few extra minutes.

He'd stay. But only for one more beer. Or until Hermione ran out of questions. Whichever came first.

...

Draco waved his hand in the air, and the barkeep placed yet another round of beers in front of them, taking away what was probably his fifth and her third or so empty pint.

"No, no, no," Draco said. "You've got it all wrong. It was Crabbe who accidentally knocked the moondew into Nott's cauldron!" He snickered at the memory. "The poor bloke was never able to tell the difference between moondew and moonseed!"

Hermione appeared to be in stitches as they recalled the incident from third year Potions. Their conversation had long since moved past the topic of his book, the notion of dinner with his parents now nonexistent in Draco's mind. All he could focus on was the memory of the thick potion exploding in Nott's face, leaving a series of marble-sized boils above his right eyebrow that had taken weeks to disappear despite several visits to the hospital wing. Draco could still picture the furious look on Madam Pomfrey's face when he had escorted Nott there.

"I don't think I had ever seen Snape upset with a Slytherin before that day!" Hermione said through the laughter. "You… bumbling... idiot!" she said in her best attempt at a Snape imitation.

It wasn't very good, but it still caused a fit of laughter from Draco. He reached for his beer, yet he couldn't stop long enough to take a sip. He eventually gave up as a new memory popped into his mind.

"You should have seen Snape fourth year when we had to take those dance lessons for the Yule Ball," he said, wiping away a tear that was starting to form. "Of all people, he picked Tracey Davis to model with, and I've never been more uncomfortable in my life. You remember her, right? She hated Snape, and we all knew it except for Snape apparently. Or maybe he did, and this was his way of torturing her. Either way, she kept her arms stick straight so she could be as far away from him as possible, and everyone just sat there in silence, watching the pained expression on her face as Snape twirled her."

Hermione burst into another bout of laughter, her smile pushing her eyes into small crescents. In all the years that he had known Hermione, he couldn't remember a time that he had ever made her laugh. Oftentimes, he had pushed her to the far opposite side of the spectrum. But watching the way she clamped onto her sides as the giggles poured out of her, he regretted not doing this more when they were younger.

Her face lit up, pausing to collect herself, and that bright smile returned. "Oh, goodness, you should have seen our lessons. McGonagall picked Ron!"

Draco barely paid attention as Hermione recounted the tale. He couldn't care less about Weasley. He'd much rather hone in on his companion's expressive nature and the excited sparkle in her eyes. Just as he had suspected, he rather enjoyed the real Hermione.

His blissful haze was broken with the bellow of the barkeep.

"Last call!"

Draco looked around the room, and to his surprise, there was barely anyone left in the dining area of the Leaky Cauldron. Was it really that late? He dug into his pocket and pulled out his watch once more, shocked to see that it was nearing midnight. Merlin's beard, had he and Hermione seriously been sitting there for over six hours? Draco returned the watch and counted out seven Galleons from his pocket.

Hermione paused at whatever point she was at in her story and tilted her head. "What are you doing?" she asked, looking at the currency in his hand.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he said as he placed the coins on the bar. "Typically payment is encouraged at restaurants."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No need to get smart right now. I was referring to how much you put down!"

"Well, we did have quite a few beers."

"And I intend to pay for mine."

She turned to reach into her bag, but Draco stopped her. "Don't worry about it," he said. "It's on me."

After a few more attempts to pay her own way, Hermione eventually surrendered and let Draco win. He wasn't sure why he had insisted, especially considering how much of a fuss she made over it, but he had. It wasn't as if that was a significant sum of money, just a few Galleons.

They gathered their belongings and exited the Leaky Cauldron, the last two patrons to leave the dining area for the night. The door had just shut behind them when Hermione turned to Draco.

"I had a surprisingly good time tonight," she said, beaming up at him. "I'm glad I decided to go to your talk."

Draco couldn't agree more. It had been a pleasant evening. One of the best he had had since the end of the war.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around, Draco."

She gave him a final smile before she Disapparated, leaving Draco alone on the cobbled street.

He decided to take a short stroll down the deserted alley before making it home himself. His mother was probably waiting up to scold him for not owling her that he wasn't going to be at dinner, but he'd much rather put that off a while longer and enjoy the fresh fall breeze. It also had the added benefit of giving him time to develop a semi-believable excuse as to why he hadn't come home in time. His mother wouldn't be as adverse, but he knew for a fact that his father wouldn't react kindly to the news that he had spent all evening with a Muggle-born, let alone Hermione Granger.

But what his parents didn't know, didn't get him disowned.