A/N: Hi there! ^_^
So, this was originally a one shot, then a three shot, then a multichapter... then a three shot again... And now, having posted part 3, it is officially a four shot. Crazy, I know. That's me in a nut shell. Anyway, it's my first four shot, so be gentle. The word count is higher than I originally intended, but you'll love it anyway… *bats eyelashes hopefully* ;)

Warnings: mentions of past non-dramione relationships. No descriptions, but this first chapter is just a set up for the 6 years later (in the summary). Enjoy. :)

[edit: see 2nd author notes for important author rant.]

…

– Part 1 –
.:. A Soiree of Sensations .:.

…

6 years and 9 months ago…

Hermione Jean Granger was standing on a precipice… literally. She felt light headed, like one would with the sensations of a high altitude; a fierce wind blowing like ice against her skin and that basic, primal urge to jump. That was what had gotten her into this mess: other people's primal instincts. She thought she had it all, the Gryffindor princess, one of the golden trio, a war heroine, and recipient of the Order of Merlin - First Class. She also had more money than she knew what to do with, even after her numerous donations to help rebuild the Wizarding world.

And where had all of that gotten her? She was engaged to Ronald "bloody" Weasley for months before he finally agreed on a date for the wedding. Sure, she'd wanted to get her career moving forward before getting engaged, and have some kind of security before getting married, but watching Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley tying the knot within a year after the war ended had made her want to as well.

Silly, right?

And sure, Harry had gotten Ginny pregnant early, despite their precautions, necessitating the rushed wedding, but Ron had not given Hermione any indication that he wanted to marry one day. They went from celebrating the fall of Voldemort together, giddy in love, to getting an apartment in Muggle London and taking their first steps into the "real" world; all awhile, he gave her the run around.

Ron helped out at his brother's joke shop for awhile, then underwent Auror training only to quit shortly after being accepted into the division in the ministry.

He then tried out for the position of Outside Chaser with Chudley Cannons, his favourite team. He used his celebrity status to avoid being placed in the team's reserve squad. The cannons had been having a particularly bad year, but once Ronald got the place on the team, their play improved. His goal was ultimately to have the position of Keeper, and Hermione had to keep reminding him he wasn't in Hogwarts anymore.

And then she had to remind him of one too many things and the arguments started. He'd hurt her really bad one night, accusing of comparing him to the famous Harry Potter and in a fit of jealously, called her a few things that would make his mother back hand him like a Muggle instead of a witch.

He always did have a foul mouth on him.

As a part of his apology, he agreed to whatever she wanted for their wedding and spent every day up until then making it up to her. She thought he was in love with her, she thought she loved him. But walking in on him and Lavender Brown having sex in a guest room in the hotel only an hour after they'd said their vows was not what she had planned for the happiest day of her life.

Hermione sighed, a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand, while her other hand held tightly to the support beam that jutted out of the tallest building in Wickham, a small village only ten miles from the Muggle city of Carlow. The village was capped in snow, reminding her of Hogsmeade; populated by both magical and non-magical citizens, Wickham was one of those rare places where many of the Muggles knew of the magical world. Of course, the Muggles here were related to Muggleborns, by either blood or marriage, so it wasn't against any known law for them to know. After all, this was the Republic of Ireland and not England. From what Hermione had heard England was one of the strictest countries in the world when it came to interaction with Muggles.

She looked down over the quiet village, the setting sun only two hours ago giving way to a strangely mournful atmosphere. She was normally terrified of heights, unless standing on solid ground, but tonight was special. She was celebrating her renewed single status and the end of hope and naively believing she was going to be happy. If she wasn't meant to be with Ron, then who? There was no-one that came to mind, and so she settled for believing she was going to spend the rest of her life sad and alone.

Tonight, she loved heights; she felt the frosty wind, the reminder that while snow looked nice, it was abrasive against bare skin. She wasn't wearing a jacket, dressed only in jeans and a spaghetti strap shirt. But she didn't care. Hermione threw her head back and drank the rest of her alcoholic beverage in one go. The dizzy feeling was accompanied by a blurred vision this time as she looked down over her precipice from atop the railing on the clock tower. It was time she decided what she was going to do about that.

Everyone who knew her was looking in her usual haunts, probably trying desperately to find her. But it was here, at the highest point in Wickham that she came now, feeling lower than she had in years. It was her first time here, but she'd been to other villages that look just like this one, so she decided they were all called Wickham, and all of them were seedy. But, instead of giving into the wild abandon urge to jump down from here and just close her eyes, she focused on her destination,determination, deliberation, and Disapparated.

It was a little difficult with the Firewhiskey slowing down her thoughts, but she managed to apparate just outside of The Serpent's Tongue; only halfway between her starting point and the edge of Wickham, it was a magical pub. She'd heard about it from a recently procured friend who came from France. It was a popular place to visit if you happened to have been sorted into Slytherin while attending Hogwarts.

Her friend, Anastasie Babineaux, was getting married to Marcus Flint in several months time. She seemed nice enough though.

'So maybe I'm looking for some Slytherins,' she thought as she hesitated to enter the pub.

Some hot Slytherins to take her mind off of a particularly vile Gryffindor.

Hermione wasn't a heavy drinker, nor did she often frequent Irish pubs, but as she'd told herself only minutes ago, tonight was special. This was her spiral into both eternal depression and the freedom one felt when they annulled a marriage that would've only made them miserable anyway. She could not believe she still had feelings for Ronald Weasley! His stupid arse face wouldn't get out of her head, so she stomped over to the door to The Serpent's Tongue and stormed inside. Thankfully, even the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade was scarier than this place. Well, too bad either way. If she wasn't afraid of Voldemort or being tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, then a few low lives were nothing she couldn't handle.

She headed straight for the bar, digging her hands into her handbag. As usual, she'd used an Undetectable Extension Charm on it, so in all her drunken glory (which wasn't that bad, surely!), she took a few moments to remember to summon the money she needed straight out of the handbag and save herself some time.

"Granger! Over here!"

She knew that voice. Hermione glanced around and spotted the table of disorderly former Slytherins a moment later (it was more of a booth, really). The one who had called out to her was Marcus Flint himself. Ever since she'd befriended his fiancé, he'd been pleasant enough toward her. But now that he was clearly drunk, he was waving her over like she was some old school friend he hadn't seen for years.

"Bartender!" He called, indicating to the table. "Bring it here!"

Hermione nodded to the toothless wizard behind the bar to show that she agreed and walked over to Flint's table. She didn't stumble or sway, which was nice, and at the large Quidditch player's insistence, she squeezed into their booth before remembering to look around and see who her other drinking buddies were. Her eyes widened slightly at the position she'd put herself in, but there were five men in the booth, and none of them were glaring at her with disdain. Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Gregory Goyle, and Marcus Flint were obviously sloshed, with mixed expressions: curiosity, nonchalance, and dreamy, self induced reverie.

The platinum blonde next to her however, was not drunk. Draco Malfoy's face was unreadable as he simply appraised her, not complaining that the "mudblood" was sitting so close to him that their shoulders were practically humping each other. Hermione wondered if he had even ingested any intoxicants at all. He certainly looked sober, his eyes lingering on her as he remained silent.

Zabini, Nott, and Goyle didn't react to Hermione's presence; she accepted the Firewhiskey from the approaching waiter and watched in fascination as one by one, they each fell asleep at the table. Blaise mumbled a few inarticulate words before Marcus held out his mug of mead toward the only girl of their group like he was making a toast. She already knew he was looking forward to his impending marriage and was being nice to her because of Anastasie. His parents were killed in the war, so he was free to marry whomever he wished. He grinned at the Gryffindor.

"Here's to you, Hermione," he said, barely slurring out the sentence. He hiccoughed and then spoke a little more evenly: "For kicking some serious arse in the war and freeing me of my social responsibilities."

He nodded to her, finished off his mead, and then slumped backward and slipped under the table, onto the Floor, and unconscious. She couldn't help but laugh at that. But once her laughter died down, she felt suddenly self conscious, basically left alone with Draco Malfoy, who was still staring at her like one would a seductress in Muggle clothing.

"What are you looking at?" She asked, trying to hide her anxiety as she went back to drinking her adult beverage.

"I'm wondering why Flint invited you over, and why you came," he said evenly.

She shrugged. It had to be the alcohol. Draco shifted next to her, his face now inches from the crook of her neck as he moved his left arm up behind her. His breath was warm on her bare skin as she remembered again how little she was wearing for this climate.

"Did you apparate here straight from Diagon Alley or something?" He asked, breathing in the scent of vanilla musk she'd inattentively doused herself with earlier.

She trembled lightly, not sure if it was the Firewhiskey or Draco's voice in her ear making her breathless. "Yeah, that's it," she snapped, "and then I decided I wanted to freeze to death."

Thank Merlin she'd managed that without stuttering.

"You're drunk," he informed her, as though she didn't already know.

"No, just tipsy."

True enough, she felt more alert than she had only a few minutes earlier. She was certainly breathing a little deeper as well, very aware of her own physical reactions to Draco's presence.

Drowning in her sorrow over Ronald Weasley, she'd forgotten that had been her first bottle of Firewhiskey, but now, sitting next to Draco Malfoy in a dimly lit booth, she was mentally struggling against the warmth of his body. He was not hiding his sudden interest in her, having turned to face her in the tight space, and ignoring the occasional grunts of his friends as they dreamt of god knows what.

"Then drink up," he said huskily, causing her to tremble again.

"Stop coming on to me," she hissed.

He smirked. "Never going to happen."

She ignored him and he dropped his right hand to her knee. "Let's play a little game."

She eyed off his hand, but did nothing about it. "No. I'm perfectly content to just sit here and sulk."

"Sulk? And what exactly are you sulking over?"

She didn't respond.

"Oh of course, Weaslebee," he said, "I heard you finally tied yourself to him. Are you married yet?"

He'd been in Ireland and out of the gossip loop himself, preparing for his own matrimonial vows. He was looking forward to marrying Astoria Greengrass as much as Hermione Granger would want to marry Voldemort, but it was expected of him, apparently. He didn't want to think of what life would be with some trophy wife who thought the height of high society came through knowing what drapes would best match her new overpriced outfit. She was just a slag. Sure, she was easy on the eyes, but dense as a tree trunk.

Hermione shook her head, and he held tighter to her leg.

He wanted to tell her to slow down when she ordered more drinks. She was one witch, how much could she drink before passing out? But he didn't want her sober. She'd never let him fuck her if she wasn't so intent on getting plastered. He had a long string of tedious, unbearable years ahead of him, of sleeping with one woman, and the idea of a last shag, a final bout with someone who didn't believe in carrying a conversation with friends let alone her intended, was very tempting, even if that last shag was Granger.

His eyes raked over her exposed arms, down to the curves of her breasts and lingered. She was interesting enough to look at, so he'd have no problem there. His pants were already feeling a little tighter than usual. But even drunk, she needed work. When she started to slow down the rate of her ingestion, he decided to tease her.

"How old are you, Hermione Jean Granger?" Draco smirked. Yeah, he knew her full name.

She took offence to his tone though, as if he'd just sneered his question.

"Older than you, you twit," she snapped, and slapped away his left hand as he tried to pull on her hair.

He knew she was twenty-one. It was still January, so he was still twenty; but she didn't need to know that.

Draco was rather liking this drunk version of the famous Hermione Granger. He'd never seen her as anything other than the uptight, prissy cow of a best friend of Saint Potter, regardless of how nice she looked when she put the effort into her appearance. He'd been both shell shocked and impressed at the Yule Ball, but the idea of seeing her drunk and taking advantage of her…

He mulled on that again, as Hermione threw her head back and skulled her Firewhiskey in one go.

She wiped at her mouth clumsily. "Okay, let's play a little game, shall we?"

So, she was ready now, was she?

She nodded furiously. "It's called 'insulting Ronald Weasley until I pass out'."

"Let it never be said Hermione Granger didn't know how to party," Draco said sardonically, leaning his head toward hers and nuzzling her neck.

"Mmm," she moaned. "Stop that."

"No."

Hermione started to breathe even heavier as Draco slithered his right hand along her exposed skin, gently brushing. He made a slow, calculating bee line for her cleavage as his lips played with her pulse point. She froze in place, not sure if she wanted to hex him or let him continue. But she was here to have a good time, and he was the only remotely sober man in the pub that was attractive.

'Oh, Merlin.'

Draco Malfoy nipped the sensitive flesh along Hermione's neck, causing her to jerk slightly, and chuckled at her reaction. She placed her Firewhiskey down on the table and moved her shoulders to accommodate his ministrations.

It was an extremely public place to be doing something so intimate, but neither of them felt compelled to care. And as Draco's hand moved to her right breast, Hermione found herself closing her eyes. She bit her lip as his thumb made small circles over her clothed nipple.

"Will you help me?" She said softly, her breath coming out in pants as Draco pinched her with every syllable.

"Hm," he said, non-committal.

"I want to humiliate Ron, I want to make him hurt."

He groaned in pleasure. It would turn him on, watching her pleasure over that git's misfortunes. He started to kiss her skin more gently now, moving toward her mouth as his hand was finishing with her breast, moving south.

"My pleasure," he purred.

"Hm."

Hermione's eyes snapped open as he licked her jaw. "Stop," she murmured.

Taken aback, Draco pulled away from her, the disappointment gracing his handsome features before he could steady his expression. A sick, twisted feeling in her gut had Hermione out of the booth and running into the night air. Without hesitation, the platinum blonde followed her, not caring that his friends were still unconscious in that seedy pub. It wasn't like they hadn't done it to themselves before after all. He was more worried about the girl he was chasing.

He caught up to her quickly and grabbed her before she could Disapparate away.

"Get away from me!" She snapped.

This was so wrong. Hermione had been feeling so good, desperately and wantonly, and then suddenly she could barely breathe. It wasn't Ronald; no, it was never him. It was Draco. He made her want to pretend the last three years hadn't happened and just let him shag her senseless. But there were so many logical reasons to just push him away…

"No Granger," he said huskily, "you're not getting away from me that easily."

She sniffed quietly as he pulled her into his chest, his arms holding her so tightly it hurt. She glanced back toward The Serpent's Tongue, thinking about his sleeping friends, but he didn't seem bothered. They would likely wake up, stumble into the nearest fireplace, or take the Knight Bus home. He didn't care.

All of a sudden, Draco gripped her tightly, spinning on his heels as he Disapparated them. Hermione shut her eyes tightly, as she'd heard was best to do if accompanying someone on side-along apparition, and drunk.

'Drunk as a keg.'

She felt the familiar pressing sensation and the moment her feet hit the ground, she felt like throwing up.

"Where are we?"

"In the alley behind your Muggle apartment complex," Draco said, and stared at her.

Hermione looked around. How had he known where to go to get here?

"I want to hex him," she said softly.

"Weaslebee?"

Hermione nodded. Draco smiled. He would love nothing better than to watch that ginger shite writhe and worm, but he preferred the x-rated scenario that was currently playing in his head to that.

"I'm not denying Weaslebee deserves whatever you have planned to do to him," he said, now smirking. "But in the state you're in, you're likely to accidentally kill the git."

She snorted. "And that's bad because..?"

"It's not," he said seriously. "But you'll end up in Azkaban. And while the jail has improved considerably with the removal of the Dementors, it's still inescapable and no place for a lady."

Hermione snorted again. Draco Malfoy was insinuating she was a lady? Maybe the word mudblood had finally lost its charm for him.

"Yeah right," she snapped.

"Fine," Draco said, throwing his hands up in a show of defeat, "go to prison for the rest of your natural life. I'm sure Weaslebee is worth it."

Hermione snarled. Okay, so Ronald Weasley wasn't worth risking going to Azkaban. But by the look on Malfoy's face, he had an alternate idea.

"What do you suggest I do?" She asked, more than a little curious.

Draco smiled slightly. "You could always forget the rodent and have sex with me."

She scoffed at him, but he didn't miss the slight tinge of blush on her cheeks. She was already flushed from drinking Firewhiskey all night, but now her face had reddened considerably. He smirked at her, knowing she was considering agreeing with him. The mental gears were on overdrive, despite her inebriated condition. Finally, she fixed him with a glare.

"I am drunk, Mister Malfoy," she said. "Don't come onto me."

"Not so drunk that you'd deny being drunk," he pointed out.

"And yet you are completely sober," she countered. "So if I were to have sex with you, it could be construed as being taken advantage of."

"You're thinking too much," he said. "Drunks don't over think things."

"You've never seen me drunk before."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Have you ever been drunk before?"

She thought about that, but for once, her mind was drawing a blank. "N-no."

"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her along.

"I can walk just fine," she complained. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

"Really?"

She hiccupped. "N-no?"

"It's okay," he whispered huskily in her ear. "I'm going to take care of you."

She nodded and she was again ensnared in the crushing darkness of side-along apparition that always left her breathless. Except this time, she held tighter to Draco. He was able to take her past the wards she normally set up in her apartment because she was willingly participating in the apparition. But as soon as their feet hit ground, she had her wand out and disarmed them just in case. She didn't need a piercing alarm in her head right now.

Again, how did he know where she lived? But then she remembered he knew she was supposed to marry Ronald Weasley. There had been a tasteful "coming out" article in the Daily Prophet, in which Hermione and Ron had both been interviewed in her apartment. It wasn't like they were advertising where she lived, but it was pretty obvious it was Muggle London, and anyone with any influence could get the apartment number, easy.

Had he really looked her up?

This thought made her tremble: not in fear or revulsion, but in expectation. It made sense to her inebriated mind now; he had wanted her for a while now. The feel of his lips on hers as she grabbed him roughly was invigorating. It was her turn to take control. She wanted this, she needed it; more than that, she needed him. He was so perfect, so beautiful, and so intoxicating.

Draco Malfoy was looking very delicious right now. And after everything she'd been through, she deserved a moment of happiness, even though it would be with the annoying bully who had tormented her at Hogwarts. His hand brushed hers, moving slowly up her arm as she broke their kiss to watch the movement. His fingers found her pulse, settling on her throat and lightly caressing her skin. Her eyes drifted now to his, to find him staring at her face. They stood in the middle of her living room, just staring at each other.

She was the first one to smile.

"My bed is this way," she said softly, and he followed her.

It wasn't as large as he was used to, but Draco didn't care. A bed was a bed. He quickly followed her onto it as she started to strip in front of him. She was wearing a strapless bra and matching red knickers. He wanted to rip them off of her, and after quickly disposing of his outer garments, finding himself only in boxers he climbed on top of the luscious brunette before she could steal this honour from him.

Hermione giggled softly, and let him unclasp her bra. His eyes were lust filled, staring up into hers as he rid her of the offending underwear. She was feeling giddy, and had to slap herself mentally. She wasn't used to being this intoxicated, wondering if maybe her rational mind was somehow unaffected, as she hadn't felt more clear headed, more sure of what she wanted.

"Hmm," she moaned, watching as Draco took off his boxers and hovered over her, his body pressed deeply into hers.

He was nicely endowed and she found herself instinctively reaching out to him as he pressed their lips together. The kiss wasn't deep, but retained an even deeper sensuality to it regardless. They were just getting started, and he didn't want to lose himself in the moment: not yet anyway.

Draco was pleasantly surprised when she gripped him gently, massaging his muscle. He returned the favour as his shaft stiffened in her hands, and slid his fingers into her wet sex. She let go of him and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her. She didn't ever want to let go of him as her body responded to his ministrations. With her breasts pressed heavily against his toned chest, she came onto his fingers, shuddering as he removed his hand. She gasped at the sensations building and writhing inside of her. A warm, yet slightly burning sensation was twisting within her.

"You have no idea," Draco whispered, as she broke their kiss in her reverie. "You have no idea how fucking sexy you are."

Hermione moaned as he cupped her breasts, his thumbs making small circles around her nipples. She kissed him furiously, closing her eyes, and spreading her legs. He bit her bottom lip, filling her in one swift stroke. She clenched around his shaft and he groaned out what he was thinking. She could ultimately admit the feeling was mutual, but in her inebriation, all she could manage was a succession of cries and lustful groans.

Her eyes snapped open as Draco deepened their kiss now, moving his hips faster, grinding her as she bucked upward to meet his thrusts. She could suddenly taste an undefinable tang of alcohol in his mouth. He was exploring her cavern as she sighed deeply. He had been drinking after all, but this taste was different to Firewhiskey, more refined. She supposed that as a high society pureblood, he was more used to the finer alcoholic beverages. So despite having had his share of intoxicants for the night, he was lucid enough to know exactly what he was doing.

Hermione lifted her knees, trying to draw more of him into her as she pushed down on him again. He slid in deeper and stars blinded her vision. She held onto him, riding out the euphoria and with a final stroke, he came inside her. She couldn't move. A mixture of after sex lethargy and a dull thudding in her head was making her slightly nauseous. She didn't want to throw up, it would ruin the moment.

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to regain her grip on her mind. It was slow going, and once Draco had recovered, he slid out of her. He grabbed her, pulled her back against him, spooning her as he rained kisses on her neck.

The sensation of Draco Malfoy curled up behind her was somehow relaxing, and after a few inaudible words from the both of them, she fell asleep.

It was after midnight. It was almost two o'clock in the morning before Draco had gathered enough energy in his body to move. He didn't want to leave Hermione in the middle of the night, it wasn't very gentlemanly, but there couldn't be a morning after. This was a onetime shag, a frenzied bout of sensations for the both of them. It could never be anymore.

And suddenly, that thought both sobered and saddened him.

Draco kissed Hermione gently, wishing he could stay. No, he wasn't madly in love with her all of a sudden, but when the sun finally came up, his mother would be hounding him and if he wasn't in his apartment when she came calling he was going to be in trouble.

There it was again, that urge to stay with Hermione and forget all about his responsibilities. He wasn't in love with Astoria Greengrass either, but the Gryffindor princess had stirred something inside of him he didn't know he had. It had to be all that hatred she was exuding for that Weaslebee, right? They both agreed that prick needed to be castrated and hung out to dry. Hermione deserved a happy ending, even if Draco hadn't actually come out and told her, and he hoped she found it.

'I want that too.'

He finished dressing and ran his hand over her naked form for a moment, lamenting on what he was leaving behind. But they could never be, not just because of his engagement to the Greengrass, but also because his parents would never accept this Muggleborn witch.

He was a coward. He had always been a coward.

He whispered softly in Hermione's ear, hoping that somehow she could hear him.

"Thank you."

Draco grabbed the rest of his belongings and looked back at the sleeping brunette before Disapparating out of the apartment. He couldn't love her, could he? If he had learnt anything from his parents, it was that there was no such thing as a happy ending. At least not for him.

… …

… …

6 years and 9 months later…

Émilie Rose Granger was unusual for a six year old girl. Yes, she was a girlie girl, who was already interested in wearing makeup, and disliked bugs and getting dirty, just like most other girls her age. But she was different. It was difficult to describe with words. Nobody who met her knew what to think of her; they either ended up being impressed by her, intrigued or incredibly wary. She had her mother's book smarts and logical mind, while the rest of her was a product of her upbringing; she practically worshipped Fleur Delacour-Weasley and her daughter, Victoire.

She wished her grandmother was a Veela too.

Émilie was sitting in her bedroom on the upper levels of the Helaine Manor (named after her mother's favourite aunt, who had died shortly before she found out she was a witch). The Manor resided on an old wizard estate in southern France which had gone by many names over the last century as it quickly changed hands: it was currently named White Owl Estate. The Manor was also referred to as Helaine Le Chateau. It was all very nineteenth century high society. Émilie lapped it up.

She loved the estate and the freedom and beauty of the extensive grounds, but she wasn't the rough and tumble type – she preferred the "look, don't touch" approach.

She looked down, remembering in all her musings that she was writing a letter to her best friend, Victoire Weasley. She often teased her about the last name, telling Victoire she'd rather be a Potter than a Weasley. She supposed she got her general dislike of anything Weasley from her mother. Not that Émilie thought lowly of Ginerva Weasley… sorry, Potter. She liked Ginny very much, and that crazy brother of hers George, not to mention her father. They were always so accepting of her, despite the strange looks she got from the others.

Émilie knew she was weird, despite initial appearances; it didn't bother her.

Her letter was slow going, knowing that in about an hour, she'd be seeing her oldest friend anyway. Victoire was older than her, at eight years, while Émilie was on a precipice: tomorrow was going to be her sixth birthday. She couldn't wait for the guests, the presents, the hugs and congratulations. But most of all, she couldn't wait for the surprise her mother had planned that she'd already figured out.

She was going to her very first professional Quidditch match, ever.

There was no sport quite like Quidditch in the whole world, and no matter what her Uncle Harry said or did, she couldn't get into the Muggle versions. If there was one thing she liked that was even remotely tomboyish, it was jumping up and down and cheering at Quidditch games. Though it wasn't, really. She'd been to a few games, but those were community games for people who weren't good enough to be on the professional games.

Émilie returned to her letter, remembering to put the date: 23rd of September, 2007, at the top: the day before her birthday. She double checked the time. Yes, it was still before midnight. She was supposed to be in bed, but knew that the Potters were coming in late tonight, so didn't feel remotely tired. They would be joining them when they travelled to the pitch in Quiberon, which was probably all ready by now. Knowing about the game had made her too excited to sleep, to think, to care about her other presents. But she needed to pretend to be surprised, lest her mother discover she'd realised what was going to happen.

"Émilie! Are you still awake?"

Nothing got by her mother. Well, almost nothing.

Émilie hid her letter as Hermione Jean Granger opened the door to her daughter's room. They looked nothing alike. Émilie had long blonde, almost golden hair, that was straight and glistened; she never had trouble maintaining it and loved wearing it down. Her eyes were pale blue, almost grey, and more often than not, very intense. Hermione on the other hand, still had the same coloured brown hair from her Hogwarts days, but at least it was manageable now, with stylish ringlets instead of the bushy curls she'd often been teased for. Her eyes were brown, and overly serious, even when she wasn't trying to be. Harry Potter had jokingly told her the light had gone out of her eyes the moment she'd found out she was pregnant.

Yeah, maybe. But that was because she'd known the only person that could've been the father was Draco Malfoy. And apparently, he'd gotten married the day after their one night stand. She was left alone with Émilie, so what had Harry expected would happen?

Hermione pretended to be cross with Émilie, as she wasn't, not really.

"Well, since you're up, you can do some chores–"

"Mère!" The little girl said, her voice rising a few octaves in fright.

She hated doing housework. Luckily for her, they had a fulltime maid, butler, nanny… She had wanted a house-elf, but Hermione wouldn't hear of it.

"Don't you mère me," Hermione scolded, proud as always that her daughter reverted to speaking French when emotional: mère meant 'mother'. "You went to bed two hours ago. What are you doing awake?"

"Writing my memoirs," Émilie said softly, hanging her head.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Her daughter loved to use euphemisms, especially made up ones, and trying to confuse people as to her meaning. But the longer one spent in her company, the more they could see the rhyme behind her apparently chaotic linguistic skills. She was far too smart for an 'almost six year old', and definitely smarter than Hermione had been at her age.

"Well come on then," she said, holding out her hand and smiling as her daughter took it eagerly.

"Uncle Harry is here already?"

"He will be in a few minutes."

Émilie grinned happily. She loved her Uncle Harry. He was the only adult that never lied to her, and he was the reason she knew who her father was. Hermione had been angry with Harry for that, but at his sheepish face, she quickly forgave him. It wasn't like he was announcing it to the entire Wizarding world, just to the one person who most deserved to know. Émilie listened attentively every time Harry would tell her what a git Draco Malfoy was, and giggle when her mother told him off for it. A part of her didn't care if her father was the worst person in the world, as long as she knew where she came from.

But the rest of her felt saddened; not having him in her life left her feeling lonely sometimes. She had Harry, she had George, and Mr Weasley was always doting when she saw him; but it wasn't the same. Victoire always told her how amazing her father was. It made her jealous.

Émilie didn't like using the Floo Network. It was dusty and always left people looking dishevelled. She wondered briefly if that was why robes were invented. Glancing at the clock, she waited eagerly for the Potter family to step out of the magical fire in the main sitting room. There were three chimneys in this manor (larger than a house and smaller than a mansion, Hermione had not wanted a place that left her with an empty feeling), but this was the only grate that was connected to the Potter household.

The second chimney was in her mother's boudoir (and Émilie wondered what she could possibly want one in her bedroom for), and the third was in the guest house. It wasn't connected anymore, and hadn't been for years.

Harry Potter was the first one through, his smile lighting up Émilie's face. He dusted himself off before hugging her, knowing how much she disliked being dirty; a second later, his wife joined them. Next came young James; his mere presence brought a sneer to Émilie's face. She didn't do that often outside of him and his antics. He was a seven year old bundle of energy that didn't have the time or inclination for being proper.

He grinned maniacally at Émilie. He may look like his father, but acted more like a buffoon.

"Hello there my rosette," he said condescendingly.

"Rosette" was his nickname for her, and he thought she liked it because her nanny had the same name. Her name was actually Rosalie, and she was a Muggleborn witch who had no family left. Émilie considered her family however.

Ginny shoved her eldest son out of the way gently as their last visitor came through.

Victoire Weasley didn't much care for travelling by Floo either, and currently looked like a silk mummy, having wrapped her silver robes as much as she could to fend off the soot and dust. It wasn't too bad though, as Émilie's dislike of it gave Hermione more than enough reason to keep up with the maintenance on it.

Victoire's mother was currently looking after Ginny's youngest, Albus and had declined from accompanying them either way. She wasn't much of a Quidditch fan these days and had her mother's family coming over in the next couple of days anyway. She didn't want to be in Quiberon and surrounded by squealing sports fans instead of properly greeting her mother.

Victoire had gotten a free pass because this was about Émilie's birthday.

"Bonjour Émilie," Victoire said, in her thick French accent. "And 'ow are you?"

Officially, she still lived in Shell Cottage, in Great Britain, but spent enough time in France that she had still managed to pick up the accent. And once she got a hold of it, she refused to let it go. She was a miniature version of her mother.

"Très bien, merci," Émilie said courteously, as Victoire began to unwrap herself. [A/N: "très bien, merci" means "very well, thank you"]

James rolled his eyes. "You two are so–"

He broke off at the stern look his mother was giving him. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and stuck his hands in his pockets. They were all (except for Émilie and Victoire) wearing casual Muggle clothes under their robes.

"Well now that that storm has been avoided," Hermione said cheekily, "why don't I show you all where you'll be sleeping tonight?"

"Mère," Émilie scolded her. "That is what we have servants for!"

"Stop acting like your father," Ginny said cheekily, and the blonde blushed at the reference.

James, as clueless as ever, just stared at them, his mouth agape.

Hermione decided to pretend that hadn't happened. She led the way to the guest house and thought that Ginny's insistence on accompanying them to this particular match, over all the other ones around the world they could've gone to. This alone was suspicious enough, but to blatantly mention Draco in front of Émilie, let alone James, even if not by name? For years, Harry had pestered her periodically about returning to England, but Ginny hadn't said anything since Émilie's birth. So why now?

The red head was definitely up to something.

… …

… …

'I don't care anymore.'

Draco Malfoy rolled over on his bed, onto his side and stared out the window. For awhile now, he'd known he would never be the man he had wanted to be, the husband, the father, the respectable Malfoy heir. Astoria Greengrass had seen to that. She'd been having an affair with Marcus Flint for years; the former Slytherin Quidditch captain was the one who had fathered Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.

Correction: Scorpius Hyperion Greengrass.

The little boy that Draco had learnt to love and was looking forward to raising with his wife wasn't a Malfoy. His lawyers had already cleaned up that mess and rid Draco of having to pay Astoria a single Knut. But he was heartbroken, a shell of his former self, a hollow wizard with nothing left inside. He didn't know what to do with himself now: should he just announce that his relatives were getting Malfoy Manor and inheriting the wealth and power that was rightfully his? There was nothing left in his mind except the choice to just give up.

He felt betrayed, by his now former wife, his former friend, his parents, and the world. Back when Harry Potter had killed Voldemort, the world had celebrated for what felt like years. But behind the cheerful smiles and infractions of the secrecy act when it came to exposing magic to Muggles, the purebloods were not so happy. Well, the sycophants who were either Death Eaters or Death Eater wannabes, anyway. Their reaction was mixed, from fear to anger and confusion. They were rounded up with no mercy and the acting minister for magic (who was later given the position with no contest), Kingsley Shacklebolt, "cleaned house", as the Muggle expression went.

Draco rolled over again, now staring at his ceiling.

He was back in Malfoy Manor, a place he had grown to abhor over the years, and living with his parents. He was looking into apartments, but it was slow going. The traditional families never rent their homes, always buying what they needed outright, which was why he couldn't just obliviate some Muggle real estate agent and move out of the manor tomorrow. It wasn't "proper".

'Proper?'

He scoffed at that. What did it matter anymore? His divorce was finalized, he was alone, unloved and without an heir. Though he knew that any minute now, his mother would be knocking on his door, looking to talk with him about that. Couldn't the woman take a hint, and just leave him alone to his miserable existence?

Draco sighed when his mother did indeed rap her knuckles on his door a few minutes later.

Apparently not.

"Coming mother," he managed stiffly and waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade into the distance before climbing out of bed.

It was no longer early in the morning, and he'd missed breakfast, so resigning himself to brunch and useless chatter with his parents over his future, he changed his clothes. Having lain on his back, musing over the miserable tatters that was left of his life for over an hour, he realised he needed to put on something more casual. Wearing casual clothes was not a Malfoy thing, heck, if he'd ever considered wearing a pair of jeans and polo shirt around the estate while growing up, he'd have been hexed so bad that if he even thought of doing it again, it would still hurt.

But he was an adult now, dammit! And ever since Potter's interference when it came to the sentencing of the Malfoy family, the Malfoy fortune had been his and not his father's. Lucius Malfoy was living off of it sure, but it wasn't his anymore. Every time he needed something, outside of the bare necessities that were provided for him, he needed to come to his son for it. Needless to say, the old man's pride had caused him to fall into disrepair in many ways.

Dressed in Muggle clothes (okay, so he did it to torment his pathological father more than anything), Draco entered the open sunroom, his expression and demeanour anything but "sunny".

"Draco dear," Narcissa said in a sing song voice. "Why must you insist on looking like a common Muggle?"

He shrugged as he took the offered seat next to her. "Seems appropriate, considering I'm going to be common myself, very soon. The feel of it takes some getting used to, but I think it brings out the blue in my eyes."

He said all this evenly, bored of the conversation before his mother had even spoken. His eyes were actually a steel grey, but had been mistaken for a shade of blue so many times he'd lost count. In all his years at Hogwarts, girls would swoon and tell him how they "got lost in his eyes", which was appropriate considering he thought they looked more like the colour of a grey storm.

Narcissa shook her head at him. "We'll have you married again in no time, dear."

He scoffed. That wouldn't change a thing.

"Well that settles it," Lucius said, with the same air of indifference Draco had just expressed, "we need to find another pureblood for you–"

"There are none," Draco said quickly.

"Of course there are, you're just not looking hard enough."

Draco sighed deeply, feigning boredom now, as his obvious disinterest wasn't shutting them up.

"No there isn't," he said, "and why would I bother? They're all taken, or agreeing with the abolishment of that pureblood law being pushed through the system by that nit wit of a git, Potter."

"All the more reason to prove him wrong and find someone who still believes in the purity of magical blood. It has to matter to someone other than us, surely."

Draco let a trace of sarcasm enter his voice. "I could always marry a foreigner."

Lucius looked murderous. "You will do no such thing! Think of the Malfoy name!"

"There are no purebloods left Lucius dear," Narcissa reminded her husband patiently. "Perhaps a half blood if we aren't willing to go abroad."

In a very undignified way, and certainly unbecoming of a pureblood Malfoy, Lucius actually snorted. "Nonsense, that's worse than a foreigner."

Draco honestly didn't care. He hadn't cared about all that sanctimonious pureblood bullshit since the war ended. It was nothing but vile propaganda and look where it had got them.

"Many of the purebloods and all the half bloods are behind Potter anyway," he said. This conversation was just another reminder of how he had wasted the last six years being married to that witch of a woman.

Lucius growled now. "Let's not let that boy dictate this conversation, shall we."

Oh that was rich, considering everything that boy had done for the Malfoy family. Draco stood up, angry and worried what he might say or do if he didn't leave right now.

"Yes," he snarled, "let's not let the reason you're not in Azkaban ever be spoken of again."

And with that, he stormed out and headed straight for his room again. Before either of his parents had recovered from this recent insult on them, he had his bag packed and was Disapparating, glad to leave that hell hole of a place behind.

He headed for the same place he always went when angry at his parents. He'd said worse things to them over the course of the last month since his divorce and they had yet to follow him here. They considered the Zabini family blood traitors since they were helping Potter in his "crusade", painting them in the same light as they had always done to the Weasley family. Apparently, there were a lot of blood traitors these days. But Blaise had informed Draco years ago he was actually a half blood, which made his parents' treatment of him only worsen.

It would be safe to say that Blaise and Pansy Zabini were his best friends in the whole world. And while he rarely agreed with a lot of what Pansy said was good for him, he would do anything for them. They apparently, were waiting for him, sitting in their living room, and holding drinks in their hands, unsurprised by his entrance.

Perhaps he was coming here too much.

But after taking a better look at them Draco realised they were planning on heading out. They were dressed for the outdoors, and on his arrival, a knowing grin spread over Blaise's dark features. He was planning something, he knew it.

"Oh there you are!" Pansy said melodramatically, and winked at him. "Planning on staying over again?"

She stood up, placed her drink down on the nearest flat surface, and walked over to him.

"Where are you guys headed?" He asked.

"France," she said. "My first professional Quidditch match in years."

"Have fun."

He dumped his bag on the Floor and tried to stalk over to their liquor cabinet. It was actually more like a miniature storage facility. But Pansy grabbed him, ignoring his yelp at her audacity.

"Oh no mate," Blaise said, also standing up. He finished his drink quickly before continuing. "You're coming with us."

They were starting to freak him out. Why were they waiting for him only to drag his ass to France?

"What are you two up to?"

They ignored his question.

"Oh and look!" Pansy squealed, as though all her dreams had suddenly materialised. "You're already dressed! What luck! You'll blend right in!"

"Blend? I don't want to blend! I just want to sulk and get drunk!" He snapped.

"Like we'd let you do that. We're you're best friends, you idiot," Blaise chortled, patting Draco on the back. "Don't you think you deserve some fresh air after being cooped up all this time?"

They weren't going to budge on this one, and Draco had the sneaky suspicion it wasn't Quidditch they had on their minds.

… …

… …

Where they landed was deserted (except for nearby booth being manned by a shabby wizard and a collection desk for used Portkeys), and Draco took a deep breath, looking out over the field, flashing back in his mind for some reason, to the world Quidditch Cup just before his fourth year at Hogwarts. He felt nostalgic and suddenly warm and excited. Quidditch did that to him. So he decided to throw his friends a bone and didn't start berating them like he'd planned to. After paying the shabby wizard in the booth, (Draco's friends were a conniving lot, having planned for three tickets in advance) Blaise led the way and Pansy linked her arms with the platinum blonde, as though afraid he might just decide to apparate away.

They were just in time for an early lunch. Clearly, Blaise knew where he was going, and Draco was content to just trail behind him, especially once they found the first campsite and his friend just kept on going. The campsites were just in case of course, as there was no telling how long this game would go on for, like any other match. The sites closer to the pitch were the only ones "reserved". This wasn't as big a deal as a world cup, so it wasn't as packed, but the platinum blonde was starting to feel uncomfortable with the amount of people he could see everywhere.

'When did I become antisocial?'

Stupid question.

Pansy was prattling on about her weekly morning discussions with an old Hogwarts enemy turned acquaintance, and now dear friend. The world really had changed. Draco would never have imagined he was hearing about his best friend getting along with the wife of Harry Potter.

"And here we are," she said excitedly as Blaise stopped directly in front of them, having found their site. The small sign in the middle of the empty patch read "Zabini".

"Is this a simple professional Quidditch match or a surprise world cup?"

The voice startled Draco, and he spun around. It was Ginny Potter. She was wearing a cheeky grin and looking him up and down. Pansy greeted her friend enthusiastically as Blaise ignored them, setting up the tent with a grumble.

Behind the most envied woman in all of Great Britain (for marrying the "chosen one" he supposed), were five more people, three of them children. Draco noticed Hermione Granger immediately. She stood rigidly, as surprised to see him as he was to be here, holding tightly to the hand of a young girl. Ignoring Potter, his oldest brat and that girl he had a sneaking suspicion was part Veela, Draco stared at the blonde girl looking at him with a mixed expression of wonder and nonchalance.

'Weird combination.'

She looked familiar…

Pansy pulled away from Ginny. "Oh yes, you guys remember Draco, right? Blaise and I decided to drag him along with us, I hope you don't mind. He's been a right old pain in my arse and needs to get out of his house more."

She glanced at Hermione. "What with the ugly divorce and all."

'Conniving bitch,' Draco thought, staring at his friend with barely contained frustration.

She gave him an "I love you too" look and he chanced a glance at a still silent Hermione: she looked shell shocked.

"Okay your majesty," Blaise said irritably. "The tent is up."

"You look like Émilie," James Potter said suddenly, scrutinising Draco. "Who are you?"

He ignored his question. "Who's Émilie?"

Harry gave a particularly loud snort and looked away the next second, abashed. Curiously, Draco looked to where James was pointing. He indicated to the girl holding Hermione's hand. Brown eyes met blue/grey as his gaze inevitably fell on Hermione. She had the same sleek, yet nicely curved body he remembered from six years ago, the Muggle jeans, and shirt very flattering to her figure. She swallowed heavily.

Draco Malfoy was still hot. She had eyes, and she wouldn't deny that fact. He was divorced now? Was Pansy telling the truth? He couldn't be single, who in their right mind would let go of that?

'Snap out of it,' she told herself.

"You're set up next to us," Blaise said to Harry unnecessarily, "want to join us for an early lunch?"

Despite his reservations about Malfoy, Harry liked Blaise. He nodded and followed the man to an open area where they could set up a barbeque of sorts. Draco continued to stare at Hermione, occasionally sparing glances for the girl who looked nothing like her. Who was she anyway?

"Hello to you too Draco," the brunette managed, after shaking off her shock.

He nodded. "Y-yes, hello Hermione."

"Come on people, it's time for food!" Pansy called, and they moved on command, realising they were the only ones still standing there like stunned mullets.

Hermione reluctantly trailed behind the group as contraband fireworks in the distance reminded her of the imminent Quidditch match. It wasn't just a normal professional game she'd brought her daughter to, but a Tournament Game: the deciding one. She clutched Émilie's hand tighter than necessary, in a fearful gesture as the blonde started to sing softly. But she knew better than to believe the blonde girl was oblivious to what was going on around her.

Draco caught Hermione's eyes as they sat next to each other in the chairs they'd summoned out of thin air. She held back the tremble at the gleam in his eyes. She'd seen that look on his face only once before: the night they conceived Émilie.

This was going to be a very long Quidditch match.

X X X

A/N: Yep, I know: another "Draco knocks up Hermione and then she flees the country" cliché! *le gasp!* Lol. But dammit, I love it anyway! ;P
Seriously though, Dramione kicks serious ass. It's the best Harry Potter pairing since… well, since the early days of Potter mania, when I was desperately hoping and praying that Harry and Ginny would get together in canon. :)

When you give lots of love, love will give lots to you in return. ^_^

R&R.

.:.

IMPORTANT: [This is intended for would-be flamers]

I've gotten enough complaints about how I wrote this story over the years and I'm sick of hearing all the non-constructive bullshit. If all you're going to do is pick apart a years old, already completed story (that your complaining will never affect), then do the gods of fandom a favour and DON'T review.
If you have no intention of checking my flame-warning on my profile, here:

If you start to read my stuff and then decide you don't like it, then move on without reviewing. It's your prerogative to not like something, but if you're just going to review to complain that you didn't like it, then you're an asshole. It's not a matter of you just having your opinion, it's you flaming a story - which is not okay. Why? Because it doesn't help. It changes nothing, and you come off as a whiny child who just wants every fic to go their way.
If you have nothing nice - or constructive - to say, don't say anything at all. Otherwise, you're just being an asshole. Fanfic authors are not your bitches.

.

If you flame me, I will not be nice. Don't say I didn't warn you.

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Sorry to anyone who is reading this and not intending to flame - but this needed to be said. Please enjoy the rest of the story. :)